Chapter 461: The Sky Darkens, the Pirates Arrive

The clouds in the sky shifted endlessly, transforming by the moment—some stretching into sinuous S-shapes, others bending into rigid B-like curves. As the dark clouds continued to pile up, layer upon layer, the visibility over the sea steadily worsened, the horizon dissolving into a gray blur.

On stretches of ocean invisible to the fleet ahead, several sharp-bottomed sea vessels drifted quietly, their masts hung with tattered white sails. These ships were not large; each could carry perhaps thirty to fifty men at most. Besides the open deck, there were two cabins built into the hull, and along the sides ran two rows of oar ports, allowing the crew to surge forward under human power when necessary.

These vessels trailed far behind Zhu Ping’an’s fleet, keeping their distance like venomous snakes stalking prey—silent, patient, hidden within the heaving swells. The day’s poor visibility worked in their favor. Combined with the ships’ modest size, they vanished seamlessly into the restless sea, leaving not the slightest trace.

The small boats shadowing the fleet belonged to what prowled the seas robbing and pillaging—so-called “armed merchants.” Or rather, to be precise, pirates. They called themselves armed merchants because everything they looted was sold off to the people of Wa, dumped like contraband under the elegant excuse of “trade.” Merchants in name only—every last one of them was, in truth, a pirate steeped in blood and sin.

The pirates aboard looked down on their luck, a rough, mismatched lot. Some wore Han clothing, others donned the tattered garments of the island nations. Shaven heads bobbed as birdlike, harsh-sounding tongues chattered away, noisy and incomprehensible. Some went barefoot; others clomped around in wooden clogs.

Among them were even a few of those bird-tongued men who wore nothing at all—save for a yellowed, threadbare loincloth tied between their legs.

“What a damn pack of animals, ruining public decency…” A bare-chested pirate in Han clothing shot a sidelong glance at those barely dressed figures and curled his lip in open disdain.

“Die-san, you not understand,” one island drifter replied, his head shaved smooth, his loincloth proudly on display. He spoke broken Han, pointing at the stained cloth between his legs with unmistakable pride. “This fundoshi is best cloth in all Wa country. Very good for sweat. We never get hemorrhoids—thanks to this!”

“I’m surnamed Di, damn it—not your ‘die’!” the bare-chested pirate snapped, his temper flaring. He reached out and slapped the drifter hard across the face. “If I had sons like you, my ancestors would crawl out of their coffins in shame.”

“Hai! Die-san!” The loincloth-clad drifter took the slap, immediately straightened his bowlegged stance, and barked the response with almost ceremonial enthusiasm.

The other island drifters burst into laughter, watching the scene unfold without the slightest hint of offense, as if nothing were amiss.

Among this pirate band, Ming pirates clearly held the upper hand. In this era, the great pirate chieftains who ruled the seas were almost all men of the Ming. The island pirates occupied a wide range of statuses. Those dressed in proper warrior garb, sabers tucked at their waists, stood higher than the rest—roughly on par with the Ming pirates, forming the backbone of the force. Some even outranked many Ming pirates. As for the drifters who wore only loincloths and carried no blades, most were failed farmers who could no longer survive back home. Their fighting ability was low, and in a world that worshipped strength above all else, their place was naturally at the very bottom.

The higher-ranking island pirates saw nothing wrong with their countrymen being bullied. To them, it was only natural. They believed in strength alone: whoever had the harder fist was right, in word and deed alike.

Many of the pirates of higher status were wandering warriors from the island nations. You could tell at a glance from their sakayaki hairstyles, their clothing, and the long blades at their hips.

The sakayaki—a hairstyle reserved exclusively for island warriors. The front of the scalp was shaved clean, while the hair at the back of the head was gathered and tied into a high topknot.

To Ming pirates, this hairstyle looked absurdly comical, awkward, and ugly, deepening their contempt for the islanders. Barbarians—no matter how you dressed them, barbarians were still barbarians.

It was said that the origin of this ugly style had everything to do with a warrior’s calling. On the battlefield, warriors fought to the death for their lords. They would pull a black cap over their heads and don their helmets, but in the heat of combat, sweat-soaked hair often fell loose, blocking their vision—sometimes costing them a stab through the gut or a blade across the neck. The helmets and caps were stifling too, hot and maddeningly itchy. Some quick-witted warriors began shaving the hair from their foreheads to solve the problem. The practice spread, until it became the defining mark of the warrior class.

These warrior drifters, now turned pirates, wore filthy, grease-stained clothes. Yet the long swords at their waists were another matter entirely—carefully wiped with cloth again and again, polished until they gleamed with a cold, lethal shine.

Among the pirate ships, one vessel was larger than the rest, and the men aboard it were noticeably fiercer. Ming pirates made up the majority there, with fewer island pirates mixed in. This ship housed the leader of the entire band—the pirate flagship.

At this very moment, from within the flagship’s cabin came a wavering, pitiful chorus of cries from a woman of Wa:

“Iku~~ iku~~ komoki~~”

“Ah—soko—dame, dame~~ yamete~~”

Interwoven with her voice were a few coarse curses in Ming speech, along with heavy, ragged breathing.

The pirates on deck burst into laughter, all turning their eyes toward the cabin where the sounds came from. Faces leering, they gathered in twos and threes, slouching without shame as they traded filthy jokes.

“Heh, you hear how miserable that Wa girl’s screaming?”

“You don’t know a damn thing. Those Wa girls are clever. The worse she screams, the more heroic our boss looks. Later he’ll toss her extra buns, wine, and meat.”

“Still giving her food? She’s already fat as hell. Keep that up and she’ll be a pig, hahahaha—”

“Be satisfied, you bastard. Ever since that ‘Prince of Hui,’ Wang Zhi, swallowed up our Commander Chen, our boss couldn’t take it and broke away to go solo. You know how hard our days have been. Having a Wa girl to blow off steam is already a blessing. Throw a cloth over her head and it’s all the same anyway.”

While the Ming pirates huddled together spewing their nonsense, an island drifter who had been guarding the cabin wall shuffled over with a giggle.

“Liu-san, Zhao-san,” he said ingratiatingly, “we brothers all on same ship. If you also want spend night with my kanayi—my wife—I give you discount. Ten copper coins. How about it?”

“Or when we catch a fat sheep this time, let me pick loot first—also okay.”
He shamelessly hawked his own kanayi without the slightest embarrassment, his face glowing with smug pride.

Faced with such brazen indecency, the Ming pirates felt nothing but contempt. These barbarians truly had no shame left to lose.

And yet, beneath that contempt, quite a few of them agreed anyway…
The road was long, after all—and listening to a Wa girl scream wasn’t the worst way to pass the time.

Far behind the fleet, the pirates trailing in the distance looked every bit a picture of noisy, grotesque harmony.