MW CH13

Chapter 13: Know That and Get Lost

For a moment, the air seemed to stop moving.

The hand under my palm had broad bones, its surface cool like jade—and, just as I’d imagined, not soft at all.

“Thanks.” After a brief silence, Mochuan thanked me, then pulled free from my grip.

My hand emptied. I clenched it, shoving it into my pocket.

The room fell quiet, the mood icing over.

“I’m heading to the main hall. When Chuwen’s back, tell him to find me there.” Mochuan stood, heading for the door, still clutching the beiyun tassel.

“What do you think about when you look at the sky?” I raised my voice, calling after him.

He paused at the door, hands tucked into sleeves, the brown fringes peeking out, swaying lightly.

“‘How long do I have to live like this? These endless, unchanging days—when will they stop?’” He didn’t answer, so I did for him. “My guess. Right or not?”

He shut his eyes, his tone a strained mix of patience and breaking irritation. “Last time, now this. What answer do you want from me?” He turned, eyes frigid, the tassel shaking harder. “Yes, I’m miserable. I regret my choices every day. Is that what you want to hear?”

My casual, almost theatrical air pissed him off. The saintly mask shattered, revealing the real Mochuan underneath.

“So, do you regret it?” I met his glare, unflinching.

His lips pressed flat, face blank. “No. I’ve never regretted coming back here. Believe it or not.”

I smirked. “Does it matter if I believe you? You believing it’s enough.”

What answer I wanted, I didn’t even know. I just found his sanctimonious act grating—grating enough that I had to crack it, strip that holy facade until he snapped.

A sharp wind scraped the window frame, rusty hinges squealing like mocking laughter.

Mochuan stared, expression calm but voice dark. “What’s my life to you? We’re different breeds—different births, ethnicities, jobs, futures… all destined apart. You hate my ways; I hate yours. We’re even.”

Ha—he finally said it. He finally admitted he couldn’t stand me.

But why? What’d I do to earn his disdain all this time?

The angrier I got, the more I laughed it off. “You missed one difference.” I pointed at him. “You’re the pristine Cenglu Yan Guan.” Then at myself. “And I’m the filthy homosexual.”

The last word barely landed before he turned, walking off, his words blunt and brutal like never before. “Know that and get lost.”

He left; Yan Chuwen came in. They nearly collided at the door. Normally, he’d stop to greet—now, he brushed past without a glance.

“Huh? What…” Yan Chuwen pointed at Mochuan’s retreating back, bewildered. “What’s up? You piss him off again? Haven’t seen him like that in ages.”

“Too much food, bad digestion, maybe.” I downed my milk tea, slamming the cup on the table as I stood.

“Heading back?” Yan Chuwen asked.

“Yeah.” No point staying where I wasn’t welcome—might as well draw.

“I’ll walk you out. I’ll play chess with Mochuan later, then head back—cooking tonight.” He trailed me to the temple gate, nagging like a mom. “That outfit can’t go in the machine. Soak it in a basin ten minutes—the mud’ll come off—wring it, hang it in the yard, got it?”

“Got it? Nope. Text me later.”

Maybe Chen Wan drilled it into him young to look after me—now he fussed over everything. Sometimes I felt I had three moms: Jiang Xuehan, Chen Wan, and him.

He knew I was teasing, pointed at me, grinning. “Naughty.”

At the gate, I waved him off; he waved back, telling me to watch the steps.

“Bai Yin, are you…”

I turned at his voice. Yan Chuwen’s face flickered with hesitation, like something stuck in his throat.

“Forget it, never mind.” He swallowed it down.

Weird.

Seeing he’d dropped it, I waved again, hands in pockets, and headed down the mountain.

Over the next few days, I holed up at the institute, perfecting “Feather of God”—down to every gem’s shape and setting. The final piece satisfied me deeply.

From the front, it was a divine bird spreading its wings in the wind—long, ornate feathers touching tip to tail, forming a circle. Each plume, long or short, bore rubies, sapphires, diamonds, or mother-of-pearl. The centerpiece: a 20-carat, smooth-polished, unheated pigeon-blood ruby.

When I sent it to Huangfu Rou, she freaked out—called it a masterpiece, one-of-a-kind. Overblown, sure, but damn nice to hear.

“I’ll send it to Miss Gu for confirmation—see if she wants tweaks.”

Tweaks?

The word pricked me—small, soft, not painful, just irritating.

These wings were meant to be this way. One stroke more or less would ruin it. After “Pinewood Stream,” this was my proudest work—I wouldn’t let anyone mess with its perfection.

“No. I’ll design Miss Gu something else. ‘Feather of God’ stays mine.” Decision made in a flash.

