Chapter 684: Blood‑Red Dawn at Motama Bay

The ruins of Kuala Lumpur were still smoking.

Yamamoto Ichio stood on the earthen slope outside the temporary command post, watching the soldiers who were resting. It had been three days since the fall of Kuala Lumpur, a full three days, and he had not slept a single full night. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the faces of those who died in the streets—some British Army, some his own, and some dismembered limbs that he could not tell whose they were.

Chief of Staff Tohihara Ken strode over, his army boots creaking on the broken bricks. He clutched a telegram in his hand, his face bearing a complex expression—like a sigh of relief, yet also like drawing in another breath.

"General, General Zhou Zhen guo is calling."

Yamamoto Ichio took the telegram, his gaze scanning the few lines of text.

"The remaining British Army in Malaya is to be cleared entirely by your unit. After three days of rest, divide forces and advance. Targets: Kuantan, Ipoh, Penang. Ensure the whole area is controlled within two months. ——Zhou Zhen guo"

Full authority command.

Yamamoto Ichio folded the telegram and slipped it into his pocket.

"Full authority command," he repeated, his voice hoarse as sandpaper on steel, "meaning to gnaw every remaining bone clean."

Tohihara Ken hesitated, "General, the soldiers are too exhausted. Tens of thousands of casualties... need time to recover."

Yamamoto Ichio said nothing.

He looked at the soldiers perched on the ruins in the distance—some leaning against broken walls, staring blankly; some randomly carving something on the ground with bayonets; some fixed on the void, motionless. He had seen that look too many times; it belonged only to the numb. Their eyes held nothing, empty, like two dried wells.

"Can they still fight?" Yamamoto Ichio suddenly asked.

Tohihara Ken was startled for a moment, then shook his head, "I don't know, General."

Yamamoto Ichio descended the earthen slope, heading toward the camp.

Passing a clearing, he saw a young soldier sitting there, hugging his knees, his face buried between his legs. His shoulders trembled, but no sound came—this silent sobbing was more painful than a wailing cry.

Yamamoto Ichio stopped beside him.

"What is your name?"

The soldier jerked his head up, face awash with tears, eyes swollen red like two walnuts. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own feet, stammering, "R-Report, General, I am Yamada Tarou, First Division First Regiment!"

First Regiment.

Yamamoto Ichio's heart sank. The First Regiment had 2,500 men when it attacked Kuala Lumpur, and only 273 survived. He had seen that casualty report and knew what it meant.

"Yamada, can you still fight?"

Yamada, First Lieutenant, was stunned. His lips moved, trying to speak, but something blocked his throat, preventing any sound.

Yamamoto Ichio stared at him, waiting.

After a long silence, Yamada finally spoke, his voice as faint as a mosquito's hum, "General, I... I don't know."

He lowered his head, looking at his own hands. They were still trembling.

"I have killed many people, General. So many I can't count," his voice grew softer, "If I close my eyes I can see them. Those I killed stand before me, one by one, watching me..."

Yamamoto Ichio reached out and placed his hand on his shoulder.

The hand was strong and steady.

"Yamada, do you know why I'm still standing?"

Yamada, First Lieutenant, lifted his head, looking at him blankly.

"Because I have also killed many people," Yamamoto Ichio said, "so many I can't count. I can see them even with my eyes closed."

He paused, his voice dropping, "But we must stay standing. If we fall, those who died will have died in vain."

Yamada's tears welled up again, streaming down his cheeks.

"But General, I... I'm too exhausted..."

"I understand," Yamamoto Ichio patted his shoulder, "so you get three days of rest. After three days, you must keep fighting."

He turned and left, leaving Yamada alone standing there.

Behind him, the young soldier's sobbing drifted faintly, mingling with the wind, indistinct.

Tohihara Ken followed, wanting to speak but holding back.

"Say whatever you want to say."

Tohihara Ken hesitated, "General, those soldiers... can they really still fight?"

Yamamoto Ichio gave no answer.

He kept walking forward, passing one tent after another. Inside and out the tents were filled with people—some lying, some sitting, some standing dazed. No one spoke; the whole camp was silent like a massive tomb.

Reaching the command post entrance, he halted.

"Relay to all divisions," he said without turning, "three days of rest. After three days, divide forces for sweep. Targets Kuantan, Ipoh, Penang."

Tohihara Ken stood at attention, "Yes!"

Yamamoto Ichio pushed the door open and entered the command post.

Inside were only a table, a map, and an oil lamp. He stood before the map, looking at the areas still not overlaid in red. Kuantan, Ipoh, Penang—each city, each stronghold, any of them could see another few hundred or thousand deaths.

His hand pressed on the map, on the spot marking Penang.

"Forty thousand," he muttered, "how many more must die before it's over?"

No one answered him.

Outside the window, the sunset sank toward the horizon. Golden‑red light poured in, casting mottled shadows on the map. Those shadows resembled blood, fire, the eyes of those who would never return.

At the same moment, over the Indian Ocean.

Dozens of transport ships formed a massive formation, sailing northeast under the escort of the Lanfang Navy. The fleet stretched for over ten kilometers, looking from above like a giant serpent crawling across the sea.

Xiaoyuan Chuan, Major General, stood on the bridge of the flagship "Shenzhou Maru," holding a telescope and watching the two massive battleships ahead. Zhenyuan and Jiyuan, 45,000‑ton steel behemoths, glinted with a cold metallic sheen in the afternoon sun. Their eight 380mm Main Guns rose high, like eight eyes ready to pounce on prey.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu, Major General, walked to his side, holding a stack of documents.

"General, all divisions report, soldiers are in good condition. Few are seasick, medical supplies are ample, fresh water and food will last half a month."

Xiaoyuan Chuan nodded, saying nothing.

Lin Zhongfu hesitated, then said, "General, you've been standing for four hours. Take a rest for a while."

Xiaoyuan Chuan set down the telescope and turned his head to look at him.

"Lin, do you know how many people died over in Malaya?"

Lin Zhongfu was startled for a moment: "I heard… over forty thousand."

"Forty-two thousand," Xiaoyuan Chuan said, his voice very calm, "Yamamoto used forty-two thousand lives to exchange for Malaya."

He raised the telescope again, watching the densely packed soldiers on the decks of the transport ships. A few nautical miles away, he couldn't see their faces, but he knew they were all very young. Some might have just turned eighteen, some might still have wives and children waiting at home, some might never have even touched a woman's hand.

"Lin, you say of our hundred thousand, how many can return alive from Myanmar?"

Lin Zhongfu fell silent.

Xiaoyuan Chuan set the telescope down and looked at him.

"Speak."