MW CH56

Chapter 56: Won’t You Fill Me Up Before I Go?

Jiang Boshu said the guy in the photo resembled an artist he knew—He Mingbo, from Haicheng. His company handled promo for one of He Mingbo’s exhibits; they’d met briefly. Couldn’t swear it’s the same He Jun I’m after, though.

On the call, I googled “He Mingbo”—pics popped up, and like Jiang Boshu said, seven or eight parts matched the pendant’s He Jun.

“Mind telling me why you’re hunting this guy?” Jiang Boshu asked over the line.

I mulled it, hid names, just spilled how He Jun conned a minority girl—got her pregnant, vanished, no trace.

“…First couple years, he fed her lies about coming back—then poof, gone, no word.”

Five years back, Bai Zhen died sick—Yan Chuwen said she waited for that creep till the end. Never believed he’d scammed her—thought something happened to him.

Jiang Boshu sighed heavy. “Poor girl.”

A stranger hearing me out felt pity for Bai Zhen—what kind of rotten bastard was He Jun to hurt her like that?

“Thanks for the tip. Whether He Jun’s this He Mingbo, I’ll figure it out myself, so—” About to hang up, he cut in.

“October, our company’s moving—holding a relocation party, inviting past clients. He Mingbo’s on the list.” Hesitant, cautious. “If you want in, I can send an invite.”

Caught his drift loud and clear.

“Appreciate it,” I jumped in.

Next day, he emailed an e-invite.

Party’s mid-October—my Haicheng return lined up perfect.

Eighty percent sure, but I’d wait—meet the guy, confirm it’s him—then tell Mochuan.

Come September, weather cooled—crisp autumn, school season hit.

Li Yang and He Nanyuan went back to class—temple emptied to just Mochuan. Finally, our undisturbed duo time—but I kinda missed the kids’ bustle.

Two weeks into term, Deer King Temple got little guests—Pengge Hope Elementary kids.

Pengge Hope’s got over two hundred students—five grades, seven classes. Every fall, second week, they split three days to trek to the temple.

Call it a fall outing—more like a short hike. Morning out, noon arrival, afternoon home.

Each kid hauled their own snacks, bowed to the Mountain Lord one by one, then faced Mochuan with their wishes.

“I wanna score a hundred!”

“Want chicken at home this week…”

“Hope Dad gets better.”

“Gonna make big money—treat my bestie to Shannan eats!”

“Pinjia, I came last year—remember? Same wish: a little sister. Tell the Mountain Lord!”

All sorts of innocent, adorable kid-talk—pure, sweet. Hearing it all, my bystander face nearly cramped from grinning—imagine Mochuan, front-row to it.

Even later, telling them the Mountain Lord’s nine-colored deer tale—saving folks everywhere—his smile stayed real, not Pinjia’s polite mask, but his own raw joy.

Kids left after tidying the hall—lined up, waving bye to me and Mochuan.

Day two, Li Yang—now second grade—came back as a student.

While others queued to bow, he tagged along—his turn, hands clasped, shy grin at Mochuan. “I hope Pinjia’s healthy and happy forever.”

Sent to Mochuan at one—raised through shit and piss, basically. Not father-son by name, but closer than most.

That wish? No shock—still touched me. Mochuan didn’t raise him for nothing.

Mochuan chuckled, ruffled his head. “Alright, I’ll pass it to the Mountain Lord.”

Three chill days—then Mochuan’s good mood crashed with a middle-aged couple praying for their daughter’s wedding.

I don’t dodge believers much now—they kneel, ramble, I sit quiet, wallflower-style.

Unlike with others, where a smile sufficed, Mochuan spoke up—asked the couple’s kids’ birth years, then dropped a curveball.

“Are they blood-related?” in Cenglu.

The wife glanced at her husband—he ignored her, grinned. “A little—distant cousins, real distant.”

Mochuan’s smile faded—looked at her. “Come with me.” Took her to the hall’s corner.

