Chapter 250: Ink Boat Maritime Transport

Chapter 250: Mo Zhou Maritime

Shandong, the Governor's Office of Military Affairs, Lingshanwei.

As a coastal town, Lingshanwei's origins trace back to the early Ming Dynasty. During the Wokou raids, the Empire established three major military camps to guard against pirate incursions, with Lingshanwei falling under the jurisdiction of the Yin Camp.

In modern times, Emperor Longwu personally led campaigns to eradicate the Wokou threat, establishing the Wokou District for the displaced.

Thereafter, Lingshanwei's military character waned, its primary function becoming the supply port for Imperial forces stationed in the Wokou District.

After Emperor Jiaqi's ascension, the New Donglin Party's "civilization" policies treated the Wokou District as part of the homeland, stripping Lingshanwei of its logistical role.

Now, impoverished and desolate, Lingshanwei has become a haven for smugglers and stowaways.

At the hour between midnight and dawn, the long street before Lingshanwei's Grade-A bay remains bustling.

Restaurants in the Ming style occupy prime spots, while in secluded corners, izakayas and brothels with distinct Wokou characteristics thrive.

The salty, pungent sea breeze carries multicolored carp banners and black-on-white welcome signs swaying in unison.

Ting-a-ling! The wind chimes beneath neon signs ring ceaselessly, each door's opening and closing accompanied by clamor.

Wearing Ming-style long skirts and Wokou kimonos, songbirds stand at alley entrances, their eyes gleaming with longing as they scan the crowd for generous patrons.

Mobile vendors eke out existence between shops, hawking cheap fare laced with avena.

Suddenly, a commotion erupts at the street's end.

The crowd parts like a tide pushed by an invisible force, revealing a wide passage and exposing the source to bewildered onlookers.

A group of brazen, muscular men.

The leader, clad in a black battle jacket with an open collar, reveals a muscular chest etched with a massive tattoo of a woman's face—left side alluring and delicate, right side grotesque and mechanical. Two rows of archaic characters from the early Ming era are symmetrically inked: "Born without fear of guard duty, dead without dread of the yellow robe."

The tattoo's stitching is crude, failing to convey the intended clash of flesh and machinery, instead appearing twisted and odd.

A ferocious scar runs from his temple to jawline, his nostrils flared, yellow teeth bared, exuding malevolence.

Such visage is rare in an age where face-changing rivals clothing changes, leaving an indelible impression.

No merchant on this street fails to recognize him.

Real name unknown, alias E Jiao, a foreman for Mo Zhou Maritime.

This company, among Lingshanwei's dozen or so maritime firms, holds considerable sway, owning a Grade-A bay and several Grade-B bays, with fixed routes to the Wokou and Goryeo Districts.

E Jiao, this so-called foreman, is in truth a henchman kept by Mo Zhou Maritime.

After all, maritime trade has always been a mix of money and blood, requiring not only mastery over the unpredictable sea but also survival against greedy hearts.

Thus, Lingshanwei's maritime firms maintain armed forces rivaling inland gangs in brutality.

The Grade-A bay at the street's end belongs to Mo Zhou Maritime; all merchants here survive by their grace.

On the last day of each month, E Jiao appears punctually to collect their share of profits.

As the company's owner puts it, "Live off the mountains, eat off the sea—this sea is ours, so how could we let these merchants profit freely? Every coin must be paid."

E Jiao remembers these words well.

A band of flamboyant men swagger through the streets, while pedestrians on either side avoid them like plague.

E Jiao halts before a Wokou-style izakaya, where the owner, with a chrysanthemum-styled topknot, kneels on the wooden steps before the shop, his face a mask of obsequiousness.

"Damn it, you haggle at payment time, yet kneeling is swift and clean."

E Jiao grabs a hostess from the izakaya, pulls her into his arms, and thrusts a bill into the trembling chest of the terrified owner.

"Come on, have your bird-tongued kind recite this aloud, louder."

The hostess, shaking violently, extracts the bill from a slit and, pinching her voice, shouts in Wokou: "Mo Zhou Street No. 17, Kinzai Izakaya, last month's overdue payment: 3,000 silver notes, this month's due: 5,000 silver notes, interest—"

"Interest: 2,000!"

E Jiao interrupts with a grin, "Total principal and interest: exactly 10,000 silver notes. Ask him if he's ready."

"Lord E Jiao."

Before the hostess can speak, the kneeling owner blurts out in fluent official Mandarin: "The interest is wrong!"

"So you can speak human words."

Feigning surprise, E Jiao shoves the dazed hostess to his underlings, looming over the owner: "Then why don't you calculate where the error lies?"

Clang!

E Jiao pulls off his left index finger; where bone should be, a gleaming conical blade takes its place.

"First, let me be clear—if you miscalculate, I'll stab you once. Don't worry, I carry remedies from the Rural Hanging Gourd Sect. It works fast. But it's not cheap—one spray costs 10,000 silver notes."

The owner, staring at the knife in E Jiao's right hand and the medicine in his left, stammers: "Sir, my business has been poor lately. I can pay the principal now, but could the interest be deferred?"

"I could defer it."

A flicker of hope crosses the owner's face, only to be dashed by E Jiao's next words.

"But first, ask if the dock agrees."

"Your customers tread this street daily—is that not wear and tear? The fresh fish you sell must be unloaded here—is that not a cost? If I defer your payment, how will Mo Zhou cover maintenance?"

Illogical and nonsensical.

The core is simple: You must pay.

Yet E Jiao revels in his rhetoric, believing he's mastered the art of benevolence and authority.

Otherwise, how could Sanjin, the izakaya owner, be so convinced?

Sanjin trembles, retrieves a Dharma doll-shaped piggy bank, and shakes it with a peculiar rhythm.

As E Jiao's patience nears its end, Sanjin finally inputs the secret code, and the doll's mouth ejects a thin stack of red notes.

"Sir, this is all I have."

E Jiao scans the bills with his mechanical eye, counting swiftly. The eye's scanner verifies authenticity and tallies amounts—after all, his hands are for wielding blades, not counting coins.

"Total: 9,000. Still short by 1,000."

E Jiao signals his men to collect the money, then twirls his conical blade, advancing step by step.

"Here's the deal—I won't take your money, but I'll give you 1,000."

Bang!

The owner's Dharma doll clatters to the ground, its broken mouth curling its tongue in a swallowing motion.

Pfft!

E Jiao slowly withdraws the blade from the owner's abdomen, his face twisted with malice: "This time, one stab per 1,000. Next time, it'll be one stab per 100."

Sanjin clutches his wound, collapsing into the blood pool, his face still bearing a faint smile and nodding.

"Go!"

E Jiao, triumphant, departs with his men, oblivious to the cold, piercing gaze watching from the crowd.

"Zhao Qingxia, I didn't expect your Tianzhi Association to harbor such industries beneath its surface? Tsk tsk tsk. Well, making money isn't exactly dishonorable."

Zhao Qingxia clenched his teeth, his voice a low growl: "Dishonorable? Damn right it's dishonorable!"