Chapter 737: The

Before dawn, the servants in the mansion had already begun to bustle. Red lanterns were hung in the corridor, couplets were pasted on the door frames, and the windows were covered with red paper cuttings—characters for "fortune," carp, longevity peaches, all sorts. The kitchen wafted an enticing aroma; roasted lamb, pilaf, dumplings, spring rolls, dozens of dishes were being cooked simultaneously.

Wang Wenwu stood in the courtyard, directing the final arrangements. He wore a brand‑new Zhongshan suit, a red silk flower pinned to his chest, and a rare smile on his face.

"Move that lantern a little more to the left! Make sure the couplet is straight, don't tilt it!"

A young attendant ran over: "Minister Wang, the President asks, when will the guests arrive?"

Wang Wenwu glanced at his watch: "Soon. Mr. Xin Ta's car should already be on the road. Mr. Xiyuansi and King Ahmad arrived yesterday and are staying at the state guesthouse. Once Mr. Xin Ta arrives, we'll start the banquet."

The attendant nodded, turned, and ran off.

Wang Wenwu looked up at the red lanterns and suddenly felt a bit dazed.

Where was he a year ago today?

Three hundred sixty‑five days in a year—he doesn't even recall how many events occurred or how many places he visited! In short, he was very busy, and his busyness felt fulfilling.

And now?

Now he is in Dubai, the pearl of the desert, preparing a Spring Festival banquet for the leaders of three nations.

Life truly is marvelous.

From afar came the roar of car engines.

Wang Wenwu snapped back to attention and hurried toward the entrance.

The first car stopped at the doorway. The door opened, and Xin Ta stepped out.

He wore traditional Burmese attire—a deep‑purple long jacket, a white shirt, and a golden sash draped over his shoulder. A smile graced his face, but fatigue lingered in his eyes. From Myanmar to Dubai, a journey of several thousand kilometers, he had rested only four hours.

Wang Wenwu approached, bowing deeply: "Mr. Xin Ta, welcome to Dubai. The President is waiting for you."

Xin Ta clasped his hand: "Minister Wang, you've worked hard. It is my honor to spend this Spring Festival here."

As the two spoke, the second car arrived.

Xiyuansi Gongwang stepped out of the car. The Prime Minister of the Sakura Nation wore formal Western attire—a black tailcoat, a snow‑white shirt, a meticulously tied bow tie. His hair was completely white, yet his posture was upright and his gaze sharp as a youngster's.

He walked to Wang Wenwu, gave a slight bow: "Minister Wang, the Sakura Nation thanks Lanfang for the invitation."

Wang Wenwu returned the courtesy: "Mr. Xiyuansi, you're too kind. Please, go ahead."

The third car arrived last.

The door opened, and Ahmad Shah Kaiga stepped out.

The Yilang king, only nineteen this year, wore a lavish Persian robe—a deep‑blue brocade with gold‑thread embroidery, a tall black kid‑skin hat crowned with a white feather. A youthful wariness colored his face, and his eyes constantly surveyed everything around him.

Wang Wenwu approached, placed his right hand over his chest, and bowed slightly: "Your Majesty, welcome to Dubai."

Ahmad looked at him and nodded: "Minister Wang, is the President inside?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. The President is waiting for you."

The three entered the main gate, passed through the corridor, and headed toward the banquet hall.

Xin Ta looked at the red lanterns and couplets, and asked curiously: "Minister Wang, are these red items a tradition of the Huaxia people?"

Wang Wenwu nodded: "Yes, Mr. Xin Ta. Red symbolizes auspiciousness and good luck. During the Spring Festival, every household pastes red paper cuttings and hangs red lanterns, praying for a peaceful and smooth new year."

Xiyuansi Gongwang also looked at the cuttings: "I have seen similar things in the Sakura Nation. When we celebrate the New Year, we also hang shimenawa ropes at the doorway and display kadomatsu. Though the forms differ, the sentiment is the same."

Ahmad said nothing. He simply stared silently, a complex glint flashing in his eyes.

What is he thinking? No one knows.

The banquet hall doors opened.

Chen Feng stood in the doorway. (A move straight out of a mermaid drama!)

Inside the banquet hall, the long table was laden with sumptuous dishes.

A whole roasted lamb sat at the center, its golden skin sizzling with oil. Pilaf was piled like a small hill, rice mixed with carrots, raisins, and lamb chunks. Dumplings were neatly arranged on a plate, steaming. Spring rolls were fried to a golden crisp, accompanied by a dish of sweet‑spicy sauce. Dozens of unnamed snacks—sweet, salty, fried, baked—covered the entire table.

Chen Feng sat at the head seat, inviting the three guests to sit.

"Mr. Xin Ta, please sit here. Mr. Xiyuansi, you sit opposite me. Your Majesty, you sit beside me."

The four took their seats. The servers began pouring drinks—baijiu, red wine, sake—each taking what they needed.

Xiyuansi Gongwang looked at the table of dishes and exclaimed: "The Sakura Nation hasn't seen such a feast in three years."

Xin Ta also nodded: "Myanmar is even worse. Yingguo's taxes are too heavy; peasants can't even get enough rice. Before I left, Rangoon still enforced rationing, each person receiving only a handful of rice per day."

Chen Feng watched them, saying nothing.

Ahmad lifted his glass and took a sip. The wine was red, scented with grapes. He set the glass down and said softly: "Yilang isn't any better. Yingguo has been here for a hundred years, taking everything they can. We have oil but not even a refinery."

Chen Feng finally spoke, his voice low yet clear to everyone.

"Everyone, today's gathering isn't just for a meal."

He stood up and walked to the massive world map mounted on the wall.

The map was huge, spanning from Yazhou to Europe, from Africa to the Americas, each continent shaded in a different color. The red zones marked Lanfang's control—Malaya, Myanmar, Yilang, and the advancing India. The blue zones were Yingguo's territories, fading piece by piece. The gray zones represented Deguo and Austria‑Hungary, curled in central Europe. The green zones were Meilika, watching from across the Atlantic with a cold eye.

Chen Feng pointed at the map, his voice steady.

"The war is nearing its end. Yingguo has already lost in Yazhou and can't hold out much longer in Europe. Deguo is still fighting, but its home front is on the brink of collapse. The Meilika people have arrived, but they only want a slice of the post‑war pie."

He turned and looked at the three.

"After the war ends, what will the world become? Who will set the new rules? Who will allocate the post‑war benefits?"

The banquet hall fell silent.

Xiyuansi Gongwang set down his chopsticks and looked at Chen Feng. Xin Ta also lifted his head, his eyes flashing. Only Ahmad continued to eat his pilaf slowly, as if none of this concerned him.

Chen Feng walked back to his seat and sat down.

"I've been pondering a question."

He paused.

"Why, after every war, do a few great powers shut the doors and split the cake? Small nations can only wait to be divided, or be forgotten?"