Chapter 367: A Demigod Falls, a Sea of Blood at World's End

The Candle Dragon had fought bitterly for a long time, taking over forty cannonballs in total. Its exterior was already in a terrible state—the topsail on the foremast had been completely shredded by chain shot, hanging in tatters like a bundle of rags, with masses of rigging dangling down and dragging along the ship's side.

The hull's sides were full of cannon holes, with teak fibers fraying outward at the breaches, bristling with wood splinters. Five or six patches had been applied at the waterline, yet two holes still leaked, and the deck pumps ran without cease, drawing seawater up from the hold and discharging it back into the sea.

Wounded sailors, masses of snapped rigging, shredded sailcloth, and broken timbers lay strewn across the deck in every direction. Dark red bloodstains and scorched black marks were everywhere, and the air reeked of gunpowder, blood, and charred wood.

The Hercules was in even worse shape. She had taken over a hundred cannonballs, and with water flooding in on one side, the hull listed nearly ten degrees to starboard. The gunports on the lower gun deck were already close to the waterline—almost every time a broadside was fired, a great rush of seawater poured in through the open ports.

Four of her ribs had been shattered, and the starboard bow had caved in and deformed, the hull planking split open—whenever a cannonball struck, large chunks of timber fell away. Counting both sides together, eight gun carriages had been smashed to pieces, the cannons crashing down and wrecking the deck, while three gun barrels had been hit directly and caved in. Gunners were severely shorthanded—even marines, riggers, the ship's surgeon, and the cooks had to serve as gun crew.

In the moonlight, the Hercules and the Candle Dragon could barely make out each other's hulls, roughly fifty paces apart, still exchanging fire without pause.

From the bastion walls, all that could be seen was the ceaseless twinkling of lights on the sea's surface.

"Boom! Boom! Boom…"

The Candle Dragon's gun muzzles flared in sequence, briefly illuminating the entire stretch of sea, revealing corpses, splintered planks, barrels, and tung oil floating everywhere on the water. The Hercules erupted from both sides with tremendous, muffled thumping sounds—her twenty-four-pounders and eighteen-pounders easily tore through four layers of hull planking, adding four more gaping holes at the waterline.

The Hercules' four pumps ran at maximum capacity, drawing out a thousand gallons of seawater per minute, yet still they could not stop the hull from slowly sinking. On deck, the boatswain's shouts and the wounded's screams mingled together.

"Anyone still available? The forward deck guns need hands!"

"My arm… God, save me…"

"Incoming fire! Incoming fire! Take cover…"

A moment later, another round of fire came from the Hercules' starboard quarter—the ship firing was the Tianyuan.

The Tianyuan had maintained the line of battle alongside the Candle Dragon the entire time, hammering the enemy together, and thanks to her position in the rear, she had suffered only light damage—even now she still had full fighting power.

While the gun deck was reloading, the Candle Dragon's nine-pounders on the open deck had already finished loading first.

Then came a thunderous roar as the nine-pounders fired in succession, grapeshot sweeping across the Hercules' entire deck like rain. Even in the moonlight, great bursts of blood mist and wood splinters could be seen exploding across her deck.

Though the Hercules matched the Candle Dragon almost exactly in tonnage and number of guns, her overall gun caliber was a full tier lower.

Her main battery consisted of eighteen-pounders, with twelve-pounders mounted at bow and stern.

The greatest disparity lay in the anti-boarding guns on the open deck—the Hercules carried twelve three-pounders there.

The Candle Dragon, by contrast, had twelve nine-pounders—and rifled nine-pounders at that, forged and bored by the Fo-ye foundry. At close range, each shot packed the punch of a ten-pounder, and the grapeshot could easily pierce the bulwarks. After just a few exchanges, the Hercules' anti-boarding gun crews had suffered devastating losses.

By now, the Hercules' anti-boarding gun crews were nearly wiped out, leaving her to endure the Candle Dragon's bombardment helplessly.

Even the company officers on the sterncastle deck had taken heavy casualties.

As time wore on, the Hercules' counter-fire grew weaker and weaker, her speed slower and slower, until gradually the Candle Dragon won the weather gauge.

When the Candle Dragon fired a broadside, the wind carried the gun smoke over, completely blinding the Hercules' view.

On the sterncastle deck, the first mate assessed the situation and said with difficulty: "Governor-General, abandon ship."

Luksson said nothing, gazing into the distance. In the moonlight, he could see the fleeing Enkhuizen had been caught by a Great Xia fifth-rate ship and, surrounded, had no choice but to lower the VOC flag and raise a white one.

