THE TRIAL was adjourned. Though there were objections voiced, the outcome could not be changed. Tianyin Pavilion's Divine Scales of Justice had decided the fates of the cultivation realm's criminals for thousands of years. No one could escape this custom, least of all Mo Ran.
When everyone had left, Mo Ran—bound by spells, shrouded in barriers, and encircled by guards—was brought to the Platform of Repentance outside the pavilion grounds. He was to kneel here for three days and three nights, subject to the taunts and jeers of passersby, until the day his core was carved out. This served as public notice of his sentencing.
In Tianyin Pavilion's guesthouse, Xue Meng couldn't sit still. At last, he jumped to his feet. "Mom, Dad. I want to go see him."
Madam Wang grabbed his arm. "No." She was rarely decisive, but now, her manner brooked no resistance. "You can't go to the Platform of Repentance. You can't see him."
"Why not?! I… I just…"
His mother shook her head. "Sisheng Peak is in a difficult position. How many called for the sect to be disbanded today? You and your father both need to stay calm and keep your heads down. If Sisheng Peak is condemned too, there will be no way out of this mess for anyone—Yuheng and Ran-er included."
"But will people really yell at him and curse him?" Xue Meng asked, dazed. "I don't know what happened with the Zhenlong Chess Formation; I don't know why he could stop those pawns… But…" Xue Meng buried his face in his hands, his voice thick with tears. "But he really was the one who saved us that day… Those people weren't there; they didn't see what happened. Why are they treating him like this when they've only heard one side of the story?"
Why? Xue Meng was too naïve to understand, but Madam Wang and Xue Zhengyong both knew. Tianyin Pavilion was the seat of justice in the cultivation realm; its very name meant sound of heaven. If something had always been done a certain way, especially by an institution that had stood for thousands of years, very few would question if it was just, or whether it might be wrong. In the face of such power, any voice of dissent that spoke up would be easily drowned out.
Mo Weiyu was a criminal. Anyone could humiliate and abuse him because the target of their blows and insults was a man the world deemed a villain. When they spat on him and punched him, it wasn't violence, or blowing off steam, or following the crowd, or lashing out in jealousy. It wasn't even the satisfaction of hitting a bully when he was down. What they were doing was condemning evil and upholding justice.
The masses delighted in his plight. Anyone who dared beg for mercy on his behalf was surely a co-conspirator. They too deserved to be dragged onto the interrogation platform, to have their faces smeared with paint, their hair hacked off. A bunch of degenerates without a moral compass—they would deserve it.
Xue Meng could not go to the Platform of Repentance. Chaos would ensue if he did.
It began drizzling that evening. The Platform of Repentance was unsheltered, so Mo Ran knelt in the mist, rivulets running down his face. He closed his eyes, but the rain wasn't enough to douse the enthusiasm of the thronging crowd.
Many of the cultivators had left by this time; the crowd was mostly composed of ignorant commoners. These citizens of the upper cultivation realm knew nothing of cultivation, nor were they aware of the other strange and startling events that had recently transpired. What they did not lack was curiosity. Holding oilpaper umbrellas, they gazed at the man bound to the platform. The stands had been too far away to get a good look at Mo Ran earlier that day, but now that he was being displayed on the Platform of Repentance, these commoners could walk up and see the condemned for themselves.
"This morning when I heard about all the things he did, I thought he'd be a terrifying brute. But he's actually pretty good-looking," a girl murmured in surprise.
The strapping young man beside her attentively adjusted her cloak. "You're too naïve. Plenty of good-looking people hide malice in their hearts. Don't let appearances deceive you."
A man and woman with a young child had made the trip specifically for this viewing. The father, a refined-looking schoolteacher from the upper cultivation realm, lifted his son so he could see Mo Ran kneeling on the ground. "See? Make sure to behave yourself when you grow up. Don't end up like this monster."
The child, no older than six, was perplexed by the scene before him. "Daddy, what did he do wrong? Why does he have to kneel here?"
"He's committed too many crimes to name," the teacher said tartly. "Tianyin Pavilion says he committed murder and arson, cultivated forbidden techniques, and faked his identity. This person has no shame or decency. He's a cold-blooded killer, worse than a beast. When you grow up, you must be the opposite of him—got it?"
"Got it."
The father let out a breath of relief, only for the child to pipe up with, "But Daddy, do you know him?"
