Chapter 2: The Setting Sun of Prosperity

Chapter 2: The Setting Sun of Prosperity

Unaware of these things, Yang Xin ran wildly forward down the chaotic street, accompanied by the sound of drums echoing behind him…

The city gate ahead was closing.

But Yang Xin still had a chance. This was a prosperous city. People flowed constantly through its gates. Carts and livestock packed tight with pedestrians made closing the gate difficult. Plus, his speed was incredible—faster than a professional sprinter, hitting over ten meters per second. That mere two or three hundred meters vanished beneath his feet.

Then…

Suddenly, gunfire roared overhead.

He dove for the street with blinding speed, instantly hitting the dirt as a bullet struck the ground ahead.

He snapped his head up in shock.

Four soldiers stood on the wall, sighting down long Matchlock Guns at him. The next instant, Yang Xin exploded forward like a pouncing leopard. He reached the gate amid the echoing gunshots, bullets kicking up dirt behind him.

Pedestrians jammed at the gate shrieked.

An officer, leading over a dozen soldiers, cursed through the chaos. Shoving aside anyone blocking their way, they charged forward to cut him off.

Yang Xin leaped straight onto a wagon piled high with goods. He snatched the thrusting spear lunging at him, using the soldier’s own pull to yank himself right beside the man. He raised his knee, driving it hard into the soldier’s gut. The soldier folded forward with a gasp of agony, his spear now in Yang Xin’s hands. With a single, powerful swing, Yang Xin whipped the weapon to the right. The officer raised his sword to block. Yang Xin jerked the spear back instantly, then flung it left-handed to the other side. It plunged deep into the belly of a horse harnessed to a cart. The horse screamed and lunged forward, scattering terrified soldiers.

Meeting the furious glare of the officer still separated by a handcart, Yang Xin swiftly melted into the chaos, squeezing into the dark mouth of the gate tunnel. Heavy, half-closed gates were jammed by a large wagon. Four soldiers heaving the gates cursed and thrust their spears backwards. Yang Xin ducked low. Using the big wagon as cover, he slid beneath the four spears. He appeared directly in front of the soldier blocking his path and punched before the man could blink.

The soldier shrieked, collapsing onto his back.

Yang Xin vaulted over him, racing forward as the soldier wailed in fury and indignation. Yang Xin jumped clean over the blocking wagon, landing outside the city gate. He scrambled up without hesitation and kept sprinting.

But at the exit of the tunnel, he flinched back instantly.

Because four Matchlock Guns and several bows, even a few Three-Eyed Guns, were waiting for him from the opposing Barbican wall. Inside the Barbican courtyard, however, the path was clear. Traders trapped within had already wisely pressed aside against the walls. This enclosed semi-circular space offered plenty of room.

“Run! Go ahead and run!”

snarled the officer, catching up behind him.

Yang Xin glanced back and grinned…

“Alright… as you wish!”

He said.

Without warning, he bolted forward at full speed.

“Fire!”

shouted a voice overhead.

Gunfire clapped in the same instant.

But every bullet and arrow slammed down where Yang Xin had been, not where he was. He was just too fast. The soldiers needed reaction time the human bullet didn’t give them. Matchlock Guns had a delay, arrows had limitations in speed. Unless fired directly into his path, hitting him proved impossible. The officer stared, slack-jawed, as if doubting his own eyes. When Yang Xin, already safely inside the tunnel entrance, looked back, flashed a grin, and waved, the officer even involuntarily rubbed his eyes.

Then he could only gape as Yang Xin pushed open the gate…which hadn’t been locked.

Yang Xin’s vision opened up.

Before him rose a dense forest of masts. Countless ancient wooden ships lay moored in the calm river water near the docks. So many vessels crowded the shore. These time-worn river barges packed the docks as tightly as ships once did in Philadelphia’s shipyards during World War II. To his right was a fork in the river—the Sancha River. A broad waterway stretched southeast, its shores packed with larger, higher-seagoing ships crowded together. To the west of this fork, the main flow narrowed and pushed north. A continuous line of wooden sailing ships crawled upstream along this channel…

Yang Xin whipped around, his eyes locking onto the three large characters carved above the main gate:

拱北门. Gate facing North.

“Tianjin’s garrison fortress.”

He breathed out.

“The Tianjin fortress of the Great Ming Dynasty!”

He added, a sigh escaping him.

And worse… the late Ming era. Matchlock Guns alone said that much.

This wasn’t exactly welcome news!

“Fire!”

The shout ripped from behind him.

Yang Xin dodged behind one heavy wooden gate, armoured with iron plates, just as bullets slammed into the thick oak plank…

He tilted his head slightly, a flicker of regret crossing his face as he looked towards the wooden bridge across the Moat.

There, a young master, resplendent in bright clothes and riding a magnificent horse, stared at him in bewilderment, surrounded by at least a dozen attendants. Then bullets fired from within the gate struck the white steed squarely. The horse let out a pained whinny, rearing violently. The young master was flung heavily to the ground. An attendant who looked like a head Elder Steward bellowed in immediate fury…

Yang Xin peered back into the gateway, a smirk playing on his lips.

The officer stood rooted, his face visibly pale. Even from this distance, Yang Xin thought he saw a sheen of cold sweat on the man’s brow.

“Get over there! Rescue him!”

