Chapter 969: Through Storm and Wave, the Perilous Seas; First Flights of Ambition, the Hard Road of the Stranger

The captain did not deceive Zhu Yilu; the fleet skimmed the edge of the storm and escaped the danger zone.

The Great Ming understood this sea well—during this season, as long as one didn’t lose course, there would be little danger.

Moreover, even if one accidentally entered a storm, the fast sailers’ hulls were sheathed in copper, excelling in storm resistance, speed, and structural integrity; Zhu Yilu’s flagship faced no danger whatsoever.

Zhu Yilu noticed that for this voyage to Jinsan State, the Great Ming Emperor had dispatched three Star-Tracking Ships to accompany them, and one of those Star-Tracking Ships was stationed beside the flagship.

That meant, even if they became lost in storms or boundless sea fog, the Star-Tracking Ships could still guide Zhu Yilu’s flagship back to the Great Ming or to Jinsan State.

Zhu Yilu was clever—he immediately realized this was protection, a safeguard granted by his elder brother’s cautious foresight.

In the heart of the Lu Prince, his elder brother always placed state affairs first; this voyage to Jinsan State was likely the most blatant act of nepotism the Emperor had ever committed.

“We captured a particularly unusual Japanese slave,” reported Chief Secretary Meng Jinquan in a whisper.

The Japanese slave had already been brought aboard the flagship, which was fully controlled by Embroidered Uniform Guards and elite naval troops; this special slave had been seized aboard a horseboat and, after days of interrogation, his identity was confirmed.

The reason for his arrest was simple: this Japanese slave had been proselytizing to other Japanese slaves on board and was reported by someone.

“He is a fanatic of the Bliss Sect,” Meng Jinquan told Zhu Yilu. “After self-castration, he slipped past the Nagasaki Governor’s inspection and stowed away on a ship bound for Jinsan State to spread his teachings.”

After personally interrogating him, Zhu Yilu ordered the fanatic chopped into eight pieces and cast into the sea.

This was Zhu Yilu’s first direct encounter with a Japanese Bliss Sect follower—and a fanatic at that.

He had never imagined these fanatics could be so deranged; from their fragmented words, the paradise they yearned for was no longer the Blissful Pure Land of the Great Ming.

Of course, the Great Ming still held an exalted place in Bliss Sect doctrine, but the sect’s paradise had become a completely void world—devoid of right or wrong, good or evil, beauty or ugliness, morality or ethics.

In this absolute vacuum, this utter nothingness, only the self remained.

According to the fanatic’s mad ravings, even the Great Ming owed the Bliss Sect—yes, even the Emperor owed the Bliss Sect.

The logic behind this was complex, but roughly it went: Bliss Sect followers longed for the Great Ming, yet the Great Ming had shut its doors on them.

This shift in doctrine was something the Great Ming had not detected, which is why this fanatic had slipped through layers of inspection and appeared aboard the ship.

Zhu Yilu found it impossible to comprehend such madness, could not precisely describe it, and chose only to kill them; based on this newly uncovered information, he ordered a second screening of all Japanese slaves aboard the fleet, identifying and drowning every Bliss Sect adherent.

To Zhu Yilu, the Bliss Sect had twisted itself to an extreme.

Man is the sum of social relations; if even parents, family, children, and close friends meant nothing beyond the self, then one had no social relations at all—and was no longer human.

Moreover, Bliss Sect doctrine always avoided one question: exchange.

Humans must exchange their surplus production for others’ surplus production; this exchange forms the foundation of social relations.

In the Lu Prince’s view, Bliss Sect doctrine was nothing but sophistry, incapable of fundamentally explaining this issue.

In the eyes of Bliss Sect followers, the entire world owed them; everyone should become their devotees, offering everything they had to atone for their sins.

Bliss Sect doctrine was bizarre: it assumed an inherent stance that others were guilty, then, on that basis, invented false justifications—even fabricating crimes for those unrelated to them—and forced them to atone.

Based on the basic theory that social relations rest upon exchange, Zhu Yilu believed he himself was guilty; for years he had lived in luxury and debauchery, relying solely on his relationship with his elder brother, and thus must repay with his status all the privileges he had received.

