The Temenggong reacted much faster than Raphael expected.
Half a month later, scouts reported: a large force spotted to the south — at least three thousand men — marching straight toward the settlement.
When Raphael heard the news, he actually smiled.
Three thousand. That was probably the Temenggong's entire fighting strength.
"Prepare for battle."
Five hundred Spanish musketeers formed ranks outside the settlement.
They wore slightly worn uniforms, muskets polished to a shine, ammunition plentiful.
These men had crossed the Pacific with Raphael and now worshipped their "captain" — the man who could predict storms and seemed immune to bullets — like a god.
Some privately called him the illegitimate son of God.
The Temenggong's three thousand arrived in a massive, noisy column, weapons bristling, looking impressive.
But when they saw the five hundred disciplined musketeers waiting in perfect formation, their steps visibly slowed.
In this era of Southeast Asia, firearms existed, but organized, well-trained regular musket companies like this — they had never seen anything like it.
Raphael stood at the front of the line, steel sword in one hand.
"Fire."
The first volley dropped dozens of the leading men instantly.
The Temenggong's army broke.
They had never faced this kind of warfare — men dying before they even got close.
Second volley.
Third volley.
After three rounds, over a hundred bodies littered the ground. The rest turned and ran.
Raphael waved his hand.
"Pursue."
The five hundred musketeers broke formation and charged after the fleeing troops.
They didn't kill — they surrounded, herded, and captured.
Raphael led from the front, sword flashing. Every swing brought down a man — wounded, not dead.
An hour later, the battlefield was cleared.
Of the Temenggong's three thousand, fewer than three hundred were dead, over five hundred had escaped, and the remaining two thousand plus were all captured.
Raphael stood before the prisoners, looking at the trembling Malay soldiers squatting on the ground.
"Bring the Temenggong forward."
Several musketeers dragged a richly dressed middle-aged man over.
The man's face was deathly pale, legs shaking so badly he could barely stand.
"You're the Temenggong?" Raphael asked through a local interpreter who spoke Malay.
The man nodded frantically.
"Mercy, my lord! Mercy! I was blind, I offended you—"
Raphael cut him off.
"How many people are left in your territory?"
The Temenggong stammered, "The old, women, children… and a few others… about twenty thousand or so…"
Raphael nodded.
No wonder the man surrendered so quickly.
Three thousand was all the fighting-age men he had. Now they were all here. If they weren't released, his territory would be swallowed by rival nobles in days.
"I'll give you two choices," Raphael said. "First, pay ransom. One thousand taels of gold, thirty thousand taels of silver, and I'll return your men."
The Temenggong's eyes lit up.
"Second, I kill all of you and take your territory myself."
The Temenggong chose the first option without hesitation.
"I'll pay! I'll pay! It's just… I may not have that much right now."
"I don't care how much you have. I only care about your sincerity."
Three days later, a party arrived from Johor carrying five hundred taels of gold and ten thousand taels of silver.
Raphael had it counted, then waved his hand.
"Release them."
The two thousand prisoners were set free, helping the wounded, carrying the dead, slowly disappearing into the northern jungle.
Before leaving, the Temenggong had a document delivered with trembling hands.
Raphael took it. It was in Malay — he couldn't read it.
A local who spoke Malay translated: "My lord, this is a letter of submission. The Temenggong says the land around the Singapore River now belongs to you. He will explain it to the Johor Sultan."
Raphael folded the document and put it away.
"Tell him if he comes again, it won't be as simple as paying ransom."
The Temenggong nodded repeatedly and left with his battered army.
Elizabeth stood beside Raphael, watching the retreating backs.
"You really let them go?"
"Got the money, got the prisoners. Keeping them would mean feeding them — not worth it."
Elizabeth looked at him, wanting to say something but holding back.
Raphael turned and walked back.
"Have the supplies counted. We still have a lot to do."
---
In the following three months, Raphael focused on one thing.
The prisoners were released, the money collected, and the land nominally his.
But who lived on this land?
Malays, natives, a handful of European traders.
They looked at him like a monster — they respected and feared him, but they would never truly follow him.
Besides the five hundred Spanish musketeers, he needed more of his own people.
People who understood him, who would follow him, who would make this land truly his.
"Send ships out," Raphael told the Spanish captains. "Go to Siam, Vietnam, Burma, and any place with Chinese communities. Tell them there's land here, food, no oppression. Anyone who comes is one of mine."
The fleet set sail.
---
One month later, the first ship returned.
The news wasn't great.
"My lord, we only recruited about twenty people."
