Chapter 707: The British Are Finished

"Stanford Hanmu," he suddenly asked, "You say, can we still win?"

Stanford Hanmu was startled for a moment, then shook his head.

"Your Majesty, I don't know."

Qiaozhi Wushi nodded.

"I also don't know."

From afar came a clamor. Qiaozhi Wushi lifted his head and saw a crowd gathering at the far end of Tangning Jie. They held signs, shouted slogans, and walked toward here.

"They're the marchers," Stanford Hanmu said, "It started in the afternoon. The police have been blocking them."

Qiaozhi Wushi watched those people. Hundreds of meters away, he couldn't see their faces, but could hear their shouts.

"Stop the war!" "Withdraw the troops!" "Give us back our sons!"

One after another, the shouts grew nearer.

Qiaozhi Wushi stood there, listening to those cries.

Within those cries were anger, sorrow, and despair. Within them were mothers' cries for lost sons, wives' sobs for lost husbands, children's wails for lost fathers.

Those cries hurt him more than Deguo's bombs.

"Your Majesty," Stanford Hanmu whispered, "You should leave. If those people see you…"

Qiaozhi Wushi shook his head.

"Let them see. Let them curse. After cursing, the heart can feel a bit better."

He turned and walked toward the carriage parked at the doorway.

After a few steps, he suddenly stopped, turned back, and glanced at the marching crowd drawing ever nearer.

"Stanford Hanmu," he said, "Tell the police not to beat anyone. Let them shout. When they're tired of shouting, they'll disperse on their own."

Stanford Hanmu nodded.

Qiaozhi Wushi boarded the carriage, the door closed, and the carriage slowly pulled away from Tangning Jie.

Inside the carriage it was dim, only a faint glow from the street lamps outside filtered in. Qiaozhi Wushi leaned against his seat and closed his eyes.

He recalled those telegrams, those numbers, those lost places. Singapore, Yangon, Naypyidaw, Tehran—those names had once been the brightest stars on the British Empire's map. Now? All gone.

He also thought of the old woman kneeling at the entrance of Tangning Jie, holding her son's photograph, shouting "My son is dead." The young man in the photo wore a uniform and smiled brightly. Like the soldiers who died in Malaya and Burma, he would never return.

He opened his eyes and watched the street lamps outside racing backward.

London's night was no different from a hundred years ago. The same streets, the same buildings, the same Thames River. But a hundred years ago, no one would have thought the British Empire could lose. A hundred years ago, everyone believed the British Empire would win forever.

How far does forever reach?

A hundred years? Two hundred years? Or four days?

The carriage stopped at the palace gate. Qiaozhi Wushi stepped out and entered the palace. The long corridor was empty, with only a few attendants standing in the corners, heads bowed, motionless.

He walked to his study and pushed the door open.

On the desk lay a thick stack of documents—the telegrams and reports he hadn't had time to read today. He didn't look at them; instead he went to the window and stared at the pitch-black night outside.

In the distance, the surface of the Thames River could be faintly seen, glittering in the moonlight. That bridge, those buildings, this city—had never been captured by foreign foes in two hundred years.

But this time?

He didn't know.

He only knew that from today onward, the British Empire was no longer the invincible empire it once was.

From today onward, the world had changed.

That same night, in a slum of London's East End, an old woman sat under a dim kerosene lamp, cradling a photograph in her hands.

The photo showed her son in uniform, smiling brightly. It had been taken on the day he enlisted, when he said he'd return after the war, marry, have many children, and let her hold grandchildren.

Three months earlier, she had received a telegram stating he had fallen in Malaya. No details, no last words, just a cold line: "Deeply regretful."

She pressed the photo to her chest and remained still.

Footsteps came from outside the door; it was neighbor Mrs. Mary. Mary carried a bowl of hot soup and gently pushed the door open.

"Jenny, have some soup. You haven't eaten anything all day today."

The old woman didn't move.

Mary sighed, placed the soup on the table, and sat beside her.

"Jenny, don't be like this. Tom wouldn't want to see you like this."

The old woman finally spoke, her voice hoarse and unrecognizable as her own.

"Mary, when Tom died, did it hurt?"

Mary was silent for a few seconds.

"I don't know. But probably... it didn't hurt. It passed in an instant."

"In an instant," the old woman repeated, "I carried him for ten months, raised him for twenty years, and he was gone in an instant."

Mary didn't know what to say.

Outside, London's night was deep. In the distance, faint shouts from the marching crowd drifted, growing farther and more indistinct.

The old woman looked at the black night sky outside and murmured:

"God, when will this war finally end?"

No one answered her.

Only the wind rustling through the window shutters, whooshing like a sob.

In the morning at Berlin Palace, sunlight streamed through the tall floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden sheen on the floor.

Weilian Ershi stood before the window, having stood there for a full half hour.

He wore a crisp gray uniform edged with gold, his chest laden with medals. It was his favorite attire; whenever he wore it, he felt the world's eyes upon him. At this moment, he faced away from the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, watching the courtyard bathed in sunlight.

In the courtyard, the guards were changing posts. They wore immaculate uniforms, marching in perfect step, each movement exuding the Prussian soldier's characteristic rigor and pride. In the distance, Berlin's skyline was especially clear in the dawn, its spired churches and towering buildings glittering in the sunlight.

The door was gently knocked.

"Come in." Wei Lian Er Shi did not turn around.

The Imperial Prime Minister Te Ao Ba Deng·Feng·Beiteiman-Huo Er Wei Ge entered, followed by Foreign Minister Ge Te Li Bu·Feng·Ya Ge. Both wore an uncontainable excitement on their faces—an expression that Wei Lian Er Shi had not seen on them for a long time.

"Your Majesty," Beiteiman began, his voice a little trembling, "Good news! A tremendous piece of good news!"

Wei Lian Er Shi finally turned around.

"What good news?"

Beiteiman stepped forward, both hands holding a stack of telegrams.

"Your Majesty, Lanfang's offensive has achieved a decisive victory! Singapore, Myanmar, Yilang, all fell into Lanfang's hands! The Yingguo lost half of Yazhou in four days!"

Wei Lian Er Shi was stunned for a second.

Then he snatched the stack of telegrams and read them one by one. Singapore—lost. Myanmar—lost. Yilang—lost. The Suez Canal was precarious, Indians were anxious, the Yingguo fleet was trapped in Mumbai Port and dared not come out.

He read it three times, then lifted his head, and a smile slowly spread across his face. The smile grew larger and larger, finally turning into a burst of laughter that echoed in the spacious room.

"Good! Excellent!" He slammed the telegram onto the table, strode to the window, pushed it open with both hands, and shouted outside, "The Yingguo have lost! The Great British Empire is finished!"