Struggle for the Tang Dynasty

Under the clear sky, the sea breeze seemed less fierce than usual. At the wharf, several great ocean vessels had just docked, their hulking forms now at rest. A group of muscular men, their bronzed backs glistening under the sun, worked together to haul thick hemp ropes, their bodies straining in concert.

The hulls rocked as the ships settled, sending waves lapping against the shore. On the deck, a foreman shouted orders, his voice carrying over the water. With the slow advance of the laborers on land, the enormous ships finally steadied, the waves at the quay dying down.

Soon, several nimble hands on shore caught the ropes and anchors thrown from above, quickly securing them to the posts. One by one, the ships came to rest, firmly moored.

Beside a pile of wooden crates filled with cargo, Ding Li squatted on the ground, holding a battered porcelain bowl in one hand while he tore fiercely at a hard, dry flatbread with the other. He chewed with determination, pausing now and then to gulp down a mouthful of tepid fresh water. His bare torso was ridged with knots of muscle, each bulging like a clenched fist, hard as stone.

Yet his dark skin was crisscrossed with scars, some thick, some thin, long and short, and among them were small round holes. Of course, no one knew that these wounds had been caused by a deadly weapon known as a firearm.

“Brother Li!” A young man, not quite one meter seventy tall, ran over, sweat streaming down his face but grinning widely as he waved at Ding Li. “Little Li settled it! A whole ship’s worth of cargo—enough to k