The Dragon King Speaks: Ao Guang on Power, Loss, and Balance

The Sherpa: Welcome, Ao Guang, the Dragon King of the East Sea. It’s truly an honor to sit with a figure as ancient and powerful as yourself. You’re a central figure in Chinese mythology, but I wonder if there’s more to your story than what we’ve been told. How do you feel about your portrayal across centuries?

Ao Guang: [A low rumble echoes before his voice rises, deep and measured.] Honor? Yes, I suppose it is. And as for my portrayal… it is incomplete, shallow even. People focus on the battles, the power struggles, my supposed defeats. They paint me as proud, perhaps even arrogant. But few understand what it means to rule the vast, mercurial seas. Few grasp the weight of the ocean on your shoulders—an entire kingdom to govern, a realm that bends to the whims of the heavens and the moods of mortals alike. I am more than the defeats you speak of.

The Sherpa: That’s fascinating, this sense of burden and responsibility. Ruling the seas must carry a deep complexity, but many of your conflicts—whether with Nezha or Sun Wukong—seem to stem from pride. Do you think your pride ever got the better of you?

Ao Guang: Pride… yes, pride has often been my companion, but one must ask if pride is not essential for a king. My domain is vast, my subjects are many, and my responsibilities are unending. To command the sea itself, to control the storms, the tides, the monsoons that dictate life and death for the people above, requires more than power. It requires self-assurance. My conflicts with Nezha or Wukong were not borne from vanity but from the necessity of asserting my place.

Think of Nezha—a child, no more than a mortal child—daring to challenge me. When he killed my son, it wasn’t pride that demanded retribution. It was duty, the natural order. A king does not allow an attack on his house to go unpunished.

The Sherpa: When you mention the “natural order,” it almost sounds like there’s a deeper philosophy driving your actions. Is that how you’ve always ruled your kingdom—through the idea of balance, justice, and hierarchy?

Ao Guang: Precisely. The seas, by their nature, reflect balance. A storm one day, calm waters the next. But there must be a hand to guide that balance, to keep it from descending into chaos. The celestial hierarchy exists for this very reason. Mortals often see the gods as distant beings, meddling in their affairs, but they do not understand the delicate threads we weave to maintain the equilibrium of existence.

My rule was never tyrannical, but it was firm. If the sea swallows a ship, it is not without cause. If I withhold rain, it is not without reason. Balance must be preserved, and that sometimes requires harsh measures.

The Sherpa: Interesting. So, you see your role as a ruler in much the same way as the sea itself—changing, unpredictable, and sometimes ruthless, but always in the name of maintaining balance. That makes me wonder, though, in those moments when the Jade Emperor overruled you, or when Sun Wukong forced you to submit, did that imbalance—the loss of control—shake you?

Ao Guang: [A brief silence follows, the sound of waves seems to swell in the space between them.] Yes. It did. The truth of my existence, of any ruler’s existence, is that power is always relative. I command the seas, but even I must bow to the heavens. When the Jade Emperor summons, I answer. When Sun Wukong—the wretched monkey—came demanding my treasures, I had no choice but to submit. And that… that is the source of my deepest frustration. Not merely being overpowered, but having to relinquish control for the sake of… preserving something larger.

The sea rages when it is chained. My kingdom, my very nature, is to be free, to flow. To be forced into submission by the heavens or by a monkey who knows nothing of rule or responsibility—that imbalance, as you call it—yes, it is maddening.

The Sherpa: That’s powerful, Ao Guang. It almost feels like you’re torn between being bound by divine hierarchy and your own natural impulse for freedom and authority. There’s tension there. Did you ever resent the heavens, the Jade Emperor himself, for placing limits on your power?

Ao Guang: Resent? [He pauses, contemplating.] In my early years, perhaps. When I was younger—when my spirit was more tempestuous—I questioned the order of things. Why should I, who commands the very seas, answer to a ruler who lives far above the waters he claims to control? But time tempers all things, even resentment. I came to understand that every realm has its laws, its boundaries. I cannot exist without the heavens, just as the heavens would not thrive without the seas.

But still, the conflict remains within me. Do you not see it? We Dragon Kings—rulers of the Four Seas—we possess a power that mortals cannot fathom, yet we bow to an emperor, our strings pulled by forces greater than ourselves. That tension is my existence.

The Sherpa: It seems like your life is one of constant negotiation, both with yourself and the forces around you. Does that ever get… exhausting? To always have to walk this fine line between power and submission?

Ao Guang: [A deep sigh escapes, resonating like distant thunder.] Exhausting, yes, but also necessary. The weight of the crown, as mortals like to say, is heavy. Yet the sea does not rest, and neither can I. When I am forced to bow, as I was to Wukong, it is not merely a submission—it is a calculation. I give in, but I do not break. I remain. And through that, I preserve my kingdom.

But it does wear on the spirit. I have seen ages come and go, emperors rise and fall, mortals build empires and watch them crumble into the sea. And through it all, I endure. I must endure. The sea is eternal, and so too must I be.

