Chapter 660: Hospital: The Hero's Silence

Chen Feng walked onto the makeshift podium. On it there was only a table, a microphone, and behind him a huge Lanfang Golden Dragon Flag.

He stood for three seconds, looking at the fifty thousand faces below. Some were weeping, some bit their lips, some had eyes red as if about to bleed.

Then he spoke.

No script, no teleprompter, not even a microphone—he pushed aside the microphone and shouted with his throat.

"Fellow countrymen."

The square fell silent in an instant. Fifty thousand people, mute as a tomb.

"Yesterday at 06:03 a. m., the Lanfang Republic Navy's Huaihe and Zhujiang, while conducting routine training in the international waters of the Arabian Sea, were attacked without warning by twelve capital ships of the Royal Navy."

His voice was not loud, but each word was as clear as if carved in stone.

"The first Shell came from the King George V. A 356‑mm high‑explosive round landed 200 meters off the starboard side of the Huaihe. That was not a warning, it was a test shot."

"Second wave, third wave, fourth wave. Three hours, the Yingguo people fought for three hours. Twelve capital ships, hundreds of Main Guns, aimed at our two training vessels."

He paused briefly.

"The Huaihe took eleven hits. The Zhujiang took eight hits."

Some in the audience began to sob.

Chen Feng's voice remained steady, but that steadiness made it even harder to bear.

"Killed in action, one hundred twenty‑seven. Severely wounded, three hundred four. Lightly wounded, countless."

He began to read the names.

"Lin Yuan, twenty‑one, engine crew of the Huaihe, a Dubai native. Father Lin Fusheng, a worker at a Dubai shipyard."

In the crowd, the old worker who had been kneeling on the dock suddenly lifted his head. His mouth opened as if to shout, but no sound came.

"Chen Shuisheng, twenty‑three, gunner on the Huaihe, a Bornean. Mother Chen Ah‑Po, a farmer at home."

"Huang Jiaxing, nineteen, observer on the Zhujiang, residing in Kuwait. Father Huang Lao‑shuan, a dock laborer."

……

One after another, one hundred twenty‑seven names. Some relatives in the crowd collapsed at the sound of a name, caught by those beside them. More had no kin present, yet their tears kept flowing.

Chen Feng read for a full twenty minutes.

After the last name, he lifted his head.

The audience was already a sea of tears.

Chen Feng was silent for three seconds.

Then he said, "The British Empire thought that killing our people would make us kneel."

His voice suddenly rose, like a thunderclap exploding over the square:

"But they were wrong!"

"Lanfang people, do not kneel!"

The crowd boiled instantly.

"Lanfang people, do not kneel!" Fifty thousand shouted together, their cries shaking the heavens, making the city hall's glass windows hum.

Chen Feng raised one hand. The crowd gradually fell silent.

"From now on, the Lanfang Republic and the British Empire are in a state of war."

"We will fight until they admit their crimes, until they hand over the culprits, until they withdraw the last warship from Yazhou!"

"We will let the whole world know: Lanfang blood will not be shed in vain!"

The audience erupted again with a torrent of applause and shouts. Reporter Fang frantically pressed the shutter, one after another; his hand trembled, but the camera was steady as if welded to the rig.

He captured the moment Chen Feng raised his hand, captured the huge Golden Dragon Flag behind him, captured the faces in the audience that were weeping yet shouting.

This was a moment of history. He knew.

The applause lasted a full five minutes. No one wanted to stop, no one could stop.

Finally, Chen Feng raised his hand again, and the crowd finally fell quiet.

His voice returned to calm, but that calm was more powerful than the shouts:

"Go back and tell your families, tell your friends: Lanfang is going to war. This war may last a long time, may claim many lives. But we must fight."

"Because if we do not fight now, our children will have to fight for us in the future."

He turned and stepped down from the podium.

The crowd cleared a path again. This time, someone reached out, wanting to touch him, to shake his hand. Chen Feng did not dodge; he shook hands one by one.

At the edge of the crowd, an old worker suddenly knelt.

It was Lin Fusheng.

He knelt on the ground, looking up at Chen Feng, his lips trembling, unable to utter a single word.

Chen Feng bent down, both hands supporting his shoulders.

"Master Lin," his voice was soft, "your son was exemplary. The Huaihe will remember him. Lanfang will remember him."

Lin Fusheng finally burst into tears, clutching Chen Feng's leg, his whole body shaking.

Chen Feng did not move, staying bent, letting him hold on.

Those nearby watched the scene, no one spoke.

Finally, Lin Fusheng released his grip, wiped his tears, and stood up.

"President," he said, his voice hoarse like sandpaper, "may I... continue working at the shipyard? I want to repair that vessel. It is the ship my son served on."

Chen Feng looked at him and nodded.

"Yes. That ship, wait for you to repair it."

2 p. m., Dubai Army Hospital.

When Chen Feng entered the ward, Zhang Zhen was leaning against the headboard reading a newspaper. Bandages were wrapped around his head, his left arm was suspended, yet his eyes remained bright.

The newspaper carried the news of the city hall speech. The front‑page photo—Chen Feng raising his hand—was captured perfectly.

"President." Zhang Zhen tried to sit up.

Chen Feng pressed him down: "Stay lying."

He dragged a chair over and sat at the bedside.

"As for the Huai River, the shipyard is still assessing it. Preliminary estimate: a major overhaul will take six months."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

"Six months… acceptable."

Chen Feng looked at him: "You too. At least you'll need three months of care."

Zhang Zhen smiled, a smile that reminded Chen Feng of the last grin he saw on the bridge— a relieved smile that only someone who had completed a mission would have.

"President, do you know what I want to do most right now?"

"What?"

"I want to go to the dock and look. Look at that ship."

Chen Feng was silent for a few seconds, then said, "I'll arrange it."

At three o'clock in the afternoon, Zhang Zhen was pushed in a wheelchair to Dock No. 3.

The Huai River was parked there. In the sunlight, the battered warship was even more striking than in the photograph— the bridge was reduced to a twisted heap of steel, the port‑side breach revealed the interior cabin, and the deck was riddled with shell holes like a pockmarked face.

Yet atop the mast, the Lanfang Golden Dragon flag, riddled with holes, still fluttered.

Zhang Zhen stared at the ship for a long time.

Nearby, a few workers were cutting steel plates. Sparks from the welding torches flew onto the sea, producing a hissing sound.

An old worker came over and stood beside Zhang Zhen.

It was Lin Fusheng.

He looked at the ship and said, "General Zhang, I'll repair it. My son served on it; I have to fix it."

Zhang Zhen looked up at him.

"Your son…"

"Lin Yuan. Twenty‑one, engine crewman."

Zhang Zhen was silent for a few seconds.

"When he… left, how was it?"

Lin Fusheng shook his head: "I don't know. No one told me. But I do know he certainly didn't disgrace us."

Zhang Zhen nodded.

"No disgrace. None of the soldiers on the Huai River were disgraceful."