Chapter 2885: New Immigrants

"Fatty." Schneider's voice had gone strange on him, the jest scraped out. "Drink a few more tonight. For Anping. For Nanri Island. For the fact that we lived to see this."

Hu Wumei let his grin slip. For a moment he was silent, then lifted his bottle. "For those still breathing. And for those who never will again."

The two bottles rang together, clear as ice.

Not far from where they stood, beside the ordinary passenger berth, the stone paving of the wharf baked until the air above it shimmered. Salt wind, the sweat of men and beasts, and spices Hans and Otto had no names for struck them full in the face. Ten months below the deck of the Dutch East India Company freighter Dolphin had scoured the last pine-and-iron scent of the Thuringian forest from their skin. What remained was rank. Now they stood stupid with wonder on the clamorous pier of Bopu Harbor in Lingao, tool bundles slung across their backs.

"G—God above..." Otto's mouth hung open. His Adam's apple jerked, but only a dry rasp came out. Those broad shoulders, which had swung the hammer a thousand times to forge breastplates for princes, nobles, and knights, now hunched slightly, as though buckling under the weight of the spectacle before them.

Hans said nothing. His gray-blue eyes—narrowed from years of squinting beside coal fires, accustomed to appraising the curve of an armor plate—were wide now, straining to take in everything at once.

A forest of masts stretched as far as he could see, flying flags he had never encountered. But the harbor itself was more staggering still. Enormous cranes gleamed a metallic gray, spewing jets of white steam and black smoke. Their great pistons pumped back and forth with a deep roar, hoisting cargo crates from the ships and setting them smoothly onto the wharf. No human muscle and pulley blocks could do that. Beneath their feet lay an impossibly smooth gray surface, hard as stone, yet with no seams between great blocks. In the distance, buildings of strange shapes rose from the ground—some boxy and square, studded with rows of neat windows; others like red sawteeth, stretching in unbroken ranks; still others crowned with towering red-brick chimneys belching black smoke and white steam, staining the sky with a gray haze.

Steam whistles shrieked. Metal clattered. A language entirely foreign—short, clipped, forceful—filled the air. Workers in blue or gray short jackets and matching round rattan helmets pushed two-wheeled carts or rode upon two iron rails where carriages moved without horses, rumbling with a deep woo-woo as they shuttled across the wharf. The order was staggering. After the mud-churned chaos of the war they had fled, every moving part here seemed to know its purpose.

"Hans... are we really in Lingao? This is..." Otto murmured, at a loss. In the few words he had for wonder, good places were heaven and bad ones were hell. But this was neither. He instinctively gripped the handle of his most treasured round hammer inside his bundle. They had seen the mountains of corpses and rivers of blood of the Thirty Years' War, but that chaos was familiar—it belonged to the human world. This place, however, was filled with something cold, efficient, and utterly beyond their comprehension.

Hans did not answer. His gaze swept past the roaring machinery to the great ship in the distance, standing like a small mountain—something a blacksmith would never dare dream of: an iron leviathan. In the taverns of Amsterdam, in the VOC offices, in the hold of the Dolphin, he had heard its legend more than once. Now, seeing it with his own eyes, a surreal, frantic sensation gripped his heart.

"Don't know, Otto," Hans finally said, his voice hoarse. "But here... the smell of steel is strong."

Not the smell of anvil and charcoal fire from a hometown workshop, but something vaster, colder—a torrent of steel that seemed to flow from those towering chimneys and roaring machines, belonging to the entire world. He remembered a drunken captain in some Amsterdam tavern, wine thick on his breath: "... Go to Lingao, mate! The Senate there needs craftsmen like a bloodthirsty vampire! Especially ones who can work metal! If you've got real skill, you'll get bread, silver coins, and even... a whole new way of living!"

Bread, silver coins, and a whole new way of living.

For that faint hope, they had left the scorched earth of Thuringia and wagered their lives crossing the ocean.

Otto licked his cracked lips, watching a massive metal crane arm effortlessly lift a bundle of thick, dark iron bars. His Adam's apple bobbed again. "Do they... still need armorers like us?"

Hans silently patted the leather pouch at his waist. Inside lay their pride—several yellowed certificates of craftsmanship issued by some nobleman who had since died in the wars, and a meticulously crafted three-quarter Gothic arm guard wrapped tightly in oilcloth. Back home, this skill would have made them respected masters in the guild.

But here, on this land saturated with unknown metals and unfathomable power, what was their proud craft truly worth?

The two exchanged a glance. In each other's eyes they saw the same shock, the same bewilderment, and a faint, stubborn spark the grand spectacle had forcibly kindled and refused to extinguish. Hans drew a deep breath of the strange air, thick with coal smoke and sea wind, and straightened his back, stiff from the long voyage.

"Let's go, Otto," he said, with the unyielding certainty of a blacksmith. "Let's find this... Senate. Let's see whether they need hands that can tame steel."

The clamor of Bopu Harbor fell away behind a newly built, boxy three-story red-brick building. A conspicuous sign hung by the entrance, its black characters on a white ground written in Chinese, Latin letters, and several scripts they could not read: "Immigration Management Office—Bopu Foreign Registration Bureau." Two soldiers in black uniforms stood guard at the door. They carried no rifles or pikes, but the sabers at their waists and their stern expressions made it clear they were military men.

The two exchanged a glance, drew a deep breath, and stepped inside. The interior was simpler than expected—cement floor, whitewashed walls, light pouring through wide glass windows onto rows of wooden benches. A motley assortment of weathered foreigners already occupied them, some with the same dazed curiosity Hans saw in his own reflection. They had assumed few Europeans would be here, but there were quite a few. At a glance, Hans spotted some of his own countrymen—and women and children too? What were they doing here? The air carried the sharp scent of disinfectant.