Huangfu Rou went silent, then probed, “Stays yours… for auction?”

Auctioned jewelry isn’t merchandise—it’s art. “Feather” fit, but… I couldn’t let it go.

I couldn’t bear it leaving me, worn by some stranger who didn’t deserve it.

“Nope. Keeping it. Can lend, can exhibit—won’t sell.”

Her earlier thrill vanished. Flatly, she asked, “Another ‘Pinewood Stream,’ huh? Lendable, exhibitable, but unsellable, unwearable.”

I hadn’t thought of that last bit—her mention of “Pinewood Stream’s” grim fate made it click. Vital, even.

“Yeah, unwearable. Until its true owner shows, no one’s worthy.”

She inhaled hard; anger seeped into her voice. “Bai Yin, do you know how much those gems cost? The Gus have cash, clout—20-carat unheated pigeon-blood ruby? One call, it’s theirs. You? Where’ll you source it? Even if you do, millions—how’ll you pay?”

“Not an issue.” If it’s mine, I’d swap the ruby for, say, spinel—ruby’s best mimic.

She unraveled further. “You’ve got a perfect piece—why overcomplicate it? Miss Gu values you, gave a young designer a shot. Nail this, you’re in their circle—your worth skyrockets!”

It grated me. I’d teamed with Huangfu Rou for her social savvy and profit drive—now it was our rift.

“I offer my designs. They buy if they like, pass if not. Simple supply-demand—I’m not kissing anyone’s ass.”

She sighed into the phone. “You’re an artist; I’m just a pleb.”

The call ended sour—neither budged.

Mood shot, I grabbed a coat and wandered the village, no car, just aimless loops. After half an hour, raised voices spilled from a house nearby. Curiosity tugged me over—I spotted a familiar face at the door.

Kun Hongtu held a straw, sitting on the steps with a girl, maybe ten-ish. They looked alike—same bitter, burdened vibe.

“Hey!” I strode up.

Kun Hongtu glanced up, jumping to his feet. “Bro, what’re you doing here? Looking for Pinjia?”

Mochuan’s here too?

I gaped past him; the arguing inside raged on.

“Nah, just passing. Who’s fighting?”

“My second uncle and the village chief,” Kun Hongtu said, exasperated, nodding at the girl still on the steps. He spilled the story.

It was his uncle’s place. The girl, his cousin, thirteen—junior high age—but her dad thought girls didn’t need school. Next year, he’d marry her off. Nie Peng and the chief tried persuading him—failed. Today, they’d dragged Mochuan in as a mediator to nix the plan, get her back to class.

I frowned hard. “Junior high’s compulsory. Does he know what that means? ‘Obligation every citizen must fulfill’—that compulsory?”

Kun Hongtu nodded. “Chief said that—called it illegal, Education Law stuff. Then… it blew up in there.”

The girl overheard, wiping her eyes—maybe hit a nerve.

Should’ve brought candy.

I crouched by her. “Hey, little sister, what’s your name?”

She peered at me, timid. “Chunna.”

“Chunna, you want to keep studying?”

“Yeah—I want to study, go to college, see the world.” Her eyes reddened, tears spilling. “I don’t want to marry… I don’t even know that guy.”

For a second, she blurred into that boy from memory. The heavy “family” shackle locked her from soaring—like the old Yan Guan’s cane on Mochuan’s back. Loved ones’ “for your own good” curses.

“Want it, fight for it—don’t quit. We’re born free; if it’s not evil, we can chase anything. My dad hated what I do—called it frivolous, dead-end, said I’d regret defying him. I didn’t listen—look, I’m fine.” I used myself to lift her.

“But my dad’s scary,” she said, picking at her nails.

“Then find someone scarier to handle him,” I joked. “Don’t worry—Uncle Nie Peng’ll get you back to school. If he can’t, Pinjia will. If Pinjia can’t… you’ve got me!”

Her wide eyes locked on mine—wordless, yet saying everything.

I flexed a fist, grinning. “Don’t let my scrawny look fool you—I’m a beast when riled.”

Last big meltdown? “Pinewood Stream,” maybe. Before that—Bai Qifeng trying to set me up.

A year back, he called outta nowhere—had a girl for me. Her dad pitched it, didn’t care if I liked men, women, or aliens—test-tube kid was fine.

I stayed cool on the phone. Hung up, bought a megaphone, camped in their complex basement blaring: “I’m Bai Qifeng’s son from Building 4—I’m gay. Don’t pawn your daughters off on me. You’re not scared of karma? I am!” Nearly got him to ram me with his car.

After that, he dropped all talk of dates or marriage.

Point is, people fear lunatics. Go nuts—everything’s negotiable.