Chapter 121: Shizun Is the Real Zongshi

On the eight day after Mo Ran's departure, Xue Zhengyong

received the first of his letters. The brushstrokes on the paper were a messy

scrawl that the author had clearly made a valiant yet futile attempt to

neaten.

Uncle, I hope this letter finds you well. I'm at Blossom Crossing

today, and everything is going fine. There was an evil spirit here a few days

ago, but luckily no one was hurt. I've already taken care of the pesky water

spirit, so the ferries may come and go safely again. The boatswain paid me

five hundred in silver notes, which I've included with the letter. Please give

Auntie and Shizun my regards.

On the hundred and twentieth day, the twenty-second letter:

Uncle, I hope this letter finds you well. I recently chanced across a

high-quality spiritual stone that may be embedded into Xue Meng's

Longcheng blade to make it a truly peerless weapon. It still won't be a holy

weapon, but it should make for a fine improvement regardless. Please give

Auntie and Shizun my regards.

The hundred and thirtieth day, the twenty-fourth letter:

Uncle, I hope this letter finds you well. Lately I've been cultivating at

Snow Valley. It's always cold here, and there are all kinds of unusual flora,

of which the frost lotus is the rarest. I didn't quite have the skills to get past

the thousand-year-old ape monster guarding the flower field at first, but

I've made good progress in recent days and managed to pick a dozen or so,

which I've included with this letter. Please give Auntie and Shizun my

regards.

Often, the letters came attached to small playthings, medicinal herbs,

or spiritual stones.

Aside from writing to Xue Zhengyong, Mo Ran also wrote privately

to Shi Mei. The letters detailed the places he went and the things he saw,

asked Shi Mei how he was and reminded him to dress warmly, as well as

other such trivial matters. The handwriting on these started off a mess, full

of mistakes, and although the penmanship never improved to the point that

it looked good, as time went on, it gradually straightened into something

neat and mature, with fewer and fewer errors.

Thus did one year pass in the blink of an eye. One day, as Xue

Zhengyong was savoring the fresh spring tea, another letter from Mo Ran

arrived. He read it with a smile, then passed it to Madam Wang, whose lips

also curled at the corners as she read. "His penmanship has certainly gotten

better."

"Doesn't it look just like a certain someone's?"

"Whose?"

Xue Zhengyong blew on his tea leaves, then retrieved a copy of

Variorum of Ancient Barriers from his desk. "Compare it with Yuheng's.

Pretty similar, eh?"

Madam Wang examined the scroll and said with surprise, "It really

is."

"He took Yuheng as teacher when he first came to Sisheng Peak, after

all. Yuheng tried to get him to read, but he knew just a handful of

characters, so Yuheng spent some time teaching him. He started with his

name, then simple vocabulary, before moving on to more complex

subjects." Xue Zhengyong shook his head. "That boy didn't take it

seriously back then, always putting down some chicken scratches just to get

it over with. But look at him now. He's finally learned to write decently."

Madam Wang said with a smile, "Going out to see the world is doing

him wonders. He seems much more mature now."

Xue Zhengyong was smiling as well. "Wonder what he's gonna be

like after the five years of traveling. How old will he be then? Twentytwo?"

"Twenty-two."

Xue Zhengyong sighed with a hint of regret. "I thought Yuheng

would watch them grow into their twenties. But the heavens had their own

plans."

Indeed, the heavens had their own plans: that's what Mo Ran thought

as well.

He traveled far and wide, from the misty rains of Jiangnan in the

south to the Sanguan Pass north of the Great Wall. He sat on the banks of

the Toulao River and chugged rice wine in the summer, then huddled by

campfires and listened to the melody of a Qiang1

 flute in the winter.

