Five days after leaving Sarith, the sea changed again.
It wasn't dramatic—there were no threatening storms or fierce currents—but Li Yuan felt it through his Water Comprehension. The salinity was slightly different. The temperature had dropped by half a degree. The wave patterns followed a rhythm he didn't recognize.
They were entering a rarely traveled part of the sea.
Hassan felt it too, though in a different way. He stood at the helm longer than usual, his eyes squinted at the horizon, his hands gripping the wheel with an unusual tension.
"Is something wrong?" Li Yuan asked as he joined him in the afternoon.
Within a ten-meter radius—the distance where people's intentions sounded to him like voices to the ear—he heard Hassan's unease. Not fear, but the kind of worry born from experience. Like an old sailor who feels a change in the weather before the sky tells him.
"Nothing's wrong," Hassan replied, looking at the map given by the old Sarith woman. "Just... different. We're entering an area even I rarely pass through."
He pointed to a spot on the map—an area marked with faded ink, as if drawn from an uncertain memory.
"There's an island here. Or there should be. A trader I met years ago said he once anchored there. A small island, no official name, just marked by an old, unused lighthouse."
"But?" Li Yuan heard the unspoken continuation.
"But the trader said something strange. He said the islanders don't speak. Not because they're hostile—they were friendly, helped with water, even shared food. But they didn't utter a single word."
Hassan shrugged. "Maybe it's just a custom. Maybe they have a spiritual reason. Or maybe the trader drank too much liquor and imagined it."
He looked at Li Yuan with eyes that tried to read him. "But if we find that island, I want you to be extra careful. A place with no sound... somehow it feels more dangerous than a place with too much sound."
Li Yuan nodded. Hassan was right—silence could mean many things. A deep peace. Or something so terrifying that no one dared to speak.
The island appeared at dusk the next day.
Just as Hassan had said—small, no more than a square kilometer, with a tall lighthouse standing at its western end. The stone that formed the tower was already dark with age, and no light shone from its top.
But there was smoke—thin, rising from a few spots on the island. A sign of life.
"Do we anchor or pass by?" Zahir asked, standing beside Hassan.
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard the crew's hesitation. Not fear but uncertainty. The island felt... deserted. Too deserted for an inhabited place.
Hassan was silent for a moment, considering. "We anchor. Our water barrels are still half full, but it's better to top up at every opportunity. And I'm curious to see if the trader's story is true."
He looked at the crew. "Same rules as usual—be respectful, polite, no sudden movements. And one addition: if the inhabitants don't speak, we don't force them either. Communication can be without words."
The boat was lowered as the sun was about to disappear below the horizon. Hassan chose four people to go ashore—Li Yuan, Zahir, Bashir, and himself.
As they rowed to the beach, Li Yuan felt something strange. Not dangerous, but... different. Like entering a room that had been abandoned for too long, where dust had settled and the air felt heavy with absence.
No one was waiting on the beach.
They pulled the boat onto the sand and stood in silence, waiting. On other islands, inhabitants usually came to greet them—or at least observe from a distance. But here, no one was visible.
"Hello?" Hassan called out in a voice loud enough to be heard but not threatening.
There was no answer.
Only the sound of the waves. The wind moving through the palm trees. A bird in the distance.
Within the ten-meter radius around him—which meant only his three crewmates—Li Yuan heard the tension rising. Zahir's hand slowly moved to the knife on his belt. Bashir's breathing became more shallow.
"Calm down," Hassan said in a low voice. "There's no sign of danger. Just... silence."
They started walking into the island, following a clearly used path. After a few minutes, they found a small village—no more than ten houses built from wood and palm leaves.
And there, in the middle of the village, were people.
Five people—three men, two women—were sitting around a small fire. They saw the newcomers, stood with calm movements, and... said nothing.
They didn't look hostile. Their faces were neutral, maybe even a little curious. But their lips were sealed shut.
Hassan bowed respectfully. "We come in peace. We are traders from the north, looking for fresh water if you are willing to share."
There was no verbal response. But one of the men—the oldest, with gray hair and skin wrinkled from the sun—nodded slowly. He raised his hand and made a gesture—pointing eastward, then making a motion as if pouring water.
"They're showing us the spring," Li Yuan said softly.
Within the ten-meter radius that now included the islanders, Li Yuan heard their intentions through his Wenjing Realm. And what he heard made him pause.
Not hostility. Not fear. But... a very deep sadness. Like a wound that never healed but had been accepted as part of existence.
And something else—a commitment. A will as strong as steel. To not speak. To maintain the silence no matter what.
It's not that they can't, Li Yuan mused as he observed. But that they choose not to.
But why?
The old man made another gesture—inviting them to sit. The fire was still burning, and there was fish roasting over it.
Hassan looked at Li Yuan with a questioning expression. Li Yuan gave a subtle nod—he felt no danger. Only sadness and a commitment to silence.
They sat. And in the silence broken only by the crackling fire and the waves in the distance, the islanders shared their food with the visitors.
That dinner was the strangest experience Li Yuan had in a long time.
Not because of the food—the roasted fish was simple but delicious, seasoned with salt and local herbs. Not because of the environment—the warm fire, the sky full of stars, the soothing sound of the sea.
But because of the total silence of the hosts.
They ate with deliberate movements. They shared food with generous hands. They even smiled occasionally—sad but sincere smiles.
But no one spoke.
Zahir tried several times to start a conversation—asking about the island, about the weather, about anything. But the inhabitants only responded with gestures or facial expressions.
After dinner, the old man stood up and gestured for them to follow. He led them through the village to the eastern side, where a clear spring flowed from a rock crevice.
The water was perfect for drinking—cold, clean, and abundant.
The man pointed to the spring, then to the empty barrels prepared nearby. The message was clear: take as much as you need.
