Chapter 505: The Returnee

How will the Yingguo react?

Anger, that is certain. Shame, that is also certain. But more importantly, they will learn, they will adjust, they will seek countermeasures. The Royal Navy has a three‑century tradition and will not collapse because of a single failure. On the contrary, this failure may become a catalyst for their reform.

And Deguo?

Tirpitz looked toward Berlin. Revelry, celebration, then a demand for more victories. The Emperor has become immersed in the fantasy of a "world power," forgetting that the essence of Deguo is a land‑power nation and the navy is merely a supporting force. He has forgotten that our real enemies are not at sea but on the Eastern front in Russia and on the Western front in Faguo.

"We have gone too far," Tirpitz muttered to himself.

The telephone on the desk rang suddenly. The late‑night ring was especially harsh.

Tirpitz walked back and answered, "This is Tirpitz."

"Marshal, sorry to disturb you so late," said the voice of the Navy Department officer on duty on the other end. "We have just received an Encrypted Telegram from William Port. Admiral Scher's fleet has entered the harbor safely. In addition… there is a telegram from Lanfang that is addressed for you personally to receive."

"Lanfang?" Tirpitz frowned, "Content?"

"The encryption level is very high; we cannot decode it. We have already sent someone to deliver it to your residence, estimated to arrive in half an hour."

"Understood. Inform me of any news at any time."

He hung up, and Tirpitz sat back down. Lanfang sending an Encrypted Telegram at this hour could only contain one of two things: congratulations, or… a warning.

He leaned toward the latter.

The coffee had gone cold, but he still poured a cup. Bitterness spread in his mouth, stimulating his weary nerves. He turned to the next page of the report, where there was a summary handwritten by Scher:

"…Although this battle was a victory, it exposed many problems. First, our navy's main ships remain at an absolute disadvantage; second, intelligence work on the Yingguo is insufficient, failing to anticipate their rapid response; third, fleet coordination needs improvement, and the malfunction of the Tirpitz nearly caused a disastrous outcome; fourth, over‑reliance on a single technological edge may become a hidden risk. It is recommended to temporarily suspend large‑scale naval operations and concentrate forces on solving the above issues…"

Recommendation: suspend.

Tirpitz could almost picture how angry the Emperor would be upon reading this. "After a victory you ask me to suspend? Scher, were you frightened by the Yingguo?"

But Scher is right. Completely correct.

The question is, will the Emperor listen?

A doorbell sounded from downstairs. Tirpitz glanced at the clock: 1:35. The messenger with the telegram had arrived.

He rose and went downstairs. The butler Hans had already opened the door, and a young navy junior officer stood in the doorway, holding a sealed document bag.

"Your Marshal!" the junior officer stood at attention and saluted, "Urgent Navy Department dispatch!"

Tirpitz took the document bag; the wax seal was intact, bearing the emblem of Lanfang's Foreign Ministry. "Thank you for your effort, junior officer. Do you need a receipt?"

"No, sir. Good night to you."

After seeing the junior officer off, Tirpitz returned to his study and carefully slit the seal with a paper cutter. Inside was a single sheet, a brief telegram printed in German:

"Marshal Feng Tirpitz:"

I am pleased to hear that your navy has achieved brilliant results, and I extend sincere congratulations.

However, victory often breeds greater challenges. The British Empire's naval power is deeply rooted; this setback will surely prompt a vigorous counterattack. Technological superiority can win for a time, but not forever.

Suggestion: consolidate existing achievements and plan the next step cautiously. If necessary, explore the possibility of deepening cooperation.

May you be in good health.

Foreign Ministry of the Lanfang Republic, Chen Feng (authorized signatory)

Tirpitz read it three times in total.

Every word was courteous, every phrase appropriate, but the meaning between the lines was crystal clear: know when to stop.

"Technological superiority can win for a time, but not forever."

He set the telegram down and walked to the window. The night was deep, Berlin was already asleep, with only a few scattered lights. The city's revelry had ended; when the sun rises tomorrow, people will see victory reports everywhere and be immersed in the joy of a "German resurgence."

But beneath this joy, a shadow is spreading.

The Yingguo will not be easily satisfied. Lanfang is reminding us to hold back. The Emperor wants more victories. The navy is beginning to split—young hawks like Leidel crave battle, while veterans like Scher know the danger.

And he himself, the nearly seventy‑year‑old old Marshal, stands at the crossroads of all contradictions.

Tirpitz returned to his desk and picked up his pen. He needs to reply to Scher, prepare for tomorrow's Navy Department meeting, and consider how to meet the Emperor's demands.

But before putting pen to paper, he took one last look at Lanfang's telegram.

Chen Feng.

That mysterious Oriental. He sold us battleships, sold us technology, and now reminds us not to go too far. What does he truly want? Money? Power? Or… some longer‑term scheme?

Tirpitz does not know the answer.

He only knows that in this increasingly complex game, Deguo has shifted from being a player to becoming a piece on the board.

The pen tip touched the paper, the ink spreading. He wrote the first sentence of his reply:

"Admiral Scher: Report read. Your assessment is correct. I will do my utmost to buy time…"

The night is still long.

And tomorrow's challenge is already looming.

10 a. m., November 3, William Port Naval Base.

The naval base, shrouded in fine rain, lay in a gray mist. At the pier, the Bismarck battleship rested quietly at its dedicated berth; the hull still bore battle scars—several left‑side secondary gun positions pierced by near‑miss shell fragments, the patched steel plates a slightly different hue; beneath the bridge was a conspicuous dent, the mark left by a 15‑inch Hood shell grazing it.

Yet all these damages were negligible before the 45,000‑ton leviathan. The Bismarck remained majestic and powerful, like a beast that proved its ferocity in battle, now licking its wounds in its lair.

Inside the captain's cabin, Reinhardt Scher was changing out of his combat uniform. He handed the powder‑scented, sweat‑soaked coat to the orderly, and put on a clean officer's dress uniform. In the mirror, the man's dark circles were deep, stubble had begun to show, yet his eyes remained sharp.

"General, the car is ready," the adjutant reported outside the door.

"Understood." Scher fastened the last button, donned his cap, "Notify the captain of the Tirpitz; the Navy Department meeting is at two p. m. Also, compile the list of fallen personnel; I will review it myself."

"Yes."

He left the captain's cabin, descended the side ladder. On the pier, navy troops lined up to greet him; everyone saluted, eyes full of reverence. Scher—the general who had just forged the legend of the "Five‑Gun Salvo that sank the Hood"—was now a hero within the navy.

But he felt no joy.

He boarded the waiting car; the adjutant sat in the front seat and handed him a stack of today's newspapers. The front‑page headlines were, without exception:

"Germany's Glory! Bismarck's North Sea Triumph!"

"Five‑Gun Salvo! Hood Sinks to the Seabed!"

Admiral She Er: A Naval Hero of the New Era!

She Er skimmed it roughly, then tossed the newspaper aside. "How is Berlin's reaction?"

"Revelry, General." The adjunct turned his head, excitement on his face, "Last night Wuyou Palace held a grand banquet, and the Emperor Your Majesty personally toasted you. The newspaper said this is the greatest victory since the Franco‑Prussian War!"

"The greatest…" She Er looked out the car window. The wipers swayed back and forth across the windshield, and the streets of William Port were blurred in the rain. Pedestrians hurried by, some holding newspapers, smiles on their faces.

They didn't know how this "greatest victory" came about. They didn't know the difficult choices in the storm, they didn't know the despair when the Tirpitz's engine failed, they didn't know the complex feelings when they watched the Hood break apart and sink.