Chapter 98: Shizun, I’m Begging You, Please Pay Attention to Me

Sisheng Peak had a cliff with a funny name, called Aaaaah.

There were numerous stories within the sect as to how this name came

to be. The most common was that people often fell from it due to how sheer it

was, crying out "Aaaaah!"

But Mo Ran knew that wasn't the reason.

The cliff rose high into the clouds, steep and nigh impossible to scale.

It was terribly cold, and its top was covered in snow year-round. This was

where the dead of Sisheng Peak lay while they awaited their funerals.

Mo Ran had only ever come here once in his past life.

Then, as now, it had been after the bloody battle that followed the

opening of the rift to the Infinite Hells, which had ended countless lives, Shi

Mei's among them. He had refused to accept reality and had knelt by Shi

Mei's coffin for days on end, gazing at his face within, which looked almost

as if he were merely sleeping.

"It's called 'Aaaaah' from back when your dad passed," was what

Xue Zhengyong had revealed to him in the past life as he accompanied his

nephew in the chill air of the Frostsky Hall. "I only had one brother. We

founded Sisheng Peak together. But your dad…he was stubborn, just like you.

He barely even got to enjoy the good life, or maybe he got sick of it. But one

slip against the demons, and he was gone."

It was freezing inside Frostsky Hall. Xue Zhengyong took a swig from

the sheepskin of wine he'd brought, then offered it to Mo Ran. "Here, have

some. Just don't tell your aunt."

Mo Ran didn't take it; didn't move.

Xue Zhengyong sighed. "I was so miserable in those days; it felt like

my heart had been dug out. All I did was sit up here with your dad and cry. I

sound pretty awful when I cry; I was just howling like aaaaah—and that's

where the name came from." He glanced at Mo Ran and clapped him on the

shoulder. "Your uncle isn't well-read or anything, but I know this much: life

is ephemeral like the morning dew, over in a blink. Mingjing's just gone on a

bit ahead of you. You can be brothers

7

 again in the next life."

Mo Ran slowly closed his eyes.

"Condolences and whatnot are just words," Xue Zhengyong continued.

"If you're sad, go ahead and cry. If you don't want to leave, stay and keep

him company. But you have to eat, and you have to drink your water. Go grab

a bite at Mengpo Hall. After that, you can come back here and kneel as long

as you want. I won't stop you."

Frostsky Hall was frigid and silent. White silk drifted lightly within

the grand hall, like gentle fingers brushing the brow.

Mo Ran gradually opened his eyes.

The coffin was the same as the one in his memory, cast from the black

snow of Kunlun, lustrous and translucent, with threads of frozen mist

streaming from the surface. Only this time, the body lying inside was Chu

Wanning's.

Mo Ran had never imagined that the one to die in the Heavenly Rift in

this lifetime would be Chu Wanning. He was wholly taken by surprise; he

didn't know how to react. Faced with this person's ice-cold body, he found

that he didn't feel much of anything— not joy at the death of his foe, nor grief

at the passing of his shizun.

Mo Ran stared at Chu Wanning through lowered lashes for a long

while, almost disbelieving. His face appeared even colder than usual, now

covered in a layer of frost in truth. Flecks of ice clung to his closed lashes.

His lips were a pale blue, and his skin was nearly transparent, the faint blue

of veins visible like minute cracks in porcelain.

How could he have been the one to die?

Mo Ran raised his hand to touch Chu Wanning's cheek; it was cold.

His hand traced down to his throat, his neck; there was no pulse. And then to

his hand. He gripped it; the joints were already beginning to stiffen, and the

skin there felt rough. Mo Ran thought it strange—the tips of Chu Wanning's

fingers were lightly calloused, but his palms had ever been soft and delicate.

Despite himself, he looked closer. Scores of lacerations covered his hands:

open cuts that, although cleaned, would never heal.

He remembered Xue Meng's words.

His spiritual energy was completely drained. He was no dif erent

from an ordinary person at that time. He couldn't use a single technique,

not even a simple communication spell. He could only carry you on his

back and climb up the stairs of Sisheng Peak, step by step.

And when he couldn't do that anymore, when he couldn't even stand,

he had crawled on the ground, on his knees, dragging him until his fingers

were torn and his hands covered in blood.

