Chapter 216: Sinei Forms Cabinet

The car turned and headed toward Tokyo Bay. The rain grew heavier, and the world outside the window became a blur.

Ba Dai Liulang leaned against the seat and closed his eyes. Yet what rose before him was not darkness but a scene over the East Sea—Vajra burning, tilting, sinking. The young sailors, faces he had seen or not, struggled in the water and then vanished.

Four thousand men.

Four Vajra-class ships.

Forty years of accumulation.

All… sank.

He clenched his fist, his nails digging deep into his palm. Pain came, but compared with the ache inside, it was nothing.

Two hours later, the car arrived at Yokosuka Naval Port.

The rain kept falling, shrouding the harbor in a gray curtain. On the pier, a few destroyers and cruisers lay quietly at anchor, but the huge deep-water berths that should have held Vajra-class ships were now empty.

Ba Dai Liulang got out of the car, without an umbrella, and walked straight into the rain. A guard tried to follow, but he waved him away.

He walked alone along the pier, rain striking his face and body, yet he seemed unaware.

He stopped before a berth. This had been Vajra's dedicated berth, the deck still bearing marks of cable stanchions. Now only a puddle of rainwater remained.

"Minister?"

A voice came from behind. Ba Dai Liulang turned and saw a man in his fifties wearing a navy work uniform. It was the old foreman of the shipyard; Ba Dai Liulang remembered his surname was Tianzhong and he had worked in Yokosuka for thirty years.

"Foreman Tianzhong." Ba Dai Liulang nodded.

The foreman came over, holding an umbrella, intending to offer it to Ba Dai Liulang, but he declined.

"Why have you come?" the foreman asked, his voice hoarse, "It's still raining…"

"Just to look." Ba…?

The foreman was silent for a moment, then nodded: "Yes. Four days ago at dawn, before daybreak, the pier was filled with send‑off crowds—family, citizens… Everyone held small flags, shouting 'May the military fortunes endure.'"

He paused, his voice dropping further: "My son… was a machinist on Vajra. He was twenty‑one this year, married just last year…"

Ba Dai Liulang closed his eyes. Another young life.

"Minister," the foreman suddenly asked, his voice trembling, "Did they… really all…?"

Ba Dai Liulang gave no answer. He could not answer.

Yet the silence itself was the answer.

The foreman lowered his head, his shoulders beginning to tremble slightly. The worker who had spent thirty years in the shipyard, lived through the Russo‑Japanese War, and seen countless warships launched, now wept silently in the rain.

Ba Dai Liulang reached out, patting his shoulder. He wanted to say something comforting, but his throat felt blocked, and not a single word came out.

What could he say?

Say "They died gloriously in battle"? Say "They are the Empire's heroes"? Could those hollow words restore those young lives? Could they ease a father's grief over a lost son?

No.

Nothing can.

The rain kept falling, growing heavier. In the harbor, a cargo ship was departing, its horn sounding especially low and mournful through the rain curtain.

Ba Dai Liulang stood on the pier, watching the sea under the rain. In the distance, the mouth of Tokyo Bay was hazy; farther still lay the vast Pacific Ocean.

Somewhere in that ocean, on the seabed of the East Sea, four of the Empire's most powerful warships and four thousand of its finest sailors lay forever asleep there.

They were the first batch.

But they would not be the last.

If the war continued, more warships would sink, more lives would be lost, until the nation shed its last drop of blood.

"I did my best," Ba Dai Liulang muttered, his voice so soft only he could hear, "I really… did my best."

But he knew it wasn't enough. Far from enough.

A nation's fate, a single person's effort, before the great wheel of the age, are as tiny as dust.

He cast one last glance at the empty berth, turned, and walked toward the car waiting in the rain.

In the rain curtain, his silhouette appeared especially solitary, especially aged.

Behind him, Yokosuka Port lay quietly in the rain, like a huge, silent tomb.

Tokyo, Shanben Quanbingwei's private residence, 11 p. m.

It had rained for a full day; now it turned into fine drizzle, weaving a hazy veil beneath the dim streetlights.

A black sedan rolled over the water‑logged road and stopped in front of a modest traditional Japanese house in Kokucho District. The door opened, and Sinei Zhengyi stepped out, dressed in a dark suit beneath a black cloak, an ebony staff in his hand.

The guard at the entrance recognized him, immediately standing at attention and saluting. Sinei nodded, and, accompanied by his secretary‑official, ascended the steps.

The sliding doors opened, and an elderly butler bowed respectfully: "Prime Minister Sinei, the master is waiting in the tea room."

Sinei removed his shoes and entered, passing through the long corridor. The residence was a typical samurai style—simple, solemn—with several calligraphic paintings on the walls, one of which was "Seven Lives Repaying the Nation," penned by Dongxiang Pingbalang—a gift presented after the Russo‑Japanese War victory.

The tea‑room door stood open, and Shanben Quanbingwei knelt before the tea set, quietly preparing tea. He was sixty‑two, his hair completely white, yet his back was straight, dressed in a dark‑blue kimono, his movements steady and focused.

"Prime Minister Shanben, I'm sorry to disturb you so late," Sinei said as he entered the tea room and knelt as well.

Shanben Quanbingwei lifted his head, expression neutral, giving a slight nod: "Prime Minister Sinei, you're too kind. Please have tea."

He handed over a bowl of matcha. Sinei took it with both hands and took a light sip. The tea was bitter, with a strong grassy aroma.

The two were silent for a moment, only the sound of the tea whisk stirring the tea echoing in the room.

"Ba Dai has formally submitted his resignation," Sinei said, setting down his tea bowl and getting straight to the point, "Your Majesty has approved my forming a cabinet. The Navy Minister's post is now vacant."

Shanben Quanbingwei did not reply immediately. He continued to pour a second bowl of tea, his movements meticulous, as if the most important thing in the world at that moment was the tea before him.

"The navy now needs someone to step forward," Sinei continued, his voice soft yet each word heavy, "Someone with prestige and ability, who can rally the navy again. Even more, someone… who can converse with the army."

Shanben finally halted his motions. He looked up, his eyes, weathered by experience, fixed on Sinei Zhengyi:

"Prime Minister, are you urging me to return to public life?"

"Yes." Sinei replied calmly, "I know you have retired for many years, staying out of politics. But now the nation is in peril, the navy in peril. Apart from you, I cannot think of anyone else who could steady the situation." (Dongxiang Pingbalang is still alive, too!)