MW CH1

Chapter 1: None but the Divine May Touch

The car jolted along, and I dozed off in a hazy slumber. Caught between dream and reality, my thoughts leaped through a kaleidoscope of bizarre scenes—one moment I was riding a roller coaster at an amusement park, the next I stood on the moon’s surface.

In the blink of an eye, seasons shifted from cold to warm. I found myself before a mountain gate, gazing up at the elegant, timeless characters on the plaque above: “Jizhu Temple.” The voices of the nuns within overlapped, some old, some young, their tones ranging from slow to sharp, yet all monotonously repeating the same cold, detached phrase: “Master Xuantan sees no visitors. Benefactor, please leave.”

Xiangyan struck the bamboo and attained enlightenment, severing all false views—thus, Jizhu Temple earned its name.

Ever since Jiang Xuehan saw through the illusions of the mortal world at the age of eight and became a nun, she ceased to be a mother or a daughter. She was simply an ordinary monastic of Jizhu Temple.

I’d long since abandoned hope. Expressionless, I turned away, and in an instant, I was eleven again, back in that winter vacation.

That year, I followed Yan Chuwen and his father on a long, arduous journey. After two full days of travel, we arrived at a place called Cuoyansong at the foot of the Canglan Snow Mountain.

The sunlight there was dazzling, the sky a brilliant blue. The walls of the houses gleamed white, as if painted with milk, and the people wore strange, flowing robes entirely unlike those of the Xia people, speaking a foreign tongue I couldn’t understand.

Yan Chuwen’s father, a professor at the University of Ethnology, had devoted his life to studying folk cultures. That year, he led his students on a research trip to Cuoyansong, where they were warmly welcomed by the local governor. Not only did the governor greet them in person, but he also arranged for someone to escort us to several villages of the Cenglu tribe under Cuoyansong’s jurisdiction for sightseeing and study.

For the research team, this was a rare chance to learn about the Cenglu, a minority ethnic group, and they treasured every moment. They could spend half a day huddled together, debating the meaning of a painting on someone’s door.

Yan Chuwen, raised amidst such discussions, enjoyed it all and listened with rapt attention. I, on the other hand, knew nothing about folklore and found it mind-numbing. Seeing no one paying attention to me, I slipped away from the group and wandered aimlessly through the village.

Our guide, a local who lived there, spoke broken Xia and told us the village was called “Pengge,” meaning “the place closest to the sky.” It was the largest Cenglu village in all of Cuoyansong. At its highest point stood a building with white walls and golden tiles—the “Deer King Temple.” There, the “Yan Guan,” the sacred officials who served the gods, had resided for generations.

Professor Yan was deeply intrigued by the Yan Guan and hoped to meet one for a brief interview. But our guide, a devout Cenglu, was willing to show us the village yet refused to disturb the Yan Guan’s sanctity with outsiders. After several gentle probes yielded the same response, the professor reluctantly gave up.

As a child, I had a streak of rebellion in me—the more something was forbidden, the more I wanted to do it. Wandering here and there, I scrambled up the long flight of steps in a flash.

The village was built on a mountainside, ascending in tiers with a gentle slope. At the summit stood a single structure: the temple.

The gate was open, the courtyard silent and empty, not a soul in sight. I hesitated, then stepped inside.

Curious, I circled the towering building, mentally comparing it to Jizhu Temple. Suddenly, a faint, muffled thudding reached my ears.

Thwack! Thwack!

The sound was odd. I crept toward the back courtyard where it came from. Rounding a corner, I saw two figures beneath a tall cypress tree—one standing, one kneeling.

The standing figure wore a white robe, a man in his forties with a gaunt face and a furious expression. He wielded a thick vine whip, striking the kneeling boy’s back again and again.

The boy, about my age, had skin as white as snow and striking features unlike those of the Xia people. In the dead of winter, he wore only a thin tunic. His eyes were shut tight, teeth clenched as he endured the relentless blows. Sweat beaded on his forehead and nose, yet he didn’t make a sound.

The more stubbornly he endured, the colder the man’s face grew. He barked something harshly and brought the whip down harder still.

The boy’s waist buckled, his hands hitting the ground. He nearly collapsed under the force.

I was a city kid through and through, raised on modern ideals of equality and freedom. When had I ever witnessed something like this? I gasped, stepping back toward the path I’d come from.

At that moment, the boy seemed to sense something. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto mine.

