The Fatty chuckled, "Yang Shen, I’ve always taken you for a smart man, but seeing you next to Commander Hu, I realize you’re not even in the same league. Thinking about you spending your life with him makes me worry for you. With your spotless reputation and deep faith in American values, you’d never spot any trickery he’s pulling. Knowing Hu Bayi as I do after all these years, is he some kind of devout Buddhist? Hell no, he’s no saint; the boy spews tales worthy of One Thousand and One Nights. If he can actually get his hands on a Mojin Charm, I’ll tear my own head off and let you two kick it around like a ball. Would hanging a Mojin Charm on his ankle count as retirement? Even if he washes his hands, his feet are still dirty..."

I cursed the Fatty inwardly for hitting the nail on the head, deliberately sabotaging the law-abiding image I had painstakingly built in Shirley Yang’s eyes. Shirley likely already knew the truth; she was just giving me face by keeping silent. Why did he have to babble on? I quickly cut in, diverting everyone's attention. Just then, Uncle Ming finished his prayers to the Fisher Master and was about to bring the blade down on the giant clam, calling us over to help, which finally allowed me to squeak by, for the moment.

Uncle Ming stepped forward, holding a curved blade loosely in his hand, dragging it across the clam shell with a series of ominous sounds. The blade was less than a foot long, curving inward, yet it gleamed fiercely even in the rain. Its hilt was fashioned like a golden dragon’s head, and the handle was covered in scale patterns. We had taken this weapon from the green-headed merchant, ‘Bāi Wǔ,’ on Coral Temple Island. It was a specialized, sharp tool formerly used by the leaders of the Egg Gatherers to slaughter and scrape clams, possessing a history spanning dozens of generations. Countless old clams had been rendered by this Dragon Arc Blade, but using it to hack apart this thousand-year-old Tridacna gigas was likely a first.

A deluge was falling from the sky. Clad in raincoats, we stood on deck, watching Uncle Ming wield the "Dragon Arc Blade" used for clam scraping, drawing the steel back and forth across the exposed flesh of the man-eating clam. The early Egg Gatherers, who relied on collecting eggs and clams from the sea for their livelihood, often likened themselves to the lineage of dragons. This might have been because egg collecting was so perilous; having the word "Dragon" in their descriptions was believed to ward off aggressive sea creatures. This short blade, used for harvesting pearls and slaughtering clams—for battling the water serpents—was thus called the "Dragon Arc." However, in ancient times, only royalty dared claim the title of Dragon; the Egg Gatherers’ use of the character lóng (dragon) was taboo, so they never publicized it or showed the Dragon Arc to outsiders.

Uncle Ming’s grand-uncle had been an Egg Man in his youth, so Uncle Ming knew all the intricacies of egg collecting. Watching him fiddle with the shell like some kind of shaman, murmuring incantations as if performing a rite to deliver the soul of the old clam before execution, both Fatty and I found it rather amusing.

Uncle Ming then chastised us for our ignorance of the true danger. "Mojin" and "Egg Gathering" were both traditional crafts. The Mojin rules were so numerous that mistakes were inevitable; committing a few might not cost your life if your Bāzì (Eight Characters) were strong enough. But the risks faced while gathering eggs at sea were incomparable to those encountered robbing tombs in the mountains. As the saying goes, "Harm the mountain, but don't harm the water; deceive the heavens, but not the sea." No matter how old a tomb in the mountains might be, the sea creatures within it could be far older. If one showed no reverence for the ocean and acted recklessly at sea, ten lives wouldn’t be enough to lose. There are countless people who sail, fish, and gather eggs, but not a single one dares disrespect the Sea God, the Fisher Master.

I inwardly disagreed. My years as a Mojin Officer had taught me that the rule of not touching the gold when the lamp flickers out wasn't superstition about ghosts and gods; it was simply that ordinary people couldn't grasp the true meaning and distorted it through misunderstanding. But now was not the time to argue; I just urged Uncle Ming to hurry up and show us if an annoying clam spirit—one that deceives the honest feelings of working people—was indeed hidden inside the shell.

Shirley Yang didn't want to watch the gruesome scene and decided to head to the bow to meet Ruan Hei and his apprentice. As she left, she called to me, "Old Hu, shall we go to the bow? There are a few things I want to tell you."

I immediately suspected bad news—Fatty must have blurted something out, and now Shirley was going to press me on the difference between washing hands and washing feet. I dreaded this conversation most. I quickly grabbed a mooring line used to tie down the man-eating clam on the aft deck. "How are Uncle Ming and Fatty going to handle such a massive thing? I need to help them out. If you have something to discuss, do it here. I'm not moving an inch until this is done."

Shirley Yang gave me a disappointed look and went to the bow alone in the rain. Watching her retreating back, I let out a sigh of relief. It seemed my "Mojin Charm" was ultimately lost, but as long as we could make a killing this time, I supposed I could settle down and run a legitimate business in America. After all, there were still many people who depended on me; nothing was as important as money, and only I knew my own difficulties.

I thought about the eyes of my comrades who fell on the front lines—could they have gone to their deaths peacefully knowing their families back home were still living in poverty? My mind wandered for a moment. When I snapped back to attention, Uncle Ming had finished his evil-slaying chant. He was using the short Dragon Arc Blade to tap the clam shell, producing crisp sounds that seemed to follow an ancient rhythm. The man-eating clam appeared almost hypnotized; its saw-toothed shells, with their interlocking jaws, trembled slightly and actually split open with a narrow gap.

Fatty and I stared, our mouths agape, not closing for a long time: "This is eerily similar to the Coffin Opening Curse, lost to the Mojin School for years! Rumor has it that if you recite the Coffin Opening Curse a hundred times facing a bronze or iron coffin, you can raise it and secure the treasure without lifting a finger. How is it that after just a few scrapes with a blade, this thousand-year Tridacna gigas surrendered?"

Uncle Ming looked pleased. This was the first time he had used this old method, and its effect was astonishing. It seemed the "Fisher Master" was protecting them; this great clam was a gift to the Egg Gatherers.

Fatty and I both praised Uncle Ming’s masterful clam-gathering skills, saying he was practically an "Old Cadre" who commanded our sincere respect. It seemed the techniques left behind by the ancient Egg Gatherers truly held some profound wisdom.

As the three of us were in high spirits, through the misty rain, a flash of golden light shot out from the fissure between the pale white halves of the man-eating clam, dazzling our eyes. Fatty was quick; he thrust the needle loaded with powerful anesthetic deep into the crack, causing the old clam to seize up violently. In moments, its whole body was paralyzed and unable to move.

We quickly found a separator and wedged the two halves of the Tridacna gigas apart. A wave of fishy, foul stench rushed into our nostrils. In the dim light of the rainy day, the inside of the shell glittered dazzlingly, visible for a hundred paces across the vast, dark expanse of the sea. Before we could get a good look, Uncle Ming frantically yanked off the raincoats we were wearing and covered the dazzling core inside the clam, his face a complex mixture of shock and elation.