Chapter 122: Shizun’s Reflection

"Here, Mo-Xiong, let me introduce you. This is Song Qiutong, a

little shimei from my sect."

In the end, Mo Ran forced himself to sit at the table and endure

Nangong Si's enthusiastic introductions. Song Qiutong, Song Qiutong… As

if Mo Ran needed Nangong Si to introduce this woman, when he knew well

the number of moles on her back, the location of the birthmarks on her

thighs.

But, with great restraint, he schooled his expression and nodded.

"Miss Song."

"This is Chu-zongshi's disciple, Mo Weiyu of Sisheng Peak. You

likely caught a glimpse of him back at Butterfly Town, but there were a lot

of people there; you probably don't remember him."

Song Qiutong smiled sweetly and stood to make a respectful bow.

"Qiutong is pleased to meet Mo-xianjun."

Mo Ran remained seated. He gave her a long, unreadable look before

eventually offering a brisk "Likewise."

Truth be told, Mo Ran felt an incredible revulsion toward this wife of

his from his past life. This revulsion hadn't only come about after his

rebirth; it was something that had permeated deep into his bones even in the

last lifetime. The few times he'd crossed paths with her in this one, they'd

only met in passing, so he'd managed to tolerate it. Today, however, was

another story.

Song Qiutong was a fragile woman, delicate and soft-spoken in every

look and gesture. She was like an underripe fruit on the branch in early

autumn, hidden behind luxuriant leaves. Her muted scent was less fragrant

than that of the surrounding blossoms, her understated color not overly

loud, but very likable—a slim yet full figure overflowing with endless

gentleness and tender young love, ready to yield its sweetly tart juice at the

smallest bite. Only after biting deep to the core would the dead, rotting

worm within be discovered, pungent and festering, the fruit spotted with

mold.

But then again, compared to what Mo Ran had done, it wasn't as if

the Song Qiutong of the last lifetime had acted so abhorrently. All she had

done was betray Rufeng Sect, the very sect that had saved her life. All she

had done was offer up Ye Wangxi to save herself when Mo Ran razed the

city. All she had done was doll herself up as Linyi turned into mountains of

corpses and oceans of blood around her, overjoyed that she had won

Mo Ran's favor and eager to serve her new master. All she had done was

vilify Ye Wangxi after the massacre ended in order to prove her sincerity,

pitifully weeping before Ye Wangxi's silent, dead body—saying how cruel

he had been, how he had tormented her daily, how miserable her life would

have been if Mo Ran hadn't come.

And?

Mo Ran pondered in silence. What else had she even done?

Nangong Si was an impatient person. A couple of dishes were taking

some time to arrive, so he went to hurry the kitchen, leaving the husband

and wife of a previous life alone in the room.

"Mo-gongzi, a toast, if you will." She filled his cup with a smile,

revealing a glimpse of her white arm from beneath her flowing sleeves as

well as the vibrant dot of cinnabar on her wrist.

Suddenly, Mo Ran grabbed her wrist. Song Qiutong made a sound of

surprise and glanced at him, fright apparent in those delicate, dew-laden

eyes. "Mo-gongzi, what are you…"

Mo Ran studied her face for a while, then dropped his gaze to those

fair, slender hands. "You have nice hands," he said quietly, features cool

and distant. "Does Miss Song know how to play chess?"

"A-a little bit."

"Hands this nice must be quite adept at chess," he continued coldly.

The sound of Nangong Si's footsteps came from the outside, and his

wolf began barking by the door.

"Pardon me." Mo Ran let go of Song Qiutong's slender wrist. Then he

carefully wiped his hand with a handkerchief.

Outside, the rays of the setting sun made a brilliant splash of color

upon the dusky sky. Inside, a spread of food made a sumptuous feast for a

pleasant spring eve. Mo Ran wore his usual expression, as if nothing had

occurred between them at all. Song Qiutong had been denigrated for no

apparent reason, but she had always been good at abiding indignities, even

getting up once during the meal to refill Mo Ran's cup. He had no wish to

drink the wine she poured, and left the cup untouched for the remainder of

the meal.

"Mo-xiong, the Spiritual Mountain Competition is coming up soon."

Nangong Si said. "You're Chu-zongshi's disciple, so make sure you don't

embarrass him. You ready?"

"I'm not going."

Nangong Si stared at him, flabbergasted. "You're kidding, right?"

"I'm serious," Mo Ran said with a laugh. "My cousin's got it covered.

Every sect's gonna be there. I don't feel like crowding around with

everybody."

Nangong Si still didn't seem to believe him, his piercing brown eyes

narrowing like those of an eagle. Mo Ran's eyes were frank and unreserved

as he returned his gaze.

The eagle stared at the rock until it was satisfied that it really was

only a rock, and not hiding a cunning rabbit or a sly serpent. He leaned back

in his chair, twirling his chopsticks between his fingers, and grinned.

"Interesting. So I won't be seeing you at the Spiritual Mountain

Competition then?"

