The halls of the Imperial Ministry smelled of sweat and scorched lacquer, heavy with the dread of men who knew they were witnessing the final pages of their empire's long chronicle.
Maps of the home islands lay scattered across broad polished tables, some edges charred where frantic officers had stubbed out cigarettes too close. Pin flags marked depots that no longer existed, divisions that no longer lived.
And on a raised dais under the silent portraits of emperors past, the War Cabinet gathered.
General Kuroda sat with his head bowed, the veins in his temples pulsing. Across from him, Admiral Yamamuro held a handkerchief over his mouth as if to block out the stench of ruin carried on every breath.
"Osaka," Kuroda rasped finally. "Kobe. Nagoya. Three of our industrial lungs collapsed in a single hour. The arsenals are gone. The munitions warehouse; erased. Civilian districts… ash."
