HE SAW MO RAN as a child, smiling brightly up at his mother. He saw Duan Yihan stroking Mo Ran's hair, saying, "Repay kindness, do not seek revenge."
He saw Mo Ran holding the box of desserts Xue Meng had given him, nibbling cautiously on a sweet, making sure not to waste a single crumb.
He saw Mo Ran standing before a wine shop in Wuchang Town, wearing the uniform of a new disciple. He took a handful of silver from his pocket and presented it to the shopkeeper, then grinned, bashful yet eager. "A jar of your best pear-blossom white wine, please. And could you put it in a pretty jar? I want to give it to my shizun."
The memories floated up one after another. The kindest, purest, best parts of Mo Ran's past, flashing by like a brilliant carousel lantern. Within those scenes, Mo Ran was always smiling—from his destitute childhood to the years of his youth before the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows took root. But those memories, though beautiful, were scant. Throughout his life, Mo Ran had known too few moments of true innocence: His days of carefree laughter could be counted on the fingers of one hand.
Chu Wanning watched each one of those bygone events rush past. Everything became calm. Their souls had lain entwined for so long that Chu Wanning could feel how deeply Mo Ran had loved him, respected him, cherished him, and adored him in the time before the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows. It didn't matter that Chu Wanning's smiles were rare; it didn't matter that he was strict when teaching cultivation. Mo Ran had loved him all the same. Despite Chu Wanning's icy and aloof exterior, Mo Ran had found him so familiar and kind, had seen through to the heart of gold beneath.
Mo Ran had loved him… All those years ago, Mo Ran had loved him, passionately and sincerely.
The memories swirled again in Chu Wanning's mind. He followed their thread until he found himself bathed in the cool air of a moonlit night.
Within the disciples' quarters of Sisheng Peak, a single candle was lit. Mo Ran sat at his table in front of an open book, painstakingly embroidering a white handkerchief. After a few clumsy stitches, he pricked his finger; a drop of blood fell onto the fabric.
Mo Ran's eyes widened. His face fell, and he heaved a sigh. "This is so hard." He balled up the handkerchief and threw it aside. Then he grabbed a fresh one to begin embroidering anew.
His candle burned deep into the night as he discarded countless handkerchiefs. Eventually he got the hang of it, more or less. A delicate pink petal took shape on the fabric, then another, and another…five petals in total. Each stitch was careful. The fumbling youth drew his needle and thread through the pure-white handkerchief, and upon it blossomed a haitang that would never wither.
Mo Ran gazed at his handiwork with shining eyes. Truth be told, the end result was something of an eyesore. The stitches were jagged and uneven, obviously the work of a novice. But Mo Ran was delighted. His eyes danced in excitement, and he tossed the handkerchief into the air. The soft fabric fluttered down and landed on his face, covering his features. He laughed out loud and blew the fabric up again. A corner of the haitang handkerchief lifted, revealing gentle eyes that glowed as if lit from within.
"I'll give this one to Shizun. He'll like it for sure."
His heart was overflowing with warmth—the very kind that, in times to come, the gu flower would devour entirely, so antithetical was it to the flower's poisonous existence.
"Every time he uses this handkerchief, he'll think of me."
Mo Ran tucked the gift into his lapels. He pictured over and over again how Chu Wanning would praise him, how happy he'd look when he received it. The thought made his heart leap with irrepressible joy.
That very night, he scampered over to Chu Wanning's residence. He found his teacher standing by the pond, watching the fish.
"Shizun!" He bounded over, glowing with anticipation.
Chu Wanning turned his head, taken aback. "What are you doing here?"
"I—achoo!"
It was a chilly day, and Mo Ran had rushed outside without an outer robe. Before he could finish his sentence, he interrupted himself with a sneeze.
"Why are you in such a rush that you forgot to put on a coat?" asked Chu Wanning, eyeing him.
Mo Ran rubbed his nose and grinned. "I couldn't wait. There's something I have to give to Shizun—otherwise, I won't be able to sleep."
