Minh, a man etched by the sun and the ceaseless rhythm of the tides, had always found solace in the vast, indifferent embrace of the East Sea. His boat, the Thủy Thần, was more than just a vessel; it was an extension of his own weathered spirit, a silent confidante through countless dawns and dusks. For generations, his family had plied these waters, their lives interwoven with the sea's bounty and its unpredictable wrath. They honored Lạc Long Quân, the revered Dragon Lord, not with elaborate rituals, but with the quiet reverence of those who understood their place in the grand, ancient scheme of things.
Tonight, however, was different. An unease, subtle yet pervasive, had clung to Minh since sunset. The air was unnaturally still, the usual gentle murmur of the waves replaced by an almost hesitant lapping against the Thủy Thần's hull. Superstition, a silent companion to every fisherman, pricked at him. Yet, the nets had to be cast. His family, his ailing mother, depended on his meager catches.
He whispered his usual plea, "Bring me fortune. Lạc Long Quân, lord of the sea, father of dragons—guide my hands." It was a simple invocation, a humble request for providence, no different from a thousand others he had uttered. He sought fish, not revelation.
Then, the world shifted. The wind, which had been absent, now sighed through the rigging, a sound like a whispered warning. The sea, previously a restless canvas of shifting shadows, became a mirror, reflecting the cold, indifferent gaze of the moon. A profound stillness descended, so absolute it seemed to swallow the very sound of his own breathing. Every nerve ending in Minh's body hummed with an electric premonition.
Beneath the keel, a luminescence bloomed, a soft, emerald glow that pulsed with an otherworldly life. Minh peered over the side, his heart thrumming against his ribs like a trapped bird. At first, his mind, desperate for a mundane explanation, conjured images of phosphorescent plankton, a common enough phenomenon. But then, the shapes resolved themselves. Not a shimmering cloud, but individual forms, each as wide as a fisherman's shield, interlocking with impossible precision. They were scales. Not the rough, familiar scales of a fish, but something ancient, preternatural. They coiled, writhed, and expanded beneath the surface, a vast, living tapestry of green-gold, suggesting a creature of unimaginable size, a serpent too vast for the known world. It was a sight that defied logic, mocked the comfortable boundaries of his reality.
A tendril rose from the shimmering depths, a sinuous ribbon of emerald light. Minh watched, mesmerized, as it stretched towards his boat, its movement slow, deliberate, almost curious. His breath hitched in his throat. No, not a tendril. As it breached the surface, the moonlight caught it, revealing the unmistakable articulation of a claw. Jagged, emerald talons, each tipped with a faint, obsidian gleam, spread open as if in an invitation. It was a part of the colossal form beneath, an extension of the living, scaled darkness.
Before Minh could even form a cry, before the primal scream could tear itself from his constricted throat, the impossible happened. The dragon scales, each one a jewel of shifting color, began to slide up his arms. They moved with a chilling sentience, adhering to his skin not like a solid object, but like a liquid, seeping into him. They weren't an external armor, but a chilling, internal transformation. He felt them spreading, cool and smooth, across his forearms, then his biceps, a cold fire embracing his skin. They crept across his chest, the weight of them growing, suffocating. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, as they scaled his throat, a tightening vise that threatened to steal his very voice. It was not a physical binding, but something far more insidious, a venomous skin that was becoming him, or rather, transforming him into something else entirely.
His body went rigid, locked in a horrified paralysis. He tried to move, to tear at the encroaching scales, but his limbs refused to obey. His heart, which had been pounding a frantic rhythm, now slowed, once, twice, each beat a heavy tolling bell in the profound silence. It was not the slowing of death, but of an unnatural, enforced calm, a surrender to a power beyond his comprehension.
Above, the sea, which had been so unnaturally still, now boiled softly, not with crashing waves, but with an internal, phosphorescent luminescence, as if the very water was alive, churning with latent power. And then, a voice, ancient and resonant, echoed not in the air, but directly in his skull, a sound that bypassed his ears and resonated in the very core of his being. It was deeper than the ocean, older than the mountains, a sound that hummed with the weight of forgotten eons.
"Do you wish to know how you die?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with a terrible prophecy, and Minh, bound and silenced, could only feel the cold, metallic taste of fear, mingling with the strange, sweet scent of the sea that now permeated his very essence. He was no longer just a fisherman; he was a canvas, upon which an ancient, terrifying truth was being inscribed. The binding was complete. The transformation had begun.
