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

The Kingdom of Children, Bhikkhu City, the main camp.

The gray granite building in Miyakezaka looked particularly austere under the gloomy sky.

The officers in the corridor walked hurried along, their leather boots clicking rapidly on the marble floor, each with a mournful expression on their face.

A soldier carrying a tea tray jogged from the end of the corridor, nearly bumping into a colonel who was walking briskly with his head down. The teacups clattered on the tray, but no one stopped to look at them.

The office doors on both sides of the corridor were tightly closed, and occasionally a few words of hushed arguing could be heard through the cracks in the doors, only to be cut off by a bang as the doors slammed shut.

The entire building is like a pressure cooker. On the surface, it looks calm, but the steam pressure under the lid has reached the critical point where it could explode at any moment.

At the entrance to the large conference room on the east side of the second floor, two guards stood ramrod straight, their bayonets gleaming coldly under the lights.

The heavy oak door was tightly closed, with a bronze plaque hanging on it that read "Imperial Conference".

Beneath the bronze plaque was a narrow crack in the door. The air seeping through the crack seemed to carry a gunpowder-like smell, causing every officer passing by to unconsciously hold their breath and quicken their pace.

The long table in the conference room was filled with the highest-ranking generals of the Army and Navy.

The ashtray on the table was piled high with cigarette butts, and the air was so thick it was almost suffocating.

The people sitting in the row on the right are from the army.

Army Minister General Minami Jiro sat at the head of the table, followed by Inspector General of Education Gen Sugiyama, Vice Minister of the Army Yoshijiro Umezu, Chief of Staff of the Kwantung Army Mitsuharu Miyake, and several generals who were also the heads of operations sections.

Their sitting postures were all different, but they all had almost identical expressions on their faces.

His lips curled slightly upwards, his eyes narrowed, and he looked gloating.

Nanjiro would even occasionally pick up his teacup, take a sip, and then deliberately put the teacup back on the saucer, making a crisp sound. Each time it made a sound, someone across from him would twitch their eyebrow.

The row on the left consists of navy personnel.

Navy Minister Kiyotane Yasuhiro sat at the head of the table, followed by Chief of the Naval General Staff Prince Hiroyasu Fushimi, Vice Chief of the Naval General Staff Sankichi Takahashi, and Vice Minister of the Navy Naotoku Fujita.

Everyone looked as if they had just walked out of a funeral home; their faces were ashen, their eyes sunken, and their lips pressed into a straight line.

Anbo Qingzhong's eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn't slept for several days. His hands were clasped together on the table, and his knuckles were slightly white from the force.

The man next to him, Sankichi Takahashi, had his brows furrowed into a deep knot, and three vertical lines on his forehead were so deep they could hold a piece of paper between them.

Yamamoto Isoroku sat at the very end, his face as if it had been ironed, completely expressionless. But from the slight trembling of his left little finger, one could tell that his heart was in turmoil.

A person was sitting at the head of the conference table.

He was dressed in a crisp army general's uniform, with three rows of ribbons densely arranged on his chest, and a Grand Cordon of the Order of the Rising Sun and Paulownia on his left breast, the highest-ranking medal that only members of the royal family could wear.

At this moment, his eyes were surging with barely suppressed rage.

He was Prince Miyako, Prince Kan'in, the younger brother of Emperor Taisho and the uncle of Emperor Showa, holding the rank of Third Grade, First Class, Merit Third Grade, and Imperial Marshal.

His name is a sword hanging over the heads of all the empire's generals, ready to fall and cut off anyone's head at any moment.

The meeting room was silent for a full three minutes.

No one dared to speak; even coughs were forced back down their throats.

The tea that the orderly had brought in earlier had long since gone cold, but no one dared to pick it up and drink it, nor did anyone dare to call the orderly in to bring in a fresh cup.

Everyone was waiting for Gong Zai to speak, like a group of elementary school students who had made a mistake waiting for their homeroom teacher to punish them.

Gong Zai tapped his fingers slowly on the table, each tap striking the hearts of everyone present.

His gaze, like two icicles, slowly swept across the faces of the row of naval men.

Yamamoto Isoroku's back tensed instantly, and a fine layer of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

Gong Zai slammed his fist on the table and stood up abruptly.

Several naval officers shuddered simultaneously, and Anbo Qingzhong's face twitched.

"A bunch of useless trash!"

Gong Zai's roar exploded in the conference room.

"Deer! They're all deer!"

He grabbed a battle report from in front of him and slammed it onto the center of the conference table.

The battle report was laid out face up, with a bold, blood-red title printed on it: Battle Report of the Battle of Lushun!

"Why!"

Gong Zai's voice was hoarse. "Why can't the navy's carrier-based aircraft defeat the air force of a mere northeastern warlord?"

"Are you all shit-eaters?"

"The Empire spends so much money every year to train you, and this is how you repay the Empire?"

No one dared to answer.

The naval officers all bowed their heads, as if in collective mourning.

The army generals sat up straight, unable to suppress the smiles on their faces.

Nanjiro picked up the now-cold teacup, took a slow sip, cleared his throat, and said in a sarcastic tone:

"King Anbao, the Empire allocates a full 30% more military budget to the Navy each year than to the Army."

"Thirty percent."

"Two Nagato-class battleships, four Mogami-class heavy cruisers, and an aircraft carrier—how much of the Empire's real money was spent on them? And what was the result?"

He pointed to the battle report on the table, "It was sunk by those bumpkins from the Northeast Army using land-based aircraft."

"A group of pilots who had just learned to fly planes wiped out the Empire's most elite carrier-based air force."

"What's the point of spending so much money on these pilots?"

