Chapter 700: The 19-Year-Old King

Wang Guojian was silent for three seconds.

Then he sprang to his feet, snatched the telescope, and strode down the mountain.

"Send word to all brigades: advance at full speed. Target—Abadan Oilfield."

An hour later, Wang Guojian's vanguard reached the British Army position.

The sight left everyone stunned.

The fortifications were indeed half‑built—two trenches less than a meter deep, only a single layer of barbed wire, and the machine‑gun emplacements piled with sandbags only half a man's height. The truck cab doors stood ajar; a dump truck sat by the road, its bed filled with sandbags that hadn't been off‑loaded; ammunition boxes were scattered everywhere, some open, the bullets and grenades still neatly stacked inside.

A curious soldier walked to an ammunition box, reached out to grab a bullet for inspection. The squad leader smacked the back of his head.

"Looking for death? What if there's a booby trap?"

The soldier flinched, quickly pulling his hand back.

Wang Guojian stood beside a dump truck, watching the chaotic traces. The ground was littered with countless footprints stretching into the distance, uneven in depth, clearly left by a running retreat.

Chen Dali came over, handing a found water bottle. It was a standard‑issue British Army aluminum bottle, dented and pitted. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed.

"Instructor, the water's still warm. We haven't been out long."

Wang Guojian took the bottle, smelled it, then poured out the water and slipped the bottle into his pocket.

"Let's go to the port."

Abadan Port was quieter than the position.

A few merchant ships were moored at the dock; the largest had already left, drifting slowly toward the depths of the Persian Gulf. A flag fluttered on its mast, rustling in the morning breeze.

Wang Guojian raised the telescope, watching the flag.

It wasn't the Yingguo flag. Red and yellow, with another emblem—it was the Spanish flag.

"Dammit," Wang Guojian muttered, "Yingguo people fled and even switched their jackets."

Chen Dali leaned in, also eyeing the ship: "Instructor, should we fire?"

Wang Guojian hesitated for three seconds.

The ship had already cleared the port, about three thousand meters away. Artillery could reach it, but a stray hit on the Spanish vessel… Everyone knew the flag was a ruse, yet without proof, firing would spark an international dispute.

"Forget it," he set the telescope down, "let them run. We can't catch up anyway."

He turned, eyeing the intact port facilities—warehouses, cranes, oil pipelines, and the storage tanks that glinted silver in the sun. Everything was unscathed, as if the Yingguo had never considered sabotage.

"Tell the brothers to enter the port and take over all facilities."

It was later learned that the merchant ship flying the Spanish flag carried the highest commander of the British Army in the Persian Gulf—a Major General—and a large crate of documents they hadn't managed to evacuate. They slipped out of the Persian Gulf two hours before the Lanfang troops arrived, even leaving their luggage unpacked.

More ironic, the Major General, when disembarking in Spain, was stopped by local customs and asked for an entry visa. He didn't have one, was locked in a small cell for three days, and was only released after the Yingguo embassy intervened.

Of course, that's hindsight.

At two p. m., Wang Guojian was studying maps in the oilfield command post when a signal soldier rushed in.

"Instructor! A group arrived outside, claiming to be envoys of the Yilang king!"

Wang Guojian looked up, momentarily stunned.

"Yilang king? Which Yilang king?"

The signal soldier scratched his head: "The… Yilang king. I think his name is… Ai Ha Mai De?"

Wang Guojian set down his pencil and stood.

"Let them in."

A few minutes later, a party entered the command post. At the head was a middle‑aged man in a traditional Persian robe, his beard neatly trimmed, a black kidskin hat atop his head, cradling an exquisite wooden box. Behind him followed several attendants and two Iranian officers in uniform.

The middle‑aged man approached Wang Guojian, bowed deeply, then spoke in fluent English:

"Respected General, I am the chief diplomatic advisor to His Majesty the Yilang king, Mu Han Mo De·Hai Shan. By order of our king Ai Ha Mai De·Sha A·Kai Jia, I extend the sincerest greetings to the Lanfang Republic."

Wang Guojian stared at him, saying nothing at once.

The envoy's tone was very respectful, but his eyes—bright eyes—kept observing him, gauging him, trying to read something from his expression.

"Mr. Hai Shan," Wang Guojian finally spoke, "what does your king send you for?"

Hai Shan bowed again, then opened the wooden box. Inside lay a document, densely written in Persian and English. He held the document with both hands and handed it to Wang Guojian.

"General, this is a handwritten letter from our king. His Majesty is willing to cooperate unconditionally with all Lanfang actions."

Wang Guojian took the document, skimmed it quickly. The letter was simple—King Ai Ha Mai De·Sha A·Kai Jia of Yilang announced that all Yingguo privileges in Yilang were abolished effective immediately, Yilang was willing to forge the closest friendly ties with Lanfang, and Lanfang troops could enter any part of Yilang at any time, including the capital Tehran.

Unconditional cooperation.

Wang Guojian lifted his head, looking at Hai Shan.

"Unconditional cooperation? Including letting us into Tehran?"

Hai Shan nodded: "Including. His Majesty has ordered all British Army personnel to leave Yilang immediately. If Lanfang troops wish, they may enter Tehran at any time."

Wang Guojian was silent for a few seconds.

He recalled Chen Feng's words before departure: "That little Yilang king is only nineteen this year. His father died early; he ascended the throne at eight and has been a puppet for eleven years. The Yingguo treat him like a marionette, the Russians treat him like air. Now the Yingguo have fled, he needs a new patron."

He stared at Hai Shan's shrewd eyes and suddenly understood—the nineteen‑year‑old little king was aligning himself at breakneck speed. The Yingguo were no longer reliable, the Russians were mired in civil war, and Lanfang was the new master of the Persian Gulf. Rather than wait for Lanfang to knock, it was better to open the door proactively.

"Mr. Hai Shan," Wang Guojian placed the document on the table, "what does your king demand?"

Hai Shan paused, then smiled—a smile of mutual understanding among the clever.

"Your brilliance, General. His Majesty has only one request—Lanfang should recognize Yilang's sovereignty and territorial integrity, and refrain from meddling in Yilang's internal affairs."

Wang Guojian nodded.

"I can agree to that now, but ultimately it requires our President's approval."

Hai Shan bowed again: "Naturally. I am ready to depart for Dubai at any time to pay a visit to President Chen."

Wang Guojian rose, walked to the window. Outside, the Abadan Oilfield facilities glittered in the sun. The oil pipelines resembled silver serpents stretching to the horizon. The storage tanks stood in orderly rows, like silver hills.