Thirteen Veins
Volume 1 · Chapter 5
The Mark on the Sail — Old Helm, Ancient Oath
The moment hands grabbed the gunwale, Azhar came leaping down like a lithe panther — thick, sun‑browned arms wrapping around the newcomers’ shoulders before they could even steady their footing.
His chest was broad and ridged with dense muscle, every inch of his torso and arms crisscrossed with old scars: rope burns, fishhook cuts, the marks of storms and brawls won and lost.
His neck was thick and corded like a hawser, his back powerful and tapered, hips firm and well‑set, legs solid as oak stumps, built to grip a rolling deck for days on end.
He hauled them aboard by the collars, grinning so wide his salt‑crusted beard bristled, his voice rough and familiar as the creak of timber:
“About damn time you lot showed up!
Another week and I’d have yelled this dock’s paving stones into dust!”
The deck still rolled gently underfoot, but Ali Khan planted himself like a boulder dropped into the tide.
His forehead was broad and fierce, jaw set hard as granite, neck thick and unyielding, shoulders wide enough to rest a crate of cargo, chest deep and barrel‑hard, dusted with coarse dark hair, tapering sharply to a tight, iron‑hard waist, hips heavy and perfectly balanced, thighs corded with muscle that could clamp a horse’s flanks or brace against any swell.
He reached out and clamped one massive hand around the mainmast, the wood groaning softly under his grip, and boomed loud enough to rattle the rigging:
“Doesn’t look like much from shore, but her planks feel solid enough!
Tell me — while you’ve been anchored here, have any loud‑mouths swaggered in claiming they’re the ‘true heirs’?
Any clown waving a splinter of wood and calling it a sacred token, peddling roadside weeds as rare medicine?”
Azhar laughed and grabbed a gourd flask from the rail, popping the stopper and passing it around.
The liquor was amber‑gold, smelling of roasted coconut and wild herbs — brewed the local way, strong and earthy enough to make a man’s eyes water.
His own body glistened with salt and sweat, every muscle in his back and arms shifting smoothly as he moved, the curve of his hips and thighs firm and unapologetic.
“Easy now — you’re in my territory.
First you wipe the salt off your brow, catch your breath, and wet your whistle.
This port runs deeper than the strait itself — real deals, fake marks, hidden agendas… more tangled than a fishing net in a storm.”
They squatted along the gunwale, knocking their gourds together with a heavy, satisfying clunk, then tilted their heads back and drank.
The fire burned hot down the throat, then softened into a cool, bitter‑sweet herbal warmth that spread through bones and muscles alike, driving out the damp of the coast.
Lao Hashan leaned back, fingers turning the neck of his flask thoughtfully.
His frame was still sturdy despite his years — shoulders broad and squared, arms knotted with sinew like ancient tree roots, waist firm and unsoftened, legs still strong enough to walk a hundred miles without tiring.
He breathed in the scent and nodded approvingly:
“Lemongrass, ginger, a touch of chinaberry root… smart blend.
This land is thick with humidity and damp air; this brew drives the chill out from deep in the marrow.
Same principle as the tonics we mixed back in the highlands — balance the body, sharpen the senses.
Nothing fancy, just what nature provides.”
Azhar’s eyes lit up with genuine respect, and he gave the old man a solid clap on the shoulder — hard enough to make a younger man stagger.
“You know your stuff, old timer!
Out here, we live by what grows from the earth and swims in the sea.
What we eat, what we drink, what heals us — it’s all honest, no frills, no fancy labels.”
He nodded toward the shore, where the stone road curved back into the heart of old Malacca.
Under the covered walkways, stalls lined both sides: bamboo baskets heaped with fresh ulam greens still glistening with morning dew; the rich scent of coconut rice and lemongrass drifting through the air; a fruit vendor splitting open durian with a sharp crack, the sweet, heavy aroma rolling out; mountains of mangosteen stacked high, their purple rinds hiding soft white flesh.
“See all this?” Azhar gestured with his chin, his bicep flexing tight as he pointed.
