047 Uninvited Guest
Wu Fan led a fleet of fifteen warships downstream along the Tam River for seven straight days.
They dropped anchor once midway, at the Norma Corridor, rested for a day, then continued their journey south. The farther they sailed from the Sacred Desis Snow Mountains, the hotter it became. Wu Fan, shirtless, lounged on a wooden deck chair, while a servant stood beside him, tirelessly fanning to drive away the oppressive heat.
“Captain! There’s something ahead!”
Just then, a lookout perched in the mast suddenly shouted out.
Wu Fan immediately sat bolt upright and sprang from his chair. “Slow down! Everyone, reduce speed!” His mind was full of questions—what unexpected situation could possibly be ahead?
Driven by curiosity, he straightened himself and, in a few quick strides, stepped onto the prow.
There, directly ahead of his fleet, he saw a group of short, mouse-like dwarves laboring ceaselessly, hauling stones to fill the riverbed. The fifty-meter-wide river had already been blocked more than halfway by their efforts, with less than ten meters left before it was completely dammed.
Upstream waters squeezed through the remaining narrow gap, and Wu Fan guessed that had they arrived just a few days later, the Tam River would have been entirely blocked by these ratfolk.
A surge of anger flared in Wu Fan as he looked at the ratfolk causing him such trouble. The weather was sweltering enough, and now this—how could he possibly keep his temper?
“Drop anchor!”
At his command, the entire fleet lowered their anchors in place.
...
Just twenty meters away, Yang Jie’s ratfolk tribe had also spotted the unexpected visitors.
A shirtless, short-haired rat foreman caught sight of Wu Fan’s fleet from afar, noting the dozen or so imposing warships approaching, each outfitted with massive ballistae at the prow.
The foreman’s brow furrowed, a sense of foreboding descending upon him.
“Captain? What should we do?” the workers around him, busy with their labor, also noticed the formidable warships, all looking to their foreman for a decision.
“First, call the brothers working in the water back to shore!”
“Black Iron?”
“I’m here, Captain!”
In Old Sha’s construction department, a captain led a hundred ratfolk—like a centurion in an army, or a project manager for the first construction phase. Below the captain were group leaders, beneath them, squad leaders. Each team consisted of three groups, each group with three to five squads, each squad with about ten ratfolk.
The short-haired rat before them was a captain, the project manager for the cofferdam blocking the river.
“Black Iron, go and inform Minister Sha immediately!”
“Understood!”
The ratfolk called Black Iron, skin as dark as iron, nodded heavily at his captain’s order, didn’t even bother to tidy his clothes, and dashed off toward the shore.
After the anchor dropped, Wu Fan’s flagship slowed, drifting closer to the ratfolk workers on the current.
“Go fetch your chieftain!” Wu Fan shouted from the deck, pointing at the short-haired rat.
His tone was sharp and overbearing, glaring down at them. Wu Fan had been watching these ratfolk from afar and easily recognized the short-haired one as the foreman.
“I’ve already sent someone to fetch our minister. Just wait here, he’ll be here soon.”
“Minister?” Wu Fan’s temper flared. “What minister? I told you to get your chieftain! Didn’t those big ears of yours hear me?”
Wu Fan’s patience was thin to begin with. The oppressive heat, the blocked passage, and the difficulty communicating with this ratfolk had him seething.
But the short-haired rat couldn’t be blamed—he could only command his laborers and contact his immediate superior, Old Sha. As for the chieftain, he didn’t even know where the chieftain’s office was.
“Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.” The short-haired rat answered before turning away.
...
Inside Gaoting City, Black Iron ran two kilometers without stopping, barreling straight into Old Sha’s office door.
Old Sha, sipping tea and poring over a sand table, was deep in thought, planning the layout around Gaoting.
Suddenly, with a crash, the battered wooden door burst open. Black Iron, drenched in sweat, nearly collided with the sand table.
“What happened?” Old Sha, bewildered by Black Iron’s panic, immediately sensed trouble.
He knew Black Iron was second group under Short Hair, the team responsible for the cofferdam construction.
Old Sha’s first instinct was: “Has my embezzlement of the construction funds been found out?” At the thought, a cold sweat broke out on his back.
