Chapter 110: Shizun Doesn’t Know about the Little Puppy’s Past

Mo Ran wandered the streets alone. There were still a few ghosts

drifting eerily about, and the bluestone steps were covered in lonesome

clumps of moss, wet and slippery beneath his feet.

Only after he'd calmed down from that fierce struggle did he finally

notice his fingers had been scraped raw and bloody. The crudely made

doorframe had been covered in splinters, which had embedded themselves

into his hand and made an awful mess. Fortunately, it was so dark now that

the ghosts around him didn't notice.

He stared quietly at his injured hand for a time, his lashes lowered.

Compared to the pain in his heart, the gruesome wounds on his hand didn't

hurt much at all.

Mo Ran looked back at the door, shut firmly against him. He well

knew that the man behind it wouldn't speak another word to him. He was no

stranger to such rejection. Mo Ran was intimately acquainted with

malevolence, to the point that he could tell merely from the look in

someone's eye or a handful of words whether or not his plea would have any

effect. Truth be told, the moment that man had changed his tune, Mo Ran

knew he wouldn't get another honest word out of him. It was just that he

didn't want to give up where Chu Wanning's earth soul was concerned. So he

had persisted until he was shoved outside and the door slammed in his face.

It had been many years since he'd last been so brutally refused. But

sometimes, the passage of time didn't really heal anything. Nor could coming

into happier circumstances change what was innate—some things were

simply carved into the bones.

Xue Meng had once called Mo Ran lowlife scum. It was funny—these

venomous words from the darling of the heavens hadn't made so much as a

dent in his dignity. Because he was right. Mo Ran was what everyone called

lowlife scum. He'd been called fouler things more times than he could count.

He was used to it.

He glanced over his shoulder one last time at the tightly bolted

wooden door. Then he slowly trudged away amidst low snickers from the

crowd of watching ghosts. A lone figure among those voices of ridicule and

derision.

This scene of abject helplessness, playing out once again after so many

years, overlapped in his mind with the distant, faded memories of childhood.

Mo Ran put one foot in front of the other. The circumstances were so very

alike—he couldn't help but recall those years when it had been just him and

his mom…

In those days, they hadn't yet settled at the pleasure house, but

wandered the streets of Linyi near Rufeng Sect.

In those days, at least he still had his mother.

His mom loved him. He was still small, and she hadn't wanted him to

go begging for food on his own, so she always left him in an abandoned

firewood shed while she ventured out to sing and perform on the street.

Mo Ran's mother was dexterous and could dance nimbly on a bamboo

pole, so she usually managed to earn a palmful of coins each day—enough

for a piece of flatbread and a bowl of congee shared between mother and

son. Like any mother, she wanted her child to eat well. But Mo Ran would

take only a few bites before refusing any more, complaining that the flatbread

was too hard, or the congee too bland, or that he was full.

Little did she know that, every time she sighed and ate the "leftover"

half of the flatbread and half bowl of congee, her little boy was secretly

watching. He would curl up and pretend to sleep, peering at her through

slitted eyes, and would only relax when he was sure she'd filled her

stomach. Then he would feel at ease, despite the rumbling of his own.

Nor did she know that, every day, after she left to busk on the streets at

Linyi's east market, her child would crawl from the pile of firewood and

sneak out to beg for food two streets away from her.

His mother sang a beautiful song as she balanced on her ten-foot pole

and danced upon it with her frail body. The ground below her was strewn

with jagged rocks and ceramic shards; were she to fall, all these sharp pieces

would pierce her skin. But the spectators thought the danger novel and

exciting, so she staked her lowborn life and danced, all to win a smile from

the moneyed onlookers.

Two streets away, her child begged door-to-door on the street, a grin

on his grubby little cheeks as he repeated the same greetings for good fortune

over and over, hoping for a bite to eat. But he didn't get so much as a

mouthful, at least not often.

One day, the young madam of a wealthy family, pregnant, bored, and in

a foul mood, was strolling the streets when she spied Mo Ran's mother

dancing on her pole.

