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The sky was gray and sickly.
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The junk drifted. No wind filled its torn sails. No current pushed its cracked hull. It simply sat on the water, turning slowly in circles, as if the sea had forgotten it existed.
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General Feng Jian stood at the bow, scanning the horizon. Nothing. No land. No ships. No birds. Just water in every direction.
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"We are stranded," he said to no one in particular.
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The navigator, Master Chen, knelt beside a bucket of seawater. He had been vomiting for an hour. "The storm last night threw us off course. I cannot tell where we are. No stars. No landmarks. Nothing."
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"How far from land?"
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Chen shook his head. "Could be a day. Could be a week. Could be we are sailing in circles until we starve."
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"Can we turn back?" the general asked.
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Chen pointed at the empty sea behind them. "No wind. No current. The oars are useless in this dead water. We cannot go forward, and we cannot go backward. We are trapped."
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The general turned to the crew. They sat in small groups, their faces pale, their eyes hollow. The servants huddled near the cabin where Liang Wei lay.
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"How is the master?" the general asked.
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The young woman who had first seen the purple flames – her name was Li Hua – looked up. "He is awake. Barely. He asked for water."
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The general walked to the cabin.
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Liang Wei lay on a pile of torn sailcloth. His robe was stuck to his chest with dried blood. The arrows had been removed, but the wounds were still raw. The cannonball dent on his ribs had turned purple and black. His face was burned, but his eyes were open.
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General," he whispered.
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"Master. Don't speak. Save your strength."
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Liang Wei shook his head slowly. "We are not moving."
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"No. There is no wind."
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"It is not the wind." Liang Wei tried to sit up, winced, and fell back. "The purple flame. The soul‑seeking arrows. They are gone, but they left something behind. A curse. The water around us is dead."
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The general frowned. "Dead water?"
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"The dragon lines. The currents of qi beneath the sea. The arrows disturbed them. We are stuck in a pocket of stillness." Liang Wei closed his eyes.
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His chest rose and fell slowly. "But we have only one option. A last resort."113Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiU0upuhkvp
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"What last resort?"
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"There is a way to invoke the spirit of a sea dragon. Not a living one – a dead one, preserved. I saw it once, long ago, in a secret temple. Even the emperor does not come close to that place. It is guarded by elites – the same families who have protected that temple for generations, the ones who made me untouchable to anyone including the emperor."
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The general frowned. "Did you train with their ancestors ?"
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Liang Wei nodded weakly. "When I was young, I was chosen to study with them. They showed me the dead dragon. Its body was coiled around a pillar of jade, preserved by magic. Its spirit still lingered. The temple monks had learned to invoke it in times of dire need. They taught me the invocation – but only for the gravest danger."
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"Then why didn't you summon it earlier? Before the cannon fire?"
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"Because it is not something you can call at will," Liang Wei said. "The dragon's spirit is proud and easily angered. It only answers when there is no other hope. And there is a warning." He opened his eyes. "No impure mortal may set eyes on it during the invocation. If anyone looks upon the dragon's form, the spell will break. And the dragon's wrath will bring havoc upon us all."
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The general swallowed. "How do we do this?"
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"Help me to the bow. Have everyone kneel with their faces to the deck. No one opens their eyes until I say. Not for any reason."
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***
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The general mobilized everyone.
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The crew patched the holes in the hull – there were three, from cannonballs and splintered wood. They used canvas, rope, and a thick paste made from rice and tar. It would not hold forever, but it might hold long enough.
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The servants gathered the remaining food and water. Two weeks' worth, if rationed. Maybe three.
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The guards stood watch at the four corners of the junk, spears in hand, scanning for threats that might not come.
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After an hour, Liang Wei emerged from the cabin.
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He walked slowly, leaning on a staff carved from a broken oar. His robe had been changed. His wounds were wrapped in clean cloth. He still looked like a dead man walking.
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"Master, you should rest," Li Hua said.
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"I will rest when we are moving." He made his way to the bow, facing the empty sea. "Everyone stay back. Do not interrupt. Do not speak. Do not open your eyes."
