Thirteen Veins
Volume 1 · Chapter 8
Watch Under the Stars — Truth Spoken on the Swell
By the middle of the night, the sea had fallen so still it seemed to have turned into a pool of polished ink.
Only the stars burned bright overhead, thick and scattered like silver coins poured across a vast black table.
The wind softened to a gentle sigh, and the rigging hummed a low, steady tune as the ship glided west, held steady as if carried in the palm of some great, unseen hand.
The night watch was split into two shifts: first Azhar and Ali Khan, then Alim and Anda.
Lao Hashan, being the eldest, rested in the hold, but would step out to lend a hand whenever he woke.
At the Bow — Shoulder to Shoulder, Passing the Pouch
Azhar stood firm at the helm, his frame broad and solid as a seasoned hardwood beam.
His forehead was strong and weathered, skin tanned deep by years of sun and salt spray; his neck thick and corded like heavy hawser, supporting shoulders wide enough to bear the weight of sails and storm gusts alike.
His chest was deep and muscular, crisscrossed with pale, hard‑earned scars from snapped ropes, fishhooks, and rough work, tapering down to a narrow, rock‑hard waist, then flaring into powerful hips and thick, sturdy thighs that kept him rooted to the deck even when the swell rolled hard beneath his feet.
Ali Khan sat cross‑legged on a coil of heavy manila rope nearby, stripped to the waist.
Starlight caught his skin, turning it to glowing bronze, and outlined every ridge of muscle: a broad, proud forehead, jaw squared like chiseled granite, and a neck thick as an old tree trunk.
His chest rose high and full, pectorals firm and rounded, sloping down to a tight, flat stomach and a waist that looked carved for pure strength.
His hips were wide and strong, leading to legs thick and muscular like the pillars of a great hall — the kind that could hold a rearing stallion still or carry a full crate of spices without breaking stride.
He held a worn leather tobacco pouch in one large, calloused hand, took a long, slow draw, then leaned over to press the stem gently between Azhar’s lips.
Azhar didn’t hesitate.
He leaned in, clamped his teeth around the mouthpiece, and breathed deep.
The sharp, spicy smoke mixed with the scent of dried herbs drifted down his throat, warm and heavy, settling deep in his lungs like a blanket.
“Your folk come from the river valleys of Perak, don’t they?” Azhar asked quietly, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the sleeping men.
“Are the nights ever this bright back home?”
Ali Khan spat lightly into his palm and rubbed it over his chilled knuckles.
For a moment, his usual loud, boisterous energy softened; his eyes turned upward, distant and tender.
“Brighter, brother.
The valleys stretch wide open — no high mountains or thick jungle to block the sky.
The stars hang so low it feels like you could reach up and pluck ’em right from above the treetops.
Alim and I are twins, born and raised in the deep forests of East Malaysia.
We carry the blood of the Dayak and Kadazan peoples, mixed with the lineage of Dabu Hakka from Guangdong.
My old man always said: our native roots teach us to read the land, the hills, and the rivers; our Hakka blood teaches us to keep our word, build our livelihood, and never cut corners to save a penny.”
He lifted one thick, calloused finger and traced a wide arc across the glittering sky.
“No matter how far you travel, if you know your stars, you’ll always find your way back.
When I left home, I carried only a machete, a sack of dried cassava, and his old pipe — brought straight from our ancestral village in Dabu.
He told me it was bound to our Strength & Pioneer Vein, to our homeland, and to the blood that runs through every vein in our bodies.”
Azhar took back the pouch, letting thin blue smoke curl slowly from his nostrils as he stared out over the black water.
“I was born in a fishing village right at the mouth of the Perak River.
My mother is Orang Asli — the original people of this land; from her I learned to read the tides, smell the wind, and know where the tin veins run beneath the earth.
My father is Peranakan, carrying that same Dabu Hakka blood.
He taught me the ways of trade and said, ‘Keep your rudder true, and your ship will reach port.
Keep your heart honest, and your path will never be lost.'”
He gripped the helm tighter, knuckles whitening, and the muscles in his forearm and shoulder bunched and flexed like coiled steel under the faint glow.
