Chapter 2884: Reunion (1)

The anticlimax did nothing to dampen Yang Ning's spirits. At long last his beloved dragoons would wear new uniforms and carry a standardized saber—the blade officially designated the Type 9 Light Dragoon Saber. Later it would be adopted throughout the Australian Army's cavalry, exported to Europe and the Middle East, welcomed by cuirassiers, dragoons, hussars, Mamluks and Sipahis alike. Its fame would even travel south into sub-Saharan Africa, where many local chiefs counted ownership of one a mark of high prestige.

The armor question, meanwhile, was another matter. Even Yang Ning could see that the General Staff had quietly loosened its grip. The next step was performance in real combat. Cavalry had never had a proper chance to prove itself, but now the Senate was planning a Yangtze Estuary operation. Jiangnan was no country for horsemen; Jiangbei was another story. Cavalry was mobile—perhaps they might even join the Shandong detachment's cavalry squadron for a joint operation.

Thinking of future glory, he imagined himself as the Senate's Murat, splendid on a purebred black stallion, trailing cuirassiers, dragoons, hussars, Guard Grenadier Cavalry, Guard Carabiniers, chasseurs, Cossacks, Uhlans... lances like a forest, sabers gleaming like snow, horsehair plumes streaming in the wind, feathers floating like clouds.

In that moment he floated on air, his desires surging like charging cuirassiers. He gathered his old friends from the Mosasaur Knights and went to Ziming Tower for a night of revelry. That evening, amid extremes of indulgence and delight, the "Senate's Murat" passed out cold on a private-room sofa.

The next morning.

"Miss Qingruo." A server looked nervously down the corridor. "The Chief in the Fenghua Room..."

"Still sleeping it off? Let him rest. It's not as if he won't pay."

"No, it's not that." The server's face reddened. "You'll see when you go. On an ordinary day it wouldn't matter, but this afternoon the private rooms on this side have a navy event, and Chief Lin will be attending. If they were to see this, it wouldn't be... very presentable..."

"Can we switch the room assignment?"

"We can't." The server looked miserable. "There have been so many events lately—everything is fully booked. The navy reserved this entire row."

Qingruo frowned, sensing something unseemly. "I'll go right now. Come with me. Have you said anything to anyone else?"

"No—I saw it and came straight to you."

Qingruo opened the door carefully. A wave of stale alcohol mixed with the cloying sweetness of rouge and powder hit her. Inside was devastation: the coffee table littered with empty bottles, plates, and dishes, the wreckage of a raucous night. But only one person remained in the room: Senator Yang, sprawled across the sofa, snoring soundly.

Well, this... Qingruo shut the door quickly. She wanted to wake him, but he slept too deeply; even if roused, he could hardly change and leave on his own. To summon help would alert too many people. After a moment's deliberation, she decided: she stepped out, locked the door from the outside, and hung a "Cleaning in Progress" sign.

"Who served this room last night?" she asked.

The server named a few names.

"Have them report to the management office when their shift starts—I need a word." She turned to the server who had come to her: "Stand guard here. Don't let anyone in. I'm going to make a report."

That same afternoon, while the General Office quietly escorted Yang Ning back to his dormitory, the air at Bopu Harbor carried the mingled scent of sea salt and coal. Two carriages—glossy black, bearing the General Office crest—were lined up at the wharf, drawing sidelong glances from passersby and laborers.

Even more attention-worthy was the man standing at the forefront of the wharf.

Major Schneider—the first non-Senator to hold a field officer's commission in the navy—stood in impeccable military posture. He wore a Shop No. 82 bespoke navy summer white service uniform with ornate gold cord trim, its brass buttons fastened meticulously to the collar. One white-gloved hand rested on a naval short sword wrapped in manta ray skin, the sidearm of a field-grade officer. The afternoon sun poured over the row of medals on his chest, arranged according to the latest Fubo Army Decorations and Medals Regulations—the Humen Campaign Medal, the Xiamen Campaign Distinguished Service Medal, the Jeju Island Service Medal, and the Navy Distinguished Service Cross, First Class, the highest honor—until they blazed. The guard of the sword hilt, forged from solid gold, reflected a dazzling gleam, as if his entire person were enveloped in a halo.

