Chapter 244: If You

At Yokohama Port's Third Wharf, the rust‑spotted hull of the Batavia looked especially bleak in the drizzle. The old Dutch East India Company vessel had been running the Pacific route for fifteen years, and most of its red paint had peeled away, exposing the dark‑yellow anti‑rust primer beneath.

Yamamoto Goken'ei stood before the gangway, looking up at the ship. Rain specks struck his glasses, blurring his sight. Behind him, Sinei Zhengyi was wrapped in a thick black cloak, his complexion as pale as paper. Further back was Dongxiang Pingbalo, the old man wearing only a simple straw hat, his wooden staff lightly tapping the wet dock.

There was no farewell ceremony, no reporters, not even a handful of send‑off guests. Only a few port‑authority officials stood at a distance, watching the scene with complicated expressions. Occasionally a dock worker pushed a freight cart by, stealing a glance at the group of dignitaries before quickening his pace—as if afraid of catching bad luck.

"Board the ship," Sinei whispered, his voice largely swallowed by the rain.

Yamamoto nodded and was the first to step onto the gangway. The iron steps were slick from the moisture, forcing him to grip the rust‑spotted handrail. His palm felt the cold metal and the rough texture of rust.

When he reached the deck, a mixture of mildew, engine oil and cheap disinfectant stung his nose. The deck planks were cracked in many places, with deep‑green moss growing in the gaps. A few Dutch sailors lounged against a hatch, smoking; when they saw him come up, they merely lifted their eyelids.

"Welcome aboard, gentlemen," a Dutch man in his forties, his face covered with a full beard, walked over, his English thick with accent. "I'm Captain Van de Wen. The voyage is twenty days, with a coal stop at Manila. Meals are extra—two dollars per man per day, covering three meals; drinks are at your own expense."

Yamamoto frowned, "Twenty days? Does it really take that long from Yokohama to Borneo?"

"This rickety ship can only make twelve knots at best, and we have to skirt around the Lanfang Patrol Zone," Van de Wen shrugged. "If you want to go faster, you could just swim over."

Sinei held back the agitated Yamamoto, speaking calmly, "We'll follow the captain's plan. Please take us to the cabin."

The so‑called "cabin" was actually a makeshift lodging converted from a cargo hold. Six small compartments, each under four square meters, with a narrow bed, a small table, a shabby washstand, and bolt holes left in the walls after the shelves were removed.

Yamamoto entered the compartment assigned to him and set down a simple suitcase. Inside were a few sets of change‑of‑clothes, some documents, a razor, and a tiny shrine—housing a plaque dedicated to the sea god Mouchi Zhu.

He sat on the bed, which creaked as its springs had lost their bounce. Through the porthole he could see the gray‑hued sea and the dock outside. Yokohama Port was now eerily deserted; most berths were empty, with only a few small fishing boats working offshore.

"Yamamoto," Dongxiang Pingbalo's voice came from the doorway.

Yamamoto rose. Dongxiang stepped in, surveyed the shabby cabin, and nodded, "Better than the conditions I had on the Naniwa."

"Marshal, you…"

"I'm in the next room, the same size," Dongxiang waved his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's fine; it reminds me of my younger days sailing. Back then there were no such worries—just making sure the ship ran well and the cannons fired well."

Yamamoto stood silently. Dongxiang gave him a glance, patted the spot beside him, "Sit. Why stand? We'll have plenty of time to stand later."

Yamamoto obeyed and sat down. The two sat side by side on the narrow bed, shoulders almost touching.

"Do you hate?" Dongxiang asked suddenly.

Yamamoto froze, "Hate what?"

"Hate the Lanfang people, hate Chen Feng, hate Zhang Zhen, hate those who sank our ship," Dongxiang said calmly. "Hate that they drove the Empire to this point, hate that they forced us onto this rickety vessel to sign a surrender."

Yamamoto opened his mouth, as if to speak, but finally only lowered his head. "I don't know… sometimes I hate, sometimes I feel I have no right to hate. We were the ones who started the war, thinking we could win…"

"Honesty," Dongxiang nodded. "Being able to admit that shows you haven't been blinded by rage."

He looked out the porthole; the rain was still falling, and on the dock Sinei Zhengyi was the last to board, moving as slowly as an old man. In fact, the prime minister truly had aged—over the past two months he seemed at least ten years older.

"I don't hate," Dongxiang said suddenly. "At least, not completely. The Lanfang people fought a brilliant battle, using tactics we hadn't imagined and technology we couldn't match. Losing to such an opponent isn't shameful. What's shameful is that we spent forty years thinking we could catch up with the West, only to discover…"

He paused, then found a word: "We discovered that we were merely chasing other people's shadows, while some have already begun creating new shadows."

A low, hoarse whistle blew, like a sick whale wailing. The Batavia slowly pulled away from the dock, its propeller churning turbid water, the hull rocking gently in the waves.

Yamamoto clutched the bed rail to steady himself. "Marshal, you volunteered to come… is it truly just to see the Lanfang people with your own eyes?"

Dongxiang did not answer immediately. He stared out the porthole at the receding Yokohama Port, at the empty docks, at the city's silhouette blurred by rain.

"Yamamoto," he said softly, "I'm sixty‑seven this year. The Tsushima Sea Battle was nine years ago, but it feels like a past life. Back then I thought I had witnessed the pinnacle of the Japanese Navy. Now I see… that was only the beginning, and I have lived to see the end."

He turned his head toward Yamamoto. "I came because I don't want to die in Sakura Country. I don't want to die in that nation shrouded in defeat, its head bowed in despondency. I want to see what kind of country the ones who defeated us have built. I want to know what kind of future we actually lost to."

"And then?" Yamamoto asked. "What can we do with that knowledge?"

"Then bring back what you've seen, heard, and felt," Dongxiang's gaze sharpened. "Tell every living person: look, this is what the New Era looks like. We either keep up or get crushed. There is no third path."

The ship left the harbor, entering open waters. The rain eased, a slit opened in the clouds, and sunlight glittered across the sea, a golden shimmer.

But the Batavia's dilapidated hull, in that golden light, looked only like a moving, rust‑spotted scar.

Fuxing bridge, Indian Ocean, day five of the voyage

Chen Feng stood at the observation window, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. Outside, the Indian Ocean stretched deep blue, the sun blazing, the sea surface smooth as a mirror, with the ship's bow cutting white waves that fanned out to either side, sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight.

The Fuxing cruised steadily at twenty‑two knots; its forty‑thousand‑ton hull barely felt any sway. The air‑conditioning kept the bridge at a pleasant twenty‑four degrees, a world apart from the scorching heat outside.