Three days after the storm, just as Hassan had predicted, an island appeared on the horizon.
But this was no ordinary island.
Even from a distance, there was something strange about it. Not in a dangerous way but in a... unexpected way. The wrong color, an unnatural shape.
As they got closer, the mystery was revealed: almost the entire coast of the island was covered with shells—millions, maybe billions of shells of various sizes and colors, piled several meters high in some places, creating a landscape that sparkled under the sun.
"Shell Island," Hassan said in a voice that was a mix of awe and confusion. "I once heard about this from an old trader years ago. I thought he was exaggerating. But this..."
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard the crew's astonishment—not just Hassan's but everyone close enough to see. Even the usually calm Bashir looked on with wide eyes.
"Why are there so many shells?" Idris asked in a voice full of wonder.
"No one knows for sure," Hassan replied. "Some say the currents bring them here from all over the sea. Others say there's something about this island that makes clams multiply incredibly fast. Still others say..." he stopped.
"Say what?" Zahir urged.
"Say this island has a kind of... consciousness. That it collects the shells with a purpose."
Bashir laughed—a skeptical sound. "Islands don't have consciousness. It's just unusual geology and biology."
But within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard that even Bashir's skepticism wavered slightly in the face of this sight.
They anchored at a safe distance, and the boat was lowered. Hassan chose five people this time—Li Yuan, Zahir, Bashir, Idris, and himself. Half of the crew.
"Stay together," Hassan instructed. "Don't wander off alone. An unusual place sometimes has unusual dangers."
Landing on the beach was a surreal experience.
The shells crunched under their feet with every step—a sound that echoed and was almost musical. Some shells were as big as a palm, others as big as a human head. The colors ranged from plain white to bright pink to deep blue.
Li Yuan knelt and picked up one of the shells—a perfect spiral, a smooth surface, a solid weight. Within five centimeters of his hand holding the shell, he felt the water that had once been inside it—a very faint memory of the creature that lived here, of the sea that flowed through this structure.
"This is amazing," Idris said as he walked through the piles of shells. "It's like walking in a natural museum."
They moved deeper into the island, following a path that seemed to have been made by... someone. The shells on this path were smaller, more compact, as if intentionally arranged to create a walkable surface.
After a few minutes, they found a small village—no more than twenty structures. But these structures were not wood or stone. They were built entirely from shells glued together with a kind of natural mortar, creating houses that sparkled with thousands of colors.
"There are people living here," Zahir whispered in awe.
And there were. The inhabitants appeared—about forty people of various ages. They had very dark, almost black, skin that was a dramatic contrast to the white and colored shells. Their hair was braided with beads made from—of course—small shells.
An old woman stepped forward—clearly the leader. She had very bright, almost silvery eyes, that looked strange against her dark skin.
"Welcome to Shell Island," she said in the trade language with a very strong accent. "We don't often receive visitors. The sea must have brought you here for a reason."
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard this woman's intention—not suspicion but a deep curiosity. And something else... a kind of reverence, as if she believed their arrival had a greater significance than coincidence.
Hassan bowed respectfully. "We are traders from the north, sailing south. We are looking for fresh water and a chance to trade."
The woman nodded slowly. "We have water. And we have shells—more than you can carry. But first, you must listen."
"Listen to what?" Hassan asked, confused.
The woman smiled—a mysterious expression. "The island. The shells. They speak to those who are willing to listen."
Bashir looked at Hassan with an expression that clearly said: What did I tell you? These people are superstitious.
But Hassan, with the wisdom born from decades of sailing and meeting various cultures, nodded respectfully. "We are willing to listen."
The woman—her name was Ketura—led them to the center of the village where there was a structure larger than the others. It wasn't a house but a kind of temple or meeting place, built entirely from white shells that made the interior shine with reflected light.
In the center of the room was a strange formation—large shells arranged in a spiral, creating a kind of natural amphitheater.
"Sit," Ketura instructed. "And listen."
They sat down—Hassan, Zahir, Bashir, Idris, and Li Yuan—in a circle around the spiral of shells.
Ketura sat in the center, closed her eyes, and began to hum—a low, resonant note that made the shells vibrate subtly.
And then something incredible happened.
The shells began to... sing.
It wasn't a metaphor. They were actually producing sounds—a different note from each large shell, creating a complex and ever-changing harmony.
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard the crew's reactions: Zahir with awe, Idris with wonder, Bashir with a skepticism that was beginning to crumble.
But Li Yuan heard more than that. Through his Water Comprehension—because the shells had once held water, had once been home to creatures that lived in the water—he heard something deeper.
Stories. Not in words but in the resonance, in the vibrations that carried memories encoded in the shell structures themselves.
Stories of a very old sea. Of currents that flowed in patterns that had been stable for thousands of years. Of creatures that lived and died, leaving their shells as a record of their existence.
And beneath it all—something more fundamental. The rhythm. The pulse. Like what he felt in the deeper sea, but more focused, more clear here on the island where millions of shells gathered.
The shells are amplifiers, he mused as he listened with both his physical ears and his Water Comprehension. They take the subtle vibrations of the sea—a rhythm too low for normal humans to hear—and amplify it into something that can be perceived.
This island is... an instrument. A way to listen to the voice of the sea that is usually unheard.
Ketura's humming stopped, and slowly, the notes of the shells also faded until only a faint resonance remained.
She opened her eyes and looked directly at Li Yuan—not at the others, only at him.
"You heard more than the others," she said. It wasn't a question. A statement of fact.
