Rise of the Arms Dealer in the World War

Chapter 23: Chapter 23 A Night of Reckoning

Weeks later, at the German Command in Shandong

The Germans, emboldened by their progress, believed themselves untouchable. Reports to Berlin framed their occupation of Shandong as a flawless campaign. The discovery of a single smuggled rifle had been dismissed as the work of petty criminals. Construction of railways and outposts continued unabated, their confidence buoyed by the illusion of control.

But that night, the illusion shattered.

"Emergency! Stab Hauptmann!"

A soldier burst through the command room doors, panting, his uniform disheveled.

Before his superior could chastise him for his breach of protocol, the soldier blurted out his news.

"Sabotage! The railway under construction has been destroyed, and one of our guard posts has collapsed. Thankfully, there are no injuries, but it seems to have occurred during a patrol shift!"

"Impossible!" barked a captain, leaping to his feet. The railway had been the pride of their engineering efforts, the backbone of their plans for Shandong. For it to be sabotaged was unthinkable.

As the room descended into shocked murmurs, the commanding officer, a stern-faced division leader, demanded answers. "Who is responsible for this?"

The soldier hesitated, then produced a crimson flag with a bold black square at its center, the strokes of Chinese characters unmistakable.

"This flag was planted at the outpost," the soldier said, handing it over.

One of the officers squinted at the banner, his face darkening as recognition dawned. "This... this is a religious emblem. It belongs to the Boxers."

The division leader's gaze hardened. "Explain."

Swallowing hard, the officer continued. "It's the banner of a group known as the Boxers—a local sect gaining influence in Shandong. Their beliefs are militant and anti-foreign. They openly denounce churches as dens of depravity and deceit. They've even..."

"Even what?" the division leader pressed.

"They've declared that all Christians must die," the officer confessed, his voice barely a whisper.

A tense silence gripped the room. The division leader, his expression unreadable, finally spoke.

"All troops are to prepare for battle. If further investigation confirms this group's involvement, we will respond decisively."

The officers saluted, their fear masked by duty. The sabotage, combined with the earlier rifle incident, painted a clear picture: the Boxers were no longer just a religious sect. They were a threat.

Meanwhile, at the Boxer headquarters

The leader of the Boxers—no longer merely a man but now revered as a living prophet—was interrupted in the midst of his nightly indulgences. His lieutenant, known as the Left Commander, entered and knelt before him.

"Master, the time has come. The moment you have waited for is finally at hand."

The old man, now a self-proclaimed son of Buddha and disciple of the Monkey King, rose to his feet. His eyes gleamed with anticipation.

"Then let the heavens bear witness," he declared. "The new dawn begins now."

In the stillness of the night, the first sparks flew. The quiet was over. The storm was coming.

Here's the cinematic, epic fantasy adaptation of the text:

The Left Commander gazed at his leader with fervent, burning eyes, his heart swelling with devotion. To him, the man standing before him was no mere mortal, but the Son of Heaven, the one who had unveiled the truths of the world and lifted him from obscurity. From a lowly official to the esteemed Left Commander of the Boxer forces, he owed everything to this figure.

And now, the time had come for his master's prophecy to be fulfilled.

"Do you recall, Your Holiness, the rumors of those vile Christians abducting infants?" he asked.

The leader, revered now as the "Master" or "Teacher," did remember. Of course, he did—it was a story he had crafted himself, a seed of fear planted to bolster the Boxers' resolve. Yet, he had never intended for it to grow into anything more than a whispered accusation.

"The parents of those children have come forward," the Left Commander continued. "They claim to have visited the churches themselves, searching for their young. And there, they uncovered the truth. The Christians boil children in vats to create potions that whiten their skin. And in the confines of their secret chambers, they engage in unspeakable acts of depravity!" @@novelbin@@

The Teacher knew all too well that these tales were lies. The "secret chambers" were undoubtedly confessional booths, and the story of boiling children was likely the fabrication of some zealous follower. But to hear the Left Commander speak with such conviction unsettled him.

