World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

That's Lanfang's cargo ship, and today it will set sail fully loaded with "cargo." But this "cargo" is five thousand living, breathing people.

"Hurry up! Get on the ship!" the Japanese officer shouted in broken Korean, his whip cracking in the air.

The column moved slowly. Someone fell, and was immediately dragged up and made to continue. Someone cried out, and was struck on the back with the butt of a rifle by a military policeman, silencing them with a muffled groan. Most walked numbly, their eyes vacant, as if they were already dead.

In the crowd, a young man named Kim Soon-sik clenched his fists tightly. He was nineteen years old and had been working as an apprentice at a rice shop in Pyeongjang. Three days ago, he was arrested on the street by the military police and shoved onto a train to Incheon. No one told him where he was going or what he was going to do; they only said, "The Imperial Army needs laborers. Go overseas to work. You'll have food and wages."

But he wasn't stupid. Look at the setup, look at the heavily armed soldiers, look at this cargo ship that was clearly not a passenger ship—this was definitely not a place for work.

"Damn it..." a middle-aged man nearby muttered under his breath, "Where are they trying to sell us off to?"

"I heard we're going to the cherry blossom country," someone whispered.

"Bullshit! Going to Japan with this? I think you should go to..."

Before he could finish speaking, a whip lashed down. The man's face was instantly torn open, and he fell to the ground screaming in agony.

"Don't talk! Line up to board the ship!" the officer roared fiercely.

Kim Soon-sik lowered his head, biting his lip. He thought of his mother and younger sister at home. His father had died in the mine last year; he was the only man in the family. What if he died too…

"Name! Age! Place of origin!" At the boarding gate, a Japanese civil servant mechanically registered the information.

Kim Soon-sik reported the information. The civil official, without looking up, said, "Press your fingerprint."

A document was pushed towards him, covered in dense Japanese text, not a single word of which he recognized.

"What...what is this?"

"A labor contract. Once you've put your fingerprint on it, you're considered to have voluntarily gone abroad to work, and you're protected by law," the civil servant said impatiently. "Hurry up!"

Protection? Kim Soon-sik looked at the military police around him, at the dark muzzles of their guns. What kind of protection was this?

But he still pressed his fingerprint. The red fingerprint fell on the paper, like a drop of blood.

Then he was pushed up the gangway. Inside the cargo hold of the ship, the space originally used for loading cargo had been converted into a "living area"—actually, it was three tiers of bunk beds, each less than a meter high, so that people had to climb in and couldn't turn over once they lay down. The air was foul, filled with the smells of mildew and sweat.

Five thousand people were crammed into the hold of a ship originally designed to carry three thousand tons of cargo.

Kim Soon-sik found his spot—the lowest level, against the bulkhead. He had barely climbed in when the people behind him pushed their way in, almost crushing him.

"Make way! Make way!"

"There's no room left!"

"I'm going to throw up..."

Chaos erupted, cries and curses filled the air. But then, the cargo door slammed shut and locked. Darkness descended, with only a few vents letting in a faint glow.

The engine started, and the ship shook.

They were about to set off, heading towards an unknown destiny.

Inside the cargo hold, some people began to cry, some began to pray, and some stared blankly into the darkness.

Kim Soon-sik felt his pocket, where his mother had secretly slipped him a talisman—a tattered piece of cloth embroidered with a peace charm. He clutched it tightly and closed his eyes.

The ship sailed out of Incheon Port and headed out to sea.

At the same time, outside Sakuradamon Gate in Tokyo, Kinmochi Saionji was boarding a car bound for the Imperial Palace. He was going to report to His Majesty the Emperor, to report on the newly signed agreement, on the 350,000 "laborers," and on how the Empire was using other people's lives to save itself.

The car passed through Ginza, past the shops that had already opened for business, and past the citizens hurrying along.

Business as usual.

No one knew that on this very morning, a cargo ship carrying five thousand young lives was embarking on a journey to its doom.

No one knew that there would be seventy more such voyages.

Three hundred and fifty thousand people, seventy ships, sailed to Europe, to the battlefield, to the grave.

That's business.

This is war.

This is... the fate of the weak.

Looking out the window, Saionji suddenly remembered Chen Feng's last words in Borneo:

"Prime Minister, remember: soft-hearted people are not suited to politics. Because the essence of politics is choosing the relatively clean option from a pool of dirty choices."

He closed his eyes.

Perhaps Chen Feng is right.

London, Army Operations Room, 2 p.m. at the same time.

Before a huge map of Europe on the wall, Lord Kitchener and General Douglas Haig, Commander-in-Chief of the Western Front, stood facing each other. Both men were ashen-faced, for on the table lay a document they least wanted to see: casualty statistics for the third phase of the Battle of the Somme.

"Two and a half months into the war, total casualties: 428,000." General Haig's voice was as dry as sandpaper. "Of these, 97,000 were killed in action, 113,000 were seriously wounded or disabled, and 210,000 were lightly wounded. German casualties are estimated at around 350,000, but we have failed to break through their second line of defense."

He paused, then added, "And...it seems the Germans have something new."

"Something new?" Kitchener frowned.

Haig pulled out several blurry photos from his briefcase: "Taken by frontline scouts. September 18, near Cambrai, some... strange vehicles appeared behind the German lines. Tracked, armored, and unlike any equipment we've ever seen."

The photos were spread out on the table. Although the pixels were rough, the diamond-shaped hull, the sloped frontal armor, and the outline of the turret were still discernible...

Kitchener's heart sank. The tanks Chen Feng had sold to the Germans had already reached the front lines.

"Quantity?" he asked.

"Only three have been found so far, and they are undergoing testing. But according to intelligence, the Germans are producing them at full capacity in a factory near Cologne, with the goal of equipping at least one armored battalion—thirty to forty vehicles—by the end of the year."

"Where's our Mark I?"

"The first batch of fifty vehicles has been deployed to the battle." Haig's face darkened further. "But there are many problems. The speed is only six kilometers per hour, slower than infantry on foot. The armor can only withstand rifle bullets; it will be penetrated by machine guns or small-caliber cannons. The worst problem is mechanical reliability—of the fifty vehicles deployed, eighteen broke down on the first day, and seven fell into the trenches and couldn't get out."

He took a deep breath: "By comparison, the Germans'...look more advanced."

The operations room was deathly silent. Outside the window, it was raining in London; the raindrops pounded against the glass like a death knell.

"The Prime Minister's decision is correct," Kitchener finally broke the silence. "We must divert troops from secondary fronts and concentrate them on the Western Front. If we cannot achieve a breakthrough before winter, the Germans may launch a counter-offensive with this new equipment next spring."

He walked to the world map and pointed to Egypt: "The Sinai Line currently has eight divisions, 150,000 men. If three divisions are withdrawn, 120,000 will remain, enough to defend against a possible Ottoman attack."