Chapter 765: The White Flag of Sydney

An old woman stood in the line, holding a child in her arms. The child was very thin, skin‑tight over the bones, with eyes frighteningly large. He leaned against his mother's chest, eyes closed, and it was unclear whether he was asleep or faint from hunger.

The middle‑aged man beside them looked at the child and shook his head.

"What a sin. The war has raged for four years and has wiped out the children."

Another old man replied.

"It's better if they're gone. No need for them to grow up and go to war."

The line moved forward slowly. Each step felt as if they were using all their strength.

A middle‑aged man in a tattered suit emerged from the bakery, cradling a paper bag. It contained the loaf he had waited four hours in line for—a small, dark piece mixed with sawdust. He held the bag as if it were the most precious thing in the world, stepping away slowly.

A clamor rose from afar.

A group of workers turned the corner holding placards, shouting, "Strike! Strike! We want work! We want bread!"

More people joined. The line grew longer, and the shouts grew louder.

"Stop the war!"

"Wei Lian step down!"

"We want peace!"

A police officer stood at the corner, watching the surging workers, at a loss. An older officer beside him tugged his sleeve.

"Don't intervene. It can't be controlled."

The young officer stood stunned, watching the crowd pass by, their shouts deafening.

In the study of the Berlin palace, the curtains were drawn tight.

Wei Lian Ershi sat behind the desk, a thick stack of reports spread before him. He had been reading for two hours, each report sinking his heart a little more.

The first report: Lu er qu workers on strike, two hundred thousand coal miners have not descended for three days. Factories halted, trains idle, power plants shut down.

The second report: Kiel Port sailors mutinied, refusing to obey orders to set sail. Officers were detained, and a red flag flew on the warship.

The third report: Bavarian peasants rioted, seized the government building, and proclaimed a Soviet Republic.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth—each saying the same thing: Deguo is finished.

He set the reports down, hands covering his face.

The door was gently knocked.

"Come in."

Xingdengbao pushed the door open, stood at attention and saluted.

"Your Majesty."

Wei Lian Ershi lifted his head and looked at him.

The seventy‑year‑old old marshal now wore unmistakable fatigue. His eye sockets were sunken, wrinkles deeper, yet his eyes remained bright—the kind of eyes belonging to one who has witnessed countless lives and weathered innumerable storms.

"Marshal, sit."

Xingdengbao sat opposite him.

Wei Lian Ershi pushed the reports onto his desk.

"Take a look. All of them."

Xingdengbao took the reports, reading them one by one. He read slowly, scrutinizing each. After finishing, he lifted his head and looked at Wei Lian Ershi.

"Your Majesty, the situation is dire."

Wei Lian Ershi gave a wry smile.

"Dire? It's about to end."

He stood, walked to the window, pulled aside a corner of the curtain, and gazed at the gray‑hazy sky outside.

"Listen."

Outside, faint chants of the march drifted in, growing nearer and louder.

"Stop the war!" "Wei Lian step down!" "We want peace!"

Wei Lian Ershi listened to the shouts, silent for a long while.

Then he turned, looking at Xingdengbao.

"Marshal, you tell me, what should I do?"

Xingdengbao stood and walked to his side.

"Your Majesty, we must seek peace."

Wei Lian Ershi looked at him.

"Seek peace? How to seek it?"

Xingdengbao pointed outside.

"Listen. The people are rioting, the workers are striking, the soldiers are mutinying. If we do not seek peace, Deguo will collapse from within. Then it will not be peace‑seeking but surrender."

1918 Australia Sydney Harbor!!!

In the thin morning mist that had not yet lifted, Liu Zhenjie stood on a sand dune.

The dune was low; from its crest one could overlook Sydney's outline. The first time he stood there, the British Army in Sydney was still reinforcing fortifications, silhouettes dotted the city walls, and a few warships patrolled the harbor. Then he told his company commanders, "It's been three months; now I'll have lunch in the city."

Liu Zhenjie raised his telescope, the lenses catching a faint glint in the morning light. In the distance, Sydney emerged hazily from the mist—spires of churches, low‑lying houses, orderly streets, and the harbor's calm surface. Everything was as he remembered, yet different.

The difference: no silhouettes on the city walls.

The difference: the warships in the harbor were gone.

The difference: atop the highest flagpole, the flag no longer was the British flag.

It was a white flag.

Liu Zhenjie froze, set the telescope down, wiped the lenses, and lifted it again. Yes, it was white. What else could it be but a sign of surrender? He stared for a full minute, then lowered the telescope and exhaled.

Chief of Staff Zhang Haiyang ran up from behind, panting. He too saw the white flag, stood stunned, unable to speak for a long moment. Then he snapped toward Liu Zhenjie, eyes full of disbelief: "Commander, the British… surrendered?"

Liu Zhenjie nodded, saying nothing.

"But…" Zhang Haiyang pointed at the city in the distance, "we haven't even fought yet! Our cannons aren't set up yet! Our tanks haven't charged yet! How could they…"

Liu Zhenjie gave him a glance, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "What, not used to it? Do you have to fight a battle to feel comfortable?"

Zhang Haiyang scratched his head and laughed awkwardly. "It's not that, it's just… it's just that it feels too sudden. It's been three months; we ran from Pidamara, covered seven thousand kilometers, lost over five thousand brothers, just waiting for this battle. They say if we don't fight, then we just don't?"

Liu Zhenjie gave no reply. He raised his telescope again, looking at the white flag fluttering faintly in the morning breeze. Seven thousand kilometers, over five thousand lives, four months—those numbers ran through his mind and finally settled on that white flag. Was it worth it? He didn't know. But he knew that the white flag meant the remaining brothers wouldn't have to die anymore.

Enough.

"Send orders to each regiment," he said, putting down the telescope, "halt the advance. Send scouts over to check."

The scouts returned half an hour later. They brought back a major dressed in a British Army uniform, and a thick letter.

The major was very young, appearing under thirty, blond hair and blue eyes, a typical Yingguo appearance. His uniform was crisp, his boots polished to a shine, but his face bore an indescribable fatigue—a weariness only those who had lost a battle possess. He stepped before Liu Zhenjie, stood at attention, saluted, then spoke fluent English: "General, I come by order of Major General Smith, commander of the Sydney garrison, to deliver a surrender document."