Chapter 11: The First Step of a Washed-Up Man’s Comeback
1845 Words
The sea wind blew through the battered shack with the particular stench unique to Myriad Reef Isle—a salty, fishy odor tinged with decaying seaweed.
Curled in a corner, A-Liang used his arm to shield his face, but the wind seemed to have eyes of its own, sneaking straight through the holes in his tattered clothing. A sudden chill jolted him fully awake.
He opened his eyes to see the gaping hole in the roof. Dawn had just broken, and grayish-blue light filtered in, catching the dust that swirled in the air.
Next to him, Xiao Wan lay curled into a ball, her sleep restless. Her brow was furrowed, her chapped lips dry and cracked.
A-Liang instinctively reached for his chest. Beneath the stiff, colorless shirt that had long forgotten its original hue, the cold stone was still there.
Ever since the chaos at Ghost Wail Gorge, the stone had calmed down—no more scalding heat, no more jolting pulses. It just sat there now, heavy and quiet like any ordinary rock.
But A-Liang knew it wasn’t ordinary.
Back in that flooded ship hold, when he was seconds from drowning, it had released a trace of cool energy—just enough for him to summon one last burst of strength, kick open the hatch, and drag Xiao Wan out of Death’s grip.
And now—though his belly was gnawing with hunger and his whole body ached like he'd been beaten with a club—something inside him still held fast. Like embers buried in ash. Cold on the outside, but deep within, still smoldering.
That faint, wordless spark was the only reason he hadn’t collapsed like the other desperate souls in the nearby shacks, their eyes empty and defeated.
“Ugh…”
Xiao Wan stirred, rubbing her eyes and sitting up. Her voice came out scratchy and hoarse.
“…Wind’s up again. This cursed place.”
Myriad Reef Isle—it sounded impressive, but was really just a junkyard island squatting off the coast of Spiceport.
Small and jagged, it was all reef and rock, shaped like something gnawed by a dog.
No laws governed here. The big shots in Spiceport found it too much trouble and left it alone, turning the place into a haven for outcasts and outlaws alike.
Refugees, debt-dodgers, smugglers, and unlucky souls like them—driftwood washed in from God knows where—all found themselves piled onto this forgotten rock.
A-Liang rose with an aching groan, shuffling to the shack’s entrance.
Beyond lay a stretch of slick, stony shore. Waves surged in, leaving behind tiny fish, shrimp, and rotting seaweed caught in the cracks.
This was breakfast for the castaways—whatever they could scavenge, scrape up, or steal from the gulls.
“I’ll go get us something to eat.”
His voice was low, muffled by the fog of sleep.
Xiao Wan nodded faintly. She didn’t have the strength to say much, just tugged her ragged coat tighter around her.
She watched A-Liang stumble down the rocky slope, so gaunt he looked like he might snap in two. Her heart clenched.
It had been nearly ten days since the tide spit them up here from Ghost Wail Gorge, and life was worse than back in the shipyard district.
At least there, Old Mai tossed them the odd job in exchange for a bowl of rough rice. Here, there was nothing. No work. No help. No way out.
As for Ke Yongchang and his lot—dead or alive, who knew. Old Zhang? Vanished without a trace.
Only she and A-Liang remained, like wreckage stranded on shore.
A-Liang dug through the icy reef cracks. His fingers turned red and numb with cold.
No luck today—just a few tiny snails no bigger than fingernails, and two limp, scrawny fish barely worth chewing.
He stood, cracking his aching back, and cast a glance toward the port.
Myriad Reef’s harbor looked like a cracked bowl, its warped wooden pier jutting into the sea. A few half-rotten ships rocked gently in the swell.
Now that dawn had fully broken, the dock was already bustling.
Shouts, curses, loading chants, and the screech of gulls crashed together in a symphony of noise.
A few slightly larger cargo ships swarmed with movement.
That tiny spark in A-Liang’s chest flared again.
He gripped the meager catch in his hand, turned, and hurried back to the shack.
“Xiao Wan,” he said, holding out their pitiful breakfast. “Here. Have something. I’m heading to the docks.”
She took the fish and looked up.
“What for? That place is a mess. You’ll get hurt if you’re not careful.”
“Looking for work.”
A-Liang licked his cracked lips. In his eyes was a defiance she’d never seen before.
“Got to find a way to live. I won’t rot here like a dried-up salted fish.”
He remembered the sky-high waves at Ghost Wail Gorge. The apocalyptic green light. He was still alive.
And if he was alive—then he wasn’t going to wait around to die.
Xiao Wan looked at him and didn’t try to stop him—just murmured, “Be careful out there.”
The port, up close, was even more chaotic than it looked from afar.
The air was thick with a foul mix of fish guts, sweat, cheap tobacco, and some kind of rot that defied description.
