Chapter 721: A Competitive Spirit
The world lay vast and silent beneath the sky.
In the deep night of Peleș Castle, only the occasional chirp of insects or call of birds from the forest reminded one that the world remained a place of unpredictability.
On the third floor of the palace, a light glowed in the study. Under the amber lamplight, shadows flickered—people inside were clearly locked in an intense debate.
Their argument grew heated, and from time to time, voices pierced the windows, waking the sleeping hunting dogs below, who let out uneasy whimpers.
"I don't believe our army can beat the Germans!" Queen Marie declared, slapping a stack of documents down in front of King Ferdinand I.
She knew she couldn't persuade the king with words alone. That's why she had made sure to bring back concrete data from France.
"Look at this." She struck the folder firmly. "This is about the recent Battle of the Somme. The Germans crushed the British Expeditionary Force with far fewer troops. That was nearly a million soldiers—twice the size of our entire military!"
Ferdinand objected, "That's not a fair comparison, Marie—"
"Then what is a fair comparison?" Queen Marie cut him off. "Do you insist on using Charles's armored corps as your reference?"
Infuriated, she flipped open another folder.
"Look here. See what kind of forces Charles commands, and the tactics he uses. His methods have already been incorporated into France's military manuals—every battle!"
"Do you really think our army is comparable to his?"
"Do we have tanks? Aircraft? Charles's intellect?"
Ferdinand slapped his forehead in frustration. "God, you've been completely enchanted by Charles, haven't you? In your mind, he's invincible, is that it?"
"And what if he is?" Queen Marie shot back. "The truth is that no one can defeat him. The entire world is marveling at his military genius. We're the only ones—because we haven't joined the war—who know nothing about him, and now we naively think we can do what he did and defeat the Germans."
"I don't believe we can be like him, Marie," Ferdinand said.
"But our situation is different. Our army is full of spirit."
"Most of Transylvania is populated by Romanians—they will support us."
"And the Germans are surrounded, exhausted. This is our golden opportunity..."
Queen Marie interrupted him, voice firm.
"No. You're wrong."
"Our army is more like the British—and they were crushed by a smaller German force at the Somme."
"We're not even as good as the British. The only difference is—they had Charles to save them. We don't!"
Ferdinand fell silent, staring at her blankly.
After a long pause, he softened his tone. "It's too late now, Marie. I don't want to argue with you. I don't want to hear, 'We will fail.' I want to hear, 'We will win.' Do you understand?"
Queen Marie let out a weary sigh. She glanced at the documents on the desk and finally left him with a single piece of advice.
"I hope you understand what you're doing, Your Majesty. And please—look at these reports. They show you the reality we're facing."
With that, she turned and walked out of the study, leaving Ferdinand alone in stunned silence.
For a long time, the king stood motionless. Then he walked over to the desk and picked up the documents, flipping through them—but his mind couldn't focus.
"This is a different kind of battlefield," he murmured. "What do these reports really prove?"
"No!" he suddenly declared, "Romanian warriors are not what you think. We won't lose! This is a war of justice!"
He didn't realize that he had already let personal emotion cloud his military judgment.
Queen Marie had made a mistake.
She should never have shown such admiration for another man in front of her husband—especially a king with such a strong ego.
Not every monarch was as open-minded as Albert I.
And in fact, Albert I wasn't naturally humble—he had been tempered by the brutal realities of war and had come to understand that, in the face of such carnage, the title "king" meant very little.
But Ferdinand I didn't know that.
Within the world of Romania, he was still revered—exalted.
Yes, he was just the king of a small country. Yes, kings no longer wielded absolute power. And yes, his station could not compare to Charles's.
But he was still a king—and in his heart, that title meant he must stand taller than all others.
So instead of persuading him, Queen Marie had awakened something else in him: his pride—perhaps even his jealousy.
Now he was more eager than ever to prove himself through a decisive victory.
His resolve to invade Transylvania had only grown stronger.
…
That night, Charles slept at the City Defense Headquarters.
He'd stayed up late in conversation with Gallieni. Otherwise, he would've returned to Davaus Town.
Early the next morning, the cheering of crowds in the street woke him.
Grumbling, he peeled back the blanket and drew the curtain aside.
Down below, citizens had lined up at the newspaper stands.
The queues stretched as far as the eye could see. Those who hadn't gotten a paper craned their necks anxiously. Those who had one beamed with excitement, shouting to the crowd:
"God! It's true! Charles really did invent incendiary bombs—he turned the entire German tank division into ashes!"
"An entire division? You mean the First German Tank Division that encircled the British at Dunkirk?"
"Yes! Of course! The Germans only had one tank division."
"Well—not anymore!"
…
Laughter erupted.
People were thrilled by this victory—especially since it made the British look bad.
If any British officers were spotted, locals would wave their newspapers in their faces and gloat.
They'd emphasize how easily Charles had destroyed the tank division that had once routed the British so miserably.
"Idiots," Charles muttered as he flopped back into bed.
He'd pulled an all-nighter during the Verdun breakthrough. It still felt like he hadn't slept enough.
Just then, a knock came at the door.
"General," came the voice of a signal operator. "Mr. Wells is on the phone. He says it's urgent."
"Wells?" Charles blinked, confused.
Normally, Wells wouldn't call Charles directly. If he had something important to report, he'd usually go through Tijani first.
But now he was calling directly—something unusual must've happened.
Charles threw on his trousers and draped his greatcoat over his shoulders, then rushed out to the communications room and grabbed the receiver.
"General," Wells said on the other end, clearly agitated. "Parliament is asking us to halt destroyer production so resources can be redirected to the army."
"What?" Charles couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But that's my money! And we have our own naval production needs—"
"They say the order can be passed to the Nihon," Wells interrupted. "They'll build the ten destroyers for us."
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