Chapter 123: Shizun Visits My Dreams, for He Knows I Think of Him Often
"Zhao-Daozhang, Li-daozhang, have you seen the rankings yet?
The dark horse of the Spiritual Mountain Competition is really something
this time!"
Within Pearl Teahouse, a group of traveling cultivators sat at a table,
sharing a plate of peanuts, hot tea, and the hottest topic of the jianghu
between them.
"Of course I have! Who expected the winner to be Sisheng Peak, that
sect from the lower cultivation realm? All the old fogies in the upper
cultivation realm have got their knickers in a twist! Especially Rufeng Sect
—aiyo, their ancestors are turning in their graves! What was the winner's
name again? Xue Fenghuang?"
"Ah? Ha ha ha, Xue Fenghuang? Old Zhao, please, you're killing me
over here! Fenghuang? You're mixing it up with his nickname, 'son of the
phoenix'! His surname is Xue, given name Meng, courtesy name Ziming,
and his old man is Xue Zhengyong. Like father, like son—this Xue Ziming
is impressively skilled!"
A tall man in a cloak sat by the fireplace, drinking butter tea and
minding his own business. When he overheard their conversation, the cup
by the man's lips stilled, hovering undrunk as he uttered a quiet, "Hm?"
"They seriously weren't kidding when they called him son of the
phoenix. Every other little young master in there had a holy weapon, but
this kid shows up with just a scimitar and has them cornered. Truly
incredible."
"Did you forget who his master is? Of course a disciple of Yuheng of
the Night Sky doesn't mess around!"
"Honestly, I think Xue Ziming's win was a narrow one. I'm sure
you've heard that Xue Ziming and Nangong Si were evenly matched in the
doubles. If not for that girl on young Nangong Si's team dragging him
down, heh, could've gone either way if you ask me."
At these words, the man who had been listening intently finally set
down the cup of tea he was holding. He turned his head, eyes clear as
autumn waters yet intense as lightning—this man had strikingly good looks
to be sure. He flashed a smile at the chatting cultivators and joined their
conversation. "Pardon my interruption, but I've been cultivating in the
mountains these past few days and lost track of time, so I missed the
Spiritual Mountain Competition. I couldn't help but overhear you saying
that Xue Meng won first place…would you mind telling me more?"
Those cultivators were only too delighted to have an audience. They
promptly and enthusiastically gestured for Mo Ran to come over, making
room at the table for him. And Mo Ran knew his manners too—he was
much more mature now than when he had first begun to travel. He asked
the proprietress of the teahouse to bring over six teapots of Lingshan Rain,
along with candied jujubes, tart kernels, sweet liquor cherries, and snakegall melon seeds to share with the table. Smiling, he said, "Xue Ziming is
the darling of the heavens, so for him to take first place without even a holy
weapon isn't too surprising. But what's this I hear about Nangong Si of
Rufeng Sect having a young lady on his team in the doubles…?"
Being a bunch of men, these cultivators were more than happy to
gossip about ladies, even if the lady wasn't theirs.
"That he did. Truly a case of the hero's ambition sunk in the beauty's
bosom. Otherwise, who knows if Xue Ziming would've been able to get the
upper hand, given Nangong Si's skills."
"I see. Interesting." Things had played out quite differently in the last
lifetime: back then, Ye Wangxi and Nangong Si had tied for first place.
Mo Ran's first thought had been that the little phoenix Xue Meng, spurred
by Chu Wanning's death, had diligently applied himself and soared to
success. But it seemed there had been additional factors at work. "And who
might this lady be?"
"The lass was named Song…something Tong; don't remember
exactly. She sure was pretty though. She's got Rufeng Sect's little young
master wrapped around her finger, by the looks of it."
"Pretty's an understatement—astoundingly beautiful, more like. If I
were Nangong Si, I'd give up first place at Spiritual Mountain to make a
girl like that happy too."
Mo Ran kept his opinion to himself. It was just as he'd suspected.
The Spiritual Mountain Competition included three events: singles,
doubles, and a battle royale. The scores were averaged across the three to
determine the ultimate winner.
In Mo Ran's previous lifetime, Xue Meng and Shi Mei had faced off
against Nangong Si and Ye Wangxi in the doubles event. Ye Wangxi had
eventually gone on to become the second strongest cultivator in the world,
outdone only by Chu Wanning—so the outcome of that match was selfevident. Heaven only knew what had gone wrong in this life for Nangong
Si to drag that hindrance Song Qiutong behind him instead of teaming up
with Ye Wangxi… Mo Ran set down his teacup and rubbed his temples.
