Chapter 691: Myanmar Independence Army Leader Trusts Him

When Mokumura rushed up to the mountain peak, the British Army had already retreated more than half.

The trench was littered with rifles, ammunition, backpacks, and a few wounded soldiers who hadn't had time to flee. They curled up in the corners, raising their hands, shouting something. Mokumura couldn't understand, but he knew it was begging for mercy.

A Sakura Nation soldier beside him charged forward, stabbing those wounded men with a bayonet.

Mokumura didn't move.

He stood there, watching those people being killed one by one. The screams, the pleas for mercy, the sizzle of bayonets piercing flesh blended together. Blood splattered on the trench walls, on the victims' faces, and on his uniform.

A wounded soldier crawled to his feet, clutching his trouser leg, shouting something in English. Mokumura looked down at him—he was an Indian soldier, very young, seeming not even twenty. A bullet had struck his abdomen, his intestines spilling out and dragging on the ground. His eyes were filled with fear, with despair, with a desperate will to live.

Mokumura raised his rifle, aiming the bayonet at the man's chest.

The man kept shouting, tears streaming down his face.

Mokumura's hand trembled.

An older soldier beside him stepped forward and drove a knife into the man's back. The man let out a horrible scream, fell to the ground, twitched twice, then went still.

The veteran looked at Mokumura: "What are you standing there for? There's still someone alive!"

Mokumura said nothing.

He stared at the corpse, at the eyes still open, at the blood that had soaked the ground.

He had killed again.

Even though the knife wasn't his, he knew that man died because of him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes, the trench was already quiet. Only corpses remained, only blood, only the living who stood panting.

From afar came cheers—the other units were charging in.

Dang Ji, taken.

Outside Yingjiawu City, in the temporary command post, Xiaoyuan Chuan sat on a stone, a casualty report spread before him.

Seventh Division, attacking Daizhi, suffered over three thousand dead. Eighth Division, attacking Dang Ji, suffered over eight thousand dead. The two divisions together assaulted Yingjiawu, with more than ten thousand dead.

In total, more than twenty thousand were gone.

He read it three times, then folded the report and slipped it into his pocket.

Chief of Staff Lin Zhongfu stood beside him, his face ashen.

"General, the Seventh and Eighth Divisions can no longer advance. The soldiers… their morale has collapsed."

Xiaoyuan Chuan said nothing.

He lifted his head, looking at the city still burning in the distance. Yingjiawu had been taken, but the price was ten thousand lives. Ten thousand Sakura Nation soldiers would forever remain on this foreign land.

"What about the Ninth Division and the Eleventh Division?" he asked.

Lin Zhongfu replied: "They're on their way. At best, a week."

One week.

Xiaoyuan Chuan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

A week later, when those two divisions arrived, they would attack Neibi Du again. More dead, another few thousand, maybe tens of thousands.

He stood up and walked toward the temporary camp outside the city.

In the jungle outside Neibi Du, Xin Ta crouched beneath a massive banyan tree, listening to the faint distant sound of artillery.

Those were the Sakura Nation's guns. They were attacking the British Army's outer positions, the artillery booming from dawn till dusk without pause. Each explosion made the ground beneath tremble slightly, as if some great beast were turning over underground.

Deputy Wu Naiwen crawled over, lowering his voice: "Leader, the Sakura Nation has sent a liaison. They wish to see you."

Xin Ta did not answer immediately. He stared at the smoke and dust lifted by the shells in the distance, silent for a long while.

The Sakura Nation. He had heard of their atrocities in Malaya, of their killing eight thousand at Yangon beach, of their reckless warfare. Now they had reached Neibi Du and needed assistance.

"Let him come."

A few minutes later, a Sakura Nation officer in tan uniform walked over. The officer was young, but his face bore an expression Xin Ta recognized well—a look only those who have seen blood and killed appear with.

He spoke halting Burmese: "Mr. Xin Ta, our commander, Major General Xiaoyuan Chuan, wishes to see you. There is an important matter to discuss."

Xin Ta looked at him and nodded.

That night, Xin Ta was taken to a hidden spot—not the Sakura Nation's camp, but a valley. A jeep was parked there, with a few men in civilian clothes standing beside it. When they saw Xin Ta approach, one of them stepped forward.

"Mr. Xin Ta, please get in the vehicle. We'll go aboard the Zhenyuan for a talk."

The man spoke Burmese fluently, but Xin Ta noted his accent—it wasn't Burmese.

"Who are you?"

The man smiled: "My surname is Zhou, Lanfang Navy Rear Admiral, Zhou Zhen guo."

Xin Ta was stunned.

He hadn't expected a Lanfang person to come in person.

The jeep rattled through the night for over two hours, finally stopping at a secluded beach. A small boat waited at the shore. They boarded it and headed toward the massive warship in the sea.

Zhenyuan.

Xin Ta looked up at the colossal vessel, a feeling indescribable rose within him. He had seen British ships in Burma, but those seemed like toys compared to this. A 45,000‑ton steel behemoth, eight 380‑mm Main Guns, like eight eyes ready to pounce on prey.

He was led onto the deck, passed through a series of hatches, and finally entered a cabin.

The cabin was small but neatly arranged. A huge map of Burma hung on the wall, covered with countless symbols. Outside the porthole, the night was black and the coastline faintly visible.

Zhou Zhen guo invited him to sit, taking a seat opposite. A few plates of snacks and two cups of tea lay on the table, but no one touched them.

"Mr. Xin Ta," Zhou Zhen guo began, in fluent Burmese, "Your independence movement—how many decades has it been fighting?"

Xin Ta was silent for a few seconds.

"It started with my father's generation. When the British came, we resisted. Now you have come, we are still resisting."

Zhou Zhen guo nodded.

"I understand. You want independence, you want your own country." He paused, "Lanfang can help you."

Xintai's eyes narrowed a bit.

"What are the conditions?"

Zhou Zhen guo took a document from the drawer and pushed it in front of Xintai.

"Lanfang will supply your two divisions with weapons—Type‑38 rifle, Wai Ba Zi light machine gun, Type‑92 heavy machine gun. Ammunition, uniforms, medicines, all covered."

Xintai took the document and skimmed it quickly.

"The price is... Myanmar's mineral resources?"

Zhou Zhen guo nodded.

"Tin, tungsten, oil, timber. After you become independent, Lanfang will have priority mining rights. Prices follow international market rates, not taking advantage of you."

Xintai was silent for a long time.

He stared at the document, at the dense clauses, at the annotation "priority mining rights".

This is a deal: exchange national resources for weapons, weapons for independence.

But what does Myanmar have? Nothing except resources.

They talked for three hours.

Xintai recounted the history of Myanmar's independence movement, their sacrifices over the years, and how Yingguo people extorted and plundered in Myanmar. Zhou Zhen guo listened, occasionally asking a few questions, but mostly remaining silent.

Zhou Zhen guo also described Lanfang's situation, why they needed to fight this war, and the blood shed by Sakura Nation people in Malaya and Myanmar. He said Lanfang needs allies, Myanmar needs independence, each taking what they need.

In the early hours, Xintai left the cabin, clutching the signed agreement in his hand.

Zhou Zhen guo escorted him to the deck.

"In ten days, the first batch of weapons will be delivered into your hands. The equipment for the two divisions will be enough for you to raise a force."

Xintai nodded.