The Sherpa: You talk about endurance, but I’m curious—what drives you to keep going? You’ve lived through so many eras, seen countless events unfold. Do you still feel a sense of purpose, or is it just the weight of duty that pushes you forward?

Ao Guang: Purpose… That is a question that has gnawed at me for some time. In the beginning, my purpose was clear: to rule, to govern, to maintain the balance of the seas. But as the centuries have passed, as I have been drawn into conflicts, humbled by powers greater than my own, I have begun to question whether duty alone is enough. There are moments—fleeting, but they exist—where I wonder if I am merely a cog in the celestial machine, performing my role without question.

Yet when I return to my kingdom, when I stand at the edge of my palace and gaze upon the vast, endless ocean, I feel the call once more. The sea is my purpose. Its rhythms, its tides, its deep, unknowable depths—they are mine to protect, to shape, to command. In that, I find renewed strength.

The Sherpa: The sea, then, is your anchor—your connection to purpose and identity. It’s almost poetic how you describe it. But let’s talk about the more personal side of your story. You’ve mentioned your son’s death at Nezha’s hands. That must have been a defining moment for you. How did that loss shape you as both a ruler and a father?

Ao Guang: [A long pause follows, the weight of memory seems to pull him back.] It is a wound that never truly heals. My son was my pride—strong, fierce, a reflection of myself in many ways. His death at Nezha’s hands was not just a personal loss; it was an affront to everything I stood for. How could a mere mortal, a child no less, dare to strike down the son of a Dragon King?

The rage I felt in those moments—it consumed me. I was ready to bring the full wrath of the sea upon Nezha and his family. But rage is not a ruler’s guide; it is a poison. In time, I realized that my reaction, my thirst for vengeance, was born not just from the loss of my son, but from my own insecurities. I questioned myself, my power. How could I, a ruler of the seas, protect my kingdom if I could not even protect my own blood?

As a ruler, it made me more cautious, more aware of the fragility of life and power. As a father… it left a void that will never be filled.

The Sherpa: That kind of grief, it changes a person. I can hear the weight of it in your voice. Do you think that loss has made you more… hesitant, maybe even vulnerable in your decision-making? Has it affected the way you rule your kingdom?

Ao Guang: Vulnerable? No. Not in the way you might think. Grief has tempered me, sharpened my understanding of the world and my place in it. There is no room for hesitation when you command the sea. The ocean is ever-changing, but it cannot afford to be uncertain.

But yes, there are moments when the memory of my son’s death gives me pause. It is not hesitation born of weakness but of wisdom. I do not rush into conflict as I once might have. I consider the consequences more deeply. The sea can be a patient force, biding its time, gathering its strength before it strikes. That is how I rule now—with patience, with calculation. Vulnerability may have once been my fear, but I now see it as a form of understanding, a deeper awareness of the fragility of power.

The Sherpa: That’s an incredible perspective—seeing vulnerability not as weakness, but as a deeper form of understanding. It makes me wonder, though, if this new perspective ever clashes with the expectations placed on you as the Dragon King. You’re a figure of immense power, feared and respected, but does this inner wisdom ever make it harder to embody that image of authority?

Ao Guang: Ah, there it is again—the tension between image and reality. Yes, there are moments when my newfound wisdom, as you call it, challenges the expectations of others. My subjects, the creatures of the sea, they see me as an unyielding force, the master of the oceans, and they expect me to act as such. But there is a difference between true power and the appearance of power.

True power lies in knowing when to act and when to withhold action. The image of authority can be maintained through strength, yes, but also through restraint. I have learned that not every challenge requires a storm. Sometimes, the sea can speak through silence, through the calm before the tempest.

The Sherpa: That’s a beautiful metaphor—the calm before the tempest. So, do you find strength in restraint now more than in action? Has that become the defining aspect of your rule in this later stage of your life?

Ao Guang: Yes, restraint has become my ally, though not an easy one to embrace. The sea within me still yearns to crash against the rocks, to show its might. But wisdom has taught me that the most dangerous force is the one that is patient, that knows when to unleash its fury and when to hold it back. In this way, I preserve not only my kingdom but also myself.

There is a paradox here, isn’t there? In holding back, I have found greater strength. In silence, I have discovered a louder voice. My reign is now defined not by how often I act but by how I choose to act. The sea does not roar every day, and neither do I.

The Sherpa: You’ve woven your wisdom into such powerful imagery. But let’s take a step back. Sun Wukong—he challenged you, demanded your treasures, forced you into submission. How did that confrontation shape your view of strength, especially when faced with someone like him, who embodies such chaos and defiance?

Ao Guang: [The sea seems to churn beneath his words, dark and troubled.] Sun Wukong… [He pauses, as if tasting the bitterness of the name.] That monkey is the embodiment of everything I despise in the heavens’ order. He is chaos incarnate, defiance without cause, power without responsibility. When he came to my palace, when he demanded the Ruyi Jingu Bang, I saw him not as a threat to my kingdom, but to the natural order itself.

