Chapter 468: Reunion with Kin

"Dad, you said, what does that kid Qiongwu look like?"

"Just like you when you were a child, tiger‑headed and tiger‑minded."

Zhu Qiongjiong grinned.

The fleet sailed for three days and entered the Mediterranean Sea.

The sea's color shifted from deep blue to light blue, then from light blue to ink‑green.

The wind and waves grew fierce; several small boats were tossed violently, and the soldiers vomited profusely.

Zhu Yong stood at the bow, his expression unchanged.

Twenty years ago he followed Chang Yuchun northward from Xuzhou, traveling by sailing ship, rocking so much he was seasick for three days.

Twenty years later he rode a steamship eastward from Constantinople, a ten‑thousand‑ton behemoth cleaving the waves, steady as if walking on level ground.

But the Mediterranean's wind and waves are unreasonable; on the sixth night, the real test arrived.

Zhu Yong was awakened by the creaking of the mast.

He opened his eyes; the cabin was shaking, the teacup on the table slid to the edge then was jolted back, repeating several times until it finally fell to the floor and shattered into pieces.

He rolled over, sat up, threw on the Great Cloak and stepped out of the cabin.

The deck was already a chaotic mess.

The sailors ran amid the gale and rain, some reefing sails, some securing ropes, others hauling things into the cabin.

Rain struck the deck, spraying a white mist that mixed with the thunderous crash of waves against the hull, numbing people's ears.

Wang Gui ran from the helm, drenched through, water droplets on his face mixing with the rain as they streamed down, he hoarsely shouted, "Prince! A storm from the south, it came too fast, no time to evade!"

Zhu Yong squinted toward the southern horizon.

It was pitch black there, nothing could be seen.

But he could feel the wind growing stronger and the ship swaying more.

"Send word: all vessels close in, bow toward the north, ride the wave!"

Wang Gui hesitated; in such a great storm, pointing the bow north to ride the wave seemed suicidal, but he said nothing and turned to run back to the helm.

The order was relayed, and the whistles of dozens of steamships blared in the storm, one after another, like a herd of frightened beasts roaring.

The fleet began to converge, the bows slowly turning northward.

Zhu Yong stood at the bow, both hands braced on the rail, letting the downpour batter him.

In his whole life he had never seen such a display: three hammer blows breaking the gate beneath Kaicheng, a single hammer shattering the gate outside Helin City, Samara Khan, three thousand against a hundred thousand, and smashing the millennial walls beneath Constantinople.

But a storm at sea is different from one on land.

Land enemies are visible and tangible; a single hammer strike makes them submit.

A sea storm is unseen and untouchable; you can only endure—if you endure through, you live, if you can't, you die.

The cabin door opened, Zhu Qiongjiong staggered out, the Wolf Fang Club slung over his shoulder, his other hand gripping the rail.

The fourteen‑year‑old boy, thin and black, could barely keep his balance in the gale, yet his eyes shone brightly.

"Dad, what's happening?"

"Storm—go inside."

Zhu Qiongjiong stayed still; he grabbed the rail and walked to his father's side, standing shoulder to shoulder, rain streaming down his face, eyes narrowed to slits, yet he would not move.

The storm grew ever larger.

Wave after wave slammed the bow, seawater flooding the deck, then being expelled through the scuppers.

The hull rocked violently, tilting to an angle almost capsizing, then slowly righting, tilting again, righting again.

Zhu Yong clutched the rail, not moving a hair.

A distant thunderous crash sounded; he jerked his head up to see a troop transport struck by a massive wave, its hull tilting, the deck's contents clattering into the sea.

But that ship steadied quickly, its bow slowly turning north.

Zhu Yong let out a sigh of relief.

The storm lasted the entire night.

At dawn the wind had lessened and the waves were smaller.

The rain stopped, a crack split the cloud layer, sunlight leaked through the gap onto the sea, making the surface glitter.

The soldiers crawled out of the cabin; some cleared the deck, some inspected the hull, some collapsed on the deck gasping heavily.

Wang Gui emerged from the helm, his face pale but his spirit fine, and stepped before Zhu Yong, clasping his fists, and said, "Prince, the fleet has been tallied: thirty‑eight ships, not one missing."

"People…"

"More than ten were injured, those battered by the waves, not few."

Zhu Yong nodded, turned and looked toward the southern horizon.

The dark clouds there were dispersing, revealing blue sky.

The storm had passed.

"Send word: continue westward."

The fleet pressed on westward, the sea regaining calm, the sun emerging, its warmth bathing them.

After half a month, the fleet rounded the Apennine Peninsula and entered the Ionian Sea.

On the western horizon the faint outline of land could be seen: that was Sardinia, beyond it Corsica, further west the Balearic Islands, and then Spain.

Zhu Yong stood at the bow, gazing at the land's silhouette, and suddenly recalled the scene when they passed here two years ago.

At that time it was the same sea, the same sky, but the direction was east; now it is west.

Back then they still didn't know what the European continent looked like; they only knew there would be war.

Two years later, the European continent would be wholly in Great Ming's grasp.

When they came, it was fifty‑thousand troops; when they returned, still fifty‑thousand troops.

There were not few people; there were also several thousand captives and dozens of ships' worth of Gold and Silver treasure.

Zhu Qiongjiong crawled out of the cabin, bearing a Wolf Fang Club, tanned dark, his arms full of muscle.

The fourteen‑year‑old boy stood with a straight back, and his stride was fierce and swift.

"Father, is Spain ahead?"

"Yes, after Spain comes Portugal, and after Portugal comes the Atlantic Ocean."

Zhu Qiongjiong nodded and asked, "Are the winds and waves of the Atlantic Ocean larger than those of the Mediterranean Sea, and can our ship withstand them?"

"It can hold, it's a steamship, not a sailing ship." Zhu Yong glanced at his son.

This kid not only knows how to fight, but also worries about navigation, just like his father.

When the fleet rounded Cape St. Vincent, Zhu Yong halted his warhorse—no, he stood at the bow, gazing at the familiar coastline.

Two years ago they landed here, and the first stop was Faro in Portugal.

That dirty, stinky town, even the air was filled with the foul smell of manure.

Thinking back now, it's a bit nostalgic; it was the starting point of the European journey.

The fleet entered the Atlantic Ocean.

The water color shifted from light blue to deep blue, then from deep blue to ink black; the wind and waves grew stronger, a few small boats were tossed violently, and the soldiers vomited profusely.

Zhu Yong stood at the prow, looking toward the horizon ahead.

There, it was the direction of America, the direction of the Pacific Ocean, and also the direction of home.

After a full month, the fleet finally entered the Pacific Ocean.

The wind and waves on the sea surface gradually subsided, and the water returned to calm.

Sunlight warmed the deck, feeling warm and gentle.

Zhu Guo stepped out of the cabin, holding a chart in his hand, and walked to Zhu Yong's side.

"Prince, at the current speed, another half‑month will bring us to the west coast of America; the Ministry of Works has built a supply point there to replenish fresh water and food, then we continue westward, cross the Pacific, and we'll reach Australia."

Zhu Yong took the chart and glanced at it.

The supply point on America's west coast is where he stopped two years ago, and he even met the official surnamed Qian.

"Send the order: full speed ahead."

The fleet accelerated westward.