All to bring him home.

"Was it you who carried me back?" Mo Ran muttered hollowly.

His question was met with only silence.

"Chu Wanning, was it you…?"

Silence. No reply.

"I won't believe it unless you nod," Mo Ran said to the man in the

coffin. His expression was placid, as if fully expecting the person before him

to wake up. "Chu Wanning, give me a nod. Just one nod, and I'll believe you,

and I won't hate you anymore. Just one nod, okay?"

But Chu Wanning only lay there, cold and expressionless, as if it made

no difference to him whether Mo Ran hated him or not. He himself had left

with a clear conscience, abandoning the living to their guilt.

Living or dead, this person had always been more maddening than he

was pitiable. Mo Ran sneered. "Then again," he said, "when have you ever

listened to me?"

As he stared at Chu Wanning, he suddenly felt that the whole thing was

so absurd. All these years, he'd hated Chu Wanning for looking down on him.

The hatred had deepened when he failed to save Shi Mei. For over a decade,

this hatred had festered, twisting and turning in his heart. Then one day, out of

nowhere, he was told—

When Chu Wanning turned and left back then, it was to protect you!

He was suddenly told that—

The Discernment Barrier is twinned! Whatever damage you took, he

suffered the same!

His spiritual energy was spent. He couldn't even protect himself

anymore, he…

Great. Awesome. Perfect. Chu Wanning was right in everything he did.

Then what about Mo Ran? Head in the dark like a know-nothing idiot,

running in circles like a goddamn clown, hissing and snarling in his hatred

for so long. And for what?!

A brief misunderstanding was like a smudge of dirt on a healing

wound. As long as it was discovered in time, washed off, and the salve

reapplied, everything would be fine. But if the misunderstanding was

allowed to persist for ten, twenty years; if the person trapped in that web

poured in endless hatred, worries, repression, and even his life—these

emotions would scab over and grow into new skin, would become part of

one's body.

And then, to suddenly be told, That's not how it is, you've got it all

wrong. What then? The dirt had lodged under the skin with the passing of

time, already been subsumed into the blood. To remove that bygone hatred,

the healed flesh would have to be ripped open again.

A misunderstanding of one year is a misunderstanding. A

misunderstanding of ten years is an injustice. A misunderstanding of a

lifetime, from life unto death, is fate.

Their fate was blighted.

The heavy gates of the Frostsky Hall swung slowly open.

Just as in the previous lifetime, Xue Zhengyong, a sheepskin of wine in

his hand, trod heavily to Mo Ran's side and sat on the floor beside him. "I

heard you were here. Uncle will keep you company." Xue Zhengyong's fierce

eyes were red; he had plainly been crying not long ago. "And him too."

Mo Ran said nothing. Xue Zhengyong twisted open the cap of the

sheepskin and drank deeply before falling still. He wiped roughly at his face

and, with great effort, summoned a grin. "Yuheng never liked it when I drank,

but now…" He sighed. "No, never mind, never mind. I'm not even that old,

but I've already seen off so many friends. Ran-er, do you know how that

feels?"

Mo Ran lowered his lashes, silent. Xue Zhengyong had asked him the

same question in his past life. Back then, he'd only had eyes for Shi Mei's

lifeless body—what did he care if others lived or died? He didn't

understand, and he didn't want to.

But how could he not understand now?

Before he had been reborn, he had stood alone in the empty halls of

Wushan Palace. One day, he had dreamt of long-gone days as Yuheng's

disciple and had jolted awake from his light slumber gripped by a sudden

impulse to visit his old room in the disciple quarters. When he opened the

door and stepped inside, that narrow room, unused for so long, was covered

in a layer of dust.

He had found a small fragrance burner toppled onto the floor, knocked

over by someone many years ago. He picked it up and moved out of habit to

put it back in its customary place. But the years had flowed by like a swift

stream; holding the burner, he suddenly froze. "Where did I used to keep this

burner?"

He couldn't remember. His eagle-like gaze swept across the attendants

behind him, but their faces were blurs; he couldn't tell one from another. But

of course these people wouldn't know where in his old room the youthful

emperor used to keep this fragrance burner.

"Where did I keep this burner?" He couldn't remember, and anyone

who could was dead or gone.

