World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Matsumoto emerged from behind the stack of goods and tiptoed around to the side of the warehouse. The windows were boarded up, but he had already checked—the bottom plank was loose. He gave it a hard pull, and the plank creaked slightly, cracking open.

That's enough for him to squeeze in.

The warehouse was pitch black, with only the sound of rain hitting the roof. He pulled out a half-burnt candle and lit it, the dim light illuminating the mountain of burlap sacks. He pounced on them and used his small knife to cut open a sack—it was indeed dried sweet potatoes, somewhat moldy, but still edible.

He shoved the food into his mouth, the dry food choking him. He pounded his chest and forced it down. Then he cut open a second bag and stuffed the contents into the tattered sack he had brought with him.

Just then, footsteps and voices came from outside.

"When will this ever end...?"

"Who knows? My wife went to queue for rice yesterday, waited for three hours, and when it was her turn, they said it was sold out. She cried all night when she got home."

"My family is the same. My child is crying from hunger, and I'm a policeman, I can't even support my own family..."

The sound grew closer. Matsumoto quickly blew out the candle, grabbed half a bag of dried sweet potatoes, and hid behind a pile of burlap sacks.

The warehouse door was pushed open, and the beam of a flashlight swept in. Two policemen walked in for a routine check.

"This rain is fucking annoying... Huh?" The flashlight beam stopped on the pried-open wooden plank. "Why is the window open?"

Matsumoto's heart leaped into his throat. He gripped the small knife in his hand tightly, knowing it wouldn't be enough to deal with a policeman's gun, but...

"It's probably the wind," another policeman said. "This dilapidated warehouse is drafty everywhere. Let's hurry up and finish the inspection and go back; it's freezing."

The flashlight beam swung around the warehouse a few times before finally stopping at the pile of sacks where Matsumoto was hiding. The beam swept over his head, and he could even hear his own heart pounding.

But the police didn't come over. Perhaps it was laziness, perhaps sympathy, or perhaps they thought no one would steal the moldy dried sweet potatoes in this weather.

"Alright, it's nothing. Lock the door."

The door closed again, the sound of chains clicking echoing. Matsumoto slumped in the darkness, his clothes soaked with cold sweat.

He stayed in the warehouse for another hour, until he was sure it was completely quiet outside, before prying open the wooden planks and climbing out again. The rain was still falling, and he carried the bag of dried sweet potatoes, trudging home through the deep rain—if that leaky shack could still be called a home.

As he passed the street corner, he saw a brand-new notice posted on the wall. His flashlight beam swept across it, revealing that it read:

Detailed Rules for the Implementation of the Grain Rationing System

Effective immediately, all adult men will be rationed 300 grams of rice per day, women 250 grams, and children 200 grams...

Hoarding and reselling grain is strictly prohibited; violators will be severely punished.

300 grams. Matsumoto smiled wryly; it wasn't even enough for one meal. And given the current state of transportation, even guaranteeing 300 grams was questionable.

He continued walking. As he turned a corner, he saw a group of people gathered in front of a rice shop. The door was closed, and a "Sold Out" sign was posted above it. The crowd stood silently in the rain; no one spoke, and no one left. There was something in their eyes that frightened Matsumoto—not anger, not sadness, but a deeper, animalistic despair.

An old woman suddenly knelt down and kowtowed to the rice shop, pleading, "Please... my grandson is starving to death... please..."

No one helped her up. Everyone just watched.

Matsumoto quickened his pace and left. He was afraid that if he watched any longer, he would become like that too.

Back in the shack, he lit the kerosene stove and poured the dried sweet potatoes into the broken pot to boil. The water boiled quickly, bubbling with murky foam and emitting a fermented, sour smell. But he didn't care; he was too hungry.

As he ate the soft, boiled sweet potato chips, he thought of the sunken "Kasuga Maru." He thought of the crew members he had worked with for eight years, the always-smiling chief engineer, and the young sailor who had just boarded the ship at the age of seventeen.

They are all dead. They lie sunk on the cold seabed.

And yet he is still alive, stealing food like a rat, living in a leaky shack like a beggar.

The food in the pot was quickly finished, and even the soup was drunk clean. Matsumoto sat in the darkness, listening to the rain, and suddenly laughed. It started as a soft laugh, then grew louder and louder, until it became an almost maniacal howl.

I laughed for a long time, until tears streamed down my face.

He wiped his face and pulled out a yellowed photograph from the corner. It was a group photo taken when the "Kasuga Maru" was launched; he stood next to the captain, young, spirited, and with a light in his eyes. On the back of the photo was written: "March of the third year of Taisho, may military fortune last long."

"May your martial fortune last forever..." he murmured repeatedly, then tore the photo in half, then into quarters, until it became a pile of fragments.

The fragments fell to the ground and were quickly soaked by the leaking rainwater, turning into a mushy mess.

Matsumoto lay back down on the tattered straw mat and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would have to find work again, steal food again, and struggle through these hellish days again.

All of this stemmed from a distant naval battle, and from a decision made by people he had never met, in a place he could never reach.

So this is what war looks like.

Dubai Night

At two in the morning, the lights in the Presidential Palace were still on. Chen Feng, wearing his pajamas, sat in his study reading the last batch of documents. Outside the window, Dubai's night view was as dazzling as a sea of ​​stars, and the distant oil refinery torches burned brightly, turning half the sky orange-red.

This city never sleeps. Just like this country, it's always moving forward.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

"Enter."

Wang Wenwu pushed open the door and came in, holding a folder in his hand. His expression was somewhat strange: "President, the Swiss consulate just sent this. They said it's... an urgent document."

Chen Feng took the folder and opened it. Inside were not the usual diplomatic telegrams, but a thick stack of photocopies. He counted them—thirteen copies.

All of them came from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan, all were forwarded through Switzerland, all were marked "urgent" or "top secret," and all were requests for peace talks. The time span was from 8:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m. today, with one letter arriving almost every hour.

The earliest one was relatively restrained: "We once again earnestly request that you consider our proposal..."

By noon, he was already quite anxious: "We hope you will reply as soon as possible..."

The afternoon's almost pleading: "The Empire is willing to offer its utmost sincerity..."

The last message of the night, written with near-breakdown in tone: "Please respond no matter what, we're open to discussing any conditions..."

Chen Feng turned the pages one by one, his face expressionless. But Wang Wenwu noticed that when the Grand Commander turned to the last page, his finger lingered on it for an unusually long time.

"Thirteen telegrams." Chen Feng finally spoke, closing the folder. "Thirteen telegrams seeking peace in one day. Minister Wang, that should be a record in the history of world diplomacy, shouldn't it?"

"I'm afraid so." Wang Wenwu nodded. "This is no longer diplomatic rhetoric; it's... a plea."