"What is it?"
"I made a gift for Shizun, to thank you for accepting me as your disciple," he said. He reached carefully into his robes and produced the neatly folded handkerchief. Now that it was time to present his gift, he suddenly grew timid, and his face turned pink. "It…it's not worth much. And it's not—it's not very pretty."
He hesitated, then hastily hid the handkerchief behind his back. He scraped the ground with the tip of his shoe, clearly ill at ease.
"What did you buy?" Chu Wanning asked, staring.
The youth's ears had gone a deep red. "I didn't buy it; I don't have any money…" he mumbled, abashed.
Chu Wanning blinked in surprise. "You made it yourself?"
Mo Ran lowered his head, his eyes shadowed by lashes soft as mist, and hummed softly in assent. Before Chu Wanning could reply, he blurted, "Actually, forget it—it's really ugly, really really ugly!" He fell silent, then immediately felt he hadn't said enough. When he finally gathered the courage to look at Chu Wanning again, he added emphatically: "Extremely ugly."
Chu Wanning still remembered how he'd felt back then: bewildered, yet pleasantly surprised. He'd never received a handmade gift from anyone before. But he was too embarrassed to say this, or even to smile. He put on his most wooden expression, terrified this newest disciple of his would glimpse the tenderness stirring in his chest.
Clearing his throat, Chu Wanning said, very sensibly, "Seeing as you've already made it, you should at least show it to me, no matter how ugly it is."
At last, Mo Ran held out the handkerchief. He'd intended to present it with both hands, but the instant he did, he realized the fabric had gotten creased from all his fumbling. He hurriedly tried to smooth it out.
While his face burned, a slender hand reached out and took that handkerchief that had so tormented him. All of his fidgeting instantly ceased. Mo Ran blurted out a graceless "Ah," then: "Shizun, it's really so ugly…"
Back then, Chu Wanning had yet to develop any romantic feelings for Mo Ran. But he remembered those beautiful, bright black eyes, gleaming like dew on a flower.
Sometimes love struck like lightning, and sometimes love wore one down like water through a rock. For Chu Wanning, it was the latter. Drop by drop, this young man's warmth had soaked into his heart. In the moment, he never realized how ardent every glance and smile were, how strong their aftershocks would be. By the time he noticed what had happened, that warmth had pooled into a mire into which he'd sunken too deep to have any hope of extricating himself.
"A handkerchief?"
"Mn… Mm-hmm."
It was a white square of silk with a pink haitang blossom embroidered near the edge. The stitches were careful, sturdy, and endearingly clumsy.
A tremor rippled through the empty valley of Chu Wanning's heart, and a fresh stream trickled through, petals floating on the water's surface. He gazed down at that handkerchief for a long moment, without any idea of what to say. It was the first time he'd ever received such a gift.
Seeing him silent, Mo Ran thought he didn't like it. "I-I copied a pattern from a book," he stammered. "Actually, uh… You can buy handkerchiefs like this in town, and they're not very expensive. And the embroidery is way…way nicer than mine."
By the end he was becoming distraught; he moved to snatch the handkerchief back. But Chu Wanning was faster—he'd already impassively tucked the handkerchief into his own robes. "Unacceptable. How could a new disciple take back a gift for their teacher?"
The warmth of Mo Ran's body still lingered on that rumpled handkerchief. It was ugly indeed. Down in Wuchang Town, he could buy eight like it for ten copper coins. But in Chu Wanning's eyes, it was precious; he didn't want to give it back.
Thus did this handkerchief become the very first thing Mo Ran gave Chu Wanning. After the flower's curse took hold, both this swath of memories and that white square of silk were erased from Mo Weiyu's mind.
Chu Wanning was taciturn and easily embarrassed; he never brought up the gift again of his own accord. Later, as he watched Mo Ran become more and more infatuated with Shi Mei, following the other boy like a shadow and plying him with dozens of gifts, Chu Wanning's silence grew more enduring still. He no longer liked to use the handkerchief in front of Mo Ran if he could avoid it. The gift had been a casual bit of charity on Mo Ran's part, but Chu Wanning cherished it deeply.
