Chapter 187: Tokyo, The Final Decision

Tokyo time, August 1, 3 a. m., the Navy Ministry building was brightly lit.

General Ba Dai Liulang's office was filled with smoke, the ashtray already piled high with cigarette butts. He stood by the window, watching the pitch‑black street outside, a fresh emergency telegram from Yokosuka clutched in his hand.

The door was knocked, three rapid knocks.

"Come in."

Entering was Chief of Operations Dao Tian Fanta Lang, his face weary but his eyes flashing: "Minister, we have a message from Yokosuka—'Kong', 'Hiei' have completed all departure preparations. The 'Haruna' and 'Kirishima' at Wu Port are also ready. All ships report they can set sail at precisely 4:30."

Ba Dai Liulang turned away, not responding immediately. He walked back to his desk, placed the telegram on it, and his fingers tapped the surface unconsciously.

"Dao Tian," he said, his voice a little hoarse, "you say, do we really have to make this decision?"

Dao Tian was momentarily stunned. In the meetings over the past week, Ba Dai Liulang had been the most steadfast advocate for striking, and now he asked this suddenly.

"Minister, you… you are hesitating?"

"It's not hesitation, it's verification," Ba Dai Liulang sat back down, rubbing his temples. "What we're doing is staking the entire Empire's fate on a gamble. If we win, we become the masters of Yazhou. If we lose…"

He did not finish the sentence, but Dao Tian understood.

"Sir," Dao Tian stepped to the desk, leaning slightly forward, "I know the risk. But please consider—if we do not strike, what will happen? The war in Europe has given us a once‑in‑a‑millennium window. If we miss it, once the Yingguo withdraw and the United States intervenes, we will have no chance again."

He paused, then continued: "Lanfang's rule in Borneo is already solid; their industrial base in the Persian Gulf expands daily. With each passing month their strength grows a notch. Right now they have only four capital ships in the Far East. A year from now? Two years? By then we may face an opponent with eight, ten, or even more capital ships."

Ba Dai Liulang listened in silence, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the desk.

"Moreover," Dao Tian's voice dropped even lower, "the army has already prepared for an amphibious landing in Borneo. Three divisions, sixty thousand troops, are on standby in Taiwan and Kaohsiung. As soon as the navy secures sea control, they will depart immediately. If we cancel now, how do we answer the army? How do we answer Your Majesty Tian Huang?"

Those final words pierced Ba Dai Liulang's heart like a needle.

He closed his eyes, and the scene from three days earlier when he had audience with Tian Huang resurfaced. The young Tian Huang sat on the throne, speaking calmly but unmistakably: "The Empire needs more living space, more resources. Navy, can you open this door for the Empire?"

At the time his reply was: "We shall exert our utmost effort."

Now the promise must be fulfilled.

Ba Dai Liulang opened his eyes; every hesitation vanished, replaced by the decisive resolve unique to a soldier.

"Send a telegram to Kato," he said, his voice regaining its usual steadiness. "Order: The Combined Fleet shall depart as scheduled. Objective: In the waters near 125° E, 28° N, annihilate the Lanfang Revival battleship‑cruiser. Further operational plans will be issued after the first phase is completed."

"Yes!" Dao Tian stood at attention, saluted, and turned to leave.

"Wait." Ba Dai Liulang called him back, "Add one more line: This battle concerns the Empire's century‑long destiny; I expect all troops to fight bravely. I will be in Tokyo, awaiting your triumphant report."

Dao Tian bowed deeply, "Understood. We will not disappoint you."

The office door closed. Ba Dai Liulang sat alone in the spacious chair, pulled a bottle of whisky and a glass from a drawer, poured a small half‑glass, no ice, and drank it in one gulp.

The strong spirit burned his throat, bringing a brief numbness.

Outside, Tokyo still slept. But it would not be long before the city awoke and learned that the Imperial Navy was setting out again. Newspapers would run jubilant headlines, citizens would wave flags to see off the fleet, and politicians would deliver stirring speeches.

Only he knew this expedition differed from all previous ones. It was not bullying a weak nation, nor the final blow to a waning empire, but a direct challenge to an emerging great power.

Win, and the Empire rises.

Lose, and it is an irretrievable calamity.

He walked to the wall where a massive Yazhou map hung. His finger started at Tokyo, swept over the Ryukyu Islands and Taiwan, and finally stopped at the slated engagement point in the East Sea.

"Kato," he murmured to the map, "the Empire's fate is now in your hands."

Yokosuka Port, 4:30 a. m., before dawn.

On the bridge of the battleship‑cruiser 'Kong', Vice Admiral Kato Tomosaburo stood upright. He wore the full navy vice‑admiral dress uniform, his chest laden with medals—from the Russo‑Japanese War, the Battle of Tsushima, and various exercises and trainings.

But he knew that if the battle broke out today, the heaviest medal on his chest would come from this forthcoming sea battle.

"Sir, all ships report ready," Chief of Staff Hei dao Guiren said softly, "We can set sail."

Kato nodded, but did not issue orders immediately. He walked to the starboard observation window, watching the harbor outside.

Four Kong‑class battleship‑cruisers—'Kong', 'Hiei', 'Haruna', 'Kirishima'—lay in the deep‑water dock like four steel mountains. Around them eight cruisers and twelve destroyers, like guarding hounds, waited silently.

On the dock, military police raised a security line, yet several hundred civilians gathered. Most were military families, along with ordinary citizens who came voluntarily to see them off. Some waved small sun flags, some held banners reading "May Martial Fortune Endure," and many simply stood quietly, watching the ships about to set sail.

Kato could see an elderly woman, about sixty, in a plain kimono, clutching a string of prayer beads. Beside her stood a young woman holding a two‑ or three‑year‑old child. The child's father was likely aboard one of the ships.

"Sir," Hei dao reminded again, "the tide is perfect; it's time to depart."

Kato inhaled deeply, turned around: "Order: All ships depart in the scheduled order. After leaving port, assemble in the open sea, then advance to the designated area in battle formation."

"Yes!"

The order was relayed via light signals and radio. Soon, tugs began working, and the massive warships slowly left the dock.

'Kong' was the flagship, the first to depart. As the 30,000‑ton leviathan glided past the pier, the crowd on shore erupted in cheers. Some shouted "Long live!," others called out the names of the ship's crew, and many prayed silently.

Kato stood on the bridge and gave a military salute to the shore. His movements were precise and solemn, yet his heart bore an indescribable weight.

These cheering people, these praying people—did they know what this departure meant? Did they realize that their sons, husbands, fathers might never return?