"Thank you," Hassan said sincerely.
The old man nodded, then made another gesture—pointing to the dark sky, then to the houses, then making a sleeping motion.
"They're offering us a place to stay for the night," Li Yuan translated.
Hassan considered it. Usually he preferred the crew to sleep on the ship—it was safer, more controlled. But there was no sign of danger here, and spending the night on land after more than a week at sea would be good for morale.
"Thank you," he said again. "We appreciate it."
The old man nodded with simple satisfaction, then turned and walked back to the village.
That night, Li Yuan couldn't sleep.
Not because it was uncomfortable—the mat provided was soft enough, the air was cool but not cold, there were no disturbing noises.
But because the silence itself felt... alive. Like a separate entity that filled every corner of the island.
He got up and walked outside. The moon was nearly full, making the island glow with silver light. Nothing was moving—the other crewmates were asleep, the islanders were in their own homes.
But then he saw someone sitting on the beach. A silhouette clearly visible under the moonlight.
Li Yuan walked closer with a slow step. As he entered the ten-meter radius, he heard—not with his ears but with his Wenjing Realm—the person's intention.
Sadness. Painful memories. And a silent prayer—words that were never spoken but resonated in the soul.
It was one of the women from the village—maybe thirty years old, with long hair flowing down her back.
She noticed Li Yuan's presence but didn't turn around. She just made a gesture with her hand—an invitation to sit.
Li Yuan sat beside her in silence. They looked out at the sea together, listening to the waves, feeling the wind.
After a few minutes, the woman made a gesture—pointing to the sea, then to her heart, then making a tearing motion.
The sea took something from her heart.
Li Yuan nodded in understanding. He didn't need to hear words to understand. Loss is a universal language.
The woman made another gesture—pointing to the village, then to her mouth, then making a closing motion.
The village chose not to speak.
But why?
As if hearing the unspoken question, the woman took a small stick and began to draw in the sand.
A drawing of a ship. Then a drawing of a big wave. Then a drawing of people falling into the water.
A storm. A sinking ship. Lost people.
She drew more—a calendar with many crossed-out lines. Months. Maybe years.
Then she drew people gathering. People talking—she made a gesture of a moving mouth. Then she made a gesture like arguing, like blaming.
After the tragedy, Li Yuan understood, they talked. They argued. They blamed each other about who should have sailed, who should have been stopped, who was responsible.
Words became weapons. Words made the wounds deeper.
The woman wiped away the drawing with her hand, then drew again—people gathered, but this time with their mouths closed. Then she drew hands holding each other. A whole heart.
So they chose silence. Not as a punishment, but as healing. They swore not to speak again, to communicate only through actions and gestures, to never again let words wound one another.
Li Yuan looked at the drawing in the sand, then at the woman who was looking at the sea with wet eyes but not crying.
Within the ten-meter radius, he heard her intention with perfect clarity: We lost so much to the sea. We won't lose each other because of words.
She made one last gesture—pointing to Li Yuan, then to her own heart, then making a listening motion.
You hear what isn't said. You understand the silence.
Li Yuan nodded slowly. "Yes," he said softly—not expecting an answer, just an acknowledgment. "I hear."
And under the moonlight, on the nameless island where the inhabitants chose silence over the risk of hurtful words, two people sat together in an understanding that needed no language.
Morning came with a thin fog. Hassan and the crew woke up to find the water barrels were already full—the islanders had worked while they slept.
There were also gifts—small baskets containing smoked fish and dried fruits. Provisions for the journey.
The old man stood on the beach, waiting to say goodbye without words.
Hassan bowed with a deep respect. "Thank you. For the water, for the food, for the hospitality."
The old man nodded, then made a complex gesture—hand to heart, then to the sky, then to the sea.
A safe journey. May the sky and the sea protect you.
Li Yuan stepped forward and made a gesture of his own—hand to heart, then to the islanders, then a motion as if embracing them.
Thank you for the lesson. For reminding me that sometimes silence is stronger than words.
The old man smiled—the first smile they had seen that was completely without sadness. He made a final gesture—pointing to Li Yuan, then to his ears, then to his heart.
You are a true listener. Not only with your ears, but with your heart.
They rowed back to the Seafarer's Star in silence. Even after boarding the ship, the crew didn't speak immediately—as if they all felt that the island had given a gift that should not be immediately ruined with unnecessary words.
The ship sailed as the fog began to lift. And Li Yuan stood on the stern, looking at the nameless island that was slowly disappearing in the distance.
There are many ways to communicate, he mused. Words are just one. And sometimes—when words have been used as weapons, when words have made wounds that are too deep—silence is the wisest choice.
Not a silence born of fear or hatred. But a silence chosen deliberately, as a form of love. As a way to protect each other from the danger that can come from our own mouths.
Bashir came up to him after a few hours. "A strange place," he said in a quiet voice.
"A wise place," Li Yuan countered. "They found a way to live together after a tragedy that could have destroyed another community."
"By not speaking?"
"By choosing what was more important: words or each other. And they chose each other."
Bashir was silent, digesting that. "Do you think it can last? A community without words?"
"I don't know. Maybe not forever—the next generation might choose differently. But for now, for those who lost so much, it is a solution that works."
Li Yuan looked at the horizon where the sky met the sea. "And sometimes that's the best we can do—find a solution that works for now, for us, even if it's not a universal or eternal solution."
"Like water," Bashir said—an observation that was starting to become a refrain between them.
"Like water," Li Yuan admitted with a thin smile.
And the journey continued, carrying them further south, deeper into the outer archipelagos, with each island providing a new lesson on the different ways humans find to survive, to heal, to build harmony from the ruins of loss.
Lessons that cannot be learned from books or teachers.
Only from life itself.
From the water that flows.
From the silence that speaks louder than words.