On the wedding day, my wife was abnormal

Sea of ​​Spice: Phoenix Stepping on Golden Waves

The "Zhenhai-class" giant warship "Dingkun" is like a moving steel mountain, splitting the emerald waters of the South China Sea.

The black coiled dragon flag on the bow of the ship fluttered in the humid sea breeze. When the flag rolled up, the darkly embroidered cloud and thunder pattern appeared and disappeared like the scales of a dormant dragon.

The dark armor plates of the ship reflected a cold and hard luster under the scorching tropical sun, forming a stark contrast with the clear blue water around it.

On the deck, the sailors were wearing black shorts, their backs soaked with sweat, but they stood straight, their eyes vigilantly scanning the junction of sea and sky.

On the high platform of the bridge, Murong Yan stood facing the wind. She wore no heavy phoenix crown adorned with pearls and jade. Her jet-black hair was loosely tied up with a phoenix hairpin adorned with red gold and kingfisher feathers. A few strands of hair were swept across her pale yet sharply defined face by the strong, salty sea breeze, clinging to her delicate skin.

She was wearing a bright yellow robe woven with gold phoenixes. This was not ordinary brocade, but was embroidered by one hundred of the best embroiderers in Jiangnan for three years. They used gold thread, colorful thread twisted from peacock feathers, and pearl thread as thin as hair to embroider on the dark brocade base, stitch by stitch, to create the magnificent scene of "a hundred phoenixes flying through the clouds".

At this moment, under the almost vertical scorching sunlight at noon, the entire phoenix robe exudes a molten gold luster, and the phoenix on the robe seems to come alive, with each feather reflecting a dazzling fiery color in the light, forcing the sailors on the deck to squint their eyes slightly and feel awe in their hearts.

The two-meter-long train was not completely spread out on the deck. Instead, two female officers of the Thunder Burning Guard—dressed in indigo-colored outfits, with expressions as solemn as stone sculptures—carefully held up its heaviest folds to prevent the priceless garment from being stained by the salt and oil stains that were everywhere on the deck, or from being snagged by the rough teak wood.

However, the carefully woven gold tassels on the edge of the robe could not hang completely in the air. As the Dingkun broke through the waves with steady and powerful ups and downs, the ends of the tassels inevitably swept across the smooth teak deck, making a fine, dense, yet continuous "rustling" sound.

The sound was like countless tiny golden snakes quietly moving on the ice, with a cold and unquestionable majesty, penetrating the roar of the waves and the whistling sea breeze, and was clearly imprinted in everyone's ears.

The sea breeze was sometimes strong, blowing up her wide sleeves, revealing the dark black cloud-patterned lining. On the cuffs, a pair of tiny phoenix eyes embroidered with even finer gold thread appeared and disappeared as the sleeves swayed, looking down coldly at the surging deep blue waves below.

Ahead, the outline of the main island "Golden Scale Island", the heart of the Spice Islands, gradually became clear in the steaming sea air.

The island is covered with rolling hills and lush, almost opaque primeval rainforest, so green that it is almost ink-black.

In the air, even across several miles of sea, the mixed aroma of cloves and cardamom, so rich that it almost formed a substance, had already wrapped around like invisible tentacles, carrying the unique sweetness and aggressiveness of the tropics, trying to penetrate every gap in the ship.

The few battered frigates left by the Kingdom of Castile, like trapped beasts with their claws plucked out, huddled in the island's crude, natural harbor. Their sails half-dropped, drooping listlessly, their guns lowered, their former ferocity lost.

On the shore, amidst the chaos, a makeshift wooden platform for negotiations stood out. Castilian envoy, Viscount Juan, struggled to maintain a last vestige of respectability, wearing a scarlet and gold-trimmed suit that had clearly been meticulously ironed, yet still showed its wrinkles. Beads of sweat covered his forehead behind his monocle, which he constantly wiped at the lens and temples with a handkerchief.