The Emperor’s most beloved younger brother, the Lu Prince, found this profoundly fair.

Even though sea voyages in this age carried great danger, he still mustered the courage to embark.

All who fed upon the flesh of others were guilty; exploitation caused every tragedy in this world.

But if those who fed upon others were willing to use their power to change this wretched world, they became objects of alliance—worthy of being seen as a process of self-redemption.

This was Zhu Yilu’s conclusion, drawn from Lin Fu’s famous essay “Religious Alienation,” using religious concepts to understand class theory.

But according to Bliss Sect doctrine, the entire world owed Zhu Yilu! Zhu Yilu could never utter such a guilt-ridden lie—the Great Ming had never owed him anything.

The fleet continued onward; Zhu Yilu loved standing on deck, staring at the endless ocean, pondering countless questions.

From the moment he boarded, he was no longer a child hiding behind his mother’s and elder brother’s arms—he was the sovereign of Jinsan State.

After drawing four “zheng” characters, Zhu Yilu fell silent; he became quiet, unwilling to speak to others, often shrinking into a corner of his cabin, eating only one meal a day.

Zhu Yilu missed home.

This was not shameful, but he could not speak of it; as a sovereign, no matter how much he longed for home, such weakness must never show on his person.

He had descended from the opulent heights of the Nine Heavens to a ship with meager material comforts—a drastic shift.

Once, he never worried about food or clothing; now, every bite was disagreeable—he could not eat his favorite dishes, mostly consuming cold, stale meals, either too salty to swallow or too sweet to make his throat ache; even his drinking water carried a strong stench of alcohol and fish, and after a few sips, he felt like vomiting.

There were not even ten thousand beauties.

Before his departure, Chief Secretary Meng Jinquan warned him: a man born noble could never adapt to such a life.

Indeed, Zhu Yilu had fallen into emotional turmoil—homesickness, regret, uncertainty about his future.

After drawing the fifth “zheng” character, Zhu Yilu emerged from these weak emotions and began fishing; sea fishing was troublesome—he caught not a single fish; even the Maritime Patrol Inspector Shuifeng considered diving in to hook one himself.

The Lu Prince did not seek to catch fish—he sought the act of fishing itself; he needed something to do, to keep himself from sinking into endless self-doubt.

Everyone else had tasks; only he was idle. The sailors worked hard daily; only this prince needed merely to ensure his own safety.

When he drew the sixth “zheng” character, Zhu Yilu finally caught his first fish; after catching it, he abandoned fishing and turned to the crossbow.

Fishing rods were too troublesome—he was done with these formalities!

Crossbow—engage!

The crossbow was simply superb; that same day, Zhu Yilu caught a large tuna, a fish common along the route.

“Why can’t I eat raw fish?” Zhu Yilu growled. He had seen other sailors eat sashimi, but Chief Secretary Meng Jinquan forbade him.

“Eating raw fish gives you worms,” Meng Jinquan whispered. “Sea fish carry them too, Your Highness. The Dissection Institute found sea fish harbor parasites capable of infecting humans.”

The Dissection Institute had discovered eleven parasite species on the tuna; several could infect humans—for instance, a worm called gastric nematode, which lodges in the human body. Though it never matures, it causes stomach pain, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and other symptoms.

“Forget it. Cook it thoroughly,” Zhu Yilu said, shuddering, and chose cooked food.

As a child, Zhu Yilu loved playing in dirt, then shoving his dirty hands into his mouth; afterward, he suffered constant stomachaches, couldn’t sleep through the night, cried and screamed—Empress Dowager Li had to summon imperial physicians. Li Shizhen prescribed arsenic to kill the worms; Zhu Yilu expelled a worm three feet long.

Since then, Zhu Yilu turned pale at the sight of worms. He longed to taste the freshness of raw fish, but fearing parasites, he chose cooked food.

On the day he drew the seventh “zheng” character, the fleet replenished fresh water on a small island called Zhongji Island—meaning a relay station for provisioning between the Great Ming and Jinsan City. The ships stayed one day; Zhu Yilu wandered the island, but as soon as he stepped ashore, he suffered severe land sickness.