How could Mo Ran not understand how Xue Zhengyong felt right

now?

"Every now and then, out of the blue, I'll recall some joke from my

youth and blurt it out. But then I realize not a single person who gets it is

around anymore." Xue Zhengyong took another gulp of wine and, lowering

his head, let out a mirthless laugh. "Like your dad, or our friends from

before…or your shizun. Ran-er, do you know why this cliff is called

Aaaaah?" The tears in his eyes refracted fragments of light.

Mo Ran knew what he wanted to say, but he was too distraught to hear

about his dead father from Xue Zhengyong just now. "I know. It's because

Uncle used to cry here."

"Ah…" Xue Zhengyong paused and blinked slowly, the wrinkles at the

corners of his eyes deep. "Did your aunt tell you?"

"Mn."

Xue Zhengyong wiped away his tears and took a deep breath. "All

right, okay. Then you already know what Uncle wanted to say. Go ahead and

let it out if you're sad. It's all right. There's no shame in crying for someone."

But Mo Ran didn't cry. Maybe his heart had already hardened into iron

after two lifetimes of this. Compared to his devastation at Shi Mei's death

back then, his current self was very calm. So calm that he was unsettled by

his own numbness, surprised to find that he was really this heartless.

Xue Zhengyong finished drinking and stayed a while longer, then got to

his feet rather unsteadily. Perhaps his legs had lost feeling from kneeling so

long, or perhaps he had drunk too much. His broad hand clapped Mo Ran on

the shoulder. "The Heavenly Rift's been closed, but we still don't know

who's behind it all. Maybe that was the end of it, but there may be another

big battle on the horizon. Ran-er, make sure you go down and eat something.

Don't wreck your body."

With that, he turned and left.

It was night, and outside Frostsky Hall a waning crescent hung in the

skies above. As he trod through the snow that blanketed the cliff year-round,

half a skin of wine in hand, Xue Zhengyong's voice, deep and rough like a

broken gong, rang out in a short tune from Sichuan:

"Greeting old friends, half but ghosts, meeting only in cups of wine.

Beneath the osmanthus tree hides a pot of wine, a drink shared between

timeworn faces and streaks of white. The first light of dawn shatters the

dream, all depart, leaving me alone with my aged tears. I'd give what

remains of my life to the God of Dreams, if only to call you back, cup after

cup."

8

Things were different from the past life, after all; the one who died

wasn't Shi Mei, but Chu Wanning, and so Xue Zhengyong was stricken by an

even deeper sorrow.

With his back to the open gates of Frostsky Hall, Mo Ran listened to

the lingering sound of that hoarse voice, resonant and mournful. Little by

little, like an eagle soaring over the horizon, the voice grew distant, until it

was swallowed by the wind and snow. The world was blanketed by a

brilliant layer of white, and the moon high in the boundless sky washed over

all till it was faint and insubstantial, leaving only one line that echoed over

and over.

"Leaving me alone with my aged tears…leaving me alone with my

aged tears…"

Mo Ran wasn't sure how much time had passed when he finally left

Frostsky Hall to begin his slow descent down the mountain.

His uncle was right. The Heavenly Rift might be closed, but this affair

was far from over. Chu Wanning was gone; if there were another battle, Mo

Ran would have to fend for himself.

It was already late by the time he reached Mengpo Hall, and there was

no one around save the old woman who made the late-night supper.

Mo Ran asked for a small bowl of noodles and found a corner spot in

which to slowly eat. The noodles were hot and numbing, warm in his

stomach. Mengpo Hall was dimly lit, and hazy when he glanced up through

the thick screen of steam between ravenous bites.

He recalled how stubborn he'd been after Shi Mei's death in his past

life; how he had refused to leave or eat for three whole days. And how, later,

when he had finally been convinced to leave Frostsky Hall to eat something,

he had happened across Chu Wanning in the kitchen, his back to Mo Ran as

he clumsily rolled wrappers and mixed filling. There had been flour and

water on the table, and a few rows of wontons arranged in a neat line.

Clang. The crash of every bit of it being swept off that table rang out

from the bygone past and stilled the chopsticks in the present Mo Ran's hand.

