CHU WANNING HAD NO CHOICE but to go. He threw on a thick fox-fur cloak, opened an oilpaper umbrella, and went to Wushan Palace.
The hall was lit by a forest of branching lamps cast of bronze inlaid with silver. Ninety-nine flames flickered like a river of stars, filling Wushan Palace with their radiance. The servants on both sides were familiar with Chu-zongshi's overnight stays. As he entered through a side door, they bowed respectfully with eyes lowered. Stony-faced, Chu Wanning strode down the covered corridor toward the sleeping quarters in the rear of the palace. When he reached the carved red-lacquer door, he raised a hand and pushed it open.
The room was stifling—a world apart from the torrential rain outside—and the air was heavy with the scent of alcohol. Mo Ran occupied the bed, lying indolently on his side and drinking from a small jar of red clay that he gripped in jade-white fingers.
"You came." Met with silence, Mo Ran went on, "Sit."
Chu Wanning walked to the bamboo mat farthest away from Mo Ran and sat down. He closed his eyes.
Mo Ran didn't demand he move closer. He was already several cups in, his pallid cheeks tinged faintly with pink. His dark irises, so black they seemed purple, glimmered as he looked sidelong at Chu Wanning. He took another swig of wine and tilted his head back, studying the carved dragons and phoenixes on the ceiling as he drummed his fingers against his knee.
"Do you still know how to make wontons?" he asked.
Chu Wanning's lashes quivered minutely. "Not anymore."
"You made them before," Mo Ran said, as if unwilling to accept his answer. "The year… The year he left."
"I didn't make them well." Chu Wanning's expression was impassive. "You weren't wrong to call me a piss-poor copycat."
Mo Ran narrowed his eyes. "Do you hold a grudge against this venerable one?"
"No."
"So, what if this venerable one ordered you to make some right now?"
Chu Wanning didn't answer. Mo Ran stared at him, eyes blazing. "I'm asking you a question. If I told you to make me a bowl of wontons right now, would you?"
"If I did." At last, Chu Wanning opened his eyes and looked coolly at Mo Ran. "Would you eat them?"
The retort caught Mo Ran by surprise; he flushed at once. Whether from the alcohol or rage, his gaze slackened, his eyes losing focus. Jaw clenched, he tossed the wine jar to the floor in front of the table, where it broke, sending exquisite pear-blossom white splashing over the stone. When he got to his feet, his expression was dangerous, like a mountain lumbering upright. Stepping over the shards of broken pottery, he stalked over to Chu Wanning and grabbed him by his collar.
"You're no different from Song Qiutong," Mo Ran said through gritted teeth. "All you do is cause this venerable one displeasure."
He released Chu Wanning and paced like a bird of prey, circling, footfalls roving to and fro until they abruptly came to a stop. He turned to pin Chu Wanning with a glare. "When did you teach me the phrase 'I hope you may greet these words with a smile, for writing is akin to reuniting'?"
Taxian-jun was drunk. There was no rhyme or reason to his questioning; he simply said whatever came to mind. "Why don't I remember it at all?"
An ice-cold hand closed around Chu Wanning's wrist. Mo Ran hauled him upright and dragged him over to the desk. He readied a brush, then unfurled a scroll with a snap. "Write it for me. Teach me again."
Chu Wanning had been feverish when he arrived, and Mo Ran's infuriating demands added to the uncomfortable pressure building within his skull. He sputtered and coughed, face reddening.
Mo Ran thrust the brush into his hand. "Write," he snarled. "Hurry up."
Chu Wanning's health had been fragile since he shattered his core in that decisive battle against Mo Ran. As he doubled over in another fit, he began to cough up flecks of blood. Only then did Mo Ran pause. Staring at those drops of scarlet sinking into the paper, he slowly loosened his grip.
Finally, Chu Wanning took a shuddering breath. "It's a common greeting in a letter," he said. "It doesn't mean anything else." He wiped the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief and, exhaling, looked up at Mo Ran. "You used to begin every letter with this phrase. I suppose you haven't written anything for so long that you've forgotten."
"I…used to write letters?" Mo Ran turned those dark eyes on him. "To whom?" His voice took on an indignant edge. "Who'd I write to? Who in the world could I possibly write to? What a load of rubbish… Bullshit!"
