Chapter 596: Nagato

February 19, 4 a. m.

William Port was shrouded in the heaviest winter fog over the North Sea. Visibility was under one hundred meters, and the harbor lighthouse emitted a pallid beam every fifteen seconds, illuminating only a moving milky‑white wall in the mist.

But the crews of the Bismarck and Tirpitz had been up for two hours.

There was no wake‑up call, no broadcast. The sailors groped in the dark to don their uniforms, stack their hammocks, and finish the last hot breakfast available in the port. Bread, butter, coffee—the taste was the same as usual, but everyone chewed more slowly, as if trying to imprint the flavor.

No one spoke in the mess hall.

It wasn't repression; it was unnecessary.

4:30 a. m., Bismarck bridge.

Sheer, wearing a leather coat, stood at the porthole. The fog was so thick he could not see the Main Gun on the bow, nor the sea thirty meters away. Yet he knew the ship was weighing anchor—the steel cable sliding over the windlass, the gears of the capstan meshing, the tug's engine rumbling low, like a meticulously arranged symphony.

"Port cable has been taken in."

"Starboard cable has been taken in."

"Tug is in position."

The captain's report came through the speaking tube—steady, brief, with no superfluous words.

Sheer said, "Prepare the engines."

A tremor rang from the engine room as the telegraph bell quivered. The main engine tachometer needle began to move, from zero to thirty, then from thirty to sixty. From deep within the hull came the vibration Sheer knew to his marrow—45,000 tons of steel were about to break free from the breakwater's grasp and sail into a blue no map could chart.

4:50 a. m.

Bismarck passed the outer breakwater of William Port.

Sheer stood at the porthole, watching the lighthouse recede through the thick fog. He recalled 1905, when he was the gunner of the "Burlington" and first sailed with the fleet. Back then William Port's lighthouse was not so tall, and Germany's high‑sea fleet had no dreadnoughts.

Twelve years.

He had entered and left this sea over a hundred times, but never as carefully as today, taking a final look.

Heiper stepped out of the chart room, holding a freshly received telegram.

"Support fleet has departed. King, Caesar, Louis de Borde, Empress Ship. Position one hundred twenty nautical miles behind us, speed twenty knots."

One hundred twenty nautical miles.

At Bismarck's thirty‑knot speed, it would take four hours; at the support fleet's twenty‑knot speed, six hours.

Sheer nodded. This distance was one he and Heiper had calculated repeatedly— not the shortest, but the optimal.

If too far, the first strike fleet would be isolated; if too near, the support fleet would be spotted by British scout ships, losing tactical surprise.

One hundred twenty nautical miles.

A four‑hour line of life and death.

5:00 a. m.

Bismarck's radio room sent the first telegram:

"High‑sea fleet's first strike force has set sail. Flagship Bismarck, leading Tirpitz and four destroyers. Mission: enter the North Atlantic and cut off the enemy's maritime supply lines."

The telegram was also sent to Wuyou Palace, the Navy Department, and the William Port base.

Berlin Time 5:15 a. m., Wuyou Palace.

William II was not asleep. He sat in his study, the telegram before him, a cup of tea long since cooled.

He lifted the telegram, then set it down. He lifted it again, then set it down.

Finally he rose, walked to the window. Outside the night fog remained dense, obscuring the stars, the streets, the city he had ruled for twenty‑nine years.

He suddenly wondered: did Frederick the Great, on the eve of the Battle of Rossbach, also stand at a window awaiting dispatches?

He suddenly became uncertain.

5:30 a. m., Bismarck passed Helgoland Island.

The fog was clearing.

The North Sea horizon shifted from lead‑gray to light gray, then a thin golden seam split the light gray. Dawn seeped through that crack, not bursting, but slowly, strand by strand, peeling darkness from the sea.

Sheer stood at the porthole, looking east.

He had been awake for thirty‑eight hours. His eye sockets were sunken, cheekbones prominent, the coffee cup in his hand cold to the touch. Yet he did not feel sleepy.

He saw the sunrise strike the Bismarck's bow turret, coating the 380 mm barrel in a pale gold.

He saw Tirpitz, two kilometers out on the starboard channel, its bow cleaving the sea, carving a slender white wake.

He saw four destroyers like loyal shepherd dogs, forming a guard pattern on either side of the flagship.

He suddenly thought: this moment should be painted.

Not because it is beautiful.

But because after this moment, no one would know whether these warships would ever see another sunrise.

7:00 a. m.

The radio room delivered a second telegram— also the first received after departure.

Sheer took the telegram, his eyes scanning the paper.

He said nothing, passing the telegram to Heiper.

Heiper looked at it, silent for a few seconds.

Then he said:

"It seems Chen Feng truly prepared to see the final moment."

The telegram contained only one line:

"Lanfang Republic Navy Headquarters: Technical support remains unaffected. The shipyard welcomes German engineers for exchange visits at any time. Bon voyage. —Li Te"

No promises. No guarantees.

Only the phrase "Bon voyage".

Sheer folded the telegram neatly and slipped it into his inner pocket.

"Enough," he said.

He turned to face the chart table and began ordering the fleet to turn west.

Dawn had completely torn the night veil. The North Atlantic spread out before them, boundless and unfathomable.

There were Yingguo's transport lines, Meilika's destroyer fleet, and everything waiting for them.

And 120 nautical miles behind, four King Class battleships were pursuing at twenty knots.

Four hours.

The line between life and death.

Chen Feng stood on the gantry crane platform of Dock No. 3 at the shipyard, seeing only two colors: the sea's iron gray and the sky's leaden white.

The Persian Gulf's morning mist rose from the sea, like countless layers of salt‑soaked gauze stacked together, enveloping the port, dock, warships, and oil tanks in a single milky‑white haze. Only up high—the navigation light at the top of the gantry crane that never went out—still stubbornly flickered in the fog, like a dying firefly beating its wings for the last time.

Chen Feng had stood there for forty minutes.

Three steps behind him, Wang Wenwu held a thermos cup, the coffee inside having been refreshed twice yet untouched. Li Te stood on the other side, a sea‑trial progress report delivered at three a. m. tucked between his fingers, its corners warmed by his body heat and slightly curled.

The three of them said nothing.

It wasn't that they had nothing to say.

It was that they didn't know what to say—facing the massive ship slowly taking shape in the morning mist, any words seemed superfluous.

The fog was dispersing.

It wasn't the wind that scattered it, but the ship's own heat evaporating it. In Dock No. 3, the boiler of the Nagato had been lit for twelve hours, and the engine room was conducting the final full‑power pre‑departure test. Steam escaped from the safety valve, met the cold air, condensed into white mist, and rose slowly along both sides of the hull, like the first breath of some ancient leviathan awakening.

The bow that first emerged.

That sharply arrogant clipper bow, like a warblade forged from steel, angled toward the sea. Sunlight slipped through a cloud gap, striking the top of the bow post and plating the Lanfang naval flag's metal emblem in a pale gold.

Then came the Main Gun turret.