"Me?" The man blinked. "Of course I don't know him. Your daddy's the most upright scholar at Qingfeng Academy in the upper cultivation realm. I conduct myself with integrity and deal only with righteous gentlemen. How could I know someone engaged in such dark dealings?" He paused; then, as if to drive the point home, explained earnestly to his son, "Ours is a family of scholars. We raise our sons with the most upstanding values. If we spoke to someone like him, we'd immediately find them filthy and repugnant. Got that?"
This time, the child didn't answer directly. "But Daddy, if you don't know him, how do you know he… He…um…" With effort, he parroted his father's words. "That he's a cold-blooded killer and worse than a beast? Today's the first time we've ever seen him. Doesn't it take a long time to get to know someone? Like me and Xiaohua next door…"
"You don't understand—this is different," replied the teacher. "He's already been found guilty."
The child stared wide-eyed at Mo Ran. "But this gege looks really pitiful… He doesn't look like a bad person. Could that pavilion thingy be wrong?"
The teacher had an inflexible temperament and shot down his son's questions without a second thought. "You're only asking this because you're young. You'll understand when you're older. Tianyin Pavilion has been the bastion of righteousness on earth for thousands of years. It is the temple the gods themselves left behind—they never make mistakes."
The child put his fingers in his mouth and watched Mo Ran. Though he didn't seem to fully understand, neither did he speak in his defense again.
Night descended, and the crowd slowly thinned. By midnight, the drizzle had become a downpour. No one remained.
At daybreak, a peddler trudged by with his wares, headed for the morning market. The rain was coming down in sheets, and the wind was fierce. His stooped figure pushed his ramshackle wooden cart through the storm.
Mo Ran was half-awake, his consciousness scattered. When he hazily heard the cart's wheels clattering against the bluestone road and the peddler's ragged breathing, he thought he was still on his travels during those five years he'd spent away from Sisheng Peak. He squinted through hooded, unfocused eyes. Like a reflex honed during those days and nights he'd lost Chu Wanning, he felt an instinctive urge to lend a hand. He wanted to help this weary peddler push his cart over to the shelter of a tree, do whatever he could to ease his way. But he found he couldn't stand up.
It was a slow moment before he remembered that those days of atonement were gone. In the present moment, Tianyin Pavilion had already convicted him.
The wind gusted, blowing the tarp off of the peddler's cart. The man lunged to grab it, but it was too late. The instant the tarp flapped loose, all the wares in his cart were drenched. The exhausted man had no choice but to frantically chase after the tarp in the rain.
Mo Ran watched in silence. He felt terrible for the peddler. He remembered his own mother dancing among knives for a copper coin. Always there were so many forced to brave the bitter winds and frigid rain to earn their keep, while others sheltered in comfort.
He really wanted to help. In the quiet rain, he felt surprisingly calm. Memories drifted past. He remembered the cheerful proclamation he'd once made to his mother: Once I make something of myself, I'll build lots and lots of houses. That way everyone can have a place to live. No one will have to go hungry or cold anymore.
But why did none of the Tianyin Pavilion disciples standing nearby step forward to help? It would take so little effort. Yet they only stood at attention, straight as a row of pines, representing Tianyin Pavilion in all its solemn dignity. They moved not a muscle, as though their bodies were made of stone, and their hearts much the same.
The peddler scurried after the tarp as it flapped and tumbled in the wind. At last it came to a stop on the Platform of Repentance, right in front of Mo Ran. A scrawny hand, leathery as old tree bark, grasped a corner of the tarp. Mo Ran let out a sympathetic sigh of relief.
But everything in the man's cart had already been ruined. The peddler's mood was foul, and he had no ready outlet for his frustration. He was gripping the tarp, chest aching with sorrow, when he sensed Mo Ran's eyes on him.
Whipping around, the peddler glared, then spat. A glob of phlegm landed squarely on Mo Ran's face. "What are you looking at?! You sorry excuse for a human—even you think you can laugh at me, huh? You deserve what you got! You should be dead!"
The peddler wasn't satisfied, yet he didn't dare step closer. He picked a few rocks off the ground and hurled them at Mo Ran.
Tianyin Pavilion's disciples were accustomed to scenes like this. They'd often giggle among themselves and remark, "Of course anyone with a moral compass hates criminals. What's the problem if they land a few blows?" They had a great deal of empathy for the feelings of the commoners and rarely stood in their way.
The rocks didn't hurt much when they struck Mo Ran's face and body, but he shivered under the blows. As he saw Mo Ran's trembling and his pained expression, the peddler's own bad luck seemed to pale in comparison. Somewhat appeased, he gingerly picked his way back toward his cart and covered it once more with the tarp. His frail figure disappeared into the distance.
