MW CH15

Chapter 15: Who Isn’t Tired Living?

Mochuan walked ahead alone, me trailing two meters behind.

Since leaving Chunna’s, he hadn’t spoken to me or let me help. His wound? Self-treated on the move—wrapping his teal Hetian jade prayer beads around his sleeve, jamming a stick he’d picked up to twist it tight, pressing the bleed.

Yellow earth dotted with blood trailed us—dense at first, then spacing out as the makeshift tourniquet worked.

“How much farther?” Five minutes in, no clinic in sight, I couldn’t help asking.

Mochuan stopped dead, turning back, brow furrowed—a “why are you still here?” look.

“I know the way. I’ll go alone.” His polite nudge for me to scram didn’t wait for a reply—he just kept walking.

Don’t want me along? Then don’t take a blade for me.

I grumbled inwardly, quickening to his side. “That sickle was rusty as hell—you’ll need a tetanus shot. Got that here? Maybe a hospital’s better?”

Three questions; he ignored them all. Then, two women with baskets rounded the corner ahead, chatting—until they saw Mochuan. They stepped aside, bowing as he neared.

“Pinjia.”

He nodded back faintly.

The older one shed her basket, pulling out two deep-red apples, pressing them into his arms. “Bought fresh at the market today—take ‘em.”

The younger dug out two potatoes. “Homegrown—yours.”

Mochuan had tucked his right hand behind him when they appeared; now, juggling with one hand, he fumbled. I tsked, scooping the apples—one per pocket—and the potatoes—one per hand.

The women, pleased, trotted off.

Once they were gone, Mochuan’s smile dropped fast, exhaustion seeping into his face.

“Pretending all day—don’t you get tired?” I felt wiped just watching.

Sure, everyone’s got two sides—private and public—but most keep them distinct, switching naturally by setting. Mochuan’s line blurred.

It’s like he was erasing his real self, enduring, restraining, faking—to fit the “Pinjia” mold people expected.

“Five Evils’ foul world—who isn’t tired living?” He sidestepped my question, trudging another hundred meters, turning into a nondescript yard.

A sign read “Pengge Clinic”—we’d arrived.

The clinic was tiny, barely bigger than Haicheng’s public toilets, styled the same—plain white tiles. Inside, a sixty-something doc with gray hair manned it alone.

Like most Cenglu, he wore his long hair in small braids tied into a bundle—pretty hip. Lounging behind the counter, radio on, he glanced up casually—nothing at me, but his face shifted when he clocked Mochuan. He hustled out.

“Pinjia, what brings you?”

Mochuan raised his right hand, showing the bloody sleeve. “Small cut—blood’s stopped. Just bandage it.”

The doc freaked, sat him down, gingerly unwound the “tourniquet.”

Cenglu winter robes are thick; Pinjia’s added bulk. Too bulky—Mochuan slipped his arm free of the white robe for the doc to check.

Inside, a slim-sleeve shirt, also white, half-soaked red. The pressure had stuck fabric to wound—despite the doc’s care, peeling it tore the cut open, blood gushing again.

The thick robe had blunted some force—sleeve gashed wide, but the arm’s wound was shorter, ten centimeters, not deep. Just bloody, gruesome.

I clutched the potatoes, dizzy, forcing myself to look. “Gramps, got tetanus shots here?”

“What?”

He didn’t catch my Xia, peering blankly at Mochuan.

“Bandage it—ignore him,” Mochuan said, unfazed.

The doc nodded obediently, tuning me out after that.

The potatoes weren’t potatoes anymore—stress balls. I took a deep breath, spun, and walked out.

Neither cared; neither stopped me.

I ran back to the institute, nabbed Yan Chuwen’s keys, dumped the apples and potatoes on him.

“Where’d… where’d you get these? Wait, where you going?” He juggled the haul, baffled as I hopped in the car, revving it.

I rolled down the window. “Nearest top-tier hospital?”

“Top-tier? You hurt?” “Hospital” spooked him.

“Can’t explain now—later. Where is it?”

“Closest is in the city, over a hundred kilos out.” He gave me the name and rough route from Cuoyansong.

Good roads, highway—an hour, tops.

“Cool, I’m off.” Navigation set, I waved bye, driving straight to the clinic.

Back there, the doc had just finished bandaging Mochuan. A barefoot doctor, fine for sniffles, but stitching? Out of his league.

I yanked the curtain aside—he was