Take control of Wei Zhongxian at the start and confiscate 100 million from him!

Chapter 310 Only steel that can drink blood has the right to speak at the poker table.
In late August, Nanjing is like being shrouded in a giant glass bell, the heat is oppressive yet suffocating, and the stifling atmosphere is unsettling.

Governor Alfonso de Carvalho sat in his carriage, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the cross emblem embroidered by Madeira artisans on his cuff.

This emblem, once the embodiment of glory and faith, now only evoked a cold sense of alienation on this eastern street leading to an unknown destiny.

The convoy was escorted by the Imperial Guards, an escort that was less a courtesy and more a subtle declaration.

The streets were still bustling, and the noise was still deafening, but those sounds seemed to travel through a thick velvet cloth to his ears, turning into a blurry and distant buzzing.

The carriage slowed down at a fork in the road.

Alfonso casually peeked through the curtains, his gaze suddenly sharpening.

Not far away, another completely different convoy was ostentatiously heading towards the imperial city.

The convoy was much larger, and most notably, the flag hanging in the center of the convoy was striking.
Dutch East India Company!
Those rude, greedy "sea coachmen" who disregard all rules!
Alfonso slowly lowered the curtains, a self-deprecating smirk playing on his lips.

He wasn't afraid of the Dutch; he just loathed their crudeness in reducing everything to commodities and cannonballs. But Alfonso knew better than anyone that in a world that only values ​​strength, loathing was the most useless emotion.

They were settled in a quiet mansion in the south of the city. The garden was beautiful, but every servant who led the way and every guard wore an indifferent respect on his face.

This reminded Alfonso of the monks in the Lisbon Inquisition who led heretics to the stake, their eyes filled with such pity yet utterly devoid of warmth.

As night fell, the trusted adjutant brought the only news of the night: they were not received by officials from the Ministry of Rites or the Minister of the Court of State Ceremonies, but by Wang Chengen, the chief eunuch of the inner court in front of the emperor.

Alfonso stood by the window, looking at a pond of water lilies in the courtyard, which shone brightly in the moonlight.

This arrangement already made him sense that something unusual was going on.

By bypassing all officials of the outer court and having the emperor's closest eunuch speak directly, it meant that all subsequent conversations would reflect the emperor's direct will, leaving no room for maneuver.

When Wang Chengen arrived, he did not bring any ceremonial entourage, but only carried an exquisitely crafted food box, like a wealthy old man visiting a neighbor.

His face was fair and his smile was warm; the moment he opened his mouth, he dispelled the heavy atmosphere in the room.

“Your Excellency, I am here on His Majesty’s orders to bring you some late-night snacks.” He opened the food box, and a strange aroma wafted out. “This is ‘ice bowl’ made with milk, cane sugar and spices newly sent from the south. His Majesty said that the guests from the west may not be used to our late-night porridge. Trying this might help them cool down.”

Alfonso felt a chill run down his spine.

This dessert bears a striking resemblance to the pudding that the Portuguese often make.

This young emperor had clearly put some effort into understanding the customs and culture of other countries, and this thoughtfulness was more unsettling than any harsh words.

"Thank you for your help, sir. Please convey my gratitude to His Majesty the Emperor for his benevolence," Alfonso replied politely.

Wang Chengen looked at him, smiled without saying a word, and slowly took out a small box carved from boxwood from his sleeve and gently placed it on the table.

"His Majesty also said that he knows the Governor is a devout believer and an elegant gentleman. Those Dutchmen only know about swords, guns, and cannons, which is rather boring. But your country can produce such exquisite things."

He opened the box, inside was a mechanical nightingale from Augsburg. Wang Chengen carefully wound it up, and the little bird fluttered its brass wings on the table, emitting a series of clear and melodious chirps.

"What an interesting sound!" Wang Chengen exclaimed like a child. "His Majesty likes it very much. He said that only a nation that knows how to appreciate this kind of beauty has truly emerged from ignorance. Unlike those red-haired barbarians, whose gift was a crude model of a fleet made of wood and hemp rope."

With each cry of the nightingale, Alfonso's heart sank a little lower.

He knew the real drama was about to begin.

Alfonso chuckled lightly, “You don’t know this, Father-in-law. The Dutch are merchants, not artists. In their eyes, a cargo hold that can be loaded with pepper is perhaps far more valuable than a singing bird.”

He tried to steer the conversation toward Portugal's artistic and cultural excellence, which is one of their few sources of pride.

"Oh? Is that so?" Wang Chengen's smile deepened. He gently pressed down on the still-singing nightingale, and the surroundings instantly fell silent.

"What's interesting is that His Majesty seems more interested in that crude model than in this singing bird."

Wang Chengen's voice became somewhat ethereal, as if he were talking to himself:

"I overheard His Majesty staring at that model for a long time, saying something like... trading a fleet for trade... Sigh, I'm a rough man, I don't understand these things. I just think that although the Dutch are crude, they have quite the big mouth."

They said that as long as His Majesty nodded, they could wipe out all the Japanese pirates and other unruly bandits along the Ming coast. This was truly…

Wang Chengen shook his head and didn't say anything more. He simply picked up the bowl of ice that had begun to melt and handed it to Alfonso: "Your Excellency, please have a taste. If you don't eat it soon, this sentiment will melt away."

Alfonso took the bowl of cold dessert, but felt a burning sensation as soon as he touched it.

Wang Chengen uttered no threats, but every word he spoke was like a meticulously woven net, binding Alfonso tightly.

The Dutch made an offer.

The emperor was "more interested," feeling the Dutch were "overconfident," and ordered Wang Chengen to send over a singing bird to compare it with a fleet model—

Now, tell me, where does your value lie?

