WHEN MO RAN WOKE the next morning, he remembered little of what had happened after he'd started drinking the night before. But what Mo Ran couldn't remember, Chu Wanning couldn't forget.
After that day, he began indirectly probing Mo Ran. He found that Mo Ran had indeed lost many of his memories. Chu Wanning's anxiety compounded. After a long and arduous search, he uncovered a dusty medicine manual in Sisheng Peak's library that identified the spell in question. Beneath the sunlight spilling in from the window, he read, "Flower of Eightfold Sorrows…"
His fingers brushed over the inked drawing in the book. Chu Wanning reached for the little dragon's diagram and laid the pages side by side. They were identical: a black heart, easily mistaken for an affection spell. Only upon close inspection might one notice that the affection spell's heart had a tiny spot of white space on its left side. This one had the same spot, but on the right.
The paper dragon's spell diagrams were meant to reflect the technique's effects. Were this gu flower's effects like those of an affection spell, but likewise reversed?
The book he had dug up was an ancient text of the demon tribe, long abandoned in a corner of this deserted library. He had some cursory knowledge of the script, but reading it was by no means straightforward. He waded through the text a word at a time, a slow and painstaking process. With every sentence he understood, his alarm deepened.
"The Flower of Eightfold Sorrows, a plant of the demon tribe." Chu Wanning's pale lips parted softly around the words. "Legend has it that Gouchen the Exalted brought this flower to the mortal world from the demon realm."
Between the passages a strange-looking seed was depicted, with a drop of blood and a wisp of smoke pictured alongside it.
"The seed is exceedingly difficult to cultivate. It must be nourished on demon blood for ten years, then integrated into the souls of its chosen host to germinate," Chu Wanning muttered. "It requires demon blood and a host soul to grow? But…there shouldn't be any pure-blooded demons left in this world." Perhaps this account wasn't entirely correct or comprehensive.
He continued reading. Painted on the silk was a human heart with a lush flower growing out of its right side. Next to this, in the intricate script of the demon tribe was written: This demonic flower cannot grow in soil or water; the presence or absence of sun is immaterial. Only a human heart can sustain it.
Chu Wanning blinked in surprise. This blossom could only flourish when planted in a person's heart?
The further he read, the greater his horror grew. After the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows was sown in the heart of a host, its effects took hold in three stages. In the first, the host would display an inclination toward melancholy and tend to assume the worst of others' intentions, but their behavior would be mostly unchanged otherwise. At the same time, their recollection of their happiest memories would gradually begin to fade. Although the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows was difficult to extract from a host completely, if discovered at this stage, its influence could be suppressed. In the best case, the flower would go dormant and no longer affect the host.
If the flower was not detected during this period, it would take root within the host and progress to the second stage. This could take as long as a decade, though it could be accelerated by a traumatic event. This stage was marked by a rapid loss of the memories associated with innocence, kindness, and hope. The host would ruminate on the obstacles and setbacks they'd encountered, as well as any mistreatment or humiliation they'd suffered. There were eight sorrows in life, and it was for these the flower was named: birth, death, aging, illness, unfulfilled wishes, clashes with enemies, separation from loved ones, and the worldly trappings of the self.7 The host would dwell on all these, etching their suffering into their marrow.
By the time he came to this passage, Chu Wanning's face was white as frost. Was this not exactly what had happened to Mo Ran? He'd forgotten the dreams of his youth, forgotten every word of the letters he'd written. Even his memories of his own mother were no longer clear.
He read on to the description of the third stage: The host would become bloodthirsty and violent, increasingly irrational… They would seek to avenge all the suffering they had endured a thousand times over.
A figure swam before Chu Wanning's eyes: Mo Ran in Rufeng Sect's sea of blood. Face distorted in a sneer, Mo Ran funneled spiritual energy into his hand and thrust his bare fingers into a cultivator's chest. Blood sprayed as he pulled out the cultivator's heart and crushed it in his grip. He was surrounded by the dead and dying, the air thick with cries for mercy. But Mo Ran threw his head back and laughed, his eyes flashing with frenzied light. The only thing he said, over and over, was: "Beggars can't be choosers… Beggars can't be choosers!" He was ruthless and deranged, barely human.