After long sea travel, seasickness faded, but stepping on land made the world spin.

Zhu Yilu’s emotions were complex; he shouted and ran for a long time before finally sitting on the sand, gazing at the vast fleet.

To formulate a great oceanic expedition, one cannot succeed without the support of the collective called “nation”; whether Columbus or Magellan, both had the backing of the Spanish monarchy—and even the full support of Portugal’s Maritime Academy.

All Western free-adventure fleets were state actions—at least until the Wanli era.

Undoubtedly, the success of this fiefdom voyage would mark a crucial step for the Great Ming’s opening of the seas; Zhu Yilu was not merely a witness to history, nor even a participant—he was its creator.

No matter how thick future histories became, he would firmly claim his place, becoming an unavoidable topic of this grand, turbulent age.

Zhu Yilu suddenly stood up, found a stonecutter’s chisel, and carved on a large rock: “Great Ming Lu Prince Zhu Yilu visited here, 14th day of the third month, Wanli 18th year.” After carving, he hammered deeply into the stone—this was his true inscription.

Whether it would endure, whether it would be remembered, Zhu Yilu did not care; the act of carving these words mattered more to him—it meant he had been here.

Before drawing the ninth “zheng” character, Zhu Yilu saw a string of islands floating on the sea like pearls; all were uninhabited. On Chief Secretary Meng Jinquan’s suggestion, Zhu Yilu named one of them Jinquan Island.

Meng Jinquan did not oppose the naming, for the Lu Prince’s intent was clear: gold flowing like a spring, endless and abundant.

Zhu Yilu was deeply curious about this chain of islands stretching thousands of miles; most were formed by volcanic activity, with hard rock and steep coasts—not all suitable for landing.

Due to the voyage’s urgency, Zhu Yilu did not demand to land and explore.

Before drawing the tenth “zheng” character, the fleet encountered another storm; three three-masted junks and three warships became lost in the boundless ocean—their chance of survival was nearly zero.

Zhu Yilu deeply understood why oceanic voyages in this age were called battles for life.

When he drew the twelfth “zheng” character, the captain informed Zhu Yilu: Jinsan City was near—only three days’ sail remained. The sixty-three-day sea journey was ending.

Zhu Yilu eagerly anticipated his arrival; his knowledge of Jinsan City came only from the Songjiang Gazette and sailors’ tales.

Here, due to mismatched heat and rainfall, winters were warm and summers cool—winter lows never below ten degrees, never freezing; summer highs never above thirty.

Early pioneers chose this place because it was surrounded by water on three sides and mountain on one—a mountain city, easy to defend and hard to attack, with a convenient escape route; moreover, within the Jinmen Strait lay a bay where large ships could anchor safely.

On the afternoon of the nineteenth day of the fourth month, Wanli 19th year, Zhu Yilu finally saw Jinsan City through his telescope.

A solitary town, barely ten li in circumference, stood quietly on the hills—desolate and barren. Around it lay many fields and several garrison forts; a few dirt roads stretched to the sea.

Along the shore stood fourteen piers, together forming Jinsan Port.

It was utterly dilapidated—this was his fief.

Fewer than four thousand Han Chinese, plus over twenty thousand slaves, less than four hundred thousand mu of farmland—this was all the wealth of Jinsan State.

Jinsan Bo Quan Tianpei saw Zhu Yilu’s ships and the dragon banners flying on them; only the Great Ming could build such oceanic behemoths as fast sailers, and ten appearing at once meant the Lu Prince had arrived to take his fief.

Quan Tianpei immediately ordered all citizens and slaves to gather at the pier to welcome the Lu Prince. Though crude, he had constructed a Welcome Gate and Welcome Pavilion at Pier Eight.

Quan Tianpei knew nothing of the Lu Prince; his only knowledge was the title “Demon King of Chaos.” He desperately hoped the Lu Prince would come to Jinsan City—for he truly could not hold on any longer.

Jinsan City was too far from the Great Ming, across the entire Eastern Ocean—thirty thousand li of sea voyage meant few Han Chinese dared come; without imperial backing, Jinsan City was a flame ready to be snuffed out.

No matter the Lu Prince’s temperament, Quan Tianpei must endure him—and serve him well, make him comfortable.