That gaze—filled with unbearable pain yet fierce and unyielding—was like that of a young wolf caught in a trap. Even beaten down and gravely injured, he armed himself with claws and fangs, refusing to let anyone look down on him.

Our eyes met, his dark pupils boring into me. In a blink, I awoke.

Where was the mysterious, solemn Cenglu temple? I was back in Yan Chuwen’s beat-up pickup truck.

Still dazed, I jolted awake fully as Yan Chuwen drove over a massive pothole. The truck lurched, and even with my seatbelt on, my backside lifted off the seat for a good two seconds.

No wonder I’d dreamed of a roller coaster…

Now fully alert, I gripped the overhead handle in silence.

“I’m not kidding,” Yan Chuwen said with a grin. “If I played a DJ remix right now, we wouldn’t even need to stand up to dance through the whole song. Believe me?” I glanced at the time. He’d said it’d take two hours from Shannan Airport to Pengge, and we were only halfway there. “Is the rest of the road like this?” I asked.

He shot me a quick look. “Woke you up, huh? Small places are like this. It can’t compare to Haicheng, but it’s already pretty good. Remember that time we came here as kids? The roads were worse—bouncing around in a van all day, half the group throwing up.”

I stared out at the yellowish-gray rocks lining the road, my voice heavy with fatigue. “Don’t remember.”

Yan Chuwen chuckled. “You used to make excuses—headaches, trips abroad. I thought you’d developed some trauma from all that bouncing and didn’t like this place anymore. Didn’t expect you to just up and come so suddenly.”

I fell silent for a long moment, too embarrassed to tell him the real reason. Instead, I mumbled, “Haven’t rested in too long. Wanted a long break.”

Yan Chuwen, the type who didn’t even have a Weibo account, let alone scroll short videos, took me at my word and didn’t press further.

Flights from Haicheng to Shannan were scarce. Booking last-minute, I’d only snagged a 9 a.m. slot. My alarm blared at six, but I dragged myself up at six-thirty, downed a sugar-free Americano, and hauled my luggage to the airport. On the plane, I was caught between crushing exhaustion and the caffeine in my veins, dozing fitfully.

Finally reaching Pengge, Yan Chuwen parked the pickup outside the Folklore Research Institute. I grabbed my suitcase, desperate to crash in a room and sleep. But Yan Chuwen was too enthusiastic, launching into a tour from the “Cenglu Folklore Research Institute” sign at the entrance, explaining everything as we went. My face turned sallow, my head spinning.

“Right now, it’s just me and my junior colleague here. We hired an auntie from the village to cook three meals a day, but it’s a small place—supplies are limited, and the food’s simple. Bear with it…”

The courtyard’s walls were stacked gray stone, barely a meter high. A trellis in the corner supported a sturdy wisteria vine, though in deep winter, it was dormant—bare branches, no leaves.

A little yellow dog sprawled in the yard, adopted by Yan Chuwen’s junior colleague, Guo Shu. She’d picked it up during a villager visit when a litter of plump, adorable puppies caught her eye. The family insisted she take one.

“It’s called Erqian,” Yan Chuwen said, pointing at the floppy-eared pup lounging in the sun. “Wasn’t its original name. But when it was three months old, it jumped on the table while we weren’t looking and swallowed two dimes Guo Shu had left there. For two days, we had to check its poop to make sure it passed them. After that, we renamed it ‘Erqian’—a lesson learned.”

Chatting all the way, he led me to the second floor and opened the room at the far end.

“Settle in,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Wanna head out later?”

I was about to decline when he added, “The temple’s not far. We can walk there if you’re up for it.”

I pressed my lips together, swallowing my excuse.

“Alright. Give me five minutes.”

I splashed cold water on my face, fixed my hair in the mirror, and tidied up. Then I met Yan Chuwen downstairs, and we headed toward the mountaintop temple.

Pengge sat deep in the mountains at high altitude, far colder than Haicheng. Even with a scarf around my neck and a thick down jacket, the exposed skin stung from the chill.

“You timed it well,” Yan Chuwen said. “In a few days, it’s the Winter Harvest Festival—second biggest after the Deer King’s Birthday. They pray for good weather and bountiful crops next year. There’ll be porridge handed out in front of the temple. You should check it out.”

“Does it grant long life or cure all ills?” I asked, white breath seeping through my teeth. The cold made speaking clumsy.

“Neither. Just a good omen,” he said with a light laugh.

