World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Yes, begging." Chen Feng stood up, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a small glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled in the glass, reflecting the light. "Two months ago, they were still thinking about a 'fleet showdown,' about 'the destruction of the homeland.' Two months later, they're sending thirteen telegrams a day begging us to talk."

He took a sip of his drink, the spicy sensation burning from his throat all the way to his stomach: "Tell me, what changed them?"

"Reality," Wang Wenwu replied. "The reality of 800,000-ton merchant ships sinking, the reality of port paralysis, the reality of food shortages, the reality of economic collapse. No amount of Bushido spirit can overcome hunger."

Chen Feng nodded and walked back to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out a document that he had prepared beforehand—the cover of which read "Basic Plan for Peace Talks with Japan".

"The time has come," he said calmly. "We've been cutting flesh with a dull knife for fifty-six days, and the blood has been almost drained. If we keep cutting, the flesh will rot."

Wang Wenwu took the plan and looked it over. It detailed all the bottom lines for the negotiations: the amount of reparations, naval restrictions, territorial claims, economic terms... Each one was harsh to the point of being cruel, but all were controlled to the point that "Japan could barely reach it if it tried its best."

"Tomorrow morning," Chen Feng said, "we will give Switzerland a formal reply. We agree to talks."

"Where is the location?"

"Borneo," Chen Feng said without hesitation. "By negotiating on our turf, we'll have a psychological advantage. The time... is set for the beginning of next month. Let's give them some time to prepare, and also give ourselves some time to make arrangements."

Wang Wenwu was taking notes when he suddenly remembered something: "Commander-in-Chief, who will the Japanese send to negotiate?"

"Terauchi Masatake must come in person," Chen Feng said. "He's the Prime Minister; only his signature is valid. As for the Navy... Yamamoto Gonnohyōe should come; he's a sensible man and knows what is unavoidable. The Army..." He paused, "...may not come, or if they do, they'll just be there for show."

"Is it really impossible to back down from our bottom line in negotiations?"

"The amount of compensation can be negotiated to some extent, and the installment payment schedule can be discussed," Chen Feng said. "But the core terms—naval restrictions, territorial issues, and market access—cannot be changed in a single word. This is the bottom line."

He walked to the window and looked at the night outside: "Minister Wang, do you know what the most important significance of this negotiation is?"

"To establish our dominance in the Far East?"

"Yes, but not entirely." Chen Feng turned around, his eyes sharp under the light. "The most important thing is to make the Japanese—and the whole world—understand one thing: the price of challenging the Chinese is something they cannot afford. They can't afford it today, they can't afford it tomorrow, and they can never afford it."

He took the last sip of his drink: "Only in this way can we win true peace. Not the fragile peace of an armistice, but a lasting peace that will deter them from even considering challenging us again."

Wang Wenwu nodded deeply: "I understand. I'll go prepare the reply telegram now."

"Go ahead," Chen Feng said. "Oh, and send a secret telegram to Zhang Zhen too. Tell him that the commerce raiding can be relaxed a little—but only a little. The pressure cannot be stopped before the treaty is officially signed."

"Yes."

After Wang Wenwu left, the study returned to silence. Chen Feng picked up the folder filled with thirteen telegrams again and began to read through them page by page. To him, those earnest, pleading, and desperate words were not diplomatic rhetoric, but the prelude to the collapse of an empire.

He walked to the world map on the wall and traced his finger from Dubai to the East China Sea, and then to the Japanese archipelago.

"Terauchi Masatake, Yamamoto Gonnohyōe, Togo Heihachirō..." he murmured these names, "You are all smart men, you should know when to admit defeat. Admitting defeat, at least you can still save something."

Dubai outside the window was still brightly lit. Cargo ships were loading and unloading in the port, factory machines were still humming, and school lights were still on—children were attending night school, learning Lanfang's Mandarin, history, and science.

This country is hurtling toward the future at an unprecedented pace. And all of this requires peace, stability, and a neighboring country that has been thoroughly defeated and can no longer muster the will to resist.

Tomorrow, a new phase will begin.

But tonight, let him get a good night's sleep.

After all, he hadn't slept before 3 a.m. for 56 days. In those 56 days, 798,000 tons of Japanese merchant ships sank to the bottom of the sea, more than 50,000 families lost their loved ones, and the backbone of a nation was broken inch by inch.

This is war.

This is the price of victory.

Dubai outside the window remains awake. Meanwhile, far away in the East China Sea, Zhang Zhen's fleet continues its patrols, submarines remain lurking, and cannons are still pointed at the Japanese coastline.

The drama of cutting flesh with a dull knife will continue for a while longer.

Until the day the treaty was signed.

Until the day when peace—peace that comes on Lanfang's terms—truly arrives.

[Today's Data Panel - October 17th, Taisho 3 (1924)]

Cumulative results of the Lanfang naval raiding campaign:

Merchant ships sunk: 221

Total tonnage: 80.5 tons

Port bombardment: 34 times

Estimated direct deaths: 4.8-5.3

Cherry Blossom Domestic Condition Index (Estimated):

Merchant shipping capacity remaining: 49.2%

Major port availability: 38%

Grain reserves can last for 44 days.

Unemployment rate in major cities: 31%

Diplomatic contact record:

Number of times Japan sought peace through Switzerland: 27

Lanfang's official replies: 0 times

Number of telegrams requesting peace today: 13 (a record high)

Strategic assessment:

Japan's economy is on the verge of collapse.

Social order is showing signs of loosening.

The rift within the ruling group is deepening.

The time is ripe for peace talks.

Rain pattered against the stone slabs of the Japanese-style garden at the Prime Minister's official residence, dripping down bamboo troughs into the deer-startling bowl, making a crisp "thump" sound every now and then. The sound was particularly clear in the dead of night, as if accompanying some kind of countdown.

Terauchi Masatake knelt on the tatami mat in the tea room, three documents spread out in front of him. One was the "Final Report on Ship Losses" submitted by the Ministry of the Navy, another was the "Warning that the National Finances Are on the Verge of Collapse" from the Ministry of Finance, and the third was his own "Preparatory Letter for Resignation".

The paper door was gently pulled open.

Yamamoto Gonbei wasn't wearing a military uniform, but rather a dark gray kimono with a simple black sash around his waist. He entered silently and sat down opposite someone in the temple, his movements so light as if afraid of disturbing something.

"It's so late, Minister Yamamoto, that I'm troubling you to come here," Terauchi said, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper were being rubbed.

"I dared not refuse the Prime Minister's summons." Yamamoto bowed slightly. "Besides... this is probably the last time I will sit opposite you like this as Minister of the Navy."

The teapot hissed softly on the charcoal stove. No tea was poured inside; everyone stared at the resignation letter. His name was already signed, using a calligraphy brush bestowed upon him by Emperor Meiji—a gift after the victory in the Russo-Japanese War.

"Thirteen telegrams," Terauchi suddenly said. "Thirteen telegrams seeking peace in one day. Yamamoto-kun, do you know what that means in the history of world diplomacy?"

"A disgrace," Yamamoto replied directly. "An unprecedented disgrace."

"No." Terauchi shook his head. "It's despair. Only someone who is utterly desperate would beg like this, disregarding all dignity."

He looked up, and in the dim light, the 63-year-old prime minister's eyes were heavily puffed up, and his wrinkles were etched like knife lines: "Lanfang replied this morning, through Switzerland. They agreed to peace talks."