Zhu Yilu descended the ship’s gangway, stepped onto the pier, stomped his feet hard to relieve his land sickness, then walked toward the waiting crowd.

“We pay homage to His Highness the Lu Prince,” Quan Tianpei led everyone in kneeling to greet Zhu Yilu’s arrival; he knew nothing of ritual protocol, though he had studied the “Regulations for Vassal States,” but Jinsan City’s conditions were limited.

“Rise,” Zhu Yilu said, standing still, gazing at the crude Welcome Gate—yet he could be certain: Jinsan City welcomed him.

When Great Ming princes took their fiefs, they were rarely welcomed by locals; each prince’s arrival meant vast tracts of land would be allocated to the princely household, and when state lands were insufficient, commoners were harassed.

The Lu Prince refused to take a fief in the heartland for this very reason—he was already sustained by the people’s taxes, yet would be hated by them; it was sin piled upon sin.

“Elder brother told me slavery was necessary for development,” Zhu Yilu said to Quan Tianpei. “Now that I see Jinsan City, he was right.”

Quan Tianpei’s face instantly relaxed; he had feared this prince from the capital, raised in heavenly luxury, would be burdened by too much morality—harmful to Jinsan’s development. But the Lu Prince’s first words made Quan Tianpei clear: this prince had not been turned into a fool by benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faith.

On the contrary, the prince was highly pragmatic.

Logging, land reclamation, irrigation, bridge-building, road construction, fortress repair—all required forced labor from slaves. How much could the Han Chinese who crossed the ocean possibly accomplish?

“Raise the Prince’s banner!” Quan Tianpei shouted again.

Three Embroidered Uniform Guards carried three banners ashore: the first, the dragon banner symbolizing imperial authority; the second, the Lu banner—a giant “Lu” character; the third, the Seven-Star Banner, the Great Ming’s maritime flag, signifying Jinsan State as a Great Ming overseas vassal.

Also unloaded were the Lu Prince’s imperial carriage, throne, and other regalia—these were his princely insignia, naturally to accompany him to Jinsan State.

The three banners were carried into Jinsan City; the Lu Prince, followed by Quan Tianpei, Meng Jinquan, and others, entered the city.

As soon as he entered, the Lu Prince’s eyes brightened—this mountain city was far more prosperous than he had imagined!

Along a main street three zhang wide, various shops lined both sides, with gold banks being the most numerous; all manner of goods—rice, flour, grain, oil, wine, firewood, brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones—were sold here.

Four thousand people didn’t even amount to a village in the heart of Great Ming; Zhu Yiliu had prepared to endure forty years of hardship to fully build up Jinshan City, but the sprawling rows of tiled and brick houses told him this place was far from as poor as he’d imagined.

“It produces gold, and gold can buy many goods,” Quan Tianpei whispered, explaining why the city inside and out differed so greatly—there were too few Han people here, and he had already poured out every ounce of effort to achieve this.

Zhu Yiliu entered the Lu Prince’s Mansion, which stood at the center of Jinshan City, in an excellent location covering more than eighty mu, yet its pavilions, terraces, and towers were all quite ordinary, nowhere near as luxurious as the Lu Prince’s Mansion in the capital.

But this already satisfied Zhu Yiliu greatly, for his expectations had never been high.

Quan Tianpei was a man exceptionally skilled in management.

After seating himself, Zhu Yiliu said to Quan Tianpei: “I am new here, Jinshan Bo; everything in the city shall remain as it is.”

“Your Highness, I have several urgent matters requiring your decision,” Quan Tianpei said, handing Zhu Yiliu several memorials, requesting his approval.

Zhu Yiliu frowned; logically, upon his arrival, he should have been granted several days of rest—why was he immediately thrust into official duties? Was this a deliberate attempt to humble him the moment he stepped ashore?

“Jinshan Bo’s life has been rather miserable,” Zhu Yiliu said after reading the memorials, realizing he had misunderstood Jinshan Bo.

Jinshan Bo would never dare to humiliate the Lu Prince; the Lu Prince’s three thousand troops could slaughter through Jinshan City, then sweep it three times over.

