Warlords: Rising from the Northwest Border and Sweeping Across the Powers

"Old Zhang, bring me the map." Su Zhengyang put out the cigarette in his hand.

Zhang Luanyu quickly spread out a detailed map of the Far East. Su Zhengyang stood up, picked up a red marker, and began to draw on the map.

"First," he wrote, starting from Lake Baikal, "all the land ceded in the Far Eastern Treaty must be returned." The red line extended northward along the eastern shore of Lake Baikal.

Sergei sat there, watching the red lines extending across the map, each stroke like a stroke on the face of Tsarist Russia.

"Secondly," Su Zhengyang's pen continued to move eastward, "all the areas east of the Ussuri River in the Treaty of Beijing, including Vladivostok, were returned."

"But Lake Baikal..." Sergei turned pale and subconsciously wanted to speak.

Su Zhengyang raised his head, his eyes sharp as a knife: "What? Minister Sergei thinks our conditions are too much? Should we let the Northern Division continue to advance towards Khabarovsk?"

Sergeimo immediately shut his mouth, cold sweat oozing from his forehead.

"These," Su Zhengyang pointed at the map with his pen tip, "a total of 34 million square kilometers of land, were all taken from the Shuiqing Empire by you using force. Now, we have also used our strength to prove who these lands belong to."

Zhang Luanyu stood aside, silently looking at the red marks on the map. Each line meant a rewriting of history, and each arrow symbolized a change in power.

"From Lake Baikal to the Pacific Ocean," Su Zhengyang put down his pen and said firmly, "This is our first condition. As for the other conditions..."

He sat back in his seat and said, "Once you accept this condition, we can continue the discussion."

Sergei looked at the shocking red line on the map. That was the foundation of the Russian Empire in the Far East, and it was their business for seventy years. But at this moment, they had to watch it all slip through their fingers.

"This... this is too much!" Andrei finally couldn't help whispering, "One million and six hundred thousand square kilometers? The entire Baikal region? This is simply..."

Sergei glared at the young ambassador and signaled him to shut up. But Su Zhengyang had heard it.

"Too much?" Su Zhengyang sneered, "Mr. Andre, it seems that you haven't figured out the current situation yet."

He stood up and looked down at the Russian ambassador: "When you used force to seize these lands, why didn't you feel it was excessive? When your tanks crossed the border, why didn't you feel it was excessive?"

Andrei's face turned red and he wanted to say something but Sergei held his shoulders.

"Mr. President," Sergei said, trying to ease the atmosphere. "You have to understand that there are a large number of Russian residents in this land..."

"That's because you have been migrating here for seventy years," Su Zhengyang interrupted, "trying to use population to change the attributes of this land. But this cannot change one fact - these lands originally belonged to us."

Andrei still looked incredulous: "But Lake Baikal...that's..."

"That's enough!" Sergei finally couldn't stand it anymore and shouted at the reckless young man, "Andrei, shut up!"

The office fell into an awkward silence. Zhang Luanyu stood aside with an expressionless face, watching this diplomatic farce.

Su Zhengyang sat down again and said slowly: "If you feel that the conditions are unacceptable, you can leave now. The fangs of the Northern Division are still waiting in Khabarovsk."

Sergei wiped the cold sweat from his forehead: "Mr. President, please give us some time... I need to report to Moscow."

"Of course," Su Zhengyang nodded, "I'll give you three days to consider. But remember, this is only the first condition."

Watching the embarrassed diplomats leave the office, Zhang Luanyu said softly: "This Andre is still too young."

"Young?" Su Zhengyang shook his head, "No, it's because the arrogance of the Tsarist Russia has not been completely defeated. But it doesn't matter, they will soon understand that the current China is no longer something they can bully at will."

The Winter Palace in Moscow, late at night.

Nicholas III looked at the telegram, his hands shaking slightly: "One million six hundred thousand square kilometers...Lake Baikal...They...How dare they..."

Minister of the Armed Forces Grigoriev's face turned pale: "Your Majesty, this is simply a lion's mouth! Not only do they want to return the original land, they also want to annex the entire Lake Baikal region!"

"But..." the Home Secretary whispered, "Do we have a choice now? The Western Front is already..."

"Shut up!" Grigoriev roared, "Are we just going to give up the Far East, which we have managed for seventy years, to others? There are three million Russians there! There are..."

"That's enough!" Nicholas III suddenly slammed the table and stood up, "What are you arguing about! Is this the time to discuss whether it should be done or not?"

The conference room fell silent instantly.

"Tell me," the Tsar looked around at his ministers, "if we refuse, how sure are we to keep the Far East?"

Grigoriev opened his mouth and finally shook his head helplessly: "Your Majesty... We have lost 34 people on the Western Front, and the Bird Empire is still gathering more troops. And in the Far East... That Northern Division is too terrible. They wiped out our elite armored division with just one division. If they continue to attack..."

"That's it," Nicholas III said with a wry smile, "We have no choice at all."

"But Your Majesty," the Chancellor of Finance interrupted, "if we cede these lands, the Empire's tax revenue will be reduced by at least 34%! Those mineral, forestry, and fishery resources..."

"Compared to the survival of the entire empire, these are nothing," Nicholas III said wearily, "Can't you see? China is forcing us to make a choice - either lose the Far East or... lose the entire empire."

The conference room fell silent again.

"Call Sergei back," the Tsar said finally, "and just say ... we accept the terms of the return of the land."

"Your Majesty!" Grigoriev wanted to say something else.

"But!" Nicholas III raised his voice, "Let him do his best to fight for the rights of those Russian residents. At least... at least give them time to choose whether to migrate."

Beilongcheng, Tsarist Russian Embassy.

Sergei was sitting alone on the balcony, having already drunk half a bottle of vodka. The late autumn night breeze was chilly, but he was oblivious.

In the distance, Beilong City was ablaze with lights and tall buildings, showing the strength of this emerging power. And how much they had despised this country.

"One million six hundred thousand square kilometers..." He muttered to himself and took another sip of wine, "The entire Baikal Lake area... Su Zhengyang's appetite is really amazing."

In the room, the telegraph machine was still receiving the latest instructions from Moscow. But Sergei didn't want to watch it anymore. He knew the current situation too well: the Western Front was losing ground, the casualties of 200,000 troops had severely damaged the vitality of the Tsarist Russia, and the Byrd Empire was constantly gathering new forces.

"Damn the Northern Division," he shook his head with a wry smile, "Who would have thought that a division could beat us without any chance of fighting back. That Otto, and that terrible bomb..."

On the balcony railing, there was a copy of the map I saw in the Presidential Palace today. The red marking lines were like wounds, crossing the entire Far East.

"Seventy years," Sergei poured himself another glass, "We have been operating in the Far East for seventy years. And now we have to... spit it all out."

But he knew that Russia had no choice now. If they rejected China's conditions, a greater disaster would be waiting for them. The Beidi Division had already proved their strength, and this was only a small part of the Chinese army.

"The most terrifying thing is," he said to himself, "this is only the first condition. Su Zhengyang made it clear that there are other requirements later."

As the night deepened, the vodka ran out. Sergei looked at this modern city in silence, his heart filled with bitterness. Once upon a time, they looked down upon this country. But now, they had to accept any conditions offered by the other side.

This is the difference in strength, this is the change of the times.