A single lantern wound its way through Sisheng Peak, seeking that
fragment of returned soul.
Once the soul-calling lantern was lit, Mo Ran became invisible to the
living. It was as if he was half a ghost himself. He climbed the bluestone
steps and traversed the porticos and balconies, searching.
Red Lotus Pavilion, Frostsky Hall, Three Lives Platform… He looked
everywhere, but Chu Wanning was nowhere to be found. Mo Ran couldn't
help but worry that his shizun had grown weary of life and had no wish to see
him in death. The thought made his blood run cold. He walked faster, the hem
of his robes sweeping past the wild grass underfoot.
Suddenly, he noticed a person standing at the end of Naihe Bridge,
cool and aloof, woeful and forlorn. The palms of his hands broke out in
sweat, and his heart beat like a drum in his ears as he ran toward that figure.
"Shizun—"
But the face that turned toward him belonged to a soul he didn't
recognize, probably a disciple who had perished at the Heavenly Rift. What
of his face Mo Ran could see was covered in blood, and he stared at Mo Ran
with eyes that were dull and confused.
"S-sorry, I thought you were someone else," Mo Ran stammered, and
hurried on. The soul had lost its cognition, and only watched, stiff and
motionless, as Mo Ran passed in front of him. His corpse-pale body stood
frozen in place, like a shell discarded and left behind in the mortal world.
Mo Ran felt his chest grow tighter. What if his shizun's human soul
was also like that, a walking corpse? Even if he found him, would he be able
to watch over him until daybreak?
His heart beat a frenzied stampede as his feet moved faster and faster.
Without knowing how he arrived, he looked up to find himself outside
Mengpo Hall. Chu Wanning didn't particularly care what he ate, so Mo Ran
doubted his returned soul would come here of all places. He was about to
turn and leave when, from within the hall, he heard a soft sigh.
The voice was so, so quiet. But in Mo Ran's head, it was like an
explosion of thunder. He stumbled through the doors, and his hand shook
uncontrollably as he lifted the soul-calling lantern. The light of that lantern
was like a new-risen sun, warm yet mild, as it cast its glow on a white-robed
figure. Mo Ran's knuckles turned white and his nails dug into his palm.
"Shizun…" he murmured.
That fragment of Chu Wanning's soul stood alone, a solitary figure in
the emptiness of the large kitchen. His silhouette was faintly washed out, like
ink blanched by the passage of time, but it was unquestionably him. He was
in the same white robes of frozen mist silk that he'd worn when he died, their
hems stained red with blood. Against this conspicuous and vivid hue, his skin
looked all the more pale, almost translucent, like smoke and mist—as if he
might scatter before a gust of wind.
Lantern in hand, Mo Ran gazed at the mirage before him—like the
image of flowers in a mirror, like the reflection of the moon in water.
He wanted to walk faster, afraid Chu Wanning might slip away if he
hesitated. He wanted to walk slower, afraid the dream might shatter if he
hurried. A thousand thoughts tied themselves into knots in his mind. Regret
and guilt flooded his chest, and the rims of his eyes grew faintly red. He felt
that he owed this man far too much. Mo Ran slowed to a stop a short distance
from him, too ashamed to show his face.
The lantern swayed gently. Now that Mo Ran was closer, he could see
that Chu Wanning was bustling about. He looked slightly anxious, a little
clumsy. What was he doing? Mo Ran moved to stand behind him, thinking to
help the pitiful soul. But what he saw struck him like lightning. As the shock
began to fade, a burst of agonizing pain opened its bloody maw and tore
viciously into his neck.
Mo Ran staggered back two steps, slowly shaking his head yet unable
to speak. In that moment, had his chest been torn open and his heart ripped
out—veins, flesh, and all—it wouldn't have hurt so much as this.
He saw Chu Wanning's hands—raw and bloody from crawling up
more than three thousand steps carrying Mo Ran while he still lived—feel
their way carefully along the table. On that table lay flour, seasonings, and
ground meat filling. Nearby was a pot of water over a strong flame. It was
already boiling, but Chu Wanning, that dummy, didn't even know he ought to
lower the flames a little. The thick cloud of steam made everything hazy…
Or perhaps it wasn't the steam that blurred Mo Ran's vision, but the
tears pooling in his eyes.
