On the eve of the fall of Liaodong, he led his troops in a remonstrance against the young marshal.

Three hours ago, off the coast of Lushun Port.

The bridge of the flagship battleship Kongo of the Combined Fleet was filled with the aroma of fine Japanese sencha.

Isoroku Yamamoto stood by the porthole on the right side of the bridge, holding an exquisite blue-and-white porcelain teacup in his hand. The tea in the cup was a clear, emerald green, reflecting his serious face.

Outside the window stretched the boundless gray-blue ocean off Lushun Port, where the main warships of the Combined Fleet were lined up in two columns, cruising in the morning light.

The gray hulls of the battleships gleamed coldly in the morning sun, the cruisers' smokestacks emitted wisps of black smoke, and the destroyers darted back and forth around the fleet like a pack of hounds.

Further away, the three aircraft carriers, Ryujo, Akagi, and Kaga, were moored side by side, their decks already cleared. All their carrier-based aircraft had taken off three hours earlier and were flying due north.

"Sakamoto-kun."

Isoroku Yamamoto didn't turn around, still gazing out the window. "You said that, according to the timeline, the 1st Air Fleet's planes should already be flying over Fengtian, right?"

Vice Commander-in-Chief Seiji Sakamoto took a voyage calculation sheet from the navigator, glanced at the numbers, and a calm smile appeared on his face:

"Your calculations are accurate, Commander."

"Based on the cruising speed of the Type 89 attack aircraft, it should be dropping bombs over Fengtian right now."

"If everything goes smoothly, the Northeast Army's arsenals and airfields may already be engulfed in flames."

Sure enough, they received the communication shortly afterward.

"Tora! Tora! Tora!"

"Tora! Tora! Tora!"

This was the agreed-upon signal; once they reached the outskirts of Fengtian, they would send out this signal to indicate that they had arrived.

Sakata immediately reported this good news to Yamamoto.

Yamamoto Isoroku's lips curved slightly.

He put down his teacup, took out his pipe from his pocket, and slowly began to fill it with tobacco. His fingers were steady, and his movements were deliberate and measured.

Seeing the commander's composed demeanor, the young staff officers beside him nodded in approval. The general was indeed confident; it seemed that today's battle was almost certain to succeed.

"To be honest, Sakamoto-kun, there's a question that's been bothering me for a long time."

"Tell me, who exactly gave the Northeast Army such audacity to provoke the Empire?"

Yamamoto Isoroku, a famous writer, lit a match, took two puffs on his pipe, and exhaled a puff of pale blue smoke.

"The Allied Fleet controls the entire Yellow Sea, and the 1st Air Fleet controls the airspace over Manchuria."

"Do they have control of the sea? No."

"Do they have air superiority? No, they don't."

"Then what gives them the audacity to attack us?"

Sakamoto Seiji's smile deepened.

"Commander, I don't really know either. In my opinion, they are committing suicide."

He picked up an intelligence document from the table. It was an assessment report on the industrial capabilities of Northeast China, sent by the Kwantung Army's intelligence section before the war. The cover was stamped with a red "Top Secret" seal.

He casually flipped to a page and read aloud:

"Commander, the Kwantung Army's intelligence report is very clear: the annual pig iron production in all of China is less than 50 tons, while the Empire's annual pig iron production is a full five million tons."

"China's annual steel production is less than one-tenth of the Empire's, and Manchuria's steel production is almost zero."

"Although they have several arsenals, their technology is stuck ten years in the past. They can manage to produce rifle bullets, but they rely entirely on imports for artillery and aircraft parts."

"Not to mention the shipbuilding industry, they can't even build a decent port."

"China's total naval tonnage is less than one percent of the Imperial Combined Fleet, and its air force consists of outdated French and British aircraft that can't even beat our Type 89 attack aircraft."

He closed the folder, threw it on the table, and his eyes were filled with disdain.

"A bunch of warlords who rely on buying secondhand goods to maintain their image actually dare to provoke the empire; they must have lost their minds."

"I think they were probably blinded by yesterday's lucky victory and thought that luck would always be on their side."

