Chapter 272: The Divine Miracle of Thunder-Tempered Bodies

On the satellite cloud map, a squall line is a narrow, elongated cloud band that moves forward at extreme speed.

The thunderstorm cloud mass regenerates at the front and dissipates at the rear as the squall line advances, producing this continuous forward-moving lightning strike effect.

Boom! Boom!

Thunder in the sky grew denser and denser; some colossal bolts even spread like spiderwebs across the cloud layer for several hundred zhang, illuminating the sea surface as bright as day within seconds.

Boom!

Another thunderbolt crashed down, striking dead center on the mainmast of an Acehnese galley.

A silver-blue electric arc flashed, and the wooden mast exploded in an instant, wood splinters blasting outward like shrapnel, blowing open the hull and the middle of the deck along with it.

After the lightning vanished, only two sections of the hull remained on the sea, wreathed in blazing orange-red fire.

The surrounding Acehnese ships scattered to avoid it, as if fearing the lightning's misfortune would spread to them.

Sultan Muda stood on his deck as immovable as a prophet, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on Lin Qian's flagship.

One strike—just one—would be enough to blast the mainmast apart and set the whole ship ablaze.

Even as he roared out his chanting of scripture—

A bolt of lightning split the sky, striking dead center on the Zhulong's mainmast without the slightest deviation, the surrounding sea stabbed blindingly bright by the electric glare.

In that instant, the world fell silent.

Then a thunderous boom erupted, the sound almost physical, shaking the deck with a faint tremor.

"Hahaha..." Sultan Muda laughed in triumphant glee—but after three ha's, he stopped as abruptly as a duck with its neck wrung, his face twisting in horror as he watched a blue-white serpent of fire race down the Zhulong's mainmast, pierce through the deck, and vanish from sight.

A moment later, a blue-white halo emerged on the sea surface around the Zhulong—so faint that, were it not for the pitch-black night, it would have been nearly invisible. Sultan Muda felt as if struck by five thunderbolts at once, staring blankly at the scene, unable to believe his own eyes.

It all happened in the blink of an eye; in a single instant, every anomaly vanished, as if no lightning had ever fallen.

"Th-that... what? That was..." Aboard the World Wonder, the Acehnese ministers could no longer form a complete sentence.

Everyone had just witnessed the scene, yet not a single person believed it was real—even having seen it with their own eyes, they dared not believe.

But immediately after, a second bolt of lightning struck down, its arc even thicker, writhing and twisting through the air in pure blue-white, hitting dead center on the very tip of the Zhulong's mainmast.

Boom!

A single thunderous strike, shaking sea and sky into a boil.

In the Acehnese eyes, the lightning was absorbed by the Zhulong's mainmast, transforming into a gleaming serpent of fire that raced straight down the mast.

This time the spectacle was even more exaggerated: the fire-serpent spread across the entire length of the mainmast, blue electric arcs bursting from its middle section, sparks raining down between the arcs. In an instant, the arcs burrowed into the Zhulong's hull, and the pale blue halo on the surrounding sea grew even more conspicuous.

By now the wind was dying rapidly and the towering waves were gradually calming, allowing this divine miracle to fall clearly into the eyes of every Acehnese. Many Acehnese set down their weapons, knelt on the decks, pressed their hands together, palms raised toward the sky, and worshipped the miracle.

Only a few hardliners still stubbornly held their ground.

But even these people froze in shock at what they saw next.

A faint blue-white radiance began to glow from the Zhulong, enveloping the entire hull; the light was slightly more pronounced at the tips of the masts and yardarms, and visibly grew brighter by the moment.

Faced with such a divine miracle, mortals no longer possessed the will to resist.

Aboard the Acehnese fleet, every single person knelt involuntarily—even the Sultan's own ministers were no exception.

Everyone was loudly chanting scripture; no one rowed, no one worked the sails, and no one fought.