Chu Wanning's human soul was painstakingly folding wontons. His
hands had ever been nimble and dexterous. Countless armaments had been
crafted by those slender fingers; immense barriers had been conjured
between those palms. But now those hands, torn and marred, trembled as they
carefully folded one full, plump wonton after another.
Mo Ran raised an arm and scrubbed silently at his reddened eyes,
unable to speak so much as a single word. Chu Wanning stood with his back
to him. He seemed to finally remember that the water had been boiling for
quite a while, and, worried it would all boil away entirely if left unattended,
began searching for the pot, feeling around with his hands.
Yes, he felt around with his hands.
Mo Ran surfaced from the anguish he was drowning in and hurried to
his shizun's side. Now he understood. When the three souls split, each lost
something—memories, cognition, parts of the body. What this soul had lost
was a piece of its perception.
This fragment of Chu Wanning's soul, returned from the underworld,
could hardly see. His hearing seemed faulty as well—when he knocked
something off the table, he couldn't quite tell where it landed. Even so, he
toiled to make a bowl of ordinary, unremarkable wontons. As if this had been
his favorite pastime in life, as if he found comfort in this haze of steam.
Mo Ran felt his heart might burst from the pain. The world spun dizzily
around him. For a moment he couldn't even think, but stood frozen in place as
the scene unfolded before his eyes.
There was a crash—this soul, with its diminished vision, could barely
see the table in front of him, and had accidentally knocked over Mengpo
Hall's salt jar as he searched. It seemed to startle him. Chu Wanning silently
withdrew his hand, and an uneasy expression appeared on his bloodstained
face.
"What do you need?" A hoarse voice, tight with choked-back sobs and
shattered with guilt, spoke up next to him. "Let me help, okay?"
Chu Wanning looked surprised. But perhaps his incomplete soul
couldn't sustain such turbulent emotions—after a beat, he sank back into
placid calm.
But every word Mo Ran pushed past his lips was difficult and
pleading. "Shizun, let me help you, okay?"
Water roiled in the pot. In this kitchen, the dead person was warm and
lively, yet the living one was distraught and listless. After a long interval, Mo
Ran heard Chu Wanning's familiar voice, low and even like the shattering of
jade and the crumbling of mountains.
"You're here?"
A pause. "Yes."
"Good. Just wait over there for a minute. When the wontons are done,
take a bowl to Mo Ran."
Mo Ran froze. Chu Wanning's words made no sense at all. He watched
Chu Wanning feel around blindly, then watched as he dropped the plump,
snowy wontons one by one into the pot. In the haziness of the steam, his face
lost its usual sternness; instead, it looked very gentle. "I punished him too
harshly yesterday," he said. "He probably hates me now. Xue Meng says he's
not eating. When you take these to him, don't tell him I made them. He won't
eat them if he knows."
Mo Ran's mind was a mess. It was as if some secret that had
slumbered half a lifetime had begun to stir, just about to break through the
surface. "Shizun…"
Chu Wanning smiled wryly. "I'm afraid I was too strict with him, but
that rashness of his really ought to be tempered… Well, never mind. Fetch me
a bowl for me, a thick one if you can. It's cold outside, we'll want to keep
the food warm."
Just about to break through—just about to break…
Mo Ran seemed to hear the distant sound of something shattering. A
memory finally clawed through its shell, screeching like a ghost as it burst
forth and hurtled toward him. Everything went dark.
Wontons. Shi Mei. Shizun…
This was the first time he'd had Shi Mei's wontons. That day, he had
mistakenly plucked Madam Wang's precious flower and been punished by
Chu Wanning. Tianwen had whipped him bloody and reduced his heart to
ash.