She stepped to the side and watched for some minutes, intrigued. Then

she sent an attendant to go speak to the dancer. "These broken rocks and

ceramic bits you have are just for show, aren't they? Where's the sincerity?

Our madam says if you replace them with knives, blade-up, and dance over

that, she will reward you with ten taels of gold."

Faced with such a cruel request—practically demanding her life—the

mother's only response was, "I can't afford to buy any knives."

The wealthy madam laughed and sent someone running to the ironware

store to purchase a hundred sharp knives, and her attendants arranged them

upright on the ground.

"Now dance," the richly adorned woman said gleefully, caressing her

bulging belly.

A crowd of fiends and demons, eager to watch this sport, soon

clustered round, all of them decked in silks and jades that sparkled in the

sunlight. Like vultures that had scented the stench of blood in the air, they

gathered to feed on the corpse, necks outstretched and eyes glittering.

"Go on, dance."

"Dance well and I'll pay you."

"There's tips to be had!"

The regions that fell under Rufeng Sect's oversight had no shortage of

wealthy people. What they lacked was the excitement and liveliness of such

death-defying wagers. Those silks and satins, gold and pearls, closed in on

the mother with the bamboo pole. They surrounded that penniless woman in

rags.

And so that woman, her life as cheap as wild grass by the roadside,

smiled and curtsied toward the crowd of carrion vultures. She thanked them

for their patronage, and began a graceful dance upon the pole, light as a

swallow.

She danced above the blades, risking death to garner their favor. But

skilled as she was, she inadvertently glanced down at the rows upon rows of

wicked knives as she went in for the landing. In that brief moment of panic,

her bamboo pole tilted infinitesimally. Alarmed cries rang out from the

crowd as she fell.

Though she managed to avoid the densest thicket of knives, she still

skirted the edge, slashing her legs open. The crowd cried out again as blood

spattered across the road. She ignored the pain and got swiftly to her feet,

offering a smile as she lowered her head in apology.

The spectators sneered.

"The little missy's skills aren't quite up to the task. You'd better

practice a little more," said one.

"That's right, you gotta work harder if you wanna make a living. You

won't get far with half-assed dabbling," scoffed another.

A few of the kinder people, their eyes brimming with tears, were more

sympathetic. "Ay, enough already. Look at the poor girl's injury. Hurry along

to the apothecary, dear, and get some medicine."

"I don't…" The woman hesitated. "I don't have any money for

medicine…"

The sympathetic ones faltered. Some sighed, while others lifted their

hands to their jades and pearls, but none spoke. A few dabbed at the corners

of their eyes, as if deeply moved.

"How pitiful."

"Indeed, indeed."

"Seeing as your life is so difficult, I'll give you some money," said an

elderly woman with a big belly. She produced her bulging purse, fished out a

handful of gold leaflets, then held them in her hand and kept digging. Finally,

she unearthed three copper coins. She weighed them in her hand, returned

two to her swollen pouch, then, very solemnly, placed one copper coin in Mo

Ran's mother's palm. Having given generously, the elderly woman allowed

twin tracks of well-earned tears to roll down her cheeks. In tones of deep

benevolence, she said, "Miss, you deserve this. Take it."

"Thank you…" the woman murmured hollowly, clutching the copper

coin for which she had risked her life.

Thank you…

And what of that wealthy madam who had promised ten taels of gold?

She had already stomped off, cursing. The woman staggered after her on

bleeding legs. She wanted to ask for the money, but the madam's attendants

shoved her to the ground, cursing so loudly they could be heard a whole

street over.

"What terrible luck!"

"Our madam must keep her baby safe! The sight of blood is

inauspicious! Master will be worried sick if he hears."

"You still have the nerve to ask for money! You call that a dance?

You're just lucky your blood didn't get on our madam, or else—or else

there'd be hell to pay!"

"Scram!"

The woman was thrown roughly to the ground. But this madam and her

attendants were of an affluent and influential family in Linyi—no one was

willing to stick their neck out for her. She twisted in pain on the ground,

writhing like an insect in the dirt.

