"To walk the Dancer’s path is to know loss.


    Yet each step leaves a mark,


    And the ground will carry the memory forward."


    From the Songs of the Eternal Dance, The Holy Verses of Tiowuzhe


    Qingyu crouched near the stern, scrubbing the inside of a wooden bucket with a handful of coarse grass. Captain Lin had demanded spotless containers for fresh water, and though the chore was simple, it kept his mind from wandering too far. He tilted the bucket to rinse it over the side, then paused when movement in the ship’s wake drew his eye.


    A pod of dolphins cut sleek arcs through the foam, their bodies gleaming each time they surfaced. One vaulted high, twisting midair before disappearing beneath the waves. Qingyu straightened, the bucket forgotten, as he watched them glide through the churning water. Their lively energy felt almost at odds with the undercurrent of worry on the ship, and yet he was glad for the glimpse of something free and unburdened.


    “You’ve been at that for a while.” Yihan’s voice came from behind him. Qingyu glanced up to see his brother approach, steam curling from the cup of tea in his hands. The aroma of bitter leaves mingled with salt air.


    “Rice Sister said you haven’t eaten,” Yihan added.


    Qingyu accepted the cup, feeling its warmth seep into his palms. “I wasn’t hungry,” he said quietly, gaze drifting back to the dolphins. He took a small sip, letting the salty breeze swirl the tea’s bitterness around him.


    Yihan leaned on the rail next to him. “The gateway,” he said after a pause. “What happened? What did you see?”


    Qingyu turned the cup between his hands, his brow creasing. “An island with a willow tree… an old man… He talked about the black ships.” He hesitated, voice dropping. “They’re scouts, he said. The real threat comes after them. And if we don’t unite, we lose everything.”


    Yihan’s grip on the rail tightened, but he held his silence. Qingyu noticed how his brother glanced around, as if checking to make sure no one else overheard. After a moment, Yihan reached out and rested a hand on Qingyu’s shoulder, then withdrew it.


    A cry rang out, slicing through the quiet moment. “Sail! Sail to port!”


    Instantly, the crew hurried to the railing. Their voices dropped into urgent, low tones as they pointed into the distance. Qingyu stood, clutching his tea, and followed Yihan. Captain Lin had already positioned herself at the ship’s edge, her stare fixed on a white flicker against the ocean’s expanse.


    “Colors?” she demanded of the lookout.


    “Not sure yet, Captain,” someone shouted from above. “But they’re coming in fast.”


    Qingyu feltunease ripple across the deck. A few sailors shifted their weight, hands drifting closer to their weapons. Even the dolphins had melted away, leaving only the turbulent water behind.


    “Turtle Beach colors, Captain!” came the watch’s next shout. “Looks like a scout ship!”


    A quiet rush of relief traveled among the crew. One man exhaled audibly; another let out a hushed laugh and loosened his grip on a rope. Captain Lin’s expression, however, remained tight, her mouth set in a firm line. Qingyu heard her mutter something under her breath before snapping an order: “Ready lines and hooks! Bring them in properly!”


    The oncoming vessel drew alongside in a matter of minutes, revealing lean lines meant for speed over cargo. Its single white sail bore the green turtle crest of Turtle Beach, and the fatigue in the eyes of its crew told a story of urgency. A woman stood at the rail, spine straight despite the exhaustion etched into her face. A white mourning band fluttered at her sleeve. Qingyu sensed the burden of grim news even before she spoke.


    The crew of the Song of the Eastern Wind tossed lines across, and a few sailors swiftly pulled the ships together. Captain Lin stepped forward to greet the newcomer. “Welcome aboard, Lady…?”


    “Wei Lihua,” the woman replied. Though her voice stayed steady, a tremor undercut her words. Her gaze roved over the crew, landing on Yihan. “We’ve been searching for you.”


    Yihan inclined his head, his stance measured. “Tell me what’s happened.”


    Wei Lihua gripped the ship’s rail for a moment before responding. “Seven Pines village. It’s gone. Burned to nothing.” She drew a shaky breath, forcing each word to come out evenly. “My brother Jun was there.”


