That someone gaped in shock. “How dare you!”
“Why wouldn’t I dare? Shizun put his own life on the line, and it was all to save people like…people like…” Xue Meng couldn’t continue the sentence. Instead, he choked out through a sob, “All of you are undeserving.”
His piece said, Xue Meng jerked away, turning his face aside. His shoulders shook lightly as he held back his tears.
“It’s not like we said we weren’t going to rescue Chu-zongshi…”
“Yeah, we all remember the things Chu-zongshi did for us. Of course we didn’t forget. It’s pure slander for Xue-gongzi to say such things. Calling us ingrates—I won’t stand for it.”
“But come to think of it, wasn’t Mo Ran also a disciple of Chu-zongshi?” someone asked quietly. “I must say, when the disciple turns out to be a malefactor, it’s only right for the teacher to take responsibility. As they say, ‘To raise without teaching is the father’s flaw, and to teach without discipline is the teacher’s failing.’ Maybe it was inevitable. So what’s there to complain about?”
Now this was definitely going too far, and it was immediately decried.
“What nonsense! Watch what you’re saying!” The same decrier then turned toward Xue Meng with a diplomatic look. “Xue-gongzi, some patience…”
“How can I be patient?” Xue Meng cut him off, his gaze furious. “Easy enough for all of you to stand around talking, but that’s my shizun! Mine! I haven’t seen him in years! I don’t even know whether he’s alive or dead, much less how he’s doing! Why do you think I’m even standing here?”
His breathing was harsh and ragged, and the corners of his eyes reddened as he continued. “Don’t tell me you’re all waiting here hoping for Mo Weiyu to come down the mountain of his own accord, to kneel in front of you and beg for mercy.”
“Xue-gongzi…”
“Other than Shizun, I have no family left in this world.” Xue Meng jerked his sleeve free from the old monk’s hold. “Fine, you won’t go?” he asked hoarsely. “Then I’ll go myself.”
After flinging out that last statement, he left to head up the mountain, a solitary figure with a single sword.
The chilly, damp wind mingled with the susurration of the foliage; combined with the thick fog that lay everywhere, it was as if countless malicious ghosts and aggrieved spirits wandered amidst the trees, rustling and whispering.
All alone, Xue Meng climbed the peak toward Mo Ran’s magnificent palace, which stood like a beacon in the night, illuminated by calm candlelight. As he drew near, his gaze caught on three graves at the foot of the Heaven-Piercing Tower. When he approached for a closer look, he saw that long weeds had grown over the first grave mound, and on its gravestone were inscribed the following words in a childish, dogged scrawl: “Grave of the Esteemed Consort Chu.”
In contrast to this “Steamed Consort,” the second grave was newly dug, the earth only just sealed, and upon the tombstone was inscribed: “Grave of the Deep-Fried Empress Song.”
Xue Meng had no words. If this had been ten or more years ago, such a ridiculous sight would’ve made him laugh out loud in spite of himself. At the time, he and Mo Ran had been disciples under the same shizun, and Mo Ran had been quite the joker. Even though Xue Meng had found Mo Ran disagreeable, despite everything, the man had still ended up making him laugh from time to time.
Heaven only knew what all this Steamed Consort and Deep-Fried Empress business was about. Perhaps the style with which Scholar Mo had graced his two wives was the same as that which had produced “Wang Ba: Tortoise,” “Gua: Croak,” and “Ji Ba: Cease Battle.” As to why he would bestow such monikers on his own empress and consort, there was no knowing.
Xue Meng turned his gaze to the third grave, which lay open under the night sky. Within it lay a coffin, but there was no body in that coffin, and the tombstone remained unmarked.
However, before the grave sat a small pot of pear-blossom white wine, a bowl of chili-oil wontons long gone cold, and a few plates of spicy, numbing mala side dishes—all fare favored by Mo Ran.
Xue Meng stared at the grave for a long moment as a shock struck his heart. Could it be that Mo Ran had no intention of fighting, and that he had long since dug his own grave? That he was ready to die?
The thought made Xue Meng break into a cold sweat. He refused to believe it. Mo Ran was the kind of person who clung to things till his dying breath without ever showing fatigue, the kind of person who didn’t know the definition of surrender. Given his history, he was bound to keep fighting the rebel army to the bitter end, so why…
These past ten years, Mo Ran had stood at the summit of power. What exactly had he seen? What exactly had happened to him? No one knew.
Xue Meng turned around and re-entered the darkness, stalking in great strides toward the brightly lit Wushan Palace.
Mo Ran sat within that palace, his eyes screwed shut and his face deathly pale. Xue Meng had guessed right. Mo Ran was determined to die. That grave mound outside had been dug by his own hands. Two hours ago, he’d used a communication spell to dismiss his servants, then swallowed a deadly poison. With his high level of cultivation, the poison’s efficacy had slowed to a crawl as it spread throughout his body, leaving him able to feel every single agonizing moment with vivid acuity as the effects of the poison dissolved his internal organs.
The doors to the hall opened with a creak.
Mo Ran didn’t look up. He only rasped, “Xue Meng. It’s you, right? Have you come?”
Xue Meng stood alone upon the golden pavement of the hall, his ponytail swinging free, his light armor glinting.
This was a reunion of disciples who had been in the same sect, once upon a time. Yet Mo Ran’s face was devoid of expression as he sat there with his chin propped in one hand, the thick curtains of his fine lashes lowered over his gaze.
Everyone spoke of him as though he were a savage fiend with three heads and six arms, but in truth, he was exceptionally good-looking. The bridge of his nose curved delicately, and the color of his lips was pale and dewy; his natural features had a sweet, gentle cast. If one only looked at his face, they would think he was a good and lovely person.
The sight of this face was all Xue Meng needed to confirm his suspicion—Mo Ran had poisoned himself. It was hard to parse his feelings at that moment, and when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out. In the end, he clenched his fists and asked, “Where’s Shizun?”
“What?”
“I said: Where’s Shizun?!” Xue Meng demanded sharply a second time. “Yours, mine, our shizun—where is he?!”
“Oh.” Mo Ran snorted softly and finally, slowly, blinked open his eyes. His pupils were dark, so black they looked to have hints of purple, and his gaze seemed to travel through layer upon layer of time since past before focusing on Xue Meng. “Come to think of it, it’s been two years since the last time you and Shizun met face-to-face—since your farewell at Kunlun Taxue Palace.” Mo Ran smiled faintly. “Xue Meng, do you miss him?”
“Enough nonsense! Give him back to me!”