Sultan Muda was shaken to his core, but seeing the state of his ministers and warriors, he still forced himself to shout: "Get up! Do not kneel! This is lightning punishing the enemies of Allah!"

Some ministers heard his cry and rose hesitantly, but most had been scared out of their wits and could no longer hear anything at all.

Aboard the Zhulong, meanwhile, Lin Qian's pressure was no less than Muda's—his crew had witnessed two lightning strikes at close range and were shaken beyond all measure.

Add to that their hair standing on end and blue light radiating from the hull, and the sailors were gripped by sheer terror.

Quite a few had already knelt where they stood, loudly praying to Mazu and Third Granny.

Even Qin Liangyu was stunned by the two lightning strikes; gazing at the strange sights around her, she couldn't help wondering whether she had already died.

In the midst of the confusion and panic, Lin Qian's voice rang out from the quarterdeck: "Everyone, clear the lightning rod area—the third strike is coming!" Lin Qian took a deep breath and kept shouting across the deck, and the boatswain snapped back to his senses, relaying the helmsman's orders down to the gun deck.

Lin Qian opened his mouth, covered his ears, and looked up. By now all the rigging on the mainmast had been furled, leaving his view unobstructed straight to the masthead. In the dark night sky, a slender copper needle pierced toward the heavens, its tip wreathed in dazzling blue light.

That blue light was St. Elmo's fire—known in the Great Ming as Mazu fire.

This was the atmospheric corona discharge phenomenon at sharp points—the lightning rod, yardarms, anchor chain tips, and so on—caused by the concentration of the electric field when the thunderstorm cloud arrived over the warship.

Put simply, it was the warning signal before a lightning strike.

Before the previous two strikes, the Zhulong had also shown St. Elmo's fire, but it had been faint, and the interval between the two strikes had been so short that the men's eyes had not yet recovered from the blinding glare of the lightning—so they hadn't seen it.

Limited by the metallurgy and insulating materials of this era, the resistance of the lightning rod's conductor wire was far from low.

And the soaked mast itself was a non-uniform conductor—though its resistance was extremely high, current would still flow through it.

This meant the entire lightning protection system was highly prone to cumulative damage.

The blinding arcs and sparks produced during the second strike were a direct manifestation of that damage.

All they could do was pray it would survive the third.

Boom!

A thunderbolt finally gathered its full strength and slammed down from the sky, striking the tip of the lightning rod once again—the deafening boom and the electric arc arriving almost simultaneously. Beneath the thunder, the shockwave hammered through the air as if someone had smashed a hammer against their chest.

An electric arc shot down from the lightning rod, racing along the copper conductor cable down the mainmast, flaring into blinding arcs wherever the cable was loosely secured. This time the arc was even more extreme—a full five or six meters long, spreading across the entire mainmast, and over a dozen rigging lines were burned straight through.

The raging current followed the copper conductor into the hold, piercing layer after layer through the gun deck, the lower deck, and the bilge, all the way down to the ship's bottom. During her dry-dock refit, the Zhulong had been sheathed in copper over only three-tenths of her hull—both to test the copper-sheathing technology and to provide grounding for the lightning rod, channeling the current into the sea.

The blue glow in the seawater around the Zhulong was the blue-white arc light produced when the current discharged into the sea instantly ionized the air in the water. As the lightning receded, darkness closed in around the Zhulong, St. Elmo's fire vanished completely, and only a dozen or so burned-through rigging lines kept falling from midair. By now the cloud mass overhead had visibly thinned considerably, and the wind and rain showed signs of abating.

Lin Qian hurriedly ordered the crew to rise and prepare for battle.

Aboard the Courage, the Dutch had already collapsed into a sea of kneeling figures, each clutching a cross and praying loudly.

And Reiersen had been utterly convinced the moment the first bolt fell—he finally understood the root of everything.

Why had the expedition to Macao failed?

Why had Governor-General Coen met his death?

Why had Lin Qian been able to defeat the Dutch again and again?

