MW CH17

Chapter 17: Can We Escape?

The weather was fine coming here, but as Mochuan got his shot and we left the hospital, rain hit—thunder, lightning, the world dimming fast, visibility gone. Wipers were useless.

Highway speed limit’s 120 kph, but with this blur, I capped at 80.

This rain, this vibe—more disaster flick than the trip out. I mused, half-amused.

The downpour didn’t let up. I glanced at Mochuan—slumped against the seat, head tilted, quiet, maybe asleep.

I’d hauled us over 300 kilometers, burned hours of my life to get him treated, and him? Not a thanks—just conked out, zero care for the driver’s exhaustion.

I bought him water, food—no kind words. Not even a “you tired?”

Why me?

Resentment simmering, I drove a few more kilos, spotted an exit, flicked the signal, and peeled off without a second thought.

He sleeps, I sleep. This rain, Cuoyansong’s crap mountain roads—whoever wants to brave the night can figure it out. I’m done.

Off the highway, I cruised aimlessly—no hotel, but a roadside farmhouse inn popped up.

“This isn’t the way to Pengge,” Mochuan piped up, suddenly alert, scanning outside.

“Oh, you’re awake.” I parked in the empty lot out front, killed the engine, flashed a grin. “Yep, we’re not going back.”

I swung the door open, bolted into the rain.

End of the world hits—what’s left but to run?

Pushing into the lobby, a table of card players turned as one.

“Boss, got rooms?” I shook off water, asked.

A forty-something guy stood. “Just one double left. You alone?”

“Two. Headed to Cuoyansong, but the rain’s nuts—staying till morning.”

He nodded. “Cuoyansong’s a mess in rain.”

Small-town lax—I handed my ID. He didn’t ask for a second, just checked me in.

Room key in hand, I borrowed an umbrella, trudged back for Mochuan.

Rain poured like pillars; the tiny umbrella buckled. A few steps, half my body soaked.

Yanking the passenger door, I tilted the umbrella over. Mochuan looked up, eyes unreadable.

“Bai Yin, what’re you doing?”

I offered a hand, joking, “Inviting you aboard Noah’s Ark.”

He stared—my hand, my face—silent, radiating rejection, like that cheap toffee roll.

Rain drenched my face. Thunder cracked far off. My body chilled; my outstretched hand felt like ice.

“Not getting out? Sleep in the car then.” Expression fading, I pulled back—then a grip snatched my stiff hand.

Mochuan’s touch, always cool like him—even in summer—now burned, warm against me.

I met his dark gaze, laughed loud, grabbed his wrist, and yanked us into the deluge.

Car to entrance was four, five meters—we hit the porch fast. Mochuan shook free, stashed the umbrella in a red bucket by the door. We filed in, him ahead, me behind.

“Watch your step—don’t slip!” The boss, mid-card, spared a shout.

Mochuan climbed the stairs; I followed, tossing back, “Got it, thanks!”

Up on two, faintly, the boss and his buddies’ chatter drifted up: “Thought it was a couple—two guys, huh.”

“You don’t get it—guys can be couples.”

“Bomb! I’ll blast you! Who wears that opening a room with a guy? Quit yapping…”

Two hundred a night—conditions matched. Dusty floors, moldy bathroom, bedding who-knows-how-used, and a tiny, beat-up AC, third-rate efficiency.

No way I’d shower with their towels. I’d sleep dressed, deal with it back at the institute tomorrow.

“Shower if you want—I’m crashing like this.” I wiped my clothes with a towel, kicked off shoes, sat on the bed.

Mochuan didn’t wash or sleep—just took a window chair, staring at the cascading rain.

I shed my coat, draped it over me, eyed the meter-eight bed, and clocked it—his “no grand beds” precept.

“You really not joining?” I dangled the old bait. “I won’t tell—who’d know you broke it?”

In dim light, he didn’t budge. “The Mountain Lord knows.”

I scoffed. “College-educated and you buy a talking nine-colored deer on Canglan Snow Mountain?”

“The Mountain Lord’s my conscience, my morals, my unshakeable will. Faith isn’t superstition—watch your words.” His glance carried a faint warning.

Tch, it’s just a double bed—now it’s conscience and morals?

“Whatever.”

I didn’t care to argue nonsense. Texted Yan Chuwen we’d stay out, killed the lights, lay on my side, letting rain lull me.

“When’ll it stop?”

Sleep creeping in, Mochuan’s voice hit from the bed’s foot.

I opened my eyes into the dark. “Forecast says morning. What, itching to go back?”

No answer—probably yes.

His interruption killed my doze. I rolled over, stared at the black ceiling. “If you weren’t Yan Guan, what’d you do?”

A simple question—he mulled it forever, so long I thought he’d skip it. Then, low, with the rain:

“Never thought about it.”

I smirked. Boring.

“Kids like Chunna—lots of ‘em?”

“Plenty before—better the last two years.”

Why better? He didn’t say—I’d bet he’s why.

Hands behind my head, I didn’t get it. “No cost to them—why not let kids learn?”

My grandma went to a foreign women’s college young; Grandpa matched her, studied abroad. Jiang Xuehan, a daughter, faced no education blocks—straight to university, met Bai Qifeng there.

Solid creds for their time, but Grandma still griped—if Mom hadn’t “understudied” at that “lousy school,” she wouldn’t have met Dad, ruined her life.

Grandma’s extreme—jerks don’t care about degrees. Top schools still churn out scum that shred your worldview.

“No culture, they dismiss it, belittle it, hate it,” he said, calm, like he’d seen too many anti-intellect types.

Plato’s cave came to mind: uneducated souls, cave-bound, see only shadows. The learned return, preaching truth—they call him mad.

Yan Chuwen once said Mochuan’s Pinjia gig changed Cuoyansong—opened it, enriched it. Old diehards grumbled, but like he said—once they’re gone, it’ll stick.

Like taming a hawk—who outlasts who.

Topic done, silence fell.

Rain’s white noise dulled my brain—I’d ask one more, then sleep.

“Why don’t you ask… about ‘Noah’s Ark’?”

I figured he’d miss my drift, ready to paint my apocalyptic vision—then he spoke, unprompted.

“You think this storm’s end-of-days big.” A statement, sure.

I jolted, a weird thrill hitting me, leaping up. “…How’d you know?”

In the dark, faint light from the inn’s neon sign bled through. Mochuan sat in it, face to the window, elbow on the armrest, fingers at his cheek. Neon carved his profile—marble-sharp, stunning.

He chuckled, dodging with, “End of the world… this Noah’s Ark—can we escape?”

My heart pounded—thunder through the rain, striking my chest.

“No escaping,” I said, fingers tightening, rumpling the sheets. “But dying with the divine son? Not a loss.”

He whipped around—like a tiger, tail plucked, snarling at the offender.

“I said, don’t call me that.”

“Then what?” I locked on his face, straining to read it—too dark, nothing clear.

He lingered on that one, so long I tensed. Finally, textbook: “Call me ‘Pinjia,’ like everyone.”

My racing pulse crashed flat. Nothing changed. Rain’d stop, the world’d spin—this wasn’t sanctuary, just a dumpy inn. I eased off the fabric, yanked my coat up, flopped back hard.

He went quiet, then, “When’re you leaving?”

I thought he meant back to Cuoyansong—then it clicked. Not “we,” just me.

He meant when I’d ditch Cuoyansong.

I laughed, bitter. “You that eager to see me gone?”

Silence.

Teeth grinding, I said, “Next week.”

“Feather of God” needs molding, setting—I can’t stay forever. People seen, things settled—time for my life.