The map room was filled with smoke, euphoria, and applause. Officers clustered around the glowing plotting table where Japan's losses blinked in red.
Animated arrows from Russian armored divisions now pressed through Korea like the iron jaws of a bear. Naval staff watched U-boat kill confirmations scroll across the ticker feed like some surreal, blessed lottery.
Yet in the center of it all, Bruno von Zehntner sat silent—hands folded, eyes half-lidded—barely acknowledging the room.
The Kaiser, flushed with exhilaration, pointed toward the strait off Buka with childlike wonder.
"Mein Gott, von Zehntner! You've shattered their entire Pacific Fleet. And with only four ships and a minefield. What do we even call such a maneuver?"
Bruno didn't smile. He didn't even look up. He merely exhaled through his nose like a man forced to explain arithmetic to children.
"Ambush. Kill-zone doctrine. Coordinated fire control. What we've rehearsed since 1920."