“This is Malacca.
The big ships moved down to the outer harbor years ago, but the life here hasn’t changed one bit.
Back in the day, Hang Tuah and his four brothers guarded this strait, and cargo was unloaded right here on these stones.
Tides shift, channels deepen or silt up, trade routes move — but integrity never goes out of fashion.
Goods can change hands, but trust can’t be faked.
Ports can be relocated, but your mark stays with you.”
Ali Khan scratched his head, then slammed his flask down hard enough to make the deck tremble.
His bare chest rose and fell with a rough laugh, every line of muscle standing out sharp and defined in the sunlight.
“Change this, change that — I only care about one rule!
If any bastard dares trade on the name of the Thirteen Veins, sell weeds as miracle cures, or spout lies about our legacy — I’ll hoist him up to the topmast, turn him upside down, and let him drink enough seawater to learn what honesty tastes like!”
“Now that’s the spirit!” Azhar’s grin faded, and he stepped over to the thick, weathered steering post — his palm slamming hard against the wood.
His shoulders rolled, chest puffing out, legs braced wide, every inch of him radiating raw, seasoned power.
The old helm was worn smooth by decades of hands, and carved deep into its side were faint, ancient lines — patterns that matched the markings on their wooden plaque almost perfectly, as if drawn from the same source.
“This port has been a crossroads of truth and fraud for hundreds of years,” he said, voice dropping lower but carrying clear over the lapping waves.
“Some fool carves a few scratches into a stick and calls himself a ‘descendant of the true line,’ dries roadside weeds into fancy pouches and sells them for silver.
Others dress in fine linen, speak flowery words about ‘heritage’ and ‘authenticity,’ then swindle hard‑earned savings from sailors and merchants to spend on wine and women.
They’re like jellyfish — look bright and clear, but brush against them and they sting you for weeks.”
Alim had stayed quiet until now.
Lean and whip‑cord tough, his frame was built for endurance rather than show — forehead sharp and observant, jaw firm and unyielding, neck thick and steady, shoulders broad but streamlined, chest ridged with tight muscle, waist narrow and disciplined, hips tight and balanced, legs like steel cables.
He stepped closer, eyes fixed on the helm’s carvings, fingers tracing the lines gently, then smiled a slow, knowing smile.
“So… you didn’t just camp here waiting for us, did you?”
Azhar laughed, slapping his own chest hard enough to echo like a drum.
“Hell no!
We swore back at those hot springs — same oath, same fate.
Being brothers doesn’t mean just showing up when the work is done.
It means stepping in when you see crooked business, stopping the cheats before they hurt anyone.
I don’t claim to be a scholar, but I know these waters — which channels are deep, which are sandbars; which men are solid gold, which are just gilded lead.
I read faces better than any compass.”
He glanced over his shoulder, a mix of cunning and respect in his eyes.
“And besides… the Shadow — our unseen brother — got here before any of us.
For the last two weeks, he’s walked every alley, every market stall, every wharf.
He’s mapped every fraud peddling ‘ancient remedies’ or ‘lost traditions.’ He’s got a full ledger in his head — who’s honest, who’s crooked, who’s got real lineage, who’s just wearing the mask.
Quiet as the night itself, though — won’t breathe a word until the time is right.”
Anda, standing tall at the rail, felt a quiet warmth settle in his chest.
Broad and imposing, his crisp cotton shirt stretched tight over wide shoulders and a deep, powerful chest, waist cinched firm, hips strong and steady, legs planted like pillars.
He nodded slowly, his expression calm but assured.
“Of course.
Our Shadow brother has always been our eyes and ears on land.
While we travel the open road or sail the waves, he walks the hidden paths, clearing the traps before we even see them.”
Azhar pointed again toward the shore, where soft, warm Malay greetings drifted on the breeze: “Selamat datang!
Apa khabar?” He repeated it, rough accent but perfect tone, grinning.
“Hear that?
‘Peace be with you — how are you?’ Same as ‘Good day’ on the steppe, same as ‘Peace be upon you’ out west.
