Chapter 4: Striking Gold — The Australian Sea Merchants

"Damn, that was like riding a roller coaster." Xiao Zishan's voice came out in a shaky whisper.

"Fortune favors the bold," Wang Luobin replied, his hand still buried in his pocket. Xiao Zishan knew he'd been white-knuckling the stun gun the entire time.

"What are you two muttering about? Keep it together." Beads of sweat glistened on Director Wen's nose as well.

Their crossing plan, sound enough in theory, had gone sideways the moment they arrived. The instant Wen Desi tucked the wormhole exit into his pack, dogs had exploded into furious barking, and all three felt their legs turn to water. Fortunately, Wang Luobin's grip on the stun gun proved providential. Hearing a rush of movement behind him, he'd jabbed the button and swung wildly—like a blind cat stumbling onto a dead rat, he somehow managed to zap a vicious hound mid-pounce. The beast's fur stood on end, foam spewed from its jaws, and it collapsed twitching onto its back. The shock must have arced into the dogs behind it, because the rest of the pack held back, howling but not closing in.

Before the three could decide their next move, the courtyard gate burst open and seven or eight servants in dark robes surged through, brandishing swords, spears, and cudgels. One even carried a matchlock arquebus—its smoldering fuse coiled around his arm, its black maw leveled directly at the three dimension-travelers whose heads were still full of dreams of fortune.

The first people they encountered on their timespace journey were clearly not friendly. Unfriendly was an understatement—their lives hung in the balance. None of these homebodies had ever stared down the barrel of a gun before.

In countless online debates about ancient firearms, they'd dismissed Ming-era bird-guns as crude contraptions with laughable range and power. But now, with barely twenty paces separating them from that dark muzzle pointed at their faces, even the shoddiest gun could surely blow their heads wide open. They stood frozen, utterly flustered. The opening speech Wen Desi had so carefully prepared died somewhere in his throat.

The servants, however, had witnessed what happened to the dogs, and that gave them pause. After a tense standoff, Wen Desi did the math: throwing a smoke grenade now would let them escape easily enough, but their timespace-arbitrage career would be finished before it began—to say nothing of their grand ambitions to unify the world and revitalize China. At this thought, boldness surged from his gut. He raised both hands, spoke and gestured in Cantonese, and tossed over a mirrored compact to demonstrate peaceful intentions.

The compact worked remarkably well. Within minutes, the three went from having weapons brandished at them to being received as honored guests.

"Old Wang, you think this could be a trap? Luring us in to capture us?" Xiao Zishan's eyes swept the room. This was genuine Ming-dynasty architecture; the furniture beneath them was genuine Ming-dynasty craftsmanship—any single piece would fetch a handsome price back in their own time. But no one was in the mood for appraisal.

"If they meant to act, they could have done so in the back courtyard."

"Everyone stay sharp. And don't touch the tea." Wen Desi kept his voice low. "Judging by this household's servants, I'd wager the master is a smuggler. These types tend toward ruthlessness. Watch for treachery."

"Understood."

"Zishan, if I throw a smoke grenade, you help me get the wormhole out immediately. We run."

"Got it."

As they whispered, seven or eight servants filed in escorting a middle-aged man in fine robes. Having just weathered such a harrowing scene, Xiao Zishan and the others had barely recovered their composure, and now curiosity swelled within them. Here stood a living, breathing person of the Great Ming. Three pairs of eyes fixed intently on the pale, well-kept figure before them.

Moments earlier, when Master Gao opened the box, he had been astonished. Over two decades of dealing in foreign goods had exposed him to countless rare wonders, but this was something else entirely. Setting aside the compact's unusual material—neither porcelain nor jade—the crystal mirror embedded within was priceless. In all his years, he had seen such things only a handful of times, and though those had been considerably larger, none could match this one for brilliance and clarity. Portuguese merchants had told him these crystal mirrors came from a single city in the Far West, manufactured in a heavily guarded island workshop. The technique was a closely held secret, rarely glimpsed even in Portugal itself, let alone here in Guangzhou.

These three Japanese had considerable means. Master Gao wondered: could they be emissaries of some Japanese lord? Then again, Japan could barely meet its own daily needs—nine-tenths of its goods had to be shipped in by Chinese trading vessels. How could they possibly possess such a treasure?

Still, if the other party was willing to present something so valuable as a gesture of goodwill, he owed them an audience at minimum. Master Gao could already smell silver. But as a precaution, he brought along the most capable of his household guards.