Yang Xin shouted with righteous authority.

The attendants surged toward their injured young master, a chaotic mass. But in that exact moment of distraction, Yang Xin exploded into motion. Like a charging, unstoppable rhinoceros, he blitzed down the bridge. He barrelled through their midst, reaching the opposite bank almost instantly. Only then did gunfire crackle from the wall again. But over fifty meters away now, the few Matchlock shots were ineffective. The officer, who had chased out from the city, and everyone else aboard the bridge, could only watch helplessly as Yang Xin plunged into the market-like riverside docks and vanished into the teeming crowds like one leaf disappearing into a forest. The officer, however, had no time to pursue. He was visibly wiping cold sweat from his brow, standing rigid while the head steward scolded him as if he were a disobedient child.

The young master had broken his leg…

He probably needed more calcium.

Clearly, the officer was in deep trouble.

The Grand Canal dock.

“Well… time travel it is!”

Muttered the main culprit, splashing water onto his face while watching countless sailboats passing nearby.

Fine, so he was transported then!

The most pressing question now was simply this: how did he survive in this era?

The late Great Ming Dynasty!

It seemed chaos hadn’t yet fully engulfed the land. Along this critical lifeline of the fading empire, Grain Tribute Boats loaded with provisions drifted endlessly. Crewmen bellowed out robust work chants. Traders and travelers showed no sign of the widespread panic that preceded great turmoil. Even the officials and soldiers here maintained an air of unhurried languor…

Languid to the point of being vulnerable.

“The setting sun is infinitely beautiful, yet dusk draws near”

He sighed.

“A beggar dares to mimic the scholars reciting poetry!”

mocked a sneering voice from the side.

Yang Xin rolled his eyes and looked up. Beside him was a docked merchant ship, clearly equipped for passengers. Behind its main structure were cabin sections. Leaning against a cabin door, an Elder Steward watched him coldly.

Armed Household Servants flanked the Steward, alert.

A few sailors lounging on the deck eyed him with open mockery.

Yang Xin had to admit, his own appearance was truly wretched. His clothes were ragged patches of burlap, rotten in numerous places—barely better than rags. A glaring scar marked his face. Ragged straw sandals covered his feet. Layers of grime coated his body and matted his hair…

“Mongrel eyes judge humanity too low”

Yang Xin said calmly.

“Filthy beggar! Asking for a beating!”

The sailor who mocked him roared, outraged.

Other sailors grabbed his arms to hold him back. Judging by their accents, they were southerners. Although Yang Xin appeared utterly beggared, a beggar didn’t automatically mean an easy target…

Especially not for outsiders.

Local “Beggar Chiefs” might not challenge the true Gentry and Local Elites, but harassing foreign merchants? They could certainly manage that. They were organized. Tianjin’s docks were a cauldron of competing forces—Grain Transport System gangs like the various Grain Boat associations, the newly rising Luo Sect, smuggling rings backed by local powerholders, and yes, organized beggar groups. Cults, gangs… it was a mix of every low trade. These southern sailors were organized groups themselves. They belonged to Grain Transport clans, usually traveling in convoys of a dozen ships. Call for a fight, and hundreds of armed men could swiftly assemble.

But starting a brawl over a few words was utterly foolish. Who knew if this beggar would return leading dozens of others?

“The tide’s rising!”

Shouts suddenly erupted in chaos across the wharves.

The sailors scrambled immediately.

Yang Xin glanced towards the right fork of the river—the Sancha. A distinct white line surged forward, marking the collision point where river water flowing downstream met seawater pushing inland.

Salty sea clashing against the land’s descending river flow created this famous natural spectacle. Furious waves formed rapidly, waves capable of towering five meters. The mighty surge then split apart. One current shoved the Grain Tribute Boats deeper up the Northern Canal, pushing them as far as Yangcun. The other swept a wall of chaotic water violently along the Southern Canal channel, its force potentially reaching all the way to Yangqing.

Tide surges never crossed the Three Yangs.

Yangcun, Yangqing, and Yangfangang.

The three termini marking the limit of Tianjin’s sea surges.

The river-sea collision instantly churned fierce waves. A muddy, surging head of water swept down the Southern Canal like a cavalry charge. Across the narrow waterway it stormed. Every moored vessel shook violently in its battering surge…

“Miss! Get back inside!”

A shrill cry suddenly pierced the air.

Yang Xin instantly turned. A young lady had bounded excitedly out from the passenger cabin.

Dressed in radiant yellow, she clutched a small round fan. Her youthful, beautiful face held an expression of pure, delighted awe as she gazed at the magnificent advancing tidal bore, an awesome sight never witnessed before. But her awe turned to disaster as nature displayed its raw power. The instant she stepped out, the surging wave slammed broadside into her vessel. The entire boat lurched violently upward. The poised young lady shrieked. Her fan flew from her grasp. She herself was launched into the air…

“Miss!”

yelped the Elder Steward.

He lunged to grab her. But he barely took a half-step before the violent rocking pitched him headlong onto the deck.

Then both the Elder Steward and the young lady tumbled overboard into the churning river.

“Help! Someone help!”

Yang Xin bellowed.

He leaped straight into the water.

The sailors aboard erupted into chaos, scrambling towards rescue buoys along the ship’s side. But the powerful surge instantly pinned both figures underwater…