In his previous life, Mo Ran had owned all the lands under heaven

after declaring himself emperor, yet he had never once taken the time to

walk them, to see with his own eyes the lanterns and fishing boats of the

east or the underground aqueducts of the west; never bothered to note the

dark, toughened, and cracked soles of a porter's feet who carried load-laden

poles over cobblestone roads; never stopped to listen to the singing of the

young trainees in an opera troupe, their voices pitched like ripping silk,

rising into the skies:

"Such brilliant splendor, blooms flourishing abound against a

backdrop desolate, walls ruined and decrepit…"

He wasn't Taxian-jun anymore; he wouldn't ever be Taxian-jun again

in this life. He was—

"Da-gege." In the tender voice of a child from the street stalls. "Dagege, can you save this birdy? Its wing is broken, I-I don't know what to

do."

"Little Xianjun." In the aged, raspy voice of Shijiu Village's leader.

"Thank you, thank you. All of us here are too old to contend with evil

spirits; if not for you, we would've had to abandon our homes and go

elsewhere. This old one…this old one will never forget Xianjun's kindness

as long as he lives."

"Kind sir." In the trembling voice of a beggar woman on the street.

"Kind sir, my child and I haven't had a real meal in days. Please, won't you

be so kind…"

Mo Ran closed his eyes.

He opened them again. There was someone calling him.

"Mo-zongshi."

Stung by this form of address, he looked up at the suntanned fellow

calling for him and said helplessly, "I'm no zongshi. That's my shizun.

Please don't call me that."

The man scratched his head bashfully. "Sorry about that. I know you

don't like it. It's just force of habit 'cause everyone in the village calls you

that."

Presently, Mo Ran was staying in a small village near the border of

the lower cultivation realm. Owing to the snowy mountain that towered a

few miles away, the village was often troubled by snow ghosts. Such

creatures were minor nuisances with little spiritual power; one of his

shizun's Holy Night Guardians would have easily taken care of them. But

this village was far too remote for the use of Holy Night Guardians to have

spread here. So, with few other options, Mo Ran had tried to construct one

himself, following his shizun's diagrams. He failed many times before

finally managing one. It wasn't as good-looking as his shizun's, nor as

nimble, but the creaking wooden automaton was at least serviceable.

The people of the backwater village, delighting in this curious new

marvel, had started calling him Mo-zongshi. Mo Ran felt nothing but

awkwardness at this development.

But the more awkward event was yet to come.

One particular evening, half the sky dyed red by the setting sun,

Mo Ran was returning from lectures at an academy on Mount Taishan. As

he strolled along a busy alleyway alongside an apricot grove, he heard

someone calling.

"Chu-zongshi!"

Without thinking, Mo Ran's head whipped around. Then he almost

laughed as his brain belatedly caught up. There were plenty of cultivators

out there with the surname Chu; he really was getting ahead of himself,

thinking his shizun had somehow awoken already.

Of course not.

Mo Ran shook his head with a smile and was just about to turn back

around when the call came again: "Chu-zongshi!"

Arms around his pile of books, Mo Ran squinted into the crowd.

Someone was waving at him, but the person was too far away for him to see

his face. He could only vaguely make out his clothing and build—it was a

young man dressed in blue cultivator garb with a bow on his back and a

wolf at his side.

The caller walked over briskly. Once they were close enough to

recognize each other, both were caught by surprise.

"You're…"

"Mo Ran." He reacted first with a nod of his head, his hands being

occupied with the books. His curious gaze paused on the young man's face.

"Fancy meeting you here, Nangong-gongzi."

As it turned out, the one calling him "Chu-zongshi" was none other

than the scion of Rufeng Sect, Nangong Si. This guy had died too early in

his past life for Mo Ran to have met him then, but not so Chu Wanning. His

shizun had once been a guest instructor at Rufeng Sect, so it was only

natural that Nangong Si knew him well.

As Mo Ran studied the young man before him, the quiver in Nangong

Si's hand caught his eye. It was an old quiver made of cloth, so worn the

camellias embroidered on its surface had faded, their once-vibrant petals

yellowed with time as if even flowers of cloth and thread couldn't escape

the fate of wilting away. Nangong Si was neat and well-dressed from head

to toe save for that threadbare, visibly patched quiver. Mo Ran could tell at

once that this quiver was precious to him—after all, didn't everyone have a

handful of sentimental objects? Even the flashiest person surely had some

memories they held dear. No one was heartless, however they might appear.

