Chapter 140: Shizun, Turn Over

Thanks to Mo Ran's well wishes, Chu Wanning did indeed dream

that night. Unfortunately, it wasn't the sweet kind.

In his dream, he was back at Butterfly Town during the Heavenly

Rift; however, the person mending the great tear in the sky with him wasn't

Mo Ran, but Shi Mei.

Working amidst heavy snow falling from an ashen sky, Shi Mei

couldn't hold out. A horde of ghosts stabbed him through the heart, and he

fell from the coiled dragon pillar to the endless snowy ground below.

Mo Ran rushed over to gather the bleeding Shi Mei into his arms. He knelt

at Chu Wanning's feet and begged him to help, to save his own disciple.

Chu Wanning wanted to save him too. But under the effect of the twinned

barrier, he had suffered the same grave injury as Shi Mei. Face drained of all

color, he stood there wordlessly for fear that blood would come spilling out

were he to part his lips, and that the teeming ghosts would rush them at

once to tear them to pieces.

"Shizun…please…I'm begging you…"

Mo Ran was weeping and kowtowing to him, over and over.

Chu Wanning closed his eyes and fled…

Shi Mei died. Mo Ran never forgave him.

He dreamt of Naihe Bridge at Sisheng Peak during a cold spell in late

spring. It was raining, drops clinging to the tender beginnings of flowers

and leaves on the trees, and the bluestone path beneath his feet seemed

endless as he walked its length, holding an umbrella.

In the distance, across the bridge, he saw another figure walking

toward him, dressed in black with no umbrella, holding a stack of books

wrapped in oilpaper. Chu Wanning unconsciously slowed his pace.

That person had clearly noticed him as well, but his steps didn't slow.

He only lifted those rain-laden lashes to cast him a single cold glance.

Chu Wanning wanted to call out to him, wanted to say: Mo…

But Mo Ran didn't allow him the chance to speak. Clutching his

books, he walked as far to the left as he could without falling into the river

—in order to get as far away as he could from his shizun on the right.

They met in the middle of the bridge. One who usually used an

umbrella, walking in the rain, and one who never had the habit of using one,

also in the rain.

They passed each other by.

The one enduring the rain kept walking without so much as a

backward glance, but the one under the shelter of the umbrella stopped,

standing rooted in place. Rain pattered against the oiled paper. Chu

Wanning stood there for a long time, so long his legs began to go numb, as

if the damp cold of the Sichuan air had sunk into his very bones. He

suddenly felt an exhaustion so crushing he couldn't take another step.

The dream was swallowed by black.

It was cold and heavy. Cold like the rain, heavy like legs that refused

to move. Chu Wanning turned over in his sleep and curled into a tiny ball.

Wetness slid from the corner of his eye and soaked into the pillow. He

vaguely knew that it was only a dream. But why, then, was it so realistic, so

much so that he could clearly feel Mo Ran's hatred, his disappointment, his

spurn?

Was that it? Was that how it ended?

He refused to accept it; perhaps it was this refusal that made the

dreamscape light up again.

He was back in that same dream, many months after Shi Mei's

passing. Mo Ran's temperament grew gloomier by the day, and he spoke

less and less. He still came to his cultivation lessons, but only to sit in and

listen, and he never spoke a word more to Chu Wanning than he had to. Chu

Wanning had never explained why he hadn't saved Shi Mingjing back then.

Seeing Mo Ran's attitude, he knew nothing he said would change things

now that they had come to this point.

One day, during a cultivation lesson, Mo Ran stood at the tip of a pine

tree as instructed, working on concentrating spiritual energy. But for some

reason, he collapsed without warning and plummeted right off the tree. Chu

Wanning flew up to catch him without a thought. But he didn't have time to

cast anything, and the two fell heavily to the ground below.

Luckily the soil was soft and covered with a thick layer of pine

needles. Neither of them was much injured, save for Chu Wanning's wrist,

which had been slashed open by a sharp branch and was seeping blood.

Mo Ran looked at the wound, and then, for the first time in months,

lifted his eyes to look directly at Chu Wanning's face. He said, eventually,

"Shizun, you're bleeding." His tone was a little stiff, but at least the words

were pacifying. "There're salve and bandages in my qiankun pouch. Best to

take care of it straight away."

