Mi Qianhu felt a chill crawl up his spine when he heard Yao Xingjuan's earlier declaration.
Attack the red haired foreigners at sea?
For what reason?
Rebels usually seized cities, robbed granaries, shouted slogans about righteousness, and then fought imperial troops. That was the pattern. That was how chaos behaved.
But these people were sailing out into open waters to provoke Western powers.
Why?
Before he could untangle the thought, the battlefield reporter on the Immortal Treasure Mirror spoke again, her tone steady and unhurried, as if explaining grain prices rather than war.
"In recent days, the red haired foreigners have been conquering the indigenous tribes on Yizhou Island. They are instigating internal conflicts among the tribes and encouraging them to carry out headhunting raids. The methods are extremely cruel. Therefore Dao Xuan Tianzun has ordered Yao Xingjuan to harass the Dutch forces at sea, forcing them to focus on self defense and leaving them no time to bully the islanders."
Mi Qianhu froze.
So that was the reason.
Not profit.
Not random piracy.
Intervention.
Zhu Cunji turned his head slowly.
"You see? This should have been something Zhu Youjian handled properly. But since Zhu Youjian did not handle it well, Dao Xuan Tianzun stepped in."
Mi Qianhu said nothing.
There were moments when silence was safer than rebuttal.
On the screen, the broadcast continued.
Yao Xingjuan faced the camera and bared his teeth in a grin that tried very hard to look ferocious.
"In short, I am a great sea bandit. Let us see which unlucky red haired fellow sails into our sight today."
The grin was fierce.
Too fierce.
Among the commoners watching in Xi'an, not a single person flinched.
Someone even laughed.
"His acting is not convincing."
"Trying to look scary."
"After seeing Chen Qianhu's face, this is nothing."
"Why not send Chen Qianhu to deal with the red haired devils? He would not even need to attack. Just show his face and the whole ship would surrender."
Laughter rolled through the crowd.
Mi Qianhu blinked in disbelief.
They were mocking a pirate on live broadcast.
And no one was afraid.
"Look," Yao Xingjuan said, pointing ahead. "A Dutch ship."
He grinned again.
"Boys. Time to work."
"Time to work."
On Little Black One, activity erupted in disciplined layers.
There were two kinds of sailors aboard.
The first were Yao Xingjuan's old subordinates. They understood wind and canvas, knew how to maneuver wooden sailing ships, and were born for boarding actions and blade work. Steam power, however, was beyond them. They served primarily as the assault force.
The second group had been sent from Gao Family Village. These men operated differently. They had specialized teams. Helmsmen. Gunnery crews. Damage control units. Signal operators. Each group moved to its station with quiet efficiency, like gears meshing into place.
In the distance, a Dutch vessel lay anchored near the shore.
Beside it, a small fishing village burned with violence.
The scene unfolding there was grotesque.
Dutch musketeers were firing into a tribal settlement. The targeted tribe had refused to align with the Dutch and was strong enough to resist the coalition tribes already brought under Dutch influence. Since their proxies failed, the Dutch intervened directly.
Against muskets, spears meant little.
Several indigenous warriors already lay fallen. Blood stained the earth. Survivors trembled, despair settling over them like ash.
Then someone shouted.
"A ship at sea!"
The Dutch soldiers immediately ceased fire and hurried back toward their vessel. In the Age of Sail, any approaching ship was a potential enemy. Caution was instinct.
The surviving islanders looked toward the horizon.
A massive black ship was approaching.
They did not know letters. They did not know geopolitics. But they understood one thing. The arrival of that vessel had interrupted their slaughter.
Yet fear remained.
Only Western sea raiders possessed ships of such size.
The Dutch, too, felt unease when they saw the seventy meter giant drawing near. Their officer quickly ordered the Saint George trade flag raised.
In Western waters, that flag declared peaceful commerce.
Yao Xingjuan laughed when he saw it.
"They raise and lower flags quite skillfully. Western raiders bully the weak and fear the strong. When they see a bigger ship, they raise the Saint George trade flag. If we were smaller, they would raise the Dutch war flag instead."
He spat to the side.
"Prepare to fight."
Little Black One did not hesitate.
It charged directly forward.
"They are coming."
"They intend to attack."
Panic flickered across Dutch faces. The strange vessel had no sails. No oars. Yet it moved swiftly. Only the great circular wheels at its sides churned white water beneath them.
"Prepare the cannons."
The Dutch scrambled.
But Little Black One fired first.
Rifled artillery spoke with ruthless precision. The range advantage was humiliating. Several shells struck before the Dutch guns could even respond effectively.
These were not the rising English of an aggressive dawn. The Dutch Republic was already aging, slipping toward twilight. Their soldiers' will lacked the steel of earlier decades. When they realized the enemy guns outranged them so decisively, the thought of escape came naturally.
They turned.
No heroic stand.
No glorious broadside exchange.
They fled along the coastline.
Yao Xingjuan scowled.
"Only one round and they run? Is there no backbone?"
He slammed his palm against the railing.
"Chase."
Little Black One surged forward, firing continuously.
Shell after shell tore into the Dutch vessel. Planks shattered. Decks splintered. Sailors screamed.
Suddenly, dozens of black African sailors rushed onto the Dutch deck, wielding blades and shields, shouting in languages no one on Little Black One understood.
Yao Xingjuan narrowed his eyes.
"I cannot understand them, but I can guess. Come closer. Stop shooting from afar. Fight us properly."
He laughed.
"Very well."
An explosive shell answered.
The blast silenced the shouts. Bodies collapsed onto the deck.
The more terrifying Little Black One appeared, the less the Dutch dared to resist. They zigzagged desperately through the clutter of small islands along the coast, trying to use geography as a shield.
The chase stretched on.
Then, ahead, five large Dutch sailing ships appeared, forming a support squadron.
Yao Xingjuan burst into laughter.
"We withdraw. No need to fight many with few. We are faster anyway."
Little Black One turned cleanly and sped away.
The Dutch ships watched its retreating form and, after witnessing that unnatural speed, abandoned any thought of pursuit.
The sea fell quiet again.
Back in Xi'an, the broadcast replayed segments of the battle from different angles, cutting between cannon fire, fleeing sails, and the burning village spared from total destruction.
The commoners roared with laughter.
"Toying with the red haired devils."
"Making fools of them."
Mi Qianhu, however, did not laugh.
He stared at the screen with complicated admiration.
"To manipulate Westerners so easily," he murmured despite himself. "Impressive."
He had spent years believing that foreign ships represented unstoppable menace. Coastal officials feared them. Court debates circled endlessly around tribute and trade.
Yet here, one black steam vessel dictated terms.
Not by negotiation.
By capability.
On Yizhou Island, a tribe that had nearly vanished that day now breathed because someone far away had decided to intervene.
Mi Qianhu lowered his gaze.
The rope around his wrists still bit into his skin.
But something else bound him tighter.
If rebels protected the frontier while the court hesitated, then what name did history give such people?
Bandits.
Or guardians.
The Immortal Treasure Mirror dimmed slightly as the segment ended.
The crowd dispersed in lively discussion, debating cannons, steam power, and the cowardice of the Dutch.
Mi Qianhu remained where he stood, silent, his thoughts far louder than any artillery.