AFTER PACING around the Red Lotus Pavilion a few times, Mo Ran forced himself to calm. In the end, he did nothing so crazy—it was too dangerous. These were the very first Zhenlong chess pieces he had made, and he had no idea how effective they would be. If he rashly used them on the world's top zongshi, it would be the same as declaring he was tired of living.
So, at the end of several back-and-forths, Mo Ran suppressed his impulses and left the Red Lotus Pavilion. After some deliberation, he elected to plant the chess pieces into two little shidi. He needed to experiment, and the safest option was to use them on disciples who hadn't yet attained a stable spiritual foundation.
The evening was cool, the mountain's peak wreathed in darkness.
Mo Ran moved like dark lightning. He watched as those two young disciples, who had moments ago been skipping stones on the river, froze in place. He was so anxious his hands were trembling, his pupils contracted to pinpricks. Face ashen in the moonlight, he pursed his lips, fingertips twitching, and strode forward. He had used a terrible forbidden technique for the very first time; he was enthralled by the power of it, yet sick with trepidation.
Robes rustled as the two disciples fell to their knees. Mo Ran startled like a bird at the twang of a bow, like an assassin who had just made the kill. The soft sigh of the wind through the grass was enough to scare him out of his wits. He dropped into a crouch in the copse of trees nearby, his heart ready to leap out of his throat.
Badum. Badum. Badum.
He waited for an age, but those two figures didn't budge; they knelt woodenly in place. Mo Ran's frantic heartbeat finally settled. His inner robe was drenched in sweat, his scalp completely numb.
He stepped out of the trees. Once more, he stood beneath the moonlight on the pebbled riverbank. Although much calmer than before, he hardly dared to breathe, careful as a snake slithering through the darkness. He looked down and scrutinized those two little shidi. Both had been giggling and yelling, but now, not a hint of vitality remained in their faces. They were still as a stagnant pond, kneeling motionlessly. Even under the full weight of Mo Ran's stare, they moved not a muscle.
With a silent twitch of his fingers, Mo Ran cast a spell.
The two shidi immediately prostrated, pressing their foreheads to the mud. Then they rose and turned to look at Mo Ran. In those two pairs of pitch-dark eyes, Mo Ran glimpsed his own reflection. The image wavered, unfocused—yet for some reason, Mo Ran felt as though he had seen the figure of a devil with perfect clarity, standing with the moon behind him, his face deathly white, his eyes gleaming scarlet.
He heard himself speak, his voice trembling, hoarse, and uncertain. "What is your name?"
The voices that answered were passive and tuneless. "My name is not mine to say."
Mo Ran's heart rabbited frantically as his blood pounded in his ears.
He swallowed, throat bobbing, and asked again, "Where are you?" "My location is not mine to say."
"How old are you?"
"My age is not mine to say."
Low-level pawns under control of the Zhenlong Chess Formation were incapable of divulging three things: their names, their locations, and their ages. These were all for their master to decide. It was just as the ancient scrolls described.
Mo Ran shuddered. It was strange: facing these two pawns he had created himself, what he felt most intensely was not elation at his success, but a naked fear.
Fear of what? He was unsure; his thoughts were a hopeless tangle. He felt himself standing at the edge of a cliff—no, he had already fallen from the ledge. Below him was darkness, an endless abyss. He couldn't see the bottom, couldn't see anything—neither death nor fire, neither the limits of this power nor his own end. One of his souls seemed to be howling and screaming inside him, a final cry before it shattered into dust, into ruins.
He reached out and touched one of the pawns on the cheek with a shaking hand. When he swallowed, his mouth was parched, his lips cracking. His handsome features contorted as he watched that little shidi.
"What do you want?" He asked at last.
"To serve as your pawn, sparing no effort, on pain of death."
All at once, Mo Ran's shaking stopped. The world became impossibly clear, sharp and still as ice. In making these pawns, he had taken these shidi, whose names he didn't even know, and transformed them into his puppets. If he told them to jump, they would ask how high. If he told them to kill, they would show no mercy, even to each other.
He was their master.
At its weakest, the Zhenlong Chess Formation could control dead bodies. At its strongest, it could control the living. Mo Ran's innate spiritual power was terrifyingly potent; he had a natural talent for the technique. His very first attempt had yielded chess pieces with the ability to control two living cultivators, young and untutored as they were.