No one helped her up. No one would open their purse for her. She had

danced with her life on the line, all in exchange for a single, cold copper

coin. The kind woman who'd laid it in her palm said it was what she

deserved.

She spared not a thought for herself—but she had earned only one coin

today. What could she buy with that? A single piece of flatbread without any

filling, not even a bowl of congee to go with it. And with her leg hurt, she

wouldn't be able to dance tomorrow, and what about her little boy… He was

still so small, so skinny, and now he would go hungry again…

That thought pushed her over the edge. She curled up there in the mud

and wept miserably, her voice raw and shuddering. The onlookers were

unable to bear the sound. They sighed and began to disperse.

Just then, a dirty, foul-smelling child burst through the crowd.

"Mom! Mom!" Mo Ran ran to her, yelling like a trapped beast. He

hugged her. A lowly child clutching his lowly mother. Like a bug clinging to

grass, like a straw dog20

 clutching at duckweed.

Surprise and panic flashed in the woman's eyes at the sight of him. She

may have been weak, but mothers were strong. She stopped crying at once—

life was already hard enough, every day like falling asleep in hell and

waking in the same—she didn't want her son to see her weak and helpless.

The tears on her face were still wet as she quickly arranged her features into

a smile. "Aiya, look at you, what are you doing here? Mom is fine. It's just a

scratch… Oh, but look…"

She stuffed the clammy copper coin clenched in her hand into his small

palm. Mo Ran shook his head over and over, tears carving tracks through the

grime on his little face.

"There, that's enough for a piece of flatbread. Go on… Go buy one;

Mom will wait for you right here. Then we can go home."

Home? Where was home? That decrepit old storage shed? Or that

sheep pen they'd slept in, only to be chased out two days later…

Mo Ran fought back sobs. Fire burned in his eyes as he said, "Just sit

here and rest for a while, Mom."

"What're you going to—don't do anything foolish—"

Mo Ran dashed over and picked up a knife. He shouted loud and clear

in his still-young voice to capture the attention of the dispersing crowd.

"Lords and ladies, please wait! Please wait! We still have a special

performance for your lordships and ladyships! Please spare a glance—"

Mo Ran had possessed innate spiritual energy since he was a child.

Even if he'd never cultivated it, he was much stronger than an ordinary

person without aptitude. The boy held the sharp and sturdy blade in his

hands. With a low cry, he broke it in two and tossed the pieces to the ground.

The crowd was astonished, and the few cultivators among them even

more so. "Hey, the kid's not bad."

"One more!" called Mo Ran. He picked up two knives this time and

snapped both together.

"Nice!" Someone in the crowd clapped.

"Do three!"

The little boy added another knife, and another, and the crowd grew

more and more lively as the stack grew thicker and harder to break.

"Gege, Jiejie! Uncles and aunties! Please spare some tips and I'll add

more."

The people were eager for a show. They tossed the cheapest copper

coins they could find onto the ground before him. For the sake of those coins,

Mo Ran added knife after knife, until his hands were slick with blood, and he

really couldn't break one more. The carrion vultures flapped their nightblack wings and scattered.

Mo Ran picked up those copper coins, cupping them carefully in his

dirty little hands, and walked over to his dazed and teary mother.

"Mom," he smiled. "We can get you medicine now."

Her tears fell, uncontrollable. "My child… My good boy… Let Mom

see your hands…"

"I'm okay…" His smile was bright and pure. It scorched her heart.

She pulled her son into her arms and hugged him tight. "It's all Mom's

fault that I can't take care of you," she sobbed. "I've made you suffer so much

from such a young age…"

"It's all right," Mo Ran said quietly, wrapped in his mother's arms. "I

don't mind as long as I'm with you, Mom. We'll get through it together, and

when I grow up, I'll give you a good life."

She smiled and wiped the tears from her eyes. "It's all right if it's not a

good life. As long as you grow up strong and healthy, that would be fine…

that would be enough."

