Chapter 17 I Send A Message With The Wind

Seeking refuge from the raw emotions of the morning, Mu Dishi approached the hidden entrance to his sanctuary. A golden needle glinted briefly as he inserted it into the small hole, activating the ancient mechanism. With a slow, deliberate rumble, the colossal ten-thousand-stone door ascended, opening a path into the familiar, comforting darkness. He stepped through, leaving the outside world behind, and swiftly pushed the small dragon headstone. The heavy stone descended, sealing him within, the sound a definitive close. He lit a single candle, its timid flame his only companion as he walked deeper, seeking solace in the cave's embrace.

His gaze fell upon his guzheng on the table, and next to it, Ma Jingguo's bamboo flute. He traced the dusty surface of the guzheng, each particle a reminder of the past. His thoughts immediately conjured the image of Ma Jingguo. Every time he practiced his killer string technique, Ma Jingguo would be there, playing the flute to calm his mind.

He continued walking and saw the dining table. At that time, Ma Jingguo would always wait for him until he returned from practice, and they would share their dinner together. Every morning, Ma Jingguo also used to comb Mu Dishi's hair here. After Ma Jingguo finished, he would carefully collect Mu Dishi's fallen hair. The flood of memories of him and Ma Jingguo washed over him, a bittersweet ache in his chest.

He recalled asking Ma Jingguo once:

"Jingguo, why not throw them away?" Mu Dishi had asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"Xiao shushu, I'm collecting them," Ma Jingguo had replied simply, a soft smile on his face.

"For what?" Mu Dishi had pressed.

"One day, when Xiao shushu is very far away from me, and I miss xiao shushu very much, I can take a look at it," Ma Jingguo had explained, his smile gentle and wistful.

"Whatever," Mu Dishi had dismissed it then, but now, the memory stung.

The pond where he and Ma Jingguo once bathed was not far from the dining table. Sometimes they would take a bath together, and Ma Jingguo would meticulously wash his back for him. He stood there looking at the still water of the pond, recalling the memories that still lingered, ghosts of a tender past.

Stepping out of the cave, he found the familiar landscape—the cave's rear, the lush grass, the steadfast trees, and the silent mountainside—unaltered. Yet, the true transformation lay within: a storm of emotions churned in his unsettled heart. His gaze drifted left, and the mango trees whispered tales of shared moments, of practicing Wuming in this secluded mountain retreat. There, they would often just sit, meditating as the sun painted the sky, slowly dissolving into the horizon.

He stood up, then closed his eyes, put his hands behind his back, and waited for the sun to go down.

"Jingguo, I'm sorry," Mu Dishi murmured into the fading light, his voice barely audibles above the whisper of the wind. "Someone like me doesn't deserve someone like you."

It had been two grueling years since Ma Jingguo last saw Mu Dishi, and every single day had been a torment. A persistent, gnawing ache resided deep in his chest, a constant echo of the love he'd lost. He found himself endlessly wondering how Mu Dishi had fared, if the past two years had been kind or cruel to him.

Now, as the sun bled across the horizon, painting the cliff's edge in hues of despair, he sat alone, his sword a cold, forgotten sentinel beside him. He clutched a jar of wine in his right hand, the liquid offering no solace against the profound weariness that had settled in his very bones. 

He'd always tried to be a good person, to offer his whole heart, so why did everyone he loved inevitably abandon him, leaving him to fend for himself in the desolate quiet? The question echoed unanswered in the vast emptiness.

He sat there, a solitary figure against the immensity of the fading day, his eyes burning, the unshed tears finally overflowing, carving hot paths down his cheeks. He had poured every ounce of himself into loving Mu Dishi, giving all he could offer. Yet, in his darkest moments, a terrible thought crept in: perhaps he simply didn't know how to love Mu Dishi in the way Mu Dishi needed, or perhaps his overwhelming affection had become the very thing Mu Dishi most despised.

