Chapter 241: Agreement and Talks

"Yes, beg." Chen Feng stood up, walked to the liquor cabinet and poured a little less than half a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swayed in the cup, reflecting the light, "Two months ago they were still thinking of 'fleet decisive battle', thinking of 'the homeland's jade shattered'. Two months later, one day they sent thirteen telegrams asking us to negotiate."

He took a sip, the spiciness burning from his throat down to his stomach: "You say, what changed them?"

"Reality." Wang Wenwu replied, "The reality of an 800,000‑ton merchant ship sinking, the reality of ports paralyzed, the reality of food shortages, the reality of economic collapse. No amount of Bushido spirit can stand against a hungry stomach."

Chen Feng nodded, walked back to the desk. He opened a drawer and took out a pre‑prepared document—its cover printed "Basic Plan for Negotiations with Japan."

"The time has come." he said, his voice calm, "A dull blade cuts flesh; it's been cutting for fifty‑six days, the blood has mostly been let out. If we keep cutting, the meat will rot."

Wang Wenwu took the plan and leafed through it. Inside it listed every negotiation bottom line in detail: indemnity amount, navy restrictions, territorial demands, economic clauses… each clause was harsh to the point of cruelty, yet all were kept within the range that even Sakura Country's desperate leap could barely reach.

"Tomorrow morning," Chen Feng said, "send Switzerland an official reply. We agree to negotiate."

"What about the location?"

"Borneo." Chen Feng said without hesitation, "Negotiate on our territory, and we'll have the psychological edge. Time… set for early next month. Give them some preparation time, and us some time to arrange."

Wang Wenwu recorded it, then suddenly recalled: "President, over at Sakura Country… who will they send to negotiate?"

"Sinei Zhengyi must come in person." Chen Feng said, "He is the prime minister; only his signature counts. On the navy side… Shanben Quanbingei should come, he's a clear‑sighted man who knows what must be accepted. The army…" he paused, "might not come, or if they do it'll be just for show."

"The negotiation bottom lines really can't be compromised?"

"The indemnity amount can be tweaked a bit, the installment schedule can be discussed." Chen Feng said, "But the core clauses—navy restrictions, territorial issues, market opening—cannot be altered a single character. That is the bottom line."

He walked to the window, looking at the night outside: "Minister Wang, do you know what the most important significance of this negotiation is?"

"Establishing our hegemony in the Far East?"

"Yes, but not entirely." Chen Feng turned, his gaze especially sharp in the light, "The most important thing is to make the Japanese—make the whole world—understand one principle: the price of challenging the Huaxia people is something they cannot afford. They can't pay today, can't pay tomorrow, can never pay."

He took the last sip: "Only this way can we win true peace. Not the fragile peace of a cease‑fire agreement, but a lasting peace that makes them not even dare to think of challenging us again."

Wang Wenwu nodded deeply: "I understand. I'll go prepare the reply telegram now."

"Go." Chen Feng said, "By the way, send a secret telegram to Zhang Zhen. Tell him the anti‑communication war can be eased a little—but only a little. The pressure must not cease before the treaty is formally signed."

"Understood."

After Wang Wenwu left, the study fell quiet again. Chen Feng picked up the folder packed with thirteen telegrams and leafed through it page by page. Those earnest, pleading, desperate words were, to him, not diplomatic rhetoric but the prelude to an empire's collapse.

He walked to the world map on the wall, his finger sliding from Dubai to the East Sea, then to the Japanese archipelago.

"Sinei Zhengyi, Shanben Quanbingei, Dongxiang Pingbalang…" he whispered the names, "You are all wise men, you should know when to concede. Conceding, at least you can still preserve something."

Outside, Dubai remained brightly lit. Cargo ships at the port were loading and unloading, factory machines still roared, school lights stayed on—children attended night school, studying Lanfang's Mandarin, history, and science.

The nation was racing toward the future at unprecedented speed. And all this required peace, stability, and a neighboring country that had been utterly subdued, unable ever to breed resistance.

Tomorrow, a new stage will begin.

But tonight, let him get a good sleep first.

After all, he hadn't slept before three a. m. in fifty‑six days. In those fifty‑six days, 798,000 tons of Japanese merchant ships had sunk, over fifty thousand families lost relatives, and a nation's backbone had been broken inch by inch.

This is war.

This is the price of victory.

Outside, Dubai still did not sleep. Far out in the East Sea, Zhang Zhen's fleet continued patrolling, submarines lay in wait, and gun barrels still pointed at Japan's coastline.

The dull‑blade‑cut‑flesh act must be performed for a while longer.

Until the day the treaty is signed.

Until peace—peace that comes on Lanfang's terms—truly arrives.

【Today's Data Panel·Taisho 3, October 17】

Lanfang Navy anti‑communication war cumulative results:

Merchant ships sunk: 221

Total tonnage: 805,000 tons

Port bombardments: 34

Estimated direct deaths: 48,000‑53,000 people

Sakura Country internal condition index (estimated):

Remaining merchant shipping capacity: 49.2%

Major port usability: 38%

Food reserves sustainable days: 44

Metropolitan unemployment rate: 31%

Diplomatic contact records:

Japan's peace‑seeking attempts via Switzerland: 27

Lanfang's official replies: 0

Today's single‑day peace‑seeking telegrams: 13 (record‑breaking)

Strategic assessment:

Japan's economy has entered the eve of collapse

Social order shows signs of loosening

Internal fissures within the ruling bloc deepen

Negotiation timing: mature

Rain hammered the stone slabs of the prime minister's Japanese‑style courtyard, dripping along bamboo gutters into the startled deer bowl, each interval producing a crisp "dong". The sound rang especially clear in the deep night, as if accompanying some countdown.

Sinei Zhengyi knelt on the tatami of the tea room, three documents spread before him. One was the Navy Ministry's "Final Report on Ship Losses", another the Finance Ministry's "National Fiscal Near‑Collapse Warning", and the third his own "Resignation Preparation Document".

The paper door was gently pulled open.

Shanben Quanbingei was not in uniform, but wore a deep‑gray kimono with a plain black hakama belt. He entered silently, sat opposite Sinei, his movements so light as if fearing to disturb something.

"At this hour, still troubling Minister Shanben to come." Sinei said, his voice hoarse as sandpaper rubbing.

"Summoned by the prime minister, I could not refuse." Shanben bowed slightly, "Moreover… this may be my last time sitting opposite you as Navy Minister."

The teapot on the charcoal stove emitted a faint hiss. Sinei did not pour tea, but stared at the resignation document. His name had already been signed on it, using a brush bestowed by the Meiji Emperor—a gift that had been awarded after the victory in the Russo‑Japanese War.

"Thirteen telegrams," Sinei said suddenly. "Within a day, thirteen peace‑seeking telegrams were sent. Yamamoto, do you know what that amounts to in world diplomatic history?"

"Shame," Yamamoto replied bluntly, "an unprecedented shame."

"No," Sinei shook his head, "it is despair. Only someone driven to the utmost desperation would beg so unceremoniously."

He lifted his head; under the dim yellow light, the sixty‑three‑year‑old Prime Minister's dark eye bags and knife‑carved wrinkles were evident. "Lanfang replied this morning, the message routed through Switzerland. They have agreed to negotiate."