The Guns of Pungdo

Aboard the Japanese transport ship Kowshing, the mood was one of supreme confidence. The ship, a British-built merchant vessel chartered for the invasion, plowed steadily through the calm, grey sea. In the main officer's saloon, Major Akiyama Kenta, a rising star in the Imperial Japanese Army, placed a black stone on the Go board with a satisfying click.

"And that," he declared, smiling at his subordinate, "is another victory for Satsuma. Your Choshu strategies are too predictable, Lieutenant."

The lieutenant sighed in resignation. "Your aggression is difficult to counter, Major."

"Aggression is the soul of our new Japan," Akiyama said, leaning back in his chair. He gestured vaguely toward the sea. "That is why we will succeed where the Chinese fail. Their navy is a joke. An expensive collection of European toys their corrupt, opium-addled admirals don't know how to use. Li Hongzhang's private fleet. It is all for show. We will be in Asan by nightfall, and the war will be half-won before they even know we have sailed."

His words were cut short by a frantic, high-pitched scream from the lookout in the crow's nest. The cry was one of pure, animal terror.

"Ships! Ships emerging from the fog! Dead ahead!"

Major Akiyama and the lieutenant scrambled from their chairs and rushed onto the deck. The sight that greeted them was impossible, a nightmare conjured from the mists. Less than two miles away, emerging from a thick fog bank like steel mountains rising from the sea, were two colossal battleships. They were low-slung, heavily armored, and bristling with guns. Their twin funnels belched thick, black smoke into the sky, and a huge, golden dragon flag snapped menacingly from their masts. The Dingyuan and the Zhenyuan. They were not cowering in port. They were here. And behind them, fanning out in a battle line, were the sleek, deadly shapes of a half-dozen modern cruisers.

On the bridge of the Dingyuan, Admiral Ding Ruchang watched the Japanese transport fleet descend into chaos through his telescope. He could see men running frantically across the decks, a scene of utter panic. The trap had been sprung to perfection.

"They are a flock of sheep who have stumbled into a wolf pack," he murmured. He turned to his signalman. "Hoist the signal flags. International code. Message reads: 'You are in violation of treaty and are illegally transporting an invasion force into a neutral zone. Surrender immediately or you will be fired upon.'"

Meng Tian, standing motionless beside him, did not even raise his own telescope. "They will not surrender, Admiral. Their honor will not allow it."

"Then their honor will drown them," Admiral Ding said grimly. A few moments later, his flag captain reported. "Sir, they are not responding to our signals! Their ships are turning, attempting to flee to the southeast! They are scattering!"

Admiral Ding took a deep, steadying breath. This was the moment that would define his life, his career, and the fate of the Empire. He filled his lungs and bellowed the order that would plunge two nations into war.

"All ships! Commence firing!"

The world ended in a flash of orange fire and a sound so vast it was felt more than heard. The Dingyuan's main battery, four 12-inch Krupp cannons, fired as one. The double broadside was a physical concussion, a shockwave that slammed into every man on the bridge and vibrated through the very bones of the ship. Seconds later, a series of colossal waterspouts, hundreds of feet high, erupted next to the lead Japanese transport. They had missed, but the message was clear.

The Japanese fleet, a collection of lightly armed transports, was utterly helpless. The Chinese cruisers, faster and more maneuverable, began to circle them like wolves, their rapid-fire secondary guns spitting a continuous stream of shells.

"Target the lead transport!" Captain Lin shouted into the speaking tube to the gunnery control station below. "She's the command ship! Target her engines!"

"Reloading main guns! Eighty-five seconds!" came the tinny reply.

The air filled with the deafening, ripping noise of smaller cannons, the shriek of shells passing overhead, and the percussive thump-thump-thump of steel impacting steel across the water. On the Kowshing, all illusions of Japanese superiority vanished in a hurricane of fire and metal. A shell from the Qing cruiser Jiyuan slammed into their bridge, vaporizing it and everyone on it, including Major Akiyama. Another shell tore through the unarmored hull, exploding in a boiler room and sending a plume of scalding steam and shrapnel across the deck. The ship began to list heavily, its steering gone.

From the deck of the Dingyuan, Meng Tian watched the systematic destruction with an unnerving calm. This was not the chaotic melee of ancient battles. This was an execution. It was industry and physics applied to the art of killing. He watched as a massive shell from the Zhenyuan's second volley struck a smaller Japanese transport midship. There was a brief, silent flash, and then the transport simply ceased to exist, replaced by a massive, roiling ball of fire and black smoke that climbed a thousand feet into the air.

"That one must have been carrying their artillery munitions," Admiral Ding observed, his voice grim.

The battle, if it could be called that, was brutally one-sided. The Japanese transports, designed to carry men, not to fight, were being torn apart. Their token escort, a single, obsolete gunboat, was sunk within the first ten minutes, its small cannons completely ineffective against the armored hulls of the Chinese cruisers.

Aboard the crippled Kowshing, the senior surviving officer, a terrified captain of infantry, ordered a white flag—a hastily torn bedsheet—to be run up the mast. The ship was sinking, on fire, and helpless. Surrender was their only option.

A lookout on the Dingyuan spotted the flag. "Admiral! The Kowshing has struck her colors! She is surrendering!"

Admiral Ding lowered his telescope, his face a complex mask of emotions. Triumph warred with the ingrained traditions of the sea. The naval code was clear. A ship that struck its colors was to be spared; its crew taken as prisoners of war. He opened his mouth to give the order to cease fire.

"Admiral."

Meng Tian's voice was quiet, but it cut through the din of battle like a shard of ice. He stepped forward, his gaze not on the sinking ship, but fixed squarely on Admiral Ding.

"The Emperor's orders were explicit," Meng Tian said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "'Cripple the invasion. Leave no ambiguity for the world to misinterpret.' These are not honorable soldiers surrendering after a fair fight. They are treaty-breakers and invaders, caught in the act of a sneak attack. They are a threat that must be… erased."

He let the word hang in the air. Admiral Ding paled, understanding the brutal implication.

"The Emperor will not reward you for leaving an enemy alive to fight another day, Admiral. He will see it as a failure of nerve. What message does a ship full of rescued prisoners send to Tokyo? It sends the message that we are weak. That we still play by the old rules. The new rule is simple: those who attack the Great Qing are choosing death."

Admiral Ding stared at Meng Tian, then back at the sinking Kowshing, where hundreds of Japanese soldiers were jumping into the cold sea. He was a sailor, and the thought of firing on a surrendered, helpless vessel was anathema to him. But the cold, reptilian logic of the Emperor, delivered through his chosen emissary, was undeniable. This was not about naval honor. This was about sending a message written in blood and fire.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them again, his face a mask of stone. He had made his choice.

"Secondary batteries," he commanded, his voice hoarse. "Target the Kowshing. Finish her."

The crew in the secondary gun emplacements, having seen the white flag, hesitated for a split second before their training and discipline took over. A final, merciless volley of rapid-fire shells tore into the crippled transport. Its hull, already shattered, was ripped open. With a final, groaning screech of tortured metal, the Kowshing rolled over and slid beneath the waves, taking hundreds of men, living and dead, with her into the cold, grey depths of the Yellow Sea. The white flag was the last thing to disappear.