That was because Lin Qian was not human at all! He was either a messenger of God, or he was a demon—perhaps even the incarnation of Satan himself. That bolt of lightning was enough to strike dead ten popes plus fifty cardinals.

And not only was the Candle Dragon unscathed, it had been empowered by the lightning's force.

Lin Qian had finally stopped pretending, openly using sorcery!

And after the second and third bolts struck down, Rellson was so terrified his sphincter went slack.

Counting the Battle of Malacca, he had opposed Lin Qian three times in total, and yet he had somehow survived to this day—even the Dutch warship traveling with him had been struck by lightning, while he himself remained completely unharmed.

This was simply a miracle.

Watching the Acehnese pray even more devoutly than the Dutch, Rellson's heart was already collapsing.

Forget winning this battle—even escaping with his life would be God's grace.

Having reasoned this through, Rellson rose from the ground. His legs had been kneeling too long and had completely lost feeling; he stumbled and fell on the deck at the stern.

He cared nothing for dignity now. Bracing himself with his arms, he crawled across the deck to the railing and shouted at the crew: "Turn around! We're going home!"

"What about the Silver Serpent?" someone asked.

Rellson roared in anger: "Damn it, is now the time to save our allies? We're fighting Satan! Turn around! While we still have the Acehnese as a shield, flee!"

"Aye, sir!" the crew answered in unison, then took their positions, preparing to get underway.

By now the wind had weakened considerably, dropping to a suitable force for sailing warships. With the dark clouds gradually dispersing, visibility on the sea improved. The Warrior circled around, turned its bow, and fled toward the southeast of the strait.

Without warning, without informing their allies, the Dutch on the Silver Serpent could only stare in disbelief.

Only after the Warrior had dashed out several hundred meters did the Silver Serpent's captain react, hurriedly ordering his crew to turn around and follow.

Though the Silver Serpent's mainmast had been shattered by lightning, it could still manage to sail on its foremast and mizzenmast alone.

The Acehnese, having witnessed the miracle of three lightning strikes with their own eyes, seen their allies abandon them, endured the terrifying storm, and suffered grievous casualties, had their morale plummet to rock bottom—completely broken in both body and spirit.

The fleet was entirely beyond the control of the Sultan and the Laksamana, and ships began scattering in flight.

At first it was just one or two vessels, then it escalated into a mass flight of the entire fleet.

The Acehnese fleet was scattered chaotically across the sea, and after the storm their formation was even more disordered. Charging forward together had been manageable, but now fleeing in all directions, ships collided with one another in an instant, tangling into chaos.

Some ships, desperate to escape, raised all their lateen sails, making them faster—and their collisions all the more violent.

In the space of a single incense stick's burning, more than a dozen galleys had collided and sunk on the sea—more casualties than a full round of cannon fire.

The Sumatra squall came quickly and left quickly; the wind soon dropped to force 5.

Sultan Muda stood at the bow, shouting: "While the enemy hasn't raised sail yet, charge! Charge and we're sure to win!"

But the entire fleet was scattering in flight, the command system completely collapsed, and no matter how he yelled and screamed, it was to no avail.

The captain of the World Wonder ordered the warship to turn northwest—if they could only flee back to Banda Aceh, all was not yet lost. Aboard the Candle Dragon, the crew raised sail under Lin Qian's orders and gave chase to the Acehnese fleet.

The mainmast's lightning rod had too much resistance; theoretically it still wasn't safe, but with a great enemy before them, there was no time to worry about such things.

Soon the sails on all three masts were fully raised, and the Candle Dragon slowly accelerated. With over a dozen rigging lines burned through, the sails were unstable; the riggers knotted the broken lines back together, barely holding things together.

Lin Qian ordered: "Cut off the fleet fleeing toward Banda Aceh."

The helmsman said: "Hard to starboard, heading due west, port side to wind."