They sat on the thick cushion of needles, the refreshing scent of pine

drifting in the air. Chu Wanning said nothing as he watched Mo Ran

wordlessly wrap the bandage around his wrist with his head bowed. Though

he couldn't see the expression on Mo Ran's face, he could see the minute

quivering of his lashes. For a moment, he wished he could gather up the

courage to ask:

Mo Ran, do you really hate me that much?

But the breeze was so gentle, the sunlight so warm; birds and bugs

chirped between the branches, and his injured hand was held lightly

between Mo Ran's as he wrapped the bandage. Everything was so quiet and

peaceful.

In the end, he didn't ask, didn't shatter the picture of serenity. He

suddenly felt like the answer wasn't that important anyway. What was

important in this dream after Shi Mei's death was that his blood, his injury,

could buy back just a wisp of Mo Ran's rationality, could ease the tension

between them just a touch.

Chu Wanning woke up dazed the next day. Lying in bed, he could still

feel the lingering warmth and the ache in his wrist. Some minutes passed

before he rubbed his face in exhaustion. Ridiculous. What was that

nonsense in his dream?

It was said that dreams were a manifestation of one's private

thoughts. Could it be that he was so miffed by how beautiful Shi Mei had

grown that he had to vent these emotions in a dream about Shi Mei's death?

How absurd.

He rose from his bed and got ready for the day: washing, dressing,

and putting up his hair. Soon enough, he'd forgotten all about the night's

fragmented visions.

The villagers were making rice cakes.

In the lower cultivation realm, rice cakes were an absolute must for

New Year's Eve, believed to bring good fortune in the next year. Both

short-grain, non-glutinous rice and glutinous rice that had been ground into

flour the night before were steamed by the women and elderly over hot

stoves. It was a laborious process, but didn't require the aid of younger

menfolk, so Chu Wanning slept in a little and took his time strolling over.

When he arrived, he saw a giant wok propped over a fire in an open

field with a wooden barrel half as tall as a man set over it, billowing with

hot steam. The village chief's wife stood on a footstool, adding rice flour to

the barrel every now and again. A couple of kids ran around the wok,

playing and occasionally pulling a fistful of roasted peanuts or a corncob

from the firepit using metal tongs.

What Chu Wanning hadn't expected was that Mo Ran had gotten up

early as usual and was helping the village chief's wife tend to the stove.

One of the kids, running a bit too fast, tripped, sniffled, and burst into

tears. Mo Ran helped her up and patted the dust off her clothes, asking, "Oh

no, you tripped? Are you hurt anywhere?"

"My hand—" The little girl, still bawling, lifted her dirty little palm to

show Mo Ran.

Mo Ran scooped her up, walked over to the well, and drew a bucket

of clean water to wash her hand with. From a distance, Chu Wanning

couldn't hear what he said to the child, but the little girl choked back her

tears, sniffled for a while, then stopped crying. In due time, she smiled, then

looked up at Mo Ran with snot smeared on her little face and began

chattering away at him. Chu Wanning watched quietly from behind a corner

as he coaxed the little girl. Watched as he carried her back to the firepit,

watched as he retrieved a sweet potato from the fire, peeled it, and put it in

the little girl's hands. He watched it all from where he stood, as if seeing the

last five years of Mo Weiyu's life.

"Ah, Shizun is here?"

"Mn." After a long moment, Chu Wanning walked over to sit down

beside Mo Ran. He watched the roaring flames lick the underside of the

wok for a spell, then asked, "What's in there?"

"Peanuts, sweet potatoes, corn," Mo Ran answered, "and now that

you're here, a piece of candy for you."

"Candy can be roasted?"

"It'll be burnt candy if Shizun does it, though," Mo Ran teased with a

smile. "Let me."

So saying, he produced a piece of milk candy from his pocket and

removed the rice paper wrapping. He clasped it in the fire tongs and held it

in the flames for a few brief seconds before pulling it back out and taking

the candy. He sucked in a breath and said, "It's hot," then blew on the sweet

to cool it before holding it to Chu Wanning's lips. "Try it."