Once his initial fear passed, an intoxicating flush of anticipation took hold of Mo Ran. A grand scroll seemed to unfurl before his eyes, upon which were spangled scenes of opulence and indulgence. Everything was within his reach; everything was his. He could seize all he loved, and he could ravage all he hated.
Spellbound, his heart raced faster, but no longer out of fear. Now, it was with heady thrill—the Zhenlong Chess Formation. The three great forbidden techniques. All his hard work, his toiling in secret, all the countless failures he'd suffered… Despite all of it, he'd succeeded. More than that—he'd excelled. Everything under the sun was his to claim. These two black chess pieces opened up endless possibilities. He could strew his pawns throughout the land, from the farthest reaches of the northern desert to the fertile southern river plains.
The world seemed to glitter before his eyes. He could do anything, anything at all…
"Mo Ran."
A familiar low voice doused his fantasies like a bucket of cold water. Those lofty towers and splendid spires crumbled to dust; he hurtled from the clouds and crashed to the cold, hard earth, finding himself in stifling reality once more. Mo Ran slowly turned his head, moonlight spilling into his scarlet, savage eyes. An austere man in white stood upon the gravel. Never had he wanted to see Chu Wanning less than at this very moment.
"What are you doing here?"
Mo Ran's hands silently curled into fists. He pressed his lips together and didn't reply. Those two imperfect pawns were still standing behind him. If Chu Wanning took a closer look, he would realize something was wrong—everything would fall apart. Knowing Chu Wanning, he would rip out Mo Ran's tendons, break his legs, destroy his spiritual core, then take those precious ancient texts he'd copied so painstakingly from the forbidden area of the library and toss them into a roaring fire.
When Mo Ran still didn't answer, Chu Wanning frowned slightly.
He stepped forward on the pebbles with his spotless white shoes. But after a single step, he stopped and glanced at the two disciples standing, uncannily still, behind Mo Ran.
Mo Ran had been backed into a corner. Summoning all his willpower, he crooked a pinkie and internally hollered a command at those two disciples: Move!
One of them laughed out loud. "That rock hardly went anywhere.
The one I threw went way farther than yours."
"Sure, sure, whatever. You're still… Ahh, Yuheng Elder!"
They chattered and gestured as cheerfully as before. But once they caught sight of Chu Wanning, both disciples froze. One after another, they bowed respectfully. Chu Wanning's gaze hovered on them, as though he felt a wrongness but couldn't quite tell why.
"Hope all is well, Elder." "Good evening, Yuheng Elder."
The disciples adopted solemn expressions and made their greetings to Chu Wanning very properly before politely taking their leave.
Chu Wanning's frown didn't ease. His gaze followed the two disciples as they walked up from the riverbank and past him, heading into the bamboo forest… He stared after them for a long moment before finally turning away and fixing his gaze on Mo Ran. Just as Mo Ran was about to let out a silent breath of relief, Chu Wanning said: "Wait."
Mo Ran grew a touch paler. His fingernails had dug red crescents in his palms, but he said nothing. He stood calmly, taking in every detail of Chu Wanning's expression, every movement.
"Come back," Chu Wanning called to those two frozen silhouettes.
Mo Ran had no choice but to instruct those two disciples to slowly make their way back from the bamboo forest and stop before Chu Wanning. Wispy clouds drifted aside to unveil the full moon. In its cold and pristine light, Chu Wanning scrutinized the faces of those two disciples, then lifted his fingertips to one of their necks.
Chu Wanning's eyes flick back and forth as Mo Ran watched. His face betrayed nothing, but his heart was racing. If Chu Wanning was checking this disciple's pulse it was because he had sensed something amiss. Most people, when learning the Zhenlong Chess Formation, first learned to control corpses; it was far more difficult to control the living. These two disciples had been very much alive at the start, but Mo Ran couldn't be sure he'd done everything correctly. It was possible he'd killed them the moment he slipped those black chess pieces into their hearts.
He didn't know how long he'd been holding his breath when Chu Wanning finally lowered his hand. He swept his sleeves back and intoned, "You may go."
