MW CH12

Chapter 12: No Thank You?

Following the boy’s directions, I reached a shabby little courtyard. Beyond a flimsy excuse for a fence gate sat two squat mud houses—one big, one small. Bright outside, but inside, dark and cold.

“Sister Baizhen?” I called from the doorway into the dim interior. The reply came from the smaller house behind me.

Smoke curled from its chimney—probably the kitchen. As I headed there, someone stepped out.

She looked barely twenty, strikingly beautiful—deep eyes, thick lashes. A frail shoulder bore a cloth bundle; a boy, maybe a year old, slept soundly against her.

She’d been cooking, a long spoon in hand. Seeing me, she stopped, startled. “You… looking for me?”

Her Xia was surprisingly good—better than our guide’s, even.

“Your brother sent me.” I dug out the necklace, hesitated, then added my last two hundred bucks and shoved both over.

This sister looked like a kid herself, raising one in a house that could collapse any second—pitiful.

“Brother?” She echoed, dazed, her face a mix of shock and unfamiliarity with the word.

“He said sell the necklace for cash. The two hundred’s from him too. And he told me to say: don’t worry—even if no one else helps, he will.”

Before I finished, tears streamed down her face. She was stunning; even crying carried a fragile, heart-wrenching beauty.

Sobbing, she pushed the necklace and money back. “I can’t… can’t take his stuff. He’ll be punished by Pinjia…”

Back then, I didn’t know “Pinjia” was their title for Yan Guan—thought it was the boy’s foster dad’s name.

“He’s already been punished. If you don’t take it, it’s for nothing.” I dodged her hands, backing off. “Stuff’s delivered, message too—I’m out!” I bolted from the yard, ignoring her calls.

To dodge a search party from Professor Yan, I swung by our lodging first.

“Bai Yin, where’d you go? I was looking for you!” Yan Chuwen met me at the door, chopsticks and bun in hand.

“Just walked around.” I kept it vague, plopped at the table, and grabbed a bun to stuff my face.

Veggie filling—pretty tasty.

“Slow down,” Professor Yan said, sliding me hot milk. “We’re heading to Deer King Temple later. Chuwen’s coming—you in? If not, stay here till we’re back.”

“Didn’t they ban it? How’s it open now?”

He chuckled. “Pulled some strings.”

Connections ruled everywhere, huh.

I nodded—I’d go.

After breakfast, I eyed extra buns on the plate, wrapped one in a napkin, and pocketed it on the sly.

Our guide from yesterday led us to Deer King Temple. A crowd scaled the peak; at the gate, a gaunt man in white robes greeted us—the same middle-aged guy who’d beaten the boy.

The guide called him “Pinjia,” all deference. I’d had doubts, but that sealed it—he was the kid’s foster father.

Professor Yan and crew chatted him up—even Yan Chuwen trailed in, starry-eyed. No one watched me, so I slipped off to the woodshed.

Under tree shade, the vine-choked shed looked bleak and busted. Forget the wobbly door—one kick could topple the wall.

“Here.” I slid the bun under.

It sat there, warm, for a bit before being taken. A faint “thanks” followed later.

“Words and stuff delivered—rest easy.”

A soft exhale came through, like a burden lifting.

“Thanks,” he said again, clearer, firmer.

I grinned, nudging a pebble with my foot. “No big deal.”

Then came aimless chatter.

“Your Xia’s damn good—how?”

“School taught me.”

“Does your dad beat you a lot?”

“When I mess up.”

“That guy yesterday—you clocked me, right?”

“Yeah, first glance.”

“Got enough food? I can grab biscuits if not.”

“Enough—no need…”

We yapped half the day—nearly noon. Voices stirred at the temple gate; Professor Yan’s group was leaving.

I fished out a toffee from my pocket, held it in my palm, and slipped it under.

“For you—candy. Eat more sugar; it lifts your mood, dulls the pain.” I opened my hand, waiting.

Like some wary critter, cool fingertips brushed my palm—paused two seconds—then snatched it.

“Your hand…”

I rubbed my itchy palm, eyeing the red scar at its base. “Fell as a kid. Healed, but the mark stuck. Did it spook you—think it split open?”

I stood, glancing off. “Alright, I’m gone—see ya!”

“What’s your name?” he called.

I paused, then—with logic current-me can’t fathom—beamed. “Call me ‘Lei Feng.’”

He went quiet—stunned or clueless about Lei Feng, who knows.

That afternoon, I left Pengge with Professor Yan’s team for the next village.

It was just a blip in my life. Over the years, that Cenglu boy popped into my head now and then—rarely. We’d met once; Pengge was a thousand miles from the capital. Who’d guess he’d end up at my uni, rooming with Yan Chuwen?

I learned from Yan Chuwen that Mochuan was the next Cenglu Yan Guan—and maybe that “Cinderella” locked in the shed—during freshman winter break.

Chen Wan invited me over for dinner. Mid-meal, Professor Yan asked how Yan Chuwen’s “little Yan Guan” classmate was doing.

“Little Yan Guan?” The nickname piqued me. I nudged Yan Chuwen. “Who?”

“Mochuan—my roommate. Next Yan Guan of the Cenglu. You know Yan Guan, right? That village we visited as kids—Pengge—had a temple. The white-robed guy there was their Yan Guan.”

I mulled it, brow creasing. “Little Yan Guan… the white-robed man’s son?”

“Foster son,” Professor Yan corrected, launching into Yan Guan lore.

I’ve half-forgotten the tale—something about a nine-colored deer saving lost Cenglu ancestors, guiding them to Cuoyansong to thrive.

Grateful, they built a temple for it, honoring it generationally. But divine words baffled mortals; they couldn’t grasp the Mountain Lord’s will. So, the deer picked a listener among them—granted them oracles and blessings. That’s the Yan Guan.

Each one’s chosen the same way: one dies, the next steps up, picks a foster kid under three from the clan, raises them, repeat.

“Xiao Yin, you okay? Stomachache?” Chen Wan touched my forehead. “You look pale.”

I forced a grim smile. “Fine—just bit my tongue.”

By then, things with Mochuan had soured—I’d quit the bow society. Learning he was that boy floored me.

How could they be the same?

One so… that, the other so… this? Did his psycho foster dad twist him into what he hated most?

Shock aside, I had zero urge to reconnect. Paths separate, status quo best. Whether he recognized me—or already had—wasn’t my problem; I didn’t care to dwell.

After that, I dodged him when hanging with Yan Chuwen—hit their dorm when he was out or met elsewhere.

Different majors, bow society ditched—should’ve been the end of it.

Nope. Our cursed tie was pure Murphy’s Law: the more I pushed, the tighter it tangled.

Smoke done, I lingered outside the building, hesitated, then nudged the door open.

Mochuan sat on the sofa, pouring tea from a copper kettle over the heater. I scanned the ground floor—no Li Yang.

“Where’s Li Yang?” I plopped across from him.

“Upstairs, homework.” He slid me a full cup of milk tea, pouring himself another.

No sugar—light, but the milk-tea balance was spot-on, not bad.

“Oh, that day at Bazhai Sea, I found this…” I pulled the fixed beiyun tassel from my coat pocket, offering it over.

Mochuan froze, set the kettle down, eyed me, then the tassel. His fingers brushed the fringes, tugging it from my grip bit by bit.

“Thought I’d lost it for good.”

In the warm room, only the faint clack of sandalwood beads and the heater’s crackling firewood broke the quiet.

I let him take it, palm open—but at the last second, impulse won. I lunged, grabbing his retreating hand.

“No thank you?” I rasped.