Dragon-Hold

Hearing that his eldest sister was about to return to her natal home, Yang Xiaohai’s worried heart settled a little. In this day and age, the sea was still safer than the shore.

“Fifth! Father wants you.”

At these words from his second brother inside the boat’s awning, Yang Xiaohai quickly acknowledged and, crouching low, rinsed his hands in the water before standing and ducking inside.

The awning was not large, and Yang Xiaohai could walk inside without needing to stoop.

“Come! Fifth! Drink to your elders!” His father, Chi Baishui, pulled him over and pressed a cup of wine into his hand.

Though Yang Xiaohai did not usually drink, faced with the old men appraising him, he tipped his head back and downed it.

The wine was strange, reeking of fish, and it made him want to gag.

Seeing the look on Yang Xiaohai’s face, the others burst into laughter.

“What’s wrong, Fifth? Can’t handle it? This is White Fish wine—good stuff! It’s both a drink and a cure! You’ll get used to it after a few rounds.” Chi Baishui slapped him hard on the back and joined in the laughter.

“Fish… fish wine? You can make wine from fish too?” As a cook, Yang Xiaohai had never encountered such a thing.

“Now that’s a fresh question! Of course you can make wine from fish! Come, come!” Chi Baishui pulled him to the seat.

After several rounds of wine and dishes, the conversation turned to serious matters. Half-drunk, Chi Baishui took a sip and said, “Fifth, since you’re back, go to the Dragon King Temple tomorrow morning and re-register as a Dragon-Hold. I’ll buy you a boat—you can fish properly from now on and live your life with your wife.”

Yang Xiaohai was momentarily stunned. Buy a boat? Fish? Live a settled life? None of these had been in his plans.

Seeing the look on his face, Chi Baishui’s expression darkened. “What? You’re not planning to leave again, are you? Then why did you even come back?”

Hearing that his long-absent father seemed angry, Yang Xiaohai grew flustered. “Father, no, that’s not it.”

“Enough. It’s settled. Now get out.”

Watching her husband emerge from the awning looking dazed, Zhao Xiumei, who had been picking apart a crab shell, quickly stood and hurried over.

“Husband, what’s wrong? Wasn’t it a feast? Why do you look like this?”

Yang Xiaohai stared blankly at her. “Xiumei, my father wants me to stay. Live here. What do you think?”

Zhao Xiumei turned, looking out at the wooden boats swaying on the distant sea, their oil lamps flickering, and at the families aboard each one. “Marry a rooster, follow a rooster; marry a dog, follow a dog. I’m fine with anything. I’ll… follow you.”

Hearing this, Yang Xiaohai said nothing more. He simply sat back down on the prow and continued the feast with his newfound siblings.

That night, lying in the netting, Yang Xiaohai tossed and turned, unable to sleep. On one side were his newly met family; on the other, the martial brothers who had saved him and fought alongside him through every hardship of the journey.

He wanted both, of course. But that seemed near impossible. It felt like he could only choose one.

In a drowsy haze, Yang Xiaohai drifted off to sleep. When he opened his eyes again, he saw his mother gazing at him tenderly, her expression as if she was afraid he might vanish again.

A warmth spread through Yang Xiaohai’s chest. He had never felt this kind of familial worry before.

“Fifth! You’re awake? I’ll take you to the Dragon King Temple. Your father is waiting.” At these words, Yang Xiaohai nodded, stood, and helped his mother up the ladder out of the cabin.

Whether he stayed or left in the end, the ancestral hall was still a necessary step. He was, after all, a member of this family.

Walking from boat to boat, Yang Xiaohai led his mother through the cluster of wooden structures sitting on the sea. The uneven, narrow paths were tricky to navigate, and he kept kicking against other people’s clutter.

But the people here were friendly enough, offering Yang Xiaohai kindly glances.

At one point, Yang Xiaohai thought to ask his mother whether the family might follow him to Niu Xin Village—life there was clearly better than fishing at sea.

Then he remembered, again, that his mother was deaf. He had been talking for a while with no response at all.

“Never mind. I’ll talk to Father after I get into the family registry.”

After a short walk along the path, a temple with an unusually wide eaves appeared before them. The broad roof blocked out all light, making Yang Xiaohai feel a little oppressed.

“Come. Don’t keep your father waiting—his temper isn’t good,” his mother said, pulling him inside.

Once through the threshold, Yang Xiaohai gaped at a massive painting in the distance. Dark-toned and shrouded by the white haze of burning incense, it felt deeply mysterious.

“Mother, what is that?” As his finger started to rise, his mother pressed it back down.

“Don’t point. That’s a grave disrespect to the Dragon King.”

“The Dragon King? But isn’t that a black snake?” In the distant painting, a huge, pupil-less black serpent coiled within the frame.

“Ah, our Dragon King looks like this. Now go and offer incense. The Dragon King used to be unreliable, but now—he’s truly responsive!”

Urged on by his mother, Yang Xiaohai solemnly offered incense to the Dragon King in the painting and performed the full ritual of three bows and nine kowtows.

As he kowtowed, a group of people filed out. Among them were Chi Baishui and the old men from the feast the night before.

Today, however, they wore robes—brown upper garments and skirts, with outer cloaks. The attire was very formal.

Yang Xiaohai looked closely. He realized the robes were made of fish scales, or perhaps fish skin.

Just as Yang Xiaohai was wondering whether this meant he was officially a Dragon-Hold, an old man with a white beard stepped forward, produced a roll of bamboo slips, and began to read from them before the painting.

Yang Xiaohai understood none of it. The man’s accent was very strong, and his voice rose and fell like a chant.

But one name appeared several times. Yang Xiaohai managed to catch it: Ao Wuzhi.

“Kneel~”

At this command, Yang Xiaohai knelt again before the giant painting.

When his third round of bows and kowtows finished, Yang Xiaohai saw the old men in fish-skin ritual robes surrounding him, their faces solemn.

Before he understood what was happening, Chi Baishui stepped forward and stripped off Yang Xiaohai’s clothes.

Then, a fishbone dipped in ink was pressed into Yang Xiaohai’s skin, bringing an agonizing pain.

Instinctively, he tried to rise—but found he could not move. The fishbone carried more than just ink.

So Yang Xiaohai remained on his knees, glancing sideways at his anxious parents, enduring the fishbone as it left layer after layer of scale tattoos across his body—the same markings worn by all the Dan-min.