Republic of China: German-equipped divisions massacred as warlords guarded the nation's borders

Shanghai, the International Settlement, the Bund.

Before the fighting even began on the Taihu Lake front, the betting game had already started.

The "Gentlemen's Club" is located on the third floor of the Grand Central Hotel at No. 18 Bund.

Normally, this place only caters to tycoons from the concession with an annual income exceeding £50,000. Two Sikh security guards stand at the entrance, and proof of bank deposits is required for entry.

But today is different.

The oak door was wide open today, and people began pouring in steadily from three o'clock in the afternoon. There were British, French, Americans, Jews, and a few compradors and managers of trading companies in suits.

They're here to do something.

bet.

I'm betting on Chen Zijun's death.

"Gentlemen!"

A British auctioneer in a tuxedo stood on a makeshift platform, holding a mahogany gavel. Behind him, a blackboard was covered with densely packed numbers written in chalk.

The latest odds for the Zhejiang-Fengtian Campaign have been updated!

He tapped the blackboard with his pointer.

Option A: The Fengtian Army will capture Shanghai within three days; Chen Zijun will either surrender or be killed. Odds: 1 to 1.2!

A buzzing sound arose from the audience.

Option B: The Fengtian Army will occupy the entire Jiangsu and Zhejiang region within seven days. Odds: 1 to 1.5!

The buzzing grew louder.

Option C...

The auctioneer paused, a playful smile appearing on his face. "Chen Zijun defeated the Fengtian Army within three days, and Zhang Jialiang's army collapsed like a house of cards. Odds... 1 to 10."

Laugh out loud.

A burst of shrill laughter erupted throughout the hall.

"One to ten times the original price?"

A chubby British businessman slapped his thigh. "William, why don't you offer a 100x payout? What does that little warlord surnamed Chen have to fight 100,000 Fengtian troops with? His sulfa pills?"

The laughter grew even louder.

In a corner, the British Consul General in Shanghai, Barton, sat on a leather sofa, legs crossed, a glass of Scotch whisky in his hand.

He didn't laugh.

But he didn't stop others from laughing.

"Sir, aren't you going to place a bet?" The Citibank Shanghai branch manager leaned over.

Baldon took a sip of his drink. "I'll just watch."

"Oh?" The Citibank manager adjusted his glasses. "Our bank just placed an £80,000 bet on Option A. Within three days, Chen Zijun will be trampled underfoot by Zhang Jialiang's cavalry."

Baldon didn't say anything.

He recalled that night, on the top floor of the Sassoon House, when he witnessed the Japanese warships turn into a pile of scrap metal in just three minutes.

In those three minutes, he broke the pen in his hand.

But he still didn't say anything.

Because he wasn't sure either.

The 100,000-strong Fengtian Army was a truly elite force, having experienced the Zhili-Fengtian War, fought with iron and blood, and equipped with a full set of Japanese weapons. This force was still very strong in China.

What does Chen Jiajun have?

The Fourth Division, which fought against Sun Yuanfeng, the military governor of Fujian.

Having been attacked by past neutrality and betrayal, the 10th Division is now being subjected to various transfers of key personnel.

The Sixth Independent Mixed Brigade, far away at the Ma'anshan Iron and Steel Plant?

The newly incorporated 19th Division and 5th Independent Mixed Brigade?

Or was it his newly established Tax Police Corps and the so-called Second, Third, and Fourth Divisions of the National Defense Force?

……

The door opened.

All eyes turned to them.

A woman walked in.

She wore a blood-red cheongsam, and her black high heels clicked crisply on the marble floor. Her hair was styled in a neat bun, revealing her slender neck and a pair of jade earrings.

Mo Huixin.

The entire hall fell silent for a second.

Then the buzzing started again, even louder than before.

"Who is that?"

"Chen Zijun's housekeeper."

"What is she doing here?"

Mo Huixin acted as if she hadn't heard anything, walked straight through the crowd, and went to the auctioneer's platform.

Her face was expressionless.

"Option C," she said.

The auctioneer paused, taken aback. "Huh?"

"Option C. Chen Zijun will defeat the Fengtian Army within three days." Mo Huixin's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear. "I bet on C."

The auctioneer blinked. "Madam, option C has odds of 1 to 10, which means..."

"I know the odds."

Mo Huixin took out a stack of things from her black handbag and slammed them onto the table on the high platform.

Snapped.

The sound of the paper falling onto the table wasn't loud, but everyone present heard it.

