Chapter 777: Cyprus Conference

June 20, 9:30 a. m., Cyprus Conference Center.

The newly built structure sits on a gentle slope on the island's east side; its white walls gleam dazzlingly in the sun, and the circular dome resembles a huge pearl set into the hillside. In front of the building lies a spacious plaza, where five tall flagpoles stand side by side, bearing Lanfang's Golden Dragon flag, Meilika's Stars and Stripes, Faguo's tricolor, Deguo's black‑red‑gold tricolor, and Yingguo's Union Jack, rustling in the morning breeze.

The plaza is filled with soldiers armed with loaded rifles. Lanfang's troops wear yellow uniforms, Meilika's troops wear khaki uniforms, Faguo's troops wear blue uniforms, Deguo's troops wear gray uniforms, and Yingguo's troops wear khaki uniforms—each of the five nations occupying a corner, unrelated yet jointly guarding this land that will soon decide the world's fate.

Reporters are held back outside the plaza's perimeter cordon. A sea of people presses together, cameras aimed at the conference center's main doors. Flashbulbs pop in succession, like a glittering galaxy of stars. Some tiptoe, some climb ladders, some even scramble up a nearby olive tree, just to snag a better angle.

At 9:50 a. m., the first car rolls into the plaza.

It is a black Mercedes, its hood bearing a small black‑red‑gold tricolor. The door opens, and Tirpitz steps out. He wears a deep‑gray civilian suit, no military uniform, his back perfectly straight. He glances around, then strides toward the entrance. Reporters frantically press shutters, flashlights flooding the scene. Tirpitz does not look back, does not wave, and simply walks into the conference center.

The second car follows immediately. It is a black Rolls‑Royce, its hood bearing the Union Jack. Asquius steps out, his complexion still a bit pallid, dark circles under his eyes starkly visible. He glances at the five flags, then at the Union Jack, lowers his head, and briskly walks through the gate. Reporters shout something, but he pays them no heed.

The third car arrives. It is a black Renault, its hood bearing a tricolor. Kelei Mengsuo steps out, moving quickly, his face bearing an indescribable expression—anticipation, tension, and a sense of relief. He waves at the reporters, then turns and walks through the gate.

The fourth car pulls in. It is a white Cadillac, its hood bearing the Stars and Stripes. Wilson steps out, smiling, waving a greeting to the reporters. His smile is perfectly measured—neither cold nor warm, neither distant nor close, leaving no flaw to pick and no sincerity to read. He stands for a few seconds, allowing the reporters enough shots, then turns and walks through the gate.

The fifth car is the last to arrive; its doors open, and Chen Feng steps out. He wears a deep‑gray Zhongshan suit, bears no medals, his face shows no expression. He looks around, his gaze sweeping over the five flags, over the frantic reporters, over the armed soldiers. Then he gives a slight nod and turns to walk through the gate.

Reporters go even more frantic. Some shout in English, some in French, some in German, some in Chinese—"President Chen! Over here!" "Mr. President, can you say a few words?" "What are Lanfang's post‑war plans?" Yet Chen Feng does not look back, does not wave, and simply walks through the gate, disappearing beyond it.

The gate closes slowly.

10:00 a. m., the conference hall.

In the massive circular hall, five long tables form a semicircle. Each table bears its nation's flag, with several neat stacks of documents and tea cups. At the opening of the semicircle, directly opposite a podium, five flags stand on the podium, symbolizing the equality of the five nations.

Chen Feng sits in Lanfang's seat, with Wang Wenwu on his left and a translator on his right. He lifts his tea cup, takes a sip, and scans the representatives of the other four nations.

Wilson sits in Meilika's seat, smiling, whispering with Lansing. Kelei Mengsuo sits in Faguo's seat, hands clasped on the table, his face expressionless. Tirpitz sits in Deguo's seat, back perfectly straight, staring ahead. Asquius sits in Yingguo's seat, head bowed, his thoughts unreadable.

At 10:00 a. m., Wilson stands and walks to the podium.

He clears his throat, scans everyone present, then begins speaking. His voice is resonant, echoing through the circular hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Five‑Nation Conference, I declare the Cyprus Peace Conference officially opened."

Applause erupts—scattered, but still applause.

Wilson continues, "Four years ago, a terrible war broke out in Europe. Over thirty million casualties, countless cities razed, countless families shattered. Today we sit here not to settle grudges, but to forge peace."

His tone rises and falls, as if delivering a meticulously prepared speech.

"We come from different countries, with different histories, speaking different languages. Yet we share one common goal—to make this war the last war, so that our descendants never again endure the suffering we have endured."

Kelei Mengsuo listens, his fingers lightly tapping the tabletop. He has heard these words countless times, from 1914 to now, every politician saying the same thing. He is more interested in what Wilson will say next.

Asquius bows his head, staring at the table. Wilson's words drift past his ears, leaving no trace. His mind is filled with last night's conversation—"Learn to bow, and you'll survive."

Tirpitz stares straight at Wilson, his face expressionless. He knows the real confrontation lies beyond these pleasantries.

Chen Feng lifts his tea cup, takes another sip. He looks at Wilson, his gaze calm, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth—courtesy over, it's time for the truth.

Wilson speaks for thirty minutes—on the horrors of war, the value of peace, and how each nation should lay down hatred and jointly build a new world. After finishing, he returns to his seat, lifts his tea cup, and takes a sip.

The hall falls silent for three seconds.

Then Wilson stands again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this afternoon we will hold a closed‑door consultation. But before that, I would like to propose a concept."

He pauses, scanning the room.

"I call this concept— the International League."

A stir ripples through the hall.

Kelei Mengsuo's fingers cease tapping. Asquius lifts his head. Tirpitz's eyes flash. Chen Feng sets his tea cup down.

Wilson continues, "The International League is an international organization composed of sovereign states. Its purpose is to maintain world peace, mediate international disputes, and promote cooperation among nations. Any state may apply to join, but decision‑making power rests with the permanent council."