How had Mo Ran come to this? In the past, Chu Wanning might have had fleeting moments of doubt, but they had been easily brushed aside. The Flower of Eightfold Sorrows acted gradually, its effects deepening imperceptibly over time. Just as the text described, its violence wasn't senseless or unfounded—this demonic seed magnified the host's own grievances and desires.
In other words, those grievances and desires belonged indisputably to Mo Ran. No one else was responsible for them.
Mo Ran had truly wanted to massacre Rufeng Sect, to rule all under heaven; he'd truly hated and resented Chu Wanning. But these emotions should've lasted a fleeting instant, or else been buried and forgotten as flights of fancy. The Flower of Eightfold Sorrows dug out every scrap of hatred hidden in the crevices of his heart and made them real. Onlookers would think the flower's host insane, but the host's hatred would appear justified. Their personality, too, would undergo no dramatic shift, at least not to the point of seeming like a different person altogether. Those around them would inevitably assume it was their hatefulness that had twisted them, not some outside enchantment. No one would have had reason to suspect that Mo Ran had been implanted with the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows. By the time anyone might have discovered it, the enchantment would likely have progressed to the second or third stage, at which point it was impossible to excise or even suppress the flower.
When he'd read the entire entry, Chu Wanning sank into thought for a long time. What did he feel? Surprise? Regret? Rage? Fear? Or was it grief… He didn't know.
He sat on the dilapidated floorboards in the long-neglected library. The afternoon sunlight streamed in, but it seemed unable to warm his skin. Sitting in his nest of scrolls and volumes, he felt as if someone stood behind him, a person he could neither see nor touch. They were laughing quietly, infiltrating his world like a vengeful spirit, watching his every movement from behind a curtain.
He lowered his head to reread that sentence inked upon the silk cloth—
Although the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows is difficult to uproot, during the first stage, it can be suppressed if discovered in time. If suppressed successfully, the host's heart will remain unchanged.
Chu Wanning recited this sentence to himself many times over. He was startled to discover a few splotches of wetness on the silk, slowly soaking into the fabric. He extended an ice-cold hand, thinking to wipe away those drops. But before his fingers touched the silk, he flinched back; instead, his hand reached up to cover his damp, quivering lashes.
It was he who was no good; it was he who was at fault. He'd always been too aloof, prizing his reputation above all else. He'd never been willing to initiate difficult conversations.
If discovered in time…their heart will remain unchanged.
But he hadn't noticed anything in all those years. The man they called Yuheng of the Night Sky, the Beidou Immortal, had failed to discover the demonic flower planted in his own disciple's heart. Because Chu Wanning was so withdrawn, so bad with words, Mo Ran had been forced onto this lonely road. He had walked into an endless night, into a bloody ocean of vengeance.
How could Chu Wanning have the gall to act as his elder? How could he bear to hear Mo Ran call him shizun?
If discovered in time.
That sentence was like a nightmare echoing in his ears—like a curse. He felt as if a thicket of brambles was stabbing into his spine, as if a sharp bone was lodged in his throat, as if his heart was jumping out of his chest—he didn't deserve to be Mo Ran's teacher.
Looking back now, how long had something been wrong with Mo Ran? They'd spent so much time together, not just a matter of one or two years. Mo Ran had once been a bashful yet brilliant boy. Bit by bit, darkness had swallowed him; crimson rain had soaked him to the bone. And Chu Wanning, as his shifu, hadn't realized that anything was amiss until today—not until it was already too late to turn back, too late to change a thing… Chu Wanning's heart was tarnished, his body unmoored, his pain and regret all-consuming—he didn't deserve to be Mo Ran's teacher!
