MW CH2

Chapter 2: Feudal Dross

“Long time no see.”

Mochuan removed his felt cap, his lashes lowered as he gave me a slight nod. In an instant, the faint trace of emotion on his face vanished, replaced by a polite curve of his lips, as if he genuinely rejoiced in our long-awaited reunion.

Yan Chuwen said, “Bai Yin just arrived today. I’m taking him around for a casual look. You go about your business—don’t mind us.”

Yan Chuwen and Mochuan had been classmates in college, even sharing a dorm room, and their bond had always been strong. Later, when Yan Chuwen quit his job to pursue a doctorate under Professor Ge and settled here for years, his connection with the Cenglu Yan Guan grew even closer.

Honestly, if I weren’t certain that Yan Chuwen was wholly devoted to academia with no interest in romance, and that Mochuan could never possibly like men, I’d have suspected they’d gotten together behind my back.

“That won’t do,” Mochuan replied without hesitation, his voice warm. “Guests come from afar. Bai Yin is a guest, and so are you. Letting a guest help the host entertain other guests would be far too rude.” He turned and called into the hall. Soon, a young Cenglu boy hurried out.

Mochuan beckoned him over. “With the Winter Abundance Festivalapproaching, many clansfolk have come to Pengge, and I can’t get away. Fortunately, there’s Li Yang. He grew up here and, aside from me, knows this temple best.”

The boy had the typical Cenglu look—high nose, deep-set eyes, and dark brown skin. Around six or seven years old, his face still carried a hint of baby fat.

When a new Yan Guan of the Cenglu succeeds, they select a foster son—or disciple—from among the clan’s children under three years old. The names of all eligible children are written on slips, tossed into a silver urn, and the Yan Guan conducts a ritual to choose the next successor destined by the Mountain Lord’s will.

Though I’d never witnessed it, I guessed this boy was likely Mochuan’s foster son.

He glanced at me curiously a couple of times before turning to Yan Chuwen and politely saying, “Hello, Teacher Yan.”

His Xia speech was far less fluent than Mochuan’s, but still understandable.

Mochuan bent down to explain, “This is Teacher Yan’s friend. He just arrived in Pengge today and wants to see the temple. I’m tied up, so you’ll take care of them for me, alright?”

Hearing this, I nearly burst out laughing. My mind echoed with that classic movie line—“He wouldn’t even call me ‘Godfather.’”

We’d eaten together, attended classes together, shared a tent, and yet, in the end, he wouldn’t even call me “friend.”

“Okay, I’ll show them around,” Li Yang nodded solemnly, as if Mochuan had entrusted him with a vital mission.

Mochuan patted his head, then turned to Yan Chuwen with a touch of apology. “I’ll have to excuse myself then.”

From start to finish, his gaze remained fixed on Yan Chuwen, not sparing me even a sliver of attention.

“No worries. We’ll catch up when you’re free,” Yan Chuwen replied, oblivious to the tension, waving a hand and letting Li Yang lead the way.

As we parted, Mochuan and I, as if by unspoken agreement, skipped the pleasantries entirely. No goodbyes—just two people heading in opposite directions.

After a few steps, I couldn’t resist glancing back. All I saw was Mochuan’s snow-white figure receding further from me.

A long string of amber and turquoise jade beads, hanging down to his knees, swayed gently along his spine with each step, subtly outlining the faint contours of his shoulder blades beneath the fabric.

What a beautiful back…

Perhaps sensing someone watching, his distant figure paused. But the moment before he could turn, I snapped my gaze away and quickened my pace to catch up with Yan Chuwen and Li Yang.

The temple wasn’t large. Beyond the main hall, there was just a two-story wooden building out back. The ground floor housed portraits of past Yan Guan, while the upper floor was home to Li Yang and Mochuan’s nephew.

Like Buddhist monks and nuns, once chosen, a Cenglu Yan Guan severs ties with their blood family, forsaking worldly desires to live a life of purity and austerity in the temple.

This was the holiest site in all of Cuoyansong, the most sacred place in Cenglu hearts. By tradition, only the Yan Guan and his disciple should reside here. Yet Mochuan defied the elders, insisting his nephew live here too.