The guy stayed, rubbing hands—antsy.

Couldn’t hear them—far off, she answered a bit, head dropping in shame. Mochuan frowned, brought her back center.

The man opened his mouth—Mochuan cut him off, hand up.

“Your cousin’s son and your daughter—within five generations. Near kin, you know that?” No smile—face frosted over.

The guy flinched, still pushing. “Cousins—we’ve always married like that! Family on family—why’s the Mountain Lord against it now? My folks were cousins—us brothers turned out fine. Next village, A-Fu’s parents weren’t kin—kid’s born dumb.”

What—breeding for a super strain? Family king of the hill?

I sat, dumbfounded—face turned where they couldn’t see, rolling eyes hard.

“Cancel the wedding—let them marry elsewhere. I won’t bless it.” Mochuan, ironclad—no wiggle room.

The guy panicked—tried more—his wife yanked his sleeve, dragged him out.

Mochuan watched till they were gone—sat back across from me.

“Says his brothers are fine—I’d say he’s the sick one.” Fired up now. “No other men in Cenglu? Cousins gotta marry cousins?”

I poured him water, handed it over. “Cool off—good thing you dug in, stopped a mess.”

Thinking it over—maybe he’s so thorough ‘cause he’s seen too much of this.

He took the cup, shut his eyes, exhaled slow—opened them, anger mostly gone.

Finished, handed it back.

I set it down—didn’t sit—knelt before the Mountain Lord statue, hands clasped like the believers, faking it—then faced Mochuan.

“Pinjia, hear my prayer.” Elbows on the low table, grinning.

He eyed me, weirded out. “Don’t you skip all this?”

Jiang Xuehan’s influence—I’ve dug into Buddhist texts but stay godless.

“Just believe for a day,” I said.

He straightened his beads, smoothed his already-neat robe—full-on “Pinjia” mode. “What’s your wish to the Mountain Lord?”

This guy—out-faking me.

“I hope… Mochuan’s healthy and happy forever.” Locked on his eyes, word by word.

Wanted him to know—he’s everyone’s Pinjia, but here, he’s Mochuan—just him.

No masks, no holding back—mad when he’s mad, cursing when he wants, free to chase desire, unbound by rules.

The world loves Pinjia, but I only love Mochuan.

He froze—speechless a while.

I didn’t push—just tilted my head, waiting.

Arm up slow—hand on my head, blocking my view.

“Alright, I’ll tell the Mountain Lord.” Patted me.

Through his arm, I caught his half-lidded eyes—black pupils sparkling with uncontainable glee.

Stayed over two months—till October break ended, I prepped for Haicheng.

Green watercolor pen—marked a December day. Capped it. “Back by then.”

Some cash back in hand—planned a pre-Christmas gem haul abroad. A jewelry designer with no stock? Lame.

Mochuan touched the square, shut the wardrobe. “Bring next year’s calendar when you’re back.”

“Got it.” Sidled up, hooked his neck. “I’m leaving tomorrow—two months apart. Shouldn’t you… you know?”

He grabbed my waist, casual. “Know what?”

Eye twitched. “Now you play dumb?”

“Your Xia talk’s too tricky.”

Pressed closer—rubbed him, let him feel my “know.”

“Won’t you fill me up before I go?” Leaned in, kissed him.

He didn’t dodge—let my lips hit, tongue slipping past his parted ones.

No pushback—he got it.

Kissing heated—breaths roughened—sudden lift, he hoisted me by the thighs off the floor.

I yelped, clung tighter—glanced at the bed behind, voice hoarse. “Not the woodshed?”

Set me down, loomed over—belt off, tossed aside. “Nah—too cold there. You Haicheng folks can’t handle it.” Kissed me again.

I’ve noticed—like desensitizing—his limits keep stretching.

First, hands were a no—then woodshed—then hall, tempted—now bedroom’s fair game. Maybe one day, past that inner wall, no silence, no Mountain Lord nagging.