“I was only thirteen when I sailed through my first real storm.
The mainsail tore, the deck pitched like a bucking stallion, and I thought we’d go under for sure.
My father grabbed my wrist so hard I still have the faint mark, and said, ‘If the man panics, the ship panics.
If the man stays steady, the ship stays true.’ That’s when I understood — this helm doesn’t just steer the vessel; it steers your life, your fortune, and the flow of the Earth & Merchant Vein that runs through Perak and all these waters.”
For a while, neither spoke.
They simply sat shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the same endless sky.
Ali Khan let his heavy arm rest naturally across Azhar’s neck and shoulders — broad, warm, and solid as a wool blanket — no pretense, no awkwardness, just the comfort of being close.
Azhar leaned slightly into the weight, letting it steady him, his grip on the wheel growing even firmer.
No matter how tough a man tries to act, deep down every heart still holds the roots of home.
By the Rail — Shadow Against Shadow, Stories of the Past
When the hour came to change watch, Alim and Anda stepped up from the hold.
Before going below, Azhar and Ali Khan draped a thick canvas tarpaulin over their shoulders.
“Night air’s thick with damp,” Azhar said, clapping Alim firmly between the shoulder blades.
“Wrap up tight — don’t let that chill settle in your bones and turn your joints stiff as old rope.”
Alim took the cloth, first holding it out to cover Anda’s broad back before pulling half of it over his own shoulders.
His forehead was sharp and observant, jaw firm and clean‑cut, his neck long and sinewy — shaped by years of walking steep trails, climbing trees, and studying the forest.
His shoulders were streamlined but powerful, chest firm and defined, waist narrow and unyielding, flaring into tight, strong hips and legs like steel cables — built to move silently through thick jungle, spot the finest details, and endure long hours of work without tiring.
He leaned against the starboard rail, fingers brushing the cold, damp wood, his voice as soft and steady as the lapping waves.
“Ali Khan and I are twins — he carries the raw strength, I carry the careful eye.
We share the same indigenous heritage and the same Dabu Hakka blood, but we learned different ways.
He learned to open paths and lift heavy loads; I learned to recognize every tree, every resin, every herb, and every timber in the forest.
Our people taught me when to harvest, which wood holds its value; the Hakka way taught me to process it well, grade it fair, and sell it without cheating.
This is my Wood & Craft Vein — not to hide away, but to turn what the land gives into something solid and lasting.”
A faint, bitter‑sweet smile touched his lips.
“Later, the plantation owner broke his word and drove our family off the land.
I left with nothing but the small knife my mother gave me — used to test the grain of wood — and half a sack of dried cassava.
Since then I’ve lived by one rule: never start trouble, but never step aside when trouble comes looking.
Never cut off another man’s path, but never let anyone block yours either.”
Anda listened quietly, turning a worn copper token over and over between his thick fingers.
He was the tallest of the group, broad‑shouldered and imposing, built like a moving fortress.
His forehead was wide and commanding, neck thick and strong, chest deep and powerful, tapering down to a waist as solid as forged iron, leading to hips and legs that looked capable of holding the whole ship steady even in a gale.
His voice was deeper than the night itself, slow and deliberate.
“I was born of a Pahang Orang Asli mother and a Dabu Hakka father.
I grew up traveling between the deep interior and the coastal ports — from the forests of Pahang to the markets of Malacca.
I’ve seen it all: men turn on their own kin for a single sack of grain, and others give their last coin just to keep a promise.
I’ve seen merchants wear fine clothes and speak like gentlemen while their hands steal from the poor, and I’ve seen men who walk in the shadows yet hold to rules stricter than any law written in ink.”
He glanced back toward the sleeping men below, his gaze softening as it fell on the faint glow of the lantern at the hatch.
“My father told me: the true Mark isn’t carved into wood or metal — it’s carved into your heart.
The Hakka say ‘a promise is worth more than gold’; the people of Pahang say ‘trust runs deeper than rivers’.
This is my Faith & Rule Vein.
I have walked many roads, seen many faces — so I know who is truly walking the same path, and who is only waiting for a chance to cut you off and take your share.”
Alim shifted closer until their shoulders nearly touched.
