Chapter 718: Supporting the Dollar as an International Currency

Xingdengbao looked at those words and gave a wry smile.

Concession. What else can Germany concede?

He slipped the documents into his pocket, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes.

The train raced through the darkness, the wheels' monotonous, lingering grind on the rails. Xingdengbao couldn't sleep; his mind was filled with the daytime conference's arguments.

Tirpitz said they must wait for Lanfang.

Ludengdaofu said they must hold the front steady.

Wilhelm II said they must seize the opportunity presented by Italy.

Only he said, don't trust the Italians.

But he had to go. He had to represent Germany and negotiate with a nation that had betrayed twice within two years.

This is the truth of politics—sometimes you have no choice.

Outside the window, a pale light began to spread. Dawn was approaching.

Xingdengbao opened his eyes and stared at the east growing ever brighter.

In the distance, a faint red glow appeared on the horizon—the place where the sun would soon rise, the direction of the east, the direction of Lanfang.

He recalled Tirpitz's words: "The outcome isn't decided by us, but by those who haven't yet given their all."

That red light in the east represented those who haven't yet given their all.

They are rising, reshaping the world's order.

And Germany, the once‑imperious European hegemon, awaits their judgment.

The train kept moving forward, heading south, toward Italy, toward a future full of variables.

Xingdengbao leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He didn't know what the outcome of the negotiations would be. He didn't know whether the Italians were sincere or feigned. He didn't know if Lanfang would truly send troops.

He knew only one thing—

From today onward, the world has changed.

That morning, newspaper boys on the streets of Berlin shouted loudly:

"Extra! Extra! Marshal Xingdengbao visits Italy! German‑Italian relations usher in a new turning point!"

People bought the paper from the boys, stood at the curb to read. Some were excited, some skeptical, some stared numbly a few moments, then folded the paper and kept queuing at the bakery.

A newspaper‑selling boy stood on the corner, watching the people passing by. His throat was hoarse from shouting, yet he kept calling out.

"Extra! Extra! Marshal Xingdengbao visits Italy!"

An elderly woman approached, bought a paper. She glanced at the front page, then asked the boy, "Kid, does this say the Italians are coming back?"

The boy nodded, "Yes, ma'am."

The woman was silent for a few seconds.

"My son died on the Italian front."

The boy was stunned, not knowing what to say.

The woman folded the paper, slipped it into her pocket, and walked slowly away.

The boy watched her hunched back, the slow, step‑by‑step retreat, and suddenly felt his throat grow even more hoarse.

In the distance, at the bakery entrance, the long queue still stretched on.

The sun rose, shining on Berlin, on the queuing people, on the newspaper boy, on the mother who had lost her son.

A new day began.

A new day would claim even more lives.

But at least at this moment, from a window of the Berlin palace, Wilhelm II watched the rising sun, and a sliver of hope lingered in his heart.

November 18, 1917, Portsmouth Naval Base.

The sea wind roared, rattling the port's flags. The sky was lead‑gray, heavy clouds pressing overhead like a massive lead sheet, suffocating. In the distance, a Royal Navy battleship lay at anchor, thin smoke drifting from its tall funnel, indicating its boilers were warming up.

A Si Kui Si stood on the pier, wrapped in a thick coat, watching the warship that would carry him across the ocean.

He had been standing here for ten minutes.

Chief of Staff Lao He·Qiao Zhi came to his side and whispered, "Prime Minister, it's time to board. The tide waits for no one."

A Si Kui Si did not look back.

"Lao He, tell me, will Wilson meet us this time?"

Lao He·Qiao Zhi was silent for a few seconds.

"He will. He has no reason not to."

"And after the meeting?" A Si Kui Si finally turned, looking at him. "Fourteen thousand have already reached France. Fourteen thousand is not even enough to fill a gap on the whole European front. What we need is a million‑strong army, Meilika's full‑scale commitment. Do you think Wilson will give it?"

Lao He·Qiao Zhi opened his mouth, as if to speak, but said nothing.

A Si Kui Si gave a wry smile and patted his shoulder.

"Let's go. Whether they give it or not, we have to try."

He turned toward the gangway. After a few steps, he stopped abruptly, glanced back at the city of Portsmouth.

The city's buildings loomed heavy under the gray sky. In the distance, church spires pierced the horizon like fingers pointing upward. Farther still were the dense rows of homes, mothers and wives awaiting their sons and husbands, ordinary citizens queuing daily at the bakery.

"Prime Minister?" Lao He·Qiao Zhi called softly.

A Si Kui Si withdrew his gaze and kept walking toward the gangway.

When he stepped onto the deck, he took one last look back at Britain's coastline—the land he had lived on for sixty years, the land he had fought for all his life, now shrinking and fading.

He didn't know whether this trip would succeed.

But he knew that if this failed, Britain would truly be finished.

The crossing of the Atlantic would take a full seven days.

A Si Kui Si spent most of his time in the cabin, staring blankly at the thin draft of the agreement. He had written that draft thirteen times, each time crossing it out and rewriting it, each time feeling it was not good enough.

The first version read: "Yingguo requests Meilika to dispatch troops to support the European front, and Meilika will obtain priority in post‑war European reconstruction."

Too soft. Wilson could only sneer at it.

The second version read: "Yingguo is willing, after the war, to share international financial leadership with Meilika and jointly manage the international monetary system."

Too vague. Sharing leadership—how to share? Who will lead? It was not clarified.

The third version read: "After the war, Yingguo will support the US dollar becoming an international settlement currency, on equal footing with the pound."

'On equal footing'—the phrase made A Si Kui Si himself find it laughable. Meilika's economic output was already the world's largest; why should it be on equal footing with Yingguo?

He tossed the pen, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

The seventh, eighth, and ninth versions—none satisfied him.

It was not until the eleventh version that he finally found the right phrase.

"International major settlement currency."

It is not "on equal footing with the pound," but "becoming one of the international major settlement currencies." That gives Yingguo face and gives Meilika a benefit. Wilson can take this to explain to Parliament, and Yingguo can preserve the last shred of dignity of the pound.

He picked up the pen again and added a sentence: "Yingguo will fully support Meilika in playing a leading role in the International Monetary Organization."