Chapter 766: Yangzhou City

“Japanese pirates?!”

Upon hearing the bowman’s reply, everyone exchanged uneasy glances.

What kind of place is Yangzhou?

It is the hydraulic hub of the Jianghuai water network, its lifeline the Grand Canal, benefiting from its role as the “throat of grain transport and nexus of salt merchants.” The Grand Canal cuts straight through the city, with twenty-four docks along its banks, bustling day and night, nurturing the city’s prosperity and elegance.

It is famous—and its defenses are equally strict.

Though they had heard before arriving that coastal Japanese pirates were rampant, the fact that these raiders had penetrated so deeply into a blessed land and caused such a commotion still took them by surprise.

“No rush. Take your time.”

Li Yan halted the group and asked in a low, steady voice.

The bowman took the water bowl, drank a sip, then caught his breath: “Those Japanese pirates came from the mouth of the Yangtze, landed at Langshan near Nantong, then swiftly raided Rugao, Jingjiang, and other places, advancing on Yangzhou in three columns.”

“They know the terrain and the imperial army’s defensive lines intimately—they easily bypassed encirclements and set traps deep in the mountains. Rumor says they used terrifying dark arts.”

“The Yangzhou Garrison’s Battalion Commander Hong Dai’s reinforcements were ambushed and annihilated. Other regions rushed to aid, and to prevent Japanese pirates from infiltrating the city, checkpoints were established on both land and water.”

Lin Yu listened, his face flushed red. He spun around, reentered the cabin, yanked the cloth from Lin Yaozong’s mouth, and slapped him twice hard across the face. “Is this your doing?!”

Lin Yaozong had betrayed his family, causing countless Lin clan youths to die horribly. Lin Fatty had long since lost all familial affection for him—only hatred remained.

If this was also his doing, the Lin clan faced imminent ruin.

Puh!

Lin Yaozong spat out a mouthful of blood and foam, staring at Lin Yu’s round face. Memories of family gatherings during past New Years came to him, and sorrow welled up in his chest. He trembled as he whispered: “I don’t know. Ever since I planted men in Jinling, I’ve lost all control over that side.”

“They never tell me what they’re doing.”

“You!”

Lin Yu shook with rage. “Do you know this is a crime punishable by family annihilation and confiscation of property?!”

Lin Yaozong turned pale, lowering his head in silence.

“Lin brother, don’t rush.” Sha Li Fei gripped his shoulder firmly. “Whatever it is, we’ve got your back. Besides, the Lin clan is also a victim. Let’s resolve this quickly.”

“That’s true.”

Wang Daoxuan stroked his beard, thoughtful. “The Jianmu demons wouldn’t go to such lengths over something trivial. I suggest we report this immediately—it will draw imperial attention and clear the Lin clan’s name.”

“But after this, the Lin clan will likely suffer heavy losses.”

Their original plan had been to rush straight to Jinling, eradicate the demons before the situation spiraled, and spare the Lin clan from this disaster.

But now, they must make a choice.

Lin Yu hesitated, then clenched his teeth and bowed. “Master Dao is right. Reporting this may give the Lin clan a chance to breathe.”

“But we must find someone trustworthy—and act secretly. I fear the demons, cornered, might retaliate and kill every last member of the Lin family.”

“Naturally.”

Li Yan pondered, then gazed toward Yangzhou City. “The terrain here is worse than we imagined. We’re newcomers—we can’t tell friend from foe. Caution is best.”

“Let’s enter the city first. Gather intelligence before deciding.”

With the plan settled, the large boat continued forward.

But the waterway was now clogged—ships pressed shoulder to shoulder.

The towering grain barges, over a zhang high, were painted vermilion, their cabin doors pasted with red paper inscribed “Smooth Sailing.” One after another, they occupied nearly half the canal. Among them glided shorter, wider salt barges, their sails brittle with salt crust, trailing behind the grain vessels.

The two groups exchanged coded phrases—clearly men of the Jianghuai region.

Merchant ships also passed frequently, their flags bearing inscriptions like “Suzhou Prefecture,” “Hangzhou Prefecture,” “Huizhou Prefecture,” even from northern provinces.