The clan’s old guard nearly came to blows with him over it. In the end, Pengge’s village secretary, fearing trouble, called in the governor to mediate. After much effort, they reached a compromise everyone could accept: the nephew could stay, but only until he turned eighteen.

Li Yang, of course, didn’t mention any of this. Back then, he was just a toddler who could barely walk. I knew it all so well thanks to Yan Chuwen’s live updates at the time.

For even the gossip-averse Yan Chuwen to relay it so eagerly, it must’ve been quite a spectacle.

By my calculations, that nephew should be sixteen now. And, if I recalled correctly, a half-Xia mix.

“Why’s it just you? Where’s the other one?” I’d always been curious to see what the kid looked like. They say nephews take after their uncles—I wondered how much he resembled Mochuan.

“Qia Gu?” Li Yang tilted his head, innocently replying, “He’s studying in the city. It’s far, so he only comes back during winter and summer breaks. I’m closer, but it’s still a two-hour walk, so I live at school and come back on weekends.”

“Qia Gu…” I mentally sifted through my vocabulary and soon found the Xia equivalent. “Eagle?”

Li Yang’s eyes widened. “You speak Cenglu?”

Even Yan Chuwen was stunned. “When did you learn Cenglu?”

When?

Over these seven years, I suppose—piecemeal, enough to stumble through a conversation. But I had no intention of letting Yan Chuwen know that, lest he start speculating.

“Just happen to know that word,” I said dismissively. To convince him, I added, “I also know how to say ‘hello’ in French. Does that mean I speak French?”

Yan Chuwen didn’t suspect a thing. “You scared me there. I thought you’d secretly gone and learned Cenglu.”

Li Yang nodded. “It’s ‘eagle,’ right. Qia Gu has a Xia name too—He Nanyuan. It means ‘eagle’ too, the eagle of Shannan.”

Shannan, in the southwest, is a vast province, home to the most ethnic groups in the country. Cuoyansong, where the Cenglu have lived for generations, is just one of its eight autonomous prefectures.

The eagle of Shannan. Not too grand, not too modest—just right.

Near the courtyard wall, not far from the small building, stood a row of cement-brick rooms, clearly a recent addition. Li Yang said they were for washing and cooking.

“I’m hitting the bathroom,” Yan Chuwen said, heading toward the brick rooms like he knew the place by heart.

Left waiting with Li Yang, I struck up a casual chat to break the awkward silence.

“What’s that over there?”

In the temple’s northwest corner stood a massive cypress tree. Beyond its sprawling canopy, in the most secluded spot, was a tiny wooden shack—old, weathered, and dilapidated.

Li Yang glanced over. “That’s the woodshed. For storing firewood.”

“Oh, not for locking people up?”

“Locking people up?” Li Yang frowned, puzzled.

His expression seemed genuine—he’d probably never been locked up there. I changed the subject. “Is Mochuan strict with you usually?”

“Mo—” He stopped mid-word, realizing his slip, and clamped his mouth shut. Glaring at me, he said, “You’re supposed to call him ‘Pinjia.’”

“Does it matter that much, Mochuan or Pinjia?” I chuckled. “Before he became Yan Guan, I always called him Mochuan.”

Li Yang’s lips turned down, his face stern. “It matters.”

That look—like if I said “Mochuan” again, he’d lunge and bite me.

Not wanting to argue, I relented. “Fine, fine. Pinjia, Pinjia.”

His expression softened slightly, though he still seemed disinclined to engage. As for my question… he ignored it completely.

After a moment, Yan Chuwen emerged from the bathroom, wiping his rimless glasses. His nearsighted eyes missed the boy’s rigid demeanor entirely.

“Let’s go. We’ve seen the main hall, and it’s about time to head back for dinner,” he said, putting his glasses back on.

On the path from the small building to the main hall, potted plants lined the open courtyard wall, each sprouting like green onions. Li Yang said they were orchids Mochuan grew—set out to sun on nice days, brought in when the weather turned, delicate and pampered.

Back at the main hall, we ran into Mochuan again, this time with a praying believer. The old woman, her face weathered by time, must’ve come from far away. Seeing Mochuan, she trembled with excitement, clutching her clothes tightly, tears glistening in her eyes.

