Thirteen Veins :Book Two
[The Thirteen Veins: Roots and Flow]
Volume 2 · Chapter 17
Dragon Boat Festival: The Scent of Rice, The Roots in the Wind
Before setting out fully inland, they stopped briefly at Songkhla Harbour — a quiet, familiar port along the route.
Here they would resupply, and meet briefly with Aaron, who had traveled north from Penang to wait for them, before returning south to hold their base.
The ship had barely nudged against the weathered pilings when the sun broke through, spilling warm, golden light across the water.
Beneath the shade of an ancient banyan tree at the dockside, a rich, sweet scent drifted out — a mix of fresh bamboo leaves, glutinous rice, and soft wood‑ash smoke — followed by the slow, singsong call of an old vendor:
“Bamboo leaves, reed twine, red beans, and tender pork belly!
Dragon Boat Festival is here!”
Aaron stood waiting on the quay.
He was broad‑shouldered and lean‑hipped, his skin tanned deep by years under the sun, arms crisscrossed with rope scars and the faint mark of an old injury across his chest.
He clapped hands with each man as they stepped ashore.
“Good to see you all still in one piece,” he said with a grin.
“The roads ahead grow wilder from here.
I’ve brought extra stores — and word from back home.
I’ll stay here until you’re ready to sail, then head back south to hold our contacts and warehouses in Penang.
This end stays safe while you go forward.”
Nai Wen set his bare feet onto solid stone, paused to draw a deep breath, and turned back to the rest with a soft, knowing smile.
His frame was lean but tightly woven, honed by years of sea and shore; his skin held that rare pale glow like polished ivory, and every line of his high shoulders, straight ribs, and narrow hips stood sharp and defined in the sunlight.
His neck was long and graceful yet strong, his chest firm and smooth, his waist tight, and his legs straight and sturdy — no excess bulk, just the quiet endurance of mountain and tide.
“Strange how timing works,” he said.
“Today marks the Festival.
My mother always told me: Sail a thousand miles, but never forget the water; walk a thousand roads, but never lose your roots.
Let’s pick up what we need — we’ll make the rice cakes ourselves.
A good meal before the trail is worth more than any coin in your pocket.”
“Rice cakes?” Ali Khan’s eyes lit up instantly, and he slapped a broad palm hard over his own stomach — hard, rounded, and ridged with muscle from the bottom of his ribs down to his waist.
He was built like a fortress: broad forehead, neck thick as a hawser, chest wide and deep as a barrel, arms thick as ship’s masts, hips broad and solid, and thighs heavy, corded with sinew and power.
“Will they fill a man up?
Go down smooth with a drink?
And more importantly… can we stuff ’em full of meat?
No point in eating if it doesn’t stick to your bones!”
“All that and more,” Nai Wen nodded, his hands slender but strong, fingers long and steady from handling herbs and ropes.
“Glutinous rice warms the core; bamboo leaves clear the damp; reed twine strengthens the sinews.
Get the mix right, and it’s not just food — it’s medicine for the body.
It aligns the channels, clears the blockages… same principle as the old ways of balancing the flow of life.”
They strolled barefoot across the warm flagstones, wearing nothing but a loose strip of coarse cotton tied low around their waists.
In the open light, their bodies stood plain and unashamed — no hiding, no false modesty, just the raw, unpolished build of men born to work, endure, and survive.
Rashid walked ahead, moving with the easy confidence of one who knew every alley and inlet of this coast.
His skin was a warm honey‑brown, kissed by sun and salt; his back was broad and powerful, tapering down to a thick but trim waist, hips firm and rounded, and thighs heavy with muscle built from years of rowing and hauling cargo.
He picked up a large bamboo leaf, turned it over in his calloused fingers, and held it to his nose.
“You want these wide and supple — half‑dried, not brittle.
That way they hold their shape and don’t turn bitter in the pot.
Old folks say: Bamboo opens the surface, rice settles the centre, twine binds the whole.
For us sailors and travelers, always cold and damp from the wind and rain, this hits the spot better than any bitter tonic you’ll find.”
“Well, well… so you know more than just how to tie a knot and chase the tide?” Alim stepped up beside him, his shoulder brushing lightly against Rashid’s ribs, then giving his firm, rounded hip a playful tap, his gaze drifting lower with a slow grin.
Alim was the mirror of his brother but slighter, tighter in the frame: high cheekbones, neck smooth but strong, chest compact and solid, waist narrow and defined, legs lean but springy with coiled strength.
