The Dragon's Pearl
A humble fisherman finds a glowing pearl in the river. That night, a dragon appears in his dreams with an unexpected request.
Old Feng had fished the Li River for sixty years. He knew every bend, every sandbar, every hidden pool. But he had never seen anything like what he found that morning.
Tangled in his net was a pearl — perfectly round, the size of a duck's egg, glowing with a soft blue light that pulsed like a heartbeat. It was warm to the touch, and when he held it to his ear, he could have sworn he heard a distant music, like wind chimes in a faraway temple.
He wrapped it in cloth and brought it home. That night, he placed it beside his bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.
He dreamed of a dragon.
It was enormous, its body coiled like a mountain range, its scales shimmering in shades of jade and sapphire. Its eyes — golden and slit-pupiled — regarded him with an expression that was neither hostile nor friendly. It was curious. Appraising.
"Fisherman," the dragon spoke, its voice a deep rumble that vibrated in Feng's bones. "The pearl in your possession is not treasure. It is my egg."
Old Feng's dream-self stammered, "I... I had no idea. I'll return it immediately."
The dragon tilted its massive head. "Most humans who find a dragon's egg would sell it. It is worth a kingdom."
"I am an old man," Feng said. "What use have I for a kingdom?"
The dragon was silent for a long moment. Then it seemed to smile — if a dragon can be said to smile.
"Return the pearl to the deepest pool beneath the Dragon's Tooth Rock at midnight on the full moon," it said. "And I shall give you a gift more precious than gold — the gift of fair weather. Every time you cast your nets, the wind will be gentle and the waters calm."
Feng woke with a start. The pearl still glowed in its cloth wrapping.
Three nights later, under a full moon, the old fisherman rowed to the deepest part of the river and gently lowered the pearl into the dark water. It sank slowly, its blue glow illuminating the depths until it faded into darkness.
The next morning, he sailed out as usual. The river was mirror-smooth. The fish practically leaped into his nets. And when he looked up at the sky, he saw a shape in the clouds — long and serpentine — that might have been a dragon. Or might have been nothing at all.
He smiled and cast his net.
For the remaining years of his life, Old Feng never faced another storm. And every full moon, he would pour a cup of rice wine into the river, a silent offering to the friend he had made in a dream.
— True wealth is not in what you hold, but in what you are willing to return.
