Mystic Leviathan of the East

"Every Beamon has their culinary preferences—it's a matter of taste, not faith."

—Beamon Proverb

As the obsidian seahorse vanished into the gloom, Hailun's legs finally gave way. She slumped into Liu Zhenhan's arms, her fiery tail trembling like a guttering candle.

"What's wrong?" Liu steadied her, his calloused hands brushing strands of auburn hair from her face.

"Do you even realize how reckless that was?" Her voice wavered, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "Facing a Shark Knight barehanded…"

"Danger?" Liu flexed a bicep the size of a melon, veins snaking like roots. "Little fox, have you forgotten? I'm no ordinary priest—this cursed body holds dragon's strength."

Privately, Liu smirked. Back in his reconnaissance days, his squad leader had barred him from missions for being "too efficient"—a polite way of saying he left no survivors. Now, blessed (or cursed) with draconic might, he was a one-man war machine. But some truths were best left unspoken. Let the girl keep her illusions.

Hailun's tail lashed in frustration. "A priest's role is to guide, not brawl! We're the oil that feeds warriors' flames. Ten soldiers pale beside four men led by a priest!"

"And where are my warriors?" Liu gestured at the empty horizon. "Just me, you, and this furball." He scratched Guoguo's head; the rotund creature purred like a forge bellows.

"Once we reach Beamon Kingdom," Hailun countered, "every clan will clamor to serve an innate Soul Singer. Even the Temple will assign Holy Knights as your guard!"

"Until then," Liu snatched her twitching tail, earning a yelp, "we play the cards we're dealt. That shark-bastard had magic and muscle. Clever beats brute force every time."

Hailun's glare could've frozen seawater. "Swear you'll never duel warriors again! And stop flaunting that 'curse'—it's blasphemy for a Soul Singer!"

"Scout's honor." Liu raised three fingers, then ruined the solemnity by wiggling his eyebrows. "Though if I married into your Foxmen clan, I'd technically be one of you…"

The jest died on his lips. Hailun's face clouded, her vibrant fur dulling to ash-gray.

"What's wrong?" he pressed.

She buried her face in his chest, claws tracing the scar over his heart. "Promise me," she whispered, "no matter what comes… you won't abandon me?"

"Cross my heart." His smile softened, moonlight etching the vow into his weathered features.

Her answering kiss tasted of salt and desperation.

Sleep proved elusive. Liu's mind churned like storm-tossed waves. Why Hailun's sudden dread? Was it his lowly Pigman status among her aristocratic Foxmen? Or darker omens?

Secure that priestly title, he resolved. Nobility opens doors even a dragon can't break.

Dawn found them adrift against a towering hull—a carrack whose barnacled timbers blotted out the sun. Hailun paled.

"Slavers," she breathed. "Only human nations with dragonriders dare sail these waters. If they see a Foxwoman without escort…"

A shadow fell across them.

The sailor leaning over the rail defied categorization: seven feet of corded muscle wrapped in hemp cloth, face a mosaic of black-and-white fur. Not a Beamon Bearman—their coats ran to solid hues. This creature's piebald muzzle evoked some primordial blend of badger and grizzly.

"Greetings, travelers!" The stranger's booming voice carried a melodic lilt. "You've dented my anchor chain."

Liu tensed. "We'll be off."

"Wait!" The sailor vaulted overboard, landing with a grace belying his bulk. Up close, his claws—retractable, Liu noted—glistened like honed steel. "Where bound?"

"Northwest Beamon territories," Liu growled. Guoguo hissed from his shoulder, frost gathering in its chubby paws.

The stranger's nose twitched. "A priest?" He sniffed Hailun's robes, then recoiled as if scalded. "By the Forge! Forgive my impertinence, honored ones!"

Hailun peeked from behind Liu. "What clan claims you? No Beamon bears such markings."

"Gu De of the Penglai," he bowed, "at your service. We hail from the Silk Continent's bamboo forests."

As if summoned, a dozen similarly striped crewmen clustered the rails, munching bamboo stalks like sugarcane. The crackle of splintering cellulose filled the air.

Gu De snapped a wrist-thick pole effortlessly. "Our ship is yours. These waters teem with less… civilized folk."

Hailun exchanged glances with Liu. Every Beamon knew the adage: When pandas offer honey, check for stingers. Yet desperation outweighed caution.

They ascended the rope ladder, Liu hauling his tortoiseshell "luggage." The crew's enthusiasm puzzled him—until he saw them dismantling their raft with ritualistic fervor.

"Apologies," Gu De crunched through another bamboo segment. "We've not tasted home in moons. Your vessel's timber carries the scent of Eastern soil."

Liu watched, nonplussed, as burly sailors tenderly cradled bamboo fragments like sacred relics. Hailun's nose wrinkled—whether at the ecological sacrilege or the crew's disturbing table manners, he couldn't tell.

The Penglai's deck creaked underfoot, its planks etched with strange glyphs. Liu's nape prickled. This was no merchantman. The air thrummed with latent power, as if the ship itself breathed.

Gu De followed his gaze. "She's seen three centuries of tides," he said proudly. "Carved from a single celestial bamboo. The last of her kind."

Hailun gasped. "A Dragon Bamboo? But those went extinct—"

"Not extinct." The sailor's teeth gleamed, sharp and white. "Merely… relocated."

As the crew broke into a rhythmic work chant, Liu Zhenhan tasted the tang of storms ahead. Somewhere beyond the horizon, a mermaid princess plotted vengeance, while underfoot, secrets older than kingdoms stirred in the Penglai's ancient timbers.

He tightened his grip on Guoguo. Come tempest or treachery, they'd face it as they always had—with cunning, chaos, and a dragon's borrowed might.