Chapter 659: Dubai City Hall: The Ten O'Clock Bell

At seven o'clock, the first batch of newspapers hit the market. On the streets of Berlin, the cries of newspaper boys rose and fell:

"Read the paper, read the paper! British are attacking Lanfang! Slaughtering a neutral nation!"

"Extra! Extra! The Royal Navy ambushed Lanfang's warship! One hundred twenty‑seven dead!"

A middle‑aged man in a trench coat bought a copy of the Berlin Daily, read it on the sidewalk. When he saw the third photograph, his hand began to tremble. When he reached the last one, he folded the paper, and strode briskly toward the Capitol building.

Along the way, more and more people joined his line.

At nine o'clock, the plaza before the Capitol building had already gathered tens of thousands. They held makeshift signs: "Long live Lanfang!" "British are murderers!" "German and Lanfang stand together!"

Inside the Capitol, Marshal Xingdengbao stood by the window, watching the boiling crowd outside.

"Marshal," the staff officer whispered, "you have a speech today."

Xingdengbao turned. The old man's face was expressionless, but something flickered in his clouded eyes.

"I know."

At ten o'clock, Xingdengbao entered the Capitol hall. All the legislators rose, and applause lasted a full three minutes.

The old man stepped onto the podium, his hands braced on the desk, looking at the familiar faces below.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice was hoarse yet clear, "you have all seen those photographs. The British Empire, that once claimed to be the 'leader of the civilized world,' used twelve capital ships to ambush two defenseless neutral warships."

The hall was so quiet that one could hear breathing.

"They killed one hundred twenty‑seven people. Their sons, fathers, brothers will never return home."

The old man paused, his voice trembling slightly.

"The Germans know what that feels like. Our children were also killed by them on the Atlantic. Our mothers have waited at ports for people who never came back."

He straightened, raised one hand:

"Today, I propose: all legislators stand and observe a one‑minute moment of silence for Lanfang's fallen soldiers."

He was the first to bow his head.

Then the entire Capitol hall, over five hundred legislators, bowed their heads in unison.

One minute later, Xingdengbao lifted his head. His eyes were a bit red, but his voice grew firmer:

"Deguo will fully support Lanfang. Whatever we need, they will provide—this is not a transaction; it is what two nations bullied by Yingguo should do."

Applause rose again, louder, longer, more fervent than before.

New York time, nine p. m.

President Wilson was watching a movie in the White House home theater—he liked Charlie Chaplin comedies. Halfway through, the door was thrown open. Secretary of State Luobote·Lanxin rushed in, a stack of papers in his hand.

"Mr. President, something big has happened."

Wilson frowned, "What matter can't wait until tomorrow?"

Lanxin handed over the photographs.

Wilson looked at the first one, his complexion changed. When he saw the third, he stood, walked to the light. Upon seeing the last, he set the photo down and remained silent for a long while.

"When did this happen?"

"Early yesterday morning. The Arabian Sea. The Yingguo fleet attacked Lanfang's warship. Twelve against two, fought for three hours."

Wilson walked back to the sofa, sat down, stood up again, and sat down once more.

"Jielike that idiot," he finally said, his voice pressed low, but Lanxin heard it clearly, "what's in his head? Sea water?"

"Mr. President, the current issue is—Lanfang has declared war. Chen Feng delivered a speech at Dubai City Hall, announcing a state of war with Yingguo."

Wilson closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He recalled every move of the past three years. He had finally waited for the Deguo to slip up, for a justifiable moment to join the fight. He thought he could reap the spoils while Britain and Deguo wore each other out, and Meilika would step in to clean up the aftermath.

Now?

The British idiot Admiral, with a single salvo, pushed the neutral Lanfang into Deguo's embrace.

"Summon the Cabinet," Wilson said, "now."

At ten p. m., the White House Cabinet room. The Secretary of State, Secretary of War, Navy Secretary, Treasury Secretary, and Secretary of Commerce were all present.

Wilson tossed the photos onto the table: "Everyone, take a look."

Everyone leafed through the photos. No one spoke.

Finally, Navy Secretary Josephus Daniels spoke: "Mr. President, this… this indeed was the Yingguo who fired first. In the photos, the muzzle of the King George V is still smoking."

"I know," Wilson said, "the current question is, what shall we do?"

Treasury Secretary William McCardu frowned: "If Lanfang enters the war fully, combined with Deguo's naval power, Yingguo could lose all its Asian colonies. India, Australia, Singapore—all would fall into Lanfang and Deguo's hands."

"What disadvantage does that pose for us?" Commerce Secretary William Redfield suddenly asked.

Everyone turned to him.

Redfield spread a document: "Gentlemen, this is the Commerce Department's latest analysis. If Lanfang controls Asia, doing business with them is far more profitable than with the Yingguo. Lanfang has markets, resources, industry; they need our machines, technology, capital. And the Yingguo? They only see us as competitors."

Wilson said nothing.

"Moreover," Redfield continued, "Lanfang's declaration of war on Yingguo does not equal a declaration on us. They now need friends, not foes. We can stay neutral and trade with both sides. When they tire out…"

He didn't finish, but everyone understood.

Wilson rose and walked to the window. Outside was pitch‑black night, only the distant lights of the Washington Monument flickering.

"Summon the British Ambassador," he finally said, "first thing tomorrow morning. For now, give me a moment alone."

Dubai time, ten a. m.

The plaza before the City Hall was packed to the breaking point. Some estimated at least fifty thousand. More people were still streaming in from all directions.

Reporter Fang squeezed into the crowd, a camera hanging around his neck. His eyes were blood‑shot, he hadn't slept for twenty‑four hours, but he couldn't rest. He needed to see this moment with his own eyes and capture it himself.

At exactly ten o'clock, the City Hall doors swung open.

Chen Feng stepped out.

He wore a dark‑gray Zhongshan suit, no hat, his face expressionless. Behind him followed Wang Wenwu, Li Te, and several staff officers. No one spoke, only footsteps echoing on the steps.

The crowd automatically cleared a path. Where Chen Feng passed, people stared at him in silence— that silence heavier than cheers, like a mountain pressing on each heart.

Chen Feng stepped onto the makeshift podium. On the stage there was only a table, a microphone, and behind him a huge Lanfang Golden Dragon Banner.

He stood for three seconds, looking at the fifty thousand faces below. Some were weeping, some bit their lips, some had eyes red as if about to bleed.