In the past, Cuoyansong was remote and poor, with few Xia people in the region. Recent government efforts—roads, internet, tourism—had changed that. Winter still drew fewer Xia visitors, but the Cenglu no longer stared in surprise.

Two young women in black Cenglu robes, adorned with beaded jewelry, passed us. They seemed to know Yan Chuwen, nodding with smiles as they went.

Despite the harsh winter, they wore thick black head coverings with long scarf-like ends draped over their shoulders. Silver bells tied to the corners jingled faintly with their steps.

“Cenglu people only wear black or dark red robes for formal occasions,” Yan Chuwen explained. “That headpiece is a felt cap—keeps them warm and shades the sun. Usually just for winter. The robes have narrow colored stripes on the sleeves, hems, and edges, symbolizing the nine colors of the Nine-Colored Deer.”

“The belts are separate, mix-and-match. I once saw one woven with agate, amber, and coral—so intricate I didn’t dare breathe too hard near it, afraid I’d ruin it.”

Like many minorities, the Cenglu had their own faith: the mountain god of Canglan Snow Mountain, a Nine-Colored Deer said to save the people in times of crisis.

I looked ahead. The Deer King Temple’s golden roof gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight.

“They’re dressed up because they’re going to the temple?”

Yan Chuwen nodded. “Most likely.”

I glanced down at my own down jacket and jeans, feeling a twinge of impropriety.

The walk from the institute to the temple was only a few hundred meters, but with over a thousand steps, exhaustion and altitude hit hard. I stopped often, and by the top, my heart pounded like it’d leap from my throat.

“You okay?” Yan Chuwen, despite his scholarly look, had stamina to spare—calm and steady, as if he could run a marathon next.

I braced my knees, catching my breath, and loosened my scarf a bit.

“Fine. I’ve… hiked plenty of mountains these past two years.”

“Still, take it easy,” he said, glancing toward the temple with a hint of nostalgia. “Hard to believe it’s been so many years since college. Bai Yin, you know—the current Yan Guan of the Cenglu is Mochuan.”

I froze, still bent over my knees, looking up at him silently, waiting.

“Mochuan’s his secular name. We can’t use it now. Call him ‘Pinjia’ like everyone else,” he said solemnly.

Kalavinka Pinjia—a mythical bird of paradise in Buddhist lore, its voice unparalleled in beauty. For the Cenglu, this wondrous bird was a messenger, tasked as the Yan Guan to serve the divine lifelong, conveying the people’s prayers to the Mountain Lord.

I tugged at the corner of my mouth, straightening up. “Got it.”

We walked in together. At the base of the main hall’s steps stood a man and woman—likely a young couple—in dark red robes like the girls earlier, cradling a swaddled infant.

The mother lifted the child, carefully handing it to someone on the steps. My gaze followed.

A figure in a silver-white robe stood there, wide sashes embroidered with nine-colored raindrop patterns swaying gently in the wind, tangling with the felt cap’s edges and coaxing pleasant chimes from the bells. Maybe it was the finer materials, but the sound seemed crisper than the girls’ bells.

The white robe was spotless, almost blinding in the sunlight. A pair of equally flawless hands reached out to take the infant. The face beneath the felt cap dipped low, murmuring softly to the child before bending to kiss its forehead.

“They’re blessing a newborn,” Yan Chuwen said, starting forward. I grabbed his arm, holding him back to watch from a distance.

Soon, the white-robed figure returned the child to the mother. Catching sight of us lingering nearby, they turned their head.

Over the years, work had taken me to fashion events and elite galas. I’d seen plenty of stunning faces, including the hottest stars in entertainment, but none rivaled the one before me now.

Anyone glimpsing that face beneath the felt cap would marvel at its beauty.

It transcended gender—partly from flawless features, partly from an elusive divinity.

Pale, cold skin paired with vivid, striking features should’ve leaned seductive, yet a restrained, ascetic aura tempered it into untouchable sanctity. He was like… a peony blooming atop a snow mountain. None but the divine may touch; none but the saintly may approach.

Spotting Yan Chuwen, the “Snow Ridge Peony” showed no change in expression. But when his gaze shifted to me, it paused, his brow creasing ever so slightly.

Stars had shifted, time had flowed like water. Seven years—I’d circled the globe and returned, the world had changed, yet the only constant seemed to be this Cenglu divine son’s disdain for me.

“Hey! Long time no see,” I said, waving casually with a broad grin.

He didn’t respond. His gaze flicked away coolly as he smiled and spoke to the couple. Once they turned to leave, he descended the steps toward us.