The Port of the Southern Winds appeared on the horizon in the afternoon—not like the small islands they had visited before, but a vast landmass, a continent that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Even from a distance, the difference was clear. The air was colder—not extreme, but enough to make the crew put on an extra layer. The wind blew from the south with a steady consistency, carrying a different scent: salt, of course, but also something sharper, colder.
"The last port," Hassan said in a voice that carried weight. "After this, only rumors and legends."
Within a ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard Hassan's intention—a mix of relief at reaching a safe destination, sadness at the impending separation from Li Yuan, and a decision that had already been made: this was as far as he would go.
The city itself was larger than Li Yuan had expected. Not just a small harbor but a thriving city—maybe ten thousand inhabitants, with sturdy stone buildings, wide streets, a bustling market.
But there was something different from the cities in the north. The architecture was heavier, more defensive. Buildings were built to withstand strong winds and bad weather. And most noticeably—there were almost no wooden structures. All were stone or brick, as if wood was too valuable or too rare to be used in construction.
The Seafarer's Star anchored at a dock crowded with ships—mostly large trade ships like theirs, a few fishing boats, nothing that looked like an expedition vessel to the south.
Hassan gathered the crew for a final announcement. "We will stay here for one week—selling cargo, buying supplies for the return journey, repairing the ship more thoroughly."
He looked at each face. "This is as far as we go. We will not sail further south. The risks are too great, and I am responsible for bringing you all home safely."
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard the crew's reaction—a dominant relief. Even the bravest ones like Zahir were relieved that they would not challenge the unknown territory any further.
Then Hassan looked at Li Yuan. "And you... you are free to go. You have worked more than enough for the journey. If you want to sail back north with us, you will always be welcome. But I know you want to go further."
"Thank you," Li Yuan said sincerely. "For bringing me this far. For trusting me. For teaching me more about courage and community than you realize."
The farewell took place on the dock at dusk.
Zahir shook Li Yuan's hand—a strong and sincere grip. "A safe journey, friend. And if you ever come back north, look for us. I want to hear the stories of what you found."
Bashir—who rarely showed emotion—gave Li Yuan a brief but firm hug. "You're a good worker. And a better friend. Take care out there."
Idris was the hardest. This young man had grown so much during the journey, and Li Yuan had become a kind of mentor to him.
"I will miss our conversations," Idris said in a slightly shaky voice. "You taught me to live with questions, not just to look for quick answers."
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard deep gratitude and sincere sadness. The connection that had formed between them was real, though brief.
"You will be fine," Li Yuan said, placing a hand on Idris's shoulder. "You have found the strength to live with uncertainty. That is a gift that will serve you throughout your life."
Hassan was the last. The old captain stood with a straight posture, eyes that showed no tears but that carried the weight of decades of sailing and parting with people who mattered.
"I don't know who you really are," Hassan said in a low voice. "And I don't need to know. But I know this: you are one of the wisest people I have ever met. And I hope you find what you are looking for in the south."
"Thank you, Hassan. For everything."
They shook hands—not for long, not dramatically, but with a deep respect from two people who had sailed together through storms and danger.
And then Li Yuan walked away from the dock, carrying only the black shell from Shell Island and the clothes on his body—the gray hanfu that had become his identity, his black hair tied with a red cloth.
The Port of the Southern Winds was a city with a unique character.
Its inhabitants were diverse—Li Yuan saw people with very pale skin from the far north, dark skin from the western archipelagos, reddish-brown skin from the eastern mainland. Different languages were heard on every corner—dialects he knew and ones he didn't, thick accents and almost imperceptible ones.
This was a frontier city—a place where people came to start over, to escape a past, or to seek fortune at the end of the world.
Li Yuan walked through the market with a calm focus. Within the ten-meter radius wherever he moved, he heard the intentions of the inhabitants—honest traders and dishonest ones, tired travelers, hopeful fortune seekers and those who had already lost hope.
He stopped at a stall that sold maps—an old trader with thick glasses and hands full of ink stains.
"A map for where?" the trader asked in a raspy voice.
"South," Li Yuan answered simply.
The trader looked at him with an expression that was a mix of surprise and concern. "There are no maps for the south. None that are accurate, at least. All we have is a coastline for about a hundred kilometers, then... nothing. Just notes of 'uncharted territory' or 'deadly zone'."
He took out a worn map—a clear coastline up to a certain point, then just a blank white space with a few notes in the margin.
"'Erratic storms'," the trader read from the notes. "'Temperature drops drastically. Ice begins to appear about three days' sail. No one has ever returned from further on'."
Within the ten-meter radius, Li Yuan heard the trader's intention—not trying to scare him for profit, but a sincere warning born from seeing too many people go south and never come back.
"Why do you want to go there?" the trader asked.
"To understand," Li Yuan answered simply.
The trader looked at him for a long time, then nodded slowly. "I won't try to stop you. Everyone has their path. But I will give you advice: if you are really going to go, wait until spring. We are approaching winter now—the south will be much more dangerous."
"How long until spring?"
"Four months, maybe five."
Li Yuan nodded with thanks. "I will consider that."
He bought a map—though it was almost useless—and continued his exploration.
The first night in the Port of the Southern Winds, Li Yuan found a simple inn in the harbor district—a small room with a hard bed and a window that overlooked the sea.
He didn't sleep—never truly slept in the way a normal human does—but he sat by the window, looking south, feeling the wind that blew from that direction.
It was cold. Colder than anything he had felt in the archipelagos.
And through his Water Comprehension, he felt something else: a change in the quality of the water in the air. A different humidity. As if the water had passed through ice, had touched an extreme cold.
The trader was right, he mused. Winter will make the journey more dangerous. But do I need to wait for spring?
My awareness body doesn't feel cold in the same way. I don't need food or air. I can swim through water that would kill a normal human in minutes.
But... is that a reason to rush?
I have lived fifteen thousand years. Four months is nothing. Maybe it would be wise to spend time here—to learn about this city, to talk to the inhabitants, to hear their stories about the south.
To prepare not physically, but mentally and spiritually for what I will find there.
The decision was made: he would stay in the Port of the Southern Winds for the winter. Four months to observe, to listen, to prepare.
And then, when spring came—or maybe before, if he felt ready—he would go south.
Alone.
To the territory from which no one has ever returned.
To a place where water takes a different form—not just flowing but freezing, becoming ice that stores time and stories in a way that liquid water cannot.
To a source that is not a spring, but a silence that reflects everything.
Li Yuan looked south with gray eyes as deep as an abyss, feeling the cold wind on his face, listening to the whispers of the water that came from a place he had never visited.
And for the first time in thousands of years, he felt something that was almost like... anticipation.
Not fear. Not excitement. But a calm awareness that this journey—to the very end of the south, to the continent of ice, to the place where water stops flowing and begins to remember—would change something fundamental in his understanding.
About water.
About silence.
About how memory is stored not just in the mind but in the very fabric of nature itself.
The winter would be long.
But Li Yuan had learned to wait.
Water does not rush.
And ice... ice has all the time in the world.