But Mo Ran sounded agitated and despondent, a scattered light jumping in his eyes. It was at that moment that, for the first time, Chu Wanning had a vague inkling that something was amiss. He didn't linger on the thought—Mo Ran's forgetfulness could be chalked up to his inebriation. He only furrowed his brow without replying.
In the library of Wushan Palace, there was a qiankun box in which all of Sisheng Peak's letters had been filed away. Mo Ran paced in circles like a caged beast until he suddenly remembered that box. Dragging Chu Wanning along with him to the library, he dug out the dusty case and ripped open letter after faded letter.
The majority of the letters had been written by disciples, organized according to the elders they'd studied under. Most of the writers had perished when Mo Ran betrayed the sect. Among all the elders of Sisheng Peak, the Yuheng Elder had had the fewest disciples—only three. Their letters were easily found. Quickly, Mo Ran pulled out a thick stack of pages and tore it open, fingers trembling.
It was indeed his handwriting—immature and crooked, but shockingly earnest. He flipped through letter after letter. On each one was written I hope you may greet these words with a smile, for writing is akin to reuniting. Every single letter, without exception.
Mo Ran's hands were shaking, his eyes flashing with an inconstant light.
Mom, I hope you may greet these words with a smile, for writing is akin to reuniting.
Xun-jiejie, I hope you may greet these words with a smile, for writing is akin to reuniting.
Those bygone greetings sent a shiver down his spine. His face took on a dangerous cast, his handsome features shadowed by dark storm clouds.
Chu Wanning stood to the side, indifferent, until Mo Ran's turbulent expression finally began to make him uneasy. At last, he couldn't help fixing his gaze on that man frantically riffling through old letters before the writing table. Chu Wanning felt a twinge of foreboding, as if a tiny bird pecked at his heart. He slowly paced closer, studying Mo Ran's bewildered, manic expression. Something wasn't right.
But what?
"My mom was already dead…" Mo Ran mumbled, looking up at Chu Wanning. "Why would I write letters to her?"
Chu Wanning scrutinized him carefully, that pricking sense of dread now boring through his chest, like a terrible darkness ready to blot out the sun and swallow him whole. It was bizarre that Mo Ran would forget a common salutation, yet it wasn't impossible. But for him to have no recollection of writing any of these letters was truly inexplicable.
Mo Ran was still skimming through those pages. I hope you may greet these words with a smile… I hope you may greet these words with a smile… His violet-black irises glinted with torment. He seemed to be missing an entire swath of memories.
Chu Wanning could almost hear the sound of something shattering in his ears. He held his breath, spine tingling. In the silence of the deserted library, Chu Wanning hesitated, then asked softly: "Don't you remember? Back then, you said even though your mom couldn't get your letters, you still wanted to write to her."
Mo Ran jerked his head up. Chu Wanning felt as though his blood was slowly turning to ice in his veins. "The first thing you learned to write wasn't your own name," he said.
Staring at him blankly, Mo Ran asked, "What was it?"
"The first word you had me teach you was 'Mom.'"
The thunderstorm raged overhead, the shrieking wind like devils dragging their talons over the windows, rattling the latticework. A forking bolt of lightning threw their surroundings into sharp relief.
"You taught me?" Emperor Taxian-jun mumbled. "Why don't I remember… I don't remember that at all."
The trees creaked and swayed in the wind. Vengeful ghosts seemed to swarm over the mountain and through the courtyards. Chu Wanning's face was deathly pale as he watched Mo Ran like a hawk. "You don't remember anything?" His heart drummed relentlessly in his chest.
A brief silence. Then Mo Ran answered him with a baffled question of his own: "Anything about what?"
The drum halted. In that minute, fear broke through its shell at last. An all-consuming terror roared toward him, a dark tidal wave bearing down on the only person in the room who was truly awake. Chu Wanning's scalp was prickling. He forgot? How could he possibly forget? Not only had Mo Ran said he wanted to write to his mother—he'd written more than three hundred letters all told. He'd said he wanted to write a thousand, which he would burn during the Ghost Festival6 so they could reach his mother in the underworld… How could he forget three hundred letters, just like that?
Chu Wanning's lips quivered as a terrifying thought rose in his mind. "Do you remember…what you said when you saw Tianwen for the first time?" he asked hoarsely.
"What I said?" repeated Mo Ran. "That was so long ago. How could I remember something like that?"
"You said you wanted a holy weapon just like it," Chu Wanning said. "You wanted your own Tianwen…"
"What would I want a Tianwen for?" the drunken man asked mockingly. "To murder people, or to interrogate them?"
