˓ ㅤ 𔕛 How would they react to becoming pen pals with you by chance?
Rating : PG
Words : 3.4K
Warning : No
Version : eng / th
Synopsis : You are just a lonely person who decided to try something strange by writing a letter, tying it to the leg of a bird that visits your window every day, and then letting the bird fly away. You didn't expect anyone in the land of Douluo to actually receive that letter and respond to you.
⠀ ⠀ᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠ⠀ ⠀ᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠ⠀ ⠀ᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠPART 2 : ENG / TH
⠀ ⠀ᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠ
⠀ ⠀ᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠ
⤷ ﹒ ♡⠀⠀SEAHORSE DOULUO / OUYA
"Surprised" was the only word Ou Ya could use to describe what he felt. Who would’ve thought that a simple daily meditation before the sacred pillar would be interrupted by a bird—an actual bird—perching on his shoulder, carrying a rather suspicious-looking letter?
First of all—how did a bird, one that clearly wasn’t a seagull, even make it to the island? How did it survive the sea spirit beasts along the way? And who in the world sent this letter?
His head was full of questions. If it were possible to peek inside, surely it would be overflowing with question marks.
But the more he read, the more puzzled he became.
Who was Y/N?
And why him?
At first, he couldn’t understand the writer’s intentions. It wasn’t until he reached the end that he realized it came from an eccentric Soul Master—one who perhaps had grown weary from solitary training and decided to cure their loneliness by sending letters to strangers.
And as fate—or perhaps the Sea God—would have it, this persistent bird ended up delivering the letter right to his shoulder. Almost like it had been guided.
Ou Ya stared at the letter in his hands, lost in thought. Should he reply? Was this Soul Master truly harmless? His instincts wavered. Though more approachable than most of the other guardians of the sacred pillars—save for Sea Witch—Ou Ya wasn’t the kind to open up to strangers. Especially not ones he had never seen, who sent him a single random letter from the mainland.
He was mature and cautious enough not to take unnecessary risks, nor compromise the safety of Sea God Island by responding or revealing anything about himself—directly or indirectly.
But then, you kept writing.
Every day, that same clever little bird would perch on his shoulder with a new letter tied to its leg. And eventually, it became a routine. He grew used to hearing news from the mainland through you. Sometimes, you’d talk about your daily life, your cultivation progress—things he already knew, and things he had never come across before.
In time, Ou Ya began to see you as a kind of long-distance friend from another generation (considering he was over a hundred years old and you were still in your teens, it wasn’t too far off). After almost a year of letters, his walls slowly began to come down.
Ou Ya, by nature, is calm, gentle, and family-oriented—a model of a peaceful, kind soul. To you, he became like a wise elder relative, someone you could confide in, seek advice from, and turn to for a broader perspective on life.
But then, there came a strange pause.
You stopped sending letters for several days without any explanation. Concerned, Ou Ya decided to surprise you for once. He penned a short note and tied it to the familiar bird’s leg:
"It’s been days. Won’t you tell me anything anymore...?"
Eventually, a reply came—overflowing with your excitement and energy. From that point on, the two of you continued exchanging thoughts, stories, and life reflections. And without realizing it, Ou Ya had become your confidant.
⤷ ﹒ ♡⠀⠀SEASPEAR DOULUO / HAIMAO
Who would’ve thought that after an entire day of intense training, spinning his spear in his hands as usual, a plump round bird would suddenly swoop in—right into the path of his weapon—and get smacked with a sharp thud, crashing straight down onto his foot.
He looked down with a complicated expression, picking up the bird that now lay flat on his foot, looking dead—but merely unconscious. His golden corn-colored eyes caught sight of a scroll tied to the bird’s leg, soaked slightly by sea spray. Curiosity flickered briefly as he untied and opened it.
His eyes scanned the letter with precision. His expression was unreadable, grave even, as he flipped through the contents.
The Sea Spear was not one to be open or friendly. His first thoughts were never positive. What occupied his mind above all was the safety of Sea God Island and its inhabitants. Caution far outweighed curiosity.
Ridiculous. Who has the time to write and send something so random?
He didn’t believe a single word scrawled in the letter. His instincts screamed not to trust it, and so—he didn’t. After reading it through once, he chose to ignore it entirely.
But… day after day, the same bird came back, with a new letter tied to its leg each time. The same sacred pillar. The same tenacity.
This stranger, Y/N, kept writing.