“You learnin’ to nourish the body… or just trying to keep that old sea‑pillar of yours from going soft after weeks bobbing in the brine?”
“You talk big but know nothing!
The body’s your only true capital out here.
If you run it ragged, you won’t just fumble at the helm or on the trail — come nightfall, you won’t even have the strength to roll over in your bunk!
Remember who brewed you ginger‑date tea when you caught that chill last week, eh?
Didn’t hear you complaining then!”
“Fair enough, fair enough…” Alim scratched the back of his neck, grinning as he rubbed the spot.
“But don’t just feed your pillar — feed your brain too!
Look at Nai Wen here — all smooth skin and quiet manners, knows herbs and food and all sorts of things.
Not like you: nothing but muscle and saltwater running through your veins!”
“Saltwater’s the taste of a real man!” Ali Khan cut in, grabbing a thick slab of pork, rich with fat marbled through the lean, and hefting it like a heavy club.
“This is what I call fuel!
One bite, and you’ll have strength for three days straight — guaranteed!”
“Easy on the fat,” Nai Wen stepped in, his voice gentle but firm, gesturing to the ingredients laid out before them.
“Fat gives flavour, yes — but we sweat hard, and the heat builds up fast.
Too much grease clogs the channels, slows the flow, and soon enough you’ll feel drained and heavy.
Stick to three parts fat, seven parts lean.
Add peanuts, red beans, a handful of dried shrimp, and a slice of aged tangerine peel.
Rice warms the centre, beans flush out excess water, peel keeps the breath easy — balanced, nourishing, no drag on the system.”
Lao Hashan chuckled, stroking his greying beard as he helped tie the leaves into bundles.
Though older, his body remained thick and sturdy: broad shoulders, chest deep and full, arms still corded with standing veins from decades of hauling and climbing, waist solid, legs rooted and steady.
“There’s a lesson in this too, lads.
The old teachings say the body has its own pathways — like rivers, like roads, like the veins beneath the skin.
When they run clear, you heal faster, sense trouble sooner, and stand firmer in a gale or on a slippery slope.
Call it The Veins if you like — not magic, just the natural order of things.
Same rules apply to trade, to trust, to everything worth building.”
The words hung soft but heavy in the warm air, and for a heartbeat Nai Wen’s gaze drifted down to his forearm — where a faint, pale blue mark, shaped like a crescent crossed with an arrow, lay just beneath the skin, barely visible in the sunlight.
He rubbed it absently, as if feeling a faint, steady hum beneath the surface, but said nothing.
Alim, carrying coils of dried reed twine, laughed from behind.
“Pretty words — but don’t come crying to me if yours turn out lumpy and misshapen, like a potato that never grew right!”
“You think you can do better?” Ali Khan stuffed a double handful of leaves straight into his brother’s hands, then bumped his shoulder hard, his elbow brushing across Alim’s firm, hair‑dusted chest.
“Twins are supposed to be matched, aren’t they?
If you can’t out‑wrap me, you can’t claim you’re the sharper one!”
“Challenge accepted!” Alim shot back, looping an arm around Ali Khan’s thick neck and hauling him close.
Before anyone could step in, the two brothers tumbled down onto a sun‑warmed straw mat, bare bodies rolling and shifting, muscles bunching and stretching, their manhoods swinging freely as they grappled good‑naturedly.
Passers‑by paused to laugh and call out jibes — this was no lewd display, just the rough affection of men who lived and worked side by side, knowing every scar and every line of each other’s bodies.
“Break it up, you two — you’ll crush the ingredients before we even start!” Anda pulled them apart, grinning, already folding leaves into neat little cones.
He stood tall and imposing, built like a gatepost: broad, square forehead, neck thick as oak, chest wide and solid, waist tight and unyielding, hips broad and stable, legs thick and straight — every inch the pillar of strength and quiet authority.
“Nai Wen’s got it right — less excess, more substance, and add just a pinch of Yizhi Ren — only a few seeds.
Warms the kidneys, eases backache, keeps the channels open.
We’ll be walking hard roads from here; our hips and legs will take the worst beating.
This’ll steady the fire without making you restless or over‑heated.”
“Steady the fire, eh?” Rashid winked, prodding Anda’s solid lower back with a firm knuckle.
“You planning to keep it from rising too high at night… or make sure it stays hard and ready when the trails get steep?”
