Today just happened to be a very special day. At least, that's what Jinyu decided when he told me we wouldn't be going into the office. No excuses, no half-hearted "work from home." Just a simple, quiet:
"Stay. There's something I want to tell you."
So here we were, in his apartment. The world outside still buzzing from the exposé, my phone lighting up with a flood of messages I wasn't allowed to answer, because Jinyu had confiscated it with one glance and set it face-down on the table like it was misbehaving.
The silence between us wasn't awkward—it was charged. Like a pause before thunder.
"You know," he said, breaking it at last, "this isn't new."
My brows furrowed. "What isn't?"
His gaze didn't waver. "You. Charging headfirst into storms just because you believe it's right. Speaking up when you should have stayed quiet. Protecting people, even when no one asked you to. You've always been that way."
I let out a small laugh, nervous, a little defensive. "Always? Please, I was literally a rabbit until a few months ago."
But he didn't laugh.
Instead, he stood, crossed the room, and carefully slid a record onto the vinyl player. A faint crackle filled the space before the first notes began—low, simple strings weaving into a melody that felt like it had been waiting in my bones this whole time.
My throat tightened. "...I know this."
His lips curved slightly, eyes fixed on me like he was measuring my reaction. "Then let me help you remember what I mean by always."
And as the music swelled, his voice faded into the tune,
I suddenly felt like I was spectating something from the background.
—boots striking stone.
—maps spread over a table
—orders were being barked, the smell of gunpowder, the heat of an island sun.
The melody carried over, unchanged—except now it wasn't vinyl in his apartment at all. It was a gramophone in the corner of a war office, the brass horn crackling faintly as the record spun against the backdrop of marching boots.
General Xu Jinyu leaned back in his chair, coat folded neatly over the stand behind him, his uniform pressed sharp. To anyone else, today was a holiday—markets bustling louder than usual, families spilling into the streets—but to him, the work didn't stop. Not when orders from the top had arrived.
A wall calendar hung above the map table, one corner curling from the humidity. October, 1925. A red mark circled the fifteenth—the day the orders had come.
Outside, a knock rattled the door.
"General Xu," a young adjutant announced. "The luncheon is prepared. The others are gathering."
Jinyu rose, smoothing down his cuffs before setting the needle off the record. The room dimmed without the music, the silence heavier somehow.
The ride out of headquarters was brisk. His car—sleek, black, an imported Buick—rolled out through the gates, soldiers saluting as it passed. Behind him trundled a pair of boxy army trucks, filled with aides and guards.
Guangzhou's streets unfolded like two worlds stitched together with uneasy seams.
On one side: rickshaw pullers shouting for fares, vendors ladling steaming rice porridge into chipped bowls, children darting barefoot through alleys where laundry fluttered overhead. Red paper slogans clung to the walls, their brushstrokes bold even as the edges peeled: 抵制洋货 — boycott foreign goods; 救亡图存 — save the nation, strive to survive.
On the other: the wide, tree-lined avenues near Shamian Island. French streetlamps. Western villas with green shutters. Foreigners in linen suits and straw hats, their polished cars lined neatly at curbs. A tram clattered past, crowded with passengers in qipaos, cheongsams, and imported silks.
The Buick cut through it all, black lacquer gleaming as if it belonged to neither side. The city itself carried both humiliation and defiance in its streets—and Jinyu knew which side he stood on.
When they finally arrived, the gates of the compound swung open. Guards snapped to attention. Inside, the courtyard hummed with the low murmur of officers in uniform, some already gathered around tables set with porcelain dishes and wine warmed over braziers.
This wasn't a celebration. Not really. It was a war council in the guise of lunch.
And Jinyu knew, before he even stepped out of the car, that today would mark the start of something far larger than just Guangzhou.
The table was already filling with men twice his age. Generals with weathered faces, bellies padded from decades of rice wine and banquets, their laughter loud, their coughs even louder. They greeted one another with the familiarity of uncles at New Year's—slapping shoulders, trading jokes about old campaigns, reminiscing about battles fought before Jinyu was even born.
"Ah, General Xu," one of them called, voice booming as he raised a porcelain cup. "Our prodigy. Twenty-six and already making the rest of us look like relics."
That earned chuckles around the table, tobacco-rough voices echoing in the rafters. To them it was banter, a friendly jab. But Jinyu caught the glances that followed—measuring, weighing.
He inclined his head, taking the empty seat offered near the end. The wine was warm, the dishes fragrant, but the air was taut. Every laugh too sharp, every smile edged with anticipation.
Snatches reached his ears:
"…the fleets stretched too thin…"
"…foreigners carving up our ports…"
"…a mission overseas, that's the word…"
The phrase stuck. A mission overseas.
Jinyu stilled, fingers brushing the rim of his cup. No specifics yet. No names. Just enough to stir the silence under the chatter.
And he knew, sitting among men who had already seen too many winters, that the weight of whatever was about to be announced would fall hardest on him.
The murmurs dulled when the highest seat at the table shifted.
General Liang, commander of the southern forces, set down his cup. His hair had gone silver at the temples, but his shoulders still carried the weight of campaigns that had outlasted dynasties. To Jinyu, he was more than a superior—he was the man who had carried him as a baby from the ashes of his parents' execution, raising him beneath banners of steel.
Liang's voice cut through the room like a drawn blade. "Enough chatter. We are not here to count scars."
Silence. Cups lowered.
"Chen," Liang said, turning first to the officer on his right. "You take the northern rail lines. If they fall, we bleed."
A curt nod.
"Huang. Secure Fujian's ports. Smugglers grow bold when they smell weakness."