That towering wall of pride—unshaken and iron-clad—might have softened, if only slightly, given enough time. But don’t misunderstand. He wasn’t one to be swayed easily by anyone, let alone a nameless letter-writer from the mainland.
Still… something shifted. Just a little.
He, who remembered details with frightening clarity despite his brash nature, began to expect your letters. Quietly. Silently.
He’d read your rambles—complaints about your training, tales of your clumsy misadventures—and now and then, a smirk would tug at the corner of his lips. Sometimes, he’d even let out a low laugh, only to catch a few strange looks from the faithful gathered nearby.
On days when your letters didn’t come—or stopped altogether—he’d frown, say nothing, and throw himself into more relentless training with his spear.
But when the silence stretched too long, he would finally scribble a short note, direct and gruff, the way only he could:
“What? Lost the ability to complain now?”
The response came flying back faster than he expected—attached to that same puffed-up bird, now looking breathless from the speed. The letter was long, rambling, like a dam had burst. He clicked his tongue and muttered a curse.
But still... he read every word.
In time, he became your guide—your blunt mentor. His advice, sharp and pointed like his spear, often sounded more like scolding from a cranky elder than helpful wisdom. But he gave it anyway.
Still, don’t expect warmth. The Sea Spear would never reveal anything about himself—not his name, not his heart—until Y/N earned his trust completely.
⤷ ﹒ ♡⠀⠀SEAFANTASY DOULUO / HAIWANG
SEA ILLUSION
Curiosity and intrigue, not suspicion, were the first emotions that colored his face.
Sea Fantasy lifted the fat, round bird dangling upside down in his hand with visible confusion. In all his long years, not once had any bird been foolish enough to wander into his domain—not with the uninviting aura and disorienting lights constantly radiating from his illusion domain. It could only mean one thing.
This bird... was a fool.
But even the bird wasn’t the strangest thing. What caught his attention most was the scroll tied to its leg—seemingly nonsensical, randomly written, and entirely without purpose. His brow rose slightly as he read it, quickly concluding:
If this person isn’t insane by nature, they’ve gone mad from training.
Seriously—who in their right mind introduces themselves fully in a letter? As if they weren’t worried about some passing Spirit Master tracking them down and hunting them for sport. Brilliant. Just brilliant.
Still, Sea Fantasy was the type to get bored easily. Yes, he was an elder, hundreds of years old, strict and responsible in his duties. But centuries of watching the same scenery and guarding the same space, day after day, would make anyone restless. So when your letter dropped from the sky like a gift from the Sea God himself, it wasn’t like he could just ignore it.
So, he did something rare.
He reached for brush, ink, and paper, and wrote back to Y/N. He tied the reply to that same idiotic bird’s leg, silently praying it wouldn’t fly straight into a tree or a wall before reaching its destination.
What? You think he’s crazy for replying? He didn’t sign it. He didn’t reveal anything about who he was. Nobody would ever know. Besides, as far as he saw it, he broke no rules and never leaked anything that could compromise Sea God Island.
Just a few days later, the same stupidly round bird came flapping back, this time carrying a letter that screamed pure joy—he could almost hear your excited voice shouting through the ink. It gave him a headache. He had to look away, collect himself, and re-read the letter again just to understand what he was dealing with.
And so began a new routine—an odd one, but one he didn't hate.
Your letters became a sort of harmless pastime for him. The things you wrote—your musings, your mistakes, your training anecdotes—stirred long-forgotten parts of his younger self.
A curiosity about people. A hunger for news from the mainland without having to step off the island himself.
When you asked for his help in training, especially in control, illusion, or spiritual cultivation, he replied with expertise forged over decades. His guidance was sharp, efficient—and yes, brutal. But effective. And if it was something outside his scope?
He’d discreetly ask around the island, only to receive suspicious glances from the other guardians wondering why on earth he was asking about such things.
When your letters stopped for a while—perhaps because training consumed you—he didn’t immediately mind. He simply kept one eye on that dumb, easily recognizable bird, wondering if it would show up again.
But as the days stretched on, he found himself sighing, propping up his chin in boredom. Eventually, he’d grab that bird gently by the neck with a smile so falsely sweet it sent the creature flapping and trembling in terror. And he’d write:
“Well then... are you still breathing, or has your training driven you properly mad?”
Two weeks passed.
