The night on Sarith Island was quiet in a different way from other islands Li Yuan had visited. It wasn't a complete silence—the shells hanging from the stone pillars continued to sing with every movement of the water, creating a melody that never stopped but was also never the same.
Li Yuan sat on the shore, a little way from the crew of the Seafarer's Star, who were gathered around a small fire the islanders had allowed. His bare feet were submerged in the shallow, warm water, and through the five centimeters around his body, he heard—as usual—the stories carried by every drop.
This water was different from the water in the bustling ports to the north. The water here carried older, deeper memories—of storms that hit centuries ago, of fish that swam in formations that had evolved over thousands of years, of tides that followed the moon's rhythm with unshakeable loyalty.
But those were just the water's stories. Nothing mystical or supernatural. Just... memories stored in molecules that had flowed since the beginning of the world.
"You're not joining the others."
Li Yuan turned to find the old woman who had brought him to the shell pillars that afternoon—the island's spiritual leader, though she didn't use the title. She sat beside Li Yuan with movements that showed her joints were sore but not giving in to age.
"I prefer to listen," Li Yuan answered simply.
The woman nodded as if this was the answer she expected. "Captain Hassan said you're a good worker but don't talk much. He said you're like water—you follow the path given to you without complaining, but also without losing your own form."
When she sat close enough—within five centimeters of Li Yuan—he heard through his Wenjing Realm a complex intention: genuine curiosity mixed with a kind of... recognition. Like meeting someone who spoke the same dialect of a rarely used language.
"What did you hear this afternoon?" the woman asked. "At the shell pillars."
Li Yuan was silent for a moment, considering how to explain an experience that was difficult to translate into words.
"I heard the water in a deeper way than usual. Not just the stories it carries, but... its own resonance. Like hearing the fundamental note of a melody I've known my whole life."
"And what did that resonance say?"
"That the water here is older. That it has flowed longer without being interrupted by large landmasses. That it remembers things that water elsewhere has forgotten."
The woman smiled—the wrinkles on her face deepened, but her eyes shone in the moonlight.
"Most people hear the shells and think they're just beautiful decorations. Some understand that they are tools for listening to the sea. But it's very rare for anyone to understand that the sea itself is speaking."
She looked at the pillars that stood like sentinels along the shore. "My ancestors came to this island six hundred years ago, fleeing a war on the northern mainland. They almost died of thirst on the journey—the fresh water on their ship ran out, and they were stranded at sea for weeks."
"When they finally found this island, the first thing they did was kneel on the beach and thank the sea. And on their first night here, they heard a sound—the shells hanging from a natural coral, vibrating with the waves."
"They understood it as an answer. The sea was saying: I hear you. I saved you. Now listen."
Li Yuan listened with calm attention. Every culture has a story of how they found their home, of how they learned to live with their environment. And in every story, there is a truth—not a literal truth about the supernatural, but a truth about how humans seek meaning in their experiences.
"And since then," the woman continued, "we've put up more shells. Listening to their patterns. Learning to read the weather, to read the currents, to read... the mood of the sea, if you can call it that."
"Not because the sea is a god or a spirit. But because the sea is a living system—vast and complex and old—and if you are quiet enough, patient enough, you can learn to read its signs."
She looked at Li Yuan with eyes that seemed to see more than they should. "Just as you do. You don't hear mystical voices or magical whispers. You hear the patterns. The resonance. The underlying rhythm."
"Yes," Li Yuan admitted. "Exactly that."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the shells, feeling the water around their feet, gazing at the moon reflected on the calm surface.
"Why are you going south?" the woman finally asked.
"Because I've never been there," Li Yuan answered with simple honesty. "And because every new place teaches something different about how people live, how they find harmony or fall into conflict."
"You're not looking for something specific?"
"No. Just... a deeper understanding of the variety of human life."
The woman nodded in acceptance. "That is a good quest. Not rushed, not driven by ambition or fear. Just... a sincere curiosity."
She stood with a slow movement. "Tomorrow you can take as much fresh water as you need. And I'll give something to Captain Hassan—a map showing the islands further south. Some we visit, some we only hear stories about from passing traders."
"Thank you."
"No. Thank you—for truly listening. Not just to the shells, but to what I said. In a world that is increasingly rushed, that is a rare gift."
She walked away with a slow pace, leaving Li Yuan alone on the beach with the sound of the shells and the memory of the water.
Morning came with a thin mist covering the island like a transparent blanket. Li Yuan woke before dawn—a habit from thousands of years that never changed—and walked to the beach to watch the sunrise.
As he stood at the water's edge, he noticed something he hadn't seen the night before: there was a pattern to how the shell pillars were placed. Not random, but in a formation that formed a kind of... map. Or maybe a calendar.
The pillars closest to the shore were the smallest, with small shells that made high pitches. The pillars further out carried larger shells, with lower pitches. And as the water moved between them, each combination of tide and wind created a different melody.
A system for encoding information, Li Yuan mused as he listened through his Water Comprehension. They weren't just listening to the sea. They were creating an instrument that allowed the sea to communicate in a way that humans could interpret.
Brilliant in its simplicity.
"You see it."
Li Yuan turned to find a young man—perhaps twenty years old—standing not far away with a bucket to fetch water.
"The pattern of the pillars?" Li Yuan asked.