"Unfortunately, in the face of an absolute difference in strength, luck means nothing."

The staff officers on the bridge smiled knowingly upon hearing the deputy commander's words.

A young lieutenant staff officer couldn't help but interject:

"Vice Commander Sakamoto is right."

"After today's bombing, the Northeast Army's arsenal will be reduced to ruins, and those dozens of old French aircraft will be reduced to scrap metal on the tarmac."

"Once the Kawaguchi Detachment takes Fengtian City, Manchuria will become the Empire's possession."

"At that time, all of China will tremble under the iron heel of the empire."

Yamamoto Isoroku exhaled a puff of smoke but remained silent.

He understood the nature of war better than these young people; in the face of absolute power disparity, luck truly meant nothing.

But he won't get carried away like they do.

His most admired person in his life was Togo Heihachiro, the naval admiral who annihilated the Russian fleet in the Battle of Tsushima.

Marshal Togo taught him a lesson:

Victory in war never depends on whether you respect your opponent, but on whether you are fully prepared.

The reason he was standing there leisurely smoking his pipe and looking out at the sea view was because he believed he had made ample preparations.

More than 200 carrier-based aircraft, 80 attack aircraft for escort, more than 100 bombers carrying sufficient ammunition, and the main force of the joint fleet providing support in the open sea.

With this lineup, it's impossible for them to lose.

However, just as the laughter was still echoing in the bridge, a sharp static sound suddenly came from the radio communication device hanging on the wall.

A roar suddenly exploded.

"Fighters! A lot of fighters! An ambush! We've been ambushed... by an ambush... Zzzzzzz..."

The roar abruptly stopped, swallowed up by a dense static noise.

Although the sound was short and fragmented due to interference, every word clearly struck the ears of everyone on the bridge.

That was Colonel Qingchuan's voice.

His voice was filled with fear.

Colonel Kiyokawa, who had fought in air combat for more than a decade and was once a hero of the Empire, never showed any fear on the radio.

But that sound just now, that sound that lasted only a few seconds before it stopped, was clearly an instinctive scream from someone facing despair.

The laughter in the bridge stopped at the same moment.

Everyone's smiles froze on their faces, as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over their heads.

The young lieutenant staff officer, who was talking about the "Imperial Iron Hoof," opened his mouth, but the rest of his words got stuck in his throat and he couldn't squeeze out a single word.

Yamamoto Isoroku's pipe stopped in mid-air. He turned his head to look at the radio communicator, his brows furrowing slightly.

But he remained relatively calm. As the commander-in-chief of the Combined Fleet, he had heard screams over the radio countless times. It was not unusual for someone to scream on the channel during every battle.

"Communications Class"

Yamamoto Isoroku's voice remained calm: "Immediately contact the 1st Air Fleet and confirm Colonel Kiyokawa's condition."

"They may have only encountered minor ground-based air defense interference, and Colonel Kiyokawa overreacted."

"Hai!"

The communications officer immediately adjusted the frequency and shouted into the microphone, "Kongo calling the 1st Air Fleet! Kongo calling the 1st Air Fleet! Colonel Kiyokawa, please respond! Please respond!"

There was no reply from Kiyokawa on the radio.

There was only chaos, with countless sobbing and trembling Japanese voices occasionally reaching the bridge amidst intermittent radio signals.

"It's too fast... I can't see it at all..."

"The entire Third Company is wiped out! The entire Third Company is wiped out! Captain Moriyama has been shot down..."

"Baka! They're chasing my tail fin! I'm locked in! I'm locked in! Calling for backup... Ah..."

After a scream, that frequency fell silent.

Then came another frequency, another squadron, another pilot's voice.

"Captain Shimada has parachuted! But his parachute was severed by its own tail fin! Long live the Emperor... *sizzle*..."

Yamamoto Isoroku's composure shattered in that instant.

He slammed his pipe down on the navigation platform, scattering ash all over the table, strode over to the radio communication station, and snatched the microphone from the communications soldier's hand.