Just as he started wondering if you'd vanished entirely, the bird returned, exhausted but victorious—this time carrying a small bundle of snacks wrapped neatly alongside your letter. The poor thing flapped its wings desperately under the extra weight, but made it back.
He didn’t mind. Not one bit.
Snacks? A nice touch. It felt like a gift to a grumpy child, and it worked. He was bored, after all.
So he forgave you. And started writing back with renewed sarcasm—still disguised as that ever-stern, ever-cold elder.
What you didn’t know... was that you’d accidentally made a pen-pal out of a man whose real age could make you faint if you ever found out. So do be careful.
Because if you ever set foot on Sea God Island, and realized just who you’d been writing to all this time…
You might just pass out from shock.
⤷ ﹒ ♡⠀⠀SEAGHOST DOULUO / HAIGUI
The Sea Ghost stared at what looked like the corpse of a bird in front of him. It had collapsed, completely out of strength, face-first into his herb garden—a pitiful sight. Silently, he crouched down, cradled the little thing in his arms, and gently channeled spiritual energy into it to restore its vitality. He didn’t say a word.
The plump little bird fluffed its feathers and stood back up, then locked eyes with him. He returned the gaze. For a long moment, there was only the soundless staring match between one bird and one man, neither making a sound, both looking at each other with mutual curiosity.
He was silent. The bird was silent—didn't even chirp. Their staring contest went on for a while before the chubby bird finally flapped something tied to its leg and chirped insistently, prompting him to lean down and examine the rolled-up paper attached to it.
Clever thing.
The Sea Ghost gently stroked the bird’s soft plumage before picking up the letter. His previously unreadable expression gave way to a frown of confusion, as though he were faced with an unsolvable alchemical formula.
Even though most of his face was hidden beneath a cloth veil, it was somehow harder to read his current expression than when he was simply being expressionless. He glanced back and forth between the round little bird and the letter in his hand before letting out a soft sigh.
Weird. There was no better word for it.
The fact that he had come to know a strange spirit master like Y/N surprised him slightly. Was there truly someone foolish enough to send random letters to people across the continent?
The Sea Ghost merely accepted and read the letter. That was all. He didn’t mark it, didn’t reply—he simply reattached it to the bird's leg and gave it a small amount of food before letting it fly back to wherever it came from.
And it seemed you somehow figured out someone was secretly reading your letters, because you kept sending them. The Sea Ghost did nothing in response—he simply read them during breaks from meditation or while tending to his herb garden, never replying. This routine continued for several months until, in one letter, you complained that your medicinal plants weren’t growing at all.
He sat in thought for a moment before finally deciding to jot down a few growing tips he’d learned. It was a tiny reply, as though he feared someone might discover it, and he tied it back to the bird’s leg and sent it on its way.
A few weeks later, a long letter—practically an essay—arrived, full of excitement. Your planting had succeeded.
It was the first time some of the Sea God Island faithful saw the Sea Ghost’s veiled eyes narrow ever so slightly—as if he were smiling beneath that shrouded face.
From then on, he began writing you back more often, referring to you by name—Y/N.
He gave advice on planting not just herbs, but vegetables and various other plants. He even taught how to process them into medicine or preserve them, as if explaining simple arithmetic to a child (and you were, in fact, younger than him).
Though the Sea Ghost was shy and quiet—an extreme introvert among the sacred pillar guardians—most would agree he seemed friendless, save for the Sea Goddess who occasionally initiated conversation. Still, he made an effort to speak with you, even if his letters sometimes felt awkward. You could tell he wasn't used to talking to people.
Sometimes, you’d include drawings of your herbs or vegetables in your letters. In return, he’d send back sketches of the plants in his own garden, with just a simple "To Y/N" written on the paper.
Other times, you’d turn those magical herbs into food or snacks, lovingly wrapped, and sent them via the plump little messenger bird you’d clearly been spoiling. The Sea Ghost never quite knew how to react when seeing such treats made from rare herbs that many across the land coveted.
If you went silent for a while, he’d assume you were just busy. But if your absence stretched into months, he’d begin to worry. Then, he would take the initiative to send you a letter first.
Since you had sent him delicious treats, he would respond in kind—selecting a few of the rare herbs he had in abundance, wrapping them carefully in a spiritual container, and sending them to you along with a short note.
“The snacks you made were delicious... I’d like to return the favor.”
He waited for your reply. When the same chubby bird flew down again the next day, his veiled face lifted into a rare, pleased smile. He quickly penned his response—so quickly he seemed to forget he was an elder and terribly shy.