What the hell was that guy thinking?
"Ah, women; even that wild horse Nangong Si's been tamed in no
time," one of the men lamented as the rest laughed and jeered.
Mo Ran couldn't help but ask, "What about Ye Wangxi?"
"Who?"
"Ye Wangxi," Mo Ran repeated.
The blank looks on their faces left a bad taste in Mo Ran's mouth. Ye
Wangxi was a war god who'd given Mo Ran endless trouble in the last
lifetime… How could these people possibly not know him!
"The other gongzi from Rufeng Sect." He gestured as he explained,
"Long legs, tall, good temper, doesn't talk much, uses a sword and…"
Watching all their faces devoid of recognition, Mo Ran sighed and finished
his description, though he'd guessed the outcome. "And a bow."
"Don't know 'em."
"Never heard of him."
"Bro, where'd you hear about this guy from? Rufeng Sect sent sixteen
disciples to the Spiritual Mountain Competition, and not a single one of
them was named Ye."
Sure enough, in the present lifetime Ye Wangxi hadn't entered the
competition. Mo Ran fell silent for a spell. He recalled that day at the
restaurant, when Ye Wangxi had said to Nangong Si, You come back, I'll
leave. He suddenly felt rather uneasy, and rather pained.
It couldn't be, right?
Had Ye Wangxi actually left Rufeng Sect?
In his past life, right before the end, Ye Wangxi had told his
executioner that he wished to be buried in Rufeng Sect's Tomb of Heroes,
next to Nangong Si's grave. Mo Ran sighed at the recollection—how had
things ended up like this? The slight changes, drop after drop, had spread
into growing ripples. The world had turned on its head, and what should've
been the ocean had become the land.
So it was that turns of fate could be as violent as a raging storm. That
a change of heart, a renunciation of past hatred, could only be bought with
hot blood spilt and bitter tears shed—so it had been with Chu Wanning and
himself.
But the turn of fate could also come as a breathless silence, as it had
with Ye Wangxi and Nangong Si. Maybe all it had taken was that one day at
the inn on Rainbell Isle, when Nangong Si had allowed Ye Wangxi's group
to stay the night. Maybe, late at night, Nangong Si had gotten thirsty and
stepped downstairs for some tea, where he just so happened to run into the
pitiful Song Qiutong. Maybe Song Qiutong had poured him a cup of water,
or maybe she had tripped going up the stairs due to the injury on her leg;
there was no way to know. It could have even been that Nangong Si had
been too boorish when drinking water—perhaps he had spilled some on the
wide lapels of his robes, and Song Qiutong had gingerly offered him a
handkerchief. With nothing between them at the time, Nangong Si had
probably uttered a quick thanks. But none of these three would have known,
as the Northern Dipper swept across the night sky and the stars of Shen and
Shang rose and sank, never to meet, that their lives had been irreversibly
changed by that handkerchief, that cup of water, that simple thanks. None of
them had heard the rumble of fate:
Nangong Si, yawning as he ascended the stairs.
Song Qiutong standing silently, watching him go.
And Ye Wangxi, in his room, lighting a candle to read the next page
of an unfinished book.
In his past life, Mo Ran had fancied himself all-powerful and allknowing, had thought he'd seen through all the mysteries of life. Only now
did he come to realize that they were, all of them, mere duckweed adrift in
this world, pushed about by rain and wind, little green wisps of soul too
easily crushed by the stray toss of a pebble.
How lucky he had been to have drifted away yet somehow returned to
Chu Wanning's side. To still be able to perform his filial duty for his shizun,
to still be able to say to Chu Wanning, I'm sorry, I let you down.
He finished his tea and bid farewell to his companions. The wind had
picked up outside, and the rain would soon follow. Mo Ran threw his cape
over his shoulders and strode into the thick depths of the forest. His
silhouette grew more and more distant, more and more faint, until it was no
more than a small dot in the twilight, like a drop of ink spreading in a pool
of water, thinning out until it disappeared.
Lightning flashed on the horizon and thunder cracked through
darkened skies; the rain came in a torrential downpour.
"It's raining." Someone peeked out from the teahouse to look, only to
duck back inside at the thunder's intensity.
"That's one hell of a storm… Damn, I laid millet out to dry earlier.