"Nope."

Nangong Si put a hand to his forehead and snorted a laugh. "Chuzongshi's disciple must really be something, to snub such a prestigious

competition."

Bloody hell, Mo Ran thought to himself. How was he supposed to

explain this? It wasn't like he could tell Nangong Si that, no no, that wasn't

it—he was actually an old ghost in his thirties who had come back to life.

Why yes, let Taxian-jun play with all these brats still wet behind the ears

while a bunch of sect leaders that he had either killed or beaten up in his

past life sat around in a circle on those lofty platforms, grading his

performance on their little scorecards.

What a joke.

He cleared his throat. "It's not that I think it's beneath me or anything.

More like I'm no good with orthodox cultivation techniques; I don't wanna

risk embarrassing Shizun with my shallow learnings if I go. Someone as

skilled as Nangong-gongzi is much more suited to the competition. Please

spare me your teasing."

If a guileless little bird like Xue Meng had heard this, he probably

would've been overjoyed, like Mo Ran had scratched him in just the right

spot. But Nangong Si hailed from Rufeng Sect, with its complicated

internal politics, and had lost his mother very young. His life had been far

less straightforward, so he only smiled a little at Mo Ran's praise and didn't

let it go to his head. He took several big gulps of wine, the jut of his throat

bobbing, before wiping his mouth with his sleeve and asking, "Since Mogongzi won't be participating, who do you think is going to win this round?

Let's have a bystander's unclouded perspective."

Mo Ran eyed him, thinking to himself that Nangong Si had sure asked

the right fucking person. Who would know the competition results better

than he? Other than that fake Gouchen, who was in all likelihood also

reborn, Mo Ran was the only one in the world who knew how the Spiritual

Mountain Competition was going to play out. The winner was…

"Nangong Si."

The pearl curtain over the entrance of the private room was swept to

the side. In the swaying light, a face appeared, half hidden in the shadows.

Before either of the men in the room could react, Song Qiutong had already

jerked to her feet as if stung, a wretched panic on her face as she lowered

her head and said apologetically, "Y-Ye-gongzi."

The newcomer stood tall and straight, dressed in black robes trimmed

with muted gold. Bracers were fastened around his wrists, making for a

lean, lithe figure. Three parts elegant and seven parts handsome—whom

else could it be but Ye Wangxi?

"I wasn't talking to you." Ye Wangxi pushed aside the pearl curtain

and stepped into the room without sparing her so much as a glance. His

eyes, fixed on one person the whole time, were cold—though with a subtle

flicker of some other emotion. "Nangong Si, I was speaking to you. Look

up if you can hear me."

Nangong Si did not look up. Instead, he addressed Song Qiutong:

"What are you doing? Sit down."

"That's all right, Nangong-gongzi. My status is low; I should stand."

Nangong Si abruptly flew into a rage and his voice rose. "Sit down!"

Song Qiutong flinched, clutching the edge of the table in hesitation.

Wanting to move on, Ye Wangxi said in a cold voice, "Do as he says."

"Thank you, Ye-gongzi…"

Ye Wangxi turned from Song Qiutong as if he hadn't heard.

"Nangong Si, how long do you plan to drag out this farce? The sect leader's

so angry he's about to go mad. Get up and come back with me."

"That suits me just fine. I'll take him for a madman, and he can take

me for dead! There's nothing to discuss even if I went back; I will not set

half a foot into Rufeng Sect as long as the order stands." Nangong Si spoke,

clearly and with a pointed pause between each syllable: "Ye-gongzi, kindly

see yourself out."

"You—" Ye Wangxi's hands balled into fists as his entire body

trembled minutely. Watching from the sidelines, Mo Ran half-expected him

to kick the table over, grab Nangong Si, and bodily drag him off. But Ye

Wangxi was a gentleman through and through; after a moment, he managed

to smother the raging flames of his anger.

There was a long silence. "Nangong Si." When Ye Wangxi spoke

again, it was in a hoarse, exhausted voice at odds with his upright

appearance. "Do you really have to go this far?"

"And what if I do?"

Ye Wangxi closed his eyes and let out a near imperceptible sigh

before slowly opening them again. Standing in front of the table, he finally

turned to cast a glance in Mo Ran's direction.

Just as a family's dirty laundry should not be aired in public, a sect's

internal matters were likewise best kept from outsiders. Mo Ran tactfully

rose and bowed to Ye Wangxi. "You know, I just remembered I have an

appointment to pick up some clothes at the tailor, and I really shouldn't

keep the shopkeeper waiting. I should head off."

Ye Wangxi nodded. "Many thanks, Mo-gongzi."

"Not at all, take your time chatting."

Mo Ran glanced at Ye Wangxi as he strode past. The young man was

like a sturdy pine tree, holding himself with the same poise he always did.

But this close, Mo Ran could see a faint redness at the corners of his eyes,

as though he had been crying just before he came. He suddenly felt that Ye

Wangxi's silent forbearance was not unlike Chu Wanning's.