Mo Ran felt like the blade pressed to his throat had been withdrawn.
Chu Wanning couldn't tell. The merciful heavens had allowed him to escape unscathed from right under Chu Wanning's nose.
When the two disciples had gone, Chu Wanning swung his gaze back to Mo Ran. "It's late. What are you doing here?"
"Just passing by," Mo Ran replied. He kept his voice under careful control; even as he dissembled, his attitude toward Chu Wanning remained as frosty as ever.
Perhaps it was because of Mo Ran's tone, so chilly and challenging, that Chu Wanning only silently pressed his lips together. Despite his misgivings, he said nothing.
Mo Ran didn't wish to spend a second longer than necessary in Chu Wanning's presence. He tore his gaze away and strode up the bank.
In the moment their shoulders drew even, Chu Wanning spoke: "Someone recently snuck into the forbidden area of the library."
Mo Ran tensed, silent and wary. He didn't turn, but his eyes flickered.
"That area contains ancient scrolls on forbidden techniques that the ten great sects have split up for security. You should know this."
"I know," said Mo Ran, falling still.
"Someone has clearly gone through one of the most important scrolls."
Mo Ran snorted. "And what does that have to do with me?"
He was bluffing. As soon as Tianwen lit up, as soon as it bound him, all crimes and schemes would be laid bare before Chu Wanning. All dreams and ambitions would be cut short.
Chu Wanning was quiet a moment. "Mo Ran, how long are you going to keep this up?" There was an indignant edge to his voice.
Mo Ran said nothing. He could almost see what would happen next.
Tianwen's golden flash, Chu Wanning's oh-so-virtuous face as he interrogated him, asked him why he would do something so beastly. No matter what, in Chu Wanning's eyes, he would always be beyond—"Don't you know how dangerous it is right now?"—saving.
Mo Ran stiffly finished his thought. He turned, disoriented, and saw Chu Wanning's face beneath the moonlight. He was white as a sheet, those sword-straight brows furrowed with faint unease. The eyes fastened upon Mo Ran were as penetrating as ever, but they hadn't glimpsed the truth tonight.
"If someone really attempts those forbidden techniques, they'll use them to kill. And yet here you are running around this godforsaken place in the dead of night instead of sleeping—have you no thought for your own safety?"
Chu Wanning's voice was low, as though he was speaking through gritted teeth. "So many died in the battle of the Heavenly Rift. Did that not impress upon you the value of life? If you know someone's been reading the ancient scrolls in secret, how could you be so careless?!"
Mo Ran stared at him in silence. His brow was sheened in sweat that had turned cold as ice in the breeze. Bit by bit, the tension bled out of his body and some strange emotion filled his heart, a feeling he couldn't identify. At last, his features creased in a smile. "Shizun…"
Chu Wanning's phoenix eyes flickered. Since Shi Mei's death, Mo Ran had never once smiled at him, and scarcely ever called him shizun.
That smile still playing over his lips, Mo Ran asked, "Are you worried about me?" At Chu Wanning's silence, Mo Ran's smile grew brighter and sharper, curving into a dagger that plunged into Chu Wanning's chest, white on the way in, red on the way out, dripping with blood. Mo Ran bared a mouthful of gleaming teeth like a vicious ghost, like a venomous scorpion raising its pincers high.
"The battle of the Heavenly Rift…" Mo Ran snickered. "How wonderful that Shizun brought up the Heavenly Rift. It doesn't matter what I learned in that battle—what's important is that Shizun's finally learned to care about people."
Mo Ran watched the light in Chu Wanning's eyes falter as he tried and failed to hide the cornered look on his face. His grin was exaggerated, cavalier and cruel. He would debase Chu Wanning, tear him to shreds, bite his neck through. A shiver of delight coursed through him as he burst into laughter. "Ha ha, how amazing! What a great deal! A nameless disciple in exchange for Chu-zongshi's conscience! At last, Chu-zongshi spares a thought for whether those around him live or die. Shizun, today, I finally feel that Shi Mei's death was well and truly worth it."
Even a man as unflappable as Chu Wanning would tremble as Mo Ran's manic laughter surrounded him like a circling falcon. "Mo Ran…"
"Shi Mei's death was well worth it, a stroke of luck even—a righteous, fitting death!"