Part II: Death Beneath the Waves
The words, "Do you wish to know how you die?" echoed in the cavern of Minh's skull, not as a question to be answered, but as a chilling pronouncement. He gasped, a desperate, futile attempt to draw air, but his lungs, strangely, did not fill with water. Instead, they filled with visions. It was as if the scales, now a living part of him, were conduits, flooding his mind with a torrent of images, sharp and terrifyingly clear.
He saw himself, days from now. The exact number was elusive, but the certainty was absolute. He was on this very boat, the Thủy Thần, now battered and listing. The familiar creak of the planks, the scent of salt and old fish, all were there, but imbued with a terrible sense of finality. The nets, his lifeline, were empty, trailing uselessly in the turbulent water, a symbol of his utter failure. The sky, which had been so calm moments before, was now a roiling canvas of bruised purples and angry greys, storming with a ferocity he had never witnessed. Lightning cleaved the heavens, illuminating monstrous waves that rose like sentient peaks.
He saw the waves rise—unnatural, grotesque. They were not merely water; they were dragon-backed, each crest adorned with the same shimmering, emerald-gold scales that now coated his own skin. They moved with a predatory intelligence, driven by a primal fury. This was not a natural storm, but a deliberate, summoned wrath.
Then, he saw the moment of his undoing. He was pulled under. Not by the brute force of a rogue wave, not by accident. There was an insidious gentleness to it, an almost solicitous embrace. It was an invitation. The vision was so vivid, he could feel the cold embrace of the depths, the subtle pull, a seductive gravity drawing him down.
The revelation struck him with the force of a physical blow: the dragon lord did not take what was not offered. But Minh had prayed. Minh had called him. He had sought fortune, yes, but in doing so, he had invoked the ancient name, had acknowledged the dominion of Lạc Long Quân. And now, the scales had marked him, an undeniable brand, a testament to his unwitting offering. He had asked for guidance, and the Dragon Lord, in his boundless, terrifying power, was providing it, not for his life, but for his death.
Minh's skin burned with an internal fire, a chilling paradox. He clawed at the growing plates that now wrapped his entire body, a desperate, animalistic struggle against the inevitable. But his hands, once calloused and strong, now felt alien, clumsy. The scales, no longer merely coating his skin, were pulsing, a faint, rhythmic throb beneath his fingertips. With each pulse, he felt a strange, cold liquid seeping into his veins, not blood, but a venom, thick and chilling. It spread through him, bypassing his circulatory system, affecting his very essence, altering his perception, his will. His vision, already blurred from the suffocating pressure of the scales, now swam with iridescent motes, a dizzying kaleidoscope of emerald and gold, as if his eyes themselves were transforming, adapting to a new, aqueous reality.
The voice, that ancient, resonating hum in his skull, spoke again, its tone not malevolent, but simply stating a profound, inescapable truth:
"You called the blood of the sea. The blood answers."
It was not a threat, but a statement of consequence, a reminder of the unbreakable covenant between man and myth. Minh had dipped his fingers into the ancient currents, and now the currents were claiming him whole.
The last vestiges of his human will dissolved. His limbs, once so resistant, now yielded. He toppled into the water, not with a splash, but with a silent, graceful descent. The surface rippled once, then settled back into its unnatural calm, leaving no trace of his struggle. The dragon's scales, now fully fused with his being, glowing faintly with that eerie emerald light, did not drag him violently. Instead, they acted as a second skin, binding his limbs with a chilling precision, pulling him gently downward. He was not drowning in the conventional sense. There was no desperate struggle for air, no choking sensation. Instead, his lungs felt as though they were slowly, serenely filling with a cool, clear liquid, an alchemical transformation that mirrored the one occurring on his skin. He was not being destroyed, but preparing. Preparing for the day the storm would come, when the sea would reclaim him fully, when his essence would be subsumed into the vast, ancient consciousness of the ocean.
On the surface, the Thủy Thần drifted, a ghost ship under the moon, its nets empty, its lone occupant vanished. It was a silent testament to a destiny fulfilled, a bargain unknowingly struck.
In the depths, a fisherman's silhouette twisted once, twice, no longer a human form, but something shifting, evolving. And then, it was gone—not vanished, but woven now into the vast, ancient coils of Lạc Long Quân himself. Minh, the fisherman, was no more. His individual consciousness had dissolved, his essence absorbed into the primordial being of the Dragon Lord. He was not merely dead; he was integrated, his atoms now part of the ancient currents, his spirit a whispering memory within the boundless, eternal consciousness of the sea. His prayer for fortune had been answered, but not in the way he had ever imagined. He had become the fortune, a part of the very myth he had invoked, forever bound to the watery fate of Lạc Long Quân.