It's gonna get soaked now."
"Welp. Hey boss lady, can we get another pot of tea over here? Might
as well wait for it to clear up before we head home."
Mo Ran walked briskly through the rain, ran through the rain, fled
through the rain, hid in the rain from the thirty-two absurd years of his past
life. He didn't know if this violent deluge could wash away his sins. Chu
Wanning might have forgiven him, but he had not forgiven himself. His
heart felt heavy, so heavy he felt he might suffocate.
He wanted to use the rest of his life to do good, to make amends. But
could such a downpour, even for the rest of his life, truly wash away the
evil in his bones, the filth in his blood?
He wished dearly that this rain could fall for five years straight.
He wished dearly that, when Chu Wanning awakened, he could stand
before his shizun a little cleaner, and then cleaner still. He didn't want to be
as dirty as he was now when the time came: dirty like mud, like dust, like
the grime on the bottom of a porter's shoes, the dirt under a beggar's nails.
He wished dearly that, before Chu Wanning awakened, he could be a
little better, and then better still. Only then could the worst, worst disciple in
the world possibly summon up the feeble courage to call out to the best,
best shizun in the world.
That night, Mo Ran fell sick.
He'd always had a strong and hearty constitution, but all that meant
was that, when he did fall sick, he would fall terribly, horribly sick. He lay
in bed, sleeping bundled in the thick quilt. He dreamt of things from his
past life—dreamt of how he had tormented Chu Wanning, dreamt of Chu
Wanning struggling beneath him, of Chu Wanning dying in his arms.
When he awoke with a start to the howling wind and cold rain
outside, he felt around for the flint to light the candle. But no matter how he
tried, the flint wouldn't spark. In a fit of frustration, he threw it aside. He
raked his hands over his face and pulled harshly at his own hair, and the jut
of his throat heaved as he let out the grief-stricken howl of a pained beast.
He had escaped death, escaped blame, but he couldn't escape his own
conscience. It scared him that he was sometimes unable to tell dreams from
reality, continuously checking whether he was asleep or awake. It hurt
feeling like his very soul had split into two, that of the past lifetime and that
of the present, the two tearing into one another; the present cursing the past
for being a ruthless lunatic with blood-soaked hands, the past snapping back
just as fiercely, demanding to know why the present was pretending he had
never done anything wrong in his life—how did he have the nerve to walk
this earth?
The soul of the present bellowed at the soul of the past: Mo Weiyu,
Taxian-jun, you scum of the earth, why did you commit such grievous
sins?! How am I to make up for all you've done?! I want to start over, but
you haunt me so—in my dreams, in my drunkenness, in the dimming light
of fading candles, jumping out when I least expect it to curse me with that
twisted face! Cursing me with a thousand deaths, cursing me with
retribution and reprisal.
You say this is all a dream that will one day shatter. You sneer that
sooner or later I will wake to find myself back at Wushan Palace. You laugh
viciously and remind me no one cares for me. That I killed the only person
willing to die for me with my own hands. But was that me?! No, no, it
wasn't me, it was you, Taxian-jun! It was you, Mo Weiyu!
I'm not you, I'm not you…
There's no blood on my hands, I—
I can start over.
The other half of his soul was shrieking as well, its sharp-fanged
mouth open wide in a distorted face:
Weren't you feeling guilty? Didn't you fuck it all up? Then why don't
you just die?! Why don't you repay all those people you hurt in your past
life for no goddamned reason with your own blood?!
You beast! You pretender! How are you different from me? I am Mo
Weiyu, but so are you! You carry all the memories and bear all the sins of
the past; you'll never be free of me—I'm your nightmare, your inner
demon; I'm that abominable soul of yours that will one day be judged by
the heavens!
Start over? Why the hell should you get to? The nerve of you—what
right do you have to start over? You're deceiving everyone, even the people
who love you. Any good deed you do is merely to ease that tiny, pathetic
burden of guilt in your heart, is it not?!
Ha! Mo Weiyu! Do you dare let them learn what kind of man you
were in your past life? Do you dare let Chu Wanning find out that, in the
last lifetime, it was you who cut his neck and bled him out, made his life a
living nightmare? That it was you who blighted the world, transformed it
into a hell on earth overrun with famines and disasters one after another?
It was you. Ha ha ha, you fucking beast, we are one and the same!
There's no way out of this one; I am you, Mo Weiyu! You know it to be
true!