Mo Ran had lain in bed, brooding and refusing to rise. He had plucked
the flower because he wanted to give it to his shizun, but had instead been
rewarded with a round of merciless lashing. He thought he must have been
blind to take a liking to Chu Wanning, that his heart must have been covered
in lard to think that Chu Wanning was gentle, or that Chu Wanning cared about
him.
That day, Shi Mei had come to his room holding a bowl of steamy
wontons in chili oil. That soft voice, that gentle tone, and that warm bowl of
wontons had turned all Mo Ran's disappointment in his shizun into fondness
for Shi Mei.
But how could he have known… How could he have known?!
That fragment of returned soul stood there beside him. Every human
soul was different when it returned. Some were like Luo Xianxian, coming
back to see what transpired after their death. Others were like the person at
Naihe Bridge, senselessly wandering their former home, free of lingering
cares or worries.
Chu Wanning's human soul had lost its sight, couldn't tell one voice
from another, didn't even know what day it was. He'd likely returned to the
world of the living because he believed he'd done something wrong, had
made a mistake, and felt bad about it. Wanted to make up for it.
And so, in the end, Chu Wanning made a decision different from the
one he'd made in life. He scooped the wontons out of the boiling water and
nestled them in the bowl. The slivered scallions were a jade green, the broth
was milky white, and the chili oil spooned over everything was red and
spicy. He made to hand the bowl to "Shi Mei," but at the last second, he
paused.
"I really was too unkind to him," he murmured.
A few moments passed in silence.
"Never mind. You don't have to deliver it. I'll go see him myself and
apologize."
Mo Ran stared blankly, his face ghostly pale. He had always believed
his shizun too cold—cold like iron, so cold it froze his heart to ice. How
could he have guessed that Chu Wanning was actually so kind to him… That
Chu Wanning's lingering regret in the living world was him.
That his last wish was to apologize.
The ice melted. Turned into water. Became an ocean. Slowly, Mo Ran
lifted his hands and buried his face in his palms. His shoulders shook lightly.
A heart like iron? A heart like iron?! It wasn't like that at all…
Mo Ran's throat felt tight, and a sob escaped as he collapsed to the
floor, kneeling before that soul that couldn't see him. The soul-calling lantern
sat on the ground by his feet as he let out a broken wail, screaming himself
hoarse as if he might cry blood. Finally, unable to contain it any longer, he
bawled, loud and miserable. He knelt before Chu Wanning.
It wasn't like that at all…
He groveled in the dust, clutching at the hems of Chu Wanning's
bloodstained robes.
It wasn't that your heart was cold and hard as iron. It wasn't that I
was unyielding and immovable as stone. It was just that I misjudged you, I
misunderstood you completely… It was just that…
"Shizun, Shizun…" He wept, curled up on the floor. "I'm sorry. I was
wrong, please…please come back with me…
"Shizun… please come back with me. I was wrong, it was my fault. I
don't blame you. I don't hate you. It was all my fault, always making you
angry. Next time, if you hit me or scold me, I swear I won't fight back.
Shizun, if you just come back, I'll listen to everything you say… I'll respect
you, I'll cherish you, I'll treat you right…"
But Chu Wanning's robes were gossamer-thin, as if they might fall to
pieces in his hands. Mo Ran wished he could carve open his own chest and
give Chu Wanning his heart, just to hear his heartbeat again. He wished he
could drain his own blood to fill Chu Wanning's veins, just to see color in his
face again.
He would do anything to make up for his mistakes.
"Shizun." His voice broke. "Let's start over from the beginning,
okay?"
Before the Heaven-Piercing Tower, under the haitang tree. That
zongshi, gentle as a white cat, lifted his head, and his phoenix eyes widened
slightly. The cicadas on the branches chirped two, three times, and the youth
before him grinned brightly.
"Xianjun, Xianjun, I've been watching you for so long already. Why
won't you pay attention to me?" In the blink of an eye, it had been twenty
years, two lifetimes. It was all in the past already. He knew it was greedy
and shameless, but he said it anyway.
Shizun, let's start over from the beginning. Okay? Please, pay
attention to me, won't you…