If the Lu Prince did not take up his fiefdom, Jinshan City would fall apart entirely; Jinshan Bo’s situation was dire.

“My momentary weakness has led to today’s predicament—it’s easy to summon a spirit, hard to send it away,” Quan Tianpei’s face twisted in anguish, recalling events from four years ago, the fifteenth year of Wanli.

A band of pirates who had fled from Japan crossed the sea and arrived in Jinshan City; seeing their leaders were all Han, Quan Tianpei accepted them.

Over these four years of development, more than eight hundred pirates became Jinshan’s elite guards, launching raids everywhere.

Now, under their leader Xie Ruixiang, these pirates grew increasingly unruly: they set up private taxes, seized goods, falsely accused innocent citizens, extorted bribes, murdered, and plundered—Quan Tianpei had fewer than four hundred men under his command and could no longer control Xie Ruixiang.

Recently, Xie Ruixiang set his sights on gold: he demanded Jinshan City hand over thirty percent of its gold, or he would erupt in fury!

In short, the city’s most formidable fighters now opposed Quan Tianpei and even planned to kill him and take his place.

“Did Xie Ruixiang come to the dock to greet me today?” Zhu Yiliu sat upright, his demeanor shifting, a cold light flashing in his eyes.

Chief Secretary Meng Jinquan immediately replied: “He did not come to greet you at the dock.”

Meng Jinquan was one of the rare Chief Secretaries who had passed the imperial examinations; he joined the Lu Prince’s court intending to advance from Chief Secretary to the Censorate, for Chief Secretaries were assigned to monitor princely domains, and the Censorate was the path to promotion.

When the Lu Prince was to take up his fiefdom, Meng Jinquan hoped to become Chancellor of Jinshan State; when the Lu Prince was reassigned to the heartland of Great Ming, Meng Jinquan was promoted to the Censorate last year.

At the dock, Meng Jinquan had already felt suspicious: Jinshan City was unstable, yet its armed forces numbered fewer than four hundred?

“He did not,” Quan Tianpei said, his face even more grim.

Zhu Yiliu took a deep breath and said: “Then it’s simple—Xie Ruixiang has likely allied himself with the barbarians and the Red-Haired Devils.”

“Huh?” Quan Tianpei froze, then broke into a cold sweat. “That can’t be—he only wants gold. If he’s allied with the barbarians, how will he get the gold?”

“Jinshan City is what it is today largely thanks to him—he’d gain nothing by destroying it.”

Zhu Yiliu suspected Quan Tianpei was acting; after all, when the Lu Prince had accompanied his elder brother in governance and served as regent in the thirteenth year of Wanli, he had encountered nothing but seasoned actors, every inch of them performance.

Zhu Yiliu glanced at Meng Jinquan, who shook his head—Quan Tianpei was not acting, for throughout Jinshan City, Meng Jinquan had seen no sign that Quan Tianpei had ever guarded against Xie Ruixiang, the head of the elite guards.

Meng Jinquan judged: either Quan Tianpei was a master actor with hidden reserves, or he was truly a man of excessive mercy.

“Forget it—just bring him in and ask. Send Luo Shangzhi; those who resist shall be charged with rebellion, executed on the spot.” Zhu Yiliu gave no further explanation, produced his imperial fire token, and ordered Luo Shangzhi to act.

Luo Shangzhi was from Yuyao, Zhejiang, born into a hereditary battalion commander family; in the thirteenth year of Wanli, he entered the capital to fight the Japanese pirates as a regional commander of the naval Yangwei Corps, one of the Twenty-Eight Celestial Warriors of the Eastern Expedition, bearing the imperial gift of the Western Lou Tiger Star—a genuine naval general.

Luo Shangzhi accompanied Zhu Yiliu to Jinshan State to train the navy for long-distance deployment.

“Your servant obeys,” Luo Shangzhi bowed, assembled a thousand naval troops, and marched straight toward Xie Ruixiang’s stronghold.

Less than half an hour later, Xie Ruixiang was brought before the Lu Prince’s Mansion by Luo Shangzhi.