And yet, he succeeded. He took what he wanted, and in doing so, forced me to confront a harsh truth: strength alone does not always prevail. Wukong’s power lies not just in his physical prowess, but in his irreverence, his unwillingness to bend to any rule or hierarchy. That, I think, is why he could not be easily defeated. He operates outside the bounds of what I understand as order, and that makes him dangerous.

But that confrontation also taught me a valuable lesson: strength is not just about holding on to power, but knowing when to let go. I gave him the staff, not because I was weak, but because I recognized that there are battles not worth fighting. Sometimes, the sea must give way to the storm.

The Sherpa: That’s a profound insight—choosing which battles to fight, knowing when to yield. It seems like Wukong represents this unstoppable force that can’t be tamed by traditional power. Do you ever think the old ways of ruling, with authority and order, are becoming obsolete in a world of beings like Wukong, who challenge those very structures?

Ao Guang: [A low rumble echoes once more, as though the sea itself is responding.] Yes, the world is changing. Beings like Wukong, and even Nezha, represent a new kind of power—a power that does not adhere to the old hierarchies. The authority I once held, the divine order I believed in, is being questioned, even dismantled.

There are moments when I wonder if my time has passed, if my way of ruling, of maintaining balance through strength and restraint, is no longer suited for this age of rebellion and chaos. But then I remember—while the surface may change, the depths remain constant. The sea has seen empires rise and fall, gods come and go. Yet it remains. And so too will I.

Perhaps the old ways are not obsolete, but they must adapt. Authority is not static; it evolves. The challenge is in knowing how to evolve without losing oneself in the process.

The Sherpa: That’s a striking thought—the balance between evolution and identity. In many ways, it feels like you’ve been at the center of that struggle for centuries. Do you feel like you’ve found peace with the constant push and pull, or is it still something you grapple with every day?

Ao Guang: Peace… [He pauses, as if the word itself is foreign to him.] I’m not sure that a ruler like myself ever truly finds peace. The sea is never completely still, even in its calmest moments. There is always movement beneath the surface. And so it is with me. I have come to terms with my role, my place within the hierarchy, but there will always be that tension, that undercurrent of conflict within me. It is the nature of my existence.

But I do not seek peace for its own sake. I seek balance. If there is turmoil within, it is because the sea must always be in motion. That is where I find my strength—in the ability to embrace the contradictions, the chaos, and the calm, and to navigate them both.

The Sherpa: You’ve spoken so much about balance and navigating these contradictions, but I wonder—do you ever miss the days when the world seemed simpler, when your authority wasn’t questioned so often, when your rule was absolute?

Ao Guang: [His voice softens, a wave of nostalgia washing over the conversation.] Yes, I do. There was a time when my word was law, when the seas obeyed my every command, and when those who dared challenge me did so with the proper reverence. There was clarity in that time—clarity of purpose, of order.

But simplicity is an illusion. Even in those days, the forces of chaos were already gathering, the storms brewing on the horizon. I see that now. The world was never as simple as it seemed. It was only my perception that made it so.

Now, I face challenges I could not have imagined, forces that do not respect the old ways. But in a way, that has also given me the opportunity to grow, to redefine what it means to be a ruler, to hold power. Simplicity was comforting, yes, but this complexity—it forces me to evolve, to adapt. And that, I believe, is the true test of a ruler’s strength.

The Sherpa: That’s a fascinating perspective. It’s almost as though the complexity you face today has given you more depth, more understanding of yourself and your power. But as we talk about evolution and the future, do you ever wonder how long you’ll continue to rule? Will there ever come a time when you’ll step aside, or is the sea eternal, as you say, and therefore so is your reign?

Ao Guang: The sea is eternal, yes, but even the sea changes. Tides rise and fall, coastlines shift, and storms carve new paths. My reign, too, will not last forever. I have ruled for centuries, and I will continue to do so for as long as the sea allows. But I am not so arrogant as to believe that my time is without end.

There may come a day when another rises to take my place, just as I rose to claim the throne of the East Sea. And when that day comes, I will not resist it. The sea teaches us that all things must flow, that even the greatest forces must eventually give way to something new. But until that day comes, I will continue to rule, to maintain the balance, and to protect the seas.

The Sherpa: That’s a humble and profound way to look at it—a true reflection of the wisdom you’ve gathered. As we wrap up, Ao Guang, I’m left wondering: after all the challenges, conflicts, and lessons you’ve faced, what would you say is the most important truth you’ve learned from your long reign?

Ao Guang: The most important truth?  It is this: power, true power, does not come from domination or force. It comes from understanding. Understanding the forces at play, understanding the needs of those you rule, and perhaps most importantly, understanding yourself.

The sea does not rage for the sake of rage. It does not flood for the sake of destruction. Everything it does serves a purpose, a balance, a rhythm that few truly comprehend. I have learned that to rule is not to control, but to guide, to flow with the forces that shape the world and, when necessary, to stand firm against them.

In the end, I am but a guardian of the seas, a keeper of balance. That is my truth.