World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The car turned and headed towards Tokyo Bay. The rain was getting heavier, and the world outside the car window became a blur.

Rokuro Yashiro leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. But what appeared before him was not darkness, but a scene on the East China Sea—the Kongo burning, listing, and sinking. The young sailors, faces he had seen and had not seen, struggled in the seawater and then disappeared.

Four thousand people.

Four Kongo-class ships.

Forty years of accumulation.

They all...sank.

He clenched his fist, his nails digging deep into his palm. Pain shot through him, but compared to the pain in his heart, it was nothing.

Two hours later, the car arrived at Yokosuka Naval Base.

The rain was still falling, shrouding the port in a gray veil. Several destroyers and cruisers were quietly moored on the dock, but the huge deep-water berths that should have been used to berth Kongo-class destroyers were now empty.

Yashiro Rokuro got out of the car and walked into the rain without an umbrella. The guard tried to follow him, but he waved him off.

He walked slowly along the dock alone. Rain pelted his face and body, but he was oblivious.

He stopped in front of a berth. This used to be the exclusive berth for the Kongo, and the marks of the mooring bollards were still visible on the ground. But now, it was just a puddle formed by rainwater.

"Your Excellency, Minister?"

A voice came from behind. Yashiro Rokuro turned around and saw a man in his fifties, wearing a naval uniform, standing there. It was the old foreman of the shipyard; Yashiro Rokuro remembered that his surname was Tanaka and that he had worked in Yokosuka for thirty years.

"Master Tanaka." Yashiro Rokuro nodded.

The old foreman came over with an umbrella in his hand, wanting to hold it up for Yashiro Rokuro, but was refused.

"What brings you here?" the old foreman asked, his voice a little hoarse. "It's raining..."

"Let's take a look," said Yashiro Rokuro, his gaze returning to the empty berth. "The Kongo... it departed from here last, didn't it?"

The old foreman was silent for a moment, then nodded: "Yes. Four days ago, in the early morning, before dawn, the dock was filled with people seeing him off—family members, citizens… Everyone was holding small flags and shouting 'May good fortune last forever!'"

He paused, then lowered his voice even further: "My son... is an engineer on the Kongo. He's twenty-one this year and just got married last year..."

Yashiro Rokuro closed his eyes. Another young life.

"Your Excellency," the old foreman suddenly asked, his voice trembling slightly, "they...they really all...?"

Yashiro Rokuro did not answer. He couldn't answer.

But silence itself is the answer.

The old foreman lowered his head, his shoulders beginning to tremble slightly. This old worker, who had worked in the shipyard for thirty years, experienced the Russo-Japanese War, and witnessed countless warships being launched, was now silently weeping in the rain.

Yashiro Rokuro reached out and patted him on the shoulder. He wanted to say something comforting, but his throat felt like it was blocked, and he couldn't utter a single word.

What could he possibly say?

Saying "they died gloriously"? Saying "they were heroes of the empire"? Can these empty words bring back those young lives? Can they ease the pain of a father losing his son?

No.

Nothing.

The rain continued to fall, growing heavier and heavier. In the harbor, a cargo ship was leaving, its whistle sounding particularly low and mournful through the rain.

Rokuro Yashiro stood on the pier, looking at the sea in the rain. In the distance, the mouth of Tokyo Bay was shrouded in mist, and beyond that, the vast Pacific Ocean stretched out.

And somewhere in this ocean, on the seabed of the East China Sea, four of the Empire's most powerful warships and four thousand of the Empire's finest sailors lie there forever.

They were the first batch.

But it won't be the last batch.

If the war continues, more warships will sink, and more lives will be lost. Until the nation sheds its last drop of blood.

"I did my best," Yashiro Rokuro murmured to himself, his voice so soft that only he could hear it. "I really... did my best."

But he knew it wasn't enough. Far from enough.

The fate of a nation and the efforts of an individual are as insignificant as dust in the face of the great wheels of time.

He took one last look at the empty parking space, turned around, and walked towards the car waiting in the rain.

In the rain, his figure appeared exceptionally lonely and aged.

Behind him, Yokosuka Port lay quietly in the rain, like a huge, silent tomb.

Tokyo, Yamamoto Gonnohyōe's private residence, 11 PM

The rain had been falling all day, and now it had turned into fine drizzle, weaving a hazy veil under the dim streetlights.

A black sedan rolled through the puddle and stopped in front of a quaint, traditional Japanese-style house in Kojimachi Ward. The door opened, and Terauchi Masatake stepped out, dressed in a dark suit with a black cloak over it, carrying an ebony cane.

The guards at the gate recognized the visitor and immediately stood at attention and saluted. The man nodded and, accompanied by his secretary, walked up the steps.

The sliding door opened, and an old butler bowed respectfully: "Your Excellency, the master is waiting in the tea room."

Shoes were removed before entering the temple and walking through a long corridor. The residence was in a typical samurai style, simple and solemn. Several calligraphy and paintings hung on the walls, one of which was "Seven Lives to Serve the Country" written by Togo Heihachiro himself—a gift given to the owner of the residence after the victory in the Russo-Japanese War.

The door to the tea room was open, and Yamamoto Gonbei was kneeling before the tea utensils, quietly preparing tea. He was sixty-two years old, his hair was completely white, but his back was straight, and he was wearing a dark blue kimono. His movements were steady and focused.

"Lord Yamamoto, I apologize for disturbing you so late at night." The temple staff entered the tea room and knelt down as well.

Yamamoto Gonbei raised his head, his face expressionless, and simply nodded slightly: "Prime Minister Terauchi is too kind. Please have some tea."

He handed over a bowl of matcha. The monk took it with both hands and took a small sip. The tea was bitter, with a strong grassy aroma.

The two remained silent for a while, with only the sound of the tea whisk stirring the tea echoing in the room.

"Yashiro-kun has formally submitted his resignation." Terauchi put down his teacup and got straight to the point. "His Majesty has approved my formation of a cabinet. The position of Minister of the Navy is currently vacant."

Yamamoto Gonbei did not respond immediately. He ordered a second bowl of tea, his movements meticulous, as if the most important thing in the world at that moment was the bowl of tea in front of him.

"The Navy needs someone to step up now," Terauchi continued, his voice soft but each word carrying weight. "We need someone with prestige, ability, someone who can reunite the Navy. And even more so, someone... who can speak with the Army."

Yamamoto finally stopped what he was doing. He raised his head, his eyes, filled with the wisdom of life, looking directly at Terauchi Masatake:

"Is Your Excellency the Prime Minister here to persuade me to return to public life?"

"Yes," Terauchi readily admitted. "I know you've been retired for many years and no longer concern yourself with politics. But now the nation is in crisis, the navy is in crisis. Besides you, I can't think of anyone else who can stabilize the situation." (Togo Heihachiro is still alive!)