Chapter 75: Can't Guarantee the Error Next Time

The Dutch delegates instinctively looked out the window. In the distance was Batavia Harbor, and farther still the Wangfu Cliff, which had been blown to a ruin.

"That shot yesterday, I could have hit the harbor directly," Li Te said, his back to them. "I could have struck the Governor's Office, the barracks, your 'Seven Provinces' ship. But I didn't. I chose a barren mountain. Why?"

He turned around:

"Because I'm giving you a chance. I'm saying: see, I have the power to destroy you, yet I chose restraint. Now it's your turn to choose—whether to continue upholding those murderers' 'dignity' or to do the right thing?"

"That's impossible!"

The air in the conference room seemed to solidify.

Judge Fan De Sante's "That's impossible" still echoed in the air, and the seven Dutch delegates' expressions shifted from cautious to a mix of anger and disbelief. Major Fan De Haiden even pressed his hand to his waist—though the weapons had been surrendered upon boarding, the gesture said it all.

Li Te did not respond immediately. He slowly sat back down, hands crossed on the table, his gaze calmly sweeping over each face opposite him.

"So," he began, his voice soft, "is this your final answer?"

"Captain," Fan De Wei'er wiped the sweat from his forehead, but tried to keep his tone firm, "please understand, handing over our soldiers—and doing so on the spot—is unacceptable to any sovereign nation. We can promise to try them, to make the results public, even to invite you to send observers…"

"I don't need observers," Li Te cut him off, "I need the murderers."

"They are Dutch soldiers! Subject to Dutch law!"

"Did they think of the law when they fired yesterday?" Li Te retorted, "A six‑year‑old girl, shot in the back, dying in her mother's arms—what Dutch law permits that?"

Fan De Haiden sprang to his feet: "Those rioters attacked the troops and police! We were defending ourselves!"

"Self‑defense?" Li Te also stood, the two of them facing each other across the table. "Using a Maxim gun to sweep civilians and calling it self‑defense? Killing forty‑seven people and calling it self‑defense? Major, will you step off the ship with me now and go to the dock to ask the witnesses who fired first yesterday?"

"The witnesses are all Chinese! Their testimony is unreliable!"

"Then the troops' testimony is trustworthy?" Li Te sneered, "Or do you consider Chinese lives not lives, Chinese words not words in your eyes?"

The remark struck a sensitive nerve. Finance Officer De Rong's complexion changed; he tugged Fan De Wei'er's sleeve and whispered, "Director, arguing like this is useless. We need a compromise…"

"No compromise," Li Te heard, raising his voice, "I put it plainly today—hand over those nineteen people, or bear the consequences. No third option."

Fan De Wei'er swallowed hard: "Captain, you're forcing us toward war."

"War?" Li Te smiled, his smile cold, "Are you even worthy of speaking of war?"

He turned and nodded at Zhao Tieshan. Zhao Tiezhu immediately turned and left.

"Fire."

Li Te's voice rang through the bridge conference room, calm as if saying "pour a cup of tea." Yet those two words produced consequences the seven Dutch delegates would never forget.

First came the shaking.

"Restoration Ship"—its nearly forty‑thousand‑ton steel hull lurched sideways, sending the tea cups, documents, and pens in the conference room flying. Fan De Wei'er instinctively clutched the table edge, his fingertips whitening from the force. The window glass buzzed with a resonant hum, as if about to shatter.

Then came the sound.

It wasn't a single gun blast but four almost overlapping roars, emanating from the ship's bow. The noise was deep and massive, like a thousand drums beating at once in the ears. The air in the conference room was instantly compressed then violently expanded, each eardrum stinging like needles.

But it wasn't over.

Less than two seconds after the first volley, a second round arrived. Again four roars, again violent shaking. This time, Fan De Wei'er clearly saw the chart frames on the wall trembling.

The eight 381mm Main Guns completed two simultaneous salvos within ten seconds.

Then, dead silence.

Only heavy breathing remained in the conference room, accompanied by a faint, distant rush of liquid—a sound of hydraulic oil coursing through the turret's rotation system.

Li Te was the first to stand and walked to the portside window.

"Everyone," he turned, gesturing a request, "won't you take a look?"

The Dutch delegates froze. Only Fan De Wei'er mechanically rose, moving to the window as if sleepwalking. The other six followed, their steps unsteady.

Outside, toward Batavia Harbor, eight massive water columns were slowly descending.

Each rose thirty meters, white spray glittering in the sun like eight steel giants that sprouted and withered instantly. Where the columns struck, the sea surface erupted into eight deep craters, layers of waves surging outward, rocking every ship in the harbor violently.

The most terrifying thing was the Distance.

The columns were right in front of the Seven Provinces—Fan De Wei'er estimated, definitely no more than one hundred meters away.

The Dutch old‑style pre‑dreadnought bobbed like a leaf in the waves. Shadows on deck scrambled in panic; some sailors even leapt into the sea—not abandoning ship, but being flung out by the violent sway.

"God…" Finance Officer De Rong murmured.

Li Te walked to Fan De Wei'er's side, standing shoulder to shoulder, watching the eight dissipating water columns.

"Mr. Fan De Wei'er," his voice was light, as if discussing the weather, "my artillery chief just gave me an interesting figure."

Fan De Wei'er turned his head, his eyes going glassy.

"He said that at this Distance, the 381mm Main Gun's theoretical error is plus or minus fifteen meters," Li Te smiled, "but that's theory. In combat, factoring sea state, wind, barrel wear… the error could reach a hundred meters, maybe more."

He paused, looking at Fan De Wei'er:

"For example, the next salvo—if the error were a hundred meters forward…"

His finger pointed at the Seven Provinces.

"…it would hit directly."

Fan De Wei'er's Adam's apple bobbed. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, producing only a hoarse sound.

"Of course," Li Te continued, "the error could be a hundred meters backward. Then the Shell would land on the harbor's breakwater, killing a few dockworkers—mostly Indonesians, perhaps a few Chinese. It makes no difference; you don't care anyway."

"You…" Fan De Wei'er finally forced out a sound, "this is a massacre…"

"No," Li Te shook his head, "what happened on the dock yesterday was a massacre. Today this is a drill. International naval conventional training, right?"

He walked back to the conference table, sat down, lifted his tea cup and took a sip. The tea was still warm.

"Alright, we've seen enough. Let's continue negotiating the terms," Li Te set down his cup, "my demands remain: compensation, protection of rights, hand over those nineteen people. Now, give me your answer."