Chapter 558 - Last Night at Anyoule Market

Dawn was approaching, yet the night clung stubbornly to the world. Along the single main street of Anyoule Market, oil lamps and torches sputtered in shops and dwellings, casting a sickly, wavering glow onto the gravel road. Light still spilled from taverns, small eateries, and brothels, punctuated by bursts of drunken revelry. For the merchants, supercargoes, and sailors wintering here to catch the trade winds—stranded at this remote "End of the Earth"—there was nothing to do but drown their boredom in wine and women.

Hu Xun, draped in a silk robe and a heavy cloak against the predawn chill, strode proudly down the center of the street. Behind him trailed a motley procession: a handsome young page clutching a tea canister wrapped in padded brocade; a private secretary with a long gown and wispy beard; a servant shouldering a folding chair; another holding a bamboo strip—the instrument of summary punishment; and finally, a squad of militiamen armed with clubs, swords, and spears.

Hu Xun was performing his duty as the local baocheng—the night watchman. His task: to question suspicious persons and maintain a semblance of order. Though Anyoule Market was small, public security was a nightmare. The town was a transient hub for men of the sea—rough characters released from the terrifying monotony of the ocean. Once on land, theft, brawls, and stabbings were as common as breathing. At peak season, it wasn't unusual for several men to die in street fights every single day.

Hu Xun never reported these deaths to the county. Doing so would only invite bureaucratic leeches, and the magistrate couldn't solve the crimes anyway. Detailed investigations were impossible here; step outside the market, and you were in the wilderness. A few dozen li out lay the territory of the Li tribes—who would chase a murderer there?

However, as a prominent local figure, he had to maintain a baseline of order. Every night, Hu Xun personally led patrols. Drunks, rowdies, and anyone brandishing a weapon were detained immediately. This doubled as a revenue stream—ship captains had to pay handsomely to bail their men out. If no one came for some penniless wretch, that was fine too; when the next wave of ships arrived, Hu Xun would simply sell the man off. Mortality rates at sea were horrific, and supercargoes were always eager to replenish their crews with "volunteers."

Tonight, Anyoule Market was quiet, but quiet did not mean peaceful. As the last resupply point before key routes to the Southern Seas, this remote outpost was a fat prize in the eyes of many. Hu Xun’s priority wasn't petty theft, but reconnaissance—pirates often sent scouts to facilitate a raid, "opening the gates" from within.

The hour before dawn—when the sky was darkest and watchmen were most sluggish—was the prime window for a surprise attack. That was why Hu Xun was out here, shivering in the sea breeze.

He walked the length of the street and climbed the watchtower at the west gate. Several bleary-eyed militiamen stood guard, staring out over Dadonghai Bay. Storm lanterns swayed in the wind, their light feeble against the vastness of the dark. Hu Xun leaned against the wooden palisade. Below, lights burned on the dock, and riding lamps bobbed on the masts of anchored ships. The vessels rose and fell with the swell, the only sound the rhythmic crash of waves against hulls and rocks.

Across the bay, a few steady points of light were visible—the fortification built last year by the "Lingao Sea Merchants." Although the two sides traded and exchanged pleasantries, Hu Xun remained deeply wary.

For months, the population inside that compound had never exceeded thirty. They worked like peasants—growing vegetables, raising chickens, fishing, harvesting coconuts, and cutting timber. Their presence had injected some vitality into the local economy; many impoverished villagers found work there, and the compound's residents occasionally came to the market to buy goods and hire craftsmen.

But Hu Xun was certain of one thing: Manager Wang's claim that they were "merchants specializing in the Southern Seas trade" was a bald-faced lie. Almost every week, ships docked at their private pier, loading worthless local coconuts and timber while offloading uniform, heavy crates.

Hu Xun had never sailed the Southern Seas, but he had seen enough passing merchants to know the market. Timber and coconuts were even cheaper down south; shipping them there would be like carrying coal to Newcastle.

He was convinced this group was smuggling contraband. As for what they were smuggling, he didn't care. In this lawless corner of the world, as long as everyone minded their own business and the silver flowed, why pry?

"Any unusual activity?" Hu Xun asked the watch commander.

"Nothing, sir. All is peaceful."

The night breeze bit through his cloak. The moon was setting, and only the ghostly flicker of bioluminescence lit the waves. Nothing seemed amiss.