“Jinshan Bo, the man is captured. His failure to greet me at the dock is grave disrespect. I believe he doesn’t want gold—he wants your life. Let’s interrogate him face to face and see if I’m right,” Zhu Yiliu said with keen interest.

A gamble—if he lost, it didn’t matter; if he won, this first fire of his fiefdom would be well lit.

“Spit!” Xie Ruixiang spat forcefully, glaring at Quan Tianpei. “Quan Tianpei, I fought and bled to build Jinshan City, and you? You ran back to Great Ming and became Jinshan Bo! This Founding Marquis title should have been mine!”

“The Marquis title should have been mine! Mine! Without me, how could Jinshan City be what it is today!”

Xie Ruixiang was no man who could hide his feelings; after being captured by the naval elite, knowing he had no chance of turning the tide, he knelt on the ground, eyes blazing red with hatred, desperate to kill Quan Tianpei.

“I told you to return to Great Ming for your reward, but you said you had a criminal record and refused to go, claiming you’d stay behind to guard the city and let me return—now you blame me for stealing the marquis title?” Quan Tianpei stared, incredulous.

Quan Tianpei had never imagined the conflict was over the title, not the gold!

Xie Ruixiang was a pirate—he’d be lucky not to be arrested if he returned to Great Ming, let alone receive a reward?

“Had I known there’d be a title and reward, would you even be here?” Xie Ruixiang struggled violently, but could not break free from the Embroidered Uniform Guard’s restraints; he spat furiously, his phlegm landing on Quan Tianpei’s shoe.

Xie Ruixiang had dreamed of becoming a respectable man, not a pirate.

“I—I—I…” Quan Tianpei was speechless; finally, he sighed and waved his sleeve.

Zhu Yiliu was right—Xie Ruixiang harbored deep resentment, long accumulated, now reaching the point of wanting to kill his enemy.

“Take him away. After investigation, execute him.” Zhu Yiliu studied Xie Ruixiang, weighed briefly, then chose no balancing act—direct execution.

Upon hearing the Lu Prince’s death sentence, Quan Tianpei was startled and hurriedly said: “Your Highness, could you show some mercy? Xie Ruixiang is popular in Jinshan City; executing him so easily may cause unrest.”

“You needn’t worry about unrest—I have my own methods,” Zhu Yiliu waved his hand; he was the originator of public trials, and knew precisely how to calm the people. He looked at Xie Ruixiang and said: “Xie Ruixiang, don’t claim injustice. Let me ask you: today, I have taken up my fiefdom in Jinshan—why didn’t you come to the dock to greet me?”

“I didn’t see you!” Xie Ruixiang glared defiantly. “Now you’ve caught me—do with me as you please!”

“Good! Tough!” Zhu Yiliu wasn’t angered. He turned to Quan Tianpei: “After the investigation, you’ll understand. Take him away.”

Zhu Yiliu didn’t kill without cause—Xie Ruixiang’s collusion with barbarians and Red-Haired Devils was likely nearing its climax; gold was deeply alluring to both Great Ming and the West.

The investigation lasted barely over an hour; before Zhu Yiliu and Quan Tianpei had finished speaking, the facts were clear: Xie Ruixiang had conspired with the Viceroy of Mexico to seize Jinshan City—witnesses, physical evidence, documents, ironclad proof, and even a blood oath.

“Your Highness, how did you deduce this?” Quan Tianpei looked bewildered—he had noticed none of this in Jinshan City, yet Zhu Yiliu, having just arrived, had judged so accurately!

Zhu Yiliu replied calmly: “Nothing extraordinary. Xie Ruixiang couldn’t seize Jinshan City or kill you without outside help—if he could have, he’d have acted long ago. So he sought external aid. Jinshan Bo is too close to see clearly; I am an outsider who sees clearly.”

Zhu Yiliu suddenly realized how immensely useful his daily exposure to people and events—especially the political struggle memorials he had studied—had been for assessing situations!

From Quan Tianpei’s memorials, it was clear the conflict between him and Xie Ruixiang had escalated beyond reconciliation; especially as Xie Ruixiang grew bolder, even ordering his men to treat human lives as worthless—he no longer cared about the fate of Jinshan’s people.

At this point of irreconcilable conflict, a struggle to destroy each other had begun.