The hull lurched with the turn. A moment later, the cannons on both sides of the Candle Dragon opened fire anew. The Acehnese ships around them had no will to resist left—they only turned to dodge.

On both flanks of the battle line, vast stretches of sea opened up, making the already navigation-restricted Acehnese fleet even more crowded, with collisions growing ever more frequent. And because they were packed so densely, a single shot could often blast through several galleys in succession, wood splinters and mist of blood mingling together, scattering through the air. "The wind has shifted—southeast wind, force 4!" the navigator shouted.

The helmsman said: "Port side running with the wind, change sails."

The boatswain shouted: "Haul the sheets taut, adjust to the wind angle!"

The Candle Dragon's mainmast yard turned, when suddenly several rigging lines snapped, the yard went out of control, and the hull shuddered—the rigger sitting on the yard was nearly shaken off the ship.

"Ease the sheets, reset immediately!" the boatswain shouted.

The rigger loosened control of the sail while climbing along the shrouds, gathering the broken lines and retying them tight.

By now the storm had completely receded. A new moon hung in the sky, and the stars shone brilliantly in the night, as if that world-destroying storm had never existed. Astern of the Candle Dragon, land could be seen drawing nearer—mangrove trees had been ravaged by the storm, many toppled or snapped, and a layer of broken branches lay spread across the sea surface.

The lookout shouted: "Five hundred paces from shore!"

This was already within the Candle Dragon's firing range. Not a single enemy ship had made it ahead of the Candle Dragon—the route back to Banda Aceh had been completely sealed off by Lin Qian.

Aboard the World Wonder, Sultan Muda saw this and shouted loudly: "Charge! Grapple with the enemy, lure them aground!"

But his ministers had already been scared out of their wits, hoarsely urging him to stay calm, while the captain seized the opportunity to turn the ship and sail southeast.

Sailing against the wind was completely upwind for a sailing warship, but galleys could row forward—perhaps they could escape. Muda watched helplessly as the fleet turned away, carrying him farther and farther from Banda Aceh.

In that instant, he felt that victory, honor, Allah, and the grand vision of the Malay Empire had all departed from him as well.

Aboard the Candle Dragon, Lin Qian saw the enemy fleet turn around and ordered: "Heading southeast, sail close to shore."

The wind continued to drop, and with the Candle Dragon sailing at a sharp angle into the wind, its speed was not fast—it was gradually being left behind by the Acehnese fleet.

But that didn't matter. The Acehnese fleet was far too large; even if Lin Qian caught up, cannon fire alone couldn't destroy too many of them—it could only scatter the enemy. What Lin Qian wanted was to drive the enemy into a dead end, completely seal off their retreat, and then wipe them out in one net.

Seen from the sky, the Nan'ao fleet was like a sheepdog, continuously herding the Acehnese fleet.

And the terrified Acehnese, like a panicked flock of sheep, step by step walked into the trap.

The two fleets chased each other along the Strait of Malacca like this. Three days later, the remnants of the Acehnese fleet returned to the siege camp at Malacca.

Sultan Muda's lips were cracked and dry, his frame hunched; he could barely stand steady when disembarking. His ministers and sailors were in even worse shape.

Because the fleet had insufficient supplies, only one-way provisions had been kept aboard; water and food had been exhausted during the flight, and the surviving fleet had practically rowed back to camp on willpower alone.

Malaja, the Acehnese army commander left holding the siege camp, was shocked at the sight and hastily ordered water and food to be brought.

The Sultan snatched the water jug, opened the lid, and gulped down the water in great swallows before recovering somewhat.

He turned and gazed back—the sea was calm and still, nothing there. But he knew Lin Qian's fleet was doggedly following like a haunting spirit, and would soon surround them.

The Sultan swept his gaze roughly over the shore. His fleet was down to half, all casually moored along the coast—the moment the enemy arrived, they would be caught in one net. This was Aceh's last naval force; it could not be allowed to perish like this.