But what sent a chill down their spines were the small, elegant black-canopied boats. The boatwomen wore bamboo hats and rowed with oars, their rhythmic “ya-yi, ya-yi” strokes weaving between the giant vessels like minnows darting through water.

They were doing business on the river!

Some delivered supplies; others sold breakfast—wooden trays held Yangzhou buns, small stoves beneath steaming baskets, releasing fragrant steam thick with meat aroma.

After considerable effort, the large boat finally docked at Dongguan Wharf.

The gangplank was laid across the green stone quay. Before even stepping ashore, they were engulfed by the mingled sounds of water, voices, and labor chants.

The stone steps of the wharf rose in terraces, stretching from the riverbank straight to the street. Each step bore shallow grooves worn by the ropes of grain barges, gleaming with a soft luster.

Laborers, bare-chested, carried sacks of grain on their shoulders, chanting “Hey-oh!” with each step, inching toward shore. The vermilion seal “Grand Canal Granary” on the sacks was blurred by sweat and mist.

Beside the wharf stood a green stone stele, carved with the words “Dongguan Water Gate.” Moss crept along its corners, its age unknown.

Of course, none of them rushed to disembark.

The Twelve Yuan Chen were no ordinary men. Whether it was the monstrous physique of Wu Ba, the striking appearance of Long Yan, or even the others—their aura stood out sharply in a crowd.

Thus, they unanimously agreed to remain aboard the ship, avoiding city inns. After all, the Lin clan’s vessel was fully equipped—everything they needed was there, even cooking facilities.

Only Li Yan and Sha Li Fei disguised themselves and followed Lin Fatty onto the wharf.

The wharf itself was already bustling.

But once they turned onto a street, the clamor surged toward them.

The street was about a zhang wide—barely enough for two carts to pass side by side. Crowds thronged the pavement, its green stone slabs polished smooth. Shops lined both sides, their colorful banners fluttering, each entrance bearing a wooden sign—some characters bold and vigorous, others elegant and delicate, each with its own charm.

Li Yan’s hearing was sharp; street sounds drifted unbidden into his ears.

To the left was a silk shop, its sign reading “Wu’s Yunjin.” The shopkeeper, a Suzhou native, spoke in soft tones to a customer: “This bolt of ‘Cloud Charm, Moon Grace’ is newly woven in Jiangnan. At night, gold threads shimmer. All the salt merchants’ wives in Yangzhou adore it…”

To the right was a tea shop. Dozens of tin cans lined the counter, each labeled with handwritten red paper: “West Lake Longjing,” “Wuyi Rock Tea,” “Lu’an Guapian.”

Seeing Li Yan’s gaze, the tea stall attendant beside the door smiled eagerly: “Sir, come try our tea? We Yangzhou people follow ‘morning tea, evening wine.’ A cup of tea in the morning, with sesame cakes or buns—can sit for half an hour…”

Li Yan waved him off quickly. The attendant didn’t press, immediately turning to welcome another customer.

Not just shops—the streetside stalls were numerous too.

One sold “Linqing scarves,” bamboo baskets filled with embroidered silk, delicate orchid and orchid patterns stitched with fine threads…

A foot masseur carried a pole, one end a small stool, the other a copper basin. A red paper on the stool read: “Yangzhou Foot Care.”

A storyteller had set up a small stage before a teahouse. He slammed his wooden clapper and began recounting the “Wu Song Beats the Tiger” tale from Water Margin. A crowd gathered—children tiptoeing, elders fanning themselves, laughter and applause never ceasing.

Such prosperity—Li Yan had rarely seen its like in all his travels.

Sha Li Fei stared, wide-eyed, murmuring in awe.

“This is Dongguan Street.”

Lin Fatty whispered: “Yangzhou is built along water. The Grand Canal cuts through the city, with two water gates—‘Dongguan’ and ‘Nanguan.’ They open at Chen hour, close at Shen hour. All grain barges, salt barges, merchant ships must pass through these gates—day and night, without pause.”

As he spoke, the three had crossed the street and climbed the stone steps beside the canal.