Nightmares (Part 2)

One morning, when I stirred awake, the first thing I noticed was Lan Feng sitting upright beside me, watching me intently. His gaze was steady and unblinking, as though he had been staring for quite some time.

"Did you have nightmares again?" I asked, my voice still hoarse from sleep.

He shook his head.

"Then why are you staring at me?"

His lips parted slightly, but no answer came. He looked puzzled by his own behavior, his brows drawing together as if searching for an explanation he couldn't find.

I smiled inwardly, amused. This had become something of a habit for him—watching me as if I held the answers to some great mystery. Perhaps he didn't even realize he was doing it anymore.

Stretching, I raised my arms over my head and felt the stiffness in my back begin to ease. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Fish," he replied immediately, standing as well.

"Again?" I frowned, casting him a skeptical look. "You've been eating fish for days. Don't you want to try something else?"

"I want the fish Gege cooks," he said with a small smile, as if that answer should have been obvious.

I sighed, shaking my head. It was strange—Ruan Yanjun used to disdain the smell of fish. I could still remember the sharpness in his tone whenever the scent lingered near him. And now, this boy who wore his face couldn't get enough of it.

"Alright," I relented. "Fix the mattress. I'll go out and see what the men have caught today."

I reached for my robe draped over the chair and tied it loosely around my waist. Just as I turned to leave, Lan Feng spoke again.

"Gege, I'll fix the mattress later. I want to come with you."

I paused, glancing back. "Are you sure you can handle the smell?" I asked, arching a brow.

"I'm used to it," he said with a shrug. Then, with a faint grin, he added, "Gege always smells like fish after cooking."

I blinked. My lips thinned, and I felt the tips of my ears warm. Those words—though spoken with the innocence of a child—felt oddly insulting. If he hadn't been demanding fish for nearly every meal, I wouldn't smell like fish, now would I?

Gritting my teeth, I decided to let it go. "Fix the mattress first," I said, trying to maintain a shred of authority. "I'll wait for you outside."

Lan Feng tilted his head as if sensing my irritation but not fully understanding it. Still, he nodded and went to work, his movements precise and focused.

I stepped outside into the crisp morning air, letting it cool my rising temper. The village had already begun to stir. Soft conversation drifted between the huts, mingled with the distant clatter of tools and the gentle hiss of boiling water. A sense of calm hung in the air, wrapping around me like a threadbare but familiar cloak.

Still leaning against the doorframe, I waited… and waited. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked back inside.

Lan Feng was still folding the blanket—no, he was perfecting it. The mattress had already been rolled, but he was smoothing every wrinkle from the bedding with exaggerated care. The blanket, folded with precise corners, looked like it had been prepared for palace inspection.

I shook my head, a quiet smile tugging at my lips. My earlier irritation faded like mist. This child—despite his quirks—was meticulous to a fault.

"Let's go," I called.

"Yes, Gege," he replied quickly, turning and jogging toward me as he tied his robe mid-step.

"Slow down," I chided. "You'll trip."

He grinned sheepishly but obeyed, slowing his pace as we walked side by side along the narrow dirt path toward the shore. His presence beside me was light and warm, and despite everything, I found myself smiling again—quietly, to myself.

When we reached the shore, the usual bustling activity was replaced by an unsettling tension. A cluster of villagers stood in a loose circle, voices raised in anxious murmurs, their expressions tight with worry. Something was clearly wrong.

"Priest Luo!" a woman called, rushing toward me. It was Ping's wife—her face pale, her hands clasped tightly against her chest. Her gaze flickered restlessly toward the sea's horizon. "The men haven't returned. The sun is already high, and they should have been back over an hour ago. Something must have happened to them!"

Her words sent a chill through me.

The fishermen were never late. Whether they returned with full nets or none at all, they always came back before midday to deliver food for the village. For them to be this late—without any sign or word—was more than unusual. It was alarming.

I turned to Lan Feng and gripped both his arms gently, forcing him to meet my eyes.

"Feng'er, stay here," I said, my voice firm. "I'm going to check on the men."

His brows immediately drew together, a flicker of fear flashing across his features. "Where are you going?" he asked, his tone tight.