"Mo Ran, please…" Stop laughing. Don't say any more.
But Chu Wanning couldn't speak; he couldn't say the words. He couldn't plead or beg for mercy. Neither did he have the heart to reprimand this disciple who had nearly lost his mind. He couldn't say, You're wrong—it wasn't that I didn't want to save him. I truly didn't have the strength. I suffered the same injury he did. Had I expended one more wisp of spiritual energy, I too would be bones in a grave, a soul beneath the Yellow Springs.
He couldn't say it. Maybe he felt such an admission would be too pathetic. Or maybe he thought that, in Mo Ran's heart of hearts, his shizun's death would hardly merit a mention; he couldn't compare to Shi Mingjing, who had always been so kind and gentle to him. In the end, Chu Wanning steadied his quavering voice and said in a low, deliberate tone, "Mo Weiyu, it's time to pull yourself together."
Mo Ran didn't respond.
"Go back." He buried his sorrow under anger, but a bitter taste lingered in his throat. "Shi Mingjing didn't die for you to turn into a lunatic."
"Shizun, that's not quite right." Mo Ran chuckled. "Shi Mei didn't die for me at all." Like a vicious serpent, he struck for the jugular. "The person he died for was clearly you, Shizun."
Fangs sank into flesh.
An acrid satisfaction surged in Mo Ran's heart as he watched Chu Wanning's cheeks drain of color. He'd thrown caution to the wind to taunt and torment him. If his own pain was about to tear him apart, he would make Chu Wanning hurt in equal measure. How perfect. They could go to hell together.
"I want to go back too." Mo Ran grinned, his dimples deep and brimming with poison wine. "I don't want to be wandering out here in the dead of night either. But his room is right across from mine."
Mo Ran didn't specify whom he meant—who else could it be? He knew this would only torment Chu Wanning more. "The candle in his room will never be lit again."
Chu Wanning closed his eyes.
As the moment stretched, the smile faded from Mo Ran's face. "I'll never be able to persuade him to make me another bowl of wontons."
For an instant, Chu Wanning's eyelashes quivered; his lips parted, as though to speak. But Mo Ran didn't give him a chance, or offer any encouragement. He pressed on, his tone weighted with mockery. "Shizun, the Sichuanese make the best wontons. Chili oil, dried chilis, and peppercorn—you need all three. But you hate all these things. Back then, you wanted to make me another bowl. You meant well. But I know how to describe anything you make even without tasting it."
Chu Wanning's eyes remained closed, his brows drawn together as though he could dodge the blows dealt by Mo Ran's words if he didn't see them spoken.
"I happened to hear Xue Meng use this phrase a few days ago. It seemed so fitting for Shizun's wontons."
What was it? A lost cause? A sorry attempt? Chu Wanning fumbled through his vocabulary like he was searching for a suit of armor, looking for the most scathing words as if guessing in advance would deaden the sting of humiliation. Not worth a damn?
Mo Ran was quiet, as though savoring the taste of the words between his teeth.
It had to be not worth a damn, Chu Wanning decided. He couldn't think of anything more cutting than that. He forced himself to calm—until he heard Mo Ran say placidly: "A piss-poor copycat."
Chu Wanning's eyes flew open in near-disbelief. He'd never thought Mo Ran could be so vicious. Within his sleeves, his hands were trembling. He had followed the instructions exactly, the pages of Sichuan Recipes spread out before him—kneading the dough, adjusting the seasonings, mixing the filling… His face smudged with flour, he'd kept folding until his awkwardly misshapen wontons became adorably plump. He had practiced diligently, refining his technique—only to be called a piss-poor copycat.
The night was dark overhead. Chu Wanning stood unmoving as Mo Ran gazed at him on that frosty silver riverbank. Without a word, he spun on his heel and strode away.
Mo Ran couldn't say why, but he'd always thought Chu Wanning's footsteps had been hurried as he left that day. They weren't as sure and steady as usual—almost as though he were fleeing a grievous defeat. Nor did he understand why he was gripped by a vague sense of unease as he watched, frowning, as Chu Wanning walked away. In the instant his figure was about to vanish, Mo Ran cried, "Wait!"