Chapter 448: Why the Hurry?

The stench in Lyon finally faded a bit.

It hasn't disappeared; Zhu Yong has simply gotten used to it.

He smelled it for months in Portugal, months in Castile, and months again in France; his nose was already numb.

But he knew it was thanks to lime water and days of cleaning.

Soldiers of the Longxiang Army, escorted by captives, cleared most of the city's waste and dung, then scrubbed it again with lime water; although still not as good as Yingtian Prefecture, it was at least breathable.

Zhu Yong stood on the banks of the Ronne River, watching a few small boats drift across the water.

Snow still clung to the hills on the opposite bank, but the grass at the foot of the mountains had already turned greenish.

It was March; spring had arrived.

Europe's spring was colder than he had imagined, much colder than Yingtian Prefecture.

"Prince, the fleet has arrived," Wang Gui said, walking up from behind, mud on his boots.

Zhu Yong nodded, without turning around.

The fleet came from Bordeaux, sixty steamships loaded with food and weapons seized from Portugal and Castile.

The food was stored, the weapons melted down into farming tools; he no longer had to worry about that process.

"What about General Li?"

"General Li is in the city tallying the last batch of supplies; he says they can set out in another three to five days."

Zhu Yong turned and walked toward the city.

Li Wenzhong was about to return.

Not to Yingtian Prefecture, but to Australia.

Zhu Biao had previously written that immigration in Australia had already exceeded one hundred thousand households, food production had risen, but ironware and cotton cloth were still insufficient and needed to be shipped from Great Ming.

Li Wenzhong's return this time brought not only captives but also gold and silver seized from Europe.

One million two hundred thousand taels of silver and three hundred thousand taels of gold; just loading them onto ships took three days.

"Cousin..." Zhu Yong entered the Governor's Office, where Li Wenzhong stood before a map.

Li Wenzhong turned, clasped his fists and said, "Prince."

"Are all the things packed?"

"All packed: gold and silver loaded into thirty crates, one hundred twenty captives, plus the previously dispatched Cha Li Liu Shi and Hen Li Wu Shi; this trip can bring back all those European kings and nobles."

Li Wenzhong paused, then laughed, "Prince, you intend to take the entire European royalty in one go."

Zhu Yong sat in a chair, lifted the water bag on the table and took a sip.

"Keeping them is also a disaster; send them back for Imperial Father to settle, give them idle posts to support them, so they won't incite the locals to rebel here."

Li Wenzhong nodded, then asked, "Prince, what do you intend to do with those small southern kingdoms? Navarre, Provence, Auvergne have all sent envoys; they've been waiting outside the city for three days."

Zhu Yong set the water bag down and thought for a moment.

"Let General Feng handle the negotiations."

"General Feng?" Li Wenzhong was taken aback.

"Yes, General Feng is in Bordeaux, close to the south; have him take care of this as well, tell those envoys the Great Ming rules: land confiscated, property registered, nobles sent to Yingtian Prefecture for settlement.

Those who submit willingly will have land allotted and be tax‑free for the first three years; those who refuse, wait for the army to arrive."

Li Wenzhong responded with a sound and asked, "What about those church items?"

Zhu Yong gave him a glance.

"The churches have already been emptied, the gold and silver moved, the priests sent to mine—what else is left?"

"...."

Marseille's morning was warmer than Lyon's.

Mediterranean sunlight drifted in from the east, shining on the old harbor's surface, sparkling.

A few small fishing boats were moored at the dock; the boatmen crouched at the bows, watching the iron‑clad soldiers pass, fear and curiosity in their eyes.

Zhu Yong stood at the end of the pier, gazing at the distant sea.

The Mediterranean, blue, was far more beautiful than the English Channel.

"Prince, the Navarre envoy has arrived," Wang Gui said, walking up from behind.

"Bring him in."

The Navarre envoy was a man in his fifties, wearing a purple velvet robe, a neatly trimmed beard, and a gem‑set hat.

He walked to Zhu Yong, bowed deeply, and spoke a passage in Latin.

Wang Gui translated, "Your Highness, he says King Cha Li San Shi of Navarre wishes to submit to Great Ming, but asks to retain the royal title and pay tribute annually."