"Yes, sir."
"Zhao. Sichuan. Guard the passes. If the West dares the mountains, bury them there."
One by one, the orders fell like stones into a pond, ripples spreading across the table. Each man received his duty, none questioned it.
And then Liang's gaze moved to the far end.
"Xu Jinyu."
The air shifted. Some leaned forward, others stilled.
"You will go to Batavia."
The word struck like a cannon shot. Conversations stuttered, a spoon clinked too loud against porcelain. Overseas. It was more than a mission. It was trust, and risk, and danger disguised as honor.
Liang's voice carried over the quiet. "The Indies stir. Their people grow restless under foreign boots. You will go, assess their strength, and remind our allies in the Dutch East Indies that China does not watch idly while others carve the world."
Jinyu rose, bowing low, voice level. "Yes, sir."
Around him, the silence cracked into murmurs. Some approving, some skeptical. Twenty-six was young for a task that could alter maps.
Liang lifted his cup, ending the whispers with one sharp gesture. "To new ground—and to the ones who will claim it."
Porcelain met porcelain, a chorus of brittle rings.
Jinyu drank, the warmth of the wine sharp against his tongue. But beneath the taste lay the weight of every gaze fixed on him.
This wasn't just an assignment. It was a test.
After that, the room didn't quiet—it sharpened. Maps were pulled closer, voices lowered, the wine forgotten. Discussions of weapons, troop movements, and supply lines followed, each detail heavier now that the air had shifted. The word Batavia lingered at the center of it all, like a pin driven into the map.
The luncheon broke slowly, officers filing out with bellies warm from wine but eyes sharp with calculation. Some clasped Jinyu's shoulder as they passed, their smiles too wide, their words heavy with double edges.
"Overseas at twenty-six—an honor," one said.
"A gamble," muttered another, low enough he thought Jinyu wouldn't hear.
He did. He always did.
When the last cups were cleared, only two men lingered: Xu Jinyu, and the man who had raised him.
General Liang rose from his seat, movements steady despite the weight of years. He didn't speak until they were outside, the courtyard hushed, evening shadows stretching long over stone. The Buick waited beyond the gates, its lacquer catching the fading light.
They walked together in silence, boots striking rhythm against the flagstones.
At last, Liang spoke. "Do you remember the first blade I put in your hand?"
Jinyu inclined his head. "I was ten."
"You were small for your age. Too serious. You gripped it so tight your knuckles went white. I told you to loosen your hold. That a sword isn't something you strangle—it's something you master." Liang's gaze slid sideways, sharp even now. "That hasn't changed. You still carry the world like it might break if you let go."
Jinyu's jaw tightened. He said nothing.
They paused near the gate. The guards saluted, then turned discreetly away.
Liang's voice dropped. "The Indies will test you. You'll be far from my hand, far from the men who watched you grow. Out there, no one will care whose son you are. They will care only if you succeed."
The words landed heavier than any order. Son. Rarely spoken, rarer still in public.
For a moment, a memory stirred: rough arms lifting him from the ashes of his parents' home, a voice promising, This one lives. He will not be forgotten.
The bracelet had burned hot against his skin that night, etched with the characters of the family name he could barely speak. Xu.
Now, twenty-six years later, the man who had carried him then was entrusting him with an empire's gamble.
Jinyu bowed low, not as a soldier, but as a son.
"I will not fail you."
Liang's gaze softened—barely. Then, just as quick, it hardened again.
"To new ground, and to the men who will claim it. Don't fail the Republic. Don't fail our people"
The Buick door shut with a heavy click. The engine roared to life.
And as the car rolled into the Guangzhou night, Jinyu let his hand rest briefly against the cuff of his sleeve—where the weight of an old bracelet still seemed to press, though it was long gone.
The luncheon ended, but the weight of it followed Jinyu long after the wine cooled.
That night, he returned to his quarters, the gramophone silent in the corner. He sat at his desk, staring at blank paper as though a letter might write itself. To whom? He had no family left to write to. Only orders. Only duty.
By morning, Guangzhou was already shifting under his feet. The docks seethed with noise—hawkers shouting over crates of tea, sailors hauling ropes thick as his arm, rickshaws darting between foreign sedans. The air was salt and coal smoke, thick with the scent of the sea.
A sleek vessel waited at the far pier, its hull painted deep navy, the flag of the Southern Army snapping against the wind. Crimson cloth, twin swords crossed behind a laurel of iron leaves, and at its center the proud silhouette of a qilin—guardian of loyalty and justice. It caught the sunlight with each gust, a reminder that this was no merchant errand. It was an extension of a nation's will.
Soldiers moved briskly about, loading supplies: rifles, crates stamped medical, maps sealed in leather tubes. Among them, aides carried diplomatic cases—letters of passage, trade manifests, enough to let a mission like his wear the mask of commerce.
He paused at the edge of the pier. The boards creaked under his boots, the sea lapping hungrily below.
Batavia.
A place he had never seen, but one that now held the measure of his future.
"General Xu," an adjutant saluted, voice sharp over the gulls. "Cabins are prepared. Departure at noon. Fifty men embark under your command. The rest will disembark for security once we reach port."
Jinyu gave a single nod. His coat lifted in the wind, his face set to the horizon where the sea cut the sky.
He had been raised beneath banners, shaped by steel and silence. But this was different. This was not just orders on paper. It was foreign soil, foreign tongues, allies that might turn to rivals at the flick of a coin.
He stepped forward. The gangway thudded under his stride.
The world would never grow smaller, but it was waiting for him.