This grand display stood in stark contrast to the naturalized citizen laborers loading and unloading cargo on the wharf and the sailors in plain work clothes. Gradually a crowd gathered, whispering at a safe distance.

"Isn't that Shi Shisi, the one who used to be under Zhu Cailao?" a former pirate hand now working at Dabo Shipping lowered his voice. "Tsk—in just a few years, he's got more swagger than some of the Chiefs!"

A navy lieutenant on leave beside him spoke with mixed feelings: "That man earned his luck with real blades and real blood. Humen, Xiamen, Jeju... hasn't missed a single major battle. If I had that kind of luck..."

"I'd say he's a big shot in the navy, at least?" a naturalized citizen clerk who had come to meet a relative pushed up his glasses. "Wasn't he a captured pirate chief? But look at that bearing... I'd say he looks more like a Chief than some of the Senators."

These comments drifted more or less into Schneider's ears. He held the corners of his mouth in the "restrained yet authoritative" curve the Shop No. 82 etiquette trainer had drilled into him, puffed his chest higher, and raised his chin slightly—the trainer had said this angle best conveyed firmness without arrogance. Heaven knew how long he had practiced before a full-length mirror. The chest of Spanish silver coins pried from Zheng family warships that this display had cost him still made his heart ache. But the attention gave him a twisted satisfaction.

Deep down, however, he was cursing Hu Wumei's ancestors to the eighteenth generation in the most authentic Hokkien profanity: "That dog-screwing fat bastard Hu—why the hell hasn't his ship docked yet? If I have to stand here much longer, my back..."

His highly visible appearance at Bopu Wharf was not entirely his own idea. The General Office had approved this "reunion" for two reasons: first, to use these former pirate chiefs who had come to Lingao with their treasure as a living advertisement for Shop No. 82 and its associated luxury industries; second, to gather these scattered former worthies publicly so the Political Security Bureau could monitor their ideological tendencies and relationship networks. At the same time, it set an example for old forces still sitting on the fence.

Shop No. 82 had taken on the entire reception service, from carriage dispatch to banquet arrangements—and naturally all costs were charged to Schneider's account. For this gathering commemorating the bombardment of Anping and honoring the fallen brothers of Nanri Island, he had emptied a heavy oak chest. Painful as it was, thinking of those brothers who would never drink or curse again, he felt it was worth it.

"Wooo—"

A long whistle finally tore through the calm of the sea. A T1200 steam-sail hybrid vessel from Yulin slowly drew toward its berth. Sailors tossed out mooring lines and lowered the gangway.

Just as the gangway was secured, a white figure—without waiting for the ramp to be fully fastened—lightly leaped aboard, paused briefly on the gently swaying steps, then descended steadily.

"A big Chief has returned! How grand!" an exclamation burst from the crowd.

The figure was indeed eye-catching. Though stout, almost rotund, his movements were surprisingly agile and composed. He was dressed entirely in white: a finely tailored white linen suit, white straight trousers, even his black Australian-style leather shoes, polished to a mirror shine, fitted with delicate white shoe covers. Atop his head sat a premium Lingao straw hat from Zizhen Studio, its hatband adorned with a lake-blue silk ribbon, a small gold anchor pin winking in the sunlight. In his hand, an ebony cane whose head was inlaid with ivory or whalebone tapped lightly with each step.

Schneider's expression remained impassive, but his mind churned: That sly fat bastard Hu, with this kind of display, must have buttered up whatever Senator shared the voyage. With that silver tongue of his, he'd probably already negotiated which island in the Nanyang would be his for coconut planting. Damn it, why is he walking so slowly!

Their correspondence had kept Schneider informed: Hu Wumei was thriving in Sanya. The several thousand mu of land the Senate had given him had become a treasure trove in this fat man's hands. He was now the principal supplier of agricultural products and a major plantation owner in the Sanya region, highly regarded by the Senators stationed there.

The white figure finally stepped onto the wharf's stone pavement and walked straight toward Schneider. As he drew near, Schneider looked closely—beneath the hat brim, that round, ruddy face with its squinting, smiling eyes: who else but Hu Wumei?