Zhu Yong stared at the envoy, silent for a moment.

"Tell him there will be no royal title; land confiscated, property registered, nobles sent to Yingtian Prefecture for settlement; those who submit will be settled locally, tax‑free for the first three years.

Those who refuse may return now, and let Cha Li San Shi prepare for war."

Wang Gui relayed it; the envoy's complexion turned pale.

He opened his mouth, seemed to want to say something, then swallowed it back.

He hesitated a moment, then uttered a few words.

"Your Highness, he says Navarre is a small country, few people, barren land, pleading for your mercy."

Zhu Yong said nothing.

Granting mercy—these European nobles send the common folk to die in war, and when they lose they beg for forgiveness.

Navarre lies on the southern slopes of the Pyrenees, a buffer between France and Spain.

Its territory is small, its population not large, but its location is strategic.

"Tell Cha Li San Shi: within ten days come to Marseille to surrender, hand over land, property, and churches; if he does not come after ten days, the Great Ming army will cross the Pyrenees, and it will no longer be a matter of surrender."

The envoy's complexion grew even paler.

He bowed repeatedly and hurried away with his men.

Zhu Yong turned and gazed at the sea.

The Mediterranean Sea wind blew in, carrying a salty, briny scent, milder than that of the Atlantic Ocean.

"Prince, the envoys from Provence and Auvergne have also arrived," Wang Gui added.

"Have them come together."

The envoy from Provence was a young noble in his early twenties, dressed in a blue robe trimmed with gold, a long sword at his waist, and walking as if with the wind at his back.

The envoy from Auvergne was a middle‑aged cleric, wearing a black robe, a cross hanging around his neck, and his face was pallid.

The two men walked up to Zhu Yong and bowed deeply.

Wang Gui translated, "Lord, they say the Count of Provence, Louis II, is willing to submit to Great Ming, requesting to retain his fief and property."

"What about Auvergne?"

"The Count of Auvergne, the third, is also willing to submit, asking to keep his noble title."

Zhu Yong looked at the two men and spoke calmly.

"You heard what Navarra said: Great Ming's rule is that land is confiscated, property registered, nobles sent to the Imperial Capital for resettlement, churches surrendered, priests handed over.

Those who submit will have their people allocated land and enjoy tax exemption for the first three years; those who refuse should return to prepare for war."

The young noble's complexion changed, and the middle‑aged cleric's face grew even paler.

The two exchanged a glance and said nothing.

"Ten days—within ten days, have your count come to Marseilles to surrender; if not, Great Ming's great army will march over." Zhu Yong raised a finger.

Provence and Auvergne lie in southeastern France, adjacent to the Mediterranean Sea, and are among France's most prosperous regions.

Capturing these two territories would place all of France firmly in Great Ming's hands.

The young noble clenched his teeth, bowed, and took his leave.

The middle‑aged cleric also departed.

Wang Gui watched their backs and hummed, "These Europeans won't submit without a fight."

Zhu Yong gave no reply.

He turned again and stared at the sea.

Across the Mediterranean lay Africa, Egypt, the Mamluk Sultanate, and the remnants of the Ottoman Empire.

Those lands will be reached sooner or later.

But not now.

"Prince, General Feng has arrived," Wang Gui said again.

Zhu Yong turned and saw Feng Sheng striding toward him.

The veteran general wore a set of half‑worn iron armor, his face marked by wind‑blown sand wrinkles, yet his eyes shone brightly.

He walked up to Zhu Yong, clasped his fists, and saluted.

"Prince, the matters in Bordeaux have been settled, the grain will last half a year, the captives are settled, and I heard you are in the south, so I hurried over."

Zhu Yong nodded and pointed to a stone by the dock, indicating where he should sit.

"General Feng, handle the affairs of those small southern kingdoms—Navarra, Provence, Auvergne—all lie north of the Pyrenees; their territories are small but strategically vital.

If they do not surrender within ten days, the great army will march over."

Feng Sheng clasped his fists and said, "Prince, rest assured, I will take care of it."

"There is another matter."