Minh, a man etched by the sun and the ceaseless rhythm of the tides, had always found solace in the vast, indifferent embrace of the East Sea. His boat, the Thủy Thần, was more than just a vessel; it was an extension of his own weathered spirit, a silent confidante through countless dawns and dusks. For generations, his family had plied these waters, their lives interwoven with the sea's bounty and its unpredictable wrath. They honored Lạc Long Quân, the revered Dragon Lord, not with elaborate rituals, but with the quiet reverence of those who understood their place in the grand, ancient scheme of things.
Tonight, however, was different. An unease, subtle yet pervasive, had clung to Minh since sunset. The air was unnaturally still, the usual gentle murmur of the waves replaced by an almost hesitant lapping against the Thủy Thần's hull. Superstition, a silent companion to every fisherman, pricked at him. Yet, the nets had to be cast. His family, his ailing mother, depended on his meager catches.
He whispered his usual plea, "Bring me fortune. Lạc Long Quân, lord of the sea, father of dragons—guide my hands." It was a simple invocation, a humble request for providence, no different from a thousand others he had uttered. He sought fish, not revelation.
Then, the world shifted. The wind, which had been absent, now sighed through the rigging, a sound like a whispered warning. The sea, previously a restless canvas of shifting shadows, became a mirror, reflecting the cold, indifferent gaze of the moon. A profound stillness descended, so absolute it seemed to swallow the very sound of his own breathing. Every nerve ending in Minh's body hummed with an electric premonition.
Beneath the keel, a luminescence bloomed, a soft, emerald glow that pulsed with an otherworldly life. Minh peered over the side, his heart thrumming against his ribs like a trapped bird. At first, his mind, desperate for a mundane explanation, conjured images of phosphorescent plankton, a common enough phenomenon. But then, the shapes resolved themselves. Not a shimmering cloud, but individual forms, each as wide as a fisherman's shield, interlocking with impossible precision. They were scales. Not the rough, familiar scales of a fish, but something ancient, preternatural. They coiled, writhed, and expanded beneath the surface, a vast, living tapestry of green-gold, suggesting a creature of unimaginable size, a serpent too vast for the known world. It was a sight that defied logic, mocked the comfortable boundaries of his reality.
A tendril rose from the shimmering depths, a sinuous ribbon of emerald light. Minh watched, mesmerized, as it stretched towards his boat, its movement slow, deliberate, almost curious. His breath hitched in his throat. No, not a tendril. As it breached the surface, the moonlight caught it, revealing the unmistakable articulation of a claw. Jagged, emerald talons, each tipped with a faint, obsidian gleam, spread open as if in an invitation. It was a part of the colossal form beneath, an extension of the living, scaled darkness.
Before Minh could even form a cry, before the primal scream could tear itself from his constricted throat, the impossible happened. The dragon scales, each one a jewel of shifting color, began to slide up his arms. They moved with a chilling sentience, adhering to his skin not like a solid object, but like a liquid, seeping into him. They weren't an external armor, but a chilling, internal transformation. He felt them spreading, cool and smooth, across his forearms, then his biceps, a cold fire embracing his skin. They crept across his chest, the weight of them growing, suffocating. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, as they scaled his throat, a tightening vise that threatened to steal his very voice. It was not a physical binding, but something far more insidious, a venomous skin that was becoming him, or rather, transforming him into something else entirely.
His body went rigid, locked in a horrified paralysis. He tried to move, to tear at the encroaching scales, but his limbs refused to obey. His heart, which had been pounding a frantic rhythm, now slowed, once, twice, each beat a heavy tolling bell in the profound silence. It was not the slowing of death, but of an unnatural, enforced calm, a surrender to a power beyond his comprehension.
Above, the sea, which had been so unnaturally still, now boiled softly, not with crashing waves, but with an internal, phosphorescent luminescence, as if the very water was alive, churning with latent power. And then, a voice, ancient and resonant, echoed not in the air, but directly in his skull, a sound that bypassed his ears and resonated in the very core of his being. It was deeper than the ocean, older than the mountains, a sound that hummed with the weight of forgotten eons.
"Do you wish to know how you die?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with a terrible prophecy, and Minh, bound and silenced, could only feel the cold, metallic taste of fear, mingling with the strange, sweet scent of the sea that now permeated his very essence. He was no longer just a fisherman; he was a canvas, upon which an ancient, terrifying truth was being inscribed. The binding was complete. The transformation had begun.