He remembered…
His earth soul had fused back together, dragging the past along with it. Memories like this one filtered into Chu Wanning's mind.
He rose from the bed. Never had he known such fury, dread, sadness, or pain. His hands were shaking.
At last, he knew the whole truth; he knew how everything had begun. Mo Ran hadn't merely been framed in his childhood. He hadn't just fallen under Shi Mei's enchantment. That was far from all. The most important memories had been suppressed by Shi Mei's flower. For twenty years, for two lifetimes, no one had known the truth—until today.
The truth, the whole truth… This was the real truth!
There was no one left on Mount Jiao to stop him. Chu Wanning rushed down the mountain in a single-minded panic. He stopped in the nearest village and asked if anyone knew Mo Ran's whereabouts.
"That Mo-zongshi?" Oblivious as to whom he was speaking, the villager crassly said, "Some shit zongshi he is! Hypocritical beast."
Hypocritical beast… Criminal…
Tyrant.
The world swam before his eyes—two lifetimes running together. The past lifetime's Taxian-jun curled his lip in a spine-chilling sneer, and the present lifetime's Mo Weiyu lowered his eyes in a soft smile.
No. None of that was the truth.
"Where is he?" asked Chu Wanning, white as a sheet.
"Tianyin Pavilion," the villager replied. "Everyone in the upper and lower cultivation realms has already heard about his heinous crimes. His spiritual core's supposed to be carved out today—serves him right too!"
It was as though a mountain was collapsing in Chu Wanning's head; his skull was rattling. "When?!"
Chu Wanning's flashing phoenix eyes and the frantic edge in voice gave the villager a fright. "I-I'm not sure—I think it's…at noon?"
Noon… Noon… Chu Wanning glanced at the sundial next to the threshing floor and froze.
With a great gust, the Rising Dragon Talisman burst out of thin air. Chu Wanning ordered the paper dragon to take him into the skies and head for Tianyin Pavilion's territories in Shandong. The dragon was ready to quarrel with its master as usual until it caught sight of Chu Wanning's too-wet eyes.
The paper dragon was stupefied. "What's wrong with you?"
"Help me."
The little creature had never seen Chu Wanning like this; it found itself at a loss. "When has this venerable one ever not helped you—aiya, don't cry."
Chu Wanning gritted his teeth in threat, but it was nothing more than pretense. The truth was a termite, boring through his spine. "I'm not crying. Take me to Tianyin Pavilion before it's too late!"
"What do you need to go there for?"
"To save someone." He couldn't stop shaking. He didn't want to cry—he never wanted to cry—but tears finally ran down his cheeks. Chu Wanning swiped ruthlessly at his scarlet eyes. "To save someone who's been wrongly convicted."
The paper dragon didn't know what to say.
"If there's anyone in the world who deserves to have their spiritual core dug out, who deserves to be condemned by all, it shouldn't be him," Chu Wanning rasped. "I have to clear his name."
The paper dragon asked no more questions. It transformed into a great beast with ferocious horns and let out an earth-shaking roar. With Chu Wanning on its back, it arced through the skies, whiskers quivering as they crashed through the frigid sea of clouds.
Chu Wanning sat behind its horns. The wind gusted over his face, terrifyingly cold at such heights. His fingertips felt frozen. He looked straight ahead through the interweaving mists and saw the undulating mountains, the meandering rivers. All the sights of the mortal realm streamed past below like so many bygone days.
From the instant he'd awoken, he had felt mad, numb, shattered. It wasn't until now, when he had the space to catch his breath, that sorrow crashed over him. He slowly curled into himself on the dragon, making himself small, and buried his face in his hands.
The wind whistled past his ears.
They were interrogating Mo Ran; they were opening up his heart, breaking apart his core—they said he was beyond redemption, that he deserved death.