The docks thundered with movement, sailors shouting, gulls screaming overhead. Jinyu's boots slowed when a shadow stepped out from the bustle.
General Liang.
He looked older in the morning light—silver streaks catching the sun, the creases in his face carved deeper than the night before. Yet his presence silenced the air around him. Even the adjutants straightened, their salutes sharper than the sea wind.
"Sir," Jinyu bowed.
Liang didn't answer at first. He studied him, gaze steady, as if measuring not the uniform but the man inside it. Finally, he set a hand on Jinyu's shoulder, heavy, grounding.
"Your parents," Liang said quietly, low enough that only Jinyu could hear, "were proud people. They never bent to foreign hands. I see that same steel in you."
Jinyu's throat tightened. He kept his eyes forward. "I won't shame their name."
Liang's grip firmed once, then released. "This is more than a mission. It is the moment the world will decide if it remembers us as fractured warlords, or as a nation. Don't just hold the line, Jinyu." His voice carried like a blade across water. "Shape it."
For a moment, Jinyu almost saw himself again as a boy; small, lost, wearing the bracelet that bore his name—when Liang had first carried him out of the ashes and raised him in the barracks. And now, here he stood, twenty-six, entrusted with the kind of burden that could alter history.
Liang gave a final nod, then turned away, his coat snapping in the wind, the qilin-flag rising above him.
Jinyu didn't look back. He squared his shoulders and strode up the gangway, the sea rising to meet him.
The sea stretched endless, a sheet of gray-green broken only by the slap of waves against steel.
Jinyu stood at the prow, the salt wind tugging at his coat, the weight of Liang's words still heavy on his shoulders. Below deck, soldiers laughed, dice clattered, bowls of rice clinked against chopsticks. But he remained above, silent, watching the horizon—waiting for Batavia.
On the deck behind him, his adjutant spoke in low tones with another officer. Words drifted on the wind—"Batavia… unrest… Dutch tightening control…"—but Jinyu let them fade. He already knew. He'd read the briefings, studied the maps. What he hadn't studied was the look in Liang's eyes when he'd said shape it.
That wasn't an order. That was legacy.
The gramophone had been brought aboard at his insistence, tucked in a small cabin reserved for him. Tonight, when the ship quieted, he would let the record spin. The same melody. The same fragile thread tying him back to Guangzhou, to Liang, to the promise he'd carried since he was a child.
A few days later, the bustle of Guangzhou was nothing more than memory, replaced by the steady rhythm of the sea.
At first, the mornings bit with lingering chill. Jinyu wore his winter coat on deck, collar turned against the wind, his breath clouding faintly in the air. But the further south they sailed, the sharper the air grew, not with cold, but with heat. The damp clung to his skin, thicker each day, until even the salt spray felt warm.
By the time the coastline rose on the horizon, the coat was folded away in his trunk. He stood at the rail in shirtsleeves, sweat sticking the fabric to his back, the brass buttons at his collar undone for the first time since departure.
"Land ahead!"
The cry carried down from the mast.
And there it was, pulling itself from the haze of sea mist: Batavia.
Ships crowded the port, Dutch freighters lined in neat rows beside rust-streaked local junks, their sails slack in the heat. Whitewashed warehouses stacked like teeth along the shore, spires of churches stabbing above Dutch villas, all gleaming under a sun far hotter than China's autumn.
At the prow, Jinyu kept his coat folded over his arm now, his uniform still pressed but carrying the faint wrinkle of travel. The Southern Army flag flapped high above the vessel—red cloth slashed by twin swords, the laurel of iron leaves crowning the black qilin. Dockworkers turned their heads as it came into view, some pausing mid-haul, others ducking their gaze. A foreign banner, in a port where even whispers could draw Dutch suspicion.
The gangplank clanged into place.
The port air was thick with salt and smoke, gulls wheeling above the masts of Dutch freighters. Jinyu stepped onto the quay, coat folded over his arm now, his uniform still pressed but carrying the faint wrinkle of travel.
Dockworkers shouted in a dozen tongues—Dutch, Malay, Hokkien—hauling sacks of coffee beans and crates stamped with Batavia Handelsmaatschappij. Even here, segregation pressed like a wall: Dutch officers strolled in crisp whites along the inner docks, while locals bent under the sun, pushing carts piled with pepper and sugar.
From the crowd, a man in a white linen suit and brimmed hat broke forward with practiced courtesy. Not Dutch—his stride was too quick, his eyes too sharp. And when he spoke, it was Mandarin, southern-accented, tinged with Hokkien.
"General Xu? I've been sent to escort you."
From his breast pocket, he produced a small lacquered card, edges gilded. At the top, in neat Roman script, it read:
N.V. Golden Ocean & Co.
Batavia Shipping & Trade
And beneath, in bold brushstrokes:
金洋公司
(Kim Yang Kongsi / its in Fujian region dialect more known as Hokkien) (the name is also pronounced as Jin Yang Gong Si in mandarin, its english meaning was golden ocean company)
Followed by a single name:
陳國生
Tan Kwee Seng (Chen Guosheng)
Jinyu's gaze lingered first on the unfamiliar romanization, then dropped to the hanzi. Chen Guosheng. He had heard that name before—whispers in Guangzhou's war offices, murmured in tea houses about the Nine who quietly moved silver and rifles into the right hands. Benefactors, some called them. A cabal, others. Men whose fortunes bent the tides while Europe carved at China's coasts.
The envoy bowed slightly. "Mr. Chen is the host today. The others are gathered at his residence."
Jinyu tucked the card into his coat, his face unreadable, though inside something shifted. This mission was no longer only orders from Guangzhou—it was stepping into a network that stretched beyond maps, into the hands of men who had already been watching the world reshaped.