A vast array of ship lanterns, like stars, dotted the entire sea—most of them the lights of Dutch and Great Xia yachts. Further off, the Dutch medium yacht Leiden was attempting to force its way past the boom chains, dragging the anchored Sea Wolf ship forward more than ten meters before striking the second chain and coming to a complete halt.

The Leiden lay diagonally across the main channel, blocking the way, her bow damaged and flooding badly, her deck tilting sharply. Clearly on the verge of sinking, her crew had no choice but to abandon ship.

The Haarlem and Groningen, following behind the Leiden, were also blocked in the main channel, with several more medium yachts behind them. In an instant, ships outside wanted to get in, ships inside wanted to get out—the main channel was completely jammed.

The Yunming, Xingming, Zheng He, and a host of other Great Xia warships pursued relentlessly from behind, herding the Dutch warships toward the main channel like sheep. Knowing that waiting any longer meant only capture, several of the medium yachts turned about to fight back, and in a moment, muzzle flashes lit up the entire sea for over ten li in every direction.

The thunder of cannon fire merged into one continuous roar, sounding like a volcanic eruption.

Meanwhile, quite a few small and medium yachts risked crossing the shallow-water zone. Most ran aground before getting far, their hulls heeling over to one side, no longer able to move—the Dutch sailors could only abandon ship and flee.

But the Sea Wolf ships were prowling the shallows, and whenever they spotted a grounded yacht, they surrounded it.

The Sea Wolf ships were helpless against armed merchantmen, but against small boats, it was a one-sided slaughter.

Under European naval custom, if you surrendered and handed over your warship, you were a first-class prisoner of war—treated well and allowed to ransom yourself with money. But if you scuttled or burned your ship before surrendering, you were a second-class prisoner, at the complete mercy of the victor—even enslavement was possible. Now, with the Sea Wolf ships circling about, the Dutch sailors knew that lowering their boats offered no hope of escape either, and most of the grounded ships chose to lower the VOC flag and surrender.

"Five hits at the waterline!"

A sailor came up from the Hercules' lower deck, shouting in terror.

The officers on the sterncastle could all feel the ship slowing steadily, settling deeper and deeper into the water.

"Sir, we've failed—please give the order to abandon ship!" the first mate shouted.

The muscles of Luksson's face twitched continuously as he strained to keep his voice steady: "Abandon ship!"

The first mate bellowed the order down the line.

After the long exchange of fire, most of the Hercules' boats had been destroyed—but fortunately, even more of her crew were dead, and the remaining boats were enough to carry every living sailor.

Before long, three boats were lowered, and the sailors scrambled to jump into the water and climb aboard. A few marines guarded the last boat—that one was reserved for the officers.

The first mate said: "Sir, please come aboard with me."

Luksson said: "You go on. Let me be alone for a while."

The first mate was briefly stunned, then said urgently: "Sir, we haven't lost yet—Batavia needs you!"

Luksson said calmly: "Batavia has no need for failures."

With that, he walked down from the sterncastle and entered the captain's cabin alone.

On the stern deck, the officers watched him in silence, unable to utter a word. Only after the Governor-General had entered the captain's cabin did they silently board the boat. Under the sustained bombardment from the Candle Dragon and the Tianyuan, even boarding the boats cost the Dutch heavy casualties. Many officers were scared out of their wits and jumped straight into the water before the boats were even lowered.

It was a sorry sight, but at least it meant survival. Five or six officers still on deck, however, caught a full blast of grapeshot—their bodies instantly burst into clouds of blood mist that spattered down onto the sea with a crackling sound.

Seeing this, the surviving officers and sailors dared not linger a moment longer and flung themselves into the sea one after another.

Because it was too dark and the crowd too panicked, one man actually jumped directly onto a boat that was already packed full of people.

The Hercules' freeboard was a full seven or eight meters, and the force of the fall was tremendous. The man who jumped broke both legs on impact, screaming in agony, while another man he landed on had his neck snapped and died on the spot.

Four or five more had ribs broken or spines snapped, bones cracking through flesh, blood spraying two meters.

The entire boat was rocked violently by the impact, a large gash torn open in its port side. Seawater poured in ceaselessly, and within minutes the whole boat sank, sending over twenty sailors into the water.

Seeing this, the other boats scattered in panic, not even stopping to rescue their comrades in the water.

In Batavia in April, even at night the water temperature was close to thirty degrees—no one would freeze to death.

