The year was 1640, the thirteenth year of the Chongzhen reign, a year that looked perfectly ordinary on paper but was, in reality, quietly assembling disasters like a meticulous collector who knew exactly which pieces would ruin everything later.
Cao Wenzhao departed from Dalinghe Fortress with the Guanning cavalry, returning first to Dengzhou, where he barely allowed his troops enough time to stretch their legs before immediately pivoting into naval command, taking charge of the Dengzhou fleet and sailing south along the coastline under imperial orders to suppress the rebellion led by Zheng Zhilong.
Everything looked clean, logical, and reassuringly official.
Which was precisely why it was completely misleading.
Because once Cao Wenzhao's fleet reached the Zhoushan Archipelago, the story stopped behaving like a loyal report to the throne and started acting like a conspiracy that did not bother to hide very hard.
Zheng Zhilong arrived there as well.
Two fleets that were supposed to tear each other apart instead slowed down, approached, and then proceeded to do something that would have caused several court officials to faint on the spot if they had seen it in person.
They held a gathering.
Not a tense negotiation filled with veiled threats.
Not a cautious exchange of words through intermediaries.
A full gathering, complete with shared meals, loud laughter, and what the soldiers later referred to, with suspicious enthusiasm, as the "Dao Xuan Tianzun Seafood Hotpot Festival," an event that somehow turned hostility into camaraderie through the simple yet devastatingly effective method of feeding everyone until they forgot who they were supposed to kill.
By the time the gathering ended, the soldiers on both sides were no longer looking at each other like enemies, which, while excellent for morale, was deeply problematic if one still intended to follow imperial orders.
Then the fleet moved again.
At its core were more than seventy massive ships from Gao Village, vessels that did not look like anything traditionally associated with the Ming navy, surrounded by over a hundred smaller ships belonging to Zheng Zhilong's maritime forces, forming a combined fleet of roughly two hundred warships.
Instead of following known routes, they slipped away from the coastline, choosing obscure and rarely used sea paths, moving southward in a way that suggested they were not interested in being found until it was far too late.
On the western coast of Taiwan, a transformation had taken place that could only be described as aggressively ambitious.
What had once been a modest supply village had evolved into a proper city, complete with structure, planning, and a name that carried intent.
Zheng Chenggong had named it Nantun City, a name that sounded calm enough until one realized it was attached to a rapidly expanding foothold that was quietly rewriting the balance of power on the island.
Since the earlier incident where a three-man strike team had decisively dealt with a Dutch harassment force in a three-versus-five engagement, the Dutch had chosen, with remarkable wisdom, to stay away for a while, which in turn gave Gao Village all the time it needed to build without interruption.
Supplies flowed in from the mainland like a steady promise.
Food became wages.
Wages became loyalty.
And loyalty became construction speed that would have made any bureaucrat deeply uncomfortable.
The Dadu Kingdom, a coalition of indigenous tribes numbering over eight thousand, had gradually integrated into this system, with more than three thousand of them now actively working in Nantun City, receiving food and goods in exchange for labor, participating in something they might not fully understand yet but were increasingly unwilling to leave.
At the center of this transformation stood their king.
Ganza Xia Alami.
Once, he had declared with absolute conviction that he would never learn Han language, never adopt their customs, never allow his people to be influenced by outsiders, even if it meant throwing himself off a mountain to prove his resolve.
Now, he lived in a cement house.
A solid, well-built structure that did not leak, did not collapse, and did not require constant repair, furnished with wooden furniture coated in smooth paint, positioned along clean streets where goods from the mainland arrived in an endless variety that expanded daily life in ways that made his previous worldview feel… unnecessarily restrictive.
If his past self could see him now, there would probably be a long, uncomfortable silence followed by a reluctant admission.
This was better.
Much better.
When Zheng Chenggong walked in, carrying a roll of silk with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly how persuasive luxury could be, he greeted him with an easy smile.
"Ganza Xia Alami, take a look at this, this comes from the Anqing sericulture cooperative back in the Ming, and before you ask, yes, it is exactly as good as it looks."
Alami took the silk, ran his fingers across it, and paused as the texture registered fully.
Smooth did not quite capture it.
This was the kind of smooth that made a person reconsider their entire economic model.
"This… how trade," he asked, his still-developing Mandarin bending slightly under the weight of curiosity.
Zheng Chenggong did not hesitate.
"One barrel of deer milk."
Alami's expression shifted instantly into satisfaction, because that was a price he could work with, given the abundance of deer on the island and the established practices of milking domesticated animals.
The trade was completed quickly.
Naturally, his mind moved to the next opportunity.
"I have antlers, hides, many, what trade for those."
Zheng Chenggong shook his head, and this time his tone carried a trace of something firmer.
"Dao Xuan Tianzun has made it clear, no trade means no killing, the deer are not to be turned into commodities, you may take milk, but their lives are not part of the exchange system."
Alami fell silent.
This was, from his perspective, an inconvenient policy.
Because if hunting was restricted, then an entire portion of his people's livelihood would need to change.
Zheng Chenggong, who had clearly anticipated this exact moment, unfolded a map and pointed to a marked location.
"There is coal here," he said, tapping the spot with quiet confidence, "you and your people can mine it, and Gao Village will exchange it for food, wine, cloth, and anything else you now find yourself unwilling to live without."
"Coal," Alami repeated, frowning slightly.
Zheng Chenggong produced a black chunk of stone.
Recognition came quickly.
"That useless black rock, I know it, we never use it, it is ugly, why is it valuable."
Zheng Chenggong smiled.
"Because it makes everything else possible, and more importantly, it is worth more than hunting deer."
That was a compelling argument.
And one that Alami was clearly in the process of accepting.
Unfortunately, the discussion did not get to continue.
Because the alarm bell rang.
Sharp, metallic, relentless.
The kind of sound that did not ask politely for attention but took it by force.
Zheng Chenggong's expression changed instantly.
"We talk later."
He was already moving.
Alami followed without hesitation.
At the harbor, Gao Village sailors were rushing into position with practiced efficiency, while the indigenous population looked on, confusion spreading quickly before being replaced by tension.
Then the announcement came, shouted through a crude metal loudspeaker.
"The Dutch are approaching, combat units move to engage at sea, civilians take shelter immediately."
Alami reacted on instinct.
His voice rose in his native tongue, sharp and commanding.
"Warriors of the Dadu Kingdom, prepare to defend the city."
Men moved.
Not perfectly.
Not like drilled soldiers.
But with instinctive understanding of danger.
They took positions along the walls, archers crouching behind cover, eyes fixed on the horizon.
From the highest point, Alami looked out.
Three ships from Gao Village had already left the harbor.
In the distance, Dutch ships advanced.
Behind them, unmistakable in form and presence, came Spanish galleons.
The weight of the situation settled heavily.
"Our friends… are outnumbered again."
On the water, tension tightened like a drawn bowstring.
"They are here," Shi Lang shouted across the waves.
"And this time they brought friends."
"Five Dutch ships, five Spanish," Zheng Chenggong replied, his voice steady but edged with calculation.
Another voice cut in, dry and blunt.
"Three against ten, and if they board us, especially those Spanish ships, we are in trouble, those things carry hundreds of men, if it turns into close combat, we lose the advantage immediately."
Shi Lang glanced back toward Nantun City, where thousands now depended on them.
"We cannot run," he said quietly, but with finality that needed no reinforcement.
"Because if we do, the people behind us die first."
No one argued.
Because some decisions, once seen clearly, stopped being decisions at all.