Chapter 253: The Navy Actually Celebrates Again?

The two began to wrestle. Rice was scattered all over the ground, mixed with dirt and blood. Matsumoto landed a punch on the other's face, and the other returned a kick. The people around kept snatching rice, and no one cared about them.

Finally, the police arrived.

The police siren pierced the chaos. Five officers rushed in, brandishing batons: "Stop! Everyone stop!"

But the crowd had already gone out of control. One officer was pushed to the ground, his baton snatched away. Another officer drew his gun and fired a shot into the sky.

The gunshot froze the chaos in an instant. Everyone stiffened, staring at the young officer with the gun, his face pale.

"Step back! Everyone step back!" the officer's voice trembled.

Silence lasted three seconds. Then a voice rang out: "Shoot! If you can, kill me! Starving to death is still death!"

The crowd stirred again. This time even crazier, because they had nothing left to lose.

The second shot fired. This time not into the sky, but at the crowd.

A rice‑snatching man burst open with blood on his chest; he looked down, seeming unable to believe it, then collapsed weakly.

Dead silence.

True dead silence. Not even a breath could be heard.

Everyone stared at the corpse, watching the blood slowly spread from beneath him, reddening the rice scattered on the ground.

"Killed… killed someone…" someone murmured.

The young officer's hand trembled, the muzzle still smoking. His expression was more terrified than the man who had been shot.

Then screams erupted. The crowd fled like startled birds and beasts, trampling corpses, rice, everything. Matsumoto was also swept forward, his cloth bag long gone, clutching a handful of freshly grabbed rice—probably less than half a jin.

He ran to the street corner, leaning against a wall and gasping for breath. Looking back, only a police officer and the corpse remained at the rice shop entrance. Blood mixed with rice, white tinged with red, dazzling in the morning sun to the point of nausea.

Matsumoto lowered his head to look at the rice in his hand. The white grains were stained with his sweat and a bit of blood of unknown origin.

He put the rice into his mouth and chewed dryly. The uncooked rice was hard and astringent, but he forced himself to swallow.

Swallowing it could buy him another day of life.

From afar, gunshots rang again, unclear which rice shop had erupted anew. In Nagasaki's morning, gunfire rose and fell, as if sounding a prelude to the nation's death.

At eight p. m., in Tokyo's Koku-cho district, there was an underground bar called "Sakura". It did not serve the public, only receiving select patrons—mainly young Army officers.

Under dim lighting, smoke curled. Six or seven young officers sat around a table, each having drunk heavily, faces flushed, eyes fanatical.

"We raided three more rice shops today," said a lieutenant colonel. His name was Nakamura, thirty, serving in the Operations Division of the General Staff Headquarters, "Seven more people died today. Seven! All for a bite to eat!"

The major opposite him chugged a mouthful of sake: "People are starving, what are those guys doing? Kneeling in Borneo begging for mercy! I heard the terms are so harsh it's like a nation's ruin!"

"It's not just like it, it is!" another captain slammed the table, "Five hundred million in reparations, the Navy reduced to a toy fleet! Signing such a contract would finish Sakura Nation forever!"

Nakamura lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply: "I saw the telegram today. Prime Minister Sinai is ready to accept all terms; only a few details are still being argued. At the latest, the treaty will be signed the day after tomorrow."

"Can't sign!" the crowd chorused.

"Can't sign?" Nakamura sneered, "Who will stop it? You? Me? What do we have in our hands? A few divisions? Tens of thousands of guns? Enough for what?"

Silence. Only the hiss of a burning cigarette tip.

A young captain who had remained silent finally spoke. His name was Takeda, twenty‑eight, just graduated from the Army Academy and assigned to the Military Affairs Bureau. He spoke slowly, but each word carried a chill:

"I examined the files today. On the Navy side… the real reason the Kongō-class sank wasn't technical inferiority, but a command error. Kato Tomosaburo hesitated at the critical moment and did not order a charge. Had all four Kongō-class ships surged at full speed into torpedo range, we could have at least taken out one or two of Lanfang's ships."

"What does that mean?" Nakamura squinted.

"It means," Takeda said word for word, "the Navy wasn't defeated; it was its own cowardice that caused the loss. They wouldn't fight to the death, wouldn't shatter like jade, so they lost. Now they intend to sign a surrender, dragging the whole nation down."

He stood up and walked to the wall. Hanging there was a banner reading: "Seven Lives to Repay the Nation."

"During the Russo‑Japanese War, the Army fought at Port Arthur and Fengtian, winning with flesh and blood. Why? Because the Army dared to die, dared to shatter like jade. The Navy? The Navy only runs, only surrenders."

Takeda turned, his eyes flashing a terrifying light in the dim illumination: "What use is a Navy like this to keep? Does a Navy minister like this belong at the negotiating table?"

Nakamura understood his meaning: "Takeda‑kun, you…"

"I'm not alone," Takeda said, "the Military Affairs Bureau, the General Staff Headquarters, the Imperial Guard Division… many share this view. The Navy sacrificed the Combined Fleet, and now it will sacrifice the whole country. Someone needs to… step forward and speak."

"How to stand?"

Takeda walked to the table, grabbed a bottle, filled it, and downed it in one gulp. Setting the glass down, he said, "Speak with blood."

At half past nine, the gathering dissolved. Takeda walked alone through the street; the autumn night wind was cold, but he didn't feel it. Alcohol warmed his body, anger set his heart ablaze.

Passing a still‑open izakaya, he heard laughter inside. It was a few Navy officers—by their uniforms, likely staff of the Military Command. They sat by the window, drinking, with smiles on their faces.

On a night like this, with the nation on the brink of collapse and the people starving, Navy officers were actually laughing.

Takeda stopped, watching them through the glass. He watched them raise their glasses, joke, and one pat another on the shoulder, as if celebrating something.

Celebrating what? The surrender treaty about to be signed? The war ending? That they finally wouldn't have to fight anymore?

Rage erupted like a volcano. Takeda's hand reached for his waist, where his southern‑style pistol was holstered.

He pushed the door and entered. The bell rang, but the Navy officers didn't notice, still chatting and laughing.

"Another bottle!" a lieutenant colonel shouted, "We won't leave until we're drunk!"

"Yeah, later we might not even be able to afford a drink…"

Takeda walked to their table. Only then did they notice him, seeing his Army uniform and his ashen face.

"Anything wrong, Army friend?" a Navy lieutenant colonel asked, his tone still courteous.

Takeda said nothing. He looked at those faces—young faces, well‑educated faces, faces that should serve the nation. Now, all those faces bore only drunkenness and frivolity.

"What are you celebrating?" he asked, his voice calm.

The Navy officers looked at each other. The lieutenant colonel stood up: "We're just having a colleague dinner, not celebrating anything. You are…"

"I am Army Captain Takeda," Takeda said, "I want to ask my Navy comrades—when the grain‑snatching riot broke out in front of the Nagasaki rice shop and the police opened fire, killing civilians, you were here drinking. When Tokyo's citizens queued for three hours and couldn't buy even half a jin of rice, you were here joking. When your Minister Yamamoto signed the surrender in Borneo, you were here… celebrating?"