    Yihan’s expression didn’t waver, but Qingyu saw how his brother’s shoulders tensed. “Jun… is he—?”


    Wei Lihua swallowed. “He died fighting. We found him near the harbor.” Her voice thickened briefly before she forced it steady again. “And there’s something else about the attack we can’t explain. You need to see it.”


    Captain Lin stepped forward, her tone clipped but courteous. “Come below, Lady Wei. We’ll talk in the cabin.”


    Wei Lihua nodded, crossing onto the ship. Qingyu moved aside, noting the strain on her face: the tired lines around her eyes, the rigidity of her posture. She carried not only her brother’s loss but also a fear she couldn’t yet name.


    In the captain’s cabin, Wei Lihua described the attack in terse, halting phrases. They struck at night, swift and devastating. By the time Turtle Beach sent help, the fires had already finished their work, leaving ash and torn walls.


    “We need to see this for ourselves,” Yihan said when she paused for breath. He spoke quietly, but urgency threaded his voice. “How long to reach Seven Pines?”


    “About seven days, weather permitting,” Wei Lihua answered. “Will you come?”


    “We’ll come,” Yihan said.


    The following week passed in mounting dread. With each sunrise, Qingyu felt the weight of that unseen threat looming closer. On the seventh day, the ruins of Seven Pines appeared on the horizon.


    Hollow shells of buildings stood along the shoreline. Blackened timbers jutted from the sand, and half-burned boats drifted in the shallows or lay capsized on the beach. No gulls circled, and no smoke rose—just a stagnant hush that settled over the scene like a pall.


    They dropped anchor, and Qingyu joined the first landing party. As they rowed from the ship to the beach his oar grazed something submerged, he ignored it, focusing instead on the charred silhouette of the village ahead. Wei Lihua led them onto the shore, moving through the scorched debris with purposeful strides.


    She paused in front of a collapsed storehouse, the walls torn inward like a broken eggshell. “Jun died here,” she said softly, fists clenching at her sides. “He managed to hold them off for a while… gave some villagers time to flee.”


    Yihan stooped to study the ruined threshold, running a hand over splintered wood. “He must have been outnumbered.” His voice carried a note of  respect.


    Wei Lihua shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, her features held the tight control of someone who refused to break in front of others. She turned away, guiding them deeper into the wreckage.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    They made their way along a path of crumpled walls and scorched beams. Yihan stopped where part of a building had caved inward. The wooden boards were snapped like twigs, charred at the edges. He crouched down, pointing to the damage. “Look at how these boards are broken in from the outside,” he said, beckoning Qingyu to come closer. “Something forced its way in—heavy impacts, like multiple blasts. Not just fire.”


    Wei Lihua nodded. “Many of the walls look like this. Some have holes punched right through the timbers. It wasn’t a normal attack.”


    Yihan’s brow knitted as he surveyed the damage. “I’ve chased pirates and clashed with outlaws, but I’ve never seen walls reduced like this.” He rose, ash sifting from his palms. “Qundao hasn’t known a real war in generations. We don’t have anything that could do this.” He gestured at the caved-in timbers. “Whatever struck here came from outside, hammering inward with a force we’ve never faced.”


    The path led them to a temple courtyard. A bronze bell lay cracked in half beneath a fallen beam, its once-polished surface now dull with soot. A small mound of earth near the temple entrance bore a makeshift marker. Wei Lihua stopped before it, her mourning band catching the breeze. “We buried those who couldn’t escape here,” she said. “We found them near the harbor— amongst the broken planks and splintered stone. We didn’t know what else to do.”


    Qingyu stood beside her, uncertain how to comfort her loss. The charred remains of the temple loomed overhead—silent witnesses to something beyond his understanding. “I’m sorry,” he managed at last, though the words sounded too small.


    Suddenly, Yihan’s voice carried from around the corner. “Qingyu! Lihua—here!”


