Sure enough, Chu Wanning with only half his soul was much easier to fool. He wavered. “Shi Mingjing brought me. Did he leave?”
“He left.”
“Mn…”
Another moment passed in silence. Finally, Chu Wanning spoke.
“The wound on your back…”
“The wound on my back is not Shizun’s fault,” Mo Ran said softly.
“I picked a precious herb without permission. I deserved Shizun’s punishment.”
Chu Wanning hadn’t expected him to say any such thing, and was rather taken aback. His delicate curtain of lashes quivered as he sighed.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
Chu Wanning raised his hand, those ice-cold fingertips seeking until they found Mo Ran’s face. Another pause. “Sorry. Please don’t hate
Shizun.”
The Chu Wanning of the past never would have spoken such tender words. But in death, as he’d thought back on it all while his soul drifted in the underworld, he found that his only regret was the unkindness he’d shown his disciple. And so, given this second chance, those words that were once impossible to say tumbled out so easily.
Mo Ran felt like his heart was bathed in warm spring water. The hatred that had lingered after his rebirth, the old scars that had refused to fade year over year, his stubborn resistance, already on its last breath—all of it had crumbled to pieces, pieces now washed away by these heartfelt words of apology, leaving nothing behind.
In the glow of the soul-calling lantern, Mo Ran gazed at his shizun’s face. It was as if the bloodstains were gone, and a wisp of life seemed to
come again into those pale cheeks. It was as if he were peering across the vast expanse of irreversible time to glimpse Chu Wanning’s gentle
countenance as it had been when Mo Ran had first seen him. Without thinking, Mo Ran lifted a hand to cover Chu Wanning’s ice-cold fingers with his own warm ones. “I don’t hate you,” he said. “You’re good to me, Shizun. I don’t hate you.”
Chu Wanning stared blankly for a moment, then suddenly smiled.
Though he was dead, though his face was smeared with dirt and blood, his smile was like the first melt of a stream frozen over, filling the room with the warmth of spring. His eyes were closed, but something seemed to glisten between his lashes. It was the brilliant smile of one
whose final wish had been granted, proud yet reserved, radiant yet humble.
It was like the blooming of the most luxuriant and steadfast haitang tree, countless blossoms like gentle, faint blushes carefully dotting its dignified branches, beautiful and sweet-scented, scattered across the leaves like a skyful of stars.
Mo Ran couldn’t help but lose himself in the sight.
Never in two lifetimes had he seen Chu Wanning with such an easy and happy expression. Mo Ran wasn’t smart. He thought of the saying “a flower-like smile,” but deemed it unfitting; then he thought of “a smile of a hundred charms,” but that seemed still more absurd.
Though he racked his brain, he couldn’t find the words to
adequately describe the lovely vision before him. All he could do was sigh with feeling: How beautiful.
This person was so beautiful. How had he never noticed?
Mo Ran was struck by sudden, fortuitous inspiration. “Shizun,” he said, his voice hushed, “there’s something I want to tell you.”
“Hm?”
“I really didn’t know how valuable Madam Wang’s haitang flower was. When I picked it that day, it was because I wanted to give it to you.”
Chu Wanning seemed surprised. Mo Ran’s voice grew yet softer, a little bashful, even a little helpless as he repeated, “It was for…for you.”
“But why would you pick that flower for me?”
Mo Ran’s face flushed despite himself. “I-I-I don’t know. I just, just thought it was really pretty. I…” He trailed off, vaguely surprised that he somehow remembered quite clearly how he’d felt when he picked that flower for Chu Wanning so long ago.
Chu Wanning lacking two souls was unbearably gentle, like a cat without its claws—all soft, docile belly and snowy, rounded paws. He patted Mo Ran’s head and smiled. “Dummy.”
“Mn.” Mo Ran’s eyes stung as he gazed up at him. He sniffled. “I’m a dummy.”
“Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t do it again.” Mo Ran thought about how, after he’d lost hope in the past life, he had perpetrated all manner of evil and terrorized others. He had so angered Chu Wanning that his shizun finally gave up on him and tossed him that verdict that he had resented for a lifetime: vile by nature, beyond remedy. A hundred emotions welled up in his chest.
“Shizun, I promise, from now on, I won’t do anything to disappoint you.
I’ll be good, I won’t be bad.”
He was hardly well-read and didn’t have any powerful oaths to swear or resounding vows to take. But he could feel the hot blood boiling in his chest as that pure and simple soul that he once had as a child seemed to stir from its slumber. “Shizun, this disciple is slow-witted, and only now realized how good you’ve been to me.” His eyes were bright as he rose from the bed and knelt before Chu Wanning, bowing low. When he lifted
his head, his face was solemn and serious. “So from now on, I, Mo Ran, will never bring disgrace upon you again.”
Sat side by side, the master and disciple had a long talk—though Mo Ran did most of the talking. He was actually quite adorable when he set his mind to cherishing someone. Chu Wanning listened quietly, shaking his head now and again with a smile. Before they knew it, the sky outside the window had lightened, like water diffusing the rich darkness of
Huizhou ink.
The long night was coming to a close.
Master Huaizui stood by the stone bridge, the hems of his monk’s robes wet from the spray of the water as it rushed past. Yet he seemed not to notice at all as he waited in silence.
The sun rose steadily in the east. The light of dawn filtered through the leaves of trees to strike the turbulent waters of the Yellow Springs, instantly gilding those racing currents with dazzling gold. The fine spray shimmered like the delicate scales of a dragon, and the light coruscated across the water’s surface as it billowed into waves, glistening and resplendent.
Huaizui was presently in the void dimension and would be visible only to he who found Chu Wanning’s soul. Shi Mei and Xue Meng had both passed this way, but neither could see the old monk by the bank.
From a distance, Huaizui appeared tranquil—but unconsciously, he thumbed the string of prayer beads in his hand faster and more urgently with each passing moment.
Without warning, the coils of prayer beads broke and scattered, the Bodhi beads dropping like rain all over the ground. Huaizui’s eyes flew open and he pressed his lips into a thin line. The color drained from his face. It was an ill omen. He stroked the frayed edge of the broken string