Chapter 729: The Crown Prince Cannot Only Enjoy Glory, Not Shoulder Responsibility

"Prime Minister," he finally spoke, "what is Deguo like?"

Bo Sai Li thought for a moment.

"Very cold. Much colder than Italy."

Weng Beito smiled.

"Then I have to wear more."

Bo Sai Li looked at him, feeling a pang of sorrow.

"Your Highness, aren't you afraid?"

Weng Beito was silent for a few seconds.

"Afraid. But even being afraid, I must go."

He turned his head to look out the window.

"Father said, I am Italy's crown prince. A crown prince cannot only enjoy glory, without shouldering responsibility."

Bo Sai Li lowered his head.

"Your Highness, you are a good child."

Weng Beito shook his head.

"Not a good child. It's that there's no other way."

The train continued north, crossing high mountains, passing through tunnels, heading toward that unfamiliar country.

Snow began to drift outside the window.

Fine snowflakes fell from the sky, landing on fields, on villages, on the rails, quickly covering everything. Distant mountain ranges in the wind and snow were faintly visible, like a watercolor painting still being completed.

Weng Beito stared at the endless white world, suddenly recalling a book he read as a child. The book said that in the north there is a magical land, perpetually snow‑covered, inhabited by polar bears and reindeer. He had then thought, it would be wonderful to go see it.

Now he truly had gone.

But not as a tourist, as a hostage.

He closed his eyes and leaned against his seat.

The train raced through wind and snow, the wheels' grinding on the rails a monotonous, lingering sound. That sound was like a wordless song, singing of parting, of the unknown, of the fate that the twenty‑year‑old young man had to bear.

December 31, the last day of 1917.

Berlin railway station, wind and snow raging.

A special train from the south slowly entered the station, exhaling white steam. On the platform stood a group of men in military uniform—Xingdengbao, Ludengdaofu, Tirpitz, and a large contingent of generals and officials. They all tilted their heads upward, watching the train gradually come to a stop.

The doors opened, and Weng Beito stepped down.

He wore a thick leather coat, a black top hat on his head, a hint of fatigue on his young face, yet his back was perfectly straight. He glanced at the people on the platform, then strode purposefully toward Xingdengbao.

Arriving before Xingdengbao, he stopped and gave a slight bow.

"Marshal Xingdengbao, Italy's crown prince Weng Beito, has arrived in Berlin by order."

Xingdengbao looked at him, at that young face, those clear eyes, that heart still tinged with childishness.

He suddenly recalled his own self at nineteen. He had just enlisted, his first time on the battlefield, his legs trembling with fear. Yet this young man was far braver than he had been then.

"Your Highness," he began, his voice hoarse, "welcome to Berlin."

Weng Beito nodded.

In the distance, the bells rang.

One, two, three—midnight.

1918 has arrived.

A new year, new hope, new slaughter.

January 1, 1918, Berlin.

The first snow of the New Year fell heavily. From early morning, countless snowflakes fluttered down, covering the whole city. Thick white layers piled on the stone columns of the Brandenburg Gate, and snow blanketed the wings of the Victory Goddess statue; from afar it resembled a white dove about to spread its wings.

But Berlin is not a white dove. Berlin is a wounded bear, licking its wounds in wind and snow, awaiting the next bout of slaughter.

In the palace banquet hall, lights shone brilliantly.

Massive crystal chandeliers cast warm light onto the elegantly dressed guests—Deguo generals, government officials, and a few dignitaries who had hurried from the Austro‑Hungarian Empire. The long tables were laden with food—roast goose, sausages, mashed potatoes, sauerkraut, and crates of champagne and red wine. In this era of food rationing, such a feast was sheer extravagance.

Yet everyone ate, drank, and laughed.

Because today was a special day.

Wilhelm II sat at the head table, a glass of champagne in hand, a long‑awaited smile on his face. Beside him sat a young man—tall and thin, a shy smile, dressed in a well‑tailored dark suit. Italy's crown prince Weng Beito.

"Your Highness," Wilhelm II raised his glass, "welcome to Berlin. From today onward, Deguo and Italy are one family."

Weng Beito lifted his glass and gave a slight bow.

"Thank you, Your Majesty, for your generous hospitality. Italy will forever be Deguo's most loyal friend."

Wilhelm II smiled even wider.

Applause rang through the banquet hall. Deguo generals raised their glasses one after another, toasting the young crown prince. Weng Beito smiled, nodded in response, his demeanor proper, showing no sign of unease.

Yet Xingdengbao, seated in the corner, could see it.

The young man's hand that lifted the glass trembled slightly.

The banquet lasted three hours.

Weng Beito kept smiling the whole time, clinking glasses with each general who came to toast, speaking polite small talk in his not‑very‑fluent German. He ate some food, drank a bit, and chatted with Wilhelm II about Italy's scenery. Everything seemed normal.

Only Xingdengbao noticed those details.

He noticed Weng Beito's gaze occasionally drifting toward the window, toward that endless white world. He noticed that when someone mentioned the word "Rome," a faint dimness flashed in the young man's eyes. He noticed that after the banquet ended, when Weng Beito stepped out of the hall, he lingered at the doorway for three seconds, inhaled deeply, as if trying to leave something behind.

Xingdengbao followed him out.

The corridor was quiet. Weng Beito stood by a window, watching the snow‑covered garden outside. Moonlight washed over the snow, casting a bleak white glow.

"Your Highness," Xingdengbao said as he approached, "why don't you go rest?"

Weng Beito turned his head and looked at him.

"Marshal, Berlin is really cold."

Xingdengbao was silent for a few seconds.

"Colder than Italy."

Weng Beito nodded.

"When I was a child I read a book that spoke of a magical land in the north, where snow lies year‑round and polar bears and reindeer live. I thought then that it would be wonderful to go see it."

He gave a wry smile.

"Now it's really here."

Xingdengbao looked at him, at the young face that bore an unseasoned weariness.

"Your Highness, do you regret it?"

Weng Beito thought for a moment.

"Regret? No regret. My father said I am Italy's Crown Prince. A Crown Prince cannot merely enjoy glory without shouldering responsibility."

He turned and looked out the window.

"Just a bit homesick."

Xingdengbao said nothing.

The two of them stood like that, watching the white‑blanketed world outside. Snow continued to fall, fine flakes drifting from the sky, landing in the garden, on the treetops, on the distant, faint silhouettes of buildings.

After a long while, Weng Beito spoke.

"Marshal, can you tell me the truth?"

Xingdengbao looked at him.

"Can Deguo really win?"

Xingdengbao was silent for a long time.

Then he said, "Your Highness, I don't know."

Weng Beito was stunned for a moment.

"You are Deguo's Chief of Staff, and you still don't know?"