"Hu... you fat bastard!" Schneider lowered his voice but couldn't suppress the familiar teasing edge. "Impersonating a Senator is a capital offense of usurpation!"

Hu Wumei was already grinning so wide his eyes disappeared into crescents. Without a word, he raised his cane and lightly tapped the silver-wrapped head against the jangling row of medals on Schneider's chest. "You scoundrel, Shi Shisi! What you're wearing is exceeding your station! Don't you understand? Corrupted and degenerated to this degree, and nobody does anything? The Senate hates your kind of wastrel most of all—just wait, you'll be swinging from a rope at the docks!"

Their theatrical exchange and postures drew low laughter and animated commentary from the surrounding crowd. The reunion of two former pirate underlings was undoubtedly going to be the most talked-about news at Bopu Harbor this week.

"Easy, you fat lout, lighten up! Scratch the finish and I'll never let you hear the end of it!" Schneider finally dropped the dignified facade, laughing and cursing as he grabbed Hu Wumei's arm and half-dragged, half-pulled him toward the lead Dongfeng carriage. He was genuinely baffled: this fat man, stuck out in the middle of nowhere, had somehow cultivated an air of authority more Senator-like than the Senators themselves.

Behind Hu Wumei marched two full rows of neatly dressed servants, methodically unloading dozens of leather trunks of various sizes from the ship. The trunks were clearly custom-made: corners riveted with gilded iron guards, bodies branded with elaborate scrolling vine patterns, and at the center of each, within a circular medallion, an ornate cursive letter H.

This imposing baggage train even drew the Senator on customs duty to lean out his office window. That Senator scratched his head and muttered to a colleague: "This kind of procession... a Havana sugar plantation owner moving house with his entire family, I suppose it would look something like this?"

Schneider bundled Hu Wumei into the spacious carriage and climbed in after him. The interior was trimmed in dark velvet, and a small table held a Shop No. 82–provided custom ice bucket chilling several bottles of kvass. The door shut, sealing off the noise of the outside world.

"All right, stop performing." Schneider let out a long breath, yanked open his tightly fastened collar, and collapsed without pretense into the soft leather seat. "I'm about to die of suffocation. Tell me—what's with this getup, and all those trunks outside? Did you actually charm all the Sanya Senators into happiness?"

Hu Wumei removed his gloves unhurriedly, revealing well-maintained hands, one sporting an enormous gold ring. He drew a bottle of kvass from the ice bucket and opened it with practiced ease. "Major Shi, you don't understand. What I do is called 'integrating into life, embodying value.' The Senators see that Hu Wumei puts his heart into things, plants the land well, supplies goods reliably—naturally they're happy to extend me certain conveniences. A little face—I've still got that much." He took a sip, eyeing Schneider's dress uniform with half-closed eyes. "You, on the other hand, Fourteen-Brother—this skin of yours must have cost a pretty penny. That Shop No. 82 place... heh, it eats people without spitting out the bones."

"Cut the crap." Schneider opened his own bottle of kvass and downed half of it in one go. "Money spent, face saved, and the reunion still needs to happen. This time all the brothers have been notified—pretty much everyone who can come will be here. The Chief's intentions you understand—we need to put on a good face for the Senate too."

"Understood, understood." Hu Wumei's smile gained depth. "Reunion is reunion—what to watch, what to hear, what to say... I've got a scale in my heart for all of it. By the way, I brought some top-grade coffee beans, cigars, and quite a few Nanyang specialties. I'll treat the brothers to a taste tonight."

The carriage swayed gently as it began to pull away from the wharf. Schneider gazed through the window at the rapidly receding harbor—the towering cranes, the factory chimneys trailing white smoke, the orderly warehouses—all new things that had appeared only after he had thrown in his lot with Lingao. He touched the cold medals on his chest, then looked at Hu Wumei beside him, dressed head to toe in white, calm and composed.

The times had truly changed. They—pirates who had once licked blood from knife edges, never knowing if they'd live to see tomorrow—now one in a crisp uniform as a "Major," the other in a respectable suit as a "plantation owner," here in all seriousness preparing a "properly authorized" reunion of old brothers.