He gave the order with difficulty: "Move the fleet into the Duyong River."

Aboard the Candle Dragon, Lin Qian received the eagle boat's report and learned of the Acehnese' final struggle. He couldn't help but smile knowingly—history had produced a striking coincidence. Lin Qian said: "Order Zheng Zhilong to take the Tianyuan, the Zheng He, and six ahat-class vessels to blockade the mouth of the Duyong River.

Order Wang Ruzhong to lead the marines, flintlock musketeers, and the Siraya mercenaries to land and set up camp near the river mouth."

The Candle Dragon and the heavily damaged warships anchored at the city of Malacca.

"Yes!" The messenger set out by boat to relay the order.

Moments later, the fleet split in two—the main force surged toward the mouth of the Duyong River, while Lin Qian followed the Candle Dragon toward the city of Malacca. He first sent an eagle boat ahead to explain the situation, then made his request to anchor.

The Portuguese garrison atop the city walls saw the fleet approaching and braced for battle, but when they saw it was their allies and learned the Aceh fleet had been defeated, they cheered and allowed Lin Qian's fleet to dock.

Aboard the Candle Dragon, Lin Qian looked toward the shore. He saw that the city was split by a great river into east and west banks—the west bank held the residential and commercial districts, while the east bank held the Portuguese bastion.

The staff officer accompanying the ship took out his notebook and said: "Helmsman, the city of Malacca has a population of five thousand. Its grain is barely enough for self-sufficiency, and most of the populace makes their living repairing ships. Additionally, this city is the only major city in the middle of the strait—every vessel passing through must pay heavy taxes to the Portuguese. The cargo tax is generally one-tenth of the goods' value; if transporting spices, another three-tenths is added. There are also ship taxes, harbor fees, berthing charges, pilotage fees, and so on.

All told, it comes to roughly two to five-tenths of the cargo's value."

Lin Qian now understood why Zhong Aqi had chosen to charge straight through the strait back then. On that voyage, his ship had carried one hundred thousand taels of silver—in one go, he would have been charged at least twenty thousand taels, at most fifty thousand taels in taxes. No one could stomach that.

But this kind of unreasonable tax system would not exist from this moment onward.

Because from now on, this was Lin Qian's strait.

As they neared the harbor, the city of Malacca sent men out to pilot them in.

Lin Qian said: "Once ashore, do two things. First, under the pretext of joint defense, send troops into the bastion. Second, gather every shipwright in the city." "Yes!"

When the Portuguese heard that Lin Qian's troops demanded entry into the bastion, they could only open the gates with helpless resignation.

On the grounds of sentiment—when the Acehnese had besieged Malacca, it was Lin Qian who had sent men to continuously deliver supplies into the city. Without Lin Qian, the defenders would have died long ago.

On the grounds of reason—Lin Qian also had cannons, an army, and the battle record of taking Fort San Felipe. His siege capability was even greater than the Acehnese'. To resist stubbornly would only lead to death.

In the days that followed, the Candle Dragon rested and refitted at the city of Malacca, while Zheng Zhilong, Wang Ruzhong, and the others set up positions at the mouth of the Duyong River. Everything proceeded smoothly and in order. Meanwhile, the Acehnese army, trapped in a desperate situation, grew ever more hopeless.

Sultan Mudah ordered several heavily damaged galleys to be smashed open and sunk in the river mouth, and artillery positions to be set up facing the river's exit.

This indeed kept the Nan'ao navy from entering, but the problem was—the Acehnese couldn't get out either.

The Acehnese army had originally been short on supplies, but after the disastrous defeat, over ten thousand soldiers had been killed, wounded, or gone missing.

Now in the camp, counting the auxiliary troops and slaves, the Acehnese army numbered fewer than eight thousand, and supplies suddenly became abundant.

But the Acehnese faced far more severe problems—first among them malaria, dysentery, and other strange diseases.