Mo Ran nodded vigorously. Then he suddenly said, quietly, "Mom, if I

make something of myself in the future, you'll never have to put up with this

again. I'll make all those people just now apologize to you, and if they won't,

then I'll make them dance on knives. I—"

"Silly child. Don't think like that." The kind, gentle woman stroked her

son's hair as she whispered, "Absolutely don't think like that. Don't hold

grudges. I want to watch you grow up to be a good kid. Promise me you'll be

a good, kind person. Okay?"

Mo Ran was so young back then, like a small and tender seedling—

just a gentle nudge and he would lean easily in a certain direction—and his

mother, uneducated but pure, was his first lighthouse. And so little Mo Ran

thought it over for a bit, rather puzzled. In the end he said, with an air of

seriousness. "Okay, Mom. I promise. Then… Then in the future, if…if I make

something of myself, I'll build lots of houses for people without homes, and

plant lots of food for people who don't have enough to eat. That way, no one

will ever have to live like us again."

The woman stared blankly for a while, then sighed. "That would be

wonderful."

The little boy nodded in agreement and echoed, "That would be

wonderful."

At that moment, neither imagined that a child who could say words

like this would later tread through fields of bone with his hands laved in

blood, bringing the stench of misery and ruin as vultures and crows wheeled

overhead—that he would become Emperor Taxian-jun, scourge of the

common people.

And Emperor Taxian-jun, that scourge of the common people, rarely, if

ever, looked back on this chapter of his past. He did not honor the promise he

made in his mother's arms that day, that promise spoken solemnly, with clear

eyes and a tender voice.

Back then, under his mother's guidance, however hard things got, Mo

Ran never hated anyone—though he did feel somewhat unsatisfied.

Day after day passed just like this. Streetside performances were

novel to the passersby the first time around, boring the second, and irritating

by the third. Eventually, Mo Ran and his mother could no longer earn a single

copper coin with their work and could only resort to begging.

Mo Ran remembered a kid from a wealthy merchant family. He was

around Mo Ran's own age and had a big mole by the corner of his mouth. He

remembered that kid sitting by the gate of his family's sprawling courtyard

with a bowl held in his hand. The kid was probably still learning to use

chopsticks well, so he ate the golden, crispy fried dumplings in the bowl by

jabbing each one with the bamboo sticks. He was a picky eater and would

only eat the filling, then spit the wrappers out and toss them to the ground for

the dogs.

Mo Ran walked over with cautious steps and stood carefully to the

side.

When the kid saw how dirty and smelly this little boy was, he started.

"Who are you?!" he screeched.

"Young master," Mo Ran asked quietly, "the dumpling wrappers…

Could…could I have them?"

"You want me to give them to you? Why would I give them to you?"

"You…you're not eating them anyway, so I just thought I'd ask…"

"So what if I don't eat them? Our Wangcai will." The boy pointed to

the pair of fat dogs with sleek coats and said huffily, "We can hardly keep our

dogs fed as it is, how could I give them to you?!"

Mo Ran smiled deferentially. "Then, if the dogs don't finish them…"

"As if they wouldn't! They get braised meat every day and even that's

not enough. These are just dumpling wrappers, two bites and they're gone.

Either way, none for you! Now, shoo, shoo!"

On hearing the words braised meat, Mo Ran couldn't help but look at

those dogs. All of a sudden he thought—with how fat they were—if cooked,

they would be… He stared at the dogs and swallowed hard.

The boy noticed. He froze for a second, then yelled in shock, "What

are you up to?!"

"I—nothing…I just…"

"You want to eat Wangcai and Wangfu?"

"N-no!" Mo Ran denied it in a panic. "I was just really hungry and

couldn't help thinking about it, sorry…"

But the little young master had stopped listening. At the words

couldn't help thinking about it, the blood drained from his face. How could

a well-fed young master possibly comprehend that someone might think of his

adorable little watchdogs as food? This kid was a freak. Frightened, he

started screaming his head off. "Somebody come! Hurry! Chase him away!"