"To the open ocean," I replied. I kept my voice as calm as possible, though my stomach had already begun to churn. "I'll be back soon. Just wait here."

He didn't move, but I saw the subtle tremble in his hands.

"Gege," he called softly as I turned away.

I glanced back—and saw him take a hesitant step toward me, uncertainty written all over his face.

"Stay there," I said more firmly. "Do not follow me."

He froze, lips parting slightly, his wide eyes reflecting panic. "Gege, don't leave Feng'er," he said, barely above a whisper. His voice trembled like a thread on the verge of snapping.

I faltered. My instincts screamed to keep him close, but I couldn't take him out to sea. The waters could be unpredictable, and I had no idea what I would find. I couldn't afford to worry about protecting him out there too.

"I won't leave you," I said gently. "I'll be back soon, I promise."

His shoulders tensed, but he nodded, biting his lower lip as though trying to hold something back.

I held his gaze a moment longer—then turned and broke into a run toward the boats.

I borrowed one of the spare fishing boats and paddled into the open ocean. The water was calm, its surface glittering beneath the midday sun—but despite the tranquility, an uneasy feeling pressed heavily against my chest. The further I ventured from the shore, the lonelier the world became. The silence of the sea surrounded me like a living thing.

Over an hour passed before something unusual came into view. Debris floated in the distance—splinters of wood, torn nets, and fishing baskets bobbing on the gentle waves. Just beyond, faint movements caught my eye.

My breath hitched.

The fishermen.

From afar, they looked like scattered dots against the vast expanse, their arms flailing weakly above the water. As I drew closer, I saw the wreckage of their boats—shattered hulls and broken oars drifting like discarded shells. The men clung to what remained, some holding each other up, others barely managing to stay afloat.

"Hang on!" I shouted, urgency sharpening my voice.

Relief lit their faces as they saw me, but before I could reach them, the surface of the water erupted.

Something massive surged upward—a sleek, sinuous form cutting through the sea with terrifying grace. It was a sea creature, enormous in size, like a dolphin in shape but far more imposing. Its dark silver scales shimmered in the sunlight as it arced and circled the drowning men.

And riding upon its back was something I hadn't expected to see outside of myth.

A Shuiyan.

It looked human at a glance, but everything about it was wrong—its skin shimmered with iridescent blue scales, and its limbs bore thin, translucent fins. Long hair streamed behind it like waterweed, and its glowing green eyes burned with primal intelligence. In one hand, it held a coral staff inlaid with pearls, the tip gleaming with arcane light.

A water spirit—one of the ocean's ancient guardians, often described in myths as guardians of the ocean.

Shuiyan were said to have the ability to control sea creatures and command the very waves of the ocean. This one, perched atop the massive fish, loomed above the fishermen like a god of judgment.

Then I understood.

The Crested Sea Lily.

A legendary herb that only bloomed on the ocean floor once every few years, rising to the surface with the morning tide. It was said to enhance healing and amplify spiritual energy—an alchemical treasure beyond value. And it was always guarded. Fiercely.

The fishermen must have drifted too close to the lily's domain. Perhaps unknowingly, perhaps drawn by the strange glow of the herb. But now the Shuiyan had attacked—and they were trapped in its wrath.

I paddled closer, cautiously. The Shuiyan's eyes snapped to mine. It shifted on the creature beneath it, its grip tightening on the coral staff. I stopped a short distance away and raised both hands slowly.

"I mean no harm!" I called, my voice echoing over the waves. "I only want to bring them back to shore. Please, let me help them."

The Shuiyan tilted its head, unreadable. For a moment, I thought it might listen.

Then, with a flick of its staff, it summoned a wave.

Water rose like a living wall and crashed against my boat, rocking it violently. I clung to the edges, teeth clenched, trying to stay upright.

It was a warning. The spirit wasn't going to let me near them without resistance.

I steadied my breath.

I couldn't abandon the fishermen. But facing a Shuiyan was not like facing a man—it was like trying to reason with the sea itself. I would have to tread carefully. No rash moves. No brute strength. Only precision, calm... and wit.