Because it was a stack of HSBC bank drafts.

The auctioneer glanced down.

His expression changed.

"Four...four million pounds?!"

The buzzing sound in the hall disappeared instantly, as if the power had been cut off.

A deathly silence.

Four million pounds.

With odds of 1 to 10, if Chen Zijun wins, the money will become 40 million pounds.

What does 40 million pounds mean?

In 1924, the annual budget for the entire Royal Navy of the British Empire was only £60 million.

This woman is going to gamble away most of the British fleet.

"That's insane."

The Citibank manager was the first to speak. His voice trembled slightly.

"She's insane."

"No." A French banker beside her shook his head, but his eyes began to light up. "She's not crazy. She's gambling."

He turned to Baldon. "Sir, what is your opinion?"

Baldon put down his glass and slowly sat up straight.

He watched Mo Huixin's retreating figure. Her blood-red cheongsam shimmered like flowing blood under the lamplight.

"Okay," Baldun said.

The French banker slapped his thigh. "I knew it! Vinier, put it on the books! The Bank of France will subscribe for 500,000!"

Standard Chartered has subscribed for 800,000!

"Jardine Matheson has subscribed for 1.2 million!"

"Swire Properties has subscribed for 600,000!"

A flock of vultures smelled the blood and swooped down.

In less than ten minutes, the four million pounds stake was snapped up by thirteen trading companies and banks.

They signed and stamped documents more than ten times faster than they approved loans.

Mo Huixin stood on the edge of the platform, watching the hands that were signing.

Pairs of hands. White, brown, some with gold rings, some stained with cigar ash.

She looked at those hands, her eyes completely unmoved.

She silently did some calculations in her mind.

Forty million pounds.

It's enough to buy two thousand 105mm howitzers, enough to arm forty German-equipped divisions, enough to build the second phase of the Wusongkou fortress complex, and enough to buy three hundred tanks.

That's enough to ensure the young marshal never has to worry about money again.

She lowered her eyes slightly, and a very subtle smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.

Then she turned around and walked towards the door.

"Wait a minute!" Baldon called out to her.

Mo Huixin stopped and turned around.

"Miss Mo."

Bardon stood up and straightened his tie. His tone was unusually serious. "I need to remind you, if Chen Zijun loses... you won't get a single penny of those four million pounds back."

Mo Huixin looked at him.

A moment later, she smiled.

That smile was very faint, but so faint that it sent chills down Baldon's spine.

"Sir," Mo Huixin's voice was as soft as if she were telling a secret, "My young master never loses."

She turned and left.

The clicking sound of high heels gradually faded away in the corridor.

Baldon stood still, holding his wine glass.

He always felt that something was wrong.

But he couldn't explain it.

Fifteen minutes later.

Three cases of champagne have already been opened in the gentlemen's club.

The trading tycoons clinked glasses, celebrating this "windfall." Some had even begun discussing which villa to buy and how many mistresses to keep after receiving the four million.

"A toast to Chen Zijun's heroic sacrifice!" A drunken British businessman raised his champagne glass.

The room was filled with laughter.

Then the door was pushed open with a bang.

A young man in a telegraph office uniform rushed in, sweating profusely. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets.

"Gentlemen!"

He clutched a telegram in his hand, the paper almost rotten from being soaked in sweat.

"Urgent telegram from the front lines...the Taihu Lake front!"

Baldon put down his glass.

"read."

The telegraph operator swallowed hard and opened his mouth.

His voice was trembling.

"The Fengtian Army... the vanguard of the Fengtian Army seems to have encountered a ghost! A large-scale... artillery barrage has suddenly appeared on the Taihu Plain south of Changzhou!"

He looked up, his eyes filled with fear.

"It's not field guns! It's...it's heavy artillery! The ground is shaking! Several telegraph lines have snapped! The person sending the telegraph said he could feel the ground trembling from thirty miles away!"

The laughter in the hall stopped.

The champagne glass hung suspended in mid-air.

Baldon's fingers tightened slightly, his knuckles turning white.

He recalled the scene that night when the 280mm shore guns at Wusongkou fired simultaneously, causing all the glass windows on the Bund to tremble.

He slowly turned his head and looked at the door that Mo Huixin had just left through.

The door is already closed.

The corridor was empty; there was nothing there.

Only a faint scent of perfume lingered.

Barton muttered a curse under his breath.

"What exactly did those money-grubbing Frenchmen sell to Chen Zijun...?"