Part II: Death Beneath the Waves
The words, "Do you wish to know how you die?" echoed in the cavern of Minh's skull, not as a question to be answered, but as a chilling pronouncement. He gasped, a desperate, futile attempt to draw air, but his lungs, strangely, did not fill with water. Instead, they filled with visions. It was as if the scales, now a living part of him, were conduits, flooding his mind with a torrent of images, sharp and terrifyingly clear.
He saw himself, days from now. The exact number was elusive, but the certainty was absolute. He was on this very boat, the Thủy Thần, now battered and listing. The familiar creak of the planks, the scent of salt and old fish, all were there, but imbued with a terrible sense of finality. The nets, his lifeline, were empty, trailing uselessly in the turbulent water, a symbol of his utter failure. The sky, which had been so calm moments before, was now a roiling canvas of bruised purples and angry greys, storming with a ferocity he had never witnessed. Lightning cleaved the heavens, illuminating monstrous waves that rose like sentient peaks.
He saw the waves rise—unnatural, grotesque. They were not merely water; they were dragon-backed, each crest adorned with the same shimmering, emerald-gold scales that now coated his own skin. They moved with a predatory intelligence, driven by a primal fury. This was not a natural storm, but a deliberate, summoned wrath.
Then, he saw the moment of his undoing. He was pulled under. Not by the brute force of a rogue wave, not by accident. There was an insidious gentleness to it, an almost solicitous embrace. It was an invitation. The vision was so vivid, he could feel the cold embrace of the depths, the subtle pull, a seductive gravity drawing him down.
The revelation struck him with the force of a physical blow: the dragon lord did not take what was not offered. But Minh had prayed. Minh had called him. He had sought fortune, yes, but in doing so, he had invoked the ancient name, had acknowledged the dominion of Lạc Long Quân. And now, the scales had marked him, an undeniable brand, a testament to his unwitting offering. He had asked for guidance, and the Dragon Lord, in his boundless, terrifying power, was providing it, not for his life, but for his death.
Minh's skin burned with an internal fire, a chilling paradox. He clawed at the growing plates that now wrapped his entire body, a desperate, animalistic struggle against the inevitable. But his hands, once calloused and strong, now felt alien, clumsy. The scales, no longer merely coating his skin, were pulsing, a faint, rhythmic throb beneath his fingertips. With each pulse, he felt a strange, cold liquid seeping into his veins, not blood, but a venom, thick and chilling. It spread through him, bypassing his circulatory system, affecting his very essence, altering his perception, his will. His vision, already blurred from the suffocating pressure of the scales, now swam with iridescent motes, a dizzying kaleidoscope of emerald and gold, as if his eyes themselves were transforming, adapting to a new, aqueous reality.
The voice, that ancient, resonating hum in his skull, spoke again, its tone not malevolent, but simply stating a profound, inescapable truth:
"You called the blood of the sea. The blood answers."
It was not a threat, but a statement of consequence, a reminder of the unbreakable covenant between man and myth. Minh had dipped his fingers into the ancient currents, and now the currents were claiming him whole.
The last vestiges of his human will dissolved. His limbs, once so resistant, now yielded. He toppled into the water, not with a splash, but with a silent, graceful descent. The surface rippled once, then settled back into its unnatural calm, leaving no trace of his struggle. The dragon's scales, now fully fused with his being, glowing faintly with that eerie emerald light, did not drag him violently. Instead, they acted as a second skin, binding his limbs with a chilling precision, pulling him gently downward. He was not drowning in the conventional sense. There was no desperate struggle for air, no choking sensation. Instead, his lungs felt as though they were slowly, serenely filling with a cool, clear liquid, an alchemical transformation that mirrored the one occurring on his skin. He was not being destroyed, but preparing. Preparing for the day the storm would come, when the sea would reclaim him fully, when his essence would be subsumed into the vast, ancient consciousness of the ocean.
On the surface, the Thủy Thần drifted, a ghost ship under the moon, its nets empty, its lone occupant vanished. It was a silent testament to a destiny fulfilled, a bargain unknowingly struck.
In the depths, a fisherman's silhouette twisted once, twice, no longer a human form, but something shifting, evolving. And then, it was gone—not vanished, but woven now into the vast, ancient coils of Lạc Long Quân himself. Minh, the fisherman, was no more. His individual consciousness had dissolved, his essence absorbed into the primordial being of the Dragon Lord. He was not merely dead; he was integrated, his atoms now part of the ancient currents, his spirit a whispering memory within the boundless, eternal consciousness of the sea. His prayer for fortune had been answered, but not in the way he had ever imagined. He had become the fortune, a part of the very myth he had invoked, forever bound to the watery fate of Lạc Long Quân.