Heart of the Ocean (2): Immortal jellyfish

Tan Xiao led Xiao Bai back and forth through the aquarium twice, carefully observing every animal inside.  

According to the instance’s introduction, the marine life had undergone mutations, but he couldn’t spot any differences in the aquarium’s creatures.  

The residents of this seaside town seemed simple and honest, living off the ocean’s bounty. They didn’t mistreat the aquarium animals. Though there were animal performances, the animals participated willingly. Each of them appeared glossy and well-fed, clearly in excellent condition.  

Tan Xiao let out a sigh of relief: the animals weren’t being abused by the aquarium staff, so the instance probably didn’t involve supernatural elements.  

Although the instance’s description mentioned a capsized ship causing the marine life to mutate, the system’s introduction didn’t reveal everything. Many forum posts accused the system of toying with players, hiding crucial details to trap them.  

Still unable to find Wen Yi, he left the aquarium with a tinge of disappointment.  

By then, it was already dusk on the second day. The seaside town’s sunset was breathtaking—the sky awash with vibrant hues, pure white seagulls gliding over the ocean, waves lapping against the fine white sand. Residents and tourists alike combed the beach at low tide, searching for treasures.  

This was a tranquility rarely found in big cities. The pristine scenery and the rhythmic sound of waves seemed to soothe the soul.  

The beautiful view lifted Tan Xiao’s melancholy mood slightly, but then a sudden commotion erupted outside the town: “A ship has capsized!”  

“Hurry, go save people!”  

Sirens wailed through the town, and the atmosphere grew chaotic as onlookers gathered. Remembering the instance’s introduction, Tan Xiao’s heart sank. Still, he held onto Xiao Bai and followed the crowd.  

After a moment’s thought, he put on a pair of sunglasses and a dust mask.  

Though he didn’t know exactly what had happened, anything capable of mutating marine life likely meant environmental contamination. Better to be prepared—just in case.  

The shipwreck caused a major uproar. The once-clear seawater quickly turned pitch black, startling nearby surfers.  

“It’s an oil tanker! Get away—this much crude oil could easily trigger an explosion!”  

The panicked tourists were rescued in time, but they were drenched in thick, black oil, their bodies sticky and filthy—a miserable sight.

The black seawater refracted the sunlight, shimmering with a kaleidoscope of colors.  

Soon, the police set up barricades along the shore and began evacuating the surrounding tourists.  

Tan Xiao overheard the fishermen sighing in dismay: “A huge stretch of the ocean is polluted—our catches are going to shrink again.”  

“The black water is still spreading. Who knows how long it’ll take to clean up?”  

The sea was fluid, with a powerful self-purifying ability, but the capsized oil tanker was a massive vessel with an enormous capacity. This “black gold” dredged from the depths of the earth wouldn’t be so easily broken down by the ocean.  

Crude oil spread across the water’s surface, and countless fish floated belly-up, their pale bodies littering the sea in a dense, eerie mass.  

Realizing something, Tan Xiao didn’t linger by the shore. Instead, he quickly led Xiao Bai into the seafood market and picked the largest seafood stall. “I’ll take everything in your shop.”  

The shop owner double-checked: “You’re not joking, right, buddy? We’ve got a lot of stock left—worth several hundred thousand.”  

Seafood was much cheaper near the coast, but this was a big store with plenty of high-end offerings, like lobsters that cost thousands each. Even though it was late, the remaining inventory was still worth at least half a million.  

Tan Xiao nodded firmly. “I’m sure. Do you accept card payments? If not, it’s a no-go.” He held up a sleek black card, gleaming under the light.  

Since he rarely visited the seaside, he had wanted to indulge in fresh seafood. But now, with the shipwreck, the game zone around the town would surely suffer severe consequences. Unscrupulous vendors might even try selling mutated fish contaminated by the black water.  

The seafood currently in the market had been caught earlier—still safe to eat.  

However, his storage space for live seafood was limited. Tan Xiao eyed the large tanks and oxygen equipment. “Can I buy these fish-keeping systems too? Do you have any recommended aquarium suppliers? I’ll pay. I only want live seafood—no dead ones.”  

This was a massive order, and the shop owner was overjoyed. “No problem! The store next door sells tanks. If you’re serious, I’ll give you a great deal and even throw in free delivery!”  

The neighboring shop specialized in aquariums, stocked with all kinds of ornamental fish. The two businesses were run by relatives. Tan Xiao first went next door to order the tanks, then returned to the seafood shop to swipe his card.

Because of the large purchase, the shop owner kindly threw in some small oxygen supply equipment. While browsing the neighboring store, Tan Xiao spotted some exceptionally beautiful ornamental fish.  

The shopkeeper enthusiastically promoted his fish to this big-spending young customer: “Our fish are raised with top care, and we offer after-sales service—plus free fish food!”  

Tan Xiao watched the tropical fish swimming leisurely, envying their carefree existence.  

