Chapter 479: Casualty Ratio

"Eastern auxiliary troops, go over there!" a British Army lieutenant pointed at a distant clearing, "Wait there for the reorganization!"

The so‑called "reorganization area" was a muddy field with no cover. The wounded were carelessly dumped on the ground, there were few medics, and medicine was scarce. Jin Shunzhi found a corner to sit, and Li Chengcan tended his wound.

The bayonet pierced the wound, the edges of the injury had turned pale, and the bleeding slowed. Without antiseptic, Li Chengcan could only crudely bandage it with a relatively clean strip torn from a corpse.

"It will get infected," Li Chengcan said.

"Infection is better than death," Jin Shunzhi gritted his teeth, enduring the pain.

After bandaging, the two leaned together, watching the survivors trickle back in the dusk. Twelve hundred set out; now fewer than two hundred had returned. Everyone was wounded, everyone was hollow‑eyed.

"We lost," Li Chengcan said suddenly.

"Hmm."

"It was a terrible loss."

"Hmm."

Silence. Rain pelted their faces, icy and bone‑piercing.

From afar came the conversation of a British Army officer, in English, but they caught a few key words.

"Retreat… twenty kilometers…"

"Degjun tank… cannot hold…"

"Need reinforcements… more reinforcements…"

Jin Shunzhi closed his eyes. Twenty kilometers. The land they had bought with over sixty thousand lives was lost in a day, and they were forced back another twenty kilometers. What a ridiculous calculation.

"Shunzhi," Li Chengcan asked softly, "You said… those Deguo tanks, are they also made by Lanfang?"

Jin Shunzhi opened his eyes: "What do you mean?"

"I heard a Yingguo officer debating. He said the new tank technology of the Deguo came from Lanfang, just like the rifles we use." Li Chengcan's voice carried sarcasm, "Lanfang sells tanks to the Deguo to fire at Yingguo, sells rifles to us to make us cannon fodder. They profit twice."

Jin Shunzhi was stunned for a long while. Then he laughed, a hoarse, unpleasant laugh, sounding like crying.

"So… we are not only Yingguo cannon fodder, we are also part of Lanfang's business." He fished out Yonghao's iron box from his pocket, opened it, and inside was a photo of Yonghao's family. Yonghao stood in the middle, smiling shyly.

"How much is a life worth, Chengcan?"

"I heard it's two hundred pounds."

"Two hundred pounds…" Jin Shunzhi pressed the photo to his forehead, "Yonghao's life, my life, everyone's life, is worth two hundred pounds. And Lanfang sells a tank, how much can they earn? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand?"

"Don't think about it." Li Chengcan pressed his shoulder, "Thinking too much drives a person mad."

But Jin Shunzhi could not stop. He recalled the ropes at Renchuangang, the stench of the cargo hold, his mother's heart‑rending cries, Yonghao's dying gaze, the burning tanks on the battlefield, the shattered faces of Sakura Nation soldiers, the seven identification tags at his waist.

All of this was a business.

And they were the raw material consumed by the business.

"Chengcan," he lifted his head, eyes hollow, "If we can make it back alive… what do you want to do?"

Li Chengcan was silent for a long while.

"I want to study." he said, "Read many books, figure out what this world really is. Figure out why some lives are priced, why some are not. Figure out… why we have to die like this."

"And then?"

"And then?" Li Chengcan looked toward the dark east, "And then, maybe we can change something. Even if it's only a little."

Jin Shunzhi said nothing. He stared at the photo in his hand, then at the hellish scene around him. Change? What a luxurious thought. Surviving tonight would be enough.

Night fell completely. The rain stopped, temperature plummeted. The wounded's moans drifted in the cold wind like ghostly wails. In the distance, Degjun artillery grew nearer, and the British Army's new defensive line was being bombed.

A new day, a new slaughter, was about to begin.

And Jin Shunzhi knew, whatever tomorrow brought, the identification tags at his waist would keep increasing.

Until he became one of the tags himself.

Or until this damned business ended.

But would the business end?

He didn't know.

He only knew that far to the east, in Tokyo, in Dubai, in London, in Berlin, those who do business would certainly sleep well tonight.

Because they made profit.

And the price was paid by others.

London's rain never stopped.

He Bo Te·Hen Li·A Si Kui Si stood before the window of the study at 10 Downing Street, watching rain snake down the glass, distorting the white hall street scene outside into a blurry gray‑green. It was already eleven at night, yet he felt no sleepiness. The document spread on the table was like a piece of red‑hot iron, scorching him so he could not sit comfortably.

'Somme River Campaign Third Phase Casualties and Situation Analysis Report'.

The title was neat, the content bloody. He didn't need to read closely; the numbers were already etched in his mind: British Army dead 31,472, severely wounded and disabled over 18,000, light wounds uncounted. French casualties near ten thousand. Eastern auxiliary troops—this euphemistic term in the report—confirmed dead over 63,000, missing and severely wounded estimated above twenty thousand.

The most striking line was the last: Degjun casualties estimated at 12,000, about half of whom were Japanese mercenaries.

"A one‑to‑ten loss ratio." A Si Kui Si muttered to himself, his fingers tapping the windowsill unconsciously, "No, counting those Koreans, it's one‑to‑fifteen."

The study door was gently pushed open. Wife Ma Ge Te entered carrying a cup of hot milk, saw his silhouette standing in the dark, and sighed.

"He Bo Te, it's time to rest."

"Rest?" A Si Kui Si didn't turn, "Ma Ge Te, do you know how many mothers received death notices this afternoon?"

Ma Ge Te was silent for a moment, placed the milk on the table. "War Minister Lord Ji Qi Na, Foreign Secretary Sir Ge Lei, Naval Minister Sir Bei Er Fu are waiting for you in the downstairs conference room. They say… there is an emergency."

A Si Kui Si closed his eyes. What is meant to come will come.

"Let them in."

Three minutes later, four men who decided the fate of the British Empire sat around the study fireplace. The flames leapt, casting their shadows on the oak‑panelled wall like a troupe of weary ghosts.

Ji Qi Na spoke first, his voice hoarse as sandpaper: "Prime Minister, we must pull three divisions from the Sinai Peninsula. The western front can't hold."

"Three divisions?" A Si Kui Si frowned, "What about the Palestine front? The Turks are still eyeing Gaza."

"Use the remaining five divisions to contract the line and go defensive." Ji Qi Na spread the operational map, "The eight divisions in Sinai were originally for defense, not offense. Pull three, leaving 120,000 troops, plus naval artillery support, enough to hold the Suez Canal."

"Where is Lanfang in that Huo Er De Sa division?" Bei Erfu interjected, "Just fifty kilometers from our flank."

Mentioning Lanfang, the atmosphere in the study visibly darkened.