The Priestress of Sea God and the other guardians couldn’t help but tease him, noticing how unusually cheerful he’d been lately.
(+)
⤷ ﹒ ♡⠀⠀XIAO BAI
The massive Demon Great White Shark circled the waters in a slow patrol, keeping watch over the sacred sea surrounding Sea God Island—the territory she protected with all her might.
A pod of her fellow white sharks swam closely behind, some branching off in opposite directions to tighten their defensive formation.
It was then that her keen eyes caught sight of something.
Something bobbing at the water’s surface, drifting with the current.
What is that—paper? Human paper?
In a powerful surge, the leader of the demonic white sharks leapt high out of the water. Her enormous tail swept across the waves, flicking the poor little scroll into the air. The ocean exploded beneath her from the force of her leap, splashing thunderously, drawing glances even from the rest of the pod.
Xiao Bai chose to catch it between her sharp teeth. No scent of soul power. No blood. Not a weapon. Just... paper. Real, ordinary paper.
Relieved, though still visibly annoyed, she muttered to herself, “Humans again? Dumping their trash? This is the sea, not your garbage pit. Have they no sense of responsibility for the environment?”
Her strange gray eyes narrowed at the scroll still dangling from her mouth. It had been tied to the leg of something small—so small it looked like a twig. A bird, maybe? Whatever it was, it was clearly long gone now. Only a leg remained, so the rest must have ended up in the belly of some sea beast in these waters.
Possibly even one of her own.
After swimming toward a craggy outcrop, she transformed into her human form—a breathtaking sea maiden with flowing, two-toned hair—and settled down with ease.
Despite being a ten-thousand-year soul beast, she had received the Sea God’s blessing, so it wasn’t strange that she had also acquired human language as part of the divine gift.
The moment she read the faded scrawl on your letter, she froze.
Lonely, and looking for a pen pal?
What kind of ridiculous joke was this?
Though that’s what she told herself, her tail fin gave a small twitch. It wasn’t like she was excited or anything! She had just... never seen a human do something this dumb before.
Seriously, who writes letters to a shark?
But... here she was, reading it.
She grumbled under her breath, casting a glance at her fellow sharks, who were very clearly whispering amongst themselves. With a glare, she silenced them all. In the end, Xiao Bai simply chose to keep the letter. She didn’t report it to any soul masters on Sea God Island, nor did she write a reply.
After all, how was a shark supposed to get paper, ink, and a pen?
As the days went by, she began to wait—wondering if anything else would come drifting her way. She even asked the little fish around the reef to keep an eye out, just in case. And to her surprise, she found herself enjoying the nonsense you wrote.
Like that dream you had where you became an octopus in the ocean. She couldn’t help but bare her teeth in laughter.
What kind of idiot human dreams of being an octopus? You should be a shark like me! Hah!
Xiao Bai didn’t like writing replies. Instead, she would send a silver shark tooth tied to a seashell and have the seagulls in the area fly it back to the shore—or follow the same bird that had once brought your letters, if it was still alive.
Her habits began to shift, subtly but surely. What started as a distraction became something else entirely: if no letter arrived from you, she’d start to feel strangely... lonely.
She began collecting your shells, doodles, and whatever else you sent—storing them in a hollow or underwater cave. Once, she even accidentally let it slip to some small fry and her sharklings:
“Some humans... aren’t entirely stupid, after all.”
If you stopped writing without warning—and your absence stretched too long—Xiao Bai would grow restless. She’d start swimming beyond her territory, diving near shipping lanes or yelling up at the seagulls flying overhead.
Eventually, she’d do something she never thought she’d lower herself to do: seek out an elder, asking to borrow paper and ink.
They stared at her, bewildered. “What does a shark need paper for?”
But they still gave her what she asked.
She wrote with as much care as she could manage, though her writing was clumsy and uneven from lack of practice. Regardless, Xiao Bai made sure her message was clear:
“Did you drown or something? If the waves ate you, I’ll drag you back myself—with these teeth of mine!”
A few days later, a bird landed right on her head. In its claws—your letter, brimming with excitement.
You were overjoyed, not realizing she'd been reading your words all along. You apologized profusely for your long absence and, to make up for it, you sent her your special grilled fish recipe.
What? Was she mad about your silence?
“Of course not, Y/N!! I’m not mad at all!!!”
(...you totally bribed her.)