Chapter 255: Ink Stains and Tears

At four a. m., the sky over Kun Dian was still dark. A thin mist floated over the Kapuas River, like a layer of grim white shroud. In the hotel room, Sinei Zhengyi sat in the darkness, clutching the top‑secret telegram he had received three hours earlier.

The telegram was brief, but each character was like a red‑hot nail:

"Cabinet emergency resolution: sign the treaty immediately, no further delay. Tokyo's food reserves last only five days, Osaka three days, Nagasaki two days. Cumulative deaths from riots across the nation have reached eighty‑nine. Without a peace treaty to restore maritime transport, a nationwide uprising within a week is inevitable. This order is the final directive; it must not be disobeyed. Your Majesty the Emperor has been informed and tacitly approves."

"Eighty‑nine people…" Sinei Zhengyi muttered to himself. The number floated in the darkness, turning into eighty‑nine faces, eighty‑nine hungry eyes, eighty‑nine corpses collapsed in front of the rice shop.

He recalled the silhouette of Shanben Quanbingei as he left his room late last night. The Navy Minister's back remained straight, but his steps were unsteady, as if drunk—though he had only had three cups of sake, his despair was more intoxicating than the alcohol.

"I will sign," Shanben said at the time, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping, "but after signing… I will resign from the post of Navy Minister. Then… then find a place to end quietly."

Sinei Zhengyi offered no counsel. He knew it would not sway him. For someone like Shanben, signing a surrender document is more painful than seppuku. Seppuku hurts only briefly, but the shame of signing endures a lifetime.

Only Dongxiang Pingbalo remained calm as ever. The old man even had the mood to brew tea, using the last bit of matcha powder brought from the Sakura Nation.

"Sinei," Dongxiang said then, the scent of tea drifting through the room, "remember after the Russo‑Japanese War we signed a peace treaty at Portsmouth?"

"I remember. Though we won then, we were forced to concede, domestic opinion erupted, and the Hibiya Burning Incident broke out."

"Right," Dongxiang nodded, "I was in Yokosuka at the time, and I was furious when the news reached me. We clearly won, so why did we have to concede? Why couldn't we take more?"

He took a sip of tea and continued, "Looking back, that anger then stemmed from our belief in our strength. Now… now we don't even have the right to be angry, because we know we are weak, and know there is no choice but to accept."

Sinei Zhengyi looked at the elder, "Marshal, do you… not harbor hatred?"

"Who to hate? Hate that Lanfang fought beautifully? Hate that Chen Feng negotiated harshly? Or hate our own incompetence?" Dongxiang laughed, his smile bleak as the withered chrysanthemums of late autumn, "If we must hate, it can only be ourselves. We spent forty years learning only the surface of the West, never the essence. We led the nation onto a road of no return, to the state we see today."

The first bird call came from outside the window. Sinei Zhengyi snapped out of his reverie; dawn was approaching.

He stood, walked to the full‑length mirror, and began dressing. A black suit, white shirt, dark‑gray tie—he had prepared them especially for today, as if attending a funeral.

In fact, it truly was a funeral: the Sakura Empire's funeral as a great power.

After dressing, he pulled a rose‑wood box from the bottom of his suitcase. Opening it revealed a brush—the "Jade Hair" bestowed by the Meiji Emperor. He reserves this pen for only the most critical documents: cabinet appointment letters, war mobilization orders, national policy resolutions…

Today, he will use it to sign the surrender document.

Sinei Zhengyi lifted the brush, his fingers caressing the warm shaft. Four characters were engraved on the handle: "National destiny at stake".

He gave a wry smile. The nation's fate was indeed at stake, just in a way he had never imagined.

A light knock sounded at the door.

"Come in."

The one who entered was Dongxiang Pingbalo. The elder was already impeccably dressed, his dark‑indigo kimono ironed flawlessly, even the pleats seemed deliberately crafted.

"Are you ready?" Dongxiang asked.

Sinei Zhengyi nodded, carefully returning the brush to its box, "Ready. What about Shanben?"

"He's writing a will in his room," Dongxiang said calmly, "I tried to persuade him, to no avail. He says once the signing ceremony ends, he'll return to the Sakura Nation, submit his resignation, and then… end it."

He closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened them, his gaze a dead‑calm: "Then at least… let him sign the document with dignity."

"He will," Dongxiang said, "Shanben is a true soldier, knows when to act. Today he'll sit up straight and sign, as a Navy Minister should. As for after that… that will be his own choice."

The two stood in silence. Outside, the sky gradually brightened, the thin mist dissipated, and the Kun Dian New City across the river revealed its outline—skyscrapers, docks, cranes, everything dazzlingly new.

"Sometimes I wonder," Sinei Zhengyi suddenly said, "what if we had won. If we had won the East Sea battle, the one now sitting across the negotiating table would be Chen Feng. What terms would we demand?"

"Five hundred million in reparations, cede Borneo, naval restrictions," Dongxiang replied without hesitation, "perhaps even harsher, because that's our style."

"Indeed," Sinei Zhengyi said with a wry smile, "so we have nothing to complain about. That's the world's rule: the winner takes all, the loser pays everything. We were once winners, now we're losers. That's all."

Dongxiang walked to the window, looking at the city outside: "But Lanfang's way of winning differs from ours. When we win, we trample the opponent into the mud; when they win… they leave the opponent a sliver of a lifeline. Though that lifeline is narrow and hard to walk, at least it's a lifeline."

He turned around: "Sinei, that's the difference. We learned from the West only the law of the jungle, not the spirit of contracts; we learned about battleships and cannons, not civilized rules. So today, sitting here, we haven't just lost a war—we've lost an entire worldview."

Sinei Zhengyi gave no reply. He simply closed the rose‑wood box carefully and tucked it under his arm.

"Let's go," he said, "it's time to keep the appointment."

At precisely nine in the morning, the main hall of the Kun Dian International Conference Center held the same long table, the same seats, but the atmosphere was entirely different from the past two days.

Today the hall added a row of reporters—all media officially designated by Lanfang, limited to ten. They sat on the side chairs, cameras already set up, lenses aimed at the center of the long table.

Chen Feng wore a formal black suit today, a golden national emblem of the Lanfang Republic pinned to his chest. He sat upright, both hands flat on the table, his gaze calmly fixed on the opposite side.

When the Sakura Nation delegation entered, their steps were slow. Sinei Zhengyi led at the front, holding the rose‑wood box. Shanben Quanbingei followed closely, every medal on his Navy Minister uniform polished to a cold shine under the lights. Dongxiang Pingbalo still wore a kimono, his wooden staff lightly tapping the ground, his gait steady.

As the three took their seats, the Lanfang aides all noticed a detail: Sinei Zhengyi's hand was trembling slightly, and when he opened the box to retrieve the brush, its tip quivered in the air.

Chen Feng waited until they were seated before speaking slowly: "After three days of negotiations, both sides have reached agreement on the main provisions of the peace treaty. Today, we hold the signing ceremony here."

His voice, amplified through the loudspeaker, rang through the hall—clear, calm, indisputable.