The household servants crowded around Mo Ran, kicking and

punching him before he could say another word. Under that heavy rain of

blows, he scrambled to grab as many of the fried dumpling wrappers as he

could. No matter how hard they kicked, he held them tightly in his hands and

wouldn't let go.

The little young master was terrified. He tossed the remaining

dumplings to the ground along with his chopsticks and scurried away.

Mo Ran crawled over inch by arduous inch, dragging his small, skinny

body that had been pummeled blue and purple. One of his eyes was too

painful to open—the work of a well-placed kick—yet he smiled happily as

he reached out and grabbed those leftover dumplings. There were two left.

With the filling still in them… One for him, one for his mom…Or both for his

mom, just the wrappers were plenty for him…

But before he could leave with his prize, one of the servants' feet

came down in the chaos and crushed those dumplings skewered on the

bamboo chopstick. The crispy wrappers cracked, and the ground meat filling

was mashed to paste.

Mo Ran gripped the dirty, broken chopstick in a daze as kicks and

punches rained down on him. He couldn't feel the pain, yet because those

dumplings could no longer be eaten, his tears began to fall, squeezed out

between swollen eyelids to stream down that small face, so dirty his features

were hard to make out. All he had wanted was another child's leftover,

unwanted food. Why would they rather waste it, crush it, smear it into paste,

than let him have it?

Later, when Mo Ran became a young master of Sisheng Peak, many

within the sect tried to suck up to him and curry his favor. On his birthday, he

was inundated with gifts and well-wishes from people he'd hardly ever

spoken to.

The child who had once crawled on the ground and scrabbled for

discarded dumpling wrappers was now praised and fawned over left and

right. And yet—standing before that pile of attentively selected presents, he

found himself gripped by a vague sense of dread.

He was afraid those presents would disappear, that they would be

smashed, that something unexpected would happen and everything would be

crushed underfoot like those dumplings he had once held but never gotten to

eat. And so, out of that mountain of gifts, he quickly used what was usable

and ate what was edible. As for everything else, he dug out a secret little

compartment in his room and carefully hid those splendid gifts inside,

counting them every day once, then twice, just to be sure.

Xue Meng had made fun of him, pointing and laughing. "Ha ha ha! It's

just a box of pastries from Lin'an's Breeze Bakery. If they go bad or go to

waste, big deal! But look at you, shoving them all down your throat in one

sitting. Did you starve to death in your last life or something? No one's gonna

fight you for them."

Mo Ran had only recently arrived at Sisheng Peak then, and truthfully

still felt profoundly uneasy and insecure. So he only grinned in the face of his

cousin's mockery, crumbs still clinging to the corner of his mouth, then

lowered his head and opened another box of pastries.

Xue Meng was amazed. "What an appetite! Aren't you stuffed?"

Mo Ran kept eating without a word.

After a pause, Xue Meng said, "If you're full, don't force yourself to

eat. I get tons of pastries every year for my birthday too, but who can eat that

many…"

Mo Ran's cheeks were stuffed and bulging. He was actually choking a

little from eating too quickly. He glanced at Xue Meng, sitting across from

him, with teary black eyes. In that moment, he suddenly recalled that little

young master he had met as a child, the one who could be as picky about his

food as he liked, who ate the filling from his fried dumplings and tossed the

wrappers to his dogs. Xue Meng had probably grown up like that too. That's

why he could so easily say things like Just toss it if you can't finish it, and

No one's gonna fight you for them.

Mo Ran really, really, really envied them.

Now that he was leading a life of luxury as the young master of a

famed sect, he should by all rights be able to feel comfortable and secure,

and waste and squander as he pleased. But he didn't dare. Instead, he picked

up his cup and swallowed several mouthfuls of water to wash down the

pastries obstructing his throat. Then, he forced himself to eat more.

Later still, he became Emperor Taxian-jun.

Everything under the skies belonged to him. The most gorgeous

beauties, the finest wines, the most exquisite delicacies, gold and silver,

pearls and jades, and treasured artifacts alike were gifted to him in a neverending stream from every corner of the world.

