Chapter 243: Departure for Borneo

The Revival battleship cruiser quietly moored at deep‑water berth No. 4, the morning sun spilling onto its dark‑gray hull and reflecting a sharp sheen.

Chen Feng stood on the pier's gangway, looking up at the ship. The sea breeze lifted the hem of his black wool coat; Wang Wenwu stood beside him, holding a list of outbound documents.

"The complete restoration cost forty‑seven million Lanfang dollars," Wang Wenwu reported, "equivalent to building a new Omaha‑class cruiser. But Captain Lin Hai insisted on repairing—it's a spiritual symbol of the Lanfang navy and can't be retired because of a single severe injury."

"He's right," Chen Feng said, "A ship, like a person, gains a soul after facing life and death. The current Revival is more valuable than a new vessel."

The dock was unusually busy. Cranes were hoisting supplies into the ship's hold: boxes of documents, diplomatic gifts, spare communications gear, and even a small printing press—to print papers on demand during negotiations.

A squad of naval marines ran aboard, wearing brand‑new white dress uniforms; the bayonets on their rifles glittered in the sun. This was the honor guard Chen Feng had specifically requested, meant both to display military bearing and to guard the negotiation venue.

"Is the delegation fully assembled?" Chen Feng asked.

"All present. Five from the Foreign Ministry, three from the Defense Ministry, four from the Finance Ministry, two legal advisers, plus you and me—sixteen in total," Wang Wenwu read from the roster. "Additionally, the navy assigned fifty sailors for duties during the voyage, plus twenty cooks and service staff. Total personnel, eighty‑six."

Chen Feng nodded, his gaze shifting to the far side of the harbor. There, two Omaha‑class cruisers were weighing anchor—the escort ships. Though the route is theoretically safe, the ceremony must be observed.

"Any word from the Sakura Nation?" he asked.

"Yes." Wang Wenwu pulled a telegram from his briefcase, "Received late last night. Their delegation is set: Prime Minister Si Nei Zhengyi as team leader, Navy Minister Shanben Quanbingwei as deputy leader, and… Dongxiang Pingbalang has voluntarily requested to join."

Chen Feng raised an eyebrow: "Dongxiang Pingbalang? The one from the Battle of Tsushima?"

"Yes. He's sixty‑seven this year, retired for many years, but his influence remains huge. The Japanese title given to him is 'Imperial Plenipotentiary.'"

"Interesting." A smile tugged at Chen Feng's mouth, "Even living legends are being called out. They're really in a hurry. Fine, let Dongxiang see Lanfang with his own eyes—more effective than any propaganda."

He turned toward the companion ladder. Captain Lin Hai was already waiting on deck; although his left arm was still bandaged, he stood upright. Seeing Chen Feng board, he snapped to attention and saluted, his movement flawless, nothing like the man who had just returned from the brink two months ago.

"President, the entire crew of the Revival welcomes your boarding!" Lin Hai's voice boomed, eyes shining.

Chen Feng returned the salute, then patted his shoulder, "Is the wound healed?"

"About eighty percent; the doctor says it won't affect command," Lin Hai grinned, "The hand can't fully extend yet, but it doesn't hinder anything."

"Then I'm counting on you for this voyage," Chen Feng said, "From Dubai to Borneo, three thousand nautical miles—we have plenty of time to talk."

"Yes!"

Chen Feng walked toward the bridge amid the crowd. Passing the Main Gun turret, he stopped, ran his hand along the cold barrel. 380 mm caliber, forty‑five times its length, range over thirty‑thousand yards—that's the new‑era standard.

"Captain Lin," he suddenly asked, "If you were to fight four Kong‑class ships now, what would be the outcome?"

Lin Hai answered without hesitation, "We'd win, and we wouldn't sustain such heavy injuries."

"Oh? So confident?"

"Because I know how to fight." Lin Hai's gaze sharpened, "Last time was a melee; we were forced into combat. If it happens again, I'll keep distance, using the fire‑control radar's advantage to wear them down at range. Kong‑class armor can't stand our shells; five or six hits and they lose combat capability."

Chen Feng nodded approvingly, "That's the value of experience. Forty‑seven million in repair costs bought this experience—worth it."

He stepped onto the bridge. It was vastly different from two months ago—brand‑new fire‑control radar screens, upgraded communications gear, even a dedicated intelligence‑analysis corner. The windows were all newly replaced, offering excellent visibility.

"When can we set sail?" Chen Feng asked.

"In an hour, once the escort ships are in position," Lin Hai replied, "The route is plotted: exit the Persian Gulf, cross the Indian Ocean, pass the Strait of Malacca, then head straight to Kundian Port in Borneo. The whole trip is estimated at eleven days."

"Eleven days…" Chen Feng repeated, "Just enough for us to prepare every negotiation detail."

Wang Wenwu continued, "We have three versions of the negotiation plan: optimal, acceptable, and bottom‑line. The Japanese side may haggle over reparations amount, payment schedule, and specific naval‑restriction clauses. Our principle is…"

"I know the principle," Chen Feng cut in, "Core clauses are non‑negotiable; peripheral clauses can be discussed. But remember—any concession must be exchanged for a larger concession elsewhere. Negotiation isn't a dinner party; it's another form of war."

"Understood."

Chen Feng moved to the chart table. A red line already traced the route from Dubai to Borneo. To the northeast of that line lay the Japanese Archipelago, likely preparing to set out as well.

"How will the Sakura Nation's delegation travel?" he asked abruptly, "Do they still have ships capable of long voyages?"

Wang Wenwu flipped through the intel: "They chartered a Dutch merchant ship, the Batavia, six thousand tons, fifteen years old. Departing Yokohama, it will go through the Taiwan Strait, the South China Sea, and is expected to arrive in Borneo two days after us."

"A merchant ship…" Chen Feng laughed, "We're on a forty‑thousand‑ton battleship; they're on a six‑thousand‑ton merchantman. That itself is a signal—to all nations watching this negotiation."

He looked out the window. On the dock, the last batch of supplies was being loaded. Boxes marked "Foreign Ministry of the Lanfang Republic" were carefully hoisted onto the companion ladder. Farther away, Dubai's skyline shimmered in the morning mist—refinery towers, newly built skyscrapers, port cranes… all erected in the past decade.

Ten years ago, Lanfang was only the name of a government in exile. Ten years later, they will receive the surrender of an old empire on their own soil.

History sometimes moves so fast it makes one dizzy.

"Captain Lin," Chen Feng said, "Let's depart. Let us meet… another testament of the new era."

The whistle blew long. The Revival's massive hull slowly pulled away from the pier, its propellers churning white spray. Two Omaha‑class cruisers flanked her, one on each side, while three vessels formed a tidy formation heading toward the Persian Gulf's mouth.

Sunlight glittered on the sea, a field of sparkling dots. In the distance, several cargo ships bearing the Lanfang flag were entering port, their bows cutting white lines across the blue water.

This is a rising nation, sailing toward its historic moment.