The moment he came face to face with them, Master Gao froze again. These weren't Japanese at all.

Guangzhou was a melting pot, and he had seen plenty of Japanese over the years. Though these three had short hair rather than the typical Japanese topknot, they didn't look remotely Japanese. One had his head shaved nearly bare, like a mendicant monk; the other two wore their hair slightly longer. Their clothes were equally peculiar—front-buttoning jackets, short trousers that didn't reach the knee. Japanese didn't dress this way. Neither did the Portuguese.

Moreover, these three were tall—nothing like the typically short stature of Japanese men. Each stood over five chi and five cun; one was nearly six chi.

Their appearance: fair-skinned, with hands and feet neither coarse nor large—clearly people accustomed to comfortable living. Their expressions, though touched with anxiety, showed no trace of servility or inferiority. Every movement carried a certain quiet confidence.

Master Gao had navigated the merchant world for many years and prided himself on reading people. Yet looking at these three, he couldn't place them at all.

As he pondered, he noticed them staring at him with peculiar intensity. A chill ran down his spine, and he took an involuntary step backward. Could they be devotees of the Way of the Dragon Yang? Why were they eyeing him—a man—so disturbingly?

Xiao Zishan and the others, for their part, noticed the middle-aged man's expression shifting uncertainly, which only deepened their own unease. He appeared to be in his fifties, wearing a square-topped cap and a silk round-collared robe. His features were regular, a thin wisp of beard adorning his chin. His fair face was slightly plump—a striking contrast to the dark, scrawny servants flanking him.

Master Gao cupped his hands toward Wen Desi. "How may I address the heroes?"

Because Wen Desi's jacket had a longer hem and its material resembled silk, he was mistaken for the leader compared to his companions in coarse cotton.

The moment he heard the question, Wen Desi recognized the dialect—not Cantonese but something closer to modern Nanjing speech. He replied in Mandarin: "We have come from overseas. Losing our way in the night, we stumbled into your esteemed residence. May I ask what place this is?"

Master Gao didn't catch every word, but his instincts told him these people meant him no harm. A veteran of the merchant world, he spoke slowly: "Where do the heroes hail from?"

Since verbal communication was proving possible, the two sides exchanged names through a mix of speech and writing. Then Wen Desi unveiled the cover story they had prepared.

"Our ancestors were all Chinese. After the fall of Yaishan, they fled overseas. They once built a considerable enterprise in Borneo, but the local ruler grew suspicious of their rising power and repeatedly moved against them. So they took to the seas again, sailing south, until they reached Australia—ten thousand li away. That was more than two hundred years ago."

Master Gao considered this, then said: "So you are not Japanese after all?"

"We are descendants of Huaxia—how could we be Japanese?" Wang Luobin cut in, visibly displeased.

Master Gao raised an eyebrow. These overseas folk certainly didn't know their manners—a subordinate speaking out of turn like that.

"We are not Japanese," Wen Desi confirmed. Seeing that the Ming-era gentleman raised no objection to their story, he grew bolder. He explained that Australia had been a wilderness inhabited only by a small native population; their ancestors had carved out a paradise there through sheer toil and now lived in peace and prosperity. But generation after generation, their forebears had longed for the homeland, so they had finally dispatched a few of their number, laden with trade goods, to make their way back and see it with their own eyes.

In truth, the story was riddled with holes. How had they entered the city? Where was their ship anchored? None of this was explained. But as Wen Desi had predicted: sometimes all you need is a story and the resolve to stick with it.

Master Gao nodded along. He knew of Borneo—several foreign-trade ships made the voyage there each year—and had never heard anything of the sort. But he couldn't be bothered to dig deeper. After all, this was ancient history from centuries past, and who could verify it? Besides, he had no particular interest in Borneo or Australia.

"Having lost our way, we intruded upon your residence and disturbed your household. Please forgive us." Wen Desi cupped his hands in imitation of the local custom. "We come from overseas. May I ask what place this is?"

"Of course, of course," Master Gao replied. These people carried precious objects and had somehow entered the city by night—they were clearly no ordinary travelers. He would take their story at face value for now. "This is Nanhai County, Guangzhou Prefecture, of the Great Ming."

Wen Desi pressed further: "And what is today's date?"

Master Gao blinked. "The seventh year of Tianqi, second month."

(End of Chapter)