Unfortunately, most of the Dutch sailors couldn't swim. These men came mostly from the lower classes—they'd never had the opportunity to learn swimming, nor the inclination. Moreover, the military and the company actively discouraged sailors from learning to swim, believing it would encourage them to jump ship and desert.

And so, within a mere ten minutes, nearly all of those sailors in the water had drowned.

Aboard the *Hercules*, Lucaszoon stood before the porthole of the captain's cabin, gazing across the sea at the cannon fire. His body trembled slightly, his jaw clenched tight, as he struggled to maintain a composed expression.

From the hold beneath his feet came the sound of seawater surging in, while the entire ship groaned with agonizing creaks.

With the crew having abandoned ship, the four bilge pumps were left unmanned, and the vessel was sinking rapidly.

Before Lucaszoon's eyes, the sea level was visibly drawing closer.

By the dim moonlight, he could see the crew of the *Hercules* rowing three small boats, fleeing toward Batavia.

Further out, a Sea Wolf warship emerged from the shadows. A flash of cannon fire—and one of the boats burst apart as if exploded, blood mist spreading through the air. The sailors amidships were nearly all turned to pulp, while those fore and aft were drenched in blood and gore, frozen in shock.

After a brief moment of stunned paralysis, a sailor threw down his oar and shouted, "We surrender! We surrender!"

The cry of surrender carried far—even Lucaszoon could hear it—and as if infected by it, the Dutch sailors on the other two boats joined in shouting their surrender as well.

By now, seawater had reached the open deck of the *Hercules*. The hull pitched bow-high and stern-low, and water was flowing into the captain's cabin, quickly soaking Lucaszoon's leather boots.

A tremendous crash came from the foredeck, accompanied by a violent shudder. Judging by the direction of the sound, the bowsprit must have snapped. The vibration knocked an oil painting from the cabin wall, sending it falling into the seawater.

Lucaszoon stepped forward slowly, picked up the painting, wiped the water from it, then hung it back on the wall. He adjusted it for a moment until the painting hung perfectly straight, not a hair out of place.

Just then, the hull tilted again, and a great wave surged into the captain's cabin, completely swallowing Lucaszoon and his painting.

The councilors kept watch on the bastion through the night. During the first half of the night, the sea was pitch black, but the cannon fire was thunderous—the battle seemed locked in a bitter stalemate. By the latter half of the night, the gunfire gradually thinned, and the councilors' hearts sank along with it.

Around three in the morning, the cannon fire on the sea had ceased entirely, with only the occasional scattered gunshot still audible.

At the same time, a few small boats straggled back to Batavia's harbor. According to these surviving sailors, the situation on the sea was not encouraging.

However, because of the darkness, these sailors had not seen the full battlefield, so the councilors still clung to a thread of hope.

One councilor consoled himself: "The Batavia waterway is narrow and dangerous to navigate, so the Governor-General must have decided to return to port in the morning—that must be it!"

Another councilor clasped the *Bible* in both hands and prayed: "Almighty Lord, hear the cries of your servant…"

As if in answer to their devout prayers, a blinding red light suddenly flared up one hundred and twenty li south of Batavia. The firelight illuminated the mountainside, like a vast smoldering bonfire.

About three minutes later, a low, rumbling boom rolled in—heavier and deeper than a thousand shipboard cannons firing at once.

All the citizens of Batavia turned to look at once. There, around the midslope of Mount Salak, a ring of dark red glow encircled the mountain, staining the low clouds a somber crimson.

Then a column of brilliant orange eruption shot up from the mountainside. The column rose some four hundred zhang into the sky, slanting toward the heavens, churning endlessly. Its summit rapidly dimmed to a dark red, then was torn apart by the night wind into gray clouds that blotted out the stars behind them.

The color of the eruption column quickly faded, with faint blue arcs of electricity flickering within it.

It was a long while before the thunderous roar of the eruption finally reached them from afar.

The people living on Java—whether natives or Dutch—were all quite familiar with volcanic eruptions. On an ordinary day, they might marvel at the wonders of creation, but with the fleet battle still undecided, the councilors had no mind to watch the spectacle of the eruption.

A servant approached and said, "Sir, the volcanic ash is coming. Please retreat indoors for now."

Van der Meer said, "The fleet has yet to reach a conclusion—how can we retire to our rooms?"

The servant said, "At first light, I will come to wake you gentlemen."

The councilors exchanged glances and accepted the proposal, each taking lodging in the bastion's main building nearby.