The ground was soaked and sticky, strewn with tangled nets, busted crates, and garbage of uncertain origin.
Laborers in tattered short tunics swarmed like ants, hauling heavy burlap sacks and wooden crates across creaking planks and narrow docks. Their backs were bent under the weight.
A-Liang stood at the edge of the crowd, a little lost.
Skinny and pale, he stood out among the sun-darkened, knotted masses of muscle around him.
He tried to mimic what others were doing, edging toward an old cargo boat mid-unloading. Its captain, a bald man with a face like a cleaver, was barking orders, spit flying with every word.
“Dry goods! Ten copper a sack! Work fast or get lost!”
A-Liang took a deep breath and stepped forward.
“S-Sir, I… I can work!”
The bald captain glanced at him and let out a snort, flashing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
“Where’d this little chick come from? You think you can handle this job? Blow your back out and I’m not paying for medicine!”
Some of the nearby laborers chuckled.
A-Liang flushed with embarrassment, but held his ground.
“I can do it! I’m… I’m stronger than I look!”
He remembered the flicker of strength that had carried him out of Ghost Wail Gorge.
“Stronger, huh?”
One scar-faced man nearby sneered and shoved a bloated, reeking burlap sack toward him.
“Fine, prove it. Haul this over to the pile—three copper if you can.”
The sack didn’t look big, but it was dense—easily over a hundred pounds.
A-Liang stared at it, then at the jeering faces around him. Gritting his teeth, he bent like he’d seen the others do, grabbed the corners, and heaved.
“Toh!”
To his own surprise, the sack teetered onto his shoulder.
It staggered him—his knees buckled—but he held on, trembling, locking himself upright.
His shoulder flared with pain, but that faint ember deep inside—the warmth that had never fully faded—seemed to rise and support him.
The laughter died down a little. A few looks turned from mockery to mild surprise.
The bald captain raised a brow.
“Well damn. Got some fire in you after all. Fine, you’re hired. Get hauling—but you slack, I dock your pay!”
A spark lit in A-Liang’s chest.
He didn’t care about the ache. He had a job. He’d earn coins. He wouldn’t starve.
Shouldering the sack, he stumbled toward the drop-off, one uneven step at a time.
Every pace was leaden. The fish stench punched straight into his skull. Sweat dripped into his eyes, salt and grit biting.
But that ember kept flickering.
He clenched his teeth. Went again. Then again.
The sacks got heavier. His shoulder swelled. His legs felt full of stone.
He nearly dropped more than once. Nearly collapsed into the muck.
But just when he thought he’d break, that ember flared—like coals catching a breath of wind.
Just enough to keep him on his feet.
Salt stung his eyes. He wiped his face. Paused to breathe.
And that’s when he saw it.
Across the port, near a slightly more respectable twin-masted schooner, stood a familiar figure.
Loose indigo tunic bleached pale. Half-broken fan in hand. Smile on his lips, but eyes like fishhooks—darting, probing.
Ke Yongchang.
A-Liang’s stomach dropped. The sack on his back froze mid-step.
He was alive.
And judging by the way he chatted and joked with the shipmaster—he was doing better than they were.
Alive, smiling… and negotiating.
Ke Yongchang seemed to sense the stare. Casually, he glanced over.
When his gaze swept past the sweat-soaked, mud-smeared A-Liang struggling beneath a sack of cargo, he clearly froze for a beat.
A flicker of disbelief—like he’d seen a ghost—flashed through his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by something more complex: a glint of amusement, calculation… and something unreadable.
He even curved his lips into the faintest smile and gave A-Liang a subtle nod—half greeting, half silent confirmation.
That look, that smile—it sent a chill down A-Liang’s spine colder than the sea breeze.
He quickly dropped his gaze, pretending not to notice, and shoved all his remaining strength into the sack on his shoulder, trudging forward with his head down.
The skin on his shoulder felt raw and torn, each step searing with pain. The briny sweat stung like salt rubbed into open flesh.
But what weighed on him more was the knot in his gut.
Ke Yongchang was alive. Right here. On Myriad Reef Isle.
And there was no doubt—he was after that stone, too.
This forsaken island might not be as quiet as it looked.
“Hey, runt! You stalling? Keep moving!”
The bald foreman’s bellow cracked like a whip.
“Yessir!” A-Liang barked back, jaw clenched. He picked up the pace.
Ke Yongchang, King Yongchang—didn’t matter.
Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting that cursed sack of fish hauled across the dock and earning those three copper coins that could mean the difference between starving and surviving.
He had to make it—he and Xiao Wan both.
He’d clawed his way out of hell at Ghost Wail Gorge. What were a few waves and wind on a dock full of salt fish?
The ache in his bones. The sting of Ke Yongchang’s eyes. The slap of the cold sea wind. It all congealed into a fire in his chest.
The stubbornness boiled over.
- Writer
