Chapter 701: Marching Toward Tehran

"Mr. Hai Shan, is your king this year nineteen years old?"

"Yes, General."

"Nineteen years old," Wang Guojian repeated, "Being able to make such a decision at nineteen isn't easy."

Hai Shan walked to his side, also looking at the oil field outside the window.

"General, Your Majesty the king may be young, but has already reigned for eleven years. In those eleven years, he has seen Yingguo people swaggering, has seen Russian people eyeing hungrily, has seen Osman Diguo collapse with a roar. He knows that in these times, choosing a side is more important than anything."

He paused, his voice lowered: "If you stand on the right side, you can continue to be king. If you stand on the wrong side..."

He didn't finish, but Wang Guojian understood.

Standing on the wrong side could even cost one's life.

"Tell your king," Wang Guojian turned to look at him, "Lanfang is not Yingguo, we don't do the colonial thing. The President has said that every nation has the right to self-determination. Yilang is Yilang of the Yilang people, not anyone's colony."

Hai Shan bowed deeply, this time deeper than before.

"General, I will convey these words to Your Majesty the king without omitting a single character."

Three days later, Wang Guojian led a contingent of troops, accompanied by Yilang officials, marching toward Tehran.

Calling it "marching in" is more like "touring". Along the way there was no resistance, not even a roadblock. In the villages along the route, villagers stood by the road, curiously watching the troops in yellow uniforms. Children ran after the column, shouting Persian they couldn't understand. Women hid behind doors, peeking secretly. Some men nodded and bowed, some wore expressionless faces, some had complicated looks.

Wang Guojian sat in a jeep, watching those villagers.

"Are they afraid of us?" he asked the interpreter beside him.

The interpreter was an exchange student at Tehran University, named Ali, in his early twenties, fluent in English and a bit of Chinese. He looked at the villagers and shook his head.

"It's not fear, it's curiosity. Yingguo people have been here for decades, they're used to seeing white men in khaki uniforms. Lanfang people... this is their first time seeing them."

Wang Guojian nodded and asked no further.

The convoy kept moving forward. The desert gradually turned into steppe, the steppe gradually turned into grassland. In the distance, faint outlines of buildings could be seen — that was the outskirts of Tehran.

At three p. m., the vanguard reached the outskirts of Tehran.

The sight surprised Wang Guojian somewhat.

There was no welcoming crowd, no flowers, no cheers. The streets were lined with onlookers, but no one spoke, just watching silently. Men, women, elders, children, everyone's gaze fell on the Lanfang soldiers in yellow uniforms.

In those looks there was curiosity, fear, vigilance, expectation — a mix of emotions that made Wang Guojian feel a chill inside.

"Ali," he asked the interpreter beside him, "Why are they looking at us like that?"

Ali thought for a moment.

"General, they're waiting. Waiting for you to make the first move. Whether it's killing or handing out sweets."

Wang Guojian was stunned for a moment, then smiled.

"Relay orders to all units," he said to the deputy officer beside him, "After entering the city, do not harass civilians, do not loot, do not beat people. Whoever violates military discipline will be dealt with by military law."

The deputy officer nodded, turned and went to deliver the orders.

Tehran's streets were wider than Wang Guojian had imagined, and the buildings on either side were more beautiful than he expected. There were traditional Persian-style structures—brick walls, arches, colorful glazed tiles; and European-style mansions—white facades, iron balconies, tall windows. On the streets were horse-drawn carriages, donkey carts, and occasionally a few automobiles honking cautiously as they weaved through the crowd.

A vendor selling naan stood by the road, holding a few freshly baked naans, wanting to hand them over but hesitating. Wang Guojian glanced at him and said to Ali, "Tell him we aren't buying anything. Let him do his business properly."

Ali shouted a few words in Persian. The vendor was startled, then bowed and retreated, continuing his hawking.

When the column reached the city center, the crowd grew denser. The streets were packed with people, and even windows, balconies, and rooftops were filled with them. A young woman holding a child stood on a second‑floor balcony, watching the soldiers passing below. The child curiously reached out, pointing at the tanks, babbling something.

Wang Guojian looked up at the woman. She wore a black robe, a headscarf covering her head, revealing only a pair of eyes. Those eyes were also looking at him.

Their gazes met for less than a second before she clutched the child tightly and turned back into the house.

Wang Guojian shifted his gaze and kept moving forward.

The palace arrived.

It was a massive complex of buildings, high walls, exquisite arches, colorful glazed tiles glittering in the sun. At the gate stood two rows of Yilang soldiers, in crisp uniforms, holding rifles, motionless. Behind them were several officials in ornate long robes, waiting there.

Wang Guojian stepped down from the jeep, tidied his uniform, and strode toward the palace gate.

The officials came forward; the leader was a man in his sixties with snow‑white long beard, wearing a dark‑blue robe, a white headscarf on his head. He spoke a long string of words in Persian, then bowed deeply.

Ali translated: "This is the Prime Minister. He says, welcome, friends of Lanfang. Your Majesty the king is waiting inside the palace."

Wang Guojian nodded, followed the Prime Minister into the palace.

The interior of the palace was even more splendid than the outside.

Passing through one arch after another, walking down one corridor after another, beneath his feet lay exquisite Persian carpets, above his head a colorful glazed dome, walls inlaid with golden patterns. Every few steps a attendant stood, head bowed, motionless.

Wang Guojian walked and looked, thinking to himself: How much must this palace have cost?

Finally, he was led into a great hall.

The hall was vast, laid with a huge Persian carpet embroidered with intricate patterns. The surrounding walls displayed oil paintings of successive Persian kings. The dome was high, from which hung a massive crystal chandelier that refracted rainbow light in the sun.

At the far end of the hall, a young man stood there.

He wore a splendid royal robe—black long robe with gold‑thread embroidery, his chest covered with medals. On his head sat a tall black sheepskin hat, a white feather stuck in the top. He stood straight, trying to puff out his chest, but his face—his face was so young that it left Wang Guojian a little dazed.

Nineteen years old. Truly only nineteen.

Aihaide Sha Kaijia.

That young man, who ascended the throne at eight and has been a puppet for eleven years, now stands in his palace, greeting the army from the distant East.