Chapter 438: Guardfar, Steadyfar

Dubai Port, August 18, 1916, 10 a. m.

A heat wave rolled up from deep within the Arabian desert, cloaking the whole of Dubai Port in scorching white light. Yet the sweltering heat could not stop the crowds—over 150,000 people surged toward the port from the city, from inland, even from neighboring emirates. They packed every road leading to the harbor, climbed onto warehouse roofs, and occupied every high point. The air was thick with sweat, spices, sea‑salt, and an uncontainable excitement.

The port's main thoroughfare had been cleared and a brand‑new red carpet laid down. Every five meters along each side stood a Lanfang Army ceremonial guard, dressed in new khaki summer uniforms, wearing German‑style steel helmets, and holding freshly mass‑produced Type‑16 semi‑automatic rifles (with Garand). The rifles glinted coldly in the sun. Beyond them, a line of police and militia formed a cordon, trying to keep order, but the surging crowd kept pressing forward.

"Move aside! Move aside!" a dark‑skinned middle‑aged man in oil‑stained work clothes forced his way to the front; a faded copper medal—the East Sea Battle Commemoration—pinned to his chest. His name was Lin Santai; six years earlier he had been a machinist on the cruiser Revival, and during the Battle of the Yellow Sea his ears were half‑deafened by the blast. After retiring he worked as a fitter at the shipyard.

"Old Lin! This way!" someone shouted from above. Lin Santai looked up and saw former artillery chief Wang Zhigang squatting on a crane control platform, waving. He pushed his way forward, and a few young workers clasped his arms and hauled him up.

From the ten‑meter‑high platform, the whole harbor unfolded beneath his eyes. Lin Santai drew a sharp breath.

Dubai Port's No. 3 and No. 4 deep‑water berths had been completely cleared; the cargo ships that had been moored were moved to the outer anchorage. The dock surfaces were blasted clean with high‑pressure water jets and painted with conspicuous white markings. Two massive gantry cranes spanned the pier, bearing huge banners of a red background with a golden dragon. Further away, within the naval base's wall, the silhouettes of two mountain‑tall ships could be faintly seen—but they were shrouded by huge canvas, revealing only vague outlines.

"So big…" Lin Santai muttered, "much larger than the Revival?"

Wang Zhigang handed him a water flask filled with light brine: "It's not just big. An old classmate of mine at the design institute told me the standard displacement is 41,000 tons, full load 46,000. The Main Gun consists of eight 380 mm barrels, each shell weighing eight hundred kilograms. Speed is 30 knots, and the thickest armor matches the bridge of our Revival. It's like the Yangtze, but I hear it's more advanced!"

Lin Santai took a few gulps, wiped his mouth, and said, "How much fuel does that burn…"

"Fuel consumption," interjected a bespectacled young man beside him, a shipyard technician. "The new ship uses a heavy‑oil boiler, its thermal efficiency 30 % higher than the British coal‑fired boilers. And I hear the engine room is fully automated, so it doesn't need as many crew."

"Automatic?" Lin Santai frowned, "Can the machine steer the ship by itself?"

"Not completely driverless, but many procedures are automated," the technician gestured excitedly. "For example, boiler water level, steam pressure, engine RPM are all monitored by gauges and trigger alarms if they exceed limits. The loading and aiming of the Main Gun are automated as well…"

His words were cut off by a sudden whistle. A long, low, penetrating horn blast— not from one ship but two sounding together—sent shockwaves that met in the air, making the very air tremble.

The crowd fell silent in an instant. Every eye turned toward the port entrance.

It arrived.

First came a tugboat; three small tugs puffed black smoke, cutting white V‑shaped wakes in the channel. Then, the ship silhouettes.

Huge, dark‑gray silhouettes that moved like a mountain range.

The first battleship drifted slowly into the channel. Its sleek hull stretched over 250 m, the towering bridge rose like a steel tower, and four twin‑mounted Main Gun turrets were arranged in a staggered layout, their massive barrels pointing forward. The bow cleaved the calm sea, sending spray four to five meters high. Sunlight struck the slanted armor plates, reflecting a cold, hard metallic sheen.

"My God…" a restrained gasp rose from the crowd.

Even more striking was the second ship. It was almost identical to the first, but its bow was sharper and the superstructure more compact. The two giants followed each other at a precise 500‑meter interval, inching toward the pier at a modest 8 knots. Their presence was so dominant that the surrounding tugs and patrol boats looked like children's toys.

Lin Santai clutched the platform railing with white‑knuckled hands. He had fought in the East Sea Battle, had seen the Restoration Ship's majesty on the Yellow Sea, and had known the firepower of the Yangtze… but this felt entirely different. It was a deterrence that transcended size, the ultimate expression of industrial‑civilization's violent aesthetic.

"Do they have names?" he asked hoarsely.

Wang Zhigang pointed to the bow of the first ship. There, a massive canvas covered the name, but faint Chinese characters could be seen beneath the cloth.

The military band began to play—not a traditional march, but a solemn, slow, Eastern‑flavored symphony titled "Ode to Mountains and Rivers." Brass roared while strings sang, echoing over the harbor.

The two battleships docked with precision. Cables were thrown, mooring bitts tightened, the massive hulls brushed the fender pads with barely a shudder. Engine noise faded gradually until it ceased entirely.

A death‑like silence. Only the sound of waves lapping the pier and the restrained breathing of hundreds of thousands of people.

Then the canvas covering the ship's name slipped down slowly.

On the first ship, two gigantic Chinese characters on the bow glittered golden in the sun: Steadyfar.

The second ship: Guardfar.

At that moment, time seemed to stand still.

Lin Santai felt something block his throat. He opened his mouth but could not speak. Beside him, Wang Zhigang was already weeping openly. Further away, many elders began to cry—not from sorrow, but as a release of emotions bottled up for twenty years.

Steadyfar. Guardfar.

The Beiyang Fleet's flagship, commissioned in 1885, Asia's first giant ship, fought to the last shot in the Battle of the Yellow Sea and ultimately scuttled at Weihai Guard. Captain Liu Buchan and executive officer Lin Tai led over three hundred officers and men to sacrifice themselves.

It was the modern Chinese navy's first tragic attempt, and also its first painful defeat.

And now, these two names reappear on the world's seas with such formidable presence.

"Present arms—!"

At the command of the ceremonial guard commander, three thousand soldiers raised their rifles in unison, the forest of bayonets glittering in the sun. The military band's performance reached its climax.

On the observation platform on the east side of the harbor, Chen Feng walked to the podium. He wore a plain white naval service uniform, bore no medals, but a tiny badge pinned to his chest—a replica of the Beiyang Fleet's iron‑anchor emblem.