Two immortal ships cut across the sea at full speed, their hulls slicing through the waves with a confidence that did not belong to this era, as if the ocean itself had already acknowledged their right to dominate it.
Shi Lang's Wanli Sunshine stretched over sixty meters, long and steady, built not just for travel but for control, while beside it, Zheng Sen, now known as Zheng Chenggong, commanded the Pingyi, a ship of equal size that carried a very different temperament.
If one was calm, the other was sharp.
If one calculated, the other pressed forward.
Together, they formed something far more dangerous than either alone.
Both ships pushed their speed to the limit, charging straight into the battlefield without hesitation, without formation, without even the slightest hint of caution.
Because they did not need caution.
Not today.
On the Dutch fleet, the lookout was the first to notice them, and the moment his eyes locked onto the approaching silhouettes, his voice broke into a shout that carried real fear.
"Admiral, something is wrong, there are more strange ships approaching."
The Dutch admiral did not even lift his head at first, his attention still locked onto Little Black No.1, the ship that had been tormenting them for far too long.
"How strange can it be," he snapped, irritation thick in his voice, "the strangest ship I have ever seen is already right in front of us, sink that one and everything else becomes irrelevant."
"Sir, you need to look."
"I said I do not care."
"Please look."
There was a pause, just long enough for irritation to turn into curiosity, and then the admiral finally turned his head.
One glance.
That was all it took.
His expression froze.
"…what the hell is that."
The lookout did not hesitate.
"They are flying the same five-colored flag."
For a moment, the admiral said nothing.
Then he swore under his breath.
"Fine," he said, forcing his voice back into control, "even with two more ships, it is still five against three."
He raised his hand and shouted.
"The advantage is ours."
"Five against three, how do we lose?"
"Advance and fire."
Confidence returned to the fleet like a reflex, because numbers were simple, and simple things were easy to believe in.
Then everything stopped being simple.
The two incoming ships did not charge blindly into the chaos, but instead executed a sharp, controlled turn, aligning themselves with Little Black No.1 in a single, clean formation.
A line.
A perfect line.
The line of battle.
Panels along their sides snapped open in rapid succession, revealing rows of cannon ports, and from those ports extended long, gleaming barrels of stainless steel, their polished surfaces catching the light like something alive.
These were not ordinary cannons.
They did not leak.
They did not crack.
They did not explode in the hands of their users.
They were precise.
Reliable.
Unforgiving.
On three different ships, three voices rose at the same time.
"Fire."
The sea exploded.
Nearly forty cannons roared in unison, a coordinated strike that did not scatter, did not hesitate, but converged with brutal intent onto the leading Dutch warship.
Water columns erupted around it as solid shot slammed into the hull, punching clean holes through thick wood as if it were nothing more than damp paper, while explosive shells burst across the deck, tearing through crews with a violence that did not care about armor or courage.
Sailors were thrown aside.
Gunners collapsed mid-action.
The boarding troops waiting on deck were shattered before they even had the chance to move.
For a moment, the ship simply endured.
Then it began to fail.
"Adjust formation," the Dutch admiral roared, his earlier confidence cracking under the weight of reality, "turn the hull, form a line, return fire."
Orders spread, and the Dutch ships attempted to reorganize, but formation was not something you simply declared into existence.
It belonged to whoever controlled speed.
And they did not.
At the front, Yaoxingjuan was already moving.
He turned first.
Sharp.
Precise.
The kind of maneuver that came from years of fighting unfair battles and surviving them.
Behind him, Shi Lang and Zheng Chenggong followed, not as followers, but as learners who understood exactly what was being demonstrated.
Positioning.
Control.
Dominance.
The formation shifted again, and before the Dutch fleet could stabilize, the second volley came.
"Fire."
Another forty shells tore across the sea.
Another ship took the blow.
Another layer of order collapsed.
Only now did the Dutch admiral fully understand the situation.
"We cannot win a cannon exchange," he said, his voice tight, controlled, but no longer confident, "close the distance."
"We board them."
"We have numbers."
That decision carried weight.
Because boarding combat was not like artillery.
There was no retreat once it began.
No repositioning.
No second attempt.
Once ships locked together, the outcome would be decided in blood.
"If we commit, there is no turning back," one officer said quietly.
The admiral's response came instantly.
"There is no turning back for them."
"Forward."
The Dutch ships surged ahead.
On the other side, Zheng Chenggong saw it immediately.
"They are coming in for boarding."
Shi Lang did not hesitate.
"Then we meet them head on."
Yaoxingjuan grinned, a familiar wild edge returning to his expression as he raised his voice.
"Brothers, grab your blades."
A Gao Family Village sailor popped up beside him, looking both amused and slightly exasperated.
"Maybe not immediately," he said, holding up a firearm, "we have better options now."
Yaoxingjuan blinked once.
Then laughed.
"Right," he said, shaking his head, "old habits."
He turned, his voice rising again.
"Bring out the new toys."
In the forest, the natives who had been watching the battle finally relaxed when they saw the situation shift from five against one to three against five, because even without understanding the details, they could feel the pressure ease.
Then they saw the ships closing.
Fast.
Too fast.
Alami's expression tightened again.
"This is bad," he said quietly, "three against five, in close combat, they will be outnumbered."
A warrior beside him spoke.
"Should we help them."
Alami shot him a look.
"How."
The warrior hesitated.
"…swim."
No one laughed.
Because no one could.
On the sea, the ships drew closer.
Decks filled with soldiers.
On the Dutch side, two types stood ready.
Black slave warriors, shields in one hand, blades in the other, prepared to storm across enemy decks, and behind them, white musketeers, weapons raised, calculating distance, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash a coordinated volley.
They were experienced.
They were disciplined.
They knew exactly how this should go.
Then everything went wrong.
Before they had even reached effective range, gunfire erupted from the opposing ships.
Sharp.
Rapid.
Continuous.
Not the slow, measured volleys they expected.
But something else entirely.
One of the musketeers barely had time to register the sound before pain tore through his chest and he collapsed, his shot never fired.
The front line of boarding troops staggered as bullets tore into them, disrupting their advance before it had even begun.
"This is impossible," the Dutch admiral shouted, anger rising again, "what weapons are those."
"Return fire."
Muskets lifted.
Shots fired.
But the distance was still wrong.
Their bullets scattered uselessly across the sea.
"Grenades."
Shi Lang's voice cut cleanly through the chaos as he stepped forward and hurled a small object across the gap between ships.