Chapter 650: The Reporter

At the same time, aboard the Pearl River, Zhou Zhen guo was commanding his warship to cut into the flank of the Yingguo fleet.

"Hard right rudder! Speed twenty‑eight knots!" he shouted, "Don't let them surround us!"

The Pearl River traced a huge arc on the sea, sprinting at twenty‑eight knots toward the port wing of the Yingguo fleet.

The Yingguo battle line was unfolding, trying to use numerical superiority to create crossfire. But their speed was too slow—main battleships only twenty‑one knots, twenty‑eight knots, while battlecruisers could exceed thirty knots, yet their armor was thin and they dared not get too close.

This is the advantage of the Bismarck Class. Want to fight, fight; want to flee, flee.

"Target—Prestige!" Zhou Zhen guo pointed at the fast‑moving dot on the radar screen, "Concentrate fire!"

The Pearl River's four twin‑mounted 380 mm Main Guns swivel simultaneously. Fire‑control radar locks onto the target, gunners load armor‑piercing shells, and the gun captain computes firing data.

"Fire!"

Eight shells burst from the barrels.

Forty seconds later, the observer's voice came: "Two hits! Prestige's hull midsection struck! Upper structures ablaze!"

Zhou Zhen guo raised his binoculars.

The battlecruiser was smoking. Its speed clearly dropped from twenty‑eight knots to twenty‑four knots. On deck, the damage control team was desperately fighting the fire.

"Keep firing!" Zhou Zhen guo said, "Fire until it sinks!"

But at that moment, the lookout's voice changed tone: "Captain! Port! Two Yingguo battleships are approaching! It's the Centurion and the Ajax!"

Zhou Zhen guo turned to port.

The two Yingguo battleships were closing at full speed, Distance already under twenty‑thousand meters. Their gun barrels were adjusting direction, and the next salvo would arrive imminently.

"Hard left rudder!" Zhou Zhen guo roared, "Main Gun turn to port! Aim at the Centurion!"

The Pearl River swerved wildly on the sea, but it was too slow— a warship is not a car; a steel beast weighing over forty thousand tons needs time to turn.

The first 356 mm shell landed one hundred meters off the port side, raising a spray that drenched the deck.

The second fell fifty meters away, shrapnel swept across the bridge, and a lookout fell.

The third—

direct hit.

The Pearl River's starboard aft was hit; the shell pierced the secondary gun deck and exploded above the engine room. The hull shuddered violently, speed dropping from twenty‑eight knots to twenty‑five knots.

"Damage control report!"

"General! Starboard aft hit! Engine room ceiling on fire! Ingress water slight, but the blaze is spreading!"

Zhou Zhen guo gritted his teeth: "Keep firing! Ignore the damage! Take out the Centurion!"

The Pearl River's Main Gun fired again. Eight shells surged toward the approaching Yingguo battleship.

Forty seconds later, hits were confirmed.

Two armor‑piercing shells struck the Centurion's bow, blowing the reserve ammunition of the forward Main Gun turret skyward. Flames rose from the bow, and thick smoke billowed.

The Centurion's speed fell from twenty‑one knots to eighteen knots, and it began to pull away from the battle line.

"We hit!" cheers erupted on the bridge.

Zhou Zhen guo did not smile.

He turned to the radar screen, watching the Yingguo warships still closing— eight of them. Vengeance, Ramillis, Royal Oak, Monarch, Conqueror… they were surrounding from all directions.

And the Pearl River had already taken two hits.

What about the Huai River?

He looked toward starboard. The Huai River was smoking, its bridge unrecognizable, yet it kept firing.

Hold on, Lao Zhang, he thought. Hold on.

In a semi‑protected compartment beneath the Huai River's bridge, Fang was frantically pressing the shutter with his three companions.

"Shoot that one! The one that's on fire!" he pointed at the distant Prestige, "Capture its flames, capture its smoke!"

A young photographer crouched at the port window, the camera aimed at the Prestige, the shutter snapping incessantly.

"Got it!"

"Good! Change angle! Shoot ourselves!" Fang turned to another window, "Capture our wounds, the injured on deck, the sailors fighting the fire!"

Another photographer stuck out the lens, focusing on the damage‑control crew busy on deck. Several sailors dragged hoses toward the blaze, faces caked with soot yet eyes resolute. Not far away, two stretcher‑bearers carried a wounded comrade toward a compartment; the sailor on the stretcher was drenched in blood but still gritted his teeth and endured.

Click. Click. Click.

Fang's hand trembled, but he did not stop.

He had filmed twenty years of war, from Yazhou to Europe, from land battles to sea battles; what scene hadn't he seen? But this time was different.

This time, he was filming his own people.

"Teacher Fang!" a photographer pointed outside the port window, "Is that Yingguo ship sinking?"

Fang looked along the indicated direction— in the distance, the Prestige was tilting. Its port side had dropped far, the starboard side rose, and objects on deck were sliding downward.

"That's the Prestige!" he shouted, "Quick, shoot! Capture the moment it sinks!"

Four cameras simultaneously aimed at the dying Yingguo battlecruiser.

Three minutes later, the Prestige capsized completely. The hull faced upward, revealing a bottom riddled with barnacles and a propeller still turning. It lay inverted on the sea for about two minutes, then began to sink.

Fang pressed the final shutter.

He watched the massive ship vanish beneath the sea, his eyes slightly reddened.

Then he turned, telling his companions, "Keep shooting. There's more."

At 07:40 in the morning, the Huai River's bridge was unrecognizable.

Three 356 mm shells consecutively struck near the bridge. The radio room was blown away, the navigation officer's chart table overturned, and two staff officers were killed on the spot. Zhang Zhen's forehead was slashed open by shrapnel; blood ran down his cheek, but he had no time to wipe it.

"Report damage!"

The damage‑control officer's voice came through the speaking tube, trembling with suppressed fear: "General, the hull is taking on water severely! Three port compartments are flooded, two starboard compartments taking water. The bilge pumps are at full capacity, yet ingress still exceeds egress! Speed has dropped to twenty‑three knots!"

"Main Gun status!"

Turret A and Turret B can still fire! Turret C's ammunition feed mechanism is damaged, loading speed halved! Turret D… Turret D was directly hit and is jammed!

Four turrets, only two and a half remain.

Zhang Zhen clenched his teeth.

"Continue firing!" he said, "Target—King George V! Fire all the Shells!"

The two and a half turrets fired again.

Shells flew toward that Yingguo flagship. Forty seconds later, the observer reported, "Hit! Shells struck near the bridge of the King George V!"

Zhang Zhen saw through the telescope that the bridge of the Yingguo flagship was smoking. Its speed was also dropping—from twenty‑one knots to nineteen knots.

Well done.

He turned and looked at those few reporters.

Reporter Fang kept shooting. His camera lens was aimed at the direction of the Yingguo fleet, the shutter clicking click‑click nonstop. His face was covered in ash, his eye sockets were blood‑red, but his hands were steady.

"Reporter Fang," Zhang Zhen walked over, "How many have you shot?"

Reporter Fang lifted his head: "Five rolls of film, General. Every second was captured. The moment the Yingguo opened fire, the footage of us being hit, our counter‑attack, the sinking of the Reputation… everything's there."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

"Protect those films," he said, "They're evidence."

Reporter Fang looked at him, at the face covered in blood‑stained gore, at the eyes that remained steadfast.

"General," he said, "You also protect yourself."

Zhang Zhen smiled.

That kind of smile, as Reporter Fang later recalled, is the smile of someone already prepared to die.