Chapter 781: He Is Not Ending the War; He Is Preparing for the Next One

Harrison took a deep breath. "Mr. President, a 70,000‑ton battleship can mount ten 406‑mm main guns. Its armor can be over 350 mm thick, and current armor‑piercing shells can't penetrate it. If its speed stays above thirty knots, it would be faster than all our existing battleships."

His voice grew heavier.

"A warship like that has the combat power of three of our current battleships. If Lanfang builds two…"

He didn't finish, but Wilson understood.

Wilson was silent for a few seconds. Then he asked, "How many years do we need?"

Harrison thought for a moment. "Mr. President, Meilika's largest battleship now is only a 30,000‑ton class. Designing a 70,000‑ton warship requires brand‑new blueprints, a brand‑new propulsion system, brand‑new guns, and brand‑new armor technology. At least… ten years."

Wilson closed his eyes.

Ten years.

Ten years later, Lanfang's 70,000‑ton warship had long been launched. Ten years later, Meilika was still playing catch‑up.

He waved his hand. "Go out."

Harrison stood, saluted, and turned to leave.

After the hatch closed, Wilson sat alone there, watching the sea outside darken gradually.

He recalled Chen Feng's gaze at the meeting—calm, composed, without any tension. At the time he had thought Chen Feng had the victory in hand. Now he understood that Chen Feng's confidence came from those massive ships under construction.

He stood and walked to the window.

In the distance, a faint outline of another ship could be seen on the horizon. It was a British vessel, carrying Asiqusi and the failed empire, heading toward London.

Wilson watched the ship and suddenly thought of a question.

Why did Chen Feng have Wang Wenwu say that line in front of Lansing?

Was it a deliberate leak? Or an accidental slip of the tongue?

He didn't know. But he knew that, intentional or not, the news had already spread. Meilika would panic, Yingguo would panic, Faguo would panic. Everyone would start frantically building warships, frantically expanding armaments for war.

That, perhaps, is exactly what Chen Feng wanted.

He said softly, "The war is over, but another war has just begun."

That night, in the restaurant of the Ocean, Wilson and Lansing sat opposite each other.

A lavish dinner was set on the table, but neither of them touched their knives or forks. In front of Wilson sat a glass of whisky, and in front of Lansing a glass of red wine, both already cooled.

Lansing spoke first. "Mr. President, do you think Chen Feng did it deliberately?"

Wilson looked at him. "What do you think?"

Lansing thought for a moment. "I think it was intentional. Wang Wenwu has followed Chen Feng for so long; he couldn't make such a low‑level mistake. In a public setting, on the dock, whispering this classified intel to his ear—far too deliberate."

Wilson nodded. "I think so too."

He lifted his glass and took a sip. The whisky was strong, burning his throat.

"But the question is, why did he deliberately let us know?"

Lansing was silent for a few seconds. "Perhaps… to make us panic?"

Wilson looked at him. "Make us panic? Why?"

Lansing thought. "If we panic, we'll start expanding armaments for war. When we expand, Yingguo will follow suit. Faguo will too. Deguo will too. The whole world will."

His voice grew softer.

"Then the next war will arrive."

Wilson fell silent.

He knew Lansing was right. Chen Feng was playing a much larger next move. He wasn't ending the war; he was preparing for the next war.

He stood and walked to the window.

Outside, the night was deep. Only a few fishing boat lights flickered on the sea, and the distant skyline was already blurred in darkness.

"Lansing," he said softly, "you tell me, what does Chen Feng actually want?"

Lansing walked to his side and stood shoulder to shoulder with him.

"Mr. President, I think he doesn't want to win a single war. What he wants is for Lanfang to keep winning forever."

Wilson nodded.

"Yes. Keep winning forever."

He turned and looked at Lansing.

"Send a telegram home. Tell the Navy to start designing the next‑generation battleship. Target—70,000‑ton class."

Lansing was stunned. "Mr. President, regarding Parliament…"

Wilson waved his hand. "The Parliament side, I'll handle. Tell them, if they don't build, ten years later Meilika will be the second Britain."

Lansing nodded, turned, and left.

Wilson stood alone by the window, watching the pitch‑black night outside.

He recalled Chen Feng's words—"If not on the dining table, then on the menu."

Meilika must never become a menu.

June 25, London.

In front of No. 10 Downing Street, reporters gathered again. They held black rain umbrellas, crowded outside the iron fence, craning their necks to look inside. London's weather was as gloomily overcast as always, the heavy clouds hanging low, making it hard to breathe.

Inside the conference room, the smoke was so thick it choked.

Both sides of the long table were filled with people—Army Minister Kichinna, Navy Minister Jelikó, Foreign Minister Gray, Colonial Affairs Minister Cecil, and a large group of generals, staff officers, and secretaries. Each had a thick stack of documents before them, and each face showed varying degrees of fatigue and anxiety.

Asiqusi sat at the head seat, holding the telegram Wilson had sent. He had read it three times; each time his hand trembled.

He set the telegram down, lifted his head, and looked at the silent faces.

"Ladies and gentlemen, President Wilson has sent a telegram."

The conference room fell quiet. Everyone stared at him.

Asiqusi read aloud:

"Prime Minister Asuikui: It is reported that Lanfang is planning a new‑generation battleship with a full load displacement of 70,000 tons. Meilika has already launched the corresponding project. It is recommended that Yingguo be well prepared. This source is reliable; please treat it with utmost seriousness. —Wilson"

After reading it, he placed the telegram on the desk.

The conference room fell into dead silence.

Then Ji Qin Na sprang to his feet. "Seventy thousand tons? What are they building a warship of that size for?"

Naval Minister Jielike's voice trembled. "What else could it do? Conquer Yingguo."

Saicier asked, "Is the intelligence reliable?"

Asuikui nodded. "The telegram was sent personally by Wilson. It should be reliable."

Silence fell over the conference room again.

Jielike stood up and walked to the massive chart on the wall. He pointed at the North Sea, at the Atlantic, and at the Mediterranean.

"Gentlemen, do you know what a 70,000‑ton battleship means?"

No one answered.

He answered himself. "It means that all our current warships become scrap metal. Our battlecruisers cannot defeat it. Our capital ships cannot outrun it. Our fleet, before it, is merely a flock of lambs awaiting slaughter."

He turned and looked at the people seated.

"The Bismarck Class at 45,000 tons we already cannot beat. Seventy thousand tons— we don't even dare to imagine."