Chapter 652: White‑Hot Battle

The Pearl River took a hit on its starboard side; the shell pierced the secondary gun deck and exploded inside the hull. The shockwave knocked Zhou Zhen guo to the deck, his head striking the leg of the chart table, and his vision went black.

"Captain!" the adjutant rushed up to support him.

Zhou Zhen guo pushed the adjutant aside and struggled to rise.

"Report the damage!"

The damage control officer's voice came: "General, starboard flooding! Three compartments flooded! Speed… speed down to twenty knots!"

Twenty knots.

Zhou Zhen guo's heart tightened sharply.

The Pearl River's speed is its greatest advantage. If it drops to twenty knots, it will be as slow as Yingguo's battleships. Then eight Yingguo warships will swarm together…

"Damage control team! Full speed repairs!" he roared, "Keep the inflow under twenty tons per hour! Quickly!"

He turned to the speaking tube: "Huai River, report your status!"

Thirty seconds later, Huai River replied: "Huai River heavily damaged, speed eighteen knots. Still in combat."

Eighteen knots.

Zhou Zhen guo closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Lao Zhang, he thought, we won't hold on much longer.

On the bridge of King George V, Jielike stood by the window, a smile finally appearing on his face.

Those two German battleships were finally on the brink of collapse.

He raised his telescope, watching the two smoking giants in the distance. Their speed had clearly dropped, and the Main Gun firing rate slowed. Flames and thick smoke filled the decks, and the damage control team was desperately fighting the fires.

"General," Chief of Staff Keluoli walked over, excitement in his voice, "They're about to give out! In another half hour we can send them all to the bottom of the sea!"

Jielike nodded.

"Relay orders to all ships," he said, "Give them no chance to breathe. Close at full speed, concentrate fire on the flagship—sink it, and the other will be finished."

"Yes!"

The order was given. Eight Yingguo warships accelerated simultaneously, surrounding the two dying German battleships from all directions.

Jielike watched the scene, a feeling of indescribable satisfaction welling up inside him.

Since the day Hood sank, he had been waiting for this day. Since the day Queen Ship sank, he had been waiting for this day. Since the day Determination sank, he had been waiting for this day.

Now, he finally got it.

Bismarck. Tirpitz. Those damned German battleships that killed countless Yingguo sailors were finally about to sink at his hands.

He seemed to already see himself returning to London as the "hero who sank Bismarck"—the Buckingham Palace investiture, Parliament's applause, the newspaper front page, the crowd's cheers.

The greatest Royal Navy victory since Na Er Sun.

"General," Keluoli suddenly said, "Do you feel… something's off?"

Jielike turned to look at him: "What's off?"

Keluoli pointed at the two battleships: "They've been fighting for two hours. Twelve against two; we lost one, three heavily damaged, they took dozens of hits, speed down below twenty knots. But they…"

He paused: "They're still firing. No turn to flee, no white flag raised, no abandoning ship. They keep shooting while ablaze, as if they don't know what surrender is."

Jielike was silent for a second.

He of course had noticed.

The tenacity of those two ships exceeded his expectations. Logically, being hit by dozens of 356‑mm and 381‑mm shells should have rendered any warship combat‑ineffective. Yet those two ships kept firing, kept counter‑firing, and kept causing his ships to catch fire, flood, and withdraw one after another.

"That's the Germans," Jielike said, "the Prussian military tradition—fight to the death."

Keluoli nodded, but the doubt on his face remained.

"But General," he said, "they've never hoisted a national flag. Two hours of fighting and still no flag. This…"

Jielike was startled for a moment.

He almost forgot that detail.

Indeed, those two ships have not flown any flag since the battle began. That's a violation of international law—any belligerent warship in combat must display its national flag to show its identity.

Why?

"Perhaps… they want to hide their identity?" Keluoli said, "Perhaps they aren't Bismarck and Tirpitz?"

Jielike's heart leapt sharply.

Not?

Then who are they?

He walked to the chart table, looking at the Arabian Sea map marked with both sides' positions.

Bismarck and Tirpitz underwent seven days of repairs in Dubai and should set sail today. These two ships emerged from the Dubai direction, without a flag, and returned fire immediately after being intercepted—this logic holds.

But if they aren't?

If they're Lanfang people?

"Impossible," Jielike shook his head, "Lanfang people couldn't send two capital ships to die. They haven't declared war on us, on what grounds?"

Keluoli said nothing.

But that thought, like a thorn, lodged in Jielike's heart.

He raised his telescope again, watching the two dying warships.

Their turrets were still turning, still firing. On their decks, sailors kept running, still fighting fires. On their bridges, the commanders remained standing, still directing.

That stubborn posture, that fight‑to‑the‑death spirit—

Too German.

Yet also too… too tragic.

Jielike suddenly had a bad premonition.

But he couldn't articulate what that feeling was.

At 08:40 a. m., the Huai River had already reached its limit.

Speed dropped to eighteen knots. Of the four Main Gun turrets, only one could still fire. Five compartments on the port side were flooded, and the bilge pumps had been overloaded for forty minutes, ready to burn out at any moment. The deck was littered with shell holes and debris, flames burned in several spots, the damage control team fought desperately to extinguish the fire, but the blaze kept spreading.

Zhang Zhen stood in the shattered bridge, his left hand gripping the window frame, his right hand holding a telescope. Blood still seeped from his forehead, a shrapnel wound gaped open on his left arm, his uniform was soaked in blood over a large area, yet he felt nothing.

He could no longer feel any pain.

"General," the adjutant's voice came from behind, trembling, "Please sit down and rest for a while; I'll keep watch."

Zhang Zhen shook his head.

"No need."

He stared at the eight Yingguo warships closing in from afar: Revenge, Ramelis, Royal Oak, Monarch, Conqueror, King George V, Centurion, Aias— they were forming a massive encirclement, tightening little by little.

Less than 15,000 meters remained.

In another twenty minutes, they would reach the most effective firing Distance. At that point, the nearly one hundred Main Guns of the eight warships would fire simultaneously, and the Huai River would be turned into a sieve.

"Pearl River?" he asked.

The adjutant reported, "Pearl River's speed is twenty knots, currently tangled with the Conqueror and Counterattack on the left wing. They… they won't hold out much longer either."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

He turned and looked toward the few reporters in the corner of the bridge.