“What happened!” Old Sha pressed, growing anxious.
“The cofferdam... the cofferdam...” Black Iron gasped.
“The cofferdam collapsed?” Old Sha sank into his chair, inwardly cursing himself for entrusting such a crucial project to Short Hair. “Never trust a rat without a mustache,” he thought. In three seconds, he mentally cursed Short Hair up and down.
“How many casualties? How bad is the loss?”
Old Sha was experienced; regaining composure, he quickly asked for details.
Black Iron, the burliest of the foremen—famous for his greed—wheezed for almost a minute before managing, “The cofferdam... it’s fine...”
Old Sha nearly strangled him on the spot. “Then why the hell are you putting on this show!”
Impatient, Old Sha grabbed him by the neck.
“It’s upstream... People have come...”
“You should go take a look... There’s a lot of them... Looks like a fight’s brewing...”
At last, Black Iron got the words out and collapsed to the floor.
“A fight?”
“Yes... outsiders!”
“Outsiders?” Old Sha was stunned.
He wasted no time, hastily tidied himself, and left, calling for his secretary on the way. “Go notify the chieftain immediately—outsiders have arrived at the river!”
Ten minutes later...
After waiting on the ship for twenty minutes, Wu Fan’s face was ashen with rage, the unrelenting sun wearing down his patience.
“I’ve only been sailing south for a week—why is there such a huge temperature difference?” Wu Fan muttered, already thoroughly exasperated.
“How much longer must we wait?”
“They’re coming!” someone answered.
From afar, Old Sha finally spotted the fleet of warships. Shrewd as ever, he immediately realized the gravity of the situation, discreetly sending his men to warn the farm rats outside Gaoting to evacuate.
Before long, Old Sha arrived at the riverbank.
The short-haired rat, seeing his superior arrive, hurried up as though he’d seen his savior. Whispering in Old Sha’s ear, he recounted the events; things were just as Old Sha had guessed.
After a brief exchange, Old Sha put on a beaming smile and approached the ship.
Wu Fan, noticing a ratfolk coming over, put both feet on the deck and rose to his full height. “Are you the chieftain of this tribe?”
“Uh... Hello, I’m the supervisor in charge of this project.”
“Supervisor? You mean you’re not the chieftain?”
“Heh, do I look like a chieftain? I’ve just sent for him; he should be on his way...”
“If you’re not the chieftain, then why are you pretending?” Wu Fan exploded. “I’ve been waiting here for almost half an hour! Are you treating me like a piece of meat to be stewed?”
His temper, barely suppressed, now boiled over completely. In Wu Fan’s eyes, such a display of force by his fleet ought to have drawn the chieftain himself—sending a subordinate instead was nothing short of an insult.
In truth, Yang Jie was nowhere nearby—he was soaking in a secluded corner by the artificial lake, his head covered with leaves to avoid being recognized by his people. Even Wendy didn’t know his whereabouts. Old Sha’s secretary searched high and low in Gaoting City but couldn’t find Yang Jie.
The heat was unbearable, over thirty degrees with no relief in sight. No wonder Wu Fan, left waiting for over half an hour by the river, was so furious.
Wu Fan, now entirely out of patience, snatched up a crossbow and aimed at Old Sha. Just as he squeezed the trigger, Old Sha dove straight into the river.
Whoosh!
Luckily, Old Sha’s reflexes were sharp and Wu Fan’s marksmanship poor—the shot missed.
But the shot was enough to send the ratfolk onshore into an uproar. They retaliated, picking up stones and hurling them at Wu Fan.
“Get him! He dared shoot at our minister!” shouted Short Hair, his temper as short as his hair.
Wu Fan was not about to be outdone. He manned the ballista, aiming it at a ratfolk who was brandishing a stone, and pulled the trigger.
Whoosh!
The massive bolt, far larger than a spear, shot forth with a roar, piercing the chest of the ratfolk and leaving a gaping hole large enough to fit an arm through.
“Group Leader Cook!”
Someone shouted—the slain ratfolk was, by ill fortune, a group leader commanding over thirty workers.
In an instant, the situation spiraled out of control...