MO RAN DESCENDED Mount Jiao.
He walked, eyes glazed, in stiff and perfect silence. When he came to a fork in the road, he sank into thought.
The battle was over. The morning sun was rising in the east, its light washing away the stains of night. Only dew and the fresh scent of greenery hung between the trees as the dawn applied rosy colors to the sky like rouge.
He turned toward those lofty mountain peaks, then back toward the path before him. Going straight ahead would take him to Rainbell Isle, where Xue Meng and his uncle were waiting—waiting for an explanation, and an answer. But he couldn't go. He had to head to Dragonblood Mountain.
Master Huaizui must know far more than Mo Ran had thought; otherwise, he couldn't have been so calm at the sight of Emperor Taxian-jun. Perhaps that was why Mo Ran felt so lost. He had no idea what awaited him.
His mind was a mess, and he had no energy for further rumination. He only numbly knew he had to go because Shizun was there.
Dragonblood Mountain was close to Wubei Temple. In the past, the monks had gone there to meditate and reach enlightenment, but the mountain was often blanketed in thick fog. Many spoke of getting lost and roaming in circles upon its slopes, and some never returned afterward. Thus, the mountain was gradually abandoned.
Riding his sword, Mo Ran traveled an entire day without stopping and landed at the foot of Dragonblood Mountain as the sun was sinking below the horizon. He hadn't eaten or drunk the entire day and was too exhausted to continue. As soon as he spotted a clear stream trickling between the cypress trees, he cupped water in his hand and washed his face.
What came off first was mud, then dissolving blood. Only then was his face visible, reflected in the rippling water. It wasn't a hideous one, but as Mo Ran studied his own features, he found them unspeakably repulsive. He struck the water's surface to break the reflection, then closed his eyes. Tormented, he buried his face in his palms, scrubbing at his cheeks.
Was there anything that could cleanly cut a person's past from their present? A blade that could gouge those putrid memories from his head? Could anyone save him—tell him, You're not Taxian-jun, you're only Mo Ran; you're Mo Weiyu and no one else?
But when he opened his eyes, the waters had calmed. The face in the stream still stared at him in resentment and despair. He had no other choice.
He rose and went up the mountain.
Halfway up, a fog rose, so thick as to be nearly solid. Mo Ran first suspected it was the work of evil spirits but didn't sense any hint of malevolent energy.
It was late now. The forest echoed with the sorrowful cries of the cuckoo; the temperature dropped, and sunlight was fast disappearing. Darkness fell around him. "Master?" His voice was hoarse as he fumbled his way forward. "Master Huaizui?"
No one answered. Strangely enough, though he was stumbling nearly blind, he encountered no obstructions. The path he walked was disturbingly smooth, as if someone had laid it out in advance of his coming. Laying a trap within the mist, perhaps, waiting for him to step in by himself.
"Is anyone there?"
The mist receded. The way before him became clear; as the fog melted, the stones and foliage of the mountain appeared distinct before him. He realized he'd walked unwittingly into a clearing; when he turned, the path he'd taken was already hidden in the fog. There was only this patch of clear sky and crisp air.
He stepped over dew-laden dried grasses, striding ahead until he sensed a human presence. Mo Ran stared, then started running. "Shizun?!" he cried.
Chu Wanning was kneeling before a mountain cave, its entrance half-hidden by vines. Master Huaizui sat in silent meditation before him, his brow furrowed.
"Shizun! You—" He fell silent as Chu Wanning turned. His lashes were dark with tears, his face streaked with their marks. "What's wrong?" exclaimed Mo Ran.
Chu Wanning didn't speak. He'd been holding himself together—for years, he'd been lofty and majestic, as if he'd sprung into the world fully grown, a powerful cultivator who'd never been young or weak. But this time, even with all his strength, he only managed two words before sobs escaped his lips. "Mo Ran…"
Mo Ran rushed to him and knelt by his side, wrapping him in his arms. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
He bent to caress Chu Wanning's hair. Chu Wanning was very cold, but having found him, having clutched him tight, Mo Ran felt his own heart burn very warm. Every moment of peace together was stolen. Every word he exchanged with Chu Wanning was a mistaken gift from the heavens. He cherished everything he received—he dared not waste any bit of it.
"It's okay, it's okay." Despite his own powerlessness, he pulled Chu Wanning into his warm and strong embrace. "Everything's fine," he said soothingly. "I'm here, I'm with you. I'm right here."
Mo Ran kissed Chu Wanning's temple. He discovered that, though Chu Wanning was trying to hide it, the man in his arms was still shaking, still crying. With his fingers twisted tight in Mo Ran's lapels, he resembled very much that long-gone little shidi from Peach Blossom Springs.
No one was born strong. Chu Wanning, too, had once been young.
Mo Ran tensed, comprehension dawning. Holding the trembling Chu Wanning, kissing his face and caressing his hair, he looked toward Master Huaizui.
The old monk sat on a massive boulder, brows furrowed and lashes cast low. His half-lidded gaze was empty. In his hand, slightly outstretched as if in offering, lay a branch of haitang blossoms. The receiver must have rejected his gift—the flowers had shriveled, leaving only a few petals clinging to the tips of the wizened twigs.
Huaizui had passed away.
Even in his very last moments, this man who was the subject of myth and mystery wore no expression of ease. His face in death was lined with anguish. Even worse, he no longer had the youthful look of a man in his thirties. Death had reduced him to a shriveled husk, and for some reason, a small golden insect was eating away at his face.
"This insect…"
"It's an oath-bug." Chu Wanning finally spoke, his voice a ragged rasp. "Some who choose to change their appearance make a blood oath with this insect. It can change the host's face, and as recompense, the oath-bug will eat the host's entire body when they die."