The ship swayed gently, and he reached out one hand to steady Anda’s arm — firm, steady, respectful, no more than was needed.
“Living in the shadows too long wears you thin, brother.
Even the strongest frame needs warmth and trust to keep its Veins flowing right.”
Anda looked down at that hand, didn’t pull away, and gave a slow, firm nod.
“It does.
But traveling with you lot these past weeks… it’s the first time in years I haven’t felt the need to sleep with one eye open.”
Dawn on the Calm Sea — Bodies Unbound
As the sky began to shift from deep indigo to soft amber and rose, the sea turned glass‑smooth, stretching out like polished sapphire under the fading starlight.
Not a ripple stirred, not a breath of wind disturbed the surface — the kind of rare, perfect calm that comes only when the currents align and the Water & Main Vein of the ocean runs steady and clear.
Ali Khan was the first to grin, tearing off his loose cotton shirt and tossing it onto the deck with a heavy thud.
“Hell, look at this!
Not a wave, not a breeze — the sea’s practically inviting us in!
Why sit here stiff and sweating when we can wash away the salt and loosen every tight muscle in our backs?”
Before anyone could answer, he’d kicked off his trousers and sent them flying in a heap beside the mast.
His full, powerful frame stood bare in the half‑light — broad shoulders, thick corded arms, a barrel chest crisscrossed with pale scars, a hard, tapered waist, and hips and thighs that looked carved from solid stone.
He stretched high, every muscle rippling and gleaming, then gave a loud, joyful whoop and dove cleanly over the rail, slicing into the water without a single splash.
Azhar laughed, shaking his head but already pulling off his own tunic.
“You never change, you wild bull — but you’re right.
A man can’t run his best trade routes if his body’s all knotted up like old rope.”
He stripped down as well, revealing a strong, balanced build: wide shoulders, a deep, defined chest, a flat stomach, and long, sturdy legs.
The rising sun gilded his skin, turning it to warm bronze, and every line of muscle stood sharp and clear as he stepped to the rail and dove in right behind Ali Khan.
Alim followed next, moving with quiet grace.
Off came his shirt and loose pants, leaving him lean, taut, and precise — every inch honed by years of forest work and careful craft.
His skin was smooth and resilient, reflecting the golden light as he slipped silently into the water like a shadow merging with the deep.
Anda was slower, more deliberate, but he too stripped away every scrap of cloth until only his broad, imposing frame remained: a chest wide enough to shield a man from a blow, arms thick enough to hoist a full crate of spices, a waist solid as iron, and legs that looked rooted in the earth itself.
He flexed once, the muscles across his back and shoulders shifting like living stone, then stepped over the side and sank into the sea with a long, satisfied sigh.
Lao Hashan lowered himself in last.
He was the eldest, carrying the richest blend of lines: indigenous Johor blood, mixed with the trade heritage of Arab and Persian merchants, and also that same Dabu Hakka lineage. Get faster updates on novelping dot com.
He understood the stars, the tides, and how to preserve what is built.
Though his hair was gray, his shoulders remained straight, his arms still firm — decades of wisdom and experience written in every line of his weathered skin.
Beneath the twilight‑dawn glow, the sea was like liquid silk — warm, clear, and holding the light so it seemed to glow from beneath.
Their bare bodies rose and fell in the gentle swell, muscles moving freely, skin slick and shining, every curve and ridge catching the gold and amber rays.
There was no self‑consciousness, no false modesty — only the unashamed openness of men who had seen hardship, fought storms, and trusted each other with their lives.
They swam, floated, and splashed, rough shouts and laughter echoing across the empty water.
Ali Khan would grab Azhar’s shoulders and pull him under, only to be met with a strong kick that sent them both bobbing up, gasping and grinning.
Alim swam circles around them, moving with smooth, controlled power, his lean frame cutting through the water like a well‑honed blade.
Anda floated on his back, arms spread wide, looking up at the painted sky, the heavy weight of duty and suspicion melting from his broad shoulders.
Lao Hashan drifted nearby, letting the water soothe his old joints, his face softening into pure contentment.
“Feels as though every thread of our blood and Veins is flowing together with the sea!” Azhar called out, wiping water from his eyes.