Backed into a corner and on the verge of losing his mind, Mo Ran
groped around the bedside for the flint and steel again, tried to light the
candle to drive back the grisly darkness of night. But even the candle
rejected him; even the candle didn't care to save him. He was alone in the
dark, hands shaking uncontrollably as he tried over and over to strike flint
with steel, over and over again, but there was no spark, there was no spark.
He finally collapsed onto the bed and burst into shuddering sobs. He
recited apologies again and again. In the black of the night, there seemed to
be a crowd gathered around his bed, each shadowy, wavering figure cursing
him, demanding his life in vengeance, howling at him that he was once evil
and would always be so.
Mo Ran didn't know what to do. Helpless, he muttered again and
again, "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" but no one paid him any mind. No one
wanted to forgive him. His head was scalding hot, and his heart felt like it
was on fire.
Suddenly, he seemed to hear a soft sigh.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Chu Wanning among the phantom
shadows, looking just as he had—white robes falling loosely to the floor,
wide, sweeping sleeves, features elegant and defined. He stepped forward
and came to a stop before the bed.
"Shizun…" Mo Ran choked out between sobs, "I…don't deserve to
see you again, do I…"
Chu Wanning said nothing, but merely picked up the flint and steel.
He calmly lit the candle that had remained dark in the face of Mo Ran's best
efforts.
Where his shizun was, there was a flame.
Where Chu Wanning was, there was light.
He stood by the candleholder with his long lashes downcast, then
calmly looked up at Mo Ran and gave him a small, serene smile. "Go back
to sleep, Mo Ran. See, the candle is lit now. Don't be afraid."
Mo Ran's heart felt like it had been brutally crushed by something
heavy, and his head hurt so terribly he felt it might split. These words
sounded so familiar, as if he'd heard them before. But he couldn't
remember where.
Chu Wanning swept his sleeves aside and sat at Mo Ran's bedside.
The rain outside was bitterly cold, but it was warm in the room, and the
night was no longer dark.
"I'll stay with you," Chu Wanning said.
Mo Ran's heart ached at these words, clenching and twisting itself
into a knot. "Shizun, don't leave." He clutched at Chu Wanning's hand
under his broad sleeve.
"I won't."
"It'll be dark again if you leave."
Mo Ran was crying. Feeling embarrassed, he covered his eyes with
his other hand. "Please don't leave me behind… I'm begging you… I
really… I really don't want to be the emperor anymore, Shizun… Please
don't throw me away…"
"Mo Ran…"
"Please." Perhaps it was the fever making him feel weak and dizzy, or
perhaps it was because some part of him knew this was only a dream, and
that Chu Wanning would vanish when he woke. He muttered over and over
again, "Please don't throw me away."
That night, the icy raindrops outside pelted against the window like
the knocking of countless vengeful ghosts trying to rush inside and claim
his life in retribution. But inside Mo Ran's dream, Chu Wanning lit a candle,
and that small halo of light drove away the ceaseless chill. He heard Chu
Wanning say, "All right, I won't leave."
"You won't leave?"
"I won't leave."
Mo Ran opened his mouth. He wanted to say thanks, but the only
sound that emerged was a whimper, the kind of pitiful whine a dog might
make when gingerly trying to gain someone's favor.
"That's what you all say—that you won't leave, that you won't
abandon me." Teetering on the edge of slumber, Mo Ran muttered dazedly
with heavy-lidded eyes. "But then you all end up leaving anyway. No one
wants me; I've been a stray dog half my life… Every time someone takes
me in, they discard me within a few days… I'm so tired… Really…
Shizun… I'm really so tired, I can't do it anymore, I can't keep going…"
He was like a starving stray dog with no home to return to, with
mangled paws and a grimy coat of fur, with no choice but to fight over food
with beggars and feral cats to survive. There was no trust left in his heart
after being abused for so long; if someone were to crouch nearby, a pet
might expect to be fed, but a stray would only expect to be hit with rocks.
Anxious and on edge, he kept walking, walking, snarling at anyone and
everyone—this was his fate.
"Shizun, if someday you don't want me anymore, please just kill me;
don't throw me away," he murmured between sobs. "It hurts too much to be
discarded again and again. I'd rather die…"
His fever burned so high it turned him into a muddled mess; he
couldn't tell where he was, and even forgot who the person in his dream
had been.
"Mom…" The last thing he muttered before passing out was: "It's
getting dark, I'm scared… I want to go home…"