One day, a wealthy ore merchant arrived from Lin'an with a rare, tenthousand-year-old black fire jade that had been discovered while mining. He

declared that he wished to give it to Emperor Taxian-jun.

These types—people who came bearing gifts of treasure in hopes of a

noble title or official post, or otherwise tried to ingratiate themselves with

the emperor and win his favor—were too numerous to count. Mo Ran usually

ignored them.

But on this day, it just so happened that Chu Wanning had come down

with a cold. Mo Ran frowned slightly. Black fire jade was excellent for

warming the body. He'd prefer for that invalid to get better quick; he was a

goddamn eyesore lying around in bed all day… Thus he agreed to see this

wealthy merchant.

The merchant was around his own age, stocky, with a large mole at the

corner of his lip from which a hair poked out. Mo Ran sat upon the throne in

Wushan Palace, his slender hands tented before him and the tips of his fingers

resting against his chin. He stared down silently until the greasy merchant's

legs went weak and sweat soaked his back.

A long moment passed before the merchant, shaking from head to toe

and lips aquiver, fell to his knees and began to kowtow again and again.

"Your Majesty. This lowly one…this lowly one…" He stammered for quite a

while without managing to say anything at all, his corpulent body trembling

under his gold-embroidered clothing all the while.

Mo Ran smiled. He may have only seen this person once in his life, but

he could never forget him.

That year, that kid—the one with the mole by the corner of his lip, who

had sat before his family's extravagant residence displaying the kind of

lavish mannerisms that Mo Ran had never imagined he himself would ever

possess. There he'd sat, jabbing his bowl of golden dumplings with his

bamboo chopsticks, a greasy sheen on his lips to match the sheen on the

crispy dumpling skins.

"You know," Mo Ran said, still smiling, "the fried dumplings at your

place are delicious." He'd never actually tasted them, but he had obsessed

over them for half a lifetime. From his seat on the throne, Mo Ran observed

the man at his feet go from terrified to astounded to bewildered to

sycophantic. He muttered obsequiously that he'd send his chef to Sisheng

Peak right away as a gift to Emperor Taxian-jun.

Mo Ran had seen it then, clear as day—how many in this world would

rather kneel to lick the boots of the strong than reach down to show the weak

the tiniest mote of sympathy or kindness.

Mo Ran shook his head, trying to shake off these memories of bygone

days. He rarely reminisced about his past, unwilling to dwell on this

weakness of his. But the ordeal of asking, door by door, and being rejected,

door by door, was so like those scenes of his past that the fetters deep within

his mind fell open against his will. For a time, he was caught up in the

darkness of his past.

He stared off in a daze. So he had once promised his mother, when he

was young, that he wouldn't hold grudges, had promised he would build

countless houses to shelter all the people in this world who didn't have

homes, so that everyone could smile… But he hadn't kept his word.

And in the end, he had caused the death of the last person who treated

him well. He had caused Chu Wanning's death, caused his own shizun's

death.

Chu Wanning…

Mo Ran's heart ached at the thought of him. Absently, he reached into

his robes and took out that flimsy sheet of paper bearing Chu Wanning's

likeness. The paper had become a bit wrinkled. He pressed his lips together

and wordlessly raised a hand, intending to smooth it out. But at his touch,

blood smeared across the paper.

He jerked his hand back in a panic, afraid to dirty the portrait. He

didn't dare touch it again.

He walked from the fifth street to the third street, asking at every door,

unwilling to give up. But every ghost said the same: they'd never seen the

man in the portrait.

He strode through the endless night. It was so dark, so long, that he

began to suspect he'd never reach the dawn, no matter how he tried or how

far he walked. Mo Ran finally felt fatigue setting in. He hadn't had a thing to

eat or drink, and by this point was nearing his limits. By luck, he spotted a

stall hawking wontons

21

 at the side of the street, so he went over and bought

a bowl, which he sneakily ate out of sight of the ghosts.

All the food in the underworld was cold. No steam rose off the

wontons. Mo Ran brought out the soul-calling lantern, scooped up a wonton,

and held it out to the lantern. "Does Shizun want some?"