"Who claims to have seen such atrocities?" the Teacher asked, his voice measured.

"The parents themselves," the Left Commander declared. "This is the sign we've awaited, Your Holiness! The end times you spoke of have come! Was it not you who said, 'In the last days, the Middle Kingdom will fall to foreign devils, and the gods shall rise to strike them down'? That day is here!"

The Teacher blinked. The Left Commander's words, born of blind devotion, were more shocking than the accusations themselves. He had created this fervor, but it had taken on a life of its own.

"Very well," the Teacher said cautiously. "I will consult with His Majesty the Beautiful Monkey King before we proceed. For now, we wait. Acting in haste is worse than not acting at all."

The Left Commander froze. He had expected a rallying cry, an immediate command to lead the charge against their enemies. But instead, he was told to wait.

"Your Holiness...?" he stammered.

"Have you more to say?" the Teacher asked, his patience wearing thin. "If not, leave. It is late, and I will call for you tomorrow."

The Teacher's dismissal was firm but polite. Yet the Left Commander hesitated, his knees rooted to the floor.

"What is it?" the Teacher snapped, his tone sharp. "If there is something you must say, then speak plainly!"

The Left Commander hesitated no longer. "The disciples have already begun their holy war. They attacked the churches and set them ablaze. The foreign devils must already know."

The words struck the Teacher like a thunderclap.

"No!" he shouted, his voice trembling.

All eyes turned to him. His followers, his disciples, the women who served in his household—each looked to him with confusion. Their expressions seemed to ask, "What do you mean, 'no'?"

The Teacher, now an aging man well past his sixtieth year, felt the weight of his choices press down on him. For years, he had preached about the end times and the coming holy war. To reverse course now would shatter everything he had built. Yet, he hadn't envisioned this. Not like this.

"Left Commander," he asked, his voice weak, "how severe were the attacks?"

"Very," the commander replied. "Before I came to you, the disciples had already burned the churches and sought to kill the wicked Christians within."

There was no doubt in the Teacher's mind: lives had already been lost. The imperial court itself dared not touch the churches, for they were under the protection of foreign powers. And now, a band of peasants from Shandong had declared war on the great nations of the world.

He glanced around the room. Everyone—his disciples, his servants—wore expressions of joy, their eyes shining with anticipation. To them, this was the culmination of their dreams. The new heaven and earth they had been promised were finally within reach.

But the Teacher knew the truth. They had crossed the point of no return. This wasn't the beginning of a utopia—it was the start of a nightmare.

Outside, the disciples had gathered in a vast sea of humanity, each armed and ready. The Teacher gazed out the window and saw their faces, lit by the flickering glow of torches, their weapons glinting in the night.

The cries of devotion filled the air. "Holy war! Holy war! Let us make a new heaven and earth!"

The Teacher swallowed hard. This was the very chaos he had conjured with his words. Now, it was spiraling out of his control. As he stepped outside, all eyes turned to him, their expressions brimming with hope and expectation.

He opened his mouth, but the words felt heavy on his tongue. He wanted to scream, to command them to stop, to beg them to turn back. But he knew there was no escape. The disciples were ready to die for the holy war he had promised. If he faltered now, they would destroy him, and with him, everything he had built.

"The... the holy war begins," he declared, his voice quivering.

A deafening cheer erupted. The disciples raised their weapons high, their voices echoing into the night as they celebrated the Teacher's proclamation. They mistook his faltering tone for one of divine emotion, believing their leader was overcome with righteous zeal.

Tears streamed down the Teacher's face—not of joy, but of despair. Yet his disciples saw only the tears of a man moved by the gravity of his mission. Inspired by his "emotion," they wept alongside him.

And so, on this night, the first Chapter of the holy war was written.

It was a night of fire and tears, a night that would be remembered in history not for its righteousness, but for its tragic inevitability.

It was a truly moving night.