Chapter 782: This Earth Isn't Big; One Voice Is Enough

Jiqinna asked, "So what do we do?"

Jeliko gave a wry smile. "What to do? Build warships. Build warships desperately. Build them bigger, faster, more than they do."

He walked back to his seat and sat down.

"But building warships costs money. A lot, a lot of money. Where does our money come from?"

Everyone's gaze turned toward Asquith.

Asquith sat there, motionless. After a long while he finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding steel.

"Where does the money come from? From the colonies."

He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, on London's streets, the marching crowds were dispersing. Yet the oppressive atmosphere remained.

"Tell the colonies that from today, they must double tribute. India may be lost, but we still have Africa. Egypt, Sudan, Kenya, South Africa—these places, from now on, must pay double the price."

He turned and looked at the people seated.

"Gentlemen, Yingguo lost once. We cannot lose a second time. No matter what Chen Feng intends, Yingguo people have already lost once; the next time we absolutely cannot lose!"

No one spoke. Everyone remained silent, nodding.

Because they all knew this was the only way out.

That night, Asquith locked himself in his office.

He sat at his desk, the Wilson telegram spread out before him. He had read it countless times, and each reading added another ounce of despair to his heart.

Seventy‑thousand tons.

Those three words were like three mountains pressing on his heart.

He recalled ten years ago, when he first became prime minister, full of vigor. At that time he believed Yingguo would remain strong forever, forever the world's number one. He had stood at the doorway of 10 Downing Street, waving to reporters, smiling with such confidence.

Ten years later, Yingguo was on the brink of collapse.

India was lost, Australia was lost, Myanmar was lost, Malaya was lost. In Europe, Yingguo was publicly slapped by Deguo. In Cyprus, Chen Feng publicly humiliated them. Now even the last hope—the navy—is about to be surpassed.

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, London's night was deep. In the distance, Big Ben flickered in the darkness, its hands pointing to midnight twelve. A new day had begun.

But he knew that for Yingguo, the new day would only grow darker.

He whispered, "God, what exactly have we done wrong?"

No one answered him.

Only the sound of wind passing the window lattice, whooshing, like a cry.

June 28, Dubai.

The sun had just risen from the horizon, golden rays spilling onto the Persian Gulf's surface, scattering shards of glitter like broken gold. Seagulls cried in the sky, circling, occasionally diving to snatch a small fish. In the distance, a mosque's minaret stood sharply clear in the morning light, and from the loudspeaker on the minaret came a long chant, calling believers to begin the new day.

At the dock, workers had already begun their bustle. Cranes creaked and whirred, cargo ships honked low, laborers shouted their calls, loading and unloading boxes of cargo. Everything looked as usual—so calm, so normal.

But today, it was different from the usual.

On the beach behind the Presidential Palace, Chen Feng was taking a walk.

He wore casual clothes—a white shirt, gray trousers, and cloth shoes on his feet. He walked slowly, each step firm, leaving a line of deep footprints on the sand. Waves rolled in one after another, then receded, gradually washing those footprints away.

He walked for a long time, from one end of the beach to the other, then back again. The sun rose higher, the light grew hotter, yet he did not stop.

Wang Wenwu caught up from behind and stopped beside him.

"President, you've been walking for almost two hours. Take a rest."

Chen Feng shook his head. "Not tired."

He kept walking forward. Wang Wenwu followed behind, silent.

After walking a while longer, Chen Feng suddenly stopped. He turned and looked at Wang Wenwu.

"Minister Wang, have the news from London arrived?"

Wang Wenwu nodded. "Arrived. Came last night. Yingguo people have begun plundering the colonies. Double tribute."

Chen Feng took the telegram, read it once, then smiled.

The smile was light, brief, flashing by. But Wang Wenwu saw it.

"President, what are you laughing at?"

Chen Feng handed the telegram back. "Laugh that they're panicking."

He kept walking forward.

Wang Wenwu followed behind, hesitated a moment, and asked, "President, I have something to ask you."

Chen Feng did not turn. "Ask."

Wang Wenwu clenched his teeth. "That day at the Cyprus dock, when I whispered that sentence into your ear—was it intentional?"

Chen Feng stopped his steps.

He turned, looking at Wang Wenwu. Sunlight fell on his face, illuminating the fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His gaze was terrifyingly calm, like a bottomless pool.

"What do you think?"

Wang Wenwu was stunned.

Chen Feng stared at him, silent for three seconds. Then he smiled.

"It was intentional."

Wang Wenwu inhaled deeply. "President, have you dug another pit for them?"

Chen Feng did not answer immediately. He turned and kept walking forward. After a few steps, he spoke.

"Minister Wang, do you know what an arms race is?"

Wang Wenwu thought for a moment. "It's… everyone frantically builds weapons, seeing who can produce more?"

Chen Feng nodded. "Right. But that's not all."

He stopped, pointing at the distant shimmering sea.

"Look, this sea is calm now. But do you know what's beneath the surface? There are undercurrents, whirlpools, and waves that could surge up at any moment."

He turned and looked at Wang Wenwu.

"The Yingguo lost, but they are not satisfied. The Deguo lost, but they are also not satisfied. The Meilika have not truly fought yet, and they want to try. The Faguo won, but they fear losing again. Everyone is waiting, waiting for an opportunity."

He paused.

"I will make them panic. Make them think Lanfang is preparing for the next war. Make them frantically build warships, frantically expand armaments. The more they panic, the harder they push, the faster the next war will come."

Wang Wenwu's complexion changed. "President, you… you want the next war to come sooner?"

Chen Feng looked at him, his gaze terrifyingly calm.

"It's not that I want it to come sooner. It will come inevitably. The Deguo are dissatisfied, the Yingguo are dissatisfied, the Meilika are dissatisfied. They are all waiting for a chance. I just—make that chance arrive a bit faster."

Wang Wenwu fell silent.

After a long while, he finally spoke. "President, then… what should we do?"

Chen Feng turned and kept walking forward.

"Us? We're ready."

He pointed at the few warships in the distance sailing into the harbor.

"Look, that's the Huai River. It's repaired. Moreover, we have the most complete modern military‑industrial system in the world, the most skilled workers, and the most advanced designs!"

He turned and looked at Wang Wenwu.

"When they are ready, we are ready. When they come, we will show them what true power is."

Wang Wenwu stood there, watching Chen Feng's silhouette, silent for a long time.

Wang Wenwu suddenly felt dazed.

He quickened his pace, catching up, walking side by side with Chen Feng.

"President, do you really think the next war will come?"

Chen Feng did not answer immediately.

He took a few steps, then stopped, looking at the increasingly bright sea surface in the distance.

"It will."

He paused.

"And it won't be far away."

Wang Wenwu asked, "Then what should we do now?"

Chen Feng turned and looked at him, his gaze calm.

"Wait."

"Wait?"

"Right. Wait," Chen Feng said, pointing at the warships under construction in the distance, "wait for them to launch. Wait for those soldiers to finish training. Wait for everyone to be ready."

He turned and kept walking forward.

"When they come, we'll be waiting here. By then the Five Permanent Members? Heh, this Earth isn't big; one voice is enough."

Wang Wenwu followed behind, asking no further questions.

The two walked like that, leaving two long rows of footprints on the beach. Waves rolled in one after another, washing the footprints away bit by bit. Yet new footprints were made, continuing forward.

In the distance, the sun had fully risen. Golden sunlight spilled onto the beach, onto the two rows of footprints, onto the two silhouettes receding farther away.