"Security officer, if we gave this money to the army, how many more divisions could we equip in Manchuria?"

Anbao Qingzhong's face turned a deep purplish-red, the veins on his forehead throbbed, and his hands clenched into fists under the table, his nails almost digging into his palms.

He opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but only a muffled gurgling sound came out of his throat.

If it were before, if anyone dared to speak like that in front of his security guard Kiyotane, he would have slammed his fist on the table, stood up, pointed at Nanjiro's nose, and cursed back.

The Imperial Navy and Army have been exchanging insults for decades; the number of Army generals insulted by him could circle the General Staff Headquarters twice.

Two months ago, at the Imperial Budget Meeting, Minami Jiro complained that the army's budget was insufficient, and his bodyguard Kiyotane immediately retorted:

"The army's idiots are using the empire's military funds to build fortifications in Manchuria, while our navy helped the empire agree to the First Sino-Japanese War, defeated Japan and Russia, and can even stand against the British and American powers in the Pacific. Who are the true pillars of the empire?"

That time, he angered Nanjiro so much that he smashed a cup on the spot.

But now the situation has reversed.

In the Battle of Port Arthur, Yamamoto Isoroku suffered a crushing defeat.

At Port Arthur, the Imperial Navy lost its main fleet, along with 180 carrier-based aircraft and 180 elite pilots.

This was an unprecedented humiliation for the Imperial Japanese Navy since its great victory at the Tsushima Strait during the Russo-Japanese War.

On the very night the battle report reached the small country, the emperor remained silent for two whole hours before the emperor, without uttering a single word.

The Emperor's silence was more terrifying than any rebuke, like a sword hanging over the heads of everyone in the navy.

Anbo Qingzhong gritted his teeth and swallowed back the anger that was about to come out of his mouth.

He slowly stood up and bowed deeply in the direction of Prince Gongzai, his upper body bent almost ninety degrees, his gray hair peeking out from under his military cap, trembling slightly.

"Your Highness, Gongzai,"

Anbo Qingzhong's voice was low and somber: "The navy bears a heavy responsibility for the defeat at Port Arthur."

"Commander Yamamoto made a major mistake in his operational deployment, underestimating the combat capabilities of the Northeast Army's air force, resulting in heavy damage to the main force of the fleet."

"This is a disgrace to the Navy, and as the Minister of the Navy, I bear the responsibility."

Anbao Qingzhong straightened up and continued:

"However, Your Highness, please understand that the Navy is making every effort to make up for the losses. The new aircraft carrier Shokaku has already completed its outfitting at the Yokosuka Shipyard and will be launched for sea trials next month."

"Give us time, and the Navy will surely be able to rebuild the Combined Fleet's air strike capabilities and avenge the fallen heroes of Port Arthur!"

"Revenge?"

Gong Zai sneered and sat back down in his chair. "Security officer, I have two questions for you."

Anbao Qingzhong's back tensed instantly.

"First,"

Gong Zai held up one finger. "The Manchurian Campaign is about to begin in full force. Will your new aircraft carrier be able to keep up?"

"Shokaku will be launched next month, undergo three months of sea trials, and be incorporated into the fleet for one month, making it a total of four months."

"Four months later, the war in Manchuria would have been over long ago!"

"While your aircraft carriers were sailing the Pacific Ocean, the soldiers of the Kwantung Army were fighting desperately against the Northeast Army in the icy wilderness of Manchuria. Who was providing them with air cover?"

Anbo Qingzhong's lips moved, but no sound came out.

Gong Zai raised his second finger, his voice rising even higher:

"Secondly, even if you can build an aircraft carrier, can you produce elite pilots?"

"In the Battle of Port Arthur, the Empire lost over two hundred carrier-based pilots!"

"More than half of these people are veteran pilots who have been trained since the early Showa era, and each of them is a valuable asset to the Empire."

"How long does it take to train a qualified carrier-based aircraft pilot? Three years! At least three years!"

"From basic flight training to aircraft carrier take-off and landing training, from formation operations to nighttime landings, every step takes time."

"How long does it take you to build an aircraft carrier? Two years? Three years?"

"Security officer, tell me, can you conjure up over two hundred elite pilots for me within two years, just like building an aircraft carrier?"

The air in the conference room seemed to have been sucked out, and everyone felt like they were having difficulty breathing.

Anbo Qingzhong stood there, his face turning from liver-colored to deathly pale.

His lips trembled, and his hands repeatedly rubbed the seams of his trousers, his palms sweaty.

Gong Zai's words struck a nerve with the Navy.

Carrier-based aircraft pilot.

The training period for elite pilots of the Imperial Navy Air Force is longer than the construction time of an aircraft carrier.

Starting with basic training at flight school, trainees undergo at least two years of land-based flight training.

Then, one must undergo hundreds of takeoffs and landings on training aircraft carriers before becoming a barely qualified carrier-based pilot.

To train an elite pilot capable of accurately dropping bombs and fighting enemy aircraft in actual combat, at least three years of systematic training and combat experience are required.

In the Battle of Lushunkou, Zhang Xueming's air force shot down 180 carrier-based aircraft.

One hundred and eighty aircraft is a small matter; with the industrial capacity of a small country, it can make up for it in a year by working overtime.

But those pilots were all products of the Empire's years of effort and countless resources, and many of them were veterans with thousands of flight hours.

These people are dead, and they are truly dead. There is no way to bring them back to life.

This was the greatest loss the Battle of Port Arthur inflicted on the navy. An aircraft carrier without pilots is just a pile of scrap metal floating on the sea.

Anbo Kiyotane bowed deeply again, this time bending his waist even lower.

His mind raced, and after much thought, he finally came up with the best solution for the empire.