456: Chapter 456 The Engine's Letter of Surrender

"I am aware," Zhang Cheng said. "What else do you have on your end?"

"Intelligence sharing. The plan for the United States to supply weapons to the Rashid Hassan regime—you intercepted the communications of Council of Elders, and we intercepted the transport dispatch orders from the Pentagon. Comparing the two creates a complete chain. The transport route: from Andersen Air Force Base in Guam to Kuantan Port in Malaysia, using a merchant ship registered in Panama—"

"The 'Ocean Harvest.' I have already locked onto it."

"Do you intend to intercept it?"

"No." Zhang Cheng switched the situational map to the real-time satellite view of Kuantan Port. "Let it dock. Let the weapons be unloaded and delivered into the hands of Rashid Hassan's army. Then I will broadcast it at the United Nations—as ironclad proof of 'US armed interference in the internal affairs of Southeast Asia.' You just said he needs to cut off his own escape route—I will help him seal it off."

Zhao Gang was silent for a moment, then said in a soft tone, "The Chief says—he is at ease with how you handle things."

Zhang Cheng cut the channel and turned around. Li Lanzhi stood behind him, holding an encrypted tablet.

"Mr. President. Old K reports: The draft for Operation 'Breaking Waves' has completed its preliminary structure. Three prongs running in parallel: the northern route, where the Thai-Myanmar Allied Forces break through from Betong into Kedah; the southern route, attacking Johor from Singapore; and a maritime landing on the Perak coast, driving straight into the rear of Kuala Lumpur. The detailed force composition, fire coordination table, and logistics supply line planning are expected to—"

"Tell him to compress the timeline to twenty-four hours." Zhang Cheng interrupted her. "It's not about starting the fight in forty-eight hours. It's that in forty-eight hours—I want Rashid Hassan to sign the instrument of surrender."

Li Lanzhi's fingers paused on the tablet screen for half a second. She looked up.

"Mr. President—Rashid Hassan has just announced a national mobilization, conscripting one hundred thousand reservists. The US weapons shipment will arrive at the port within forty-eight hours. Gray Wolf Team B is expected to be embedded into the command chain within seventy-two hours. If this drags on past seventy-two hours—"

"It will not drag on past seventy-two hours."

Zhang Cheng picked up his Pu'er tea. The tea had gone completely cold. He set the cup down, the bottom clinking sharply against the marble countertop.

He raised his hand, his fingers tracing across the holographic situational map—three red lines.

North: Betong → Kedah.

South: Singapore → Straits of Johor.

Sea: North entrance of the Strait of Malacca → Perak coast.

All the lines converged on the same point: Kuala Lumpur.

The operators in the command center stopped their work. Someone typed two characters on their keyboard, then deleted them.

"Guderian's original words: The sound of the engine is the ultimatum of surrender."

Zhang Cheng tapped his finger on the coordinates of the Kuantan base—Sergeant Farid was still on duty, forty-two people, not withdrawn.

"My engine—the Chinese school that was shut down forty years ago, its bell starts ringing today."

Naypyidaw Presidential Palace, 6:47 AM.

Three hundred and twelve screens transmitted simultaneously. Penang, Chew Jetty—Chen Shunfa was shoved into a police car, blood from his brow dripping onto the edge of the Lens. The fishing boat behind him was still smoking. There was no sound. Zhang Cheng only saw people in the footage opening their mouths, and it was three seconds later before he heard the screams cut off by the slamming of the car door.

The second floor of an Ipoh shophouse. The ashes of Lin Meihua's father's lesson plans were piled on the wreckage of a metal cabinet. The edges of the charred kraft paper curled; the last stroke of the three characters "Lin Wenqing" had not yet burned away, the ink scorched black.

Petaling Street in Kuala Lumpur. The "Shou" sign of the Yong Shou Tang shop lay smashed on the sidewalk, fragments of bird's nest bowls mixed in with shards of glass. On the pillar of the shophouse next door, the couplet "Books are the mountain path" had burned through at the character "mountain"—black ash fell into a puddle, and the ripples were still spreading.

The footage of the ninth victim did not cut in. Li Lanzhi handed over the tablet.

On the screen was a photograph—in front of a hardware store in downtown Malacca. A silhouette covered by a canvas, with a seven or eight-year-old girl crouching beside it. She was crouching, her hand resting on the edge of the canvas—she didn't lift it. Someone offered her water, but she didn't take it. The water cup was placed on the iron grate of a drain, the four chalk-written characters "Mazu Bless" had the character "Zu" pressed underneath the bottom of the cup.

"Her daughter changed two characters in the last message she sent." Li Lanzhi's voice was strained. "It originally read, 'Mom, don't return to the country. This is no longer home.' After the change, it read—'Mom, don't return to the country. This is still home.'"

Zhang Cheng took the tablet. He zoomed in on the photo—not to look at the canvas, but to look at where the little girl was crouching. Her toes were only two centimeters from the drain. The iron grate was engraved with the logo of the Malaysian Public Works Department.

"Record," he said. "From now on—all signal sources, uninterrupted. I am going to speak to the whole world."

At 7:00 AM sharp, Shuguang Cloud initiated a broadcast-level push through all registered terminals. The signal priority was raised to the highest level—Times Square in New York, Piccadilly Circus in London, the Shibuya Crossing in Tokyo, and the exterior screens of the Burj Khalifa in Dubai all simultaneously cut to the same image: the national emblem of the Presidential Palace of the Federation of Myanmar. The baobab leaf emblem reflected a dull gold against a dark blue background.

Below the national emblem, a statement in four languages was displayed—Burmese, Chinese, English, and Malay, side by side:

"The following statement is addressed to everyone who can hear this voice."

Zhang Cheng stood before the podium. He was wearing a dark gray Zhongshan suit, with a tiny silver commemorative badge pinned to the pocket on his left chest. This badge had never appeared before today.

The Lens did not provide a close-up. But Rashid Hassan would find someone at the Prime Minister's Office to translate those five characters.

"Seven hours ago, the Malaysian Parliament, with one hundred and forty-seven votes in favor, overturned the legitimate government of Prime Minister Ibrahim. Rashid Hassan, who replaced him, used the 1963 Malay Privilege Clause during his swearing-in ceremony—a clause that no longer exists in the current constitution."

He paused for a moment. The holographic screen cut to the scene at Merdeka Square—Rashid Hassan was holding a lighter, and the baobab leaf emblem was curling, blackening, and turning to ash in the flames.

"He burned the Malay translation of the 'Strait of Malacca Joint Management Initiative.' Fifty thousand people shouted 'Merdeka' before him. This is the response he has given—not negotiation, not discussion. It is Merdeka in the firelight."

The footage switched. The first shop burned on Petaling Street, Yong Shou Tang. Bird's nest bowl fragments smashed under the "Shou" sign. The moment the ink bubbled when the couplet at the Popular Bookstore burned through. Chen Shunfa's father's fishing boat burned into a skeleton at the Chew Jetty, the wooden sign "Mazu Bless" still on the bow, half an inch of black ash accumulated in the grooves of the characters.

"What the firelight illuminates is not sovereignty." Zhang Cheng's voice turned cold. "What the firelight illuminates is faces."

The third image: the second floor of an Ipoh shophouse. Lin Meihua's father's lesson plans burned to ash. The metal cabinet was smashed. The key in her mouth was swallowed into her stomach.

"Lin Wenqing—arrested in Operation Lalang in 1987. Imprisoned for four years and seven months without trial. The charge: illegal dissemination of Chinese education. He died in prison. His daughter guarded his last stack of lesson plans—ink printed forty-one years ago, burned dry with gasoline tonight."