But dawn was not far off. Van der Meer had just finished washing up in his room and lain down on the bed. He was drifting between sleep and waking when someone roused him. The servant's voice trembled: "Sir… it's… it's dawn…"

Van der Meer had no time to mind his dignity. He threw on a coat, covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief, and hurried to the city wall. When he saw the scene before him, every councilor froze in shock.

Some went weak in the legs and collapsed outright against the wall; others could only stand by gripping the parapet.

Some gasped for breath, chests heaving violently, unable to suppress dry heaves.

The sky was the scarlet of blood—the sun was nowhere to be seen. Snowflakes drifted down endlessly from above, settling on eaves, cannons, and rocks, forming gray-brown drifts: falling volcanic ash.

The sea was covered with grounded and shattered warships, with floating corpses everywhere. They were not dense, but spread extremely wide, nearly covering the entire sea. Between sea and sky it was dim beyond measure, the water's surface cast entirely in dark bronze. Even the foam churned up by the waves carried a faint red tinge, as if the sea had been dyed into a blood ocean by the bodies of the Dutch.

Amid that sea of blood, the Great Xia fleet stood immovable like mountains. The dark red banners on the rails snapped and rippled endlessly, nearly merging with the sky and sea into one.

The councilors and all the citizens of Batavia watched this scene in silence, unable to speak for a long time. The entire city fell into a deathly stillness. After a long while, someone took out a *Bible*, trembling, wanting to pray—but his hands shook so violently that he dropped the *Bible* to the ground. He tried to pick it up, but his hands trembled too much to grip it. After several failed attempts, he broke into muffled sobbing, confessing to God in garbled words between his tears.

The eldest councilor also fell to his knees, pressing his forehead against the cold stone, repeatedly confessing the sins of the Company's greedy plunder.

Before long, muffled weeping rose across all of Batavia. Though each person's voice was small, gathered together they were exceptionally clear. The citizens were convinced that the flames on the mountain and the overturned ships at sea were all the apocalyptic punishment sent down by God.

From the founding of Batavia to Governor-General Coen's massacres in the Banda Islands, the citizens knew full well the many evils the Company had committed. Though they usually numbed themselves with the excuse of civilized expansion, seeing true apocalyptic visions still struck fear from the depths of their hearts.

Out in the waters beyond Batavia, aboard the Dutch seven-gun hunting sloop *Reef*, Captain Reiersen saw this scene of the end of days and froze in terror. His eyes were vacant, his lips trembling slightly. Fear had reached its absolute peak within him, yet for a long while he could not utter a single word, nor move a single step—his entire being seemed to have left his body. Ever since the Battle of Malacca, Reiersen had suffered from a severe psychological condition. Merely hearing the words "Lin Qian," "Great Xia," or "Han Chinese" would send tremors through his very core, and he would feel an uncontrollable urge to flee.

When the two fleets clashed and he saw the Company's fleet losing ground, he could no longer suppress his fear and ordered the *Reef* to break away from the fleet.

The *Reef* had never participated in the battle at all—the ship was completely undamaged—but bound by Reiersen's authority as captain, the crew could only obey.

After sailing aimlessly westward for several hours, the crew could no longer endure such cowardice. They mutinied and forced Reiersen to turn back to the battlefield.

And the moment they returned, they saw this horrifying scene. Every sailor was struck dumb with terror.

So everything Reiersen had said was true after all.

Lin Qian could unleash sorcery. He was the incarnation of the devil, a messenger of hell.

An hour ago, these words had been wild, exaggerated nonsense—but now, looking at this, they seemed almost restrained in their description.

A single battle producing such heaven-and-earth-changing terror could hardly be the work of an ordinary devil. It must be Satan himself, come in person. At this moment, the sailors no longer looked at their captain with contempt, but with reverence and hope. If Lin Qian truly was Satan, then Reiersen was undoubtedly a prophet.

Even the first mate, who had shouted the loudest during the mutiny, now spoke in a trembling voice: "C-Captain, sir… what do we do?"

Reiersen mumbled something the first mate could not make out. A moment later, Reiersen gathered every ounce of his strength and shouted: "Flee!"

Every sailor returned to his post, and the ship turned about on the spot, sailing northwest.

The seven-gun hunting sloop's provisions were insufficient for an ocean crossing, but having witnessed such a terrifying sight, everyone only wanted to get away as fast as possible.

Aboard the *Candle Dragon*, the door to the captain's cabin opened a crack. Bai Qing slipped in with her face veiled, immediately closing the door behind her to keep out the volcanic ash. She removed her veil, revealing that the cloth around the nostrils had already turned somewhat black.