Chu Wanning didn't know how he'd pulled himself together that day, how he'd managed to leave the library and walk into Sisheng Peak's silent bamboo forest. He didn't know how he made his way back to the Red Lotus Pavilion. Beneath the blooming wisteria vines, everything was a mess. He sat by himself until the brilliant day turned into golden sunset.
Someone walked into his field of view.
It was a man's figure, stately and proud, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He strolled over the sun-dappled ground, a gleaming wine cup in his hand as he made his way toward the lotus pond. Chu Wanning, lost in his thoughts, couldn't immediately place who he was, or when he was. In his eyes, the image of that tall, handsome man overlapped with that of the youth from his memories—
Barely a month after Mo Ran became his disciple, he had cheerfully hurried over to the Red Lotus Pavilion to look for Chu Wanning. He was slightly out of breath from running, his cheeks flushed, eyes startlingly bright. In his hand, he carried a little clay jar in a sling of woven bamboo.
"Shizun, I tried some really delicious wine at the bottom of the mountain. I've brought some back—will you drink with me?"
"You haven't received any assignments yet," said Chu Wanning. "Where'd you get the money?"
Mo Ran grinned. "I borrowed from Uncle."
"Why go to such trouble?"
"'Cause Shizun likes me." Mo Ran smiled and held out the jar in both hands. "I like Shizun too."
Chu Wanning still remembered the awkwardness and embarrassment he'd felt then. This young man expressed himself too ardently. Chu Wanning didn't want to reciprocate; he feared reaching out would get him burnt. He flicked his sleeves and replied curtly, "What does liking me have to do with anything? Don't say such things."
"Oh… All right." Mo Ran scratched his head. "But if I eat or drink something good, I'll definitely think of Shizun. I'll want Shizun to taste it too."
Chu Wanning paused. "I've never had wine before."
This made Mo Ran laugh. "Then you've gotta try it at least once! Who knows, maybe you'll be able to drink everyone under the table."
Chu Wanning pressed his lips together and took the jar. Removing the stopper, he took a tentative whiff. His eyes widened slightly.
"Does it smell good?"
"Mn."
"Ha ha—come on, take a sip!"
So Chu Wanning swallowed a mouthful of wine. It was strong and heady, its rich, complex flavor flooding his tongue. Chu Wanning couldn't help taking a second sip. "Not bad. What's it called?"
Mo Ran broke into a grin. "This is pear-blossom white wine."
It was the first wine Chu Wanning had ever tasted. "Pear-blossom white…" he repeated softly. "A fitting name."
Mo Ran was delighted. "If Shizun likes it, as soon as I start taking missions and getting paid, I'll buy it for you every day!"
Chu Wanning took another sip of wine. Expression perfectly neutral, he turned his phoenix eyes upon Mo Ran. "Then you'll never manage to build up any savings."
"I don't need to," Mo Ran cheerfully replied. "I'll use all my money to buy things for Shizun, and for Uncle and Auntie."
Chu Wanning didn't answer, but he could feel a tiny crack forming in his heart, into which sweetness trickled. He didn't want Mo Ran to notice his happiness, lest he get the impression that the Yuheng Elder could be bribed with a simple cup of wine. He gripped the jar and continued to drink as impassively as ever.
This chatty new disciple often flummoxed Chu Wanning. To everyone else, his cool indifference was like a formidable wall. But this boy happily clambered over this barrier, and was now rubbing the back of his head and looking around in apparent unconcern. Maybe he was an idiot, Chu Wanning mused.
Entirely oblivious, Mo Ran was contemplating what sorts of presents would best demonstrate his respect for his teacher. "Shizun, do you like osmanthus cake?"
"Mm-hmm."
"What about lotus crisps?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Sweet osmanthus lotus root?"
"Mm-hmm."
Cheeks dimpling deeply, Mo Ran laughed. "So Shizun has a sweet tooth."