Hearing his slow and quavering attempt to keep his voice steady, Mo Ran held him tighter. Chu Wanning must have been kneeling for a very long time. He was cold all over.
From the past life to the present, it was always Chu Wanning who was his lantern, his flame—keeping Mo Ran's darkness at bay, giving him all the warmth he could. But now, as Mo Ran held him, he felt like Chu Wanning was made of ice. He was so cold it twisted Mo Ran's heart with pain. "I'm here. I'm here."
"He asked me to come to Dragonblood Mountain long ago." Chu Wanning sounded drained, as if all his heat and blood had been replaced with endless agony. "He knew I wouldn't talk to him or let him explain, so he left me a letter. It was sincere, but I was so stubborn. I refused to see him… I doubted his intentions."
Mo Ran stroked his cheek. He'd never seen Chu Wanning like this, not even in the past life. How could he not be worried? "What happened?"
But Chu Wanning only hollowly said, "I doubted him…"
This man who'd ever been calm and rational had finally fallen apart like the snapped string of a bow. He shook in Mo Ran's arms, trembling uncontrollably, entirely wretched. Chu Wanning was curled up and hunched over. When someone who'd been strained to tautness half their life broke down, the accumulated sorrow was enough to destroy anyone. "I should've come earlier… If only I'd listened to him, so much of this wouldn't have happened. Nangong Si wouldn't have died, Shi Mei wouldn't have been blinded… It wasn't too late… It wasn't too late."
"Shizun."
"If I'd taken that letter seriously, we wouldn't have ended up like this…"
It took long minutes for Mo Ran to calm him down, and longer after that for Chu Wanning's tears to dry up. He stared ahead, glassy-eyed. Mo Ran squeezed his fingers but found he couldn't warm them—just as he couldn't stop him from shaking.
"Why didn't I trust him, at least just once more…"
Mo Ran listened in silence. After the appearance of Emperor Taxian-jun, he'd envisioned countless ways his reunion with Chu Wanning might go. On the way here, he'd come up with every sort of explanation and entreaty. But he didn't need any of them. He'd never expected that when they met again, it would be like this.
"He…left a memory scroll…" Eventually, Chu Wanning recovered his composure. Mo Ran stroked his face, his freezing cheeks. "Before he passed, he'd hoped to hand it to you personally."
Mo Ran's hand stilled. A memory scroll? What could be inside? How much did Master Huaizui know? He felt his own fingertips freezing; his hair stood on end. He was chilled to the bone.
"But he didn't have the chance," rasped Chu Wanning. "His time was up." Admitting it seemed to prod a terrible wound for him. Grimacing, he fell silent, as though saying any more would break him entirely. He covered his face with his arm, gathering up the coolness, reliability, and steadiness he'd left scattered across the ground. Slowly, he put those fragments back in place. He'd never been accustomed to vulnerability. Chu Wanning lifted teary phoenix eyes and produced the scroll, placing it in Mo Ran's hands. "It contains all the secrets he knew."
Mo Ran found his words after long hesitation. His voice shook imperceptibly. "Did he show you its contents too?"
"He did."
Mo Ran shuddered in his core. As he gazed into Chu Wanning's eyes, a terrifying realization rose in his mind—Chu Wanning already knew everything. His fingers closed around the jade scroll, but unease flooded him. He clutched Chu Wanning's fingers, caressing them. "Wanning…" He hesitated. "If that man on Mount Jiao…if everything he said was real. Would you hate me?"
Chu Wanning's pale face became even more so. His lips were tinged with green.
"Would you hate me?" Mo Ran gripped his hand hard, with an almost brutal force and stubbornness. In complete contrast was the piteous, pleading gaze beneath his soft lashes. "Would you?"
Chu Wanning shook his head and made no reply. He closed his eyes. "Just…look at the scroll."
The yin energy on Master Huaizui's scroll was remarkably strong. It was nothing like mortal implements but bore a stronger resemblance to the feathered tribe's illusion world in Peach Blossom Springs. Mo Ran gazed at Chu Wanning once more, then unfurled the scroll and brought the glowing jade to his brow.
Dragonblood Mountain vanished around him. In its place was endless darkness, and in that darkness, Huaizui's voice rang out. It echoed in Mo Ran's ears, filled with regret.
"Chu-zongshi, Mo-shizhu. This old monk knows his time is short. I strive to convey what little I know to you both. The world faces impending calamity. If I do not do all that I can, this old monk won't be able to bear the shame even in hell."
The voice faded, then swelled again. "The past events contained in this scroll are every one unbelievable. They include this old monk's past misdeeds. Nothing is hidden. I've spent much of my life in sin and ignorance, with a narrow mind and stupid thoughts. In these two hundred years of purposeless life, the days when my eyes were clear were paltry and my good deeds pitifully few. All my life I've borne my sins with no hope of atonement, and after death I will sink into the Infinite Hells with no possibility of reincarnation. But still I dare hope that after the two of you see this, you won't scorn this old monk as no better than a beast."
Light appeared before Mo Ran's eyes. Blinking, he saw the ruins of a city, surrounded by shriveled trees and dark-winged crows, the birds picking at the eyes and innards of corpses. He paused, finding the scene familiar yet not recalling where he'd seen it.
A group of soldiers on horseback rode in through the gates, ribbons at their brows and quivers on their backs. One of the young men yanked on the reins and tumbled off the back of his skinny steed, rushing toward one of the corpses at the gate. "Dad!" he screamed. "Dad!"
Stunned, Mo Ran felt a chill at the back of his neck. Was this…the feathered tribe's illusion from Peach Blossom Springs? The war-torn city of ancient Lin'an?