Chapter 72: Hand Over Yesterday

Xu Wen quickly notes: "What if… what if they don't agree?"

Li Te smiled. It wasn't a gentle smile.

"Then tell them the target of the second round of exercises might be closer to the port. For example… the Port Authority Building? Or the Governor's Office? Who knows, artillery calibration always has some error."

He said it lightly, but everyone on the bridge understood.

This is not a request.

This is an ultimatum.

At 8:30 a. m., exactly half an hour after the bombardment ended, the Restoration Ship was still patrolling eight kilometres outside the port. It neither approached nor retreated, like a patient hunter waiting for its prey to choose.

Inside Batavia Port, all vessels stayed obediently at their berths, not even daring to row a sampan out. The troops and police on shore had reinforced, but they hid behind cover; no one dared to show their heads.

In the Governor's Office, an emergency meeting lasted a full hour.

Attending were Governor Fan De Linde, Garrison Commander Major Fan De Haiden (the one who ordered the shooting yesterday), Port Authority Director Fan De Wei'er, and several civil officials.

"We must retaliate!" Major Fan De Haiden slammed his fist on the table, eyes bloodshot, "This is naked aggression! It's a trampling of the Kingdom of the Netherlands' dignity!"

"Retaliate? With what?" the Finance Officer asked coldly, "Can your coastal artillery reach eight miles out? Even if the Seven Provinces fires now, by the time it gets out, their shells will have already leveled the port!"

"Then request aid from the mainland! Let the Navy send a fleet!"

"From Rotterdam to Batavia, even the fastest ship takes six weeks," Port Authority Director Fan De Wei'er said weakly, "Six weeks later, whether we're still here is another question."

"So what then? Surrender? Agree to those yellow‑skinned monkeys' unreasonable demands?" Fan De Haiden roared.

The ever‑silent Governor finally spoke: "Major Fan De Haiden, watch your words. Also, regarding yesterday, I need an explanation. Who authorized you to order the shooting?"

Fan De Haiden froze for a moment, then lifted his chin: "Those Chinese rioters attacked troops and police; I was enforcing the law!"

"Law?" the Finance Officer sneered, "Does the law permit you to shoot women and children? Does it permit you to kill forty‑seven people at once? Major, you've caused a disaster. That ship out there now is here to demand an explanation."

"Then let them come! I'm not afraid—"

"I'm scared!" the Governor suddenly raised his voice, silencing everyone, "I'm afraid my Governor's Office will be blown sky‑high by a 381 mm Shell! I'm afraid the whole Batavia Port will become ruins! I'm afraid the Kingdom's most important colony in Yazhou will be destroyed by my hand!"

He stood, both hands braced on the table, his voice weary:

"Gentlemen, be realistic. That Restoration Ship, according to the intel we just received, has a standard displacement of 38,000 tons and a full load over 40,000 tons. Speed exceeds 30 knots, Main Gun caliber 381 mm. How about the Seven Provinces? Seven thousand tons, 18 knots, 240 mm guns. How to engage? Use our heads?"

The conference room fell silent.

"So… what do you mean?" Fan De Wei'er asked cautiously.

The Governor inhaled deeply: "Reply to them. Agree to negotiate. Location… could be the Port Authority Building. But we must demand that their representatives landing ashore not exceed ten people and carry no heavy weapons."

"And the conditions they proposed…"

"Whatever we can concede, we should concede as much as possible," the Governor closed his eyes, "Compensation can be given, rights protection can be promised. But handing over troops and police… that is unacceptable. The Kingdom's dignity cannot be trampled like that."

"If they insist?"

The Governor opened his eyes and looked out the window. On the sea, the silhouette of that gray giant ship was clearly visible.

"Then… we'll talk again."

His voice was so light it was almost inaudible.

At 3 p. m., the Restoration Ship received an official reply from the Dutch authorities.

Li Te, in the captain's cabin, read the telegram with several senior officers. The text was lengthy and politely worded, but the core message was clear: willing to negotiate, willing to compensate, willing to protect rights, but refusing to hand over troops and police.

"As expected," Lin Hai said, "they still want face."

"Face?" Li Te tossed the telegram onto the table, "Killed forty‑seven people, still want face?"

"Captain, what next?" Xu Wen asked, "Continue to pressure?"

Li Te thought for a few seconds, shook his head: "No. The President said we need a controllable escalation. We've shown our strength; now we should give a step. Reply to them: agree to negotiate, location at… the Restoration Ship! … Time… tomorrow at 9 a. m."

"And the condition to hand over troops and police…"

"Temporarily set aside," Li Te said, "discuss at the negotiating table later. But the other two—compensation and rights protection—must be written in black and white and implemented immediately."

He stood and walked to the porthole. The setting sun turned the sea a golden‑red. The ruins of Wangfu Cliff glowed starkly in the dusk, like a fresh scar on the earth.

"Lin Hai."

"Present."

"Notify the entire fleet, tighten watch tonight. The Dutch might play dirty. Double all sentries, keep the lookout at maximum alert."

"Understood."

"Also," Li Te turned, "prepare a list: food, medicine, bandages… after tomorrow's negotiations we'll deliver them to the local Chinese. Consider it… a small token."

Lin Hai nodded and recorded it.

Li Te looked out again. On the dock, the Chinese settlement had its lights on, speckling the dusk with warmth.

He knew that today's single shot could not change everything. The Dutch remained, colonial rule persisted, discrimination and oppression would not vanish overnight.

But at least, from today onward, the Chinese living here will know as they sleep that there is a ship at sea, with a crew willing to fire for them.

That's enough.

That's worthwhile.

"Captain," Lin Hai suddenly asked, "you said, will anyone remember today in a hundred years? Remember this ship, remember this shot?"

Li Te did not answer immediately.

He stared at the yellow dragon flag fluttering in the evening wind for a long time.

"They will remember," he finally said, "even if the ship sinks, the guns rust, the crew perishes… the sound of this shot will echo over the South Ocean forever. A hundred years, a thousand years, as long as Chinese remember the way home, they will remember today."

Outside the window, the last ray of sunlight vanished below the horizon.

But the Restoration Ship's navigation light was already lit, like an eye that never extinguishes in the darkness.

At 7 a. m., the Restoration Ship

Executive Officer Lin Hai stood at the front of the formation, holding a list. His eyes periodically scanned the sea—there, a Dutch Navy transport boat was chugging toward them, a tiny white flag hoisted at its bow, with a Dutch flag beneath it.

"Remember the procedure," Lin Hai told the marine captain beside him, "first verify identities, then check for weapons. If any, confiscate on the spot. After inspection, escort them to the bridge conference room. Do not let them look around en route, but don't be overly rough—maintain professionalism."

Understood, sir.