His fingers gripped the microphone so tightly that his knuckles turned white, and the veins on the back of his hands bulged out.

He shouted into the microphone with all his might:

"Kiyokawa! Kiyokawa! This is Yamamoto! Report your situation! Report your situation immediately!"

There was a full three seconds of silence on the radio. Then a voice, so weak it was almost inaudible, came through—not Qingchuan, but a young pilot, his voice trembling like a leaf:

"Report...report, flagship...Colonel Kiyokawa's plane has been shot down...the entire squadron...the entire squadron is left with only...only...ah!"

"They're here! They're here! Help... Boom!"

A short, loud bang, and then the frequency went completely silent.

Isoroku Yamamoto was still gripping the microphone, maintaining the same posture as when he had shouted, and remained motionless.

His lips were trembling slightly, and the veins on his forehead were throbbing.

Sakamoto Seiji walked over from beside the navigation platform, still trying to appear calm, patted Yamamoto Isoroku on the shoulder, and said in a low voice:

"Commander, there's no need to worry too much."

"The 1st Air Fleet is the most elite unit of the Imperial Navy Air Force. Every pilot is a veteran with thousands of hours of flight time. Even if there are some unexpected events, they are fully capable of handling them."

"It's probably just that the radio is experiencing strong electromagnetic interference, causing communication problems. Please be patient, a complete battle report should be sent back in a few minutes."

No sooner had he finished speaking than another scream came through the radio.

This time the signal was exceptionally clear, as if the pilot had flown to a position not far from Lushun, where the signal strength was at its maximum.

Everyone on the bridge could clearly hear the voice he was making from the cockpit.

It was a scream of extreme terror, mixed with the roar of an engine and the muffled thud of bullets hitting the aluminum skin, along with a series of intermittent wails in Japanese.

"They're chasing me! No matter which way I turn, I can't shake them off! They're so fast! So fast..."

"Ah! My wing has been shot through! The engine is on fire! Your Majesty the Emperor... O Gods..."

Sakamoto Seiji froze on the spot.

His hand was still on Yamamoto Isoroku's shoulder, but his fingers were frozen and his fingertips were icy cold.

The screams continued.

It wasn't just one or two sounds, but rather a series of sounds, surging in simultaneously from different frequencies, as if the entire sky was wailing at the same time.

Several young communications soldiers in the communications platoon have already reached their breaking point.

Some people took off their headphones, covered their faces, and squatted on the ground; others pounded their fists on the communication station and wept silently.

They listened for over an hour, over an hour of screams, wails, cries, and the final cry of "Long live His Majesty the Emperor," then a loud bang, and then silence.

Then the same process begins again at the next frequency.

It's like listening to a live broadcast of death.

You know perfectly well that your comrades are dying one by one in the sky hundreds of kilometers away, but there's nothing you can do about it.

All I can do is stand here, listening to their dying words, and counting the elite pilots of the Imperial Navy disappearing one by one.

After the last frequency fell silent, the bridge remained quiet for a long time.

No one dared to speak; they even suppressed their breathing to a minimum.

The nautical clock on the wall ticked away, each tick sounding like someone hammering nails.

Isoroku Yamamoto slowly put down the microphone and turned to face the porthole.

Outside the window, the calm, grey-blue ocean remained, and the combined fleet's warships were still lined up in neat formations. The decks of the Ryujo, Akagi, and Kaga were still empty.

But those who took off from the deck never came back.

More than two hundred aircraft, eighty attack aircraft, more than one hundred bombers, and more than four hundred of the Empire's most elite air force personnel were all gone.

Yamamoto Isoroku suddenly remembered what he had said on the bridge before the battle:

"What makes them dare to provoke the empire?"

He repeated the sentence to himself, his lips twitched, and he managed to form a smile that looked more like a grimace.

Then he squeezed out three words through gritted teeth.

Why?

No one answered him.

The bridge remained deathly silent.

Sakamoto Seiji stood behind him, his face as pale as paper. His lips moved for a long time before he finally uttered a sentence that broke everyone's guard.