Their camp was surrounded by rainforest swamps—easy to defend, hard to attack—but also extremely humid, with mosquitoes running rampant. Every day, men in the army died of illness. Next was the shortage of drinking water. The Duyong River was ringed by swamps filled with dead branches, rotting leaves, animal dung, and carcasses. Moreover, the river's current was gentle, and seawater flowed back in.

The river water was both salty and bitter, and drinking it made one sick. Boiling it was nearly impossible, as the humidity made fires extremely difficult to start.

Acehnese morale had plummeted to rock bottom—they had been driven into a dead end.

The naval defeat alone could be borne, but the key issue was how bizarrely the sea battle had been lost. The story of the Candle Dragon summoning heavenly thunder to temper its hull yet emerging completely unscathed spread through word of mouth, causing an uproar throughout the army.

In the Islamic faith, thunder held a unique symbolic meaning—it was the manifestation of Allah's will. Their scripture even had an entire chapter devoted to it, called the "Surah of Thunder." Now the enemy fleet emerged unscathed beneath heavenly thunder, while their own ships were shattered and men killed by the strikes—what did that signify?

Add to that the fact that, some time ago, that manifesto of ten crimes had also spread widely through the army.

The claim that His Majesty the Sultan was a sinner who bent over for men—the soldiers hadn't believed it at first. But the Sultan executing his own son, loading wine into supply ships, and brutally slaughtering his opponents were all facts.

And then, in the sea battle, thunder had aided the enemy—was this not Allah manifesting to punish a sinner?

With all these factors stacking up, the Sultan's image plummeted into the abyss in an instant.

His charity, his devout observance of the faith, his grand ambition—all became a joke.

The Sultan himself, though struck by this heavy blow, did not collapse. Instead, he racked his brains for a way to escape his dire straits—but could find none.

To the east, west, north, and south of the Duyong River lay nothing but rainforest swamps—it was fundamentally a green cage. The only way out was through the river mouth. After days of agonizing thought, the despairing Sultan finally hit upon a clever scheme. He summoned his ministers and announced: "Find a death-defying volunteer to deliver a challenge to Lin Qian. I will duel him!"

At the same time, out in the open sea off Malacca, Lin Qian was fiddling with fishing gear on the deck of a galley.

Beside him stood a Malay fisherman, instructing him on fishing technique, along with an interpreter handling translation.

"Helmsman, please thread the fish meat onto the hook... no, no, not like that—you must thread it through several times, or the grouper will just tear it off with one tug... yes, now cast the hook out. It needs to sink to the bottom, but don't let out too much line—the seabed here is coral reef. If it sinks too deep, the hook will snag on the rocks." Under the fisherman's guidance, Lin Qian finally got the hook properly set, then sat down in a chair and picked up a coconut to wait.

He thought to himself that now he finally understood why Zhu Di had loved leading campaigns in person so much—after winning, during the mopping-up phase, savoring the taste of victory was truly delightful. It was now the end of July, the South China Sea storm season; the fleet had no way to contact Nan'ao, and the Acehnese were already trapped by Lin Qian, like a group of crabs that had wandered into a crab cage. Whether it was taking over the city of Malacca or blockading the Acehnese army, there were dedicated men handling each task step by step. Almost nothing required Lin Qian's attention—every day he just fished on the galley, living quite comfortably.

Just as he was drinking coconut water and soaking up the sun, he heard the Malay fisherman shout excitedly.

Without needing the interpreter's warning, Lin Qian knew he had a bite. He immediately set down the coconut, ran to the ship's rail, and grabbed the rod to haul up.

The Malay fisherman shouted excitedly, wishing he could grab on and help himself.

The interpreter stood nearby holding a landing net and said urgently: "Helmsman, don't pull too hard—be careful the rod snaps!"

"Don't worry, I know my own strength!" The rod in Lin Qian's hands was made of ironwood, only about two meters long, hard as iron, with iron bands reinforcing the critical joints—it wouldn't easily break.