The man nodded enthusiastically. "My grandfather designed it. He said if we want to learn from the sea, we have to create a way for the sea to speak in a language we understand."
When he spoke close enough, Li Yuan heard through his Wenjing Realm a genuine pride—not arrogance but a deep appreciation for the wisdom of previous generations.
"Every moon position, every wind direction, every wave height creates a different combination of tones. And we have learned—over six hundred years—what each combination means."
"Like a language," Li Yuan observed.
"Exactly! The language of the sea." The man filled his bucket with clear water. "Some traders think we're superstitious. But this isn't magic—it's observation. Data collected over generations."
He smiled with a grin that showed white teeth against sun-darkened skin. "And it works. We're never surprised by a storm. We know when the fish will come. We can predict a high tide days in advance."
"Knowledge born from listening," Li Yuan said. "Not from forcing nature to obey human will, but from learning to read nature's will itself."
The man looked at him with an expression that showed he had found someone who truly understood. "Yes! Exactly that! My grandfather always said: nature is not an enemy or a slave. Nature is a teacher, if you are humble enough to learn."
He lifted the bucket. "I have to get back—my mother is waiting for the water to cook. But if you're interested, come to my grandfather's house later. He would love to meet someone who understands."
"Maybe I will," Li Yuan replied.
The man walked away with a light step, leaving Li Yuan with new thoughts.
In every place I visit, he mused, there are people who find a way to live in harmony with their environment. Not by conquering or exploiting, but by observing and adapting.
And every system they create—like these shells—is a physical representation of understanding gathered over generations.
That is cultivation, too. Not spiritual cultivation like my Daojing, but a collective cultivation of knowledge and wisdom.
The sun began to rise above the horizon, turning the mist to gold, making the surface of the sea shine like liquid metal. And Li Yuan stood there, listening to the shells, feeling the water around his bare feet, learning a new language from a small island that had spent six hundred years listening to the sea.
At noon, Hassan gathered the crew to prepare for departure. They had filled the barrels with fresh water, traded some cloth for dried fish and pickled vegetables, and received the map the old woman had promised.
Li Yuan stood on the stern, gazing at Sarith Island as it slowly receded. The shell pillars were still visible—sentinels standing in the shallow water, continuing to sing even though no one was listening.
Bashir joined him with a silent step.
"A strange place," he said—a neutral observation, not a judgment.
"A wise place," Li Yuan countered. "They have learned something that many great civilizations have forgotten."
"What is that?"
"That true power is not in controlling the environment, but in understanding it deeply enough to coexist with it."
Bashir was silent for a moment, digesting the words. "You sound like a philosopher."
"I am just someone who has walked long enough to see patterns in how people live."
"And what do those patterns say?"
Li Yuan looked at the horizon where the sky met the sea in a line that was never truly straight but always moving.
"That humans have two fundamental choices: to try and force the world to obey their vision, or to learn to see the world as it is and find their place in it."
"The first creates great but fragile empires. The second creates small communities that last for centuries."
Bashir nodded slowly. "And which is better?"
"That is the wrong question. Nothing is universally 'better.' Each approach has its place and time. But what I have observed is: the communities that last the longest are the ones who learn when to force and when to follow."
"Like water."
"Like water," Li Yuan admitted with a faint smile.
They stood together in a comfortable silence, listening to the sound of the waves hitting the hull, the wind filling the sails, the shouts of the crew working with a rhythm they had practiced thousands of times.
"How long will you sail with us?" Bashir finally asked.
"Until Hassan can't take me any further south. Then I will find another ship."
"You really want to go that far?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Li Yuan looked at the water flowing past the ship—each drop carrying a story, each wave carrying a memory.
"Because this world is so vast, and I still haven't seen enough of the variety of ways humans live. Every island, every community, every individual is an experiment in how to find meaning in a finite existence."
"And I want to understand as much of that experiment as possible before... before I can no longer."
Bashir looked at him with a strange expression—like he was trying to understand something that was just beyond the reach of his comprehension.
"You talk as if you know you will die."
"Everyone will die," Li Yuan said simply. "Only the time is uncertain."
"But you speak as if... as if you are old, even though your face is still young."
Li Yuan did not answer for a moment. Then, in a soft voice:
"Age is not just about how many years the body has lived. Age is also about how much loss the soul has carried, how much change it has witnessed."
"And in that respect, yes—I may be older than my face suggests."
Bashir did not press further. He just nodded with an understanding that required no elaboration, then returned to his work.
And Li Yuan remained on the stern, looking at Sarith Island which was now just a thin line on the horizon, bringing with it a new lesson about listening, about patience, about how six hundred years of observation could be encoded in the position of shells on stone pillars.
The journey continued.
There were still other islands. There were still other stories. There were still other lessons waiting in this vast ocean.
And Li Yuan—with gray eyes as deep as an abyss, jet-black hair tied back with a red cloth, a perfectly handsome face like an unfinished sculpture, wearing a simple gray hanfu—stood as a silent witness to it all.
Not seeking. Not forcing. Just... flowing.
Like the water that had become the core of who he was since he first sat on a riverbank as a child and asked: Why does the water flow this way?
A question that was never truly answered.
Only deepened with every new drop he touched.
Every new story he heard.
Every new community he observed trying to find their own way to live with the water, with the sea, with a world that was bigger than all of them.
And that was enough.
For now, that was enough.