Fan He guided his battered fishing boat toward the distant lights of the port. The familiar scent of salt and damp wood filled the night air, but his hands remained tight on the rudder, his body aching from exhaustion.
A month at sea.
A month of battling waves, enduring storms, and barely scraping by.
Since his father's death, the weight of survival had rested solely on his sixteen-year-old shoulders. His mother's illness drained what little they had, and his little sister was still too young to help.
At thirteen, he had stolen his father's boat and ventured out alone, because no grown man had dared sail with a child. They had all expected him to vanish beneath the waves. Instead, he returned a week later, nets heavy with fish and a fire in his eyes that refused to be extinguished.
Now, three years later, he was one of the best fishermen in Hanboia Holm. Yet, even skill meant little during the low tide period. Fish were scarce unless you sailed into the raging deep—a gamble between hunger and death.
And last night, death had nearly won.
A brutal storm had battered his boat, ripping the helm to splinters. He had spent the last few hours fighting against the currents, praying the wind and compass would guide him home.
But this part of the sea was unfamiliar. The water felt wrong. The waves were restless, whispering threats with every rise and fall.
He lifted his binoculars, searching for anything recognizable—a lighthouse, an island, even a cursed rock. Nothing.
With a sigh, he turned his attention to his net. He had cast it before the storm, hoping for a miracle. It was a foolish thought, but what else could he do?
"I better pull it up before the waves rip it apart," he muttered.
He braced himself, expecting nothing.
But the moment he pulled, his breath caught.
The net was heavy.
Too heavy.
Adrenaline surged through him as he dug his heels in, muscles straining against the resistance. Excitement flared. Had he caught something big? A bluefin? A sea beast?
Then—his enthusiasm died.
Because what emerged from the depths was not a fish.
A boy.
A limp, half-drowned boy, tangled in the net like discarded cargo.
Fan He froze. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Dead?
He grabbed a paddle and nudged the body. No reaction.
He tried again, harder this time.
The boy suddenly jerked upright, coughing and choking as seawater spewed from his mouth in violent heaves.
Fan He lurched backward, startled, then quickly recovered, moving to pull the net away. "Breathe, damn it." He pounded the boy's back, helping expel the remaining water.
The boy collapsed forward, shivering, gasping for air.
Only when the coughing fit subsided did Fan He finally get a good look at him.
Long, ink-black hair, slick with seawater. A pale face, almost ghostly under the moonlight, marred only by a thin scar tracing his left eye. Striking.
Too striking.
For a moment, Fan He considered whether he had just fished out some noble's runaway heir. But then his gaze dropped to the boy's clothing—thin, cheap fabric, oversized and threadbare.
Not a noble.
A runaway slave.
Fan He exhaled sharply.
What the hell had he just pulled from the sea?.
"Brother, are you okay?" Fan He asked, his voice laced with concern.
The boy—no, young man—blinked, his dark eyes still hazy from near-drowning. His breathing was uneven, his body trembling, but he was alive.
"Thanks… for saving me," he rasped, glancing around as if trying to gather his bearings.
Fan He handed him a flask of water. "Drink. You must have swallowed half the sea."
The young man—Mo Zhenyu—nodded in gratitude, taking small, careful sips.
"How did you end up here?" Fan He pressed, studying the stranger with a mix of curiosity and caution.
Mo Zhenyu hesitated before answering, adjusting his soaked, oversized clothing. "I'm a painter."
Fan He raised a brow. A painter?
"I was sailing with my… companions," Mo Zhenyu continued, his voice steady but guarded. "The storm last night overturned our boat. If you hadn't lowered your net, I'd probably still be floating out there. So, truly… thank you."
Fan He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's nothing. Just luck." He extended a hand. "I'm Fan He, a fisherman."
Mo Zhenyu shook it weakly, still shivering from the cold. Fan He frowned and grabbed a thick kilt, wrapping it around the young man's shoulders.
"Do you know where we are?" Mo Zhenyu asked, his voice softer now.
"I don't," Fan He admitted, grimacing at the realization. "But my compass points home. That's all I can rely on right now."
Mo Zhenyu pulled out a pair of bamboo glasses and slid them onto his face. The change was instant. His striking features were now softened, turning him from an almost ethereal beauty into an ordinary, scholarly youth.
Clever.
"Brother Fan He, where is your home?" he asked, still rubbing his hands for warmth.
"Hanboia Holm. It's a small island near the coasts of the FuoDan Kingdom," Fan He replied.
Mo Zhenyu tilted his head slightly. The name meant nothing to him.
Sensing the confusion, Fan He sighed and leaned against the railing. "We're on the Canglan Continent. At its center, the Starborn Empire rules everything, while smaller kingdoms like FuoDan exist at the edges."
Mo Zhenyu's eyes widened slightly. "The world is… that big?"
Fan He chuckled. "You have no idea. Even crossing the Dark Sea from Hanboia Holm to the FuoDan Kingdom takes months without a StarShip." His voice took on a hint of pride. "My father used to say the kingdom is so vast that it would take years to explore every corner."
Mo Zhenyu was silent for a moment, absorbing the information. Then, he asked casually, "What's your Astral cultivator rank?"
Fan He stiffened.
"How did you know?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
Mo Zhenyu smiled faintly. "Just a guess. Being alone at sea like this is suicidal unless you're a cultivator."
Fan He sighed. "You're sharp."
"You have to be, if you're a mortal trying to survive in this world."
Fan He nodded. "Unfortunately, you're right."
Mo Zhenyu's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he asked, "Then why is an Astral cultivator… fishing?"
Fan He exhaled, looking away. The wind howled over the waves, filling the silence between them.
"There's something worse than being a mortal," he muttered at last. "And that's being a cultivator without background or talent."
Mo Zhenyu's eyes darkened. "You mean…?"
"I awakened a two-star constellation." Fan He's voice was flat. "In practice, that makes me only slightly better than a mortal. No sect wants someone like me. I can't rise, I can't grow stronger. All I can do is protect my home with my meager strength."
A bitter smile curled his lips.
"Is your home in danger?" Mo Zhenyu asked quietly.
Fan He's fingers tightened around the wooden railing. "Because we're so far from the kingdom, pirates raid small islands like ours whenever they please. They bring destruction every time they come."
A heavy silence hung between them.
Mo Zhenyu let out a sigh. "Life is tough."
Fan He scoffed. "That's an understatement."
After a moment, he turned back to Mo Zhenyu. "Where were you heading?"
Mo Zhenyu forced a small smile. "I'm just a wandering painter… looking for new sceneries to perfect my craft."
Fan He studied him for a long moment.
Somehow, he didn't believe a single word.