The world was a blur of mist. The rain rinsed away the peddler's spittle, just as it did countless other stains. It fell heavier and heavier, leaving the mortal realm spotless.
At dawn the next day, the cultivators who had gathered at Tianyin Pavilion for the trial continued to leave through the city gates, passing Mo Ran where he knelt. Some ignored him, while others made a point to express their contempt.
A pair of black boots appeared in front of Mo Ran. Then an umbrella opened, shielding him from the drizzle.
Mo Ran was asleep. He didn't notice anything had changed until he heard a voice call out—calm and refined, yet staunchly resolute: "Open a barrier over him to block the rain."
"Without the pavilion master's express permission, we cannot make any changes to the Platform of Repentance."
"It's just a barrier."
"I'm sorry, but we can't."
Mo Ran opened bleary eyes. He saw a tall man—no, not a man. Ye Wangxi. "There's still time before the punishment is carried out," said Ye Wangxi firmly. "You shouldn't treat him like this."
"Shouldn't treat him like what?" One of the disciples frowned. "Miss Ye, please mind your words. Tianyin Pavilion has acted according to law. It's the heavens that disapprove of him and sent this rain. We haven't inflicted any additional punishment on him."
Ye Wangxi's eyes flashed with anger. "How have you not? You've made him kneel in the rain all night long—from dusk till dawn! If I didn't see this today…"
A group from Bitan Manor walked by—Zhen Congming with a gaggle of shidi. Overhearing the commotion, Zhen Congming glanced over and sneered. "Aiyo, look there. The commander of Rufeng's shadow city is meddling in other people's business again."
"She's holding an umbrella for the criminal, heh."
More passersby began to gather, whispering among themselves. Several female cultivators rolled their eyes at Ye Wangxi, muttering in loud whispers: "I heard the man in black who defended Ye Wangxi at Rufeng Sect was none other than Mo Ran."
"What? I had no idea… This brute was the one who helped her?"
"Mo Ran even killed the woman who raised him. Why did he treat Ye Wangxi so well?"
There was a dramatic pause as one of them covered her mouth with a handkerchief, eyes wide with shock. "Oh my—you don't think the two of them are…"
No one was foolish enough to say it aloud, but disgust and excitement flitted across every face as they thought of the wild possibilities. The thrill was like a powerful, unrelenting torrent, washing over the crowd and spreading through the misting rain. They stared at the two figures on the platform—a man and a woman. Why would a woman willingly help a man who'd fallen into misfortune? Because she'd slept with him? She'd definitely slept with him. She must be hopelessly in love with him, drowning in infatuation as they tangled passionately in bed.
How filthy.
Mo Ran glanced up at Ye Wangxi. The first time he tried to speak, nothing came out. He swallowed, then tried again. "Miss Ye…"
"You're awake?" Ye Wangxi lowered her head, mild and courteous as ever.
"You should go… Don't stand here and let them drag you into this too."
But Ye Wangxi didn't move from her spot. Leaning down, she produced a bottle of warm water and uncapped it, balancing the umbrella in one hand. The canopy canted slightly, sending raindrops rolling down onto her shoulder. "Drink some."
"Miss Ye," a Tianyin Pavilion disciple called out. "Feeding prisoners is not allowed."
"But throwing stones at them is?"
Although Ye Wangxi hadn't witnessed the events of last night, the ground around Mo Ran was littered with rocks of all sizes, and his cheeks and forehead were covered in muddy scrapes. As she glared at the disciples, her gaze held some of Nangong Si's fierceness—his beloved shadow still lingered upon her. "Isn't Tianyin Pavilion supposed to do things the right way? Is this what you call justice?"
Unable to defend themselves, the disciples fell silent. Their leader cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "Water is fine, but no food."
Ye Wangxi helped Mo Ran drink some warm water. "Why…" Mo Ran mumbled.
"You helped A-Si," Ye Wangxi said without looking up. "You helped me too."
"On Mount Jiao, if I'd died instead, then Nangong…"
Ye Wangxi's hand stilled. A shudder ran through her, yet she replied, "Anyone would want to live. I would never blame you for wanting to live."
Mo Ran couldn't respond.
"Drink," she urged. "Xue Meng can't come—his parents won't allow it. I'll hold the umbrella for you. You once helped A-Si and me though the whole world stood against us. Now I will help you even if no one else stands with you." Her expression was reserved but determined. "I'm here."
Ye Wangxi kept her word and remained by Mo Ran's side. Tianyin Pavilion wouldn't allow a barrier, so she held the umbrella aloft, tilting it slightly to block the rain for Mo Ran.
