World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

The cargo ship began to tilt rapidly, its stern rising high, the propeller spinning futilely in the air. In less than ten minutes, it disappeared from the surface of the sea, leaving behind only a huge whirlpool and a spreading oil slick.

"The Huaihe has launched its lifeboats," Chen Qiming reported. "So far, twelve survivors have been found."

"Record the results." Zhang Zhen's voice was steady. "One 7,000-ton cargo ship, sunk. Total tonnage: 805,000 tons. Notify Dubai."

"Yes."

Zhang Zhen took one last look at the sea, which was gradually calming down, before turning and heading towards the chart room. There were still more targets to deal with, more shipping routes to blockade. This drama of "slowly cutting flesh" would continue.

With each fall of the blade, Japan moved one step closer to collapse.

Tokyo, Navy Ministry Underground Operations Room

Yamamoto Gonnohyōe stared at the loss statistics chart on the wall, his red pencil already broken three times. On the chart, the bars representing merchant ship tonnage resembled felled trees, getting shorter month by month. The latest data bar only reached halfway to the 1.6 million tonnes benchmark, next to which was a glaringly obvious number: 798,000.

"The actual losses may be even greater," Chief of Naval Operations Shigetaro Shimada said in a low voice. "Some small boats sank without even a report, and others, although they managed to return to port, require time and money for repairs... which is tantamount to scrapping them."

The room reeked of tobacco and despair. Six high-ranking officers sat around a long table, each with different documents laid out before them—supply schedules, port restoration plans, lists of crew members receiving compensation… but none of them offered a solution.

"How many ships sank today?" Yamamoto asked, his voice hoarse.

"Five ships have been confirmed, totaling 28,000 tons." Operations Chief Kantaro Suzuki flipped through the newly delivered telegram. "The 'Hokkai Maru' was sunk by a submarine in the Tsushima Strait, the 'Second Kasuga Maru' was bombarded by battleships west of Kyushu, and the 'Sanyo Maru,' 'Omi Maru,' and 'Iyo Maru' went missing along the coastal route, presumably also by submarines."

"Missing..." Yamamoto repeated the word, giving a bitter smile. "What a fine 'missing.' The families of those crew members didn't even get to see their bodies."

Shimada hesitated for a moment before speaking, "Minister, is there still no response from Switzerland?"

"Yes." Yamamoto pulled a telegram from his briefcase. "Received this morning. It's Lanfang's third 'procedural delay' response. They say they need time for 'internal coordination' and 'legal review.'"

"Bullshit!" a young staff officer couldn't help but curse. "They're just trying to wear us down!"

"Yes, they want to wear us down," Yamamoto calmly admitted. "But what can we do? Our warships can't leave port, and if they do, they'll just be sent to their deaths. Submarines? The few old submarines we have left can't even escape the sonar of the Lanfang destroyer."

Kantarō Suzuki clenched his fist: "Didn't the army say they were mobilizing three million volunteers? Let them go! Let them swim out to sea and fight Lanfang's battleships to the death!"

"Suzuki-kun." Yamamoto glanced at him, his eyes weary. "These kinds of angry words won't solve anything."

He stood up and walked to the map of Japan on the wall. The map was marked with red circles around all the ports that had been shelled, densely packed like skin ravaged by smallpox.

"What is the progress of the restoration of Wugang?"

"Dock No. 3 is completely destroyed, and docks No. 1 and No. 2 will need at least six months to be restored to basic functionality," Shimada reported. "The situation in Yokosuka is slightly better, but the main dry docks have all been destroyed, and currently only small ships of destroyer class can be repaired. Sasebo... is basically paralyzed."

What about grain reserves?

This question silenced everyone. Finally, Shibusawa, the liaison officer sent by the Ministry of Finance, answered in a low voice: "The rice reserves in major cities across the country, under the current rationing system, can last for... forty-five days. But if sea transport continues to be disrupted and food from North Korea and Taiwan cannot be delivered, this number will be shortened to thirty days."

"Thirty days." Yamamoto closed his eyes. "That means that in a month, major cities like Tokyo, Osaka, and Nagoya will start to experience hunger."

"Actually..." Shibusawa's voice lowered, "there have been sporadic incidents of food looting in the slums. Yesterday, a rice shop in Fukagawa Ward was vandalized, and the police shot and killed two people. The news has been suppressed, but... it won't last long."

The room was deathly silent. The only sound was the low hum of the exhaust fan.

When Yamamoto reopened his eyes, only resolute eyes remained: "Shimada-kun, prepare a document for me."

"Yes."

"I must suggest to His Majesty the Heavenly Locust..." He paused, each word spoken with extreme difficulty, "that he accept whatever conditions Lan Fang may propose and immediately cease hostilities."

"Minister!" Several people stood up at the same time.

"Let me finish," Yamamoto raised his hand to stop him. "I know what this means—huge reparations, naval restrictions, and even the possible cession of territory. But what will happen if we continue fighting? Millions of citizens will starve to death, the country will completely collapse, and the empire will... perish."

He walked to the window. The basement window was small, offering only a glimpse of the sky. Tokyo was overcast that day, the low-hanging clouds seeming to weigh down the city.

"The Navy has lost." Yamamoto's voice was soft, but every word struck a chord in the hearts of those present. "We lost not only four Kongo-class ships, not only 800,000 tons of merchant ships. We lost Japan's right to be a modern nation. Lanfang told us with a naval battle: times have changed, and we have not kept up."

He turned to his men, who had followed him for many years: "Gentlemen, perhaps our generation is destined to be sinners in history. But at least... we must keep Japan alive. As long as the nation exists, as long as the people exist, there is still a future. If even the nation is gone, what glory, what dignity, is but empty talk."

Shigetaro Shimada's eyes reddened. This veteran, in his forties and a survivor of the Russo-Japanese War, choked up like a child: "Minister...we...we've let down our fallen brothers..."

"We're sorry for more than just our fallen brothers." Yamamoto looked out the window. "We've let down all the citizens who trusted the Navy, we've let down the parents who sent their sons to become sailors, we've let down... this country."

He walked back to the table, picked up a pen, and wrote the title on a blank document: "An Urgent Recommendation on Immediately Launching Unconditional Ceasefire Negotiations."

Nagasaki Port/Dock Area

As dusk fell, the rain began to fall. It wasn't a heavy rain, but a fine, cold autumn rain that pattered against the tiles and dripped from the eaves, forming muddy streams on the stone path.

Koji Matsumoto crouched behind a pile of cargo at the dock, a tattered burlap sack draped over his shoulders, his eyes fixed on Warehouse No. 3 not far away. Two policemen stood guard at the warehouse entrance, but they were both sheltering under the eaves from the rain, peeking out every now and then before retreating back inside.

He hadn't had a proper meal in three days. The ship sank, he lost his job, and his savings evaporated rapidly with soaring prices. His wife took their two children back to her parents' home in the countryside, while he stayed in Nagasaki hoping to find some work, but the port was paralyzed, factories were shut down, and even a single porter's job was being contested by a hundred people.

"Damn it..." he cursed under his breath, unsure whether he was cursing the people of Lanfang, the government, or this damned fate.

His stomach rumbled again. He remembered that there were piles of dried sweet potatoes shipped from Taiwan in the warehouse, originally intended as a strategic reserve, but now... to hell with strategic reserves, people were starving.

The rain intensified, and darkness fell completely. Two policemen changed shifts; the new officer complained a few times about the weather and then retreated into his post. The opportunity had arrived.