    They picked their way across the rubble, finding Yihan crouched beside a strange, heavy bolt embedded in a splintered wall. Its metal gleamed with an unnervingly smooth finish, far thicker than any crossbow bolt Qingyu had ever seen. Wei Lihua gestured to a few more half-buried in the debris, each reflecting the pale daylight like polished glass.


    “How much force would be needed for this kind of damage to the wall,” she asked grimly. “We’ve seen crossbows, ballista, catapults—but nothing like this.”


    Yihan lifted one bolt gingerly, eyebrows knitting together. “This is heavier than any siege weapon I know. They must have fired from the ships offshore.” His gaze swept the harbor. “But how?”


    Wei Lihua shook her head. “I can’t say. The survivors only remember sudden impacts, walls shattering inward, and too many fires to count.”


    Yihan rose, wiping soot off on his trousers. “We’ll have to speak to Lord Wei when we return. We need a plan if they can attack from a distance like this.”


    They scoured the remains a little longer but unearthed no clearer answers. At last, they returned to the Song of the Eastern Wind and got under sail. Qingyu leaned against the rail, staring at the skeleton of a once-lively village. He said nothing as the anchor chain rattled up, as the sails caught the wind. His thoughts remained with the sight of that blasted storehouse, the images of walls caved in by a force none of them could name.


    Captain Lin stood nearby, arms folded, eyes locked on the horizon. “We’ll reach Turtle Beach by nightfall,” she said curtly. “Winds look steady.”


    Qingyu merely nodded. His fingers tensed around the railing, trying to shut out the memory of charred timbers and collapsed walls. Behind him, the crew’s routine continued with subdued efficiency.


    Yihan’s footsteps approached. He rested an arm on the rail beside Qingyu, but for a moment, neither of them spoke.


    Finally, Yihan broke the silence. “I know this is the first time you’ve seen something like that,” he said quietly. “It’s frightening. Hard to take in.”


    Qingyu’s grip on the railing tightened. “I keep thinking… what could I have done if I had been there? How do we fight something that can tear a village apart from a distance?”


    Yihan looked out at the rolling sea. “We do what you’re already doing,” he replied. “We face it. We don’t turn away just because it’s unkown and terrifying. We see it for what it is, and then we make plans—gather allies, warn people, protect whoever we can.”


    A gust of wind pulled at Qingyu’s sleeve. “It still feels like that will not be enough.”


    Yihan tapped the rail lightly. “Sometimes simply bearing witness is the first step. Understanding what happened and not running from it—that matters. From there, we act.”


    Qingyu shook his head and turned to face his brother. “You really think it’ll help? Just knowing?”


    “It’s all we have,” Yihan answered. “But it’s better than pretending this isn’t real. We’ll find a way to stop it—or at least keep others safe.”


    The ship dipped under a gentle swell, and Qingyu braced himself. Somehow, Yihan’s words made the dread in his chest feel a little less suffocating. “All right,” he said quietly. “We face it, and then we do whatever comes next.”


    Yihan squeezed Qingyu’s shoulder before letting his arm fall. “Exactly.”


    They stayed there a moment longer, the hum of the ocean beneath them, each lost in thought.


    Dusk was settling when they docked at Turtle Beach. Lanterns bobbed along the waterfront, and the scent of cooking drifted out to greet them, a welcome contrast to the acrid stench of clinging in Qingyu’s mind. Wei Lihua disembarked first, carrying a lacquered box of her brother’s personal effects. Villagers stood in hushed lines, heads bowed, as though sensing the magnitude of her loss.


    The temple’s doors stood open, lantern light dancing across carved pillars. The Mother Priestess waited inside, her silver hair gleaming in the warm glow. Wordlessly, she guided the mourners into the main hall, where a broad bronze bowl sat on a raised dais. Stacked beside it lay rows of small paper boats, each fitted with a place for a candle.