The fishing line was of thick coir, with top-grade toughness, and the hook was specially made by Lin Qian himself, complete with barbs.

This set of equipment, placed in the fishing world of this era, was a masterpiece ahead of its time. Lin Qian had had it custom-made over the past few days, and this was its first use. Whatever creature lurked beneath the water was a monster of unknown size, with tremendous strength. Lin Qian used every ounce of his body, leaning back against the strain, just barely managing to pull. As line continued to pay out, the coir line gave off a humming sound—low and deep, proof that the catch was no small fish. Even the ironwood rod was bending slightly. Every part of Lin Qian's body was straining.

The Malay fisherman said: "Feel your rod—if it's diving into deep water, let out some line. If it runs left, pull right; if it runs right, pull left. Wear out its strength!

Be patient, don't be hasty. The bigger the fish, the harder it is to bring up! Anyway, it's already hooked—just outlast it. As long as you stay patient, you'll eventually haul it up!"

Time passed second by second. Lin Qian was still locked in battle with the fish, his whole body aching terribly, yet his spirit was soaring with excitement. This feeling of personally capturing a great beast was utterly magnificent.

Before long, another quarter-hour of stalemate passed, and the fish was still darting and thrashing wildly, as if its strength were inexhaustible.

Fortunately, the galley was large enough—had this been an ordinary small fishing boat, it would surely have been capsized by such force.

The interpreter standing by with the landing net had already wiped sweat from his brow several times.

The Malay fisherman had even started taking off his clothes, saying: "This might well be a king of fish! I'll dive down, stab it dead, and bring it up!"

Geng Wu said: "I'll go get the harpoon!"

Lin Qian squeezed out a single sentence from between his teeth: "Nobody move!"

Risking a man's life for a fish wasn't worth it in Lin Qian's view—but his whole body was straining, and he had no strength left for extra words.

After another pipe's worth of time, Lin Qian suddenly felt the tension on the line slacken—the fish seemed to have exhausted its strength.

Joy rose in Lin Qian's heart. He tentatively reeled in line, and sure enough, the stimulation made the fish surge with power again—but it couldn't sustain it for long. Within moments it went still, and Lin Qian continued reeling, feeling force return to the rod once more.

This back-and-forth repeated five or six times before the great fish finally had no strength left to struggle. Lin Qian reeled it up to the surface bit by bit.

The moment it neared the surface, the fish thrashed desperately once more, sending spray splashing onto the deck and dousing everyone.

The Malay fisherman leaned over the rail and shouted joyfully: "It's a grouper! A big one!"

So saying, he picked up an iron hook and walked to the ship's side. Moments later, the grouper surfaced again—the landing net went down, and the fisherman, with sharp eyes and quick hands, hooked it through the gills. Together, the two of them hauled the fish aboard.

The fish was short and stout overall, about the length of an adult's thigh, with a large body and a thin tail, black back and white belly, covered in black-and-white spots, and a row of spiny dorsal fins along its back—an excellent specimen.

Lin Qian recognized at a glance that this was a giant grouper, known in the Ming as a "long dun." Its flesh was tender and fine—a high-end catch.

This kind of fish liked to hide among coral reefs and could not be caught with trawl nets, so its price was extremely high. Even on the Malay Peninsula, only nobles could afford to eat it. Geng Wu had long since prepared a steelyard rod and a measuring tape; he went over at once to weigh it, then announced in a loud voice: "Two chi two cun, forty-six jin!"

The Malay fisherman said happily: "Fish king—this really is a grouper king!"

Lin Qian rubbed his sore muscles, sat down to drink coconut water, and accepted everyone's flattery and congratulations.

Just then, a hawk boat sailed over from the distance and pulled up alongside the oared sailing ship. A messenger stepped aboard in one stride, clasped his hands toward Lin Qian, and said: "Helmsman, Sultan Muda has sent an envoy!"

Yahei

Fenyuan

Pen