Chapter 722: The French Attitude

Chen Feng waved his hand, cutting him off.

"Minister Wang, do you think I would pit 120,000 men against 500,000?"

Wang Wenwu was startled for a moment.

Chen Feng turned and looked at him, his eyes flashing.

"Tell Zhao Dengyu to advance according to plan, but don't rush the canal. Let the Yingguo think we intend to fight, so they move their troops over. Once they have moved—"

No one knows better than Chen Feng that modern warfare is no longer a numbers game; even though his Western Front has only 120,000 troops, it fields over five hundred tanks, and Lanfang's factories are churning out tanks nonstop.

The myth of Alamann, twenty years later, will be staged by his own armored units!

December 5, 1917, Strait of Gibraltar.

A Spanish-flagged merchant ship, the Santa Maria, was silently steaming eastward in the night. The vessel was modest, a 3,000‑ton displacement, its deck piled with cargo crates marked "Barcelona–Genoa". The sea was calm, moonlight spilling over the water, scattering silver glints.

Lavaer stood in the shadow of the bow, wrapped in a dark‑gray coat, watching the European coastline recede into the distance.

That was the direction of Spain. North lay Faguo, east Italy, south Africa. The place he was heading to was the East—a spot that months ago was obscure, now keeping all of Europe awake.

Deputy Du Meng stepped beside him, lowering his voice: "Ambassador, the captain needs you back in the cabin. It's windy outside."

Lavaer shook his head.

"No need. Let me stand a while longer."

He had been aboard for six days. Departing from Marseille, he had rounded Spain, passed through Gibraltar, and was now heading toward the eastern Mediterranean coast. Along the way he changed ships three times, assumed two identities, and was once nearly stopped by a Royal Navy patrol boat. Fortunately the captain's Spanish was fluent enough, and the Yingguo sailors were eager to return to their cabins for hot tea.

In those six days, he thought a lot.

He recalled Paris three years earlier, when he was a low‑ranking attaché at the Foreign Ministry, handling trivial paperwork daily. On the day war broke out, he was drinking coffee in his office when a clamor erupted outside. He went to the window and saw the streets packed with people brandishing flags, shouting "March to Berlin!"

Back then everyone thought the war would end quickly. Before Christmas, the Deguo would kneel and beg for mercy. The Faguo army would march into Berlin as victors, just as Napoleon once did.

Three years had passed.

Three Christmases had come and gone, yet the war persisted. The Faguo army indeed did not kneel, but they also never entered Berlin. Instead, the Deguo pushed to within a hundred kilometres of Paris; Verdun claimed three hundred thousand dead, the Somme four hundred thousand, and the entire northern French soil was pounded repeatedly by Shells.

And the Yingguo?

The Yingguo publicly proclaimed "shoulder to shoulder", but inwardly they thought only of their own interests. They poured a million troops into the French front, but that was because the Deguo threatened the English Channel. At the first chance, they would pull their forces back to guard their colonies, to protect their India, and to contest Asia with the Lanfang.

What about the Meilika?

Wilson, that hypocrite, shouted "freedom and democracy" aloud while scheming solely for Meilika's benefit. Fourteen thousand men arrived in France, their symbolic value outweighing actual impact. The real army was still en route, awaiting parliamentary budget approval, awaiting the populace to be roused. By the time they were ready, France might no longer exist.

And the Italians… the Italians' behind‑the‑scenes maneuvers—do they really think we Faguo cannot see? Do they think we are blind!

"Ambassador," Du Meng spoke again, a note of worry in his voice, "Do you truly think that Chen Feng will meet us?"

Lavaer turned and looked at him.

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

"But—" Du Meng hesitated, "We are half a world away from Lanfang, with no shared border, no direct trade. On what grounds would they help us?"

Lavaer was silent for a few seconds.

"Du Meng, do you know what the essence of diplomacy is?"

Du Meng shook his head.

"The essence of diplomacy is to find a common enemy," Lavaer said. "The Yingguo are Lanfang's enemy, and also ours. That is enough."

In the distance, a faint glimmer appeared on the sea surface. It was the lighthouse beam, pointing eastward, toward the Suez Canal.

Lavaer watched the light and whispered, "Almost there. Almost there."

December 12, Dubai.

The sun had just risen from the horizon, tinting the whole city gold‑red. Distant mosque minarets stood sharply in the morning light, while nearby the pier was already bustling. Workers hauled cargo, vendors shouted their wares, fishing boats slipped out of the harbor; everything looked much the same as a month earlier.

But everything was different now.

Two massive warships—Huahe and Zhujiang—were moored at the pier. They lay quietly at their berths, their towering hulls glinting cold metal under the sun. On deck, workers busily performed repairs. Sparks from welding torches flickered in the dawn like golden rain. The huge breach on the port side had been sealed with steel plates; the bridge was being rebuilt, and a new mast was being erected.

Further out were the Bismarck and Tirpitz. German sailors stood on deck, curiously eyeing the Eastern city. Most of them, a month ago, had thought they'd die in the Indian Ocean, now they sipped Arabic coffee and ate local fruit.

A black automobile was parked on the pier. Beside it stood several Lanfang officers in crisp uniforms, awaiting someone's arrival.

Lavaer descended the gangway and set foot on Dubai's ground.

He inhaled deeply. The air carried the scent of sea brine, of oil, of spices, and an indefinable aroma—the smell of victory.

A officer in his early thirties stepped forward, saluted, and spoke fluent French:

"Mr. Lavaer, welcome to Dubai. I am the aide to the President, surname Lin. The President is awaiting you."

Lavaer nodded, following Aide Lin toward the black car.

Before boarding, he cast one last glance back at the two massive German warships.

The Bismarck. The Tirpitz. Those two vessels that once terrified the Royal Navy now rested quietly at this Eastern city's pier, undergoing repairs by Lanfang engineers.

He suddenly recalled Kele Mengsuo's words before departing: "Pierre, go see what kind of person Chen Feng truly is. He can make the Deguo risk their lives for him, make the Sakura Nation bleed for him, keep the Yingguo sleepless—this man is no ordinary fellow."

He got into the car, the door closed, and the vehicle slowly pulled away from the pier.