Chapter 768: The Sinking of Mumbai Port

The soldier looked up at him. "Leader, are we… are we really free?"

Xin nodded. "We're free."

The soldier froze for a moment, then wailed and sobbed.

Xin helped him up, patting his back. "Get up. We're free; there'll be plenty of time to cry later."

More soldiers stood. They wiped their tears, watching the British Army prisoners gathering in the distance, watching the white men who once stood aloft now bowing their heads as they passed. Some gripped their rifles, some clenched fists, some bit their teeth, hatred flashing in their eyes.

But none of them moved.

Because Xin had said—freedom isn't bought with hatred. It's bought with blood. The blood has already been shed; that's enough.

Shan Tian Yilang stood behind the crowd, watching it all.

His left shoulder still ached. In the jungle battle three months ago, shrapnel had cut a wound that still hadn't healed properly. The doctor said the fragment was lodged in the bone, couldn't be removed, and he might have to live with it forever.

He didn't mind. Being alive was enough.

Footsteps sounded nearby. Tianzhong Erlang came to his side and sat on the stone beside him.

The boy's left shoulder was also wrapped in bandages, his complexion still a bit pale, but there was light in his eyes. Three months ago he'd been an ignorant rookie, terrified by a landmine in the jungle. Now he'd survived. He'd finished the battle and was still alive.

"Veteran," Tianzhong Erlang said softly, "we've won."

Shan Tian Yilang nodded. "We won."

Tianzhong Erlang was silent for a few seconds. He watched the British Army prisoners being led away in the distance, watched the Myanmar Independence Army soldiers kneeling on the ground, watched the Sakura Nation flag being raised. Then he lowered his head and looked at his own hands.

His hands were still trembling slightly. Not from fear, but habit. For three months his hands had kept shaking, never stopping.

"Veteran," he asked suddenly, "my brother… if he were still here, how great that would be."

Shan Tian Yilang said nothing.

Tianzhong Erlang continued, "He once wrote me a letter. Back then I was still in the country, hadn't come to Myanmar. In the letter he said, as long as you're alive, that's enough. As long as you're alive, you can go home."

His voice grew softer.

"But he isn't alive."

Shan Tian Yilang looked at him, at the premature wear on the young face. He recalled the ruins of Kuala Lumpur, recalled the Tianzhong Yilang who had written him a letter, recalled the young man who had said "being alive is enough." He too was dead. Dead in the ruins of Kuala Lumpur.

Shan Tian Yilang reached out and placed his hand on Tianzhong Erlang's shoulder.

"You're alive," he said. "You live on his behalf."

Tianzhong Erlang lifted his head and looked at him.

His eyes were a bit red, but no tears fell. He nodded.

In the distance, the sun began to set. The sunset dyed the whole sky crimson, turned the ruins golden, and stretched the prisoners' shadows long and long.

Shan Tian Yilang stared at the blood‑red sky and suddenly thought of a question.

Where are those who died in the jungle now? In the heavens? Watching him?

He didn't know.

But he hoped they were.

He hoped they could see—Dhaka had fallen. India had fallen. The war was over.

They didn't die in vain.

June 5, 1918

Location: Mumbai Port, India.

At six in the morning, Jieli Ke awoke.

He hadn't slept well. That night he woke seven or eight times, each time looking out the window at the warships moored in the harbor. They lay still in the moonlight, their massive hulls glinting with a cold metallic sheen. That was his fleet, the result of thirty years of his effort.

The last time he woke, dawn was already faintly breaking.

Jieli Ke sat up, put on his uniform, and left the cabin. The deck was quiet, only a few night‑watch sailors moving about. They saw him, stood at attention and saluted.

He walked to the bridge, stood by the window, and watched the eight main ships and five cruisers in the distance. In the morning light they became gradually clearer, their outlines sharpening.

Chief of Staff came from behind and stopped beside him. He also watched the warships, saying nothing.

After a long while, Jieli Ke spoke. "Has the telegram from London arrived?"

Chief of Staff nodded. "It's here. Four a. m."

Jieli Ke didn't turn around. "Read it."

Chief of Staff inhaled deeply and began to read:

"To Admiral Jieli Ke, Commander of the Far‑East Fleet: London orders your unit to surrender to the Lanfang‑Deguo joint fleet. Transfer the warships, repatriate the officers and soldiers. Execution date, June 5. The British King's Your Majesty Government."

Jieli Ke listened, his face showing no expression.

Chief of Staff finished reading, remained silent, waiting for him to speak.

Jieli Ke was silent for a long time. Then he said, "Give me the telegram to look at."

Chief of Staff pulled the telegram from his pocket and handed it to him. Jieli Ke took it, read it once, then again, then a third time. After three readings he folded the telegram and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Let's go," he said. "To the deck."

On the deck, the sailors had already gathered.

They stood in small groups, murmuring quietly. Some wore relief on their faces—finally no more fighting. Some wore anger—how could the Royal Navy's ships be handed to the enemy? Some wore bewilderment—uncertain of what fate awaited them.

Jieli Ke walked to the highest point of the bridge, stood there, and looked down at the sea of black, pressed heads below. He raised his hand, signaling everyone to be quiet.

The deck fell silent. Everyone looked up at him.

Jieli Ke spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but each word was as clear as if carved into steel.

"Gentlemen, London orders us to surrender."

A roar rose on the deck. Some cursed aloud, some bowed their heads, some clenched fists.

Jieli Ke raised his hand, suppressing the clamor. When silence returned, he continued:

"But I have no intention of carrying out that order."

The deck suddenly erupted in chaos. Some froze, some shouted, some could not believe their ears. Chief of Staff rushed forward, grabbed his arm, his voice trembling: "General! What did you say? This is treason!"

Jie Li Ke pushed him aside, his gaze terrifyingly calm.

"Treason?" he said, looking at the Chief of Staff, a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, "It is I who let the Royal Navy's warships fall into the enemy's hands that is treason."

He turned around and continued speaking to the sailors below:

"Look—" he pointed at the eight capital ships and five cruisers in the distance, "they are the pride of the Royal Navy. They fought in the Japan‑Germany‑Netherlands Sea Battle, they escorted convoys in the Mediterranean, they have fought countless battles. They should not be sailing under another's flag."

The deck fell silent. Everyone stared at him, listening to his words.

Jie Li Ke's voice suddenly became very soft, as if speaking to himself.

"I order— all officers and soldiers to abandon ship. In one hour, the fleet will scuttle itself."