He brought the jar to his lips, drinking deeply, but the wine offered no escape—only a biting bitterness that mirrored the despair in his soul. The wind whipped around him, carrying nothing but the chill of his profound solitude. "Oh, please," he murmured, his voice a raw whisper, fractured by unspoken grief, "send a message to my beloved xiao shushu. Tell him I miss him with every aching breath." Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed down his face, soaking his hand. The sharp, salty tang found its way to his lips, a cruel reminder that even his sorrow was tinged with the pervasive bitterness of his unanswered longing.

When he heard footsteps approaching, he quickly wiped away the tears, trying to compose himself. Kuo Changchang walked to him and sat next to him.

"Ah Chen, how are you feeling?" Kuo Changchang asked gently, her gaze filled with concern.

Ma Jingguo avoided eye contact with Kuo Changchang. He replied, his voice carefully neutral, "I'm fine. Thank you, Shijie, for worrying about me."

"Ah Chen, you have been different since we came back. Tell me what you are thinking," Kuo Changchang pressed softly, sensing his distantness.

Ma Jingguo sighed hurtfully, the sound heavy with unspoken burdens. "It's just that...I really want to go home, but I'm not allowed to return."

"Your home is also here," Kuo Changchang said, a reassuring note in her voice.

"Shijie, someone told me that you and I are a perfect match. Do you think we are a perfect match?" Ma Jingguo asked, his voice laced with a defeated resignation.

"Are you proposing?" Kuo Changchang teased lightly, a playful smile attempting to break the tension.

Ma Jingguo turned to face Kuo Changchang, his expression serious. "Do you think we are a perfect match?" he repeated, his gaze earnest.

"What if I say yes, and then what?" Kuo Changchang responded, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Shijie, do you want to get married?" Ma Jingguo asked directly, almost abruptly.

Kuo Changchang smiled, her expression softening. "If you ask me if I want to marry someone else, then my answer is 'No'. But if you ask me to marry you, then my answer is 'Yes'."

Kuo Ju came from behind and said, her voice firm and decisive, "Then, 'yes' it is."

Kuo Changchang turned around and saw Kuo Ju staring at her and Ma Jingguo. "Mother, how long have you been standing there?" she asked, a hint of surprise and slight embarrassment in her tone.

"Long enough to hear the conversation between you two," Kuo Ju replied, her smile knowing.

"We are just talking," Kuo Changchang protested weakly.

"Don't think I don't know. You two are very close. Since Ah Chen came to the Jinfeng Sect, he has not been close to anyone except you," she said, her gaze warm and approving as she looked at Ma Jingguo and Kuo Changchang. "You two don't have to worry about anything. I will arrange everything."

Two days later, a seamstress was called to take measurements of Ma Jingguo and Kuo Changchang. Later that night, Ma Jingguo sat down and wrote a letter to Monk Hao, his hand heavy with the weight of his decision.

After he finished writing the letter, a chilling dread settled in his chest. What would Mu Dishi think when he heard the news? Would his xiao shushu's heart, so stubbornly devoted to that ghost of the past, Wang Biming, finally feel a flicker of something for him? Or would he, against all Ma Jingguo's crushing expectations, actually rush to Jinfeng Sect, storm in, seize his hand, and demand he leave?

Ma Jingguo knew, with a fierce, possessive ache that verged on madness, that if he heard Mu Dishi was marrying someone who wasn't him, he would tear the world apart to reclaim him. But for Mu Dishi, such fierce passion seemed reserved only for a memory.

He held little real hope, yet a dark, treacherous desire twisted within him: that when Mu Dishi learned he was marrying the very woman Mu Dishi himself had chosen for him, Mu Dishi would be compelled to appear, if only to offer a hollow congratulations, allowing Ma Jingguo one last, agonizing glimpse of the man he couldn't have.

He lay sprawled on the bed, feeling the cold expanse beside him like an extension of the gaping wound in his chest. His heart didn't merely ache; it throbbed with a desolate emptiness, every beat echoing Mu Dishi's unbearable absence. The cavernous silence of the room seemed to mock his solitude. Into that vast, unfeeling quiet, he murmured, his voice a broken breath, "Xiao shushu... tell me, is someone like me truly so undeserving of you?"