Chapter 710: Lanfang Will Not Be an Enemy of Meilika

At ten p. m., William II was still sitting in his study.

On the desk lay the stack of telegrams and the economic report. He had read them countless times, but each reading added another ounce of irritation to his mind.

The door was gently knocked.

"Come in."

Xingdengbao entered, holding a new document in his hand.

"Your Majesty, the detailed report on Lu er qu."

William II took the document, glanced through it, and then set it down.

"Striking?"

"Yes, striking. Two hundred thousand workers have not gone down the mines for three days."

William II was silent for a few seconds.

"What do they want?"

"Higher wages. Distribution of goods. And… a cease‑fire."

William II lifted his head and looked at him.

"Cease‑fire? The workers also demand a cease‑fire?"

Xingdengbao nodded.

"Your Majesty, it's not just the workers. Farmers, citizens, merchants, even some low‑ranking officers are demanding a cease‑fire. They've had enough."

William II stood and walked to the window. Outside, Berlin at night was unusually quiet—the kind of silence that made his heart race.

"Xingdengbao, how many years have you been with me?"

Xingdengbao was momentarily stunned.

"Since the war broke out, three years have passed."

"Three years," William II repeated. "In those three years you never disobeyed my orders. Today at the council, it's the first time."

Xingdengbao said nothing.

William II turned and looked at him.

"Xingdengbao, do you think I'm a good emperor?"

Xingdengbao was silent for a long while.

Then he said, "Your Majesty, you are an emperor with ideals. But ideals sometimes cannot save a nation."

William II stared at him, at the weary, helpless look in those clouded eyes. He suddenly laughed, a laugh that made Xingdengbao's heart ache.

"An emperor with ideals," he repeated. "Do you know, I've wanted to be a good emperor since I was a child. Like my grandfather, making Deguo strong, making Europe heed Deguo. My grandfather did it, and I will too."

He walked back to the window, gazing at the pitch‑black night.

"But now? Three years of war, millions dead, the home front in chaos, Yingguo still fighting, Lanfang forces arriving. I, the so‑called good emperor, have truly failed."

Xingdengbao stepped beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

"Your Majesty, it's not your fault. This war was a mistake from the start."

William II turned his head and looked at him.

"A mistake? Then tell me, what is right?"

Xingdengbao was silent for a few seconds.

"Negotiations. As soon as possible. While Lanfang hasn't taken the Suez Canal, while Yingguo hasn't completely collapsed, we should proactively propose talks. Perhaps we can still preserve something."

"Preserve what? Alsace‑Lorraine? Or our colonies?"

"Preserve Deguo," Xingdengbao said, looking at him. "Preserve this nation, preserve those who are still alive."

William II was silent for a long while.

He stared at the black night outside, at the faint lights flickering in the distance, at this once‑glorious nation now on the brink of collapse.

Then he whispered, "Xingdengbao, you know, sometimes I truly wish I were an ordinary person. An ordinary person doesn't have to make decisions, doesn't have to bear the lives of millions. An ordinary person just needs to stay alive."

Xingdengbao said nothing.

William II turned, walked back to the desk, and picked up the economic report.

"One hundred thousand marks for a loaf of bread," he muttered, "This is my Deguo."

He set the report down and looked at Xingdengbao.

"Regarding the negotiations, go discuss with Beiteiman. But don't let too many people know."

Xingdengbao nodded.

"Also, tell Ludengdaofu to hold the front steady. No matter what happens at home, the front must not collapse."

Xingdengbao nodded again.

William II waved his hand.

"Go. Leave me alone for a while."

Xingdengbao bowed and turned to leave.

After the door closed, William II stood alone in the study, watching the black night outside. He stood for a long, long time.

Finally, he whispered, "Grandfather, I did my best."

No one answered him.

Only the wind sighing through the window lattice, a mournful wail.

The next morning, on the streets of Berlin.

A newspaper‑selling boy stood at the corner, shouting loudly:

"Extra! Extra! Lanfang troops are approaching the Suez Canal! Yingguo is urgently dispatching forces to reinforce Egypt!"

People passed by him, buying no papers. They no longer had money for newspapers. Those who could afford a paper no longer cared where the Lanfang were. They only cared about one thing: whether they could buy bread today.

The boy shouted for a while, his throat went hoarse. He stopped, leaned against the wall and caught his breath.

An old woman walked over, carrying an empty basket. She looked at the boy and asked, "Child, is there any good news in today's newspaper?"

The boy shook his head.

"No, ma'am. Only bad news."

The old woman nodded and kept walking forward.

In the distance, a long queue had formed again at the bakery entrance. The line was longer than yesterday, stretching to the street corner and beyond sight.

The boy watched the line and suddenly recalled the few coins the officer had given him yesterday. He fished the coins from his pocket and clenched them tightly in his palm.

Today's bread might buy a small piece.

Maybe.

He stood up and walked toward the bakery.

Behind him, newspapers lay scattered on the ground, blown everywhere by the wind. The big headlines on the front pages glared especially in the morning light:

"Lanfang's momentum is unstoppable!"

"The British Empire is on the brink of collapse!"

"Deguo victory is in sight!"

In Washington's morning, sunlight streamed through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows into the oval office, casting a warm patch of light on the floor.

President Wilson stood by the window, having stood there for a full twenty minutes. He wore a dark gray suit, his tie impeccably knotted, and held a cup of coffee in his hand—the coffee was already cold, but he didn't drink it, just holding it while watching the neatly trimmed lawn outside.

On the lawn, gardeners were busy. Some pushed lawnmowers, some trimmed shrubs, some swept away fallen leaves. Everything seemed so calm, so normal, just like Meilika a hundred years ago.

But Wilson knew that everything had changed.

On the desk lay a thick stack of telegrams—a plea‑for‑help telegram from London, a panic telegram from Paris, and the brief telegram just sent by Chen Feng.

"Domestic enthusiasm for joining the war is soaring; Meilika is sending troops to Europe. Lanfang will not be an enemy of Meilika."

Will not be an enemy of Meilika.

Wilson turned, walked back to his desk, picked up the telegram again and read it once more. Chen Feng's words were well said, each character clear as crystal, just like the man himself—clear, understandable, never vague.

"Will not be an enemy of Meilika," he murmured, "that means we should stay out of Yazhou's affairs."

The door was gently knocked.

"Come in."