He was tempted but shook his head. “No need, I’ve already bought plenty of fish.”  

Aside from lobsters, most of the seafood shop’s stock consisted of edible fish—not as pretty as ornamental ones, but delicious.  

He was only staying here for a month, so there was no point wasting money on flashy but impractical things.  

But as he passed a small fish tank, Tan Xiao suddenly stopped. “What’s this? It’s beautiful.”  

It was a palm-sized tank, usually marketed to tourists—just big enough for some water plants, a few pebbles, and a couple of short-lived goldfish.  

But this particular tank was empty except for a bit of clear water and a single jellyfish, no bigger than Tan Xiao’s fingernail, drifting lazily in the water.  

When Tan Xiao approached, the jellyfish pressed itself against the smooth glass, motionless, as if staring back at him.  

It was a stunning jellyfish. Suddenly, Tan Xiao felt an overwhelming urge to own it.  

The aquarium shop owner glanced over. “Oh, that? It’s a jellyfish—a Turritopsis dohrnii.”

Goldfish were small, but the Turritopsis was even tinier, only about 4 to 5 millimeters in size.  

“A friend gave it to me, so I just kept it here.”  

Since this cheap little thing wasn’t selling well, he’d casually tossed it into a spare tank.  

Tan Xiao looked up. “Can I buy this jellyfish?”  

An intense desire burned in his chest—he had to have it. If the shopkeeper refused to sell, he’d even consider stealing it.  

But since Tan Xiao had already bought so many tanks and oxygen equipment—and was referred to by the neighboring relative—the shop owner waved magnanimously. “No charge. This thing’s only worth a few dozen bucks anyway. If you want it, it’s yours.”  

He grabbed a transparent plastic bag, scooped the jellyfish into it, and kept the small tank for himself.  

Tan Xiao asked, “Any special care instructions? What does it eat?”  

The shopkeeper replied, “This kind of jellyfish probably eats plankton. We sell feed here—tiny fish larvae work well.”  

Eager to push more sales, he added, “Jellyfish themselves aren’t expensive, but they need high-end tanks—around 10,000 bucks—or they’ll die fast.”  

Though Turritopsis dohrnii was famously immortal, under poor conditions, it would “rejuvenate”—reverting to a cyst-like state, essentially disappearing.  

That was why the shopkeeper was happy to offload it. A lone, worthless jellyfish wasn’t worth a 10,000-yuan tank.  

Tan Xiao’s earlier purchases were all commercial-grade glass tanks for seafood—cheap, ugly, and functional. Combined, they hadn’t cost much.  

After a quick online search (which matched the shopkeeper’s claims), Tan Xiao did something unexpected: he bought zero ornamental fish—but splurged on an expensive jellyfish tank for that single, lonely Turritopsis.  

The shopkeeper grinned ear to ear. The more “suckers” like this, the better.  

Generously, he tossed in extra fish food. “These baby brine shrimp are perfect for Turritopsis. Feed it a little every day.”  

Afraid the customer might change his mind, the owner hurriedly sealed the deal. “I’ll deliver the tank right away!”  

In no time, Tan Xiao’s three-story house was filled with fish tanks and lively seafood.  

But Tan Xiao ignored the delicious haul. Instead, he pressed his face against the glass, mesmerized by the one-of-a-kind jellyfish.  

In the seawater, it swam joyfully—its bell-shaped body pulsing gently, delicate tentacles swaying like threads of silk.  

“One, two…”  

Most Turritopsis had 80 to 120 tentacles. Tan Xiao counted carefully, over and over. This one had exactly 99.  

The number 99 felt familiar. After all, during his time with Wen Yi, the other had always emphasized eternity¹.  

But this jellyfish couldn’t be Wen Yi… could it? It was so small—even fully grown, it’d only be thumb-sized.  

In Tan Xiao’s mind, even if Wen Yi weren’t human, he’d at least be human-sized.  

Still, whether it was Wen Yi or not, Tan Xiao would take good care of it.  

He sprinkled plankton into the tank. Instantly, those adorable tentacles shot out, ensnaring the tiny prey with paralyzing precision before delivering them to its central mouth.  

Feed the jellyfish. Watch it eat. Repeat.  

Tan Xiao cycled through these actions obsessively for hours.  

Only when the sun fully set did Xiao Bai finally bark: “Master, eat! Starving to death here!”  

Snapping out of it, Tan Xiao headed to the kitchen to prepare dinner for himself and the dog.  

The moment he disappeared, the jellyfish in the tank expanded.  

A translucent tentacle lashed out—snatching a large fish from another tank.

Notes

1. In Chinese culture, the number 99 (九九, jiǔjiǔ) symbolizes “long time” or “eternally”. This meaning is derived from the homophone of “99” (jiǔjiǔ) and the phrase “久久” (jiǔjiǔ), which translates to “a long time”. ↩︎