After the sea's surface had calmed, the ship still remained where it was. Wind blew from the south, billowing the sails, but no one spoke.
Chen Wuya stood at the bow, one hand pressed over his left arm. The mark was no longer burning. Instead, it pulsed with a gentle warmth, as though responding to something. He lowered his eyes to the dragon's saliva incense in his arms. Just as he was about to turn back into the cabin, he suddenly heard footsteps in the distance.
Not one person—a crowd.
He raised his head toward Penglai Island. Dawn was just beginning to break, and a line of torches appeared along the shore. The points of light formed an arc and moved slowly along the beach. As they drew closer, he could make out more than a hundred islanders approaching. They wore coarse cloth garments and held pine torches in their hands. Their steps were orderly, and not a sound of clamor rose from them.
The old clan chief walked at the very front.
He leaned on a bone staff and wore a long hemp robe, his beard and hair both white. Behind him came a group of elders and children, men and women, young and old. When they reached the shore, they did not say a word. In one motion, they all dropped to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the ground.
Chen Wuya froze.
He had no idea what was happening. He only felt as though something had struck his chest. He glanced back into the cabin. Bai Zhi leaned against a crate with her eyes closed, while Mo Feng was still busy at the stern, the sound of hammering ringing out without pause.
He did not call for them. He vaulted over the rail by himself.
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