This time, Chu Wanning was silent. It belatedly occurred to him how his penchant for sweets must appear at odds with his icy demeanor. He took another gulp of wine, a bit too enthusiastic in his irritation. Although the wine was smooth and sweet, it was still quite strong—he choked.
Chu Wanning valued his dignity above all, and choking on wine was too great a humiliation for him to bear. He held back his coughing, but the burning itch in his throat made his eyes and nose redden against his will.
"In the future I'll bring back all the sweets for Shizun." Mo Ran was still waxing poetic about his grand plans, which were becoming increasingly far-fetched. "I'll put together a book of the yummiest food from all over, and then take a trip with Shizun to try everything! And then…" Turning to look at Chu Wanning, his laughter turned into a hiccup of shock. "Shizun, are—are you okay?"
Chu Wanning blinked through watering eyes. Wouldn't it be too ridiculous for a teacher to choke on the wine his disciple had given him? Stay strong. Don't cough, he thought to himself. But this only caused his eyes to mist over, and their ends to grow visibly redder.
"Did I say something wrong?" Mo Ran asked helplessly. "Shizun, why do you look like you're about to cry?"
Chu Wanning glared at him, his lashes quivering with silent rage, but Mo Ran was oblivious to Chu Wanning's ire. Struck by a realization, he asked, voice going soft, "Shizun, is it because no one's ever bought sweets for you before?"
At this, Chu Wanning's fury multiplied.
"Actually," Mo Ran continued heedlessly, "there was a time I couldn't get enough to eat and almost starved to death. I ran into a xiao-gege who fed me some sweet congee… I like sweets too, but no one's ever bought them for me either."
The boy had a real gift for projection; somehow, he'd convinced himself Chu Wanning's eyes were red because he was greatly moved. Mo Ran grabbed Chu Wanning's hand.
This was totally outside Chu Wanning's expectations. In all his years—other than touching others' hands to teach them spells—he'd only ever held hands with Huaizui as a child. For this new disciple to grab his hand without warning or inhibition gave him quite a shock. He was on the verge of blowing his top when he looked up and saw his little disciple's handsome, naïve face.
"Shizun," said Mo Ran, all earnestness. "Once I make a name for myself, I'll get so many sweets for you, mark my words." His eyes shone with tenderness. "I'll buy you all the best candy. My mom always told me I have to repay kindness."
Mo Ran had no schooling, and he'd grown up in an entertainment house. His word choices were a bit strange, and sometimes even laughably awkward. All Chu Wanning knew was that Mo Ran's passion had scalded him. He glanced at Mo Ran, then lowered his lashes without a word.
As the wine's sting dissipated, Chu Wanning gingerly cleared his throat. "Don't babble on like this," he said flatly. "Also…" A spark of curiosity. "I want to ask you something."
"Shizun can ask me anything."
Chu Wanning hesitated, then asked with some embarrassment, "There were so many people at the Heaven-Piercing Tower that day. Why did you pick me?"
The boy Mo Ran opened his mouth and said—
But at that moment, Chu Wanning's reverie was broken. Taxian-jun stood facing Chu Wanning, wine jar in hand. Seeing Chu Wanning lost in thought, he reached out and poked him in the forehead. "What's wrong?"
Chu Wanning's pupils slowly refocused upon the Mo Ran before him. This man's complexion was white as bone, his eyes narrowed in a predatory leer. He was handsome as ever, but his good looks couldn't hide the violence etched into his bones. No longer was he that brilliant youth from those early days. All those things were already in the past.
Suddenly, Chu Wanning felt so very tired. In the long years of his imprisonment, he'd never known such debilitating confusion and pain. He was impossibly conflicted; he had no idea how to face the man before him. He turned his face away.
A large, cool hand gripped his chin, forcing him to look forward once more. Chu Wanning's phoenix eyes reflected the last rosy blush on the horizon, the dense shadows of twilight, and Taxian-jun's glowering face.
"You're still angry?"
