Uraga Channel, Edo Bay.
Coastal Battery No. 2.
The emplacement had long since fallen into decay: moss devoured the stonework, the carriages were sagging with rot, and the few antiquated bronze cannons—cast more than a century earlier—were so neglected that sea-birds had built their nests inside their muzzles.
Upon the highest point of the ruined battery stood a young samurai of the Chōshū Domain, Hashimoto Sanai, trembling with fervour. His face burned red; his voice cracked with excitement as he held his katana aloft and proclaimed a speech that he believed history would one day honour.
"Brothers! Look there!" he cried, pointing toward the distant sea.
"Behold the southern devils who profane the sacred waters of our divine realm!
Those are the Black Ships of Britain—before which our spineless Shogunate trembles!"
"But we, the samurai of Yamato, heirs of Emperor Jimmu's blood, do not fear!"
"Though the Shogun cowers, His Imperial Majesty watches over us!
Today we defend the dignity of Japan with these cannon, these blades, and our very lives!
Let those arrogant red-haired barbarians learn the true Bushido spirit:
better to be shattered jade than unbroken tile!"
"Revere the Emperor—expel the barbarians!"
A frantic roar answered him. The young samurai behind him screamed with zealotry, their minds inflamed by dreams of ancient glory. They pulled bird-nests out of cannon-mouths, heaved rusted barrels around by brute force, and stuffed damp black powder and crudely forged round-shot into the breeches.
Hashimoto himself produced a precious hifukuro—a smouldering match-cord purchased at extortionate price in Nagasaki—blew upon it reverently, and lowered it like a priest lowering an incense stick upon a sacred altar.
"For His Imperial Majesty! For Yamato! Fire!"
A wheezing cough—nothing more—escaped the cannon.
A weak, smoky ball of iron arched pitifully into the sky. It scarcely managed a kilometre before dropping with a sad metallic clink upon something far beyond their imagination.
It had struck the polished, fifteen-centimetre armour plating of the HMS Revenge of the Queen—Arthur Lionheart's flagship—only to bounce off like a child's marble striking granite and tumble into the sea with a faint splash.
The ship did not tremble.
The paint did not chip.
The sailors did not even turn their heads.
Silence consumed Battery No. 2.
Hashimoto Sanai and his companions stared as if their very souls had been scooped out of them. Their beliefs, their slogans, their proud cries of "Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians!" had dissolved in an instant.
Their ancient "Kunikuzushi" cannon had not even scratched the enemy.
It had polished them.
Aboard the HMS Revenge of the Queen
Captain's Day-Cabin.
Arthur Lionheart, His Royal Highness and Commander of the Eastern Squadron, sat comfortably in a leather armchair. In his hand rested a crystal whisky tumbler, half-filled with a rich amber Islay single malt, its aroma of peat and smoke drifting lightly through the room.
He had heard the faint metallic "clang," but had not troubled himself to look up.
A senior officer entered, face contorted with the effort of not laughing outright.
"Your Royal Highness," he said, saluting sharply, "I must report an… ah… urgent development in the military situation."
"A coastal battery has just fired a… provocative 'shot' at us."
"The projectile struck our port-side armour, Section B-27.
Damage control reports the paint bears a—well—a minor scuff."
"Estimated repair cost: half a penny."
"Do we… respond, sir?"
Arthur Lionheart raised his eyes, swirling the whisky gently so that the amber liquid glimmered like a captured sunset. A faint, aristocratic smile tugged at his lips—cold, amused, and politically calculating.
"My good fellow," he said with quiet refinement, "this whisky is at precisely the temperature I prefer."
"I would rather not have its enjoyment interrupted by needless noise."
He took a slow, appreciative sip.
A measured breath.
Then:
"Inform the chief gunner he may swat that buzzing mosquito."
"And do try to keep the commotion civilised. I dislike having blood on my conscience before luncheon."
He paused, then added with cool political precision:
"Do not fire on the men. It would make us appear as savage as they imagine us to be."
"Target the highest, most symbolically important structure behind them—
the keep of Edo Castle, the Tokugawa crest and all."
"Let the Shogunate understand what true authority looks like."
The officer saluted, nearly choking with suppressed laughter, and strode out.
Moments later, the 305-mm forward naval gun began to rotate with a deep mechanical groan—cutting-edge Armstrong engineering, not futuristic, but decades ahead of anything the East had ever seen.
Its barrel aligned with the distant heart of Tokugawa power.
On the shore, Hashimoto Sanai and his comrades froze as the great cannon—thicker than all the others combined—locked upon the Tenshukaku, the proud five-storey tower that had watched over Edo for centuries.
"No… no! They're aiming at the Tenshukaku! Run!"
Too late.
Arthur Lionheart lifted the whisky glass to his lips, exhaled softly across its rim, and murmured:
"Fire."
The gun spoke with a titanic, ocean-shaking roar.
A high-explosive shell, trailing comet-fire, carved a mathematically perfect arc across Edo Bay.
Then, in full view of a city of millions—
—it struck the Tenshukaku.
The explosion tore through the morning air like a divine thunderclap.
Flame blossomed upward in a red-orange pillar; timber, tile, and centuries of authority were flung skyward in a storm of destruction.
The great tower broke with a scream of rending beams and collapsed in a burning avalanche.
Edo fell silent.
Arthur Lionheart finished the last drop of whisky.
"The flavour," he remarked softly, "is impeccable."
*****[Need more Power Stones for daily release]*****[Can I get some reviews>Lol? I desperately need them so I know if I should keep posting 3 chapters a day]*****