Wang Cang Hai suddenly raised his head, his gaze sharp and resolute. “I may have been drinking, but I wasn’t drunk. That evening, I led a successful ambush against pirates in the Eastern Sea. Later, the commanders of the Silver Armored Troops gathered on the flagship for a victory banquet. I clearly remember raising my cup in celebration one moment and plunging into freezing seawater the next. There were so many suspicious details about that incident. I’ve always known my limits with alcohol and never overindulged in public. Even if I had been drunk and fallen overboard, how is it possible that not one of the Silver Armored Troops noticed my absence?
“And even if, for argument’s sake, I did fall into the sea unnoticed, my swimming skills, though not excellent, would’ve been enough to keep me afloat for at least the time it takes for one incense stick to burn. That night, the sea was pitch black, but the fleet was brightly lit. There’s no reason I would have drifted farther into deep waters, let alone into the isolated region of the Sea of Forgetting.”
Wan San, sensing Wang Cang Hai’s rising frustration, wanted to offer comforting words. Yet what came out instead was another question. “But you never actually saw the person who saved you, did you?”
“But I saw the Qilin,” Wang Cang Hai answered firmly, his ink-black eyes like deep, endless chasms. “When I sank into the pitch-black depths of the sea, entangled in seaweed, unable to breathe, and powerless to escape, I saw the totem of the Qilin—the divine beast of the Four Symbols. It glowed faintly in the boundless darkness, its intricate patterns just as I’d seen in countless dreams since childhood.
“At that moment, it was my only source of light. The glow was weak, but the Qilin’s patterns were vivid, alive, and moving. I reached out my hand toward it, and I touched him.”
Wang Cang Hai fell silent, his thoughts lost in the memory.
At sixteen, sinking into the sea’s icy embrace, Wang Cang Hai saw the glowing patterns of the Qilin. Reaching out, his fingers touched the contours of a figure. In the darkness, he could not see, relying only on touch—tracing the muscles of an arm, the elegant curve of a neck, and the sharp lines of a collarbone. His hand continued to explore, but the figure grabbed his wandering hand, stopping him.
The Qilin—or the figure embodying it—grasped Wang Cang Hai’s hand firmly with one of his own. With the other arm, he wrapped around Wang Cang Hai’s waist, lifting him from the depths. With incredible strength, the figure swam upward, bearing both their weights toward the surface of the sea.
Standing alongside the stunned Wan San, Wang Cang Hai faced the mural of the wounded Crown Prince Ji Mu. His voice, as always, remained calm and steady, seemingly unaffected by the overwhelming emotions conveyed through the image. “I’ve read the epitaphs here. They describe a battle that occurred over three thousand years ago in this very desert. The Zhou Kingdom triumphed over the rebellious northern Shuoyi tribes. But as they say, ‘The success of one general rests on countless bones.’ Crown Prince Ji Mu emerged victorious, but he was gravely wounded and lost in the desert’s endless sands. Exhausted and near death, he collapsed—until a beautiful maiden suddenly appeared and saved him.”
“What a melodramatic tale,” Wan San remarked, still unable to tear his gaze from Ji Mu’s image. “So, of course, the Crown Prince falls in love with the maiden who saves him. How utterly predictable.”
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