The envoy gestured toward a waiting motorcar: a gleaming Packard with polished brass fittings, the kind reserved for the city's highest ranks. The door swung open, and Jinyu stepped inside, his soldiers fading into the background as the car pulled from the quay and into Batavia proper.
Behind him, his men fell into formation, already awaiting direction. The envoy gestured toward the waiting motorcar—a black Packard gleaming under the sun, brass fittings polished like gold. The soldiers would be escorted elsewhere, housed discreetly by arrangements Chen had already made.
The Packard's door swung open, and as Jinyu lowered himself into the seat, his aide lifted a small leather suitcase into the trunk — documents, a spare uniform, and a revolver tucked discreetly among folded shirts.
He caught his reflection in the polished window—foreign yet familiar, a mainland general on the threshold of a city that was not his, about to sit at the tables of men whose names had reached him only as rumors.
As the car rolled through Batavia's streets, he kept one hand in his pocket, fingers brushing the card's raised ink again and again.
A name. A whisper. A host.
And behind it, a table of men whose decisions could shift the tides as surely as armies.
The Packard's engine purred low as it rolled through the port road, polished black chassis gleaming like oil in the sun. Xu Jinyu sat stiff-backed in the passenger seat, cap set just so, his uniform pressed sharp against the tropical air. It was hotter than Guangzhou, too hot. Already, he'd shed the winter-weight coat he'd worn on the ship, draping it across his lap.
Batavia unfolded outside the window in two halves, each one a mirror cracked down the middle.
On one side: kampung alleys, barefoot children chasing each other past bamboo stalls selling sate ayam Madura (chopped chicken into small pieces on sticks and were roasted) and ketoprak (tofu, vegetables, rice cake, and rice vermicelli served in peanut sauce) , the air thick with charcoal smoke. Painted boards swung above doorways with old spellings—Toko Djawa, Djoega Ada Minjak Wangi, letters curling in ways unfamiliar to his eyes.
On the other: Dutch order. Wide, straight boulevards shaded by tamarind trees. White men in linen suits, their wives under parasols, their polished cars parked neatly outside colonnaded offices with names etched in stone: Bataviaasch Nieuwsblad(Batavian newspaper), Soerabaja Handelsbank(Surabaya Commercial Bank). The buildings looked European, but the climate mocked them—shutters thrown open, ceiling fans turning slow as though even the architecture couldn't breathe here.
Jinyu's jaw tightened as they passed a rickshaw pulled by a wiry Indonesian man, straining under the weight of a red-faced foreigner fanning himself lazily. Segregation was no stranger to him—he'd seen it in Guangzhou, the way Shamian Island split the world between local and foreign. But here, it was worse. The divide was the city itself.
The Packard slowed as it turned into a narrow lane off Molenvliet. The streets outside had shifted from tram bells and Dutch façades to rows of shophouses with painted shutters, signboards in a tangle of scripts—Dutch, Chinese, and the jagged spelling of Old Indonesian: Toko Djoe Tjwan Hoo. Even here, the segregation was palpable; the paved sidewalks gave way to rougher stone, children darted barefoot, and the stench of horse dung mixed with incense from a roadside shrine.
The car finally drew up before a mansion that seemed to belong to two worlds at once. Its exterior gleamed with imported tiles, emerald and cobalt, patterned with flowers and phoenixes. Carved shutters framed the windows, while columns lined the front verandah like something stolen from a European villa. Above the main doorway, a black lacquered signboard blazed in the morning light: 陳府. Beneath it, in bold Roman letters: Landhuis Tan Kwee Seng.
Inside, the air shifted—cooler, shaded by carved wooden screens and high ceilings. The foyer gleamed with polished teak furniture, mother-of-pearl inlay, and walls hung with sepia ancestral portraits. A family altar stood in the center, red candles glowing faintly even in daylight. Everywhere, wealth whispered—not just Chinese, not just Dutch, but an inheritance that fused both.
The dining hall glowed beneath twin chandeliers. The air was perfumed with sandalwood and soy, the hum of conversation rolling low over the clatter of porcelain and silver. A long rosewood table, glossy as lacquer, stretched through the center of the room, draped with a floral-printed silk runner embroidered in gold.
At its heart lay an opulent spread — the kind of meal that was less about hunger and more about heritage.
Porcelain platters gleamed under the chandeliers—nasi campur, arranged not as a humble street meal but as art. Mounds of rice sat in the center, ringed by crisp babi panggang merah, sweet and lacquered red; golden rolls of ngo hiong glistening with five-spice oil; and slices of ayam panggang kecap, roasted to a caramel glaze.
Between them, bowls of sayur asin—pickled mustard greens with a bright, sour bite—balanced the richness, while chap chay simmered in pale broth, soft cabbage and mushrooms glinting like silk. Small saucers of sambal manis sat beside dark, glossy hoisin, one sweet with palm sugar, the other sharp with fermented bean.
At the far end of the table, delicate kuehs layered like jewels—kueh lapis legit and onde-onde dusted with coconut—waited beside steaming kopi tubruk, its surface shimmering with oil, brewed thick and bitter from Java's highlands.
Crystal glasses caught the light like small suns, and silverware clinked faintly as servants refilled cups and laid out fresh bowls.
The food was Peranakan, yes—but this was Peranakan wealth. Every flavor, every plate whispered of trade, ancestry, and power.
At the head of the table sat Chen Guosheng, a man who had turned fortune into influence and influence into a quiet empire. His dark suit was impeccable, but his sarong—batik dyed in deep indigo with phoenix motifs—peeked beneath the tablecloth, a silent assertion that wealth did not erase mainland chinese roots.