Behind him, several Castilian officers pressed their hands on the hilts of their swords, their knuckles white, their faces a mixture of tension, humiliation and a hint of imperceptible fear. The sunlight reflected faint and dim spots of light on their dusty and dull epaulettes.

The small boat cut through the turquoise water and slowly approached the pier built with rough logs.

Murong Yan, supported by a female official from the Fenlei Guard, stepped onto the creaking bridge. The heavy train of her bright yellow, woven with gold, phoenix robe finally fell, its edge instantly plunging into the warm, shallow water. The delicately embroidered wave patterns in gold thread were soaked by the seawater, darkening their color. The silk, saturated with moisture, felt even heavier, as if drenched in the dust of history.

She walked steadily, each step carrying an invisible pressure. Her gorgeous tail scraped against the rough, cracked wooden boards, making a dull and continuous sound, and rolled over the lilac buds scattered on the ground, crushed and flattened by countless hurried or frightened footsteps.

The rich, dizzying aroma mixed with the salty smell of the sea and the faint smell of burning wafting from the charred ruins in the distance, forming a strange and unsettling smell that hits you in the face and is almost suffocating.

Viscount Juan practically stumbled forward, bowing deeply, his body bent at almost a right angle, his forehead nearly touching his knees. His gaze met the dazzling bright yellow and the intricate, majestic phoenix pattern, seemingly imbued with boundless power. His pupils suddenly constricted, his Adam's apple rolled violently, and large beads of sweat trickled down his temples, dripping onto the scorching wooden boards and evaporating instantly.

"Your Majesty," he said, his stiff official language thick with a Castilian accent and an uncontrollable tremor. "On behalf of His Majesty the King of Castile and all his subjects, I extend my highest blessings to you."

Murong Yan's gaze was like an ice-cold probe, passing directly over his humble figure and sweeping across the entire port indifferently.

Her eyes swept over the damaged Western warships - the huge cannon scars clearly visible on the hull, the broken masts that were hastily tied and repaired and looked shaky, the repair tools cluttered on the deck and the exhausted sailors.

Her gaze then moved further away. Several burned-down spice warehouses on the hillside were left with only charred skeletons and broken walls. A few wisps of stubborn blue smoke were still curling up from the broken ends, like unwilling ghosts.

She had a blank expression on her face, as if everything before her was merely ink stains on a scroll, and walked straight towards the crude wooden negotiation platform that was incompatible with her status.

The gorgeous hem of the bright yellow phoenix robe brushed against the ashes and loose dust piled on the ground, raising a small cloud of black dust, like countless dead black butterflies circling and struggling in the low sky, and finally drifting away powerlessly.

She sat down on the main wooden chair, which was covered with a piece of blue coarse cotton cloth that was washed to a pale color and even had patches on it.

The two female officers of the Thunder Burning Guard moved meticulously, as if performing some sacred ritual, carefully and evenly spreading the heavy, water-absorbing tails in their hands on both sides of her seat.

In an instant, the golden phoenix feathers burst out with an almost violent light under the scorching sunlight that almost melted people, and each feather was shining with a brilliance that was impossible to look directly at.

This unparalleled luxury formed an extremely glaring and oppressive contrast with the simple and rough wooden platform and the frightened Westerners, as if a god had descended upon the ruins of the mortal world.

Viscount Juan sat stiffly opposite, sweat completely soaking the collar and back of his luxurious dress. Dark sweat stains spread across the scarlet fabric like spreading fear.

A brief silence fell on the wooden stage, as heavy as a lead weight pressing on everyone's chest.

There was only the whimper of the sea breeze across the harbor rocks, the crackle of flags flapping in the wind, and the never-ending crash of waves against the shore in the distance.

Several Castilian servants, with their heads lowered and faces pale, tremblingly brought iced coconut milk and several Western glassware on silver plates that were polished to a shine but still showed signs of use - crystal clear, thin-walled high-heeled cups, intricately carved narrow-necked water bottles that reflected colorful light in the sun, and a small dish of colorful glass beads that looked like a solidified rainbow.