Zhu Yong paused, then said, "All the churches have been cleared, the priests locked up; Crown Prince has dispatched a group of Confucian scholars and Daoist priests, who will arrive in a couple of months.

These churches will be converted into schools: the scholars will teach reading and literacy, the Daoists will expound the Heavenly Way and nature; Europeans have worshiped God for centuries and have become muddled, so we must have them study our sages' classics."

Zhu Yong stood and patted Feng Sheng's shoulder.

The veteran general, now advanced in years, had followed Zhu Yuanzhang since the early Hongwu era, fighting for over forty years.

His body remains sturdy, but his hair is completely white.

"General Feng, once the southern affairs are settled, return to Bordeaux to rest; there are still wars to be fought here in Europe."

Feng Sheng clasped his fists and said, "Prince, rest assured, this old skeleton can still hold out."

Evening at the Marseilles port was livelier than the daytime: fishing boats returned, gulls circled, and the dock reeked of fish.

Longxiang Army soldiers set up tents by the dock, and wisps of cooking smoke rose.

Zhu Yong sat on a large stone at the far end of the dock, watching the distant sea; the setting sun turned the entire Mediterranean golden.

Zhu Qiongjiong crouched nearby, wiping the Wolf Fang Club with a rag; the blood clots on the head were already cleaned, now glinting iron‑gray in the sunset.

The twelve‑year‑old boy was sun‑tanned dark, his arms full of muscle, and he moved with the vigor of a tiger.

These past few days he had cleared the remnants in the south, killing over a hundred.

"Father, when will we march east?"

Zhu Yong gave his son a glance.

"Why the hurry?"

"Hasn't the Holy Roman Empire already gathered sixty thousand troops? Instead of waiting for them to come, why not strike first?"

Zhu Yong's mouth twitched slightly.

The boy not only knows how to fight but also ponders strategy.

"Those of the Holy Roman Empire appear numerous, yet their hearts are not united; the seven electors each harbor secret ambitions, none accept another, and Emperor Sigismund was elected, not hereditary; the princes heed the tune but not the decree.

If a hard war is to be fought, everyone fears their troops will be exhausted."

Zhu Qiongjiong nodded thoughtfully.

"So we don't need to rush; we just wait for them to mess up on their own?"

"Wait until General Feng cleans up the south, wait until the scholars and Taoist priests arrive, wait until we have a firm foothold, then head east. No hurry, take it slow."

Zhu Qiongjiong kept polishing the staff.

In the distance, Zhu Di rode his horse from the direction of the city. He dismounted, and strode up to Zhu Yong.

"Second Prince, news from the south has arrived."

Zhu Yong took the military report and unfolded it.

The report was delivered by a messenger sent by Feng Sheng.

King Charles III of Navarre has already agreed to submit; the land is confiscated, assets registered, and the nobles are being sent to Yingtian Prefecture for settlement.

Count Louis II of Provence and Count Rang III of Auvergne have also agreed, and the handover is in progress.

At the end, the report added a few lines: "Prince, the small states in the south have all surrendered; the people are honest, and I hear that with land division and tax exemption they are all willing to submit."

"The church has been cleared, the priest is locked in the camp, and once the scholars and Taoist priests sent by the Crown Prince arrive, classes can begin."

Zhu Yong finished reading, folded the report neatly, and slipped it into his sleeve.

The south is stable.

"Second Prince, where shall we strike next?" Zhu Di asked from beside.

Zhu Yong stood up and brushed the dust from his body.

"East, the Holy Roman Empire."

Zhu Di's eyes lit up.

"But not now; first finish the handover in the south, settle the captives, and build the school. Once the scholars and Taoist priests arrive, and once General Feng returns, we will head east," Zhu Yong said, looking at the eastern sky.

Zhu Di nodded and said nothing further.

He knows the Second Prince's temperament; he doesn't fight unprepared battles.

The setting sun sank, and the last glimmer of afterglow vanished on the horizon.

The lights of Marseille Port flickered on one by one, the sea surface glittered, and the steamship's lamps flashed like stars.

Zhu Yong stood at the end of the pier, gazing at the eastern sky. That direction points toward the Holy Roman Empire, toward the Rhine River, the heart of the European continent.

The road is still long, but we are unafraid.