No. This wasn't right.
The roar of the wind was loud enough to drown out all the foolish sentiments of mortals. Within the clouds and the cutting gale, Chu Wanning, at last, let himself sob.
Over these two fleeting lifetimes, neither Taxian-jun nor Mo-zongshi should have ended up like this. There was one thing Mo Ran was right about. When Mo Ran had asked to become his disciple beneath the Heaven-Piercing Tower, it had been a mistake from the very beginning.
The sun inched higher. The bronze water clock outside Tianyin Pavilion reached the designated hour, and the official struck the bell, scattering the frightened sparrows.
"Noon has arrived!" she cried. "Commence the punishment!"
Mo Ran was hoisted up onto the stockade and bound with immortal-binding ropes. His outer robe was stripped off, and his collar yanked open.
Mu Yanli stepped up to him, eyes frigid, her holy weapon—
a sheathed dagger—in hand. "Today, we grant you punishment, in hopes that you will repent."
Her lips parted around the ancient mantra of Tianyin Pavilion.
"The sound of heaven rings out; thou shalt not covet.
The sound of heaven lives on; thou shalt not lust.
The sound of heaven carries far; thou shalt not blaspheme.
The sound of heaven knows mercy, and thus honors thee."
Lowering her eyes, she bowed to Mo Ran—a farewell. There was a shower of sparks as she drew her blade from the sheath, and the holy weapon hummed, scattering golden motes of light. Her eyes, reflected in the dagger's gleaming surface, were devoid of emotion.
Some below hid their faces, while others craned their necks. A few sighed and closed their eyes, while many clapped and whooped. This crowd was like any other: It contained multitudes.
"We will commence carving out the spiritual core."
Mu Yanli's hand rose, and the blade came down. Blood splattered.
The silence was deafening.
Someone screamed from the stands, his voice piercing the highest heavens: "Ge—!"
Hot, vivid red poured out as the holy weapon plunged into Mo Ran's chest.
He didn't close his eyes. At first, he felt nothing. Only after a beat did he blankly look down at the gory mess that had been his heart. His lips parted. Then the pain exploded like fireworks going off in his chest. Light and shadow merged and roiled before his eyes. He coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth. Each drop filled the air with the stink of iron as the heavens and earth blurred into a cold sea of scarlet.
But it was wrong, all wrong.
Chu Wanning, on dragonback, hurtled toward Tianyin Pavilion as fast as he could fly.
Once, he'd thought Mo Ran's indifference toward him and flippant disregard for others were born of hatred and resentment. He'd thought his own harshness and rebukes had made Mo Ran forget the small bit of warmth between them.
But he'd been wrong about everything. Those memories had been trapped in Mo Ran's souls all along. Chu Wanning had seen them—he'd seen the deepest emotions in Mo Ran's heart, the care and devotion the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows had stripped away.
Back then, Mo Ran had been boyish and innocent; his heart, warm and healthy, had beat steadily within his chest. He'd watched his new teacher standing by the lacquered window. Chu Wanning turned his head, eyes pale in the bright light. "Mo Ran, come here."
As Mo Ran stepped closer, he saw a brush and paper set before Chu Wanning, along with an inkstick and stone.
"The sect leader mentioned you don't know how to write your courtesy name. Take the brush—I'll teach you."
Chu Wanning had instructed him, his voice clear and smooth, ethereal as the almond blossoms fluttering outside the window. "The sect leader gave you the courtesy name Weiyu. Its meaning—gentle rain—is the opposite of your given name, Ran—to ignite. I'll write it for you; pay close attention."
Every stroke and line of his teacher's handwriting was vigorous and assured. His little disciple looked on, somewhat dazed, and tried to copy what he did.
"There's an extra dot."
"This time you're missing a dot."
Chu Wanning had to teach him both characters five times before Mo Ran managed to write them correctly. Even then, his penmanship was dreadful. Having never encountered such a dense disciple before, Chu Wanning was a little vexed. "Is it that hard?"
