Chapter 703: Lanfang and England Are Different

"Your Majesty," he raised his wine glass, "Lanfang is different from Yingguo."

Aiha Maide also raised his wine glass.

"Hope so."

The two glasses clinked together, producing a crisp sound.

After the banquet ended, Wang Guojian walked out of the palace, stood on the steps at the doorway, and gazed at Tehran's night.

The moon was full and bright, bathing the whole city in silvery light. The distant mosque, the nearby houses, and those streets whose destinations were unknown all seemed especially quiet under the moonlight.

Chen Dali walked to his side and handed him a cigarette.

"Senior, what are you thinking?"

Wang Guojian took the cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag.

"Thinking of that young king," he exhaled a puff, "only nineteen, yet his speech and actions are more seasoned than those of a thirty‑year‑old."

Chen Dali nodded.

"Indeed, he became king at eight, served as a puppet for eleven years—how could he not be seasoned?"

Wang Guojian said nothing.

He recalled Ahmed's smile at the banquet—the childlike grin when praised. That smile was genuine. The others—the wary, shrewd, ever‑calculating gaze—were forged by his time as king.

"Senior," Chen Dali suddenly asked, "you think, after we occupy Yilang, will we withdraw?"

Wang Guojian looked at him and was silent for three seconds.

"I don't know. That's for the president to consider. We just fight."

Chen Dali nodded and asked no further.

In the distance, a patrol of soldiers passed by, their footsteps unusually clear in the silent night. They were Lanfang troops, clad in yellow uniforms, rifles slung on their backs, marching in orderly formation, step by step.

Wang Guojian watched the squad and suddenly wondered: Do they know what they're doing? Do they understand why they've come to this foreign country, why they're patrolling this unfamiliar city?

He didn't know.

Perhaps they don't know either.

But they are acting. Carrying out orders. Fulfilling duties.

That's enough.

Meanwhile, the Abadan Oilfield.

At first light, Yang Guoyan got out of bed. He wore a tank top and shorts, barefoot on the cool mat, walked to the window, and opened it.

A salty, briny sea breeze drifted in, tinged with the scent of oil. In the distance, massive storage tanks glimmered silver in the dawn, like small silver hills. The oil pipelines crisscrossed like a beast's veins. The drilling tower rose high, its top still spewing burning exhaust.

This is the Abadan Oilfield—the British Empire's heart in the Persian Gulf, one of the world's richest oilfields.

Yang Guoyan stared for a while, put on his clothes, and left the room.

The camp was quiet; the soldiers were still sleeping. After a full day yesterday—taking over the oilfield, inventorying equipment, arranging posts—everyone was exhausted. Only the sentry stood atop, watching the surroundings vigilantly.

Yang Guoyan walked to the edge of the oilfield, where an Iranian in work clothes stood. The man was in his forties, a full beard, holding a wrench while inspecting a piece of equipment.

Yang Guoyan approached and asked in English, "Good morning. What's your name?"

The man looked up, saw a Lanfang officer, froze briefly, then hurriedly bowed and nodded.

"Good morning, sir. I'm Hai Shan, the foreman here," he said.

Yang Guoyan nodded.

"Hai Shan, can you operate these machines?"

Hai Shan nodded, "Yes, sir. The British taught us. We've worked here for many years."

Yang Guoyan stared at the intricate pipes and machinery, silent for a few seconds.

"The British have left; are you still willing to continue working?"

Hai Shan hesitated, then frantically nodded, "Willing, sir! We all have wives and children, we need to eat. As long as… as the wages keep coming."

Yang Guoyan smiled.

"Wages will be paid. Whatever the British paid, Lanfang will match—no, give a bit more than the British did."

Hai Shan's eyes lit up.

"Really, sir?"

"Indeed," Yang Guoyan patted his shoulder, "Go tell the others—those willing to keep working should register today. Those who don't may leave; Lanfang won't cover travel expenses, but we won't make it hard for them."

Hai Shan bowed and ran off, shouting back, "Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir!"

Yang Guoyan stood there, watching the equipment glittering in the dawn.

Fan Pupu walked up from behind and stood beside him.

"Old Yang, are you really going to give them extra money?"

Yang Guoyan didn't turn around.

"Add. Add a little, and we get a few thousand skilled workers to labor—no loss."

Fan Pupu thought for a moment and nodded.

"Exactly. The British have fled; if these workers also leave, the oilfield will be ruined."

Yang Guoyan turned and looked at him.

"So we must make them see that working with Lanfang is better than with the British."

In the distance, workers gradually emerged from the barracks. Clad in oil‑stained work clothes, tools in hand, they moved toward the site in small groups. Some stared curiously at the Lanfang soldiers, some kept their heads down and hurried past, some whispered among themselves.

A young worker approached Yang Guoyan, hesitated, then asked in halting English:

"Sir, can we… keep working?"

Yang Guoyan looked at him. The boy seemed under twenty, his face still youthful, but his eyes held something familiar to Yang—a gaze typical of a poor child forced to support his family.

"Yes," Yang Guoyan said, "not only can you, we'll also give you extra money."

The child froze for a moment, then smiled. That kind of smile warmed Yang Guoyan's heart.

"Thank you, officer! Thank you, officer!"

He bowed, turned and ran, shouting back as he went, "Money processing! Lanfang people are processing money!"

More workers gathered around, chattering with questions. Yang Guoyan stood in the middle, answering them one by one. Sunlight fell on his face, on his oil‑stained uniform, and on the hopeful faces of the workers.

Fan Pupu stood aside, watching the scene, and suddenly smiled.

"Old Yang, you are stronger than the Yingguo."

Yang Guoyan turned his head and gave him a glance.

"Not stronger than the Yingguo, smarter than the Yingguo."

Three days later, Wang Guojian received a telegram from Chen Feng.

The telegram contained only one line:

"The Yilang agreement has been approved. Your unit will stay in Deheilan, cooperating with subsequent actions. Yang and Fan's unit will stay in Abadan, ensuring the oil field operates normally."

Wang Guojian read it three times, then folded the telegram and slipped it into his pocket.

He stepped out of the room, stood on the steps outside the palace, and looked at Deheilan's streets. People came and went, vendors shouted, carriages raced, children chased each other. Everything seemed no different from the previous days.

But everything was different again.

The Yingguo left. Lanfang arrived.

The rulers of this land changed, but life went on.

Ai Ha Mai De stepped out of the palace and stood beside him.

"General Wang, has the President agreed?"

Wang Guojian nodded.

"Agreed. Fair trade, no cheating old or young."

Ai Ha Mai De smiled. That smile was far more relaxed than the one at the banquet.

"That's good," he said, looking at the bustling crowd, "at least I don't have to, like my father, spend my whole life watching the Yingguo's face."

Wang Guojian turned his head and looked at him.

"Your Majesty, you will no longer have to watch anyone's face in the future."

Ai Ha Mai De was silent for a few seconds.

"Is that so?" he murmured, "I hope so."

In the distance, the mosque's call to prayer drifted, long and desolate. It is the summons for believers to pray, sounding daily for over a thousand years.

Wang Guojian listened to the sound and suddenly felt something odd—this land is far older than Lanfang. It has witnessed countless dynasties rise and fall, countless armies come and go. The Yingguo came and left. The Russians came and left. Now Lanfang has arrived.