A man in the same gray uniform but unarmed, a silvery pen clipped to his breast pocket, appeared before them. They gave a small start: the man was a European!

They couldn't tell his exact nationality, but from his complexion and features, he likely hailed from southern Europe.

"Español?" Seeing no reaction, he immediately switched languages. "Português?"

They still couldn't understand, so he tried again: "Nederlands?"

This time the two caught the gist. Otto blurted out: "Wir kommen aus Deutschland."

"Germans?" The man understood. He handed them a numbered token and pointed to a row of wooden chairs along the wall. In accented but comprehensible High German, he said: "New arrivals? Sit over there, wait for your number. Read the regulations on the wall first." He spoke rapidly, with an air of unquestionable efficiency.

They sat as instructed and looked nervously at the wall. Several large notices were posted there, with text and simple illustrations. One diagram clearly depicted a person removing old clothes, entering a shower stall, and then changing into a uniform, annotated in several languages: "Purification Procedure—Mandatory Compliance." Another listed items prohibited from entry and those that must be declared.

On another wall hung four paintings—somewhat like European art yet distinctly different, with bold, vivid colors and lines both precise and spare. Each was labeled in multiple scripts. The first showed two sturdy craftsmen, one European and one Asian, raising torches together against the silhouette of a great iron ship in the harbor. The caption read: "Welcome, friends of all nations—build a new world together!" The second depicted craftsmen of various lands toiling at their work: "Labor creates wealth; hands build life." The third showed a naturalized citizen family demonstrating handwashing, cleaning, and drinking boiled water: "Transform customs, uphold hygiene, health for all!" The fourth showed believers of various faiths marching forward together beneath the Morning Star flag: "Freedom of faith, supremacy of law."

The wait was brief, but the silence on the benches felt heavy. Finally, it was their turn. Behind the window sat a naturalized citizen cadre in his twenties, likewise in a gray uniform, his face somewhat weary but his eyes sharp. Before him lay a thick registry, an inkwell, and several dip pens.

"Name? Nationality? Which port did you depart from?" The cadre asked in Chinese without looking up. A young man beside him, apparently an interpreter, immediately repeated the questions in German.

"Hans Schwarz, and this is Otto Becker. We're both from the territory of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt in Thuringia. We came from Amsterdam aboard the Dolphin." Hans struggled to keep his voice steady.

"Thuringia?" The cadre clearly couldn't make sense of the string of words that followed, but "Thuringia" he recognized. He frowned, searched a large world map spread before him, tapped his finger on the German region, and recorded "HRE—Thuringia" in the registry.

"Purpose for coming to Lingao?"

"We... we're armorers," Otto cut in, eager to emphasize their value. "We heard the Senate needs craftsmen. We want to find work here, make a living." He instinctively reached for the oilcloth-wrapped arm guard sample and the letters of recommendation.

"Hold off on showing your things." The cadre waved him off. "Skills will be assessed later. First, let's get your personal details straight." He proceeded with a series of questions: age (Hans thirty-five, Otto thirty-two), marital status (both unmarried), children (none), religion (Lutheran), literacy (could write only their names and simple numbers), criminal record in their home country (none), whether they carried weapons (only tools)...

The cadre asked and recorded simultaneously, his pen scratching across the paper. When he heard they had personally experienced the Thirty Years' War and had made and repaired armor and weapons for multiple lords, the cadre looked up and studied them carefully, though he said nothing more—simply noting "military equipment" in the "Skills Remarks" column.

"Why Lingao?" the cadre asked routinely.

Hans and Otto exchanged a glance. It was Hans who answered, his voice low: "The war destroyed our workshop and our livelihood back home. We heard that under the Senate's rule, skilled men can find a way to live—and a future." He used a new word he had picked up on the ship.

The cadre nodded, apparently unsurprised by the answer. He produced a pre-printed form and pointed to a space at the bottom: "Sign here, then press your thumbprint to indicate you came voluntarily and pledge to abide by the Senate's laws and regulations."

They signed as instructed and pressed their inked thumbs onto the designated spot. In that moment, something invisible tightened around them—not a chain, but a hook, catching them fast to this strange shore.

"Right, preliminary registration is complete." The cadre tore off a slip of paper and handed it to them. On it were their temporary number and the next steps in the process. "Take this, go out and turn right, store your luggage at the warehouse next door. Nothing except personal items on your person is allowed through. Then report to the purification camp behind the building."

"Purification camp?" Otto felt a twinge of unease at the term.

The cadre explained expressionlessly: "That means a haircut, bath, disinfection, change of clothes, and a medical examination. All new arrivals must go through this to prevent bringing in plague and parasites from outside. These are the Senate's rules—for your own good and for the safety of everyone in Lingao." His tone brooked no argument. He pointed to the "Purification Procedure" diagram on the wall.

"How long will it take?" Hans asked.

"Since you're not coming from a plague zone, fourteen days. Room and board are provided. During that time, someone will explain basic regulations and important points to you. When it's done, you'll be issued identification. If you're willing, the Senate will arrange placement based on your skills and preferences. You can also strike out on your own." The cadre waved his hand. "Next!"

Hans and Otto walked out of the registration office clutching the slip of paper. It weighed almost nothing in Hans's palm, yet it seemed to pull his whole arm downward. After storing the tool bundles they treasured like their own lives, they followed the signs along with a dozen equally bewildered new arrivals toward the high-walled, guarded compound known as the "purification camp."

Looking back toward the harbor and the clamorous, unfamiliar "new world," then forward to the heavily guarded entrance full of unknowns, they walked on.