    A hush fell over the crowd as they filed in. One by one, people stepped forward. Some picked up a little boat from the neat piles and placed it gently into the bronze bowl. Others chose to keep their boat in hand, clutching it close as though unwilling to let it go. A measured chant began, low and resonant, and with each refrain, voices rose to speak farewells or share a memory of Wei Jun. Murmured prayers mingled with the soft crackle of candles being lit, the faint glow reflecting off the bowl’s polished rim.


    Qingyu lingered near the back, letting the chanting wash over him like a slow tide. He couldn’t bring himself to approach at first, the ache in his chest too raw. Only when Yihan moved forward did Qingyu follow, picking up a paper boat and lighting its small candle with trembling fingers. Yihan knelt and set his boat into the bowl without a word; the tension in his posture spoke to all he wished he could say.


    When every mourner had either placed a boat in the bowl or held one aside, the Mother Priestess raised her hands for silence. Lifting the bronze bowl, she led them out of the temple and down the lantern-lined streets toward the water. Footfalls on the cobblestones sounded softly in unison, as if each person were guarding their grief.


    At the harbor, the night air carried a mild breeze that ruffled the paper boats in the bowl. The Mother Priestess selected one boat, candle unlit, and kindled its wick with a taper. The small flame glowed bright against the darkness. Carefully, she lowered the first boat onto the gentle waves. It bobbed once, then drifted away from the shore, the flame a tiny beacon in the gloom.


    As the bowl dipped toward the water, the flame brushed against the other paper boats nestled inside, catching their candles alight in a ripple of orange and gold. Around them, those who had held back their own boats now knelt or leaned over the water, lighting wicks from a shared taper and setting their little vessels to float alongside the first. Soon, dozens of faint lights dotted the harbor, wavering on the surface like distant stars.


    Qingyu watched silently, the knot in his chest tightening as the little candles bobbed past the harbor mouth and disappeared, one by one, into the open sea. Their fragile glow felt like a fleeting promise—both precious and heartbreakingly brief.


    Wei Lihua stepped back from the water, her white mourning band lifting in the night breeze. Despite the sorrow edging her eyes, she stood with quiet resolve. “My father awaits us,” she said gently.


    They ascended the steep, lantern-lit stairs to the Town Palace. Guards opened the gates in silence, admitting the procession into a courtyard where fountains murmured under the moonlight. Inside, Lord Wei stood in his private chambers, a low table set with a simple pot of wine and Wei Jun’s sword. He inclined his head gravely as they entered, lines of strain etched around his eyes.


    “You’ve seen the ruins,” Lord Wei began. “What can you tell me?”


    Yihan stood straight, addressing him with measured calm. “Walls were caved in from the outside. The attackers used weapons unlike anything we’ve encountered. It was too sudden, too devastating—no sign of typical raiding tactics.”


    Lord Wei’s hand hovered over his son’s sword. “Your advice?”


    “Give me two or three weeks,” Yihan said. “I’ll help prepare the coastal villages, set up evacuation routes. Wei Lihua can coordinate supply caches. We can’t stop an unknown enemy with unknown weapons, but we can keep people safe until we learn more.”


    Wei Lihua inclined her head. “I’ll sail with Yihan. The villagers trust us. They’ll follow our lead.”


    Lord Wei turned to Qingyu. “And you?”


    Qingyu felt the weight of his own family’s safety pressing on him. Before he could answer, Yihan spoke up, “He’ll go home to Dolphin Bay. Mother and Grandmother need to know what’s out there. If these attacks spread, they won’t be ready.”


    Qingyu nodded, fighting a pang of unease at leaving Yihan’s side. But he knew they had to warn their family, too.


    Lord Wei poured wine into cups with deliberate care. “Rest tonight,” he said. “We’ll make arrangements in the morning.”


    They departed the palace, the murmur of fountains and the hush of lantern-lit courtyards trailing them. Down at the harbor, scattered lights reflected across the water like low-burning stars. Somewhere beyond the breakwater, Wei Jun’s ashes were carried on the tide. Qingyu thought of the shattered storehouse and the inward-smashed walls, of a force they could hardly name—let alone fight. In the uneasy silence, he felt how much was already lost, and how much more might be taken if they failed.