Three days after leaving Macau, the sky hung low and heavy, like a sheet of moldy lead.
Shen Li had hired a Wupeng boat—a small, river vessel distinguished by its semi-cylindrical black awning. The boatman, a withered old man named Zhang, traveled with his twelve-year-old mute grandson. In these chaotic times, few boatmen dared the long-distance water routes. Old Zhang had only accepted the risk because of the two Spanish Silver Dollars (pieces of eight) Shen Li had pressed into his hand.
The cabin was cramped, smelling of tung oil and ancient mildew. Shen Li sat cross-legged at the entrance, chewing on a piece of hard rye bread—the last of her rations from the Santo Antonio. She sliced off a thin piece with her scalpel, her eyes fixed on the scenery receding through the curtain of rain.
This was the Great Ming. This was the homeland she had dreamed of for twenty-one years.
Yet, the sight before her was a far cry from the "Golden Age" of the Wanli Emperor she remembered.
The villages along the banks were skeletal ruins. Thatch had been ripped from roofs, leaving blackened rafters exposed like the ribs of a picked-over carcass. The fields were choked with weeds. Occasionally, a peasant in rags could be seen scavenging for grass roots in the mud, moving with the desperate, jerky motions of a feral dog.
"Traveler, can't stomach our coarse food, eh?" Old Zhang called out as he worked the sculling oar, his eyes darting toward her black bread. "That foreign ration looks dark as coal, but it smells surprisingly sweet."
Shen Li didn't speak. She sliced a small piece and tossed it to the mute boy, who had been staring at her with wide, hungry eyes. He caught it mid-air and shoved it into his mouth, nearly choking in his haste.
"These days, having anything to eat is a blessing," Zhang sighed. "They say it's worse in the north. The rebel 'locusts' eat everything in their path. And the Imperial Army? They're worse. The rebels only want your grain; the soldiers want your life."
Shen Li took a sip of cold water. "Is the Grand Canal still navigable?"
"Hard to say," Zhang shook his head. "Drought has hit Shandong province hard. The waters are shallow, and the grain tribute has stalled. Besides, the 'Yama Kings'—the tax collectors—are everywhere. A woman traveling alone with a trunk like that... it's not safe."
Shen Li's fingers tapped rhythmically against the leather trunk.
In the battlefields of Europe, she had been the only Asian face—a heretic, a woman, a ghost. To survive, she had learned to keep her nerves as sharp as her blades.
Inside the trunk, hidden beneath the surgical tools, lay a masterpiece of Liege engineering: a short-barreled flintlock pistol. Unlike the heavy matchlocks used by the Ming army, which required a glowing fuse to fire, this weapon used a French flint mechanism with an eighty-percent ignition rate. In the humid river lands of the south, she had to check the springs and frizzen daily to ensure the powder stayed dry.
As night fell, the boat moored beside a desolate stretch of reeds.
Shen Li didn't sleep. By the flickering light of a dim oil lamp, she opened a hidden compartment in her trunk. Next to the metal parts lay a thick vellum notebook—the legacy of her adoptive father, a mad alchemist. It was filled with a chaotic mix of Latin, German, and Chinese:
> "God created man, and Colonel Colt made them equal. But in the two centuries before Colt's birth, only physics can grant us equality."
>
Shen Li turned to a fresh page and wrote: February 12, 1644. Fourth day of homecoming. The Great Ming is in its terminal stage. Necrosis is spreading. There is no cure; there is only amputation.
Suddenly, the reeds rustled.
Shen Li's pen stopped. Without blowing out the lamp, she closed the notebook and slid her left hand into the trunk, gripping a cold metal tube.
"Grandpa... ghosts..." the mute boy whimpered in his sleep.
"Not ghosts," Shen Li whispered, her eyes turning as cold as ice. "Something far more greedy."
The sound of footsteps approached—at least five men. Their gait was uneven, accompanied by the clink of metal on metal.
"Boatman! Boatman!" a voice shouted with the arrogant rasp of a deserting soldier. "Give us a light! The river patrol is out of tobacco!"
Old Zhang scrambled up, trembling as he prepared to answer. Shen Li pressed a hand firmly on his shoulder.
"Stay inside," she said, pulling her grey linen cloak tight. "I'll handle this."
She stepped onto the bow. The pale moonlight illuminated five men wearing the tattered "Mandarin Duck" battle jackets (Yuan-yang-zhan-ao) of the Ming infantry. Their sabers were rusted, but the hunger in their eyes was sharper than any blade.
Seeing a woman in men's clothing, the soldiers erupted into a sickening laugh.
"Well, look at our luck," the corporal licked his lips. "We only came for coin, but it looks like we found a bonus."
Shen Li stood on the swaying deck, looking down at them. Her right hand hung at her side, three willow-leaf throwing knives held expertly between her fingers.
"Just passing through," Shen Li said, her voice devoid of emotion. "If you don't want to die, leave."
The corporal laughed until he nearly doubled over. "Listen to this little bird! Do you know who we are? We are—"
He stopped. The woman's gaze had changed.
It wasn't fear, or anger, or even disgust. It was the look a butcher gives a piece of meat—analytical, devoid of humanity. For a heartbeat, the killer's instinct she had honed in the mud of Europe chilled the soldier to his bone.
But greed won. The corporal sneered and stepped into the shallow water. "Hand over the trunk, give us some fun, and maybe I'll let you live—"
Shen Li sighed. She didn't want to trigger a legal mess this far from the capital. Her goal was to save a life, not slaughter the dregs of the Ming army.
"I don't make way for the dead."
She turned back toward the cabin, leaving them with nothing but a cold silhouette. As she turned, her fingers flicked.
No one saw the movement. A small iron pellet struck the trigger mechanism of a rusted bear trap hidden in the mud—a trap Shen Li had spotted the moment she stepped out.
SNAP!
The heavy iron jaws, meant for wild boars, clamped onto the corporal's ankle.
"AAAGH!" A piercing scream scattered the birds in the reeds.
Taking advantage of the chaos, Shen Li kicked off the mooring post, pushing the boat into the center of the river.
"Zhang, move."
"Yes! Yes!" Zhang sculled the oar with a strength born of pure terror.
As the boat drifted away, the soldiers' curses and agonized wails faded into the distance. Shen Li sat at the bow, wiping her clean fingers. This was just a minor symptom. She knew that the further north she went, the more "cankers" she would find.
She looked toward the deep darkness of the north—toward Beijing.
Wait for me, Lian.