1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 276 The Hungry Wolf's Table

Chapter 276 The Hungry Wolf's Table

The London Peace Conference opened the following day.

The location is Lancaster House.

When the Greek delegation's carriage came to a stop before the stone steps, the entrance was already completely blocked by a row of ornate carriages adorned with various badges such as double-headed eagles, roosters, and black eagles. The paint on each carriage was as shiny as a mirror, the coachmen's uniforms were impeccably tailored, and the brass fittings on the horses' harnesses gleamed dully in the leaden light of the day.

Like a meticulously planned hunt, the hounds have arrived early, showing off their pedigree and fur.

Constantine was the first to get off the train.

He was wearing that impeccable dark suit again. The platinum cross Sophia had given him, pressed against his chest through the fabric of his shirt and vest, brought a faint, almost imperceptible coolness. He looked up and glanced at the Union Jack fluttering slowly in the wind at the top of the building.

The sky remained unchanged, like a suffocating iron curtain.

"Your Highness, please." Venizelos's voice sounded from behind.

They ascended the steps and entered Lancaster House. A scent mingled with the aroma of fine cigars, the fibers of old books, and expensive wood wax.

The gallery leading to the main meeting hall was lined with enormous oil paintings. The Earl of Andreas paused slightly before the portrait of the Duke of Wellington; the man's sharp, piercing gaze seemed to penetrate the canvas, causing him to instinctively adjust his tie, his palms already sweating. Further on was Benjamin Disraeli, the shrewd and calculating Prime Minister, who looked down at the visitors with a knowing, mocking gaze. The Earl could almost picture his famous quote: "The conflicts of the Balkans are not worth the bones of a healthy British grenadier."

More cold sweat broke out on the count's forehead.

Every monarch and prime minister here is the embodiment of the power of the British Empire, and their silent gaze creates an overwhelming aura.

At the end of the gallery, two heavy oak doors were silently pushed open by a waiter.

We've arrived at the main conference hall.

A vast, horseshoe-shaped conference room came into view. A massive table, seemingly endless in length and covered in heavy, dark green velvet, occupied the absolute center of the room. The walls were paneled with dark oak, and the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows were covered by thick curtains, letting in only a few streaks of oppressive natural light. The room's lighting relied entirely on a huge brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, its lamps glowing like gaslights.

The British Prime Minister, the Marquess of Salisbury, was already seated at the very top of the horseshoe-shaped throne.

He was tall, with a thick beard that almost covered half his face, only his calm and arrogant eyes shining through his thick eyebrows. He was like a seasoned hunter, sitting quietly in his cabin in the woods, scrutinizing the prey about to step into his carefully laid trap.

To his left was the ambassador of the Second German Empire, who was idly twirling the huge family crest ring on his finger, while the Austro-Hungarian ambassador stood beside him like a somber sculpture.

To his right were the ambassadors of the Third French Republic and Tsarist Russia. The Frenchman wore a relaxed, almost theatrical expression, while the Russian ambassador, Vasily Orlov, appeared somewhat agitated, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table.

They appeared to be talking, but each of their eyes, intentionally or unintentionally, glanced at the open door.

They are waiting.

We await the appearance of the protagonist in this "trial".

The moment Constantine led his delegation into the conference hall.

The buzzing conversation abruptly stopped.

An eerie silence fell over the entire hall.

Dozens of eyes focused on them from all directions. Among these eyes were the scrutiny of the Germans, the greed of the Russians, the curiosity of the French, and the undisguised hostility of the Austro-Hungarian representative.

Every gaze is an invisible knife. They weave a net, aiming to rebind these victors from the Balkans and pin them to the anvil.

Constantine did not hesitate for a moment.

Without glancing to either side, he walked straight to the side of the long table, to the nameplate bearing the Greek blue and white flag. His movements were elegant and composed; the sound of him pulling out a chair drew a clear path in the silent hall.

He sat down.

Without a trace of unease, his composure made it seem as if he were there to be judged by the great powers, or to attend a pre-arranged afternoon tea.

Venizelos followed closely behind. He gently placed the worn-out briefcase he was carrying on the table.

"Smack."

A soft sound. Like a lawyer setting down his case file in a solemn courtroom.

Count Andreas and the other diplomats sat down stiffly and awkwardly after Constantine and Venizelos had taken their seats. They felt as if they had been thrown naked into a group of armored gladiators.

Diagonally opposite the conference table was the Ottoman delegation.

Their leader was an elderly governor. He wore traditional Ottoman court attire, but the clothes seemed somewhat loose, as if borrowed. His face was ashen, his eyes vacant, and he exuded an air of defeat and despondency, as if his soul had been ripped away, leaving only an empty shell.

But behind that empty shell stood a young man quietly.

He was dressed in a well-tailored Western-style suit, without any medals, and wore gold-rimmed glasses. His name was Ahmed Riza, and his role was "advisor" to the delegation.

He didn't look at the high and mighty representatives of the great powers; his gaze, sharp as a knife, was fixed on Constantine from the very beginning.

Those were the eyes of a wolf. A wounded, dormant wolf, yet brimming with new life.

Two arch-enemies, destined to fight to the death for the fate of their two nations for decades to come, exchanged their first silent glances in the cold air of London's meeting hall.

"Thump."

The Marquess of Salisbury tapped the table lightly with a small silver mallet.

The crisp sound drew everyone's attention back.

The meeting has officially begun.

There were no polite welcomes, no insincere small talk. The Marquess of Salisbury's deep, powerful voice echoed slowly in the vast meeting hall, each word carrying an unshakeable weight.

"Gentlemen, we are sitting here today to restore peace and order to the Balkans as soon as possible."

As he spoke, his eyes, framed by a thick beard, slowly swept across the room before finally settling on Constantine's face.

"The first step in restoring order is to put all the misplaced pieces back in their rightful places."

That look was like looking at a child who was playing chess and making random moves, disrupting the whole game and breaking the rules.