Spirit of the Ship

The thin sea mist surged once again, engulfing the ship in its relentless embrace. The crew was exhausted beyond measure, with no clear idea of what might happen next. All around, only the sound of waves crashing against the hull broke the silence. The captain, seasoned by countless storms, felt a cold sweat bead on his forehead once more.

It was the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, a day meant for eating festival porridge. The cook had prepared it in advance, yet everyone remained huddled in their bunks. Even if the terrifying noises returned, even if death arrived, they would rather meet their end in their own beds.

“Captain, you’re here,” Old Ji said, spotting the captain slowly making his way to the dining area, steadying himself against the wall.

“Old Ji, why didn’t you return to your cabin?” the captain asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“You know my nature, Captain. Once the big pot’s boiling, I can’t leave it be. Even if I die—bah, bah, even if we depart these seas, I’d rather go with a full belly.” Old Ji chuckled as he spoke.

“That’s right! Old Ji, you were only twenty-five when you first boarded my ship—still the same as ever, sigh!”

“All old history now,” Old Ji began, but was interrupted by a sudden, tearing sound.

“What was that? What’s happened? Quick, go out and see!” Old Ji tried to rise, but the captain pressed him back with a firm look, making Old Ji understand that certain things required certain people.

The captain staggered out of the cabin, blinking as the darkness was pierced by the milky-