No, it wasn't hard. But Mo Ran was too shy to say that Chu Wanning was just too beautiful when he looked down to write. Mo Ran irresistibly craved the sight, so he added and missed strokes on purpose, earning an extra lesson each time.
"It's very hard."
Chu Wanning gave him a look of reproach. "Watch closely. Stop giggling."
Mo Ran curved his lips in a small smile and adopted a look of earnest confusion. "Then, Shizun—could you please show me one more time?"
He simply loved that moment when Chu Wanning lowered his head, the ends of his phoenix eyes sweeping elegantly upward. When Chu Wanning held his hand like this and taught him, he could hear the whisper of haitang blossoms opening outside the window.
The sentencing platform was surrounded by a tall barrier. No one could stand in the way of Tianyin Pavilion's punishment.
Mu Yanli's keen dagger moved on its own, carrying out its master's intent. Her eyes were cold, as though she could neither hear Mo Ran's harsh panting nor see the deathly pallor of his face, much less the veins protruding from his temples or the blood oozing from the corners of his mouth. She merely carried out the judgment rendered by the divine scales: Carve out the spiritual core.
The dagger plunged into his heart, digging into the muscle to pick out fragments of his core, then swiftly ripping them out. The sharp tip inevitably tore into the flesh around it, but Mu Yanli paid it no heed. She flicked gore into a silver tray held by a nearby attendant along with those softly glowing shards.
A healer stepped forward to staunch the bleeding and suppress the spasming of his heart, ensuring Mo Ran would live through his sentence. The scales had deemed that his spiritual core should be carved out, so Tianyin Pavilion would preserve his life. At the very least, his death would not occur on the sentencing platform. They kept him conscious to avoid any doubt over whether he was passed out or on the verge of death. So Mo Ran watched as his heart was sliced open, as the blade sought out the fragments of his core, and as his flesh knitted back together, over and over again.
In the stands, Xue Meng was mindless with grief. Face buried in his hands, his tears fell like rain as he howled. "Ge…"
Mo Ran's mind was foggy, his every muscle taut from the pain. Yet he felt like he was finally being set free. With each stroke of Mu Yanli's blade—piercing his heart, excising his broken core—it was as if his sins from his past life and the blood on his hands faded ever so slightly.
When this pain was over, would he be forgiven? When his core was gone, could he return to the past?
Yet what past would he return to? If he went back to the Heaven-Piercing Tower on the day he chose a teacher, he would still be a false gongzi of Sisheng Peak, a youth who'd watched his mother starve to death long ago. That happiness would be nothing more than an illusion. If he went back to the woodshed in which he'd spent his childhood, he and Duan Yihan would still spend their days barely scraping by. He would live in fear that some fickle twist of fate might prevent him from meeting Chu Wanning. His happiness would be tainted by regret.
He cast back through his memories, but he couldn't find a single point in either lifetime where he'd be able to start over again without worries. He couldn't find any stretch of time—not even a single day—when he'd been truly carefree, with his belly full and warm clothes on his back. He'd lived through two lifetimes, more than forty years in total, but he'd never known a night of peace.
Mu Yanli's dagger was digging through his flesh at the behest of heaven itself. He knew his souls were unbearably filthy, his crimes irredeemable. The will of heaven would have always descended upon him, sooner or later. Yet at that moment, he felt a sharp twinge of grief. He wanted his mother, his shifu, his didi, his uncle and auntie; he wanted a home. He'd probably been too greedy, wanting so much. And now, in the end, he had nothing at all.
All the happiness and warmth he'd ever known were fake. Like water streaming through a loosely woven basket, like sand slipping through his fingers. He'd done all he could to mend his flaws, yet he couldn't hold onto anything. He crouched on the banks of the great river of life, holding his sodden little basket, but found it empty. He could only stare at the waters as they rushed past, elusive. That tiny, shabby basket was all he'd ever had. He clutched it ever tighter, scooping up a dream that was destined to fall apart.