He gestured for Jinyu to sit. "Welcome to Batavia, General Xu," he said, voice smooth as oolong. "May this table be the first of many where our lands meet halfway."
Chen Guosheng's smile deepened, though his eyes remained sharp.
"Now, before we start with the talk of shipments and signatures," he said, setting down his porcelain cup, "allow me to introduce you to the men at this table—so you know whose hands will be funding you."
He leaned back slightly, a host surveying his court. "Together, we are known—quietly—as the Union of Nine."
He gestured to the man on his right.
"This is 林文正 (Lin Wenzheng)—Lim Boen Tjeng in Hokkien. He owns Lian Fa Textiles (聯發紡織), the largest fabric and dye export in the Indies. If your soldiers ever wear uniforms made in these ports, chances are they came from his mills."
Lin gave a small nod, the kind of man whose hands looked too clean for the noise of his factories.
"I believe in cloth that holds color," he said mildly. "The same way alliances should."
Chen's gaze shifted to the next.
"蔡忠和 (Cai Zhonghe)—Tjoa Tiong Ho. Money-lender, financier, debt collector, and occasional miracle worker. Through Cai & Co. Finance, he keeps the smaller traders loyal—and fed."
Cai's gold tooth flashed when he smiled. "Even revolutions need interest rates, General."
Laughter rippled down the table.
Next was a broad-shouldered man with sun-darkened skin.
"黃建國 (Huang Jianguo)—Oei Kian Kok. His Heng Lee Holdings controls half the sugar and spice estates across Java."
Huang raised his glass, voice like gravel. "Without my land, no one eats. Without my ships, no one fights."
Beside him sat a wiry, watchful figure whose cufflinks caught the light.
"李順萬 (Li Shunwan)—Lie Soon Wan. Imports Western machinery, sometimes legally."
Li's smirk was quick. "A spade or a rifle, General—depends on how customs labels it."
"劉德雄 (Liu Dexiong)—Lauw Tek Hiong, Hakka." Chen continued smoothly. "Head of South Archipelago Metals. The tin and copper you see in ships, radios, or typewriters likely passed through his hands."
Liu inclined his head. "Metal remembers heat. So do people."
Next sat a man with ink-stained fingers and a poet's posture.
"周偉中 (Zhou Weizhong)—Tjoe Wee Tjong. Publisher of the Sin Po Press and other papers that tell the truth… when the Dutch aren't reading."
Zhou chuckled. "Sometimes the truth fits better between advertisements."
Then Chen turned toward a quiet man dressed a touch more simply, the faint smell of roasted nuts following him.
"郭英忠 (Guo Yingzhong)—Kwek Eng Tjong, Teochew. Owner of Eastern Palm & Oil Company (東南油業). His plantations stretch from Sumatra to Celebes, and his product keeps both the locals' kitchens and our army lamps burning."
Guo smiled faintly. "Trade and survival often share a bottle, General."
Chen gestured last toward the empty chair at the far end of the table.
"And this—" he said, meeting Jinyu's eyes, "—is yours."
The room hushed. Even the fans above seemed to slow.
"Until now, we've handled our affairs with quiet money and quieter mouths," Chen said. "But the world's changing. The mainland bleeds, and the islands tremble. You, General Xu, are the bridge between us—a soldier raised by banners, sent by those who still remember the price of silence."
He lifted his cup. "To the Southern Army. To the sea that binds us."
Porcelain met porcelain, soft chimes echoing beneath the chandeliers.
Jinyu raised his glass in turn, his reflection caught in its surface—the face of a man realizing just how vast his allies had become.
The clatter of porcelain faded as Chen set his cup down and leaned forward. The chandeliers hummed above them like an accusing audience; the men at the table dropped into the rhythm of business with the same hush as prayer.
"Enough preamble," Chen said. "You did not cross the sea for etiquette, General. You came because the mainland needs a curtain pulled back — and for that, we will buy you the rope and the ladder. We will also tell you what rope to climb and where the ladder is hidden."
He tapped the table. A servant moved in, depositing a map rolled in oilcloth between them. When Chen unrolled it, thin lines and red ink marked harbors, warehouses, and rail junctions. Batavia, Tanjung Priok, the sugar depots — all circled.
"This is the plan in three acts," Chen said. "Timing is precise. Supplies are allocated. We don't ask you to win a battle; we ask you to break their chain."
He pointed with a chopstick.
ACT ONE — CUT THE CABLES (INTELLIGENCE & DIVERSION)
Goal: Blind their communications and distract Dutch patrols for a forty-eight-hour window.
Who:
Zhou Weizhong (周偉中 / Tjoe Wee Tjong) — will plant coded press stories and use his distribution network to create simultaneous demonstrations in three market districts. His papers will carry veiled phrases that local organizers will read as instructions. That creates the public diversion.
Cai Zhonghe (蔡忠和 / Tjoa Tiong Ho) — will fund the organizers and the "supplies" for demonstrations (food, banners). His ledgers will show innocuous charity payments.
Method: staged protests, sympathetic market closures, and three staged "accidents" that force the colonial telegraph office to reroute.
ACT TWO — THE SUPPLY LINE (SMUGGLING & CACHE)
Goal: Deliver arms and sabotage components to hidden caches near the warehouses, disguised as harmless cargo.
Who supplies what:
Chen Guosheng (陳國生 / Tan Kwee Seng) — provides the maritime routes and the Kim Yang Trading manifests. His ships will carry "textile bales" that are actually hollowed crates containing disassembled rifles and radio parts. He controls a private berth at Tanjung Priok; night-loading is his specialty.
