Chapter 3: Striking Gold — Gao Ju's Bewilderment

"May the almighty God of Traversal bless us. May the Timespace Management Bureau approve our operation. Amen."

Wen Desi murmured his improvised prayer, shouldered his assault pack, and stepped through the wormhole first. Xiao Zishan and Wang Luobin followed close behind.

As an avid outdoor enthusiast, Wen Desi owned a complete array of camping and hiking gear—more than enough for any expedition. Yet for this journey, he had chosen sparingly: quick-dry clothing, a survival kit, and a multi-purpose knife. The assault pack served a singular purpose—to carry the wormhole exit with him wherever they went.

Weapons had given him pause. He had considered his all-steel crossbow and hunting knife, but ultimately decided against them. If trouble found them, three city-dwelling homebodies matching strength and ferocity against Ming-era men seemed a dubious proposition at best. Since the wormhole exit could be repositioned at will, they could simply open it and flee at the first sign of danger. As a precaution, Wen Desi had procured three stab-resistant vests, some smoke grenades, and a few stun guns—enough to buy them time for a hasty retreat.

Xiao Zishan possessed no such equipment. He had walked into one of those ubiquitous military surplus shops and emerged with training fatigues, high-top liberation boots, and a knock-off military backpack. Wang Luobin simply wore his usual outdoor work clothes. Each man carried two days' worth of compressed rations, several bottles of purified water, and basic emergency medicine—just enough to minimize how often they would need to open the wormhole and risk exposure.

The promotional samples Xiao Zishan had assembled were surprisingly varied. They had initially planned to bring only glass cups and plastic compacts, but eventually decided that a broader selection made more sense. After all, they had no real notion of what Ming-era consumers might find appealing. More samples meant better market research.

Once they had settled on their crossing point, Xiao Zishan made several trips to the library and managed to pinpoint where Haopan Street would be located in the present day. He found a budget hotel nearby and rented a room. Over several consecutive nights, Wen Desi cracked open the wormhole just enough to observe what lay on the other side. Haopan Street had been a bustling commercial district, densely populated even then—opening the wormhole carelessly might deposit them in someone's bedroom or drop them into the middle of a crowded thoroughfare. Wen Desi had even ordered infrared night-vision goggles online to aid his reconnaissance. If a location proved unsuitable, they would simply relocate and try again—pure luck of the draw.

From his nighttime observations, Wen Desi had determined that the space beyond appeared to be the back courtyard of some residence. Rows of gray-brick buildings with tiled roofs stood in neat lines, and after dark, the area was completely deserted.

None of them had any real idea what would happen once they crossed—and there was certainly no manual to consult. Their preliminary plan was simple: cross over, find a secluded spot to hide until dawn, then walk into the first shop they found, display their wares, and gauge the reaction.

There was no predicting how seventeenth-century people would respond to three strangely dressed individuals. Would locals avoid them entirely, or would they draw a bewildered crowd? Communication posed another challenge, though according to Director Wen, Cantonese preserved more elements of ancient Chinese than any other modern dialect—the gap might not be quite as insurmountable as it would be with standard Mandarin.

They had chosen to cross around five in the morning—the first watch of mao in the old reckoning. Too early and the sky would still be dark; though the Ming and Qing eras had no explicit curfew, nightlife was virtually nonexistent and pedestrians scarce. Being spotted by night-watchmen or yamen runners would invite unwelcome questions. Too late and people would already be stirring, dramatically increasing the odds that someone might witness the wormhole opening—three men materializing from thin air would become the talk of all Guangzhou.

For several nights running, the great Master Gao Ju had not slept soundly. The dogs in the back warehouse courtyard would not stop barking once darkness fell. His guards had checked multiple times but found nothing amiss. The warehouse yard served merely as storage; its walls stood high and were flanked by side-courts and narrow alleys. Even a first-rate cat burglar would have difficulty sneaking anyone inside. Suspicion curdled into superstition. Servants whispered that at midnight, an eerie light sometimes flickered in the courtyard. The entire Gao household grew uneasy—during the day things seemed manageable enough, but after dark, the warehouse became a place everyone avoided. Even the heavens had behaved strangely of late: thunder rumbling at dusk without a drop of rain, the sky frequently turning an uncanny shade of purple. Master Gao himself had not been in good spirits, and even his favorite concubine had gone without his company.