“The Earth Vein of Perak, the Merchant Vein of the Hakka — all open and clear now.”
“Exactly!” Ali Khan roared, slapping his chest hard enough to make a sound like a deep drumbeat.
“Our native strength and our Hakka endurance — when the body is loose and the mind is calm, the business flows smooth as these tides!”
Alim added, gliding easily beside them: “And the Wood Vein teaches us to make the most of what we have — steady, careful, and true.
Combine the solid ground of Perak, the trust of Pahang, the reach of Johor, and the grit of the Hakka — that is the true meaning of the Thirteen Veins.”
They swam back and forth alongside the hull, then climbed up the rope ladder one by one — bodies glistening, water dripping from their hair, their shoulders, their hips, and down their strong legs.
Once on deck, they chased each other playfully, wrestling and shoving, no anger, no malice — just pure, unburdened brotherhood.
They’d lean against each other, slap each other’s backs, even rest a hand on a shoulder or thigh to steady or tease; the touch was easy and familiar, like men who had shared too much to stand on ceremony.
The twilight wrapped around them, soft and warm, turning their damp skin to polished copper and gold.
The still sea, the glowing sky, and the sound of rough laughter bound them tighter than any contract or oath ever could.
By the Hatch — One Pot of Broth, Five Hearts Warmed
Toward the last hours of the watch, Lao Hashan woke and lit a small, safe fire in the galley.
He brewed a pot of ginger broth, sweetened with coconut sugar and dried ginger flowers, letting it simmer until it steamed thick and fragrant, carrying the scent across the deck.
He poured five wooden bowls, one for each man, and held his own in gnarled, strong hands.
The hot liquid slid down their throats, spreading warmth from the chest all the way down to their toes, chasing away the dampness that had settled deep in their muscles and joints.
They gathered around the hatch, lit by starlight and the faint glow of the lantern, their faces flushed and relaxed.
“All this talk of home and roots,” Ali Khan said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then throwing his heavy arms wide to pull Azhar, Alim, and Anda all into a single rough embrace — chests pressing together, shoulders locked tight, muscles firm and warm against each other.
“Comes down to one simple fact, doesn’t it?
Whether we come from Perak, East Malaysia, Pahang, or Johor — whether native or Hakka — we have different roots, but we live by the same code: keep your word, stand by your brother, share your bread, and shoulder the load together.
That’s the only capital that never loses its value.”
Azhar laughed, tapping his bowl lightly against Ali Khan’s.
“Finally you speak with the solid sense of the Hakka — no more empty noise, just honest work.
That’s how you build something that lasts longer than a single voyage.”
Alim raised his bowl, clinking it gently against the others’.
“Different paths, different Veins, but we meet on the same ship.
That is fate.
You teach me to read the tides and stars; I’ll teach you to judge timber and harvest.
You know the ways of the sea, I know the ways of the forest; Anda knows the rules, and Lao Hashan knows the long view.
Fill each other’s gaps, and nothing can stop us.”
Anda lifted his bowl last, touching it to every other one in turn, and for the first time his smile was open and bright, no longer guarded or distant.
“And I’ll teach you to spot the fakes, the false marks, and the pretenders to the Veins.
Wherever the path twists, we’ll straighten it together.
No one gets left behind, no one gets cheated.”
Lao Hashan held up his own bowl, his eyes crinkling with deep satisfaction.
“This is how it should be.
The Hakka say ‘a united family prospers’; our people say ‘one heart, one road’.
You five have woven the Dabu Hakka spirit through every land and Vein of this peninsula — the Thirteen Veins are not just an old story now, they live in you.”
The wind picked up again, steady and true, filling the sails until they stretched tight as a drum.
The ship surged forward, faster and smoother.
Their shadows stretched long across the deck, shoulders pressed together, bowls clinking, warmth rising, and words sinking deep into their bones.
Out here, on the endless dark sea, there was no certainty, no safety — only the stars above, the steady hum of the hull, and the men beside you.
But as long as there was a hot meal, honest talk, and strong hands to lean on, the course would never drift, and the bond would never break.
——-Looking forward to the next Chapter——-