Margaret stood before a mountain of nautical charts, her fingertips gliding gently over the yellowed parchment.
The cinnabar-red routes drawn on them looked
like congealed trails of blood, glowing eerily under the flickering
candlelight.
When Dustin pushed open the door, he saw her
tucking a thick stack of leather-bound ledgers into a rosewood chest. Glimpses
of titles like Fresh Water Reserves and Ration Allocations showed
her meticulous planning for the upcoming voyage.
“Any news from the fishermen?” Dustin asked.
Margaret looked up, her eyes reflecting the
deepening twilight outside the window. “Su Lan just got back from the harbor.
Found an old fisherman with the surname Qin.”
“He claims he saw a mirage near the Blackwater
Trench three years ago. Said there were floating pavilions and jade towers
among the clouds, and at the front stood a stone tablet carved with the word
‘Penglai.’”
She paused, tapping her fingers on the desk.
“But the old man said the vision lasted only the time of a single incense
stick. When he looked again, even the sea fog had vanished.”
Dustin walked to the desk and picked up the
chart marked Blackwater Trench.
Beside the swirling ink marks denoting the
area, notes from local fishermen were densely scribbled: “Strange winds in
June. No return for those who enter.” “Something massive beneath the
surface. Wailing sounds at night.”
His finger traced the crooked writing, and he
chuckled softly. “Far more honest than the maps in the palace.”
…
Three days later at dawn, Haizhou Fishing Port
lay under a shroud of briny morning fog.
Margaret, clad in dark, fitted attire, stood on
the deck of the Wavebreaker, watching soldiers load the last of the
supplies aboard.
Sealed clay jars filled with compressed rations
and herbs lined both sides of the deck; the freshwater tanks below, reinforced
with lead, could sustain the crew for three months. They even packed tools and
weapons to face potential dangers.
“Old Qin,” Margaret turned to the hunched
figure by the rail. The elder clutched a faded talisman so tightly his knuckles
turned white. “You’re sure it was west of the Blackwater Trench?”
The old fisherman nodded with trembling force,
his cloudy eyes fixed on the churning waves. “No mistake. My youngest son died
there. The sun was scorching that day when suddenly a white mist rolled in.
Within it, the island appeared --- looked just like a heavenly palace. Magnificent.”
He broke into a violent coughing fit that bent
his spine like a prawn. “But that fog… it was cursed. The nets that touched it
rotted into shreds by the next morning.”
Suddenly, Dustin pressed his hand on the iron
anchor rail, his fingertip tapping the rusted ring lightly.
A faint tremor traveled up the anchor chain ---
as if something below had awakened.
He looked toward the horizon, where the clouds
were darkening visibly, spreading like ink across rice paper.
“Raise anchor,” Dustin commanded, his voice
cutting through the rising wind. “If we don’t go now, the typhoon will trap us
in port.”
The crew scrambled to the capstan, pulling up
the heavy anchor with a trail of bubbles rising to the surface.
As the Wavebreaker’s white sails
billowed in the morning breeze, the old fisherman collapsed to the deck,
staring at the foamy wake. He muttered, almost in a daze, “We shouldn’t have
come… never should’ve come…”
For the first five days at sea, the waters
remained calm.
Gulls skimmed over the sapphire waves, and the
sunset bathed the ocean in molten gold.
Each day, Margaret climbed the lookout tower to
scan the horizon with a telescope, while Dustin pored over copied legends of
Penglai inside the cabin.
Then came the sixth day, just past noon --- when
the sky darkened like midnight.
The first to sense something wrong was the
helmsman. He noticed the compass needle spinning wildly, and the brass casing
was suddenly hot enough to burn.
Before he could shout, the ship lurched
violently --- as though seized and tossed by a massive, invisible hand.
Margaret slammed into the railing, her jade
pendant cracking against the wood with a sharp snap, leaving a hairline
fracture.
“It’s a waterspout!” someone screamed,
pointing.
A massive column of water shot skyward from the
ocean, piercing the clouds. Thunder crackled in the churning clouds above like
silver serpents, each flash illuminating the monstrous whirlpool below.
Rain fell like icy spikes, pelting the deck
with sharp crackles. The sails tore in the wind, groaning like tortured souls.
Margaret leapt to the top of the mast, a golden
glow forming a shield in her palm --- just in time to block the snapping timber
from above.
She looked down. The sea had turned pitch
black. Waves as tall as towers slammed against the deck, and in the foamy spray,
she spotted shards of ice --- though it was mid-summer, the sea felt like
winter’s grip.
“Everyone, grab something secure!” Her voice
was shredded by the wind but still rang with commanding force.
The soldiers clung to chains and rails, some
getting swept overboard by the waves, their screams cut short as they vanished
into the vortex.
Then came the lookout’s blood-curdling scream:
“Tentacles! It has tentacles!”
Margaret looked up. Out of the thrashing sea,
several thick gray appendages emerged --- each as wide as a barrel, covered in
suction cups. Within the cups, fragments of bone could be seen.
One slammed down onto the deck with a thunderous crash, shattering the hardwood floor. Two soldiers were caught, yanked up screaming --- then torn in half, blood and entrails splattering across the shredded sails. - Ton
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