Chapter Thirteen - The Immortal
The sea stretched endlessly beneath the pale blue sky. The waves rose and fell with the rhythm of eternity, carrying with them the secrets of ancient tides. Upon that vast ocean, a single vessel cut its way through the waters—a great cargo ship, heavy with goods and weary from its maiden voyage to a distant continent.
Its sails swelled with wind, its deck creaked with labor, and its crew moved with practiced precision. Each man knew his station, each hand his task. Some worked the rigging, others tended to the cargo, while still others kept watch along the rails. Among them strode armored figures—Body Refinement Martial Artists—patrolling in silence, eyes scanning the water for the shadow of sea beasts that lurked in the deep.
At the helm stood the ship's master, Captain Nemo. His face was weathered like driftwood, marked by years of salt, sun, and storm. His gaze was as sharp as a blade, his presence commanding without a word. Nemo was no ordinary sailor—he was a cultivator, a Martial Adept of the Third Layer of Body Refinement, his flesh tempered by thirty years of training. Yet he was more than a fighter. He was an inventor, a craftsman of rare genius, the very mind behind the design of the vessel they sailed. Stronger, swifter, and sturdier than any ship of its age, it was his creation that had carried them across the treacherous span of continental waters.
Not far from him stood a man of mortal birth, Lews, the leader of the merchants aboard. His hair was streaked with grey, his beard well-kept though worn, and his eyes spoke of patience forged by decades of trade and travel. He was no cultivator, no wielder of essence, yet there was a weight to him—a presence born of wisdom and years. Lews was in his sixties, a decade younger than Nemo, but time and hardship had bound them closer than brothers.
The two men spoke little, their friendship not built upon endless words but upon unshaken trust. Where Lews brought wisdom and practical sense, Nemo brought strength and daring. Together they had weathered storms—both of sea and of life.
The ocean stretched endlessly, a mirror of shifting blues and silvers. The crew busied themselves with their duties, though their nerves remained taut. Even the Martial Artists on patrol kept their hands close to the hilts of their blades, wary of what lay beneath the surface.
Jin Kong, an officer among the crew, walked the deck with measured steps. He was a Martial Novice, second layer of body refinement, and vice-captain of the ship. Barely past his twenties, yet already seasoned by voyages and skirmishes with sea beasts, he carried himself with the gravity of responsibility. The martial artists aboard looked to him as their commander, for Captain Nemo entrusted him with their discipline and readiness.
It was Jin Kong who first noticed it.
A figure—impossible, inconceivable—stood upon the water itself. At first Jin Kong thought his eyes had deceived him, that the play of light on the waves had conjured a phantom. But no. The figure did not waver. A man, upright and firm, as though the ocean were solid earth beneath his feet.
"On guard!" Jin Kong barked, his voice ringing with essence. Steel sang as his subordinates drew their blades, rushing to the rails. The crew froze, their work abandoned, as whispers rippled through the ship like a sudden wind.
The man upon the sea looked up. His lips curved into a cheeky grin. Then, without warning, he stepped forward—once, twice—and in the blink of an eye, he was no longer upon the waves but standing on the railing itself, balanced as if born there.
Gasps spread through the ship. Martial Artists tightened their grips on their weapons, unsure whether to strike or flee.
The stranger's appearance was both strange and striking. He looked no older than his mid-twenties. His robes were the deep green of the forest, his boots plain brown, scuffed by long travel. Wild black hair framed his face, untamed as a storm wind, and his amber eyes gleamed with mischief, sharp as sunlight on golden ore. His skin was darkened by the sun, the hue of one accustomed to long journeys under the open sky.
He smiled wider as the martial artists bristled, tension mounting on the deck.
"Peace," he said lightly, as if addressing old friends.
Jin Kong hesitated. His instincts screamed that this man was dangerous, yet there was no aura of hostility. It was then that Captain Nemo arrived, sword in hand, Lews at his side. One glance at the newcomer, and their eyes widened in recognition that the younger martial artists lacked.
They did not speak. They did not ask. They simply dropped to their knees.
"Kneel!" Nemo's voice thundered, and at once the crew and martial artists followed, pressing their foreheads to the deck in reverence. Lews bowed low, his voice trembling with awe.
"An Immortal walks among us—blessed are we! Blessed is this ship!"
The man in green chuckled. He raised one hand, and a current of Spirit Qi flowed outward like a gentle breeze. Invisible yet undeniable, it wrapped around them, lifting every kneeling body effortlessly to their feet. Even those who resisted found themselves standing upright, as if the ocean itself had borne them upward.
"Enough," the Immortal said softly, his grin never fading. "Such worship is unnecessary. I am no deity to bow to, nor a lord seeking tribute." His amber eyes flicked toward Nemo and Lews. "I am but a vagabond, nothing more. A wanderer of seas and skies."
He tilted his head toward the ship, the grin turning playful.
"And today, friends, I seek only one thing—a ride."