With her keeping watch, no one dared throw stones at Mo Ran, but the onlookers' insults grew increasingly nasty.
Genderless freak. Beast in human clothing.
Slut with no standards. Craven murderer.
Those eager to make accusations could always find some fault. Everyone knew this kneeling man would never be pardoned, and that the woman who stood by him had lost her sect. They had no one else to rely on. No matter what kind of abuse was hurled at them, who would speak up on their behalf?
Mo Ran only now discovered how many courageous warriors there were in the world. They seemed to sprout everywhere, like bamboo shoots after the rain. Every one of them was so upstanding, so indignant, so fearless in calling out evil. One wondered where all these heroes had been in the past.
Tianyin Pavilion's trials were rare events. It would likely be another decade before anyone received such an honor. Curious spectators came and went in waves, like the rise and fall of the tide.
"This Mo Ran once did quite a few good deeds," someone remarked. "Do you think he had ulterior motives all along? He even stayed in our village once—a violent murderer, living among us! How terrifying to think back on it now."
"I heard his mother was Duan Yihan—did you know about that?"
"Duan Yihan? That celebrated goddess of music?" the speaker asked in astonishment. "But I thought she was a good person. I heard she was talented and gentle, a woman of class with a kind heart…"
"What do men know?" someone else interjected darkly. "Wasn't Duan Yihan a whore? Times certainly have changed if even whores can be said to have class. No one has any sense of propriety anymore."
Peeved, the man who'd been told off shot back, "Duan Yihan was a songstress, not a prostitute. She made her living in entertainment houses for years, but she never took any clients—"
"You only think she never took clients because you're poor! A woman like that only cares about money and status—she has no honor to defend."
A new voice chimed in, indignant. "What's the difference between a songstress and a prostitute anyway? None of them have any dignity. People these days are so quick to speak up for a prostitute—the upper cultivation realm has really gone to the dogs."
The final speaker was none other than the schoolteacher who'd brought his son the day before. Today he was carrying a stack of books instead of his child, and a group of students trailed behind him. The teacher raised his chin, secure in his righteousness.
Someone in the crowd recognized him and called out a courteous greeting. "Ma-xiansheng, your class has let out early today."
"You can only learn so much from books," said the teacher. "I ended class early so my students could receive some practical instruction in the ways of the world." He shot a sidelong glance at the young master who'd come to Duan Yihan's defense and snorted. "Though I hadn't expected to hear such vulgar drivel here. Young man, you've truly broadened my horizons. I despair for the future of our beloved upper cultivation realm."
"That's right! It's just as Ma-xiansheng says. A paragon of virtue."
"A worthy teacher, and a true scholar."
Duan Yihan's defender flushed with embarrassment and anger, but he was surrounded by taunts. He could do nothing but shake out his sleeves and leave.
At first, Mo Ran was incensed by such exchanges. But eventually all he felt was powerlessness. He couldn't stop these people from tarnishing his late mother's name with such foul accusations.
Before she died, his mother had always urged him to repay kindness instead of seeking revenge. Now he had no choice but to allow her memory to be shredded in these onlookers' vicious mouths as they called her a whore, a slut, a bitch who'd brought evil into this world. He couldn't stop them from speaking.
Ye Wangxi held her tongue for a time, but soon even she couldn't stand it any longer. She stepped forward, ready to argue with the jeering crowd below. "Don't bother," Mo Ran called out softly, stopping her in her tracks. "There's no point."
She came back to his side. The rain had stopped, but she still held the umbrella as though its flimsy paper could afford him some protection. Mo Ran looked up at her. After a pause, he insisted hoarsely, "Don't stay here with me any longer, Miss Ye. If you still trust me…return to Tianyin Pavilion and find Xue Meng and the others from Sisheng Peak. Tell them…"
He fell silent. He could barely summon the strength to speak. "Tell them they have to come up with a way…to track down Hua Binan as soon as possible. They have to find my shizun."
His heart seized when he mentioned Chu Wanning. Where was he? From what Shi Mei had said, he didn't intend to harm him—but then where did he take him? What would he force him to do?
Mo Ran couldn't bear to think about it.
"The first forbidden technique has already been unleashed. You have to be ready." Mo Ran's lashes trembled. "I won't be able to stop a second attack…but a second attack will definitely come. Please believe me… I have no hidden agenda. I just want to stop this."
We can't let this go on. I don't want history to repeat itself. I don't want to see Chu Wanning summon Huaisha a second time. I don't want him to sacrifice himself to mend this broken world—not again.