World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

At Yokohama Port's third pier, the rusted hull of the "Batavia" looked particularly pitiful in the drizzle. This old ship of the Dutch East India Company had been sailing the Pacific route for fifteen years, and most of the red paint on the hull had peeled off, revealing the dark yellow rust-preventing primer underneath.

Yamamoto Gonbei stood before the gangway, looking up at the ship. Raindrops pattered against his glasses, blurring his vision. Behind him, Terauchi Masatake, wrapped in a thick black cloak, was as pale as paper. Behind him stood Togo Heihachiro, the old man wearing only a simple straw hat, his wooden cane lightly tapping the wet dock surface.

There was no farewell ceremony, no reporters, and hardly anyone to see them off. Only a few port authority officials stood at a distance, watching the scene with complex expressions. Occasionally, dockworkers pushing carts would pass by, stealing a glance at the group of important figures before hurrying away—as if afraid of getting tainted by some bad luck.

"Let's get on the boat," the temple said in a low voice, his voice mostly drowned out by the sound of rain.

Yamamoto nodded and stepped onto the gangway first. The iron steps were slippery from the dampness, and he had to grip the rusty handrails. His palms felt cold to the touch and the rough texture of the rust.

As we stepped onto the deck, a whiff of musty, engine oil, and cheap disinfectant hit us. The deck timbers were cracked in many places, with dark green moss growing in the gaps. Several Dutch crew members leaned lazily against the hatch, smoking, barely glancing at us as we approached.

"Welcome aboard, gentlemen." A Dutchman in his forties with a full beard approached, speaking English with a heavy accent. "I am Captain Van der Veng. The voyage is twenty days, with one coal stop in Manila. Food is extra, two dollars per person per day, including three meals; drinks are at your own expense."

Yamamoto frowned: "Twenty days? It takes that long to get from Yokohama to Borneo?"

"This wrecked boat can only go a maximum of twelve knots, and it has to go around Lanfang's patrol area." Van der Wen shrugged. "If you want to go faster, you can swim over there."

Terauchi pulled back Yamamoto, who was about to explode, and said in a calm tone, "Let's do as the captain says. Please take us to the cabin."

The so-called "cabins" were actually temporary living quarters converted from cargo holds. There were six small cubicles, each less than four square meters, containing a narrow bed, a small table, and a dilapidated washstand. Bolt holes left from the removal of the shelving were still visible on the walls.

Yamamoto went into his assigned room and put down his simple suitcase. Inside were only a few changes of clothes, some documents, a razor, and a small shrine—containing the tablet of the sea god Muchi.

He sat on the bed, the mattress creaking, its springs worn thin. Through the porthole, he could see the grey sea and the docks outside. Yokohama Port was eerily deserted; most of the berths were empty, with only a few small fishing boats operating in the nearshore waters.

"Yamamoto-kun." Togo Heihachiro's voice came from the doorway.

Yamamoto stood up. Togo walked in, looked around the simple cabin, and nodded: "It's better than the conditions I had on the Naniwa back then."

"Marshal, you..."

"I'm staying next door, in the same room." Togo waved his hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. "This is good. It reminds me of my days on ships when I was young. Back then, I didn't have so many worries. I just knew I had to steer the ship well and fire the cannons properly."

Yamamoto stood silently. Togo glanced at him, then patted the seat next to him: "Sit. What are you standing for? You'll have plenty of time to stand later."

Yamamoto sat down as instructed. The two sat side by side on the narrow bed, their shoulders almost touching.

"Do you hate it?" Togo suddenly asked.

Yamamoto paused for a moment, then asked, "What do you hate?"

"I hate the people of Lanfang, I hate Chen Feng, I hate Zhang Zhen, I hate those who sank our ship." Togo said calmly, "I hate them for forcing the empire to this point, I hate them for forcing us to sit on this broken ship and sign the surrender document."

Yamamoto opened his mouth, as if to say something, but in the end he just lowered his head: "I don't know... Sometimes I hate it, sometimes I feel I have no right to hate. We started the war first, we thought we could win..."

"Honesty." Togo nodded. "Being able to admit this shows that you haven't been blinded by anger."

He looked out the porthole; the rain was still falling. At the dock, Terauchi Masatake was the last to board the ship, his movements as slow as an old man's. Indeed, the Prime Minister had aged—he had aged at least ten years in the past two months.

"I don't hate them," Togo suddenly said. "At least, not entirely. The Lanfang people fought a brilliant battle, using tactics we never imagined and technology we couldn't keep up with. Losing to such an opponent isn't shameful. What's shameful is that we spent forty years thinking we had caught up with the West, only to find out..."

He paused, then found a phrase: "It turns out we were just chasing after other people's shadows. And some people have already started creating new shadows."

The ship's horn sounded, low and hoarse, like the mournful cry of a sick whale. The Batavia slowly left the dock, its propeller churning up the murky water, and the hull rocked slightly in the waves.

Yamamoto gripped the edge of the bed to steady himself: "Marshal, you volunteered to come this time... is it really just because you want to see the people of Lanfang with your own eyes?"

Togo didn't answer immediately. He looked out the porthole at the receding Yokohama harbor, at the empty docks, and at the blurred city silhouette in the rain.

"Yamamoto-kun," he began, his voice soft, "I'm sixty-seven years old this year. The Battle of Tsushima was nine years ago, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Back then, I thought I had seen the pinnacle of the Japanese Navy. Now it seems... that was just the beginning, and I've lived to the end."

He turned to look at Yamamoto: "I asked to come because I don't want to die in the land of cherry blossoms. I don't want to die in that dejected, defeated land of cherry blossoms. I want to see what kind of country the people who defeated us have built. I want to know what kind of future we have lost to."

"And then?" Yamamoto asked. "What good would it do to know?"

"Then, take back what you've seen, heard, and felt." Togo's eyes sharpened. "Tell everyone who's still alive: Look, this is what the new era looks like. We either follow it, or we're crushed. There's no third way."

The ship sailed out of the harbor and into the open sea. The rain gradually stopped, a crack appeared in the clouds, and sunlight shone on the sea, making it sparkle like gold.

But the Batavia's dilapidated hull, bathed in golden light, resembled only a moving, rusty scar.

Fuxing-class destroyer bridge, Indian Ocean, fifth day of voyage

Chen Feng stood in front of the observation window, a cup of hot coffee in his hand. Outside the window was the deep blue Indian Ocean, the sun blazing, the sea surface smooth as a mirror, with only the white wake from the bow of the ship extending to both sides, shimmering like diamonds in the sunlight.

The Fuxing cruise ship sailed smoothly at a cruising speed of 22 knots, with almost no turbulence felt on its 40,000-ton hull. The air conditioning system kept the bridge at a comfortable 24 degrees Celsius, a completely different world from the scorching heat outside.