Suddenly, it was hard for him to swallow. At the time, he had thought that

Chu Wanning was taunting him, that he purposely wanted to hurt him. But,

thinking back on it now, it was possible that Chu Wanning really did only

want to make him a bowl of wontons in place of the departed Shi Mei.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?! Do you have any right to use the

things he used? To make the food he made? Shi Mei is dead—are you happy

now? Or do you have to hound all your disciples to death or madness before

you're satisfied? Chu Wanning! There's no one left in this world who could

make those wontons ever again. No matter how much you imitate him, you'll

never even come close!"

Each word a stab to the heart.

He went back to eating his noodles, unwilling to think any more on it.

But it wasn't that easy; his memories gave him no peace.

He remembered Chu Wanning's face in that moment with awful clarity,

clearer than ever before. His face had betrayed nothing, neither joy nor

sorrow. He remembered every detail with an unprecedented sharpness. He

remembered the faint tremble at the tips of those fingers, the smudge of flour

on the plane of that cheek. He remembered the plump, snowy wontons

scattered across the floor. He remembered how Chu Wanning had lowered

his lashes and bent to carefully pick up those wontons, now unfit to eat, then

thrown them away with his own hands.

Thrown them away with his own hands.

More than half of the noodles with peas were still left, but Mo Ran

couldn't stomach another bite. He pushed the bowl away and fled before this

place could drive him insane. He dashed madly through Sisheng Peak, as if

trying to outrun this decade-long misunderstanding, as if trying to recover

those ridiculous years, as if trying to catch up to that person who had left

Mengpo Hall that day all alone.

Catch up to him so he could say, I'm sorry, I was wrong to hate you.

In the deep black of night, Mo Ran ran aimlessly. He ran and ran, but

everywhere he went, he saw remnants of Chu Wanning's shadow: the

Platform of Sin and Virtue, where Chu Wanning had taught him to read and

trained him in swordplay; Naihe Bridge, where he had shared an umbrella

with him as they walked together; Clearsky Hall, where he had endured

punishment by striking and left without anyone by his side. He felt more and

more distraught, more and more helpless.

Suddenly, he ran into an open clearing, and it felt like the haze had

dissipated, and he could once again see the bright moon above. He came to a

stop, taking shuddering breaths.

The Heaven-Piercing Tower.

The place where he had died in his last life. The place where he had

first met Chu Wanning.

With mayhem in his eyes like a battlefield in chaos, with his heart

beating wild like the pounding of war drums, powerless to ward off the tidal

surge of the past and helpless to avoid its relentless assault—he had been

forced here in the end. Here, where the moonlight was palest white, and the

breeze a gentle caress. Where they had first met.

Mo Ran finally stopped running. He knew he couldn't escape it: in this

life, he was bound to owe Chu Wanning. Slowly, Mo Ran strode up the steps

toward that magnificent haitang tree. He reached out and laid his palm on the

bark of the trunk, dry and hard as a calloused heart.

It had been nearly three days since Chu Wanning's death.

Mo Ran looked up. The flowering tree looked as gentle as ever. Only

then did an unfathomable sorrow well up in his chest. With his forehead

pressed to the trunk of the tree, he finally cried, his tears falling like rain.

"Shizun, Shizun," he murmured between choked sobs. Over and over, he

repeated those words he had spoken the day he first met Chu Wanning:

"Won't you pay attention to me… Please pay attention to me…"

But although the scenery remained the same, the people were no more.

Mo Ran stood before the Heaven-Piercing Tower, alone. No one would pay

attention to him anymore. No one would ever meet him here again.

The reborn Mo Ran had the body of a youth, but within it was the soul

of the thirty-two-year-old Taxian-jun. He had seen far too much of life and

death, tasted all the joy and sorrow the world had to offer. Thus, in this

reborn life, he had never displayed much genuine emotion; he had always

remained muted, as if hidden behind a mask. Yet at present, the loss and

anguish written on his face was so raw and vulnerable, so genuine and naïve.

Only now was he like an ordinary youth who had lost his shizun, like a child

who had been abandoned, like a stray dog that no longer had a home to return

to.

Pay attention to me.

Please pay attention to me…

In the end, the only reply was the rustle of leaves and the dancing

shadows of flowers. The person with such striking features who had stood

beneath the haitang tree that year would never again—could never again—

lift his head to look at him. Not even one last glance.