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard Ketura's intention with perfect clarity: she knew. Somehow, this woman sensed that Li Yuan was different, that he had a connection to the water that was beyond the normal.
"I heard," Li Yuan admitted carefully. "The stories carried by the shells. The memories of the water that once flowed through them."
Ketura nodded with deep satisfaction. "It is very rare for someone to come here who can truly hear. Most just hear the sound—beautiful, yes, but only the surface."
"But you heard the depth. You understood what the shells were trying to say."
Hassan looked between Ketura and Li Yuan, confused. "What did the shells say?"
Ketura smiled—a meaningful expression. "They tell us about the sea. About how it changes, how it flows, how it remembers. Every shell is a record—a moment in time, a snapshot of the sea's condition when that creature was alive."
"We—the people of this island—have learned to read that record for generations. We know when a storm is coming by listening to the shells brought by the latest waves. We know when fish will be abundant by listening to the tone patterns."
She looked at Li Yuan again. "But you don't need generations of learning. You hear instinctively. It is a very rare gift."
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard the crew looking at him with a mix of awe and increasing questions. Even Bashir now couldn't deny that there was something different about Li Yuan.
"I have spent a lot of time listening to the water," Li Yuan said carefully—a truth that didn't reveal the full scale of "a lot of time."
Ketura nodded with an understanding that seemed deeper than it should be. "The sea chooses those it trusts. You are one of them. Rare, but real."
After "listening," Ketura led them to the island's spring—a source of fresh water that flowed from a rock crevice in the center of the island, surrounded by—of course—shells arranged in intricate patterns.
While Hassan and Zahir organized the barrel filling, Ketura asked Li Yuan to walk with her.
They walked through the shimmering shell landscape, their feet making a small symphony with every step.
"I want to show you something," Ketura said, leading them to a different edge of the island—the side facing south.
There, the beach was different. The shells here were bigger, darker, shapes that Li Yuan had never seen before.
"These come from the south," Ketura explained. "From a deeper, older sea. The currents bring them here, but rarely. Maybe once a year, maybe less."
She picked up one of the large shells—almost half a meter long, black with shimmering silver lines.
"Listen to this," she said, holding the shell close to his ear.
Li Yuan took the shell from her hand. Within five centimeters of his hand holding it, he immediately felt the difference.
The water that had once flowed through this shell carried a different story—darker, deeper, more... primordial. Like a story from a time before humans, before even many of the life forms that exist now.
"What do you hear?" Ketura asked with a sincere intensity.
"Very old water," Li Yuan said softly. "Older than anything I've ever felt. It's like hearing a language that is closer to the beginning—before the branches, before the variations."
Ketura nodded with deep satisfaction. "Yes. Exactly that. The sea in the south is different from the sea in the north or in the middle. It is closer to... the source."
"What source?"
"That is the right question," Ketura said with a mysterious smile. "No one knows for sure. Some of us believe it's the place where the sea was first born—not literally, but spiritually. A place where the essence of water is at its purest."
"Others believe it's the place where all water finally flows—a great collection point, a massive whirlpool where currents from all over the world meet."
She looked at Li Yuan with silvery eyes that seemed to see beyond the surface. "You are going south to find that, aren't you? To understand what is there."
"I don't know what I'm looking for," Li Yuan admitted with rare honesty. "Only that there is something in the south that resonates with my understanding of water. Not a call but... a very deep curiosity."
"That is enough," Ketura said. "The sea does not call with words or clear signs. It calls with resonance, with a feeling that cannot be fully explained but that cannot be ignored."
She handed the black shell to Li Yuan. "Take this. Let it remind you that you are moving in the right direction—not because of destiny or obligation, but because sincere curiosity is one of the best reasons for doing anything."
Li Yuan accepted the shell with gratitude. Its weight was solid in his hand, the surface cold and smooth, and even now he could feel the echo of the very old water that had once flowed here.
They spent the rest of the day on Shell Island—filling water barrels, trading cloth for beautiful shells (though Hassan was skeptical about their trade value), and eating with the islanders.
The food was simple—fish, vegetables grown in the thin soil over the shell layer, fruit from trees that somehow grew in this strange environment.
But the conversation was rich. Ketura shared stories of how her ancestors found this island six hundred years ago, how they learned to read the shells, how the community flourished by living in harmony with the sea's rhythm.
And Hassan shared stories of their journey—the islands they had visited, the storms they had gotten through, the different cultures they had met.
When the sun began to set, Hassan announced it was time to leave. "We want to sail a few hours before it's completely dark."
Ketura walked with them back to the boat. On the beach, she stopped and looked at Li Yuan one last time.
"A safe journey," she said. "And when you reach the south—when you find whatever is there—remember that true understanding comes not from conquering but from listening."
"I will remember," Li Yuan promised.
They rowed back to the Seafarer's Star with full barrels and shells that sparkled in the afternoon sun.
As the ship sailed away from Shell Island, Li Yuan stood at the stern with the black shell in his hand, listening to the story it carried—a story of a very old sea, of water that flowed from a place he had never seen, of the mystery that awaited in the south.
And for the first time on this journey, he felt like he wasn't just wandering aimlessly.
He was moving towards an understanding—not about the world or humans or social conflicts, but about the element that had been the core of who he was since he first sat on a riverbank fifteen thousand years ago.
An understanding of Water itself.
Of where it comes from and where it ultimately flows.
And maybe—just maybe—of what happens when someone who has spent a lifetime understanding water finally reaches its source.