"Stay alert. No sleeping!" Hu Xun barked, then turned to descend the tower. It was time to go home and warm himself in the arms of his concubine.

Less than ten nautical miles away, Ruan Xiaowu, captain of the Special Service Boat Yu-Te-04, lowered his binoculars. Behind him, breaking the waves in a formidable column, sailed a fleet of fifty ships.

Leading the formation were the fast single-masted cutters. heir lightweight hulls heeled sharply in the wind and waves, gunwales nearly kissing the water. To an observer, they seemed perpetually on the verge of capsizing, only to right themselves at the critical moment. These agile craft were crewed by trainees and the most daring sailors of the Navy, acting as the fleet's eyes and ears, constantly probing the flanks.

Behind them came the main body: a long column of special service boats, their holds packed with weapons, sailors, and supplies.

Then, looming like a mountain, came the five-masted behemoth Sanya No. 1. Its massive sails were spread wide, dominating the skyline. Flanked by a swarm of smaller transport vessels, it carried the lifeblood of the expedition: thousands of laborers, soldiers, construction materials, tools, vehicles, and grain.

Yet even this giant was not the true core. That honor belonged to the strange, mastless vessels that followed, slicing through the waves without sails or oars: the Xunjing self-propelled barge, the Dajing flat-deck barge, the Type 67 landing craft, and two massive 8154 fishing trawlers. The Xunjing's broad deck was stacked high with peculiar, hulking shapes tightly wrapped in oilcloth. The landing command headquarters was established aboard one of the 8154 trawlers.

Screening the starboard flank of this armada was the iron fist of the fleet: a column of six three-masted warships, led by the Zhenhai and the Fubo, their gun ports sealed tight, radiating silent menace.

Ruan Xiaowu felt a swell of pride. True, there were pirate lords in these seas with more ships than the Australians, but what were those tubs compared to this? Filthy, rotting decks; sails patched with rags; crude, rusty cannons tied down with fraying rope. He recalled the scornful smiles of the naval cadets when they inspected captured pirate vessels—gunpowder heaped carelessly below decks, scrap metal and pottery shards serving as grapeshot. Bumpkins. Dangerous bumpkins, perhaps, but bumpkins nonetheless.

On the flagship—one of the 8154 trawlers—the leadership of the future Sanya Special Zone was crammed into a command room converted from a freezer hold. The ship's displacement wasn't large, and it pitched significantly in the open sea. Zhuo Tianmin, plagued by severe seasickness, lay flat on a bench to conduct the meeting.

Four men crowded around a small table. In two hours, dawn would break, and the operation would commence.

Although this was an unopposed landing—no enemy artillery, minefields, or machine gun nests awaited them—coordinating a force of this scale on an unfamiliar coast was a logistical nightmare. The fleet was heavy with supplies, heavy machinery, and human lives.

Detailed planning for this "All-Out Landing" had been underway for a month. A joint working group from the General Staff and the Planning Council, under the direct supervision of Wang Luobin, had agonized over every step.

The challenges were immense. While history offered many examples of amphibious landings, the transmigrator collective was attempting a modern-style operation with limited seventeenth-century resources. In some ways, it was more complex than their original D-Day. Then, they had landed five hundred people; now, they were landing three thousand.

The questions were endless. Where to land? When? Who goes in the first wave—soldiers or laborers? How many ships? How many days of dry rations before the field kitchens could serve hot meals? How to move people from ship to shore—piers, small boats, rope ladders?

By the time the plan was finalized, it was a thick tome. Every detail of "Project Giant" was specified, with contingency plans for every imaginable disaster.

"When formulating the plan, do not first think about victory," Wang Luobin had instructed the working group. "Think first about how to pick up the pieces if we fail."

"Who could defeat us?" The planners had scoffed. "The local militia of Anyoule Market?"

"Consider everything," Wang Luobin insisted. "A typhoon sinks half the fleet. Zheng Zhilong's armada ambushes us mid-landing. We must have a plan for the worst case."

"It's disheartening to think of defeat before we even start..."

"Call it what you will, but you must assume the worst," Dongmen Chuiyu had argued, backing the Engineer. "Crisis response is the heart of planning. The more thoroughly we imagine disaster, the less likely it is to destroy us."

(End of Chapter)