Shizun, of course, couldn't answer.

So Mo Ran ate the whole bowl himself. "Then again," he said between

mouthfuls, "you never did care for wontons. All you like are sweets. Once I

find you and we get back home, I'll make you pastries every day."

In the silent night, one youth and one lantern sat by the lonely wonton

stall. A breeze rustled past, bringing with it an occasional withered leaf. In

this moment, even the underworld seemed serene.

"Peach blossom cake, osmanthus sweets, walnut crisp, cloud cake…"

he listed all these to the lantern while ticking them off on his fingers, as if in

doing so, he might entice Chu Wanning to respond. After he'd listed a good

number, he forced himself to smile and asked, "Shizun, where is your other

earth soul?"

The young man extended his slender hand and gently caressed the silk

surface of the lantern. Just as he had that year he turned thirty, when Chu

Wanning died. When he had held the man's body in his arms and stared

blankly into the distance and muttered, "Chu Wanning, I really hate you so

much"—then lowered his head and pressed his lips to that cold cheek.

"You new 'round here, son?"

Suddenly, a voice like a broken gong spoke by his ear. The old man

hawking the wontons was terribly nearsighted and had felt his way over to sit

next to Mo Ran. This man had probably died of old age in his own bed; his

face, tanned dark by the sun, was wizened and lined like a poplar tree in the

desert. He produced a smoking pipe from somewhere in his burial clothes,

placed it between his teeth, and began chatting with Mo Ran with that kindly

nosiness unique to the elderly.

Mo Ran sniffled, then turned to flash him a grin. "Mn, first day."

"No wonder I don't recognize you. If you don't mind me asking, how'd

you go so young?"

"Qi deviation."

"Oh…" The old man inhaled smoke from his pipe, though it remained

dark and unlit. "A cultivator, eh?"

"Mn," Mo Ran nodded and cast him a glance. Without much hope, he

once again withdrew that portrait scroll from his robes and asked, "Gramps,

I'm looking for someone. This is my shizun. He's new here, too. Would you

happen to have seen him?"

The old man accepted the drawing and hunched over closer to the

light. He squinted at it for a quite a long while through cataract-clouded eyes.

Mo Ran heaved a sigh and reached out to retrieve it. "It's all right, I've

already asked lots of people. It's okay if you don't know either. Everyone

else—"

"I've seen him."

Mo Ran jolted. The blood in his veins coursed faster as he clutched at

the old man's arm. "Gramps, you've seen him?! Y-you're sure?"

"I'm sure." The old man crossed one leg over the other and reached

over to pick at his foot. "Don't see lookers like that every day. It was

definitely your shizun."

Mo Ran had already shot to his feet, but then felt he'd been rude and

bowed respectfully to the old man. He looked up. "Gramps," he said

earnestly, "please point the way."

"Aiya, no need to be so polite, son. We're all in the same boat down

here, just ghosts waiting to pass on to the next life. We've only got eight or

ten years before this life's memories are gone for good. My own son passed

too early, so I've got a soft spot for you young'uns." He wiped the tears from

his eyes and blew his nose into his sleeve, then finally asked, "You seen that

grand-looking palace on the first street up there?"

"I have. That's where my shizun is?"

"Yup, he's in there. It's the Fourth Ghost King's second palace," the

old man sighed. "The ghost king doesn't actually live there. He built it to

lock up all the beauties his lackeys snatch from the underworld. That Fourth

Ghost King is a real lecher. He comes down here now and then to take his

pick of concubines from the second palace—men and women both. He takes

those he picks back to the fourth level of hell, and the ones he doesn't are

supposedly given to his underlings as playthings." The old man sighed again.

"The world nowadays—"

He was still sighing when the little cultivator beside him scooped the

lantern into his arms in an anxious flurry and charged off into the night like a

hound on a scent.

The old man watched in silence for a second, then muttered, not

without a dash of envy, "Must be nice to be young, to be able to run so

fast…"