Chapter 498: London's Shame and the Turn

"Hood's signal… gone," the radar officer said, his voice trembling with disbelief, "The sea surface shows a large‑scale wreckage echo. 'Queen Ship'… is turning, heading 270, speed… she's accelerating!"

She Er looked to starboard. Through the rain curtain and the fading flames, he saw the outline of the Queen Ship rapidly receding, the stern drawing a long white wake. The Hood‑class sister ship clearly had no intention of continuing the fight.

"Should we pursue?" gunner Mu Le asked, excitement suppressed in his voice, "General, we can sink her! Two ships against one—"

"No." She Er cut him off, "Order the entire fleet to cease fire. Send a light signal to the Queen Ship: 'Cease pursuit, permission to withdraw.'"

"General?" Mu Le was stunned.

"Our goal is to demonstrate the Bismarck Class's power, not to duel the Royal Navy to the death." She Er turned to the chart, "And… Tirpitz is still crawling behind us. If we chase the Queen Ship, and the Yingguo main fleet happens to be nearby…"

He didn't finish. But everyone understood.

"What about the Hood survivors?" the Chief of Staff asked softly.

She Er looked at the still churning sea. The whirlpool had calmed, and now oil slicks, wood chips, torn cloth, and… a few tiny human silhouettes floated on the surface. In eight‑meter waves, those castaways were as small as ants, ready to be swallowed by the next crest.

"Record the battlefield coordinates," She Er finally said, "After we return, notify the English through a neutral nation. Now… order the fleet to turn south, heading 180. Full speed home."

"No rescue?" a young communications officer blurted out.

She Er looked at him, eyes cold. "Kid, this is a battlefield. If we halt rescue, we could be ambushed by an English submarine or destroyer. War is war."

The communications officer lowered his head: "Yes, General."

The order was given. Bismarck began a slow turn, its four steam turbines outputting maximum power, driving the giant ship through the waves. Gradually, the sea area littered with wreckage and survivors was left behind, vanishing in the rain.

She Er gave the radar screen one last glance. Hood's signal was gone, leaving only the echo of the Queen Ship receding and a slow‑moving light point of Tirpitz behind.

He walked back to his command chair and sat down, pulling a pocket watch from his coat pocket. The case had cracked in battle, the glass shattered, but the hands still moved: 05:52.

From the first salvo to Hood's sinking: eighteen minutes.

Five salvos.

"General." the Chief of Staff handed over a glass of water, "We… won."

She Er took the cup but did not drink. He stared at the trembling surface, as if he could still see the flash of Hood's rupture reflected there.

"Won?" he muttered, his voice so low only he could hear, "We just killed a part of the Royal Navy's century‑long glory. What do you think the English will respond?"

The Chief of Staff gave no answer.

She Er set the cup down and looked out the port window to the south—toward Port William, the direction of an unknown fate.

"Relay to the entire fleet," he raised his voice, "we may celebrate, but stay on guard. The war… has only just begun."

The alarm‑clearing bell rang inside the ship. Seconds later, cheers rose from the lower deck, spreading across the vessel. The sailors celebrated an unbelievable victory.

Yet on the bridge, no one smiled.

She Er sat in the command chair, eyes closed. In his mind the white flash replayed, the broken giant ship, the silhouettes struggling in the icy water.

Then he recalled twenty years earlier, when, as a young officer visiting Portsmouth, he first saw a newly launched British battleship. At that time, the Royal Navy's battleships were the pinnacle of technology, symbols of global hegemony.

Now the Royal Navy's most advanced warship lies on the North Sea floor, a 41,000‑ton steel tomb.

"We've awakened a lion," She Er opened his eyes, saying to the Chief of Staff, "Record this. We'll need to remember it in the future."

"Yes, General."

Bismarck continued sailing south, leaving the storm, wreckage and death behind. To the west, unseen by them, the Queen Ship sped toward distant safe waters, and Colonel Gu De Nuo on board had already begun drafting a telegram to the Navy Department.

Beneath this sea area, three‑kilometre‑five‑hundred meters down, Hood's wreckage was slowly sinking to the seabed. The two broken hull sections would remain silent forever, along with the overwhelming majority of the 1,418 officers and crew aboard.

Only thirty‑nine were rescued by a British destroyer that arrived later.

John Miller was not among them.

Tom was not either.

Major General Wellsley and Colonel Tuo Wei were also not there.

The North Sea storm raged on, as if to sound a requiem for this brief, brutal duel. The waves washed over the oil slick, trying to erase every trace.

Yet some marks can never be erased.

In London, in Berlin, in Dubai, in war cabinets and command centers worldwide, this storm‑born sea battle that lasted only eighteen minutes is about to plunge like a boulder, sending ripples that will reshape the global war landscape.

And it all began with Bismarck's fifth salvo.

It began with the Shell that pierced the deck armor.

It began with a design flaw, a tactical decision, and a dash of fatal luck.

The steel funeral has ended.

But the steel's revenge has only just begun.

Rain hammered the windows of Number Ten Downing Street, a monotonous, lingering sound, as if traveling from the North Sea down to London.

Herbert Henry A Si Kui Si stood before the study fireplace, a freshly delivered telegram from the Navy Department clenched in his hand. The telegram paper was thin, yet now it felt as heavy as a lead block. The fire cast flickering shadows on his face, but could not dispel the bottomless fatigue in his eyes.

The study door was gently knocked.

"Come in." A Si Kui Si's voice was hoarse.

War Minister Lord Ji Qi Na, Naval Minister Sir Bei Er Fu, and Foreign Minister Sir Ge Lei entered the room one after another. None had removed their coats, rain still clinging to their shoulders. In the dim light their faces looked ashen, as if they had just crawled out of a grave.

"Everyone, sit." A Si Kui Si walked to the desk, placing the telegram in the center of the table. "You should have all seen it."

A suffocating silence fell.

Lord Ji Qi Na was the first to act. He removed his monocle, repeatedly wiping it with a cloth, even though the lens was spotless. It was his habitual gesture whenever his emotions flared but he had to restrain himself.

"One thousand four hundred eighteen," Ji Qi Na finally spoke, his voice low as if from the earth's depths, "plus the Queen Ship's casualties, this morning we lost nearly two thousand of our finest naval personnel. And what did we get? A tactical retreat?"

"Not a retreat, Lord," Bei Er Fu corrected, but his tone lacked any confidence, "it was… a strategic disengagement. The Queen Ship preserved its strength under extremely adverse conditions—"

"Preserve strength?" Ji Qi Na snapped his head up, his eyes behind the monocle bloodshot, "Arthur, we lost the Hood! Not a destroyer, not a cruiser, but one of the Royal Navy's most powerful warships! A 41,000‑ton battlecruiser that sank after five salvos! Do you know what that means?"

Bei Er Fu opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing.