Chapter 79: Across the South Ocean, All Is Han Territory

At three p. m., the Restoration Ship cast off.

The engine emitted a low roar, the propeller churned the sea, and the massive hull turned slowly. On the dock, countless Chinese gathered spontaneously, without organization or slogans, just standing and watching.

Chen Jinfu stood at the front, holding a hastily sewn Yellow Dragon Flag—its cloth was old, the stitching rough, but the dragon was embroidered with great care.

The ship drifted farther away.

Someone began to sing. It was an old song from decades ago when Lanfang founded the nation. Few knew it, but once the tune started, everyone hummed along.

The singing drifted on the sea breeze toward the departing giant ship.

On the bridge, Li Te looked at the scene through a telescope.

"They're singing," he said.

Lin Hai, standing beside him, said, "It's a song from decades ago. My grandfather taught it to me."

"What are they singing?"

"Roughly it means..." Lin Hai thought for a moment, "'The Yellow Dragon sets sail, the world turns its heart toward it. Across the South Ocean, all becomes Han land.'"

Li Te nodded and put down the telescope.

"Let's go. Home."

The Restoration Ship accelerated, its speed climbing to 20 knots, the bow cleaving the waves, a white wake trailing far behind.

In the confinement room, the nineteen Dutch huddled in a corner. They could feel the ship moving, leaving Java, leaving everything familiar, heading toward an unknown place.

There would be judgment, a prison, perhaps even a gallows.

But at least they were still alive.

Dubai Harbor had never been so lively.

From the dock to the shoreline, a sea of black people filled the area. Tens of thousands; Chen Feng stood on the top floor of the administration building, looking through a telescope, the number flashing in his mind: three hundred thousand people who had followed him into this desert, three hundred thousand faces now looking upward.

Yellow Dragon Flags were everywhere— the last bits of yellow cloth and blue thread in the fabric shop were sold out, women worked through the night to make them, the stitching rough, but the dragon embroidered with care.

"Young Master," Wang Bo pushed the door in, his voice trembling, "Li Te's ship... has entered the harbor."

At that moment, the ship's whistle sounded.

Long and deep, like a great beast's low roar returning to its lair. On the sea outside the harbor, the gray silhouette grew clearer. A steel hull of over forty thousand tons sliced the water, the bow's spray dazzling white under the noon sun.

On the main mast, the true Yellow Dragon Flag fluttered loudly.

The crowd on the dock fell silent for a heartbeat, then erupted in mountain‑roaring, tsunami‑like shouts. The roar surged toward the sea, nearly making the harbor water ripple.

Chen Feng put down the telescope and turned to walk down the building.

"Are the ceremonial guns ready?"

"Twenty‑one rounds, as you ordered, president‑level," Wang Bo followed him, his steps hurried yet steady, "The gun positions are on the eastern hill of the harbor area; the artillery company rehearsed three times last night, guaranteeing precise intervals between each shot."

"Li Te deserves this specification."

The stairs clanged rapidly beneath his feet. Chen Feng walked quickly, the hem of his dark‑gray Zhongshan suit flaring. This outfit was his 'national uniform' ordered three years ago—not a long robe nor a Western suit, but a blend of both. It had a stand‑collar, five buttons, four pockets, and was made from a locally trialed blended fabric.

He wanted everyone to remember this style.

Outside the administration building, a motorcade waited. Eight black sedans, all Deguo makes, had been shipped from Hamburg Harbor in parts and reassembled here. Chen Feng entered the second car, with Wang Bo in the passenger seat.

"Is the mine side arranged?" Chen Feng asked as the car started.

"All set," Wang Bo replied, turning back, "Wang Tieshan led fifty guards, escorting the nineteen Dutch out. The shackles remain; each was given two days' rations and water."

"Tell Tieshan to watch them closely, but don't let them die. If they die, the blood debt can't be repaid."

"Understood."

The motorcade drove toward the dock. Both sides of the road were packed with people; children climbed trees, elders were helped onto benches. When they saw Chen Feng's car, the crowd erupted again. Some shouted "President," others shouted "Young Master"—the older faction still used that address.

Chen Feng rolled down the window, stuck out his hand and waved.

The cheers grew louder.

The dock had cleared a dedicated berth. Not the largest one—the biggest berth was reserved for the Revival Ship still in the shipyard. But this one was sufficient to accommodate the Restoration Ship.

When Chen Feng stepped out, the hull was just alongside the shore.

It was his first time seeing the ship up close from this angle. Over three hundred meters long, it stood like a wall of steel. The welded seams of the armor plates glowed a uniform matte under the sun, and the 381‑mm Main Gun barrel on the turret angled toward the sky, so massive it could fit a person inside.

The gangway was lowered.

Li Te was the first to step out.

Li Te paused a moment as his foot touched the dock.

He looked up and saw Chen Feng standing there, behind him the entire Lanfang leadership: Liu Yongfu, Li Mingyuan, Zhou Nian… and further back, a sea of black people stretching beyond sight.

Li Te inhaled deeply, straightened his military cap, then stepped forward.

Five steps from Chen Feng, he halted and saluted.

"Report, President, the Restoration Ship has completed its Java overseas protection and training mission and returned safely! All crew, 1,203 personnel, suffered no casualties; the hull and equipment are intact!"

His voice rang loudly, carrying far across the suddenly silent dock.

Chen Feng returned the salute, then stepped forward and grasped Li Te's hand.

"Well done."

Just three words. Yet the handshake was so firm that Li Te could feel the calluses on the young leader's palm—calluses forged over three years working alongside laborers in shipyards and construction sites.

"Not hard," Li Te said, "Just what needed to be done."

Chen Feng released his grip, retrieved a medal from the brocade box held by Wang Bo. A golden lion relief, engraved on the back with "Lanfang Golden Lion·Restoration First Merit" and a date. (Comrades, what good names—editor feels naming is the hardest part).

He pinned the medal onto Li Te's left chest himself.

"This is the first Golden Lion Medal awarded since Lanfang's founding," Chen Feng stepped back a pace so everyone could see, "Captain Li Te's operation in Java proved three points—"

He raised his voice, not to shout but to reach farther listeners:

"First, the Chinese can build the world's finest warships!"

"Second, the Chinese navy has the courage to sail to any corner of the world to protect its compatriots!"

"Third—"

He paused, his gaze sweeping across every face on the dock:

"From today on, whenever any overseas Chinese suffers humiliation again, Lanfang's warships will appear before them! Whether in Java, in Singapore, in Penang, or in any port in the world!"

A brief deathly silence.

Then, it erupted.

Cheers, shouts, weeping, applause… every sound blended together, crashing against the dock like a tsunami. Some flung their hats into the sky, some clutched the person beside them and wept, children joined in the shouting without understanding why.