The fire crackled.
Tiny sparks occasionally leaped from the woodpile, then vanished into the air.
The cramped stone hut was pleasantly warm. Its seamless gray stone walls shut out the cold sea breeze.
There was little space inside. The three of them sat around the central fire, and although the hut was not entirely full, the heat billowing from the flames mingled with their body heat, making the space feel close and snug.
Yet that closeness did not feel crowded. If anything, it drew them together.
The fire still burned brightly. Hanging above it was a large Deep-Sea Flame Conch Shell, polished clean and smooth and serving as a kettle.
These conch shells were naturally heat-resistant. They neither cracked nor leaked, and even prolonged exposure to open flames would not make them overheat or deteriorate. For the longtime residents of Silver Coral Island, they made natural cookware.
Clear water filled the shell, and wisps of white steam drifted from its opening.
Through the veil of steam, Kubota stole a look at Angel across the fire.
Angel sat casually, his expression relaxed and calm. There was nothing lofty about him; he truly looked like an ordinary guest who had happened to stop by.
Kubota, on the other hand, sat bolt upright. His throat felt as though it were stuffed with stones, and he could not get a word out.
Kubota sneaked a glance at Dong Anning.
Dong Anning seemed to be doing better. He looked composed, his expression barely changing. When Angel glanced curiously at the conch-shell kettle, Dong Anning even explained it to him quite naturally.
But Kubota knew Dong Anning was no calmer than he was. He was simply better at hiding it.
Behind his back, Dong Anning kept one hand clenched into a fist, and even then, it