Chu Wanning wasn't used to eating out of someone else's hand, so he

reached out and took the candy himself. The creamy-white candy was warm

and soft from the fire, bringing out the sweet, milky flavor as he chewed.

Chu Wanning said, "Not bad. Roast another."

So Mo Ran roasted another, and Chu Wanning took it to eat as before.

"Another."

Mo Ran obligingly roasted eight candies in a row. As he was roasting

the ninth, a little kid ran over to ask him for a sweet potato. Mo Ran didn't

have a hand free and had to ask Chu Wanning to do it instead.

Chu Wanning took the other pair of fire tongs and picked out the

biggest one. Mo Ran looked over and said, "Put that one back, get the small

one next to it."

"The bigger ones are tastier."

"The bigger ones aren't cooked through yet," Mo Ran said with a

smile.

Chu Wanning was unconvinced. "How do you know it's not cooked?"

"Just trust me. I roast sweet potatoes in the wild all the time. Give

him the small one, those are sweeter."

So Chu Wanning retrieved the small one instead. The little kid had no

idea what a big name Chu Wanning was in the cultivation world; he only

knew that he was willing to help him pick sweet potatoes. He sidled over

and said in a small voice, "Da-gege, I want the big one."

"Tell that to the other da-gege," Chu Wanning said. "He's the one

who won't let you have it. He says it's not cooked yet."

The little guy really did run right over to Mo Ran. "Mo Ran-gege, I

want the big one."

"You'll have to wait a while longer if you want the big one," Mo Ran

said.

"How long is a while?"

"Count to a hundred."

"But I can only count to ten…" the kid moaned.

Mo Ran grinned. "Guess you'll have to eat the small one, then."

The little guy sighed dramatically but could do nothing but accept this

injustice. His head drooped and he muttered, "Fine, the small one then."

Chu Wanning set about peeling the sweet potato for him. He was

almost done when the candy Mo Ran was roasting got to its softest point;

any more and it would melt. Mo Ran hastily pulled it out and offered it to

Chu Wanning. "Shizun, open your mouth—"

Hands full of sweet potato, Chu Wanning opened his mouth without a

second thought; it wasn't until Mo Ran had popped the warm, soft milk

candy onto his tongue, the coarse pad of his thumb brushing lightly past the

corner of his lips, that Chu Wanning abruptly realized that he had eaten a

sweet right out of his own disciple's hand. The tips of his ears grew bright

red.

"More?"

Chu Wanning cleared his throat, but luckily the color on his face was

camouflaged by the warm glow of the fire. "I'm good."

Mo Ran smiled. "Just enough to fill you up; there's only one piece of

milk candy left and no more, even if you wanted it."

Relaxed and at ease, he had spoken carelessly and thoughtlessly,

uttering without a thought a phrase like "fill you up." Such words were

completely inappropriate from a disciple to his shizun; words that smacked

of pampering and domineering, like an owner feeding his pet, an emperor

satisfying his concubine, words that could be applied to matters between the

sheets, the conqueror above using his scorching hot body to fill up the

moaning person beneath. Chu Wanning was dazed for a solid minute,

drowning in those crude words.

When the rice was done steaming, the next step required hard

physical labor: all the young men in the village used wooden mallets to

pound the rice cakes. The village chief handed Mo Ran a wooden mallet

wrapped in gauze and was about to give Chu Wanning one as well when

Mo Ran held out a hand to stop him. He smiled. "Village Chief, my shizun

has never done this before. He wouldn't be any good at it."

Chu Wanning was speechless. He was quite affronted, a little

indignant even. From the day he'd left the temple, he'd never been anything

but competent and reliable. All he ever heard from others were requests and

pleas, things like Xianjun, please help with this and that. This was the first

time someone had ever stepped before him and said, He doesn't know how,

he wouldn't be any good at it.

Chu Wanning was irritated. He wanted to fling his sleeves and

thunder, Who are you calling no good! But he held himself back. Mo Ran

wasn't wrong… He really wouldn't be any good at it.