Lin Wenzheng (林文正 / Lim Boen Tjeng) — uses Lian Fa's fabric shipments as cover. Uniform textile bolts will conceal wrapped ammunition belts and fabrics will be double-stitched to hide seams used for smuggling. Customs tends to glance at cloth; nobody inspects seamed cotton.
Li Shunwan (李順萬 / Lie Soon Wan) — has the patents and import channels for "agricultural machinery." He labels crates as plow parts and press gears; inside are barrel components and metal fittings. His paperwork will get them past the usual Dutch manifest checks.
Liu Dexiong (劉德雄 / Lauw Tek Hiong) — provides the metal: extra barrels, cartridges, crowbars — shipped as "spare parts" for plantation equipment. He also funds the local blacksmiths who will reassemble items into usable weapons.
Guo Yingzhong (郭英忠 / Kwek Eng Tjong) — supplies fuel and oil drums through Eastern Palm & Oil Company; oil barrels are repurposed into covert containers. His coastal depots will store the caches.
Method: night transfer from Kim Yang's ships to small pangkawans (local launches) that shuttle parcels to holding houses mapped in the red ink.
ACT THREE — THE STRIKE (SYNCHRONY & TARGETS)
Goal: hit the three key choke points that force Dutch logistics into paralysis — the sugar depot at Noordwijk, the telegraph switching house, and the Tanjung Priok distribution yard — long enough to seize control of a cargo run and deliver it to nationalist hands.
Phases:
Sabotage — small, precise: loosen fastenings on transit cranes; cut power lines to the depot lighting; glue the locks so the Dutch waste hours on manual breaks. This is not bloodshed — it is delay and confusion. Seizure — while communications are down and patrols diverted, a fast team moves in to secure manifested crates (the crates that hold the rifles). These teams will be local men coordinated by Cai's small crews (the ones he funds). Extraction — once secured, Kim Yang launches a pre-arranged export manifest to legally claim the cargo under "re-export" permits to the mainland. The exit window is narrow (twenty-four hours); Kim Yang will have the captain and berth ready.
Who leads which part:
Xu Jinyu — you will command Phase Two and Three. Your task is not to take a city; it is to take a run — a single cargo that, once in nationalist hands, lets us arm a brigade and light a beacon. You will have a company of trusted officers (twenty trained men) provided from the southern command. Chen will provide two reliable pangkawans and the berth; Li will supply the tools for fast entry; Liu will wait at the workshop for immediate reassembly. Cai's crews will secure the streetside access.
Timing & signals:
Signal One — Zhou's morning paper will run a line about "the market celebrating the harvest" (a phrase). That same morning, Zhou's men will set off three small-scare fireworks at market noon. That's the diversion start. Signal Two — A telegraph to Chen, coded: "The tide favors the brave." That comes once the telegraph office is made busy with fake repairs (set by Li's men). Signal Three — a white scarf hung on the third lamppost outside the docks. Chen's boats recognize it as the green light to load.
Risks & contingencies:
Customs inspection escalation — If the Dutch do a full manifest audit, Li's false patents will be used to delay; Cai will bribe the clerk (paper trail shows charity). If that fails, Chen's captain will sink a hull plate to force a three-day repair — delay good, risk bad. Double agent — there will always be someone on the payroll of the Dutch. Zhou and Cai insist on compartmentalization: Cai's ledger holds innocuous entries; only Chen and Lin know the real shipping days. Jinyu must operate on need-to-know. Civilian casualties — minimized. The plan avoids open gun battles. If things go sideways and the Dutch fire, extraction protocol moves the cargo to inland caches coordinated by Guo's plantations. From there, Liu's men smelt and reforge into usable stores.
Chen paused, letting the rustle of papers and clinking of chopsticks settle into silence. "The timetable is fixed," he said. "Ten days from now, at the next low-tide window. Not before, not after. The ships must leave under the guise of the regular trade cycle — one mistake, and every ledger here burns with it."
The men around the table exchanged brief nods. Someone jotted figures in a small notebook; another adjusted his spectacles, murmuring to his aide about warehouse shifts.
"Ten days," Chen repeated, his tone low but decisive. "Enough time to move quietly. Not enough time for the Dutch to suspect anything."
Jinyu inclined his head slightly. To him, it sounded like the ticking of a clock he'd already started hearing since Guangzhou — a countdown masked as strategy.
Finally, Chen's voice softened, and for the first time the warmth left his face. "You will be the face of this one run, General. The mainland wants a symbol. We will give them an armory enough to raise that symbol. But if the run fails, the Dutch will turn the town inside out and punish every hand that touched it. We accept that risk."
Jinyu set his cup down so carefully the porcelain didn't ring. He looked at each man in turn — the financier's flash of teeth, the publisher's tired smile, the planter's steady nod — and felt the scale of what they'd pooled: money, ships, metal, covers, and nerves.
"I will not fail," he said quietly. It was not bravado; it was a statement that rearranged the table.
Chen inclined his head. "Then we begin with preparations tonight. Lin's mills will delay shipments for two days. Li will make a manifest change. Liu's men will start the reconditioning. Cai will seed the markets with small loans to organizers. Zhou will time the story."
Outside, beyond the walls of the Landhuis, Batavia churned on — unaware of the choreography planned at a table of men who kept nations in their ledgers and wars in their shipping lists.