It was not ghosts that Master Gao feared. His dread ran far more practical—that back courtyard warehouse held the key to both his livelihood and his life. Of the hundred-odd shops lining Haopan Street, every last one had made its fortune through foreign trade with barbarians. All the goods and silver he had acquired from the Folangjiren the previous winter had been converted into exactly what the Folangjiren favored: raw silk, finished silk fabric, and fine porcelain. He had also prepared large quantities of saltpeter and ironware—items the court had explicitly banned from export. If anything went wrong, it would cost him his head. And losing his head would be the least of it. Half of his vast enterprise belonged to Eunuch Yang in the palace. Though Eunuch Yang was not as prominent as the Nine-Thousand-Year-Old, reducing the entire Gao family to ash would be no trouble at all for a man of his position.

Tonight the dogs remained quiet—not a single bark all night. Master Gao managed a proper night's sleep. His recent unease had driven him to sleep alone in his inner study. Shortly after the fifth watch, he rose. A maid attended him as he brushed his teeth with green salt and washed up, half-closing his eyes to gaze at the still-dim sky, contemplating the weather and whether he might take a stroll through the courtyard for some morning exercise...

A burst of frantic barking erupted from the back courtyard. Master Gao startled, his pleasant morning mood shattered. He set his cup down hard and was about to summon someone to investigate when his head guard came scrambling into the courtyard, practically falling over himself. Master Gao's expression darkened. This was his inner study—male servants were not to enter without being summoned. For the guard captain to burst in so desperately meant something serious had occurred.

"Master! Master! The warehouse courtyard... in the courtyard... there are... there are..."

"Calm yourself. Speak slowly." Master Gao had been dealing in foreign trade and smuggling for many years; he had long since cultivated steady composure in the face of crisis. After only a moment's alarm, he steadied himself.

"The back courtyard—the back courtyard—three Japanese have appeared!"

Three Japanese in his back courtyard. Master Gao remained somewhat mystified as to how they had gotten in—but as long as they were merely people, things could be managed. He relaxed slightly. "A few Japanese have you frightened like this? Tie them up and lock them in the firewood shed." He waved his sleeve with impressive poise, though his mind was already turning rapidly.

Could Old Wang on Youyu Islet have sent someone? Had a foreign ship dropped anchor? Gao Ju knew the Folangjiren often employed Japanese servants, but this was not the season for ships to arrive. Besides, as his business partner, Old Wang would never dispatch a few Japanese without advance notice—and certainly would never sneak them into his back courtyard.

"Master, these Japanese are... truly strange!" the guard hastened to report. "We didn't dare act rashly."

"Useless! Incompetent!" Master Gao raged, though a twinge of fear stirred within him. Though he was a merchant from another province, he had heard plenty of tales about the vicious Japanese pirates who had once plundered the coast. The very reason Haopan Street had been enclosed within the city walls was because of those marauding pirates. For three of them to slip into his back courtyard in the dead of night, completely undetected... Master Gao recalled what Japanese-speaking sea merchants had told him: that Japan bred certain extraordinary warrior-sages who could conceal themselves, move unseen, and kill invisibly...

At this thought, great fear seized him. His earlier notion of simply having his men seize them evaporated. He hurried to ask: "Where are these... people now?"

"We have them surrounded in the back courtyard with bows and firearms." The guard glanced at Master Gao's expression. "From their manner, it seems they bear no ill intent..."

"Fools!" No ill intent, yet they had come to his back courtyard—what for, to borrow soy sauce?

"Master, these men carry no weapons. This is something the leader among them tossed to me"—the guard quickly produced a small box from inside his jacket—"He said a great deal as well, but I couldn't understand most of it."

Master Gao received the paper box with suspicion—and was immediately startled. It felt impossibly smooth to the touch, as if coated with glaze. Yet the rough edges told him at once that it was made of paper.

How strange indeed, he thought. He opened it carefully. Inside lay a small, oval, flattened container—neither jade nor porcelain, likewise covered in a glaze-like finish, but in a dazzling shade of pink he had never seen on any porcelain. It felt remarkably light in his hand. Master Gao had dealt in foreign goods for years and seen many things, but he could not for the life of him determine what this was made of. In shape it resembled a woman's powder compact. He tried lifting the lid; it opened at his touch like a clamshell. Inside, the lid gleamed brightly. He peered closely—and his face went ashen.

(End of Chapter)