"The earthworms," Chu Wanning murmured.
Outside the Red Lotus Pavilion all those years ago, that tender youth had held up an oilpaper umbrella and said to him cheerfully, I can use it to save the earthworms.
Yet tonight, Taxian-jun narrowed his predatory eyes and asked, uncomprehending, "What earthworms?"
Lightning tore the sky into purple-edged shreds, and thunder cleaved the earth. Chu Wanning pressed his lips together, his dark eyes wavering, pupils contracting. He felt cold—bone-chillingly cold.
Mo Ran didn't touch Chu Wanning that night. After drinking himself drunk, he merely sat, blankly staring at the letters in his hands. At some point, he drifted off at the table, muttering under his breath, "What earthworms…? There were no earthworms…"
A gust of wind blew the window open. Cold wind and rainwater rushed in, extinguishing several lamps near the sill and plunging the room into darkness. Chu Wanning stood beside Mo Ran, teeth chattering, watching him as he slept. The unformed idea coalescing in his mind began to solidify.
How could Mo Ran fail to remember these parts of his past? Why would he willingly forget those innocent days of his youth? Was it because he was drunk? Was it a coincidence?
Or…had someone purposefully erased those memories of kindness from his heart?
Slumped on the table, Taxian-jun muttered, "Cold…"
Chu Wanning's blood was thoroughly chilled; his entire body had gone numb. At this murmured complaint, he automatically walked over to the window. He pulled the shutters closed, blocking out the wind and rain. But he didn't immediately walk away. Still dazed, he pressed his forehead to the window frame carved with bats and deer, his clenched knuckles white as jade.
After a long while, he drew a wrinkled talisman from his robes—the Rising Dragon Talisman.
Chu Wanning's core was gone; Mo Ran hadn't bothered to confiscate his old paper talismans, assuming he couldn't use any magic. He wasn't altogether wrong. Chu Wanning had to squeeze more than a dozen drops of blood from his bitten fingertip onto the talisman—until the paper was nearly soaked—before the little dragon stirred sluggishly to life.
As its weakly glowing form emerged from the talisman, it feebly raised its head. "Ah… Chu Wanning… Long time no see…"
The little dragon could barely stand upright. After taking just a few steps on its flimsy dragon claws, it crumpled to the paper. "Why's it been so long since you've summoned this venerable one?" it asked, sounding hurt and confused. "Why'd you provide this venerable one such a paltry amount of spiritual qi… Hmph, it's really just qi… Not even real spiritual energy… What's going on with you?"
"It's a long story. There's too much to explain." Chu Wanning gently plucked the dragon from the talisman and placed it in his palm. "I'd like to ask a favor."
"Ah, you only ever remember me when you need me," the little dragon wheezed. But its energy was tied to Chu Wanning's; it had no strength to spare for complaints. Head drooping, it said, "Go on—what can this venerable one do for you?"
Chu Wanning carried the dragon over to Mo Ran and placed it on the sleeping man's temple. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as his complexion somehow grew paler still. "Please check if there are any strange spells on him," he said.
The boy who'd once been so easy-going and cheerful, who couldn't bear to see even an earthworm come to harm, had become a monster. As his shizun, why had Chu Wanning never questioned this? He'd watched with his own eyes as his disciple slew Xue Zhengyong and Madam Wang, and then Jiang Xi and Ye Wangxi. As he massacred Rufeng Sect and crushed the bones of a thousand beneath his heel. He'd watched Mo Ran commit slaughter upon slaughter, blood streaming from his hands, his robes soaked in hot scarlet. Mo Ran, standing upon a pile of corpses, flashing him a hateful grin over his shoulder.
He had grieved it all. But had he ever thought it strange? Mo Ran had never been that kind of person before.
The little dragon toiled over its paper, diligently sketching a spell diagram. Though Chu Wanning thought he had steeled himself for anything, the finished drawing stupefied him.
An affection spell. Mo Ran had been bewitched by an affection spell?
The little dragon had exhausted its last ounce of energy. Its tiny paper form vanished in a puff of dark smoke and reappeared on the talisman. Chu Wanning clutched the diagram, his head ringing as if a rock slide had just crashed through his skull.
He forced himself into calmness and looked over the drawing repeatedly. Something was wrong with the diagram of this affection spell: It was reversed from left to right.