“Both,” Anda replied openly, no trace of embarrassment in his tone.
“This body doesn’t belong just to you — it belongs to the men watching your back.
If your legs weaken, who clears the path?
Look after it, not to turn soft and lazy, but to keep it strong and useful.
Muscles need work, dampness needs flushing, energy needs direction.
Same as our ship: scrub the hull, caulk the seams, clear the blockages — only then does it ride out every storm.
And mark my words: the same logic will hold true when we start moving further inland.”
Aaron watched from the side, loading supplies into crates, and nodded in agreement.
“And remember — whatever you find, whatever you learn, send word back.
I’ll keep the lines open here; nothing gets lost between north and south.
The Veins run both ways.”
Back on deck, they spread everything out on clean mats, sitting cross‑legged, bare‑skinned, bodies warm and open to the air.
Some fumbled at first, their attempts lopsided and leaking rice everywhere, drawing loud roars of laughter.
Others moved with quick, sure hands, twisting and tying the bundles tight, and soon the rest crowded around to copy the motion.
The talk stayed rough and easy, drifting between the sea, the road ahead, and the lessons of the day:
“Yours is wrapped too loose, mate — looks impressive from far off, but give it a squeeze and it goes soft, just like some men’s grand plans!”
“Better loose than yours — tied so tight it’ll burst before you even get it in the pot!
Can’t even expand when it needs to settle!”
“Nai Wen, you reckon eating these will clear the head too?
If we’re gonna walk mountain trails, we’ll need sharp eyes and steady steps, not heavy bellies dragging us down!”
“Strength is to be built, not wasted,” Nai Wen said calmly, measuring each portion with care.
“My mother used to say: Vitality is like oil in a lamp — you must add to it, but never let it run unchecked.
On this festival, we align ourselves with the season: drink less cold water after sweating, don’t push too hard when tired, and direct your energy where it counts.
Spread it thin, and it vanishes fast — channel it properly, and it flows endlessly.”
No long lectures, no heavy preaching — just quiet wisdom passed down through generations, rooted in experience.
The others listened, some nodding, some grinning, but all taking it in.
Soon the iron pot hung over a bed of glowing coals, water rolling at a steady boil, and the wrapped rice cakes slipped in one by one.
Steam rose thick and fragrant, carrying the scent of bamboo and sweet rice, slowly pushing back the usual smells of sweat, salt, and fish.
They huddled around the flames, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, bare skin pressed against bare skin — old scar touching fresh scar, warm flesh against warm flesh.
No hidden thoughts, no false pride, only the solid comfort of being brothers.
Rashid leaned over, clapping a heavy hand on Nai Wen’s shoulder, and nodded toward the bubbling pot.
“You know… your mother didn’t just teach you how to wrap rice and treat ailments.
She taught you how to wrap a life — firm, well‑filled, and steady to the core.
That’s the real lesson, isn’t it?
The same lesson we’ll need as we head deeper into unknown lands.”
Nai Wen gazed through the rising mist toward the shore, his voice soft but clear, his fingers once again brushing the faint mark on his forearm — which now seemed to warm slightly, as if responding to the conversation.
“She always said: The bamboo leaf is your reputation; the rice is your heart; the filling is your skill; and the twine is your discipline.
But she also said there is more to it.
The pathways in the body, the flow of rivers, the movement of people, the bonds between men… they are all connected.
These are what the old ones called The Thirteen Veins — not magic, but the invisible channels that hold everything together.
When you learn to read them, you don’t just survive — you move with the world, not against it.”
The wind came off the land, carrying the sweet festival scent, the warmth of cooking fires, and the quiet, unspoken truths passed down through generations — not written in books, but eaten, lived, and carried deep in the bones.
When they were done, the cakes were lifted out, steamed plump and firm.
The outer leaves peeled away to reveal glossy, golden‑white rice, fragrant and rich.
One bite, and the flavour spread — savoury, sweet, and dense, warm all the way down the throat and settling deep in the belly.
They passed them around, tearing off chunks, slipping slices of meat or handfuls of beans into each other’s open palms.
The jokes kept coming, the laughter rolled easy, and the bonds tightened — just like the rice cakes: wrapped layer upon layer, bound tight, passed from one hand to the next.
Peel it all away, and what remains is the same simple truth:
Real men stay true to their roots, and true strength comes from understanding how everything flows.
——-Looking forward to the next Chapter——-