Chapter 58: The Sky Is Darkening, We Advise You to Pay Attention to Navigation Safety

Zhou Tiezhu looked at the timer: one minute fifty seconds. That's ten seconds faster than the best record during training.

"Fire!"

The gunner pressed the button. There was no live round, but the firing mechanism still operated, producing a click. The simulated propellant charge in the barrel was ignited by an electric spark, of course without a real explosion.

"Eject!"

The breech opened, and the simulated shell was automatically ejected—a weighted steel pipe, in fact.

"Reload!"

A new cycle began.

Four turrets and eight Main Guns completed a full simulated salvo within two minutes. Then another round, and another.

Five rounds in succession.

Each round was under two minutes.

On the bridge of the Dauntless

Abasnot and all the officers watched the scene. They heard no gunfire, but saw the turrets turning rhythmically, the barrels lifting and dropping in a regular pattern.

"They're training," the Chief of Artillery said bitterly, "They're conducting combat‑style drills right before us. And did you see that speed? One round every two minutes, five rounds in a row. Our best record is three minutes, and we can only sustain three rounds before the barrels overheat."

"What about fire control?" Abasnot asked. "Their turrets rotate so synchronously; they clearly have a central fire‑control system. Ours is still being tested and won't be operational for at least half a year."

"And stability," the Chief Navigator added, "Did you notice? When they fire a simulated salvo, the hull hardly drifts sideways. That shows their hull‑center‑of‑gravity and stabilizer‑rudder designs far surpass ours. Our ship shifts several meters when we fire, requiring us to re‑aim."

Every detail showcases the gap.

Every movement reminds them: you are lagging behind.

Abasnot walked to the chart table and studied the plotted course. At this speed, they could see the Indian coastline by tomorrow noon. Then the Restoration Ship would appear off Mumbai, in front of tens of thousands of colonial residents.

The Royal Navy could only follow behind, like a petty follower.

He picked up his pen and began drafting the second report to London. This time, he used no diplomatic language, only stark facts:

"After thirty hours of continuous observation, the following facts are confirmed:"

"1. The target vessel, the Restoration Ship, is at least seven years ahead of our Dauntless in technology. Its speed, firepower, protection, fire control, and stability all present a comprehensive gap."

"2. Their crew is well‑trained and highly morale‑filled. Their operational proficiency and procedural standards are comparable to the Royal Navy's elite units."

"3. Their attitude toward us has shifted from initial caution to outright contempt. This afternoon's extreme maneuver demonstration and simulated firing drill were intended to clearly display their absolute superiority."

"4. Based on the above, it is strongly recommended to reassess the overall strategy toward Lanfang. Any military solution could result in unbearable losses and humiliating defeat. It is advised to pursue diplomatic channels and seek some form of coexistence."

"5. Personal assessment: naval technological hegemony has shifted from Yingguo. The future belongs to those who master oil‑fired boilers, central fire control, and large steam turbine technology. Our nation must devote all effort to catch up, or we will forever lose maritime dominance."

After finishing, he stared at it for a long time, then signed his name.

"Send it out. Use the highest classification."

"Yes, sir."

The telegram was dispatched. Abasnot knew what kind of storm this report would stir in London. The old gentlemen in the offices would be angry, would deny it, would accuse him of exaggeration.

But the truth lay before them, on the Indian Ocean's surface, in every wake of that gray leviathan.

"Sir, they have sent a light signal," the Communications Officer reported.

"Read it."

"'The sky is darkening; we advise you to pay attention to navigation safety. This vessel will continue sailing southeast; you may decide whether to follow. Sweet dreams.'"

Another politely sharp expression of "concern."

Abasnot gave a wry smile: "Reply: 'Received. Thank you for the reminder.'"

What else could be said? Perhaps, "We will keep following you until we lose you"?

Night fell, and the Indian Ocean's starry sky was exceptionally clear. The Restoration Ship turned on its navigation lights, the red port light and green starboard light flashing in the darkness like a pair of indifferent eyes.

The Dauntless also lit its lights, following behind.

Two strings of lights moved across the black sea, one ahead of the other, one bright, one dim.

It was a perfect metaphor for the age: the lingering glow of the old era striving to catch the dawn of the new.

But everyone knew the dawn would only recede further.

India, Mumbai Port Authority, the morning of March 19, 1906

"Governor! Governor!"

The urgent knock roused Governor George Clark from his sleep. The sixty‑year‑old colonial official had been in India for twenty‑five years and had never been awakened so early. He slipped on his nightgown, opened the door, and saw Secretary Henry Wilson standing pale outside, clutching a telegram.

"Wilson, do you know what time it is?"

"Quarter past six, sir. But... but something big has happened," Wilson's voice trembled. "The Royal Navy fleet... and... another ship is sailing toward Mumbai."

Clark frowned: "Fleet? Which fleet? Isn't the East India Fleet in Singapore?"

"No, not the East India Fleet," Wilson inhaled deeply. "It's the Dauntless, coming from the home islands with an escort formation. But... there's a ship ahead. A ship... a giant vessel we've never seen before."

The telegram was thrust into the governor's hand. Clark put on his glasses and read quickly. The telegram, from the Dauntless, was sent directly by Commander Major General Abasnot, its wording cautious yet unable to hide the urgency:

"To the Governor-General of India: Our fleet will arrive off Mumbai around nine o'clock this morning. Accompanying us is the Lanfang Republic warship Restoration Ship. Its performance far exceeds expectations; the port authority is advised to make appropriate preparations. Repeating, prepare accordingly. — Abasnot"

Clark stared at the words "performance far exceeds expectations" for a long moment, then looked up: "Wilson, what does 'accompanying' mean? Is it an escort..."

"According to another Encrypted Telegram from the Navy Department," Wilson handed over another document, "the Restoration Ship... is leading ahead. Our fleet is following behind."

The study fell silent for five seconds.

Then Clark erupted: "Following behind? You mean the Royal Navy, the British Empire's proudest fleet, trailing like a lackey behind a... what kind of ship? The Lanfang Republic? What is that? I've never heard that name!"