Alfonso took a bite of the sickeningly sweet "ice bowl," and the icy sensation slid down his esophagus into his stomach, only to transform into a flame of despair.

……

The audience was scheduled for the following day at the Wenhua Hall.

This is not the Fengtian Hall where formal court assemblies are held; it is more like the emperor's private study.

There was no throne in the hall, only a huge long table made of rosewood, piled high with all sorts of blueprints, scrolls, and strange mechanical parts. The Ming Emperor Zhu Youjian stood with his back to him in front of a huge map.

He wasn't wearing a dragon robe, but rather a simple blue Taoist robe, his hair tied up with a wooden hairpin, making him look more like a Taoist priest devoted to the study of things than an emperor.

The emperor was intently adjusting the internal springs of the mechanical nightingale with a small pair of silver tweezers, as if that were the most important thing in the world.

Wang Chengen stood silently to one side.

This scene made Alfonso feel an unprecedented sense of absurdity and pressure.

The person before him seemed completely indifferent to his arrival, and this feeling of being utterly ignored was more devastating than the oppressive aura of any emperor.

"Governor Alfonso de Carvalho".

After an unknown amount of time, the emperor finally spoke. He did not turn around, and his voice was as calm as an ancient well.

"I am reading your country's poet, Mr. Camões's 'Song of the Lusitania.' 'Where the land ends, the sea begins,' what magnificence and grandeur! I am very curious, what kind of spirit sustained your ancestors, navigating the caravels that could fall apart at any moment to embrace the unknown ocean?"

Alfonso composed himself and replied respectfully, "It is faith, Your Majesty. It is devotion to God and a passion for spreading the gospel and exploring the world."

"Faith?" The Emperor finally turned around, his gaze clear and sharp, as if it could see into people's hearts. "An interesting word. I have heard that when your country's explorer Dias first rounded the Cape of Good Hope, he named it 'Cape of Storms' because he almost perished there. But your country's King John II defied all objections and renamed it 'Cape of Good Hope' because he saw hope for India in these storms."

The emperor slowly walked up to Alfonso, his gaze falling on the cross emblem on his head.

"So you're wrong. What sustains you isn't faith. It's that king-like, ruthless foresight that allows you to see hope in the storm. It's an undisguised desire for wealth and power."

Alfonso broke out in a cold sweat instantly!

The emperor before him not only read their epics, but also knew the most crucial details of their maritime history.

It was as if he wasn't listening to a report, but rather being lectured.

"His Majesty……"

"Don't rush to explain." The emperor raised his hand to stop him, then pointed to the huge "Complete Map of the World" and his finger landed on the Strait of Malacca.

"This place was once your darling, guarding the vital passage between East and West. But just sixteen years ago, how were your garrison routed so badly by the Dutch fleet and the combined forces of the Aceh Sultanate?"

Before Alfonso could answer, he moved his finger to Brazil in South America.

"And here, in this rich sugarcane-producing region, didn't the Dutch once squeeze you out of Bahia? I'm very curious, why are the former maritime powers now being constantly suppressed by those 'seafaring carriers'?"

The emperor's questions were all incisive, each one precisely hitting the sore spot of the Portuguese Empire's decline from its peak.

Alfonso felt a wave of dizziness. He finally realized that Wang Chengen's visit last night was just an appetizer.

The emperor smiled, a smile filled with scholarly inquiry and cruelty: "So, you can tell me now. An old friend who can't even stand firm in Malacca, who can't even protect the wealth at his doorstep, what makes me believe that you are capable of continuing to guard the southern gateway of the Ming Dynasty?"

He paused for a moment, his gaze suddenly turning icy.

"The Dutch are crude, but honest. They told me what they could do. They gave me a calculable equation: a fleet in exchange for a sea. Now, I'll give you a chance too."

"By this time tomorrow, I want to know how many warships, how many cannons, or... other things that interest me can be exchanged for your Portuguese friendship."

"I don't need poetry, I don't need singing birds. I want an answer that is simple, clear, and quantifiable, just like the Dutch."

After the emperor finished speaking, he turned around again, picked up his silver tweezers again, as if the Portuguese governor and the declining empire he represented were no longer worth a second glance.

"Wang Chengen," he ordered without turning his head, "send the guest out. Also, send this nightingale to His Excellency the Governor. Let this bird keep him company in my place until he comes to an answer."

When Alfonso was sent back to Zhenliu Garden in a daze, the mechanical nightingale was in the brocade box beside him, singing tirelessly.

The sound was crisp and melodious, yet it seemed to be an early elegy for him and his Portugal.

What this young Ming emperor wanted was never some vague sincerity or friendship.

What he wanted was a presentable gift, a price that would allow him to clearly weigh the pros and cons.

He used the Dutch as the hammer and the Portuguese as the anvil, while he himself sat leisurely to the side like a cold-blooded swordsmith, just to see if the sparks from the hammer and anvil striking each other could forge a sharp blade for him to conquer new territories.

The hammer, strong and savage; the anvil, ancient and resilient.

If the anvil stone doesn't want to be smashed to pieces when the hammer falls, it can only prove that it contains iron that is purer and sharper than the hammer!
A bitter smile appeared on Alfonso's lips.

He thought of the bullring in Lisbon, where enraged bulls often unleash their most terrifying power in their final moments.

And he, and the Portugal behind him, are like the bull that the emperor repeatedly toyed with using the Dutch as a red cloth!

Alfonso slowly reached out his hand, but did not touch the boxwood box that was still singing.

His fingers lightly brushed the hilt of the sword at his waist.

The Ming emperor was right.

Singing birds are ultimately just playthings; only steel that can drink blood has the right to speak at the card table!

(End of this chapter)