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Liang Wei stood at the bow, leaning on a staff carved from a broken oar. His wounds had been wrapped, but blood still seeped through. He looked like a man who should be in a coffin, not commanding a ship.
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General Feng Jian stood beside him, one hand on the master's arm to keep him steady. Everyone else – the crew, the servants, the guards – knelt on the deck, their foreheads pressed to the wooden planks. Their eyes were shut.
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"Remember," Liang Wei said, his voice thin but clear. "No one opens their eyes. No matter what you hear. No matter what you feel. The dragon will come. Do not look upon it."
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He raised his hands.
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He began to chant.
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The words were old – older than Chinese, older than any language spoken on land. They were the tongue of the deep, the speech of tides and currents. He had learned them from the temple monks, who had learned them from the dead dragon's spirit itself.
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The air grew cold.
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The water began to glow.
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A soft blue light rose from the depths, spreading outward in rings. The junk shuddered. Then, slowly, it began to move. Not much. A few feet. Then more. The light carried it forward, as if the sea itself had become a river.
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"It is working," the general whispered. He kept his eyes fixed on Liang Wei's back.
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The light grew brighter. The water beneath the junk turned turquoise, then silver, then gold. A shape formed below the surface – long, serpentine, enormous. A dragon.
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Not a living dragon. A spirit – translucent, glowing, its scales like polished moonlight. It coiled beneath the junk, wrapping itself around the hull, and began to pull.
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The junk surged forward.
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The crew felt the movement. Some wept with relief. Others prayed silently. All kept their eyes shut.
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The dragon carried them for what felt like hours. The water rushed past. The wind – real wind, not the dragon's breath – began to fill what remained of the sails. The junk was moving faster than it had since leaving port.
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And then one man opened his eyes.
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His name was Zhang Wei – a young guard, no older than twenty, who had joined Liang Wei's household only a year ago. He had never seen magic before. He had never believed in dragons.
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But he felt the light on his face. He heard the water hissing. He smelled the salt and something else – something ancient and powerful.
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Curiosity burned in him.
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He lifted his head.
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He saw the dragon.
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It was beautiful. Its scales were the color of deep ocean, shifting from blue to green to black. Its eyes were twin suns, burning gold. Its body stretched for miles beneath the waves, translucent and glowing. For a moment, Zhang Wei forgot to breathe.
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The dragon turned its head.
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Their eyes met.
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The dragon's mouth opened. A voice — not a roar, but words — came from its throat. Human words.
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"Sacrilege."
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The word hung in the air, heavy as stone.
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"A grave sin. An impure mortal has looked upon my sacred form with evil eyes. Only death can calm my wrath."
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Master Liang Wei raised his hands, shouting at the spirit. "Forgive him! He is young! He knew not what he did!"
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The dragon did not listen. Its golden eyes blazed. Its body turned, coils shifting, and its massive tail rose from the water.
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"Forgiveness is not mine to give," the dragon said. "Only vengeance."
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The tail came down.
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It struck the junk's stern with a crack like thunder. Wood splintered. A guard flew into the sea. The entire ship lurched, throwing everyone sideways.
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Then the dragon dove.
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Its glowing form sank into the depths, disappearing into darkness. The light vanished.
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The sea went dark.
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Then the storm came.
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It did not build gradually. It exploded. Wind slammed into the junk from all directions at once. Rain fell sideways, needle‑sharp. Waves rose – not from the horizon, but from directly beneath the hull, as if the sea itself was vomiting in rage.
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The junk lifted into the air, hung for a terrible moment, then crashed down.
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The crew screamed. The servants wept. The guards grabbed onto anything they could.
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Liang Wei fell to his knees on the bow, his staff clattering away. The general grabbed him before he slid overboard.
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"The dragon is angry," Liang Wei shouted. "He will not stop until we are all at the bottom!"
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Another wave crashed over the deck. Men and women slid across the planks, screaming, grabbing, drowning. The mast cracked, then fell, taking the torn sails with it.
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The junk spun. The junk sank. The junk rose.
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Zhang Wei, the young guard, clung to a barrel. His face was white with terror – and guilt. He knew what he had done.
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There was no time for blame.
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The sea swallowed them all.
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