The captain kept his head down. "But there's something more troublesome."
Raphael looked at him.
"Speak."
"From Johor—"
The captain lowered his voice. "We heard the Temenggong went back and begged the Sultan for help. The Sultan is furious and has gathered a large army — at least ten thousand elite troops — and they're mobilizing."
Raphael showed no reaction.
Ten thousand.
He had five hundred Spanish musketeers plus whatever new recruits he could scrape together — fewer than eight hundred fighting men.
A head-on fight was possible, but the losses would be heavy.
And he didn't want that kind of battle.
"What's the Sultan's name?"
"Abdul Majid."
The captain continued, "He's been on the throne for thirteen years and commands at least thirty thousand troops total. This ten thousand is just part of it."
Raphael nodded.
That night, he left the settlement with a local guide.
The Johor royal palace wasn't far from the Singapore River mouth — two days' ride.
Raphael didn't ride. With the guide, he traveled through the night and reached the outskirts of the royal city by evening the next day.
The guide was a local Johor man in his forties who had traveled the Malay states on business and knew the area well.
He looked at the palace in the distance, voice shaking.
"My lord, the palace is heavily guarded. How do we get in?"
Raphael didn't answer.
He simply closed his eyes. The Force surged out like a tide.
The palace layout, guard positions, patrol routes — everything mapped itself in his mind.
"Wait here."
Raphael vanished into the night alone.
The palace walls were over ten feet high, but that meant nothing to him.
With the Force boosting him, he cleared the wall and landed inside the gardens.
Two guards rounded a corner. Before they could react, they slumped to the ground.
Raphael walked past them, heading straight for the royal chambers.
The Sultan's bedroom was in the center. Four fully armed guards stood at the door.
Raphael raised his hand. The Force locked their throats. All four clutched their necks and collapsed without a sound.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The Sultan was snoring loudly in bed.
Raphael stood beside the bed and looked down at him.
A man who had ruled for thirteen years with tens of thousands of troops now looked no different from any ordinary person.
Raphael raised his hand.
The Force pierced the Sultan's chest, precisely blocking the blood vessels to his heart.
The Sultan's body twitched. The snoring stopped.
His eyes flew open, bulging wide. His mouth made wet gurgling sounds, but no words came out.
Ten seconds later, everything was still.
Raphael turned and left.
When he exited the palace, shouting and chaos had already begun inside.
He quickened his pace and disappeared into the night.
When he returned to the settlement, Elizabeth was almost frantic with worry.
"You're finally back! What happened to the Sultan? Did you…?"
Raphael didn't answer. He walked into the house and poured himself a glass of water.
"Pass the word: if anyone from Johor comes to negotiate, be polite. If no one comes, forget about it."
Elizabeth stared at him, then slowly nodded.
---
Half a month later, news arrived: the Johor Sultan had died suddenly. Several princes were fighting for the throne. The ten-thousand-man army that had been preparing to march was pulled back to guard the royal city.
In the following six months, while the princes of Johor were busy killing each other over the throne, Raphael began aggressively recruiting Chinese settlers.
Ship after ship went out. Ship after ship came back.
Siam, Vietnam, Burma, the Malay archipelago — everywhere there were Chinese communities, his recruiters left their mark.
The offer was simple: Come to the Singapore River. There's land, there's food, no one will oppress you.
At first only a few came — ten or twenty, families dragging their belongings.
Then word spread, and the numbers grew.
One year later, the settlement's population exceeded five thousand, more than half of them Chinese.
Wooden huts became streets. Shops lined the streets. Ships came and went at the docks every day.
Elizabeth stood on the newly built watchtower, looking down at the growing town.
"This place of yours is almost as big as Port Royal now."
Raphael stood beside her.
"Still early."
"What's next?"
Raphael didn't answer.
He had power, people, money. Then what?
Of course — keep building strength!
But more trouble was coming.
One afternoon, a patrol ship returned in a hurry. The captain ran up the watchtower, out of breath.
"My lord, three ships spotted on the horizon — flying Dutch flags — heading straight for us!"
Raphael took the spyglass and looked out to sea.
Three warships, each over five hundred tons, gun ports open and threatening.
Dutch East India Company.
In the year he had been operating in the South Seas, he hadn't gone unnoticed by the Dutch.
They had been watching him with growing displeasure. Now they had sent three warships.
Clearly, they weren't here for tea.
"Prepare one ship to follow me."
Raphael lowered the spyglass. "Everyone else, prepare for battle."
He boarded his flagship — the one they had sailed from Cuba — and set out with a single escort ship to meet them.