World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Chen Feng walked onto the makeshift stage. There was only a table and a microphone on the stage, and a huge Lanfang golden dragon flag behind him.

He stood there for three seconds, looking at the fifty thousand faces below the stage. Some were crying, some were biting their lips, and some had eyes so red they looked like they were about to bleed.

Then he spoke.

There were no notes, no teleprompter, not even a microphone—he pushed the microphone aside and shouted directly from his throat.

"Fellow countrymen."

The square fell silent instantly. Fifty thousand people stood in complete silence.

"At 6:03 a.m. yesterday, the Huaihe and Zhujiang ships of the Lanfang Republic Navy were attacked without warning by twelve capital ships of the British Royal Navy while conducting routine training in international waters of the Arabian Sea."

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was as clear as if it were carved in stone.

"The first shell came from HMS King George V. It was a 356mm high-explosive shell, and it landed 200 meters to the port side of the Huaihe. That was not a warning, but a test firing."

"Second wave, third wave, fourth wave. The British fought for three hours. Twelve capital ships, hundreds of main guns, aimed at our two training ships."

He paused.

"The Huaihe was hit by eleven bullets. The Zhujiang was hit by eight bullets."

Some people in the audience began to sob.

Chen Feng's voice remained steady, but that steadiness made it even more unbearable.

"One hundred and twenty-seven officers and soldiers were killed in action. Three hundred and four were seriously wounded. Countless others were slightly wounded."

He began to read the names.

"Lin Yuan, 21 years old, engine room soldier on the Huaihe, from Dubai. His father, Lin Fusheng, is a worker at the Dubai shipyard."

In the crowd, the old worker kneeling on the dock suddenly raised his head. His mouth was open, as if he wanted to shout something, but no words came out.

"Chen Shuisheng, 23 years old, gunner on the Huaihe River, from Borneo. His mother, Granny Chen, farms at home."

"Huang Jiaxing, nineteen years old, is an observer on the Pearl River ship and lives in Kuwait. His father, Huang Laoshuan, is a dockworker."

……

One name after another, 127 names. Some people had family members in the crowd; upon hearing their names, they collapsed and were supported by those around them. Many more had no relatives present, but their tears flowed uncontrollably.

Chen Feng read for a full twenty minutes.

After reading the last name, he looked up.

The audience was already in tears.

Chen Feng remained silent for three seconds.

Then he said, "The British Empire thinks that by killing our people, it can make us kneel down."

His voice suddenly grew louder, like a thunderclap exploding in the sky above the square:

"But they were wrong!"

"People of Lanfang will not kneel!"

The audience erupted in cheers.

"Lanfang people, we will not kneel!" Fifty thousand people shouted in unison, their voices shaking the city hall's glass windows.

Chen Feng raised one hand. The crowd gradually quieted down.

"From this moment forward, the Lanfang Republic and the British Empire are at war."

"We must fight until they confess their crimes, until they hand over the murderers, until they withdraw their last warship from Asia!"

"We want the whole world to know: the blood of the Lanfang people was not shed in vain!"

The audience erupted in thunderous applause and shouts once again. Reporter Fang frantically pressed the shutter, one shot after another; his hands were shaking, but the lens was as steady as if it were welded to the frame.

He captured the moment Chen Feng raised his hand, the huge golden dragon flag behind him, and the tearful yet shouting faces below the stage.

This was a historic moment. He knew it.

The applause lasted a full five minutes. No one wanted to stop, and no one could stop.

Finally, Chen Feng raised his hand again, and the crowd quieted down.

His voice regained its calm, but that calmness was more powerful than any shout:

"Go back and tell your families, tell your friends: Lanfang is going to war. This war may last a long time, and many people may die. But we must fight."

"Because if we don't get vaccinated now, our children will have to get vaccinated for us in the future."

He turned around and stepped down from the podium.

The crowd parted again to make way. This time, some people reached out, wanting to touch him, wanting to shake his hand. Chen Feng didn't flinch, shaking hands with each of them one by one.

As they reached the edge of the crowd, an old worker suddenly knelt down.

It is Lin Fusheng.

He knelt on the ground, looking up at Chen Feng, his lips trembling, but he couldn't utter a single word.

Chen Feng bent down and placed his hands on his shoulders.

"Master Lin," his voice was soft, "your son is a good man. The Huaihe will remember him. Lanfang will remember him."

Lin Fusheng finally burst into tears, clinging to Chen Feng's leg, his whole body trembling.

Chen Feng didn't move, just bent over and let him hold him.

The people around watched this scene, but no one said a word.

Finally, Lin Fusheng let go of her hand, wiped away her tears, and stood up.

"President," he said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper, "could I... continue working at the shipyard? I need to fix that ship. It's the ship my son served on."

Chen Feng looked at him and nodded.

"Yes. That ship is waiting for you to repair it."

2 PM, Dubai Army Hospital.

When Chen Feng entered the ward, Zhang Zhen was leaning against the headboard reading a newspaper. His head was wrapped in bandages and his left arm was in a sling, but his eyes were still so bright.

The newspaper carried news of the speech at the city hall. The front-page photo—the moment Chen Feng raised his hand—was exceptionally well taken.

"Commander-in-Chief." Zhang Zhen tried to sit up.

Chen Feng pressed him down: "Lie down."

He dragged a chair over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"The shipyard is currently assessing the situation of the Huaihe. Preliminary estimates suggest it will require a major overhaul lasting six months."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

"Six months... is acceptable."

Chen Feng looked at him: "You too. You need at least three months to recover."

Zhang Zhen smiled, a smile that reminded Chen Feng of his last smile on the bridge—a relieved smile, the kind of smile only someone who has completed their mission can have.

"President, do you know what I want to do most right now?"

"What?"

"I want to go to the dock and take a look. To see that ship."

Chen Feng was silent for a few seconds, then said, "I'll make the arrangements."

At 3 p.m., Zhang Zhen was pushed to Pier No. 3 in a wheelchair.

The Huaihe was moored there. In the sunlight, the wrecked warship was even more shocking than in the photos—the bridge was nothing but a pile of twisted steel, the breach on the port side revealed the compartments inside, and the deck was riddled with bullet holes, like a pockmarked face.

But the Lanfang Golden Dragon Flag, riddled with bullet holes, still fluttered on the mast.

Zhang Zhen stared at the ship for a long time.

Nearby, several workers were cutting steel plates. Sparks from the welding torches flew and landed on the sea, making a hissing sound.

An old worker walked over and stood next to Zhang Zhen.

It is Lin Fusheng.

He looked at the ship and said, "General Zhang, I will fix it. My son served on it; I have to fix it."

Zhang Zhen looked up at him.

"Your son..."

"Lin Yuan. Twenty-one years old, engine room soldier."

Zhang Zhen remained silent for a few seconds.

"How was he... when he left?"

Lin Fusheng shook his head: "I don't know. Nobody told me. But I know he definitely didn't embarrass us."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

"No one was disgraced. Not a single soldier on the Huaihe River ship was disgraced."