In London, Regent Street bustled with activity.
Heavy snowflakes fell steadily from an overcast sky, blanketing the entire city in a thick layer of white. Even the dirt and gri hidden in narrow alleys were temporarily obscured by the fresh snow.
Cars rumbled down the thoroughfare, tires crunching against the icy pavent. The sidewalks teed with gentlen dressed in elegant suits and bowler hats, their footsteps hurried, minds occupied with thoughts about securing supplies from Arica or obtaining new loans from banks.
Paperboys dashed through the crowd, their worn coats inadequate against the biting cold. They carried heavy stacks of newspapers, breathlessly chasing after passersby and calling out the day's headline:
"Newspapers for sale, sirs!"
"Breaking news, victory at sea!"
"Royal Navy sinks twelve German submarines in one battle!"
Pedestrians paused briefly, skeptical glances cast toward the boys before reluctantly extracting pennies from their pockets to purchase copies. They accepted the newspapers carelessly, barely glancing at the eager faces of the young vendors.
Once the papers were opened, however, gasps of astonishnt followed.
"My God, it's true! Twelve German submarines sunk in one engagent!" exclaid one man loudly, attracting a crowd of curious onlookers.
Soon, a heated discussion erupted among pedestrians:
"Extraordinary news! They must have found an effective thod to counter German submarines!"
"Does this an our shipping lanes will be safer now?"
"But gentlen," interjected another cautiously, "the newspaper ntions clearly that the French navy was involved in the operation."
He was swiftly contradicted by a chorus of voices:
"The French navy? rely an auxiliary role at best."
"Our Royal Navy remains unparalleled in strength. They surpass all the other navies combined!"
"The French probably participated simply because they know the local waters better."
The mood among the crowd shifted into patriotic pride, conveniently ignoring the inconvenient details printed in the newspaper. After all, British newspapers often exaggerated victories, especially in warti, and conveniently omitted uncomfortable facts—such as yesterday's catastrophic British defeat at Antwerp.
Mr. Stokes, who had been silently scanning his paper nearby, scoffed audibly, shaking his head in disdain.
"So, this is how they're spinning the news? Such ignorant fools."
His comnts drew the attention of nearby listeners. "You have a differing opinion, sir?" asked one sharply.
Stokes waved his hand dismissively. "I have no desire to argue, gentlen. But I advise you not to rely solely on what's written here, or you'll miss valuable business opportunities."
He dropped his newspaper casually, turning his back to the bemused crowd, and strode off confidently down the snow-covered street.
Stokes had good reason to be confident. His company had business dealings with Charles, and recently it had beco part of the larger Bernard Group, specializing in tank armant. It was only natural he had privileged information.
The pedestrians left behind chuckled condescendingly, thinking him arrogant and foolish, continuing their cheerful debate over the Royal Navy's glorious victory.
Suddenly, another man ca running through the snow, panting:
"Gentlen! Bernard Company's stock price is skyrocketing!"
The reaction was imdiate and bewildered:
"Bernard Company? You an Charles's Bernard Company?"
"The Royal Navy achieves victory, yet Charles's company stock rises? How is that possible?"
"Isn't Bernard Company mostly involved in insurance and banking? What's their connection to naval battles?"
Monts later, yet another voice shouted through the crowd:
"Bernard Company has launched a new insurance business—mariti insurance policies!"
"Mariti insurance?"
Now, realization dawned upon them. This naval victory wasn't solely a British achievent. The French navy's involvent wasn't trivial; more accurately, it was Charles's personal influence making waves once again.
…
Namur Castle, Charles sat at breakfast, calmly eating.
Since Britain's takeover of the Sixth Army's supplies, even his own als had suffered. Today's breakfast consisted solely of mashed potatoes and Limburger cheese—a Belgian delicacy whose pungent odor Charles couldn't tolerate, leaving most of it untouched. Thankfully, his aide-de-camp, Adrian, seed entirely unaffected and happily consud it.
A ssenger entered, delivering an encrypted telegram. Charles opened it and read briefly, smiling faintly.
"Progress in British markets is excellent. – Djoka."
Charles nodded with quiet satisfaction. This was his counterattack against those British capitalists who'd plotted tirelessly to cripple Bernard Company. His new invention, the "Echo Detection Device," was proving to be not only militarily effective but also incredibly profitable in the business world.
In this warti economy, whoever controlled the supply lines effectively held everyone's fate. Now Charles could leverage his naval innovation to dominate supply routes—not just politically or militarily, but economically as well.
From now on, those desiring safe passage across the Atlantic would have no choice but to purchase mariti insurance from Charles's Bernard Company. Insured ships would benefit from Charles's specialized convoy protection, making them far less vulnerable to German submarine attacks.
The Germans, recognizing this new danger, would quickly adapt. Knowing that attacking Charles's convoys was suicidal, their submarines would instead shift focus toward non-insured vessels. Thus, a perfect deterrent erged: those who cooperated with Charles prospered; those who refused faced ruin.
Tijani, anwhile, remained oblivious to these intricate business maneuvers. Business, he thought dismissively, was his father's concern—not his own. He swallowed another spoonful of potato and cheese, wincing slightly at the taste, and asked Charles curiously:
"So now we're finally preparing to counterattack Antwerp?"
Charles raised an eyebrow slightly, amused. "Counterattack Antwerp? Who told you that?"
Tijani looked confused. "Aren't we? Supplies are already flowing into Brussels, our fighters have started transferring there, and even one corps from the Sixth Army is shifting position. Surely the next step is a counteroffensive?"
"German forces in Antwerp are thoroughly prepared, General," Charles explained calmly. "You know very well they have at least five hundred planes there. We barely have two hundred available on that front."
"But our fighters are superior to theirs," Tijani argued stubbornly. "The outco is far from certain."
Charles nodded thoughtfully. "That's true. We could possibly win—but at an extrely heavy cost, particularly in pilot casualties."
Although Charles's "Cal" fighters enjoyed speed advantages, German aircraft were still nurous enough to inflict severe losses. Additionally, their aircraft could target airfields directly or adopt guerrilla tactics, depleting French fuel reserves rapidly.
"But this is war," Tijani persisted. "Antwerp remains strategically critical—we can't afford to abandon it."
"Really?" Charles looked at Tijani intently, quiet amusent evident in his eyes. "Have you forgotten the original operational plan we agreed upon?"
Tijani hesitated briefly, suddenly realizing Charles's aning. His eyes lit up enthusiastically:
"You an—Hasselt?"
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