The storm was nothing like they had ever seen.85Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHEBRlYvqcu
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It did not come in waves. It came in walls of water – black, towering, hungry. The wind screamed like a thousand dying animals. Rain fell so thick that breathing was like drowning from the inside.
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General Feng Jian held onto the mast stump, shouting orders that were barely heard. "Everyone inside! Below deck! Now!"
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The servants scrambled for the hatch. The crew followed. The guards pushed the wounded ahead of them.
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But Liang Wei remained on the bow.
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He stood alone, his staff gone, his robe plastered to his broken body. He faced a wave taller than the junk's mast. He took a breath – shallow, painful – and blew.
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The wind from his lungs met the wave. The water curled, folded, collapsed. The wave fell back into the sea, harmless.
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Another wave rose. He blew again. It fell.
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A third wave, larger than the first two combined, rose from the port side. Liang Wei's hands moved. He spun them – slowly at first, then faster. A tornado formed between his palms, small but fierce. He pushed it toward the wave. The tornado met the water and twisted it, scattering it into mist.
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The general heard the sound of bones cracking. Liang Wei's ribs. His spine. His knuckles. Every movement cost him, and he paid without flinching.
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"Master, you cannot—"
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"I can," Liang Wei said. "And I will. Get the others to safety."
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The general turned and barked orders. "Keep moving! Shift your weight to starboard! Use the torn sails – catch whatever wind you can!"
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The crew obeyed. They leaned, they pulled, they pushed. The junk swayed but stayed afloat. For an hour, they fought.
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Liang Wei fought the waves. He blew. He spun. He punched. Each wave he killed, two more rose. The storm adapted. It learned.
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He stopped a wave with his palm. The water splashed aside – then reformed into a tentacle, thick as a tree trunk. It whipped toward him. He ducked, but the tentacle followed, changing direction.
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The storm was learning his techniques.
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He jumped.
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Into the air he went, above the tentacle, above the waves, above the screaming wind. From above, he could see the whole storm – a spiral of black clouds and green water, miles wide. He was a speck in its eye.
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He came down fists first, striking the tentacle. It shattered. He landed on the water, ran three steps, and launched himself again.
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Above the waves, he was more effective. He could see the patterns, predict the strikes. He moved like a dragonfly, touching the water only to spring again.
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But his body was breaking.
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The general heard it – a crack like a dry branch every time the master landed. His left arm, already useless, hung at a sickening angle. His chest wound had reopened. Blood dripped into the sea.
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"Master, please—"
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A stray wave caught Liang Wei from the side. It tossed him like a doll. He flew through the air, spinning, and crashed onto the junk's deck. The impact splintered the planks beneath him.
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He did not move.
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The general ran to him. "Master!"
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"I am… alive," Liang Wei gasped. "Where is the navigator?"
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The navigator, Master Chen, stood at the stern, his spyglass pressed to his eye. His hands trembled. His voice cracked.
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"Land! I see land! Fires on the shore! I swear by all the gods – land!"
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The general looked. Through the rain, past the waves, he saw them. Small orange dots. Campfires. Distant, but real.
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"How far?" the general shouted.
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"Two miles! Maybe three! If the storm does not sink us first!"
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Liang Wei pushed himself to his knees. His face was gray. His eyes were hollow. But his voice was steady.
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"India," he said. "Take the lifeboats. Get everyone to land."
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"Master, you are coming with us."
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"No." Liang Wei stood. His legs wobbled. "The storm will not let the boats reach shore unless someone distracts it. That someone is me."
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"Master—"
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"That is an order, General." Liang Wei turned to face the sea. "Go. I will come to you as soon as I am ensured your safety."
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The general opened his mouth to argue. Then he closed it. He saw the truth in the master's eyes. He turned to the crew.
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"Lifeboats! All of you! Now!"
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The boats were scarce – four small vessels, each meant for six people. But the crew was willing to crowd. The servants climbed in. The guards helped the wounded. The general pushed Li Hua toward the last boat.
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"I will stay," the general said.
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"You will not." Liang Wei pointed at the boat. "Go. Protect them."
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Li Hua wept. "Master Liang Wei…"
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Liang Wei did not turn. He raised one hand in farewell.
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"Go."
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The boats lowered into the churning water. The crew rowed with broken oars, with wooden planks, with their bare hands. The waves tried to swallow them. The wind tried to push them back. But they rowed.
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Liang Wei watched until the boats were specks on the dark water.
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Then he turned to the storm.
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The water before him rose. It formed not a wave, not a tentacle, but a face – vaguely human, vaguely dragon, all hunger.
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"You should have fled with them," the storm seemed to say.
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"I do not flee," Liang Wei said.
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He leaped.
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He landed on the water and ran. The storm struck at him with fists of water. He dodged, he blocked, he struck back. The water adapted. It grew more tentacles – six, eight, a dozen. They moved in patterns, coordinating, learning.
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One caught his ankle.
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He fell. The water dragged him under. He kicked free, surfaced, gasped for air. A tentacle slammed into his chest. He flew backward, fast as an arrow, and crashed into the junk's hull.
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The wood splintered. The junk lurched. Water poured through the new hole.
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Liang Wei pushed off the hull, staggering. His vision blurred. His ears rang.
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A sixty‑foot wave rose before him. He had no time to dodge. It crashed into him, smashing him against the junk's railing. His head struck wood. The world spun.
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He heard the general's voice, in his memory: "Don't die on us."
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He tried to stand. He could not.
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A final wave – seventy feet, black as ink – rose over him. It hung there for a moment, as if savoring its victory. Then it fell.
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The water swallowed Liang Wei.
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The junk rolled. The mast snapped. The hull split in two.
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And the master sank into the dark.
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***
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On the shore, the boats scraped against sand.
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The crew stumbled onto the beach, dragging the few supplies they had grabbed – a bag of rice, a water barrel, a coil of rope. They collapsed on the wet sand, coughing, weeping, praying.
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General Feng Jian stood apart, staring at the sea. The storm was still raging, but farther away now. The junk was gone.
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"Master," he whispered. "Forgive me."
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Li Hua knelt beside him, her face wet with tears. "He will come. He promised."
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The general did not answer.
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A guard pointed toward the tree line. "General. Look."
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Figures emerged from the bushes. They carried torches that hissed in the rain. They were tall – taller than any man the general had ever seen. Seven feet at least. Their shoulders were broad. Their steps were silent.
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Their skin was as dark as the night sky, but the moon gave it a faint blue hue. They wore finely woven leather armor over their chests, and robes that stopped at the knee – multicolored, each with intricate patterns, each unique. Their faces were hard, their eyes sharp.
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One stepped forward. He held a spear with a blade of polished stone. His voice was deep, like a drum.
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"Who goes there?"
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The language was foreign – nothing the general had heard in China, nothing the navigator had heard in his years at sea. But the meaning was clear: Identify yourselves.
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The general drew his sword. The guards drew theirs. The crew huddled behind them.
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"Stay calm," the general whispered to the navigator and the guard beside him. "We are not in India. But we are not safe either."
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The tall man stepped closer. His torch illuminated his face – high cheekbones, a broad nose, eyes that reflected the firelight.
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"I asked," he said again, slower this time. "Who. Goes. There."
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Li Hua began to cry.
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The general tightened his grip on his sword. His heart pounded. He wished the master was here. He wished Liang Wei would rise from the sea at that very moment, calm and steady, and speak in that quiet voice that made enemies pause.
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But the sea only roared.
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And the tall men waited.85Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLG7T7upu4f
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