Chapter 669: Let

10 p. m., Singapore.

Governor Sir Shenton Thomas stood by the window of the Governor's Mansion, looking at the brightly lit city outside. Yet the lights seemed especially glaring tonight.

Behind him, several colonial officials were engaged in a heated debate.

"We should request reinforcements immediately! London must send a fleet!"

"Reinforcements? London's own fleet can barely protect itself; where would reinforcements come from?"

"Then what do we do? Wait for death?"

"Silence!" Sir Thomas finally spoke.

Everyone fell silent.

He turned around, looking at the officials whose faces were full of anxiety.

"We just received word. One hundred thousand troops from the Sakura Nation have landed on Borneo. Two Lanfang Bismarck Class ships are on standby there. Tell me, where will they strike next?"

No one answered.

Sir Thomas walked to the huge map on the wall and pointed his finger at the tiny red dot.

"Singapore. It can only be Singapore."

He turned again, looking at the officials.

"We have three thousand British Army troops, twenty‑five thousand Indian soldiers, plus coastal artillery and a few aging cruisers. How long can we hold?"

Still, no one answered.

Sir Thomas returned to the window and gazed at the night outside.

"I sent a telegram to London requesting reinforcements. Their reply said they were working on a solution. But I know they have no way."

He whispered, as if to himself:

"God, bless the British Empire."

6 a. m., Strait of Malacca.

The sun had just poked half its head above the horizon, tinting the eastern sky gold‑red. The sea was windless and calm, save for the low, muffled splash of Zhenyuan and Jiyuan cutting through the water—two beasts of over forty thousand tons moving slowly in the dawn, their bows churning spray that glittered like shattered gold.

Zhou Zhen guo stood on Zhenyuan's bridge, having stood there for a full two hours.

He neither sat nor leaned, standing rigidly with his hands clasped behind his back, holding a telescope toward the southeast. In the lens, a faint gray line marked the horizon—the coastline of the Malay Peninsula, pointing toward Singapore.

Chief of Staff Lin Huaiyuan walked over, handing him a cup of hot tea: "Commander, have some tea. You've been standing all night."

Zhou Zhen guo took the cup but did not drink, merely holding it to warm his palms.

"Any news from the reconnaissance aircraft?"

"The batch that took off at four a. m. just sent back a telegram," Lin Huaiyuan said, pulling a sheet from the folder. "In Singapore harbor, target confirmed: three old‑style cruisers—likely Danae Class, displacement over four thousand tons, Main Gun 152 mm. Two destroyers, older models. Also six coastal artillery pieces, located here, here, and here."

He pointed at the three red circles on the sketch attached to the telegram.

Zhou Zhen guo glanced, set the tea cup on the windowsill, and took the telegram for close study. The positions of the three cruisers were drawn clearly—two moored at the pier, one anchored inside the harbor. The coordinates of the coastal guns were marked with precision, error under fifty meters.

"Danae Class..." Zhou Zhen guo muttered, "The British have only these scraps left in the Far East?"

Lin Huaiyuan smiled: "They've all been transferred to Europe. What remains are decade‑old vessels, their boilers overdue for new tubes."

Zhou Zhen guo nodded and returned the telegram to Lin Huaiyuan.

"Send a signal to the Sakura Nation: target confirmed, proceed as planned. Have them ready; in thirty minutes we will open fire."

"Understood."

Lin Huaiyuan turned to issue the order. Zhou Zhen guo raised the telescope again, watching the distant coastline draw nearer.

Thirty minutes.

He recalled the telegram Chen Feng had sent last night, containing only one line: "Singapore is the first shot. If we fire well, the later battles will be easy to win."

Fire well.

He set the telescope down and looked at the officers on the bridge. The navigation officer stared at the chart, the gunner checked firing data, the communications officer tuned the channels, the lookout perched at the window watching the sea. Everyone was occupied with their own tasks, yet each knew—it's coming, it's coming.

At the same time, aboard a large landing ship five nautical miles away, Yamamoto Kazuo stood at the deck's edge, also holding a telescope toward the horizon.

He could not see Singapore, nor the two Lanfang battleships, yet he could feel they were there—a strange sensation, as if a massive beast lurked in the morning mist, ready to flash its fangs.

Chief of Staff Tohihara Ken walked behind him: "General, both regiments of the Fifth Division have boarded. First wave three thousand, second wave three thousand. The soldiers… are all waiting."

Yamamoto Kazuo did not turn: "Waiting for what?"

"Waiting to fire."

Yamamoto Kazuo set the telescope down and turned. The deck was packed with soldiers—clad in earth‑colored uniforms, rifles on their backs, bayonets and canteens at their waists. No one spoke, no one moved; they simply stood like rows of clay statues.

He stepped closer, scanning the faces. Some were young, seemingly under twenty, still bearing a hint of childishness; some were middle‑aged, with tangled stubble and eyes that held seasoned composure; a few were veterans, scarred faces, eyes sharp as hawks.

A young soldier noticed his gaze and instinctively straightened his back.

Yamamoto Kazuo walked over and stood before him.

"How old are you?"

The soldier hesitated, then stammered, "R‑report, General, nineteen years old!"

"Are you afraid?"

The soldier opened his mouth to say he wasn't, but the word stuck in his throat.

Yamamoto Kazuo looked at him and suddenly smiled—a shallow yet sincere smile.

"Fear is appropriate. Those who aren't afraid are either fools or the dead," he patted the soldier's shoulder. "Remember, when bullets come, dodge; when shells come, drop. Charging the beach alive is victory."

The soldier nodded vigorously, his eyes slightly reddened.

Yamamoto Kazuo turned and walked back to the deck's edge. Tohihara Ken followed, whispering, "General, could this affect morale?"

"Affect morale?" Yamamoto Kazuo replied, "The soldiers aren't fools. If you tell them not to fear death, they fear it more. If you tell them fearing death is normal, they will fight desperately."

He paused, then added, "The Sakura Nation's soldiers have waited a hundred years for this day. Now let them prove for themselves whether that century of waiting was worth it."

In the distance, toward Zhenyuan, a low rumble drifted—the mechanical sound of the Main Gun turret rotating. Even five nautical miles away, through the morning mist, the noise remained as clear as if next to the ear.

Shanben Yifu squinted his eyes.

It began.

On the bridge of the Zhenyuan, the gunnery officer was giving the final report.

"Turret 1 ready, armor‑piercing shells loaded, target: Cruiser 1."

"Turret 2 ready, armor‑piercing shells loaded, target: Cruiser 2."

"Turret 3 ready, armor‑piercing shells loaded, target: Cruiser 3."

"Turret 4 ready, high‑explosive shells loaded, target: shore‑defense gun cluster."