As if, just by seeing him, the gods would surely hear her wishes.

Li Yang made a shushing gesture, leading us around them into the hall.

Stepping inside, the light dimmed. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a towering statue ahead—a deer-headed figure with a human body.

The idol stood about three meters tall, gilded from head to toe, seated in a half-lotus pose. Its left hand hung at its side, veiled in heavy sleeves, while its right rested naturally on its knee. Elaborate necklaces and bracelets adorned its bare chest and exposed right wrist.

A shaft of sunlight streamed from the skylight, mingling with the glow of butter lamps on the altar, making the Deer God’s golden form shine even brighter.

I gazed at Him; He gazed back at me. A lifeless object, yet I seemed to see pity and compassion in His eyes.

This was… the Cenglu’s god, the Mountain Lord of Canglan Snow Mountain. Mochuan’s wife, husband, and master.

“Pinjia spends his days here—practicing, meeting visitors, eating. There’s a small room off to the side where he rests at night. Nothing special, so I won’t take you there,” Li Yang said, his voice hushed, instinctively cautious inside the hall.

I don’t believe in gods myself, but thanks to Jiang Xuehan, I’d read plenty of religious texts growing up. In the Dunhuang murals, there’s a Jataka of the Deer King, a tale of the Nine-Colored Deer betrayed by human ingratitude. I wondered if it was the same as the Cenglu’s.

After a while, I looked away, scanning the room. Beside the statue stood a low table with the four treasures of the study—brush, ink, paper, and inkstone. A sheet of white rice paper lay open, so I leaned in for a look.

It bore elegant small-script calligraphy—strong strokes, refined structure, natural composition. It seemed to be a passage from the Diamond Sutra.

I wanted to study it closer, but a pale, slender hand appeared, picking up the thin sheet, folding it twice, and tucking it into a nearby scripture book.

“What are you looking at?” Mochuan had slipped in unnoticed, still exuding that saintly, untouchable air, though the smile was gone. His eyes were dark and deep.

Off to the side, Yan Chuwen was quietly discussing something with Li Yang, neither paying attention here.

I wanted to bang a gong and call them over—let them see how their snow-mountain Yan Guan switched faces so effortlessly.

“Sorry,” I said breezily, shrugging. “Didn’t think your privacy would be out in such a busy place.”

He had no interest in sparring verbally. Glancing at Li Yang and Yan Chuwen, he asked, “Finished touring?”

I grinned. “Everything but your boudoir.”

He looked outside. “If you’re done, head back soon. The steps down are steep and dense—hard to navigate after dark.”

A clear dismissal.

I got the hint and didn’t argue, calling Yan Chuwen over and urging him to hurry.

Yan Chuwen looked like he still had questions, but my insistence left him no choice but to scramble after me.

“What’s up?” After twenty years of brotherhood, even he could tell something was off from my face. “Did you fight with Mochuan again?”

We’d left the temple a ways behind. Seeing no one around, I stopped, took a deep breath. The cold air hit my lungs, jolting me, and doused much of my anger.

“He just discriminates against gays,” I muttered, burying the lower half of my face in my scarf. “Feudal dross.”

Yan Chuwen shook his head helplessly. “He was the first ‘Pinjia’ to study outside, all the way to college. Before him, Cenglu Yan Guan stayed in Cuoyansong for generations, never even boarding a plane. His upbringing was conservative, steeped in ascetic vows from childhood. That he can even talk to you calmly is thanks to modern education. What, did you expect him to bless you?”

I remembered Yan Chuwen telling me how backward the Cenglu once were—far more isolated than now. Kids only learned Cenglu culture; few even spoke Xia. Mochuan’s schooling came only after poverty-relief officials wore down the old Yan Guan with relentless pleas.

I shot Yan Chuwen a look, hands in pockets, stepping slowly down the stairs. “Dropout. He didn’t finish college—just a high school diploma now.”

Yan Chuwen paused, then laughed, walking beside me. “He spends most of his time in the temple. If you don’t want to run into him, just don’t come here.”

I nodded, saying nothing more, though my mind drifted back to my first meeting with Mochuan in college.