Lin Qian poured her a cup of tea. Taking it, Bai Qing said, "Your Majesty, the damage to the *Candle Dragon*'s waterline has been repaired. The breaches on the port and starboard sides have not yet been touched—per Your Majesty's orders, we've temporarily covered them with canvas to keep out the ash. The wounded have been settled in the lower hold."

Lin Qian said, "Mm. The entire fleet should stay in their cabins as much as possible. All other matters can wait until the volcanic ash has dispersed."

Bai Qing took a sip of tea and said, "How long will that take? I just counted from the deck—including those that surrendered and those that ran aground, there are over a dozen Dutch warships! Such a vast windfall—I won't feel at ease until it's safely in our hands!"

Lin Qian opened the porthole a crack, held his breath, and looked up at the sky. In the space of less than an hour, the scarlet of the sky had already dimmed somewhat. Combined with the modest eruption column he had seen the night before, it seemed the eruption had lasted only a short time—this was not a violent eruption.

He said, "I estimate it will disperse in a day or two—three days at the most."

The volcanic eruptions on Java were famously frequent, small in scale, and low in harm. If the ash from one eruption couldn't fully disperse within three days, then large-scale farming would have been impossible there.

Bai Qing asked again: "Your Majesty, why does the sky look so eerily red?"

Lin Qian closed the window and stuffed the gaps around the porthole with strips of cloth, saying: "That's light scattering caused by volcanic ash entering the atmosphere."

"Oh... ah?" Bai Qing looked completely bewildered.

To be specific, it's the selective scattering effect of volcanic ash aerosols on oblique sunlight at sunrise.

To put it simply and crudely, sunlight is made up of the three primary colors—red, green, and blue—and volcanic ash can absorb the green and blue light, leaving only red light to shine through. The principle is the same as when the sky turns vivid red during a sandstorm.

Besides that, there's also the influence of the near-ground radiation inversion layer, the influence of the eruption type, and the influence of atmospheric cloud masses.

The causes are very complex—even Lin Qian only had a partial understanding.

But Bai Qing was already confused after hearing just the first point: "Light is made of red, green, and blue? Why do I see it as white?"

Lin Qian laughed upon hearing this: "Once we've taken Batavia, we can run an experiment and it'll become clear."

Bai Qing grew even more puzzled, resting his chin on his hand: "What does the color of light have to do with Batavia?"

Only by taking Batavia could they build a prism, and only with a prism could they conduct a dispersion experiment.

But explaining this whole chain was too complicated—besides, a hundred words wouldn't match seeing it once with your own eyes.

So Lin Qian just smiled without answering and steered the conversation toward whaling. Out there now, everything was covered in volcanic ash—whether it was the Xia fleet or the Dutch, everyone was stuck in place.

Even aboard the Xia fleet's own ships, no one would go up on deck without urgent military matters.

So Lin Qian had nothing to do at the moment and happened to pick up the earlier thread about whaling to continue the conversation.

Through Bai Qing's descriptions, Lin Qian matched up the black whale, yellow whale, gray whale, and flat whale with their modern names.

Among them, the black whale was the North Pacific right whale—of course, this era couldn't make such fine distinctions, so it could simply be called a right whale.

The name "black whale" was self-explanatory—this species of whale was largely black on the surface of its body.

Because right whales are gentle in temperament, slow in movement, easy to catch, and high in oil yield, they were a star product of the Industrial Revolution era and were historically hunted to the brink of extinction.

But in this era, there was no commercial whaling at all in East Asian waters, and whale populations were abundant—as long as they were caught in moderation, it wouldn't affect their population numbers.

And according to Bai Qing's description, besides right whales, gray whales and minke whales also had value for catching—either for oil or for meat.

Among them, the minke whale was what Bai Qing called the flat whale. This whale was small in size, widely distributed, and while producing oil, its meat was also delicious—it was precisely the most suitable whale species for large-scale hunting.

Speaking of minke whales, Bai Qing licked his lips, recalling the taste from before, and declared he wanted to catch one on the way back.

Bai Qing had even already picked out the whale harpoon: "I think that kind of long halberd the Dutch guards carry would work well—just modify the head a bit and add a barb." The two chatted about whaling while drinking tea, and soon it was lunchtime. A personal guard brought the meal and said at the same time: "Your Majesty, the ash outside has stopped falling!" "Good—order Wang Ruzhong to prepare for landing!" Lin Qian rose to his feet and said, "Come on, let's go see the spoils!"

Yahei

Pink Round

Pen