Chapter 709: Inside Germany

Xingdengbao was the last to reach the doorway, then suddenly stopped and turned to glance at Wilhelm II. The emperor was still seated there, looking out the window, motionless.

He sighed, pushed the door open, and went out.

When Ludengdaofu left the palace, the sun was already leaning west.

He did not take a carriage, but walked toward the city center. He wanted to see with his own eyes what Xingdengbao had described—the people queuing for bread, the children so hungry they were skin‑and‑bone, and the women weeping because their husbands had died on the battlefield.

After walking ten minutes, he saw the first bakery.

A long line stretched from the shop's doorway to the corner of the street. The queue included old and young, men and women, but everyone's face bore the same expression—fatigue, numbness, despair. They stood there motionless, like statues.

Ludengdaofu walked over and stood at the back of the line.

At the front was a middle‑aged woman in a patched‑up old dress, cradling a child. The child was very thin, skin‑and‑bone, with eyes so large they were startling. He leaned against his mother's chest, eyes closed, and it was unclear whether he was asleep or fainted from hunger.

"Madam," Ludengdaofu asked softly, "how long have you been waiting?"

The woman turned her head and gave him a glance. That look made Ludengdaofu's heart tremble—hollow, numb, like two dry wells.

"Three hours," she said, her voice hoarse.

"How much longer must we wait?"

"I don't know. Maybe an hour, maybe two. When the bread is sold out, it's over."

Ludengdaofu fell silent.

He saw the people ahead shift one by one, each step seeming to exhaust their whole bodies. Some could not move further and leaned against the wall gasping; some held children who cried from hunger; some muttered curses at the government, at the war, at those who made them starve.

An elderly person emerged from the shop, cradling a paper bag. It contained the bread they had finally bought after four hours in line—a small, dark, wood‑chip‑studded piece. They held the bag as if it were the most precious thing in the world, walking away step by step.

Ludengdaofu watched the back and suddenly recalled the scene three years earlier when he left Berlin. At that time everyone believed the war would end soon, and everyone cheerfully sent soldiers to the front lines. Back then the streets had no queues for bread, no skin‑and‑bone children, no desperate looks.

Three years.

Three years, and everything had changed.

He turned and kept walking forward.

After two streets, he saw a boy selling newspapers. The child was about twelve or thirteen, thin as a bamboo pole, standing at the corner shouting loudly:

"Extra! Extra! Lanfang triumphs! Yingguo discards half of Yazhou! Berlin Daily latest news!"

Ludengdaofu walked over and bought a copy of the newspaper.

The front page, printed in large type, read: "Lanfang surges like a breaking bamboo! The Great British Empire on the brink of collapse!"

He glanced at it a few times, folded the paper, and slipped it into his pocket.

The boy looked at him and suddenly asked, "Sir, are you an officer?"

Ludengdaofu nodded.

The boy's eyes brightened for a moment.

"Sir, if we win, will we finally get bread? My mother hasn't eaten anything for three days."

Ludengdaofu stared at him—the sparkling eyes, the gaunt face, the patched‑up old clothes. He opened his mouth to speak, but something seemed stuck in his throat, and no sound came out.

Finally, he fished out a few coins from his pocket and shoved them into the boy's hand.

"Go buy something to eat."

The boy froze for a second, then nodded frantically, turned, and ran.

Ludengdaofu stood there, watching the tiny silhouette disappear into the crowd.

He suddenly recalled Xingdengbao's words: "What about those who are still alive? Must they keep dying?"

He didn't know.

He only knew that the boy's mother had not eaten for three days.

At seven p. m., Ludengdaofu returned to headquarters.

Xingdengbao was seated at his desk, reading a report. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and gave Ludengdaofu a glance.

"Did you see it?"

Ludengdaofu nodded.

Xingdengbao did not ask further. He lowered his head and continued reading the report.

Ludengdaofu walked to the window and gazed at the night outside. Berlin was unusually quiet in the darkness, a silence not of peace but of death—no lights, no clamor, no shadows of people. Only occasional dog barks echoed across the empty streets.

The door was pushed open.

A quartermaster in a worn uniform entered, his face pallid. He saluted Xingdengbao, his voice trembling.

"Marshal, urgent report."

Xingdengbao lifted his head.

"Speak."

The quartermaster swallowed.

"The coal miners of Lu er qu have gone on strike. They say if wages are not paid, they will stop descending into the mines."

Xingdengbao set the report down and looked at him.

"Wages? How much do they want?"

"They say they want a three‑hundred percent increase, and it must be paid in kind, not in paper money."

Xingdengbao was silent for a few seconds.

"Three hundred percent. In kind. Do they know what that means?"

The quartermaster lowered his head.

"Marshal, they know. But their families are starving. Paper money is worthless; the amount that buys a loaf today buys only half a loaf tomorrow. They have no means."

Ludengdaofu turned and looked at the quartermaster.

"What is the situation in Lu er qu now?"

The quartermaster raised his head, his voice hoarse.

"Deputy Chief, half of the factories in Lu er qu have already stopped operating. Without coal, trains can't run, ships can't sail, the power plants are about to shut down. If the strike continues, the entire Deguo industry will be paralyzed."

Xingdengbao stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to them.

"How much money is left in the treasury?"

The logistics officer was silent for three seconds.

"Marshal, the treasury… is empty."

Empty.

The two words fell like two stones, crushing each person's heart.

Xingdengbao turned around and looked at the logistics officer.

"Empty? Didn't we have thirty million marks last week?"

The logistics officer shook his head.

"Last week we did. But this week we paid soldiers' pay, bought food, settled the factories' orders—everything was spent. Moreover, the finance department said that next week there will be two million soldiers' pay to disburse, four million worth of relief grain for starving civilians to purchase, and…"

"Enough," Xingdengbao interrupted him.

The logistics officer closed his mouth.

Xingdengbao walked back to his desk and sat down. He stared at the report on the Lu er qu strike for a long time. Then he lifted his head and looked at Ludengdaofu.

"Ludengdaofu, do you think we can still continue fighting now?"

Ludengdaofu gave no answer.

He recalled the middle‑aged woman queuing for bread, the boy so hungry his skin was hanging on his bones, the child shouting "If we win, we'll get bread." He recalled the soldiers in the trenches starving to the point of dizziness, the young people who burst into tears because a letter from home said "Mother is about to starve to death."

He remembered the question Xingdengbao had asked: "What about those who are still alive? Do they have to keep dying?"

He walked to the window and stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder with Xingdengbao.

Outside the window, the night was deep. Berlin City lay silent in the darkness, like a dying giant still gasping, but no longer able to rise.

"Marshal," he finally spoke, his voice soft, "perhaps Your Majesty is right; Lanfang's victory is indeed good news."

Xingdengbao looked at him.

"But perhaps you are also right, we truly can't go on."

The two were silent for a long time.

In the distance, a faint clamor could be heard. It was a marching crowd gathering toward the city center. They shouted slogans, held placards, demanding an end to the war, the distribution of food, and a way to survive.

Ludengdaofu listened to the shouts and suddenly felt exhausted.

They have been fighting for three years, millions have died; now the home front is in chaos, soldiers are too hungry to lift their rifles, while the enemy continues to win step by step.

When will it ever end?

He doesn't know.