Chapter 91: Dazhang Village

Everyone suited up in jungle combat gear, checked their equipment, and set out from the Shang Hall docks. After crossing Taijiang, they followed the Xingang Creek on the opposite bank eastward, trekked a stretch on foot, and arrived at the planned Kiln District.

A temporary enclosure with sides less than twenty meters had been thrown up here, where only a handful of people would come to do preliminary work. But the "Native Xuanweitun" arriving today knew that if the problem could be resolved quickly, this place would soon be occupied by the main force, and this plane's industrialization process would kick off right here.

After reaching the wooden stockade, the group stopped for a water break. At that moment, Professor Luo made his entrance, clapping his hands a few times to draw everyone's attention before speaking: "Listen up, I'll say a few words below and re-emphasize the points for attention."

The comrades didn't give the professor much face — some drank water, some chatted loudly.

"First: no solo action at any time. Keep yourself within the line of sight of security personnel." Professor Luo didn't mind; he just kept talking: "Because the natives are still in a weaker position, with poor information capability and obstructed communication, the accumulated pressure occasionally leads to mindless violent outbursts. On this point, you can reference the Old Buddha declaring war. So everyone must stay vigilant at all times and keep your firearms on you."

"What if the brothers get disarmed by some country lass? Ah! Good thing we've still got one gun!" A scoundrel in the crowd heckled with a mocking tone at that moment. The joke drew roaring laughter from everyone. The Ming employees and the Japanese interpreter Xishan Xingjian had no idea why the masters were laughing, but they still had the sense to join in the amusement.

Recently, the Transmigrators' baseline had dropped noticeably: the ladies were all still in Hangzhou, and even if they came, there was nowhere to settle them. Their current housing conditions were terrible, packed in like sardines — if the ladies came, they couldn't exactly go at it in the wild, could they? So these guys' dirty jokes now came out at the drop of a hat; they were all pent up.

"You bastards! Anyone with that mindset is doomed sooner or later!" Professor Luo flew into a rage: "How did those Dutch soldiers get killed? Never mind whether the natives offered to carry them across the river or they ordered it — the moment they crossed that river, their guns left their hands, and then dozens of men were slaughtered in the water! You scumbags, if you still think you're gods descended to earth, then in my eyes, you're already dead men!"

The scene fell silent at that moment. Although everyone had plenty of Late Ming materials on their computers, those voluminous historical records, notes, diaries, letters, plus later researchers' papers and posts — not every Transmigrator was willing to sit there and study them. Someone like Professor Luo, who could cross-reference and recite from multiple disciplines, was rarer than a phoenix feather or a unicorn horn. So a good half of the group genuinely had no idea that, historically, the natives had pulled the dirty trick of suddenly turning hostile and ambushing Dutch soldiers while marching together.

Everyone looked a bit sheepish. Seeing that these people had more or less grasped the seriousness of the issue, Professor Luo's tone softened: "The natives may have seen little of the world, but their brain capacity isn't small — they're very clever. They know perfectly well that without the iron pipes in our hands, we're useless. As for revenge after the fact... comrade, can the dead come back to life? Do you have any idea how precious you are?"

After thoroughly reversing the group's lax atmosphere, Professor Luo stressed a few more hygiene precautions: drink only the water you brought yourself — cups and such go without saying; when eating, any food in the pot must have been boiled in rolling water for a period; best not to shake hands; strictly forbidden to have relations with native women, no matter which side initiates — violators will be quarantined for observation upon return, denied all human contact, a fate worse than death.

That last rule received Master Miaoshu's personal endorsement. At present, the Company was desperately short of all kinds of medicines; all medical supplies and drugs had to be "imported," so Bai Shuchao was now saving wherever he could, with intimidation and prevention as the top priority.

A few individuals whose baseline had already sunk low enough to seriously consider the local women dejectedly abandoned their little schemes upon hearing that last rule.

After the noisy bustle went on for half the day, seeing that it was already past ten in the morning, everyone hoisted their packs and continued on.

Following the stream further east for a while, vegetation began to appear around them — the Transmigrators' rotting land effect ended here. The entire group tensed up immediately; Wei Yuan, the point man out front, had even readied the thermal imager. Fortunately, after rounding a patch of scrub forest along the stream, they spotted a native village at least five hundred meters from the creek bank in the distance. Xishan Xingjian then told the Transmigrators that this was their destination: Dazhang Village.

When they were still a hundred meters from the village entrance, several dozen native warriors were already standing at the gate. These warriors had dark skin, held javelins, wore grass skirts around their waists, and had bright feathers stuck in their hair. They all looked reasonably well-nourished.

As they drew near, Xishan Xingjian stepped out from the group and stood before the native front rank. Gongda, the village chief — the only one with a length of native cloth wrapped around his body — also stepped forward at that moment. After an awkward exchange of bows, the Transmigrators were ushered into the village.

The native village was very crude. They had no large saws or big axes, nor woodworking tools like planes and chisels, so bamboo and thin timber were the primary construction materials in the settlement.

Standing in the doorways of the wooden huts, wearing headdresses and grass skirts, their breasts hanging bare, the native women caught the roughnecks' eyes. But once that first moment of visual impact passed, these country lasses — with coarse, dark skin, short stature, and looks honestly hovering around zero on the attractiveness scale — mercilessly shattered certain people's fantasies.

The largest building in the village was the Public Office. This structure was one long communal sleeping platform, both tall and long, usually serving as quarters for unmarried men and also used for meetings — a multi-purpose hall. Waiting for the Transmigrators today inside the Public Office was the village's spiritual leader — the Witch.

For a native village still in a primitive communal form, the Witch was responsible for communicating with the native idols and issuing mysterious guidance to the villagers through primitive rituals.

The time to smash the Four Olds had not yet come, so the leading Transmigrators accepted with smiling faces the blessing ritual performed by the village Witch: an old woman draped in strange ornaments, her face tattooed.

"This is what I absolutely cannot stand." After the ceremony ended, the staff spread out the goods they had brought in front of the Public Office. Watching the natives crowd around, Feng Jun, standing off to the side, started discussing the Witch problem with Cai Feiming.

"To spread their faith, the Dutch once drove two hundred and fifty Witches up Zhuluo Mountain in one go to fend for themselves. When they were allowed back ten years later, only forty-eight had survived." Cai Feiming spoke while keeping an eye on the natives, who were chattering away and happily picking through the goods.

"That's way too low. You could do invisible quarantine — call it honorable retirement or something," Feng Jun said.

"Mm, mm. For our enterprise, counting on these adults is pure nonsense — blowing out a lamp with a fart. The key is to pull the firewood out from under the pot..." Cai Feiming's eyes grew brighter as he spoke. He bent down, his face full of smiles, and slowly walked forward with the classic posture of a creepy uncle. Not far ahead of him stood a bare-bottomed little boy.