The village chief pointed them toward a stone mortar with a ball of

steaming cooked rice flour inside. Mo Ran said, "Shizun, when we get

started, turn the rice cake over every three strikes. Be careful not to burn

your hands, and don't do it too fast; I don't want to accidentally hit you."

"If you manage to hit me pounding rice cakes, you may as well quit

cultivating and go be a farmer instead."

Mo Ran grinned. "I'm just saying. Just in case."

Chu Wanning wasn't about to waste any more breath on him—not

least because the pair next to them had already gotten started, and he didn't

want to be outdone. He stood beside the stone mortar and said, "Get to it."

Mo Ran swung the mallet. The very first strike landed heavy and

solid, sinking into the softly steaming rice flour. He swung two more times,

then looked up at Chu Wanning with bright eyes and said, "Shizun, turn

over."

Chu Wanning turned the ball of rice flour over, and Mo Ran continued

pounding. It took only a few rounds for them to find the rhythm: every third

time Mo Ran lifted the mallet, Chu Wanning would nimbly turn the rice

flour ball over, and the strike would come down just as his hands withdrew.

Rice cake pounding might have looked simple, but it had to be carefully

controlled, and the person doing the pounding had to have strength and

stamina both. It took countless rounds of turning and pounding to make the

rice flour sticky and stretchy enough to call the job done.

After a while, Mo Ran was still swinging his mallet with ease, but the

villagers next to him were flagging. They started shouting, "One, two, three

—one, two, three—" to the rhythm of the pounding. Intrigued, Mo Ran

followed along. By the time the rice flour balls were half-sticky, everyone

else was heaving with exhaustion, but Mo Ran was unfussed, smiling as he

said to Chu Wanning, "Again."

Chu Wanning glanced at him. The young man's brow was covered in

sweat, making his honey-brown skin sparkle under the sunlight. His lips

were slightly parted; he wasn't panting like the others, but his breathing was

a little heavier, the rise and fall of his chest a little more pronounced.

Conscious of Chu Wanning's eyes on him, he paused before wiping

his face with his sleeve, eyes bright like stars as he smiled. "What is it? Did

I get flour on my face?"

"No."

"Then…"

When Chu Wanning saw how hot and sweaty he was, and how he

persisted in keeping his lapels properly folded all the way to his throat, Chu

Wanning unexpectedly felt a little sorry for him. He asked, "Are you hot?"

Yesterday he had asked Mo Ran if he was cold, and today was asking

if he was hot. Mo Ran was confused: the temperature had been pretty much

the same both days. He stared blankly for a beat before answering, "I'm all

right."

"Take that off if you're hot."

"Shizun doesn't like it, so I won't."

A long pause. "I like it even less when you're all sweaty."

Since Chu Wanning had said so, and the clothes were indeed

uncomfortably sticky, Mo Ran went ahead and removed his outer robe and

inner shirt, tossing them aside on the millstone. Chu Wanning's gaze was

icy, when in truth his heart was growing warmer and warmer. He stared at

Mo Ran standing beside the millstone, at his broad shoulders and back and

those firmly toned arms, and could practically feel the rush of warm air as

Mo Ran pulled off his inner shirt.

Mo Ran really was sweaty all over, his skin covered in a glossy sheen

under the sunlight. Like a merman emerging from the water, he turned and

smiled at Chu Wanning, looking dizzyingly, heart-racingly handsome.

The village chief's wife was going around, offering everyone tea.

When she reached them, she asked, "Would you like a cup?"

Mo Ran strode back over to the mortar and picked up the mallet again

as he replied with a smile, "I'm not thirsty, but thank you."

A hand reached over and took a cup of tea from the tray. As Mo Ran

and the village chief's wife both watched in awe, Chu Wanning gulped

down the entire cup in one go before returning it empty. "One more,

please."

"Shizun…are you that thirsty?"

Somehow pricked by the question, Chu Wanning's head snapped up,

eyes bright and tone cagey as he said, "Thirsty? No? I'm not thirsty at all."

Then he gulped down another whole cup.

Watching him, Mo Ran was baffled—when had Shizun's pride gotten

so out of hand that he couldn't even admit to being thirsty?