All say the same thing: respect first, lend a hand second.
The liars sound sweeter than anyone, but their hearts are always counting profit.
That’s the easiest way to spot a fake — if the words are too smooth, look closer at the books.”
Lao Hashan nodded, plucking a handful of fresh ulam from a basket passing by — leaves fine and fragrant.
“Like this herb.
Local folks have eaten it for centuries — pick the tender shoots at dawn, toss with lime, chili, and shrimp paste; bitter‑sweet, perfect for beating the heat and damp.
It’s common, it’s free, it’s part of daily life.
But swindlers dry it, grind it, box it up, and sell it as ‘rare medicinal treasure’ to travelers.
The plant never changed — people corrupted its purpose.”
Ali Khan’s jaw tightened, fists clenching until his knuckles whitened, muscles rippling all down his arms and torso.
“Then what are we waiting for?
Let’s march ashore, tear down those fake stalls, and toss every crook into the harbor!”
“Hold your horses!” Azhar grabbed his arm, pulling him back with a grin, and nodded up toward the top of the main sail.
Stitched into the upper corner of the canvas was a small, faded patch of cloth — and on it, one simple, clear mark: the Crescent Moon and Arrow, exactly matching the lines on their plaque.
“We aren’t here to smash things — we’re here to set the rules.
Hang Tuah once said: ‘Takkan Melayu hilang di dunia’ — True values never fade from the world.
Wherever the Thirteen Veins go, we bring clarity.
Let everyone see: a real mark isn’t hidden away in locked boxes or secret rooms — it flies high in the sun.
Real strength doesn’t cheat or inflate margins — it delivers what it promises.
Real brothers don’t show up when times are good — they stand firm when the tide turns.”
Alim stepped forward, running one hand over the old helm’s carvings, then slapping his own chest right over the small wooden token he carried beneath his tunic.
His smile grew sharper, eyes burning bright with purpose.
“Exactly.
A man dressed in white silk can still have a black heart.
A man bare‑chested, swearing loud and rough, can still have bones of solid steel.
All the way west from here — we’re going to prove that truth, one port at a time.”
The wind picked up, and waves crashed against the hull with a deep, rhythmic thud‑thud‑thud, like the beating of a giant war drum.
Anda looked up at the mark fluttering in the sail, then at the men beside him: Ali Khan, broad and thick with muscle, skin glistening bronze in the sun; Azhar, lean and weathered, every scar a story; Alim, still and sharp as a honed blade; Lao Hashan, calm and rooted like an ancient banyan tree; and the Shadow, unseen but already ahead, watching and recording.
He pressed his own silver token tighter against his chest, tightened the strap across his back, and slammed one fist hard against the mast — loud enough to cut through wind and waves.
“Raise the sail!
Cast off!”
Azhar roared the command, and the crew leaped into action — ropes creaking, canvas unfurling with a sharp crack, the great sail swelling full and round like a giant wing catching the wind.
The hull dipped slightly, then surged forward, gliding away from the old quay, heading out into deeper, bluer, wider open water.
Glancing back, the old town, the covered walkways, the fruit stalls, and the soft calls of the market faded into the distance — but they stayed etched in memory, clear as ink on parchment.
Ali Khan stood at the bow, feet wide apart, chest puffed out, and threw his head back to shout over the gale, his voice carrying far across the strait:
“Men of Hang Tuah!
Brothers of the Thirteen Veins!
Whatever comes ahead — rough seas, hidden reefs, honest trade or crooked deals, fine clothes or bare backs — we face it all!
We stand by the mark, by the ledger, by the truth!
We carry our honor in our bones, all the way to the ends of the earth!”
The sail grew smaller against the horizon, wind filling the rigging, destiny stretching wide ahead.
Malacca and its stories stayed behind.
But brotherhood, trust, integrity — and the quiet, invisible flow of the Veins — sailed onward with them, carried by every breath, every muscle, every heartbeat of these men who swore to turn chaos into order, and lies into truth.
——-Looking forward to the next Chapter——-