The brunch concluded not long after, tapering into lighter conversation once the formal matters had been settled. Servants glided between the men, clearing porcelain platters and refilling teacups with quiet precision. Jinyu rose with the others as Chen Guosheng offered a final toast. Handshakes, polite laughter, and promises followed — the sound of diplomacy clothed in civility. But as the others dispersed, Chen's voice caught his attention. "General Xu," he said mildly, "my daughter is in the leisure salon. She's fond of hearing stories from the mainland. Would you humor her for a short while? Consider it… goodwill between our families."
A servant led him through one of the side corridors, past carved rosewood screens and porcelain vases painted with cranes. The house grew quieter the further he went — until, faintly, he heard the sound of silk brushing wood, followed by a few soft plucked notes that lingered in the air like threads of sound.
The door ahead stood slightly ajar.
Inside, sunlight spilled through patterned shutters onto a polished tiled floor. The room was neither parlor nor sitting room but something in between — half leisure, half retreat. On one side stood a small embroidery table, spools of silk thread laid neatly in lacquered trays. On the other, near the open window, a pipa rested on its stand, its lacquer catching the light beside a low tea table set for one.
And at that table sat a young woman, her posture composed but unstudied — a picture of grace caught mid-motion.
Her kebaya encim was pale lilac with lace edges, its front straight and closed. A batik sarong in red-gold phoenix patterns wrapped her lower half, pooling elegantly as she leaned over her embroidery hoop. Her hair was arranged in twin low buns, each tied with a narrow headband woven from jasmine flowers and gold thread.
She was working in silence, her needle flashing with each stitch — gold and crimson forming the wings of a phoenix.
Then, as if sensing him, she paused. Her gaze lifted toward the doorway, surprise flickering in her eyes.
"Oh—" she began, straightening slightly. "You're not one of the servants. Or…" Her gaze caught the insignia at his shoulder. "One of Father's guests still lingering for tea?"
Jinyu inclined his head. "A guest, yes. Lingering — perhaps unintentionally."
Her lips curved, a spark of humor breaking through. "Then you should be offered tea properly. My father would scold me otherwise."
As she reached for the teapot, a faint glint caught his eye. Hanging from the edge of the table was a small pendant — carved sandalwood, bordered in gold, its tassel a deep shade of red. The character etched into it was delicate but unmistakable: 欣.
"Your name," he said quietly.
She blinked, following his gaze — then smiled. "You read it well. It's part of it, yes. 陳嘉欣. Chen Jiaxin," she said, tapping the pendant lightly. "Or Tân Ka-hin, if you prefer the dialect my grandmother insists on."
He repeated it, once in Mandarin, once softly in Hokkien, letting the tone settle naturally. "Jiaxin."
She poured him tea, amused. "You sound almost local when you say it in dialect."
"An accident, I assure you," he replied.
"Then it's a flattering one," she said, smiling faintly. "Father said you came from Guangzhou. That must be where all the important news comes from."
"Not all of it good," he said, sitting opposite her.
Her eyes brightened. "Oh? Then tell me what's real. The Dutch papers here only tell us what the foreign offices want us to know. Is it true there's fighting near the ports again?"
He hesitated — not because the question was improper, but because of who was asking it. "You follow politics?"
"I try," she said, tone light but eager. "Though my tutors hate it. They prefer I learn embroidery, not economics. But it's more interesting when the fate of the world is stitched together with trade routes."
That drew a small laugh from him — low, unguarded.
Encouraged, she continued, "Father says the mainland and the Indies will rise together one day. Do you believe that?"
He studied her, caught between admiration and disbelief. "You speak as if you've seen a council room."
"Oh, I hear enough to imagine one." Her lips curved. "My best friend's father owns Sin Po. You know—the paper that pretends to be neutral but somehow knows what the Dutch will say before the Dutch themselves do."
Jinyu blinked. "You have interesting sources."
"I have interesting friends," she corrected, amusement glittering. "We grew up together. She tells me everything before it even prints. And my father… well, he never hides much at the dinner table when he's had wine."
Her tone softened just slightly. "My brother's in Singapore managing one of Father's branches, and my sister's married off to a textile family in Surabaya. So it's mostly just me and the newspapers left to keep him company."
He smiled faintly. "You're braver than most men I've met."
"Bravery's just another name for boredom," she quipped. Then, tilting her head, she added with teasing warmth, "You're younger than I expected, General. Twenty-six, Father said? You wear it too well."
He blinked — almost startled. "Excuse me?"
"Anyway," Jiaxin said, setting her embroidery aside, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that ignored rank. "Tell me about Guangzhou. The papers here only ever talk about trade and reform, never what people actually think."
Jinyu smiled faintly. "That's because what people think changes faster than the headlines. One week, the city's calling for unity. The next, someone's burned another flag."
Her brows lifted. "And which side do you stand on, General Xu?"
He hesitated — just long enough for her to notice. "Whichever side keeps our people from falling apart."
"Mm." She leaned back slightly, thoughtful. "Diplomatic. You'd make a fine politician."
"I'd rather not," he said. "Too much talking, not enough doing."
That earned a small laugh from her. "Ya, selain itu… mesti lah, ya, ada orang yang mengikuti dunia sebelum semuanya hancur, bukan?"
The words slipped out easily, warm and melodic — old Indonesian with faint Dutch inflection.
Her tone softened the edge of her meaning: someone has to keep track of the world before it collapses.
Jinyu's head tilted. "You think it's collapsing?"
She smiled, not looking at him. "I think it already has. Most people are just too polite to admit it."
Then, almost as an afterthought, she added — with a mischievous glint —
"Maybe that's why I read history. At least the dead are honest."
He gave a quiet chuckle. "History?"
