Chapter 714: Berlin's Gamble

Chen Feng nodded.

"Bo Sai Li wants to gamble. If he wins, he's a hero; if he loses, the Deguo have his back anyway."

Wang Wenwu frowned.

"President, what should we do then?"

Chen Feng stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the Persian Gulf's sea surface glittered in the sunset, a few merchant ships were slowly entering the harbor. On the distant docks, workers were loading and unloading cargo, a bustling scene.

"Tell Shanben Yifu and Xiaoyuan Chuan to speed up." He didn't turn around, "When the Italians lose Caporetto, Deguo on the Eastern Front will be easy. Then they'll shift more troops to the Western Front."

Wang Wenwu was stunned for a moment.

"President, do you think the Italians will lose?"

Chen Feng turned around and looked at him.

"Minister Wang, have you ever fought in a war?"

Wang Wenwu shook his head.

Chen Feng said, "I know what war is about. The Italians have thirty‑six divisions and want to take Caporetto in two days? Dream on."

He walked back to his desk and sat down. Chen Feng naturally knew the Caporetto campaign directly caused Bo Sai Li's government to collapse.

"Moreover, even if they capture it, so what? The Austro‑Hungarian Empire has Deguo behind it. Would Deguo just watch its ally be crushed?"

Wang Wenwu thought for a moment.

"You mean the Deguo will send reinforcements?"

"Definitely." Chen Feng nodded, "Ludengdaofu isn't a fool. He knows that once the Italians succeed, the Eastern Front becomes dangerous. He will pull forces from the Western Front to aid the Austro‑Hungarian Empire."

He picked up that intelligence report and glanced at it again.

"Bo Sai Li's gamble is a certain loss. And it'll be a terrible loss."

Wang Wenwu was silent for a few seconds.

"President, should we warn the Sakura Country people? Let them prepare in advance?"

Chen Feng shook his head.

"No need. Let them advance according to the original plan. After Burma, it's India. After India, the war will be almost over."

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Tell Shanben Yifu, within two months I want to see Sakura Country soldiers standing on the Indian border."

Wang Wenwu stood straight: "Yes!"

He turned to leave, but Chen Feng called him back.

"Also, send a telegram to Washington. Say that Lanfang has received President Wilson's goodwill, and both sides will keep to their own waters. As for the Yazhou matter, Lanfang will handle it themselves."

Wang Wenwu nodded, pushed the door open and left.

Chen Feng stood alone by the window, watching the sunset outside.

In the distance, the Persian Gulf's sea was dyed gold‑red, like endless flowing blood. Those merchant ships, those docks, those busy workers all appeared unusually quiet in that golden‑red light.

He suddenly thought of a question: how much longer will this war last?

He didn't know.

But he knew it was close.

On the Caporetto front, night fell.

Li Zuo leaned against a tree trunk shattered by a shell, breathing heavily. The first day's assault was over; they had taken the first line of defense, but many had died. The second line still lay ahead, waiting for them to charge again tomorrow.

Mario sat beside him, drenched in blood—his own and others'. His gaze was hollow, staring at the darkness ahead, motionless.

"Corporal," he suddenly said, his voice hoarse, "how many of us died today?"

Li Zuo was silent for a few seconds.

"Don't know. A lot."

Mario nodded and asked no more.

From afar came the moans of the wounded, one after another, drifting in the night wind. The sounds were faint, weak, like the last breath of someone about to die.

Li Zuo listened to those sounds and suddenly felt very tired.

Three years of fighting had killed millions, and now they kept dying at Caporetto. The dead are dead; the living must keep fighting, keep dying.

When will it ever end?

He didn't know.

In the distance, toward the second line of defense, Austro‑Hungarian troops' campfires flickered in the darkness. Behind those fires lay the enemies they would still face tomorrow, the blood that would keep flowing, the lives that would keep dying.

Li Zuo closed his eyes, leaning against the trunk.

"Sleep," he said, "we have to fight tomorrow."

Mario said nothing.

He kept his eyes open, staring at the pitch‑black night sky, sleepless through the night.

Meanwhile, Rome.

Bo Sai Li stood by the office window, also sleepless through the night.

He watched the black night outside, the faint distant lights, and this ancient, weary city.

Reports from the front were mixed. Some said the attack went well and the first line was taken; others said casualties were heavy and the second line held firm. He didn't know whom to trust, nor what to believe.

But he knew this gamble had only just begun.

If he wins, he's a hero. If he loses...

He dared not imagine what would happen if he lost.

In the distance, the bells rang. One, two, three— three A. M.

A new day began.

A new day, and even more people will die.

On the morning of November 15, 1917, Berlin unusually saw sunshine.

Golden sunlight streamed through the massive floor‑to‑ceiling windows into the palace conference room, casting a warm patch of light on the floor. A long table was covered with dark‑green velvet, and atop it lay a huge map of Europe—from the North Sea to the Mediterranean, from the Rhine to the Vistula—each strategic point marked clearly in red and blue pencil.

Wilhelm II stood by the window, his back to the doorway, and had been standing there for a full ten minutes.

He wore a gray Marshal's uniform, its gold trim glittering in the sun, and his chest was covered with medals. Those medals were the accumulation of his twenty‑nine years on the throne—some from his grandfather Wilhelm I, some from Queen Victoria of Britain, some from Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, some from Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria‑Hungary. At that time, he was the youngest emperor in Europe, Victoria's most beloved grandson, and the object of every royal house's courting.

Back then, no one could have imagined a day like this.

The door was gently knocked.

"Come in."

Imperial Chancellor Betman‑Holvig pushed the door open, followed by Chief of Staff Xingdengbao, Deputy Chief of Staff Ludengdaofu, and Marshal Tirpitz, who had just returned from Dubai. The four entered the conference room and took their places beside the long table.

Wilhelm II turned, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the four.

Betman‑Holvig's face bore fatigue—three years of war had left this Chancellor more exhausted than anyone. Xingdengbao's expression was unreadable; the seventy‑year‑old's wrinkles were as deep as knife cuts, his eyes cloudy yet sharp, like an aged eagle. Ludengdaofu stood beside Xingdengbao, in his early fifties, at the peak of vigor, but his eye sockets were sunken and a tangled beard sprouted—he hadn't been home in three days. Tirpitz stood at the back, his head white with hair, dressed in a faded civilian suit that had been washed to pallor, still unchanged from his return from Dubai.

"Everyone, sit down," Wilhelm II said.