Chapter 561 - T-Hour
Hu Xun was jolted from his sleep by a frantic pounding on his door.
"What is it?" He was instantly awake. His subordinates knew better than to disturb him without catastrophic cause.
"Master! It's bad!" A servant burst in, panting and gesturing wildly. "The bay! Ships! There are... so many ships!"
"Pirates?" Hu Xun sprang from the bed, throwing on his clothes. "Sound the gong! Arm everyone! Prepare for battle!" He barked at his concubine, who was sitting up in stunned silence. "Get dressed, woman!"
Outside, the brass gong began to clang—fast, urgent strokes that shattered the morning peace. The stockade erupted into chaos. Militiamen dropped their bowls and scrambled for weapons: swords, spears, bows, and a dozen rusty matchlocks were distributed from the armory. Two small cannons were dragged screeching toward the gate.
Hu Xun rushed out, gripping a large saber in his left hand and a foreign flintlock pistol in his right.
The street was a scene of madness. Merchants and ship captains, trapped in the market for the winter trade winds, scurried like headless flies. When word spread that a massive pirate fleet had arrived, faces turned ashen. Some men sat in the dust and wept for their doomed ships; others ran for the harbor.
Reaching the west gate, Hu Xun found a mob of a hundred sailors and merchants pushing against the militia, screaming to be let out so they could board their vessels and flee. The wooden bar of the gate groaned under the pressure.
"Open the gate! Let us out!"
"Fools!" Hu Xun roared. He charged into the crowd. "There are dozens of ships out there! You'll never make it!"
Two men ignored him, their hands clawing at the locking bar.
Schwing.
Hu Xun’s saber flashed. Two heads tumbled into the dust. Blood sprayed the front ranks of the mob.
Silence fell instantly.
"Have you gone mad?" Hu Xun flicked blood from his blade. "You want to run? You'll just be target practice! Forget your cargo. Stay here, and you might keep your heads!"
Cowed by the violence, the crowd retreated. Hu Xun ordered the militia to herd them into the inns, then climbed the watchtower.
His breath caught in his throat.
Fifty or sixty ships filled the bay. He saw a five-masted giant that dwarfed anything he had ever seen. But it was what lay beside it that chilled his blood: sleek, terrifying vessels that moved without sails or oars, slicing through the water with unnatural speed.
Iron ships? Ghost ships?
Then he saw the warships. Three frigates approached the shore, forming a line of battle mere cables from the pier. Their gun ports flipped open in unison, revealing the black muzzles of cannons. Hu Xun counted twelve guns on the facing broadside alone.
"Master... shall we fire?" a militiaman asked, trembling as he held a match to the touchhole of a rusted stockade cannon.
"Fire my ass!" Hu Xun slapped the man across the face. "You think this is a funeral procession? You want to die?"
"But Master... surely they're here to sack the town?"
"If they wanted to sack the town, we'd be ash already," Hu Xun stared at the black muzzles. "We guard against an assault, but do not provoke them. Tell everyone: do not fire unless ordered."
Hu Xun wasn't foolish enough to think his few hundred militiamen could hold this stockade. His show of force was merely a message: We are a hard nut to crack. Negotiate, don't chew.
"Prepare fifty jars of wine, two roasted sheep, two hundred taels of silver, and a hundred bolts of cloth," he instructed his manager. "Pile it at the east gate."
"Master, that might not be enough to buy them off," his secretary whispered.
"I know it's not enough," Hu Xun snapped. "It's a greeting gift. Let's see what they want."
While Hu Xun sweated, the landing operation proceeded with the mechanical precision of a clock.
The first transport docked at Yulin Stockade's pier. Cargo doors groaned open. Laborers, swaying on unsteady legs, filed down the gangways.
The transition from sea to land was chaotic. In the crush, several people slipped from the pier into the water. Small boats stationed for rescue fished most of them out, but a few, weighed down by packs and exhausted by days of vomiting, sank like stones before help could arrive.