Nothing was so simple.

Nangong Si's brows drew together in thought. "Mo Ran… Ah,

I remember now. Chu-zongshi's disciple?"

"Mhm."

With this realization, Nangong Si's attitude improved somewhat. "My

bad. Your clothing and silhouette looked rather like the zongshi's from a

distance, so I thought he had come out of seclusion early without me

knowing."

Mo Ran tore his gaze away from the quiver, tactfully deciding not to

pry as he replied without missing a beat, "When you called his name earlier,

I also thought Shizun had come out of seclusion ahead of time without me

knowing."

Nangong Si burst out laughing. Maybe because of his lofty birth, his

handsome features still retained a measure of arrogance even in the grips of

mirth. This arrogance of his was different from Xue Meng's—Xue Meng

had a conceited pride born of skill and talent, while Nangong Si had a touch

of belligerence: a headstrong, fiery kind of arrogance. But born as he was in

the lap of luxury, this kind of attitude only made him seem wild and

audacious rather than frightening. Mo Ran couldn't help musing that

Nangong Si really was the spirited stallion his given name implied.2

He was still lost in thought when he heard Nangong Si say, "I was

absolutely gutted to hear that Chu-zongshi lost his life in the Heavenly Rift.

Thankfully he can be revived under the great master's guidance. I'll

definitely pay a visit to Sisheng Peak once he wakes up."

"We'll be looking forward to it."

Nangong Si waved a nonchalant hand. Noting the books in Mo Ran's

arms, he asked curiously, "What's Mo-xiong up to?"

"Studying."

Nangong Si had imagined Mo Ran must be studying some

complicated, esoteric scrolls, only to find on closer inspection that he

carried such simple classics as Carefree Wandering3

 and Book of Rites.4

Nangong Si was momentarily dumbfounded. "These…these are all

fundamental readings, books I learned by heart when I was a kid. What're

you doing reading these?"

"When I was a kid," Mo Ran replied, his gaze clear and unashamed,

"I didn't even know how to write my own name."

"Ahem…" Nangong Si coughed awkwardly. "You studying at an

academy?"

"Yeah. I was collecting spiritual stones for cultivation on Mount

Taishan a while back and happened to see that classes were starting at

Apricot Grove Academy. I have some free time right now, so I've been

attending the lectures."

Nangong Si nodded. Seeing that it was getting late, he said, "Say,

Mo-xiong hasn't had dinner yet, right? Since you're in Rufeng Sect's

territory, and Chu-zongshi's disciple to boot, let me be a proper host. I'm

actually on my way to a restaurant close by to meet up with a companion,

so how about it? Join us for a drink."

Mo Ran had no plans anyway. "How could I refuse such hospitality?"

"We're headed to Wuyu Pavilion then, one of Linyi's most famous

restaurants." Nangong Si chatted as they walked. "They make the best

braised pork intestines. You ever heard of them?"

"Of course I have." Mo Ran grinned. "They're one of the top

restaurants in the upper cultivation realm. You sure know how to pick a

place, Nangong-gongzi."

"I didn't pick it."

"Oh? Who did, then?"

"My companion did," Nangong Si replied.

Having already lived through one lifetime, Mo Ran knew a thing or

two about the complicated web of relationships within Rufeng Sect. With

some surprise, he thought—though he didn't say it aloud—was Ye Wangxi

here as well?

He followed Nangong Si up the stairs, pushing aside the pearl curtain

to step into a private booth. When he saw who was waiting inside, he nearly

choked.

It was Song Qiutong, dressed in light silks and standing before the

window, gazing at the peach blossoms outside. She turned as she heard

them enter. The golden ornaments that dangled at her temples swayed

gently and caught the light so that her skin seemed all the fairer and her lips

all the redder, beautiful beyond words.

Mid-step into the room, Mo Ran subconsciously pulled his foot back.

He wondered if it was too late to tell Nangong Si that he didn't like

Shandong cuisine, and most especially disliked braised pork intestine.