Chapter 568: Grand Conferment of Rank

"What about the European front? The French side…"

"Tell the French that Meilika has already entered the war in substance. The escort fleet is just the first step. Ground forces need time, but they're on the way." Asquith paused, "Also, have our propaganda department make adjustments. Tone down the excessive portrayal of German 'atrocities,' and start laying the groundwork for the concepts of a 'war of attrition' and 'final negotiations.'"

Ge Lei looked at the prime minister in surprise: "Are you really considering negotiations?"

"I'm weighing every possibility," Asquith said, his voice weary. "The war has raged for two and a half years, killing five million. Britain spends five million pounds a day on military costs. The treasury is nearly empty, the younger generation is dying off. If we keep this up, even if we win the war, we will have lost the future."

He walked to the window and looked out at the dark London.

"Wilson is right; we can't focus solely on Europe. The world is vast, and power is being redistributed. Britain must find a new place in this reshuffling rather than stubbornly clinging to the old empire."

Ge Lei fell silent. As foreign minister, he understood the empire's decline better than anyone—not a sudden collapse, but a slow hemorrhage. This war has accelerated that process.

"One more thing." Asquith turned, "Send a message to our people in Meilika, telling them to cease any actions that could be interpreted as 'manipulation.' Wilson has already warned us; we must heed it. Meilika is now our only hope, and we cannot ruin the relationship."

"Understood."

After Ge Lei left, Asquith stood alone in the study. He pulled a photograph from a drawer—a group shot taken after the first war cabinet meeting in August 1914. Of the eight men in the picture, only four remain in office now. The war changed everyone and devoured many.

He recalled Queen Victoria's funeral in 1901. At that time, the British Empire was at its zenith, its fleet spanning the seven seas, colonies covering a quarter of the globe. Everyone believed the empire would rule the world forever.

Sixteen years later, a single war has shown the empire's fatigue.

And new powers are rising—Meilika, Lanfang, even Deguo is displaying terrifying resilience.

"God bless Britain," Asquith said softly.

But this time, his prayer lacked the former confidence, containing only deep anxiety.

Dubai, Presidential Palace.

It was the morning of the second day after the Washington talks. Sunlight streamed through Mediterranean‑style arched windows, spilling onto Chen Feng's desk. Several telegrams lay open: a briefing from Envoy Li Weimin of Washington, a secret dispatch from Prime Minister Xi Yuan Si of Tokyo, and a routine report from the Borneo garrison.

Wang Wenwu stood at the desk, reporting the newly received intelligence: "The British ambassador to the United States urgently requested a meeting with Wilson last night; the talks lasted ninety minutes. Details are unknown, but after the meeting the ambassador returned directly to the embassy and sent a dispatch to London overnight. We have intercepted part of the encrypted signal and are decoding it."

Chen Feng leaned back in his chair, twirling a steel pen in his hand: "We don't need to decode it to know the gist. Wilson is pressing the British while also sending us a message."

"Message?"

"He sent Rodman to visit—that's the message." Chen Feng put down his pen. "The meaning is clear: Meilika will join the war, but before that we need to reassess Lanfang's strength. If we are strong enough, they may adjust their strategy. If we are outwardly strong but internally weak…"

He didn't finish, but Wang Wenwu understood.

"How are the promotion ceremony preparations going?"

"All set. Three o'clock this afternoon, at the Army Department Plaza. Fifteen newly appointed major generals have arrived in Dubai and are waiting in the lounge."

Chen Feng nodded, stood, and walked to the window. From here one could see a panoramic view of Dubai—port, factories, newly erected skyscrapers, and distant oil‑field derricks. A decade ago, this was merely a fishing village on the edge of the Persian Gulf.

"Wang Guojian and the others are all graduates of the first class of the military academy, right?"

"Yes. The youngest, Yang Guoyan, is thirty‑one; the oldest, Wang Yu, is forty‑five. All have served in frontline units, commanded regiment‑level formations, and received excellent political evaluations."

"Political evaluation," Chen Feng repeated, smiling. "Loyalty in the army matters more than ability. Especially in a country like ours—Chinese commanding Arab divisions, trust is the foundation."

He turned: "What is the deployment plan after the promotions?"

Wang Wenwu opened the folder: "Per your orders, all five Chinese divisions are to be stationed in Borneo to strengthen core‑area defense. The ten Arab divisions will be deployed across the Middle East—three in Basra, two in Kuwait, two in Oman, and three as mobile reserve units around Dubai."

"What about the armored divisions?"

"All three armored divisions remain stationed in the Middle East. The terrain there is flat, suitable for armored mass operations. Borneo's jungles are dense, preventing armored units from operating effectively."

Chen Feng walked back to the desk, his finger sliding over the map: "Tell Wang Guojian that Borneo's defense is not just holding the ground. They must be ready at any moment to go forward and support any potential maritime operations."

"Do you think there will be conflict at sea?"

"It's only a matter of time." Chen Feng said, looking at the Strait of Malacca on the map. "If the war expands, Britain will surely try to block our sea lanes. The garrison in Borneo is our fist in the South Ocean."

He glanced at his watch: "Prepare to go to the Army Department. Today's speech is crucial; I want each of them to understand what the stars on their shoulders signify."

Three o'clock in the afternoon, Dubai Army Department Plaza.

The sun was perfect, stretching a long shadow from the flagpole at the plaza's center. The Lanfang national flag—a red field with a golden dragon—fluttered slowly in the breeze. Beneath the pole a simple reviewing stand was erected, with a massive national emblem relief as the backdrop.

On the plaza, three thousand soldiers formed a square formation, bayonets like a forest, uniforms immaculate. At the front were the fifteen newly appointed major generals about to be promoted, dressed in brand‑new dark‑green general's dress uniforms, their shoulder boards currently empty.

Chen Feng's official car entered the plaza amid military music. He was not wearing a suit today but the formal attire of the Lanfang president—a deep‑blue uniform with a single golden dragon badge on the left chest. Simple, yet imposing.

He stepped out, ascended the platform. The military band played the national anthem.

Everyone stood at attention. The plaza was silent, only the flags rustling in the wind.

When the anthem ended, Chen Feng walked to the microphone. He held no script.

"At ease."

The three thousand moved in perfectly synchronized motion.

Chen Feng's gaze swept across the plaza, finally resting on the faces of the fifteen generals in the front row.

"The fifteen generals standing here today represent the new generation of Lanfang's army command. But what I want to speak of first is not honor, but responsibility."

His voice, amplified, rang across the plaza—clear and steady.

"The stars on your shoulders are not ornaments. Each star represents thousands of soldiers' lives, a portion of the nation's security, and a share of the people's trust."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"Lanfang has existed only a little over a decade. We turned a desert into today's cities, factories, and army. We created miracles, but miracles don't fall from the sky. They are earned by every Lanfang person—Chinese, Arab, everyone living on this land—through sweat, ingenuity, and sometimes even blood."

The wind swept across the plaza, raising fine dust.