Chapter 240: Thirteen Dispatches

Matsumoto felt his way out from behind the pile of goods, tiptoeing around to the side of the warehouse. The window was nailed shut with wooden planks, but he had already surveyed it— the lowest plank was loose. He pulled hard; the plank gave a faint creak and split open a gap.

The gap was enough for him to squeeze in.

The warehouse was pitch black, save for the sound of rain striking the roof. He fished out half a candle, lit it, and the dim yellow light illuminated the mountain of jute sacks. He lunged forward, used the pocketknife he carried to cut open a sack—sure enough, it contained dried sweet potatoes, a bit moldy but still edible.

He forced the dry, gritty food into his mouth, the morsels choking his throat; he pounded his chest and forced them down. Then he cut open a second sack and packed the contents into the tattered cloth bag he had brought.

At that moment, footsteps and voices came from outside.

"When do you think this misery will end…"

"Who knows? My wife went to queue for rice yesterday, stood for three hours, and when it was her turn they said it was sold out. She came home and cried all night."

"Same at my place. The child was starving and crying, and I'm a damn police officer, can't even feed my own family…"

The voices grew nearer. Matsumoto quickly blew out the candle, clutched the half‑bag of dried sweet potatoes, and hid behind the stack of sacks.

The warehouse door was pushed open, a flashlight beam sweeping inside. Two police officers entered for a routine inspection.

"This rain is damn annoying… huh?" The flashlight landed on the pried‑open plank. "How did this window get opened?"

Matsumoto's heart pounded up to his throat. He gripped his pocketknife tightly, knowing it couldn't stop a police gun, but…

"Probably the wind," the other officer said. "This rickety warehouse is drafty everywhere. Let's finish the check and go back; it's freezing."

The flashlight beam swept around the warehouse a few times before settling on the sack pile where Matsumoto was hidden. The cone of light passed over his head; he could even hear his own heart hammering.

But the officers didn't approach. Perhaps out of laziness, perhaps sympathy, perhaps they thought no one would try to steal moldy dried sweet potatoes in this weather.

"All right, it's fine. Let's lock the door."

The door shut again, the clank of the lock echoing. Matsumoto slumped in the darkness, cold sweat soaking his clothes.

He stayed in the warehouse another hour, waiting until he was sure the outside was completely silent, then pried the plank open again and crawled out. The rain was still falling; he clutched the bag of sweet potatoes and trudged home, step by step through the downpour—if that leaky shed could still be called a home.

As he passed a street corner, he saw a brand‑new notice posted on the wall. The flashlight swept over it, and it read:

"Food Rationing Implementation Details"

"Effective immediately, all adult men receive a daily ration of 300 g of rice, women 250 g, children 200 g…"

"Hoarding or reselling food is strictly prohibited; violators will face severe punishment…"

"300 g." Matsumoto gave a wry smile; it wasn't enough for a single meal. Moreover, given the current transport situation, even guaranteeing those 300 g is doubtful.

He kept walking. Turning another corner, he saw a crowd gathered at the doorway of a rice shop. The door was shut tight, a 'Sold Out' sign nailed to it. The people stood silently in the rain, saying nothing, moving nowhere. In their eyes was something that frightened Matsumoto—not anger, not sorrow, but a deeper, animal‑like despair.

Suddenly an elderly woman knelt before the shop, kowtowing, muttering, "Please… my grandson is about to starve… please…"

No one helped her. Everyone just watched.

Matsumoto quickened his pace and left. He feared that if he kept watching, he would become like them.

Back at the shed, he lit a kerosene stove, dumped the dried sweet potatoes into a cracked pot to boil. The water came to a boil quickly, turbid foam churning, releasing a sour, fermented smell. He didn't care; he was too hungry.

As he ate the softened sweet potatoes, he recalled the sunken "Spring Day Maru". He thought of the crew he'd worked with for eight years, of the perpetually smiling chief engineer, of the seventeen‑year‑old rookie sailor who had just boarded.

They were all dead, lying in the cold sea floor.

And he was still alive, stealing food like a rat, living like a beggar in a leaky shed.

The pot's contents vanished quickly, he drank every drop of broth. Matsumoto sat in the darkness, listening to the rain, and suddenly began to laugh. It started as a quiet chuckle, grew louder, and finally turned into an almost manic howl.

He laughed for a long time, until tears streamed down.

He wiped his face, dug out a yellowed photograph from the corner. It was a group shot taken when the "Spring Day Maru" launched; he stood beside the captain, young, vigorous, eyes shining. The back bore a line: Taishō Year 3, March—May the martial fortunes endure.

"May the martial fortunes endure…" he muttered repeatedly, then tore the photo in half, then into quarters, until it was a pile of fragments.

The fragments fell to the ground, quickly soaked by the leaking rain, rotting into a mush.

Matsumoto lay back on the broken straw mat, closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would go looking for work, steal food again, and struggle through these hellish days.

And all this stemmed from a distant sea battle, from decisions made by people he had never met, in a place he would never be able to reach.

War—this is what it looks like.

Dubai Night

At two a. m., the lights of the Presidential Palace were still on. Chen Feng, clad in pajamas, sat in his study reading the final batch of documents. Outside, Dubai's nightscape glittered like a sea of stars; in the distance, the oil refinery's torches blazed, casting half the sky in orange‑red.

The city never sleeps. So does the nation, forever moving forward.

A light knock sounded at the door.

"Come in."

Wang Wenwu pushed the door open, holding a folder, his complexion odd: "President, the Swiss Consulate just sent someone over. They said… it's an urgent document."

Chen Feng took the folder, opened it. Inside were not the usual diplomatic cables but a thick stack of telegram copies. He counted—thirteen in total.

All originated from the Sakura Country Ministry of Foreign Affairs, all routed through Switzerland, all stamped 'Urgent' and 'Top Secret', all pleas for peace negotiations. The timestamps spanned from 8 a. m. this morning to 11 p. m. tonight, with roughly one arriving each hour.

The earliest was relatively restrained: "We again earnestly request you consider our proposal…"

The midday one was already urgent: "We hope you reply as soon as possible…"

The afternoon one bordered on pleading: "The Empire is willing to extend its utmost sincerity…"

The final evening dispatch's wording was near collapse: "Please respond under any circumstances; any condition can be negotiated…"

Chen Feng flipped through page after page, his face expressionless. But Wang Wenwu noticed that when the President reached the last page, his finger lingered on it unusually long.

"Thirteen." Chen Feng finally spoke, closing the folder. "Thirteen peace‑seeking telegrams in one day. Minister Wang, this should count as a record in world diplomatic history, shouldn't it?"

"Probably." Wang Wenwu nodded. "It's no longer diplomatic rhetoric; it's… a plea."