Chapter 469: Delivery

That is Lanfang's cargo ship; today it will set sail fully loaded with "cargo." But this "cargo" consists of five thousand living people.

"Quickly! Board the ship!" a Sakura Nation officer shouted in halting Korean, his whip snapping crisply in the air.

The line moved slowly. Someone fell and was immediately dragged up to keep walking. Someone else screamed, only to have a military police butt of a rifle slam into their back, a muffled grunt silencing them. Most people trudged numb, eyes vacant, as if already dead.

In the crowd, a young man named Jin Shunzhi clenched his fists tightly. He is nineteen this year, originally an apprentice at a rice shop in Pingrang, and three days ago was seized by military police on the street, packed onto a train and taken to Renchuangang. No one told him where he was going or what for; they only said, "The Imperial Army needs laborers, go overseas to work, there will be food and wages."

But he is not foolish. Looking at the situation, at those soldiers armed with loaded rifles, at this ship that is clearly not a passenger liner—this is certainly not for labor.

"Asiba…" a middle‑aged man muttered nearby, "where are they going to sell us?"

"I heard they're going to the Sakura Nation," someone whispered.

"Nonsense! Going to the Sakura Nation like this? I think they're going…"

Before the sentence could finish, a whip cracked down. The man's face was instantly torn open, and he screamed in agony as he fell.

"No talking! Queue and board!" the officer barked viciously.

Jin Shunzhi lowered his head, biting his lip. He thought of his mother and sister at home. His father died in a mine last year, and he is the only man in the family. If he were to die too…

"Name! Age! Origin!" at the boarding gate, a Sakura Nation civil official recorded mechanically.

Jin Shunzhi gave the information. The official didn't lift his head: "Place your handprint."

A document was pushed over; it was filled with dense Japanese characters, none of which he recognized.

"What… what is this?"

"Labor contract. By placing your handprint, you are voluntarily going abroad to work, under legal protection," the official said impatiently, "Quickly!"

Protection? Jin Shunzhi looked at the surrounding military police, at those black‑gaped muzzles. What kind of protection is this?

But he still placed his handprint. The red imprint stained the paper like a drop of blood.

Then he was shoved onto the gangway. In the cargo hold, the space originally meant for freight had been converted into a "living area"—essentially three stacked bunks, each less than a meter high; one must crawl in, and once lying down cannot turn over. The air was foul, thick with mildew and sweat.

Five thousand people were packed into this hold, which was originally designed to carry three thousand tons of cargo.

Jin Shunzhi found his spot—on the lowest tier, against the hull. He had just crawled in when people behind him surged forward, nearly crushing him flat.

"Move! Move!"

"No room left!"

"I'm going to vomit…"

Chaos, cries, curses. But soon the cargo‑hold door slammed shut with a clang, sealing shut. The world fell into darkness, with only a few vents letting in faint light.

The engine roared to life, the hull shuddering.

They were about to set out toward an unknown fate.

Inside the hold, some began to weep, some began to pray, some stared blankly at the darkness.

Jin Shunzhi felt his pocket, where his mother had secretly slipped him a talisman—a rag embroidered with a peace charm. He clutched it tightly and closed his eyes.

The ship left Renchuangang, heading out to sea.

And at the same time, outside the Sakurata Gate in Tokyo, Xi Yuan Si Gong Wang was boarding a carriage bound for the Imperial Palace. He was to report to His Majesty the newly signed agreement, the three hundred and fifty thousand "labor personnel," and how the Empire trades other people's lives for its own survival.

The carriage passed through Ginza, past shops already open for business, past hurried pedestrians.

Everything was as usual.

No one knew that on this dawn, a cargo ship loaded with five thousand young lives was sailing toward a voyage of death.

Even fewer knew that such voyages would occur seventy times.

Three hundred and fifty thousand people, seventy ships, heading to Europe, to battlefields, to graves.

This is business.

This is war.

This is… the fate of the weak.

Xi Yuan Si gazed out the window, suddenly recalling the last words Chen Feng said in Borneo:

"Prime Minister, remember: soft‑hearted people are not fit for politics. Because the nature of politics is to pick a relatively clean option among dirty choices."

He closed his eyes.

Perhaps Chen Feng is right.

London, Army Operations Room, same time, two p. m.

In front of a huge map of Europe on the wall, Lord Ji Qi Na and Western Front Commander-in-Chief Douglas Heg, a general, stood opposite each other. Both were ashen, because a document they most dreaded lay on the table: the casualty statistics for the third phase of the Somme offensive.

"Two and a half months of fighting, total casualties: 428,000," General Heg's voice was as dry as sandpaper, "including 97,000 killed, 113,000 seriously wounded and disabled, 210,000 lightly wounded. Degjun casualties are estimated at around 350,000, but we failed to break through their second defensive line."

He paused, then added, "And… Deguo people seem to have something new."

"New thing?" Ji Qi Na frowned.

Heg pulled several blurry photos from his briefcase: "Taken by front‑line scouts. September 18, near Kombrei, strange vehicles appeared behind the Degjun line… tracked, armored, unlike any equipment we've seen."

The photos were spread on the table. Though low‑resolution, the diamond‑shaped hull, slanted front armor, and turret outline were discernible…

Ji Qi Na's heart sank. The tanks Chen Feng sold to Deguo had already reached the front.

"Quantity?" he asked.

"So far only three have been found, in testing. But intelligence indicates Deguo factories near Cologne are ramping up production, aiming to equip at least one armored regiment by year‑end—thirty to forty vehicles."

"What about our Mark I models?"

"The first fifty have already entered combat," Heg's face grew darker, "but there are many problems. Their top speed is only six km/h, slower than infantry marching. The armor stops rifle bullets but is pierced by machine‑gun fire or small‑caliber artillery. Worst of all is mechanical reliability—of the fifty deployed, eighteen broke down the first day, and seven fell into trenches and couldn't get out."

He inhaled deeply: "In comparison, the Deguo ones… seem more advanced."

The operations room was deathly silent. Outside, London was raining, the raindrops beating the glass like funeral bells.

"The Prime Minister's decision is correct," Ji Qi Na finally broke the silence, "We must pull forces from secondary fronts to concentrate on the Western Front. If we cannot achieve a breakthrough before winter, next spring… Deguo may use these new weapons to launch a counter‑offensive."

He stepped to the world map, his finger landing on Egypt: "The Sinai Front currently has eight divisions, 150,000 troops. Pulling three divisions leaves 120,000, enough to defend against a possible Ottoman offensive."