Chu Wanning closed his eyes and didn't reply for a long beat. "No," he said hoarsely.
"Your fever broke?" Before Chu Wanning could answer, Mo Ran released his jaw and placed a palm against Chu Wanning's forehead. "Mn, it's gone," he muttered under his breath.
Helping himself to a seat, Mo Ran broke the seal on the wine jar and continued, "Now that you've gotten over your fever and your hissy fit, you'll drink with this venerable one tonight."
Chu Wanning couldn't speak. There was an invisible mastermind standing behind Mo Ran. Despite Sisheng Peak's outward serenity, dangers lurked around every corner. He couldn't afford to draw the enemy's attention; he couldn't reveal a single thing.
Mo Ran poured the wine. "Pear-blossom white," he said carelessly. "Your favorite."
Chu Wanning's thoughts stalled as the fragrance of the wine wafted up, a diaphanous barrier between worlds. It was the first wine he'd ever tried. A memory he could never forget. He raised his eyes, watching the man pouring wine. Mo Ran surely wouldn't remember that anymore. Chu Wanning's chest ached dully, and his throat stung. He raised his cup and downed it in one draught.
The wine was fiery. After such a mighty gulp, of course he would choke. He found he no longer cared a whit—in fact, he embraced it, as though grabbing onto a piece of driftwood amidst pounding rapids. He coughed violently, until the rims of his eyes turned red, and finally, until hot tears slipped out from between his damp lashes.
Mo Ran paused, his eyes momentarily widening in alarm. He quickly schooled his expression, lips curving in a methodical grin. "Shizun, what's wrong? What're you crying for?"
Chu Wanning pulled himself together. It didn't matter how painful or unbearable things were; it didn't matter that he knew the truth. There was nothing he could do. As long as he hadn't extracted the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows or found the villain behind the scenes—as long as he was still alive—he had to endure his situation. He had to pretend ignorance, to feign hatred and fury.
He closed his eyes and forced his spine to straighten. "The wine," he rasped.
"The wine's too strong?" Mo Ran asked slowly.
In lieu of answering, Chu Wanning drank another cup. The wine burned a trail of fire to his belly.
Why did you pick me?
His misty eyes drifted open, gazing into the distance. Amidst the evening haze, the Heaven-Piercing Tower rose as tall and regal as ever. But the youth who'd once grinned and replied, Because I like you—you look the gentlest was gone forever.
In life, there were eight sorrows. Birth, death, aging, and illness. Separation from loved ones. Unfulfilled wishes. Clashes with enemies. The worldly trappings of the self. Thus eternal regret was born.
There had been so many opportunities for him to uncover the truth, but he'd missed them all. Now that he finally saw how Mo Ran's heart had been corrupted, he was hobbled; he couldn't do a thing.
That night, Chu Wanning watched Mo Ran sleep beside him. His once-innocent face was shrouded behind cold shadows, his skin white as paper.
Chu Wanning had hated him, resented him. When Mo Ran had turned his sword on him, his blood had run cold. When Mo Ran had forced him to submit on his knees, his heart had withered. But in that boundless night, beneath the gloomy bed canopy, Chu Wanning felt that, in the face of the truth, his hatred and resentment, his deadened heart, were so very ridiculous. A gu flower had been planted in Mo Ran's heart. None of the things he'd done reflected his true intentions. The almighty Emperor Taxian-jun had long been shackled and bound.
And although Chu Wanning was his shizun, he was completely powerless. He didn't know how many eyes watched him from behind—he couldn't tell anyone the truth. He couldn't show Mo Ran the slightest hint of compassion or warmth. He had to keep hating and resenting, had to keep his heart walled off and numb.
Deep in the night, behind the curtains in the still and silent Wushan Palace, Chu Wanning waited for Mo Ran to fall into sound slumber. Only then could he sit up and touch Mo Ran's bloodless face. Only then could he whisper, ever so softly, "I'm sorry. It was your shifu who didn't protect you properly."