Moved by impulse, he found himself turning to address Nangong Si.

"Nangong-gongzi, I may not know what's happened between you and Yegongzi, but I do know he's always genuinely treated you well. So if you're

willing, please have an open chat with him, and don't hold back what you

want to say."

Nangong Si had little appreciation for this advice. In the heat of the

moment, he discarded etiquette and coldly replied, "Mind your own

business."

…This short-lived punk!

Mo Ran left. He hadn't even gotten down the stairs when he heard

Nangong Si's furious bellowing from the room above as the wolfish young

man tore into Ye Wangxi's soul with sharp fangs. "Ye Wangxi! What

sorcery did you use on my father that he thinks more highly of you than he

does of me?! Go back with you? What the fuck for?! All my life, when

have I ever been given a choice in anything? Huh? Tell me, Ye Wangxi,

what…what exactly do you all take me for!"

There came the crash of tables and chairs toppling over, and the

smashing sounds of plates and cups falling to the floor. Every maidservant

in the corridor was startled by the noise, and several other guests peeked out

from their own rooms.

"What's going on?"

"Aiyo, what a temper! Hope they don't trash the place."

Mo Ran pressed his lips together, turning his head to look down the

corridor again. He could hear Ye Wangxi's voice, brittle and lifeless as a

withered leaf in autumn.

"Nangong, if it's my presence back home that's upsetting you, then

I'll leave, and you'll never have to see me again."

A long, silent pause.

"So come back," Ye Wangxi continued. "I'm begging you."

If he hadn't heard it with his own ears, Mo Ran would have never

believed that someone like Ye Wangxi, with his ramrod-straight spine,

would ever utter words so weak as I'm begging. His impression of Ye

Wangxi was as an immovable person of integrity, an invincible force on the

battlefield; it was far easier for Mo Ran to picture him bleeding than crying,

to envision him dying than kneeling.

But on this very day, in this very restaurant, in front of Song Qiutong,

Ye Wangxi had said to someone, I'm begging you.

Mo Ran closed his eyes.

Over the span of a person's life, how many things would they never

know, never find out? No one stood bare in front of others. Everyone hid

their bodies under clothes and their feelings behind words and expressions.

Everyone wrapped themselves in layers upon layers, their heads emerging

like a flowering branch, offering the world only a painted face with an

unambiguous look. Each played their own role—for life was but a play, the

roles definite and clear-cut: sheng, dan, jing, and chou.5

 If someone had

always played sheng, the male role, how could they simply accept a change

of costume and a new layer of paint to play dan, the female role, instead?

But in the dead of night, when the cymbals ceased and the lute faded,

when everyone had washed off their thick layers of makeup, the water

would carry away the colorful, distinctly painted faces they'd worn,

revealing the unfamiliar features beneath. It would turn out that the stage's

young lady was actually a gallant young man, and the soldier had a pair of

tender, infatuated eyes.

Mo Ran returned to the small room he had been staying in, deep in

thought. He had lived two lifetimes, but how much did he really understand

people? And what of himself? Chu Wanning alone had been enough to

make his heart blossom and then die, only to revive again.

Chu Wanning…

His thoughts drifted back to when Nangong Si had mistaken him for

Chu Wanning earlier in the day. He had thought it funny—how did such a

mix-up even happen? Yet as he washed for bed in front of the copper

mirror, he found himself staring at the reflection of someone in a simple

white cultivator's robe, with his hair high in a ponytail.

He had tied his hair up in a ponytail on a whim this morning. As for

the robe, his clothes had begun to feel tight a few days ago, so he'd gone to

the tailor to pick out a new set, and the white robe had caught his eye as he

walked through the store. He'd bought it and put it on without much

thought; he hadn't considered why the robe was pleasing to his eyes. Only

now, while looking in the mirror, did he realize: this white robe was very

similar to the one Chu Wanning had once worn.

The mirror was a dull yellow and his past life was like a dream.

Looking at the person in the mirror, Mo Ran felt that he was looking at a

fragment of Chu Wanning through this muddy color, a hallucination of him,

muted as if in a vision.

The water he had not yet wiped from his face streamed down the

gradually maturing lines of his jaw and dripped from his chin. Before the

mirror, he vaguely recognized that, just as his Holy Night Guardian was a

clumsy imitation of Chu Wanning's, he himself was also clumsily trying to

imitate his shizun. Mo Ran had been unconsciously looking for Chu

Wanning's shadow in the world; unable to find him, he had instead slowly

become him.

Time marched on. And I, due to remorse, or perhaps something else—

I couldn't see you, but always I thought what you would do if you

were here; what would make you smile, what would make you mad.

I thought about you before doing anything, tried to make you proud with

everything that I did. I thought, "If you were here, and I did this, would you

nod? Would you be willing to praise me a little, say I did okay?"

Day after day I thought about this, until it had permeated my very

bones, become second nature. That's why, as time went on, I never even

realized—

That as the days had passed, I'd grown into the you I held in my

heart.