"Especially Wu Zetian," she said, tone lilting like she was talking about a friend. "Everyone calls her ruthless, but you don't hold an empire together by being soft, do you?"
Her gaze met his again, deliberate now. "Maybe the world just isn't kind to people who try to lead it."
And for a heartbeat, Jinyu wasn't sure whether she meant the empress — or him.
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🍴Food Terms
Nasi Campur — "Mixed rice." A composed platter of rice with various meats, vegetables, and sauces. Among wealthy Peranakan families, it symbolized abundance and cosmopolitan fusion—Chinese-style roast meats with Indonesian condiments and presentation.
Babi Panggang Merah — Red roast pork, sweet and savory, glazed with honey, soy, and five-spice. Its bright hue symbolizes prosperity and festivity.
Ngo Hiong (五香) — Fried rolls of minced pork and prawn wrapped in beancurd skin, seasoned with five-spice powder. A common festive dish among Hokkien and Peranakan households.
Ayam Panggang Kecap — Roasted chicken glazed in sweet soy sauce (kecap manis), combining Cantonese roasting techniques with Indonesian sweetness.
Sayur Asin — Pickled mustard greens with a lightly sour, garlicky broth—used to cut through rich or oily foods.
Chap Chay (杂菜) — Stir-fried or braised mixed vegetables in light soy and sesame oil, derived from the Hokkien term chha chhai ("mixed vegetables").
Sambal Manis — Sweet chili sauce made with palm sugar, shallots, and chili, used as a condiment with meats.
Kueh Lapis Legit — Layered spice cake made with butter, eggs, and nutmeg. A luxurious dessert symbolizing patience, wealth, and layers of fortune.
Onde-onde — Glutinous rice balls filled with molten palm sugar and rolled in grated coconut. Traditionally served with tea or as a closing dessert.
Kopi Tubruk — Strong, unfiltered Javanese coffee sweetened with sugar, often used to signify local hospitality and refinement.
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🧵Fashion History
👗Clothing
Peranakan women's formal attire in early 20th-century Indonesia featured the kebaya encim, a long-sleeved blouse with a straight, closed front — modest yet intricately embroidered. It was paired with a batik sarong, often dyed in pastel or jewel tones and decorated with Chinese-inspired motifs like phoenixes (凤), peonies (牡丹), and butterflies (蝴蝶), symbolizing grace, prosperity, and joy.
Unlike traditional Javanese batik, which used earthy tones and geometric patterns, Peranakan batik reflected a fusion of cultures — Chinese symbolism, Nusantaran craftsmanship, and even touches of European color palettes.
Fun detail: Wealthy Indonesian Peranakan families often commissioned their sarongs from Pekalongan or Lasem, where artisans specialized in creating the soft pastel gradients and floral borders associated with elite women's wear.
💇♀️Hairstyle
Unmarried women traditionally wore their hair in double low buns, often decorated with silk ribbons or flower garlands — a youthful, gentle style symbolizing purity. Married women or matriarchs, however, styled their hair into a high chignon (known locally as sanggul tinggi), pinned with gold ornaments or mother-of-pearl combs to signify status and maturity. Historical note: Hair accessories often mirrored Chinese auspicious motifs — phoenix pins, lotus flowers, or jade butterflies — passed down as family heirlooms.
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🏛 Historical & Linguistic facts
Most Chinese-Indonesian (Peranakan) families trace their roots to Southern China, especially the provinces of Fujian (福建), Guangdong (广东), and Chaozhou (潮州). That's why languages like Hokkien (福建话), Teochew (潮州话), Cantonese (广东话), and Hakka (客家话) became the dominant dialects across Southeast Asia.
🐉 The Hokkien (福建人)
Originating from Fujian province — particularly cities like Quanzhou, Zhangzhou, and Xiamen (Amoy) — Hokkiens were known for their strong maritime trade networks. They basically ran the shipping and spice game. Their dialect became the unofficial business language across Southeast Asia, hence why it's so widespread even now, heck even in Indonesia we use this specific dialect for counting money with vocab like ceng (thousand) and ban (ten thousand) or tiao (million) for larger amounts, similar to how larger numbers are built in other languages. For example, 10,000 is ceban, 1,000,000 is tiao, and 1,200,000 is tiao ji.
🐚 The Teochew (潮州人)
From Chaozhou in eastern Guangdong, Teochews are culturally close to Hokkiens but have their own food and accent (and pride 😤). Historically traders and scholars, they carried with them a refined food culture and a terrifying level of business acumen.
🧧 The Cantonese (广东人)
From central and western Guangdong, cities like Guangzhou and Foshan. Known for their innovation, business dominance, and cinematic influence later on (yes, Hong Kong cinema supremacy).
🌾 The Hakka (客家人)
The name "Hakka" literally means guest people — they were Han Chinese who migrated south from Northern China centuries ago, driven by wars and famine. Because of that, they don't have a single "hometown" but pockets of communities scattered through Guangdong, Jiangxi, and Fujian provinces.
They were historically seen as outsiders wherever they settled but became known for their resilience, education, and military strength. (Fun fact: many revolutionaries, like Sun Yat-sen, were Hakka.)
Their culture mixes northern and southern Chinese traits — simple food, practical clothing, and a strong community spirit that screams "we may be displaced but we're built different."
(A personal note: I actually descend from this lineage too — my paternal side is Teochew, and my maternal side Hokkien-Hakka, which is why this worldbuilding hits home 😭✨. Also, I was born and raised in Indonesia, so my familiarity with Peranakan culture comes directly from that heritage — but my paternal side is Thai-Chinese, which is how I learned about Thai naming customs and the parallels between both systems!)