Ultimate Battleship

Off the coast of the South China Sea, a weathered wooden fishing vessel toiled under the relentless sun, its hull dedicated to the age-old task of reaping the bounty from the briny depths. This relic of a bygone era bore the unmistakable marks of time: its once-white paint flaked in ragged patches, and crude repairs, achieved through the use of planks and nails, served to mend jagged gashes inflicted by countless collisions. As the sea breeze whipped through, the rigging creaked, mimicking a dying man’s breath, while the hull pitched precariously, giving one the impression that an unrelenting gale would surely send it to its watery grave. A lad of seventeen or eighteen strained to haul the net from the briny depths, his arms corded with veins that stood out in bold relief. His bronzed skin, seasoned by countless sunrises, glistened with sweat, and his vest clung to him like a second skin, salt streaks drying in the harsh light. Decades of toil had carved lean muscles along his frame, yet a gauntness persisted, a testament to the meager fare of a fisherman’s life. This was Nie Yun, orphaned and adopted as a child—his only inheritance the rickety "Sea Wolf," bequeathed to him by the man he called Father. Not by blood, but by bond, he had been raised in a humble hovel where schooling ended at primary school, and the sea became his life’s calling. Why did he take pride in this lot? His foster father, a hard-drinking man, had once slurred: "The Great Leader said, ‘Working people are honorable,’ and fishermen are working people—so we’re honorable!" Hence, when a teacher had asked young Nie Yun about his ambitions, he declared with pride: "I will be an honorable fisherman!" The classroom had erupted in laughter, a memory still sharp. Even now, he visited the old man’s grave, cursing his trickery, only to fall asleep on a stone, tears drying on his cheeks. “Tonight’s feast or famine hangs on this haul!” he cried, chanting a ragged refrain as he heaved the net aboard. What greeted his eyes were but a few paltry shrimp. After a long silence, he sighed: “No matter—millet congee with shrimp soup. The radio says that’s good (health-nourishing)! ” Hypnotizing himself to banish thoughts of braised pork and fatty intestines, he scanned the sky, then set about stowing the nets and adjusting the sails with the practiced ease of a seasoned mariner. The prime fishing hours had passed, and here in the inshore waters, he knew further effort was folly. The "Sea Wolf" boasted a vintage diesel engine, which his foster father had jokingly called their "hybrid-powered luxury vessel." But to conserve precious fuel, Nie Yun relied on the wind—"nature’s clean energy," as he proclaimed. "How much do I contribute to the nation’s energy conservation? Few in the Rabbit Kingdom work as hard for the people as I!" Thus, the "Sea Wolf" drifted languidly toward the mainland, the voyage seemingly uneventful. At this pace, they would reach shore by dusk. Reclining on the bow, a dried squid tail between his teeth, Nie Yun watched clouds drift by, sleep threatening to claim him. A yawn escaped him—then, out of the corner of his eye, a streak of light. He started, staring as a silvery fireball, like a shooting star, hurtled from the heavens. Its trajectory was clear: it aimed straight for the "Sea Wolf." The sphere screamed through the air, its surface burning furiously, shrinking to the size of a fingertip as it approached. “Cold sweat,” Nie Yun muttered, “the radio says bad luck makes you get hit by a meteor. Surely I can’t be that cursed…” The next instant, a “whoosh!” rent the air. The silver streak pierced through his abdomen, tore a hole in the hapless “Sea Wolf,” and vanished into the depths. "Cough! cough!" Nie Yun coughed up blood flecked with viscera. His final word was a guttural: "F**k!" Then his eyes rolled back, and he breathed his last at seventeen years and ten months. But perhaps the fates, having witnessed enough of his wretched life, took pity. Where the wound gaped, a sliver of silver clung—shrapnel from the meteor. Upon touching his blood, the fragment drank like a parched sponge, the gore vanishing before his very eyes. It multiplied wildly, spreading into a silvery patch that seeped into his veins. At a scale invisible to the human eye, these particles were ultramicroscopic robots, each more minuscule than a nanometer, their intricate structures etched with alien patterns. After eons adrift in space, their energy failing, this extraterrestrial entity had found a host, fusing with him to survive. The silver tide raced through his veins to his heart, then spread via his bloodstream, coating every system—endocrine, respiratory, digestive, neural—in a metallic sheen. A miraculous fusion and parasitism unfolded within. Ten minutes later, though his lower body remained submerged, Nie Yun jolted awake, gasping as if from a nightmare. He looked down, perplexed: beneath his tattered vest, his abdomen was smooth, flat, and sported a defined eight-pack. He prodded it—still his own flesh, firm and familiar. But the torn clothes and the gaping hole in the "Sea Wolf" told another story. This was no dream. Wait—the hole! Realizing the "Sea Wolf" was sinking, he forgot his confusion, rushing to the hold for planks and rags to patch the breach. Grimacing, he fired up the diesel pump to bail water; otherwise, he and his "brother" would feed the fish. His foster father had always treated the "Sea Wolf" better than him, saying, "This boat’s my real son—you’re just picked up off the street." Thus, Nie Yun had always called the vessel his brother, and seeing it mortally wounded wrenched his heart. Half an hour later, the leak was barely stemmed, still seeping at the edges. He had to run the pump intermittently. No longer worrying about "clean energy," he gunned the engine, which belched black smoke as the "Sea Wolf" chugged toward the mainland...