Those who made it to the beach collapsed on the sand, gasping like landed fish. Team leaders moved among them, kicking and shouting, herding them toward the distribution center.
There, steaming cauldrons awaited.
Lin Gonglao took an enamel cup from a cook. The liquid inside was dark and smelled pungent. He took a sip. Bitter, slightly sweet, with a strong herbal aftertaste. He drank it all.
Almost immediately, a warmth spread through his belly. The trembling in his legs ceased. His mind cleared, and a surge of artificial energy flooded his exhausted body. He looked around; others were having the same reaction. Men who had been dragged ashore were now sitting up, color returning to their faces.
"What is this? Magic water?" Lin Gonglao muttered.
It was "Energy Supplement Type B." The formula, developed by Dr. Chen Sigen and Liu San, relied on a single active ingredient: Coca extract.
The transmigrators had brought coca plants for exactly this purpose. Despite ethical debates in the Health Department, pragmatism had won. For high-intensity labor in extreme conditions, nothing beat the "Andean Coffee." Alongside the soup, cigarettes—"Great Production" brand—were distributed freely, unlimited supply.
Fueled by coca and nicotine, the labor force was revitalized.
Team numbers were called. Lin Gonglao's squad was marched to the construction site.
With the help of engineering vessels and floating cranes, a second pier—Pier No. 2—was assembled from prefabricated concrete components in record time. Generator barges moored alongside, their diesel engines thrumming as they began pumping electricity into the grid.
Pier No. 1 would handle personnel; Pier No. 2 was for heavy cargo.
Four steel derricks were bolted into place. Bundles of light rail tracks were offloaded. Under the command of Shan Daoqian, the road engineering team laid track using prefabricated frame roadbeds. They moved with practiced efficiency, bolting gravel-filled frames and rails together. Within two hours, a double-track line extended from Pier No. 2 to the cargo yard a kilometer inland.
Then, the Dajing lowered a strange beast onto the new rails.
It was a steam locomotive, but only just. Manufactured by the Lingao Mechanical Works, it was essentially a small boiler and piston engine bolted onto a flatbed railcar. The machinery was exposed, the aesthetics were non-existent, and it looked like a toy built by a madman.
They named it "The Meteor."
Technician Liang Xin, his face already blackened with soot, fed high-quality Hongji coal into the firebox. Steam hissed from the valves.
Shan Daoqian checked his watch. Three minutes ahead of schedule.
"Start!" He waved a green flag.
Liang Xin pushed the throttle. The Meteor whined, wheels slipping on the track before finding grip. Clank-clank-clank. The chain of ten flatbed cars jerked forward.
It moved ten meters and stopped.
"What happened?" Shan Daoqian leaped onto the engine.
"Pressure drop!" Liang Xin wiped sweat from his eyes with a greasy wrench. "I don't see a leak..."
"Fix it! Fast!" Shan Daoqian looked anxiously at the waiting crane. "Every minute counts!"
Liang Xin hammered on a valve. A hiss of steam, then silence. Pressure began to climb. The Meteor shuddered and resumed its journey. It crawled toward the cargo yard at a staggering speed of five kilometers per hour.
It was slow. It was ugly. It broke down constantly. But it was a machine. One trip by this pathetic little train replaced hundreds of trips by manual laborers.
Shan Daoqian checked his watch again. Two minutes delay. Acceptable.
At the central command tent, Sun Xiao sat before a large table covered in charts. This was the brain of the operation.
Following Wen Desi’s obsession with standardization, Sun Xiao used the "Project System." Every task—from latrine digging to rail laying—was a distinct project with a dedicated manager and a strict timeline.
Sun Xiao’s finger traced a line on the Gantt chart. "Pier 2 operational. Rail link established. Unloading of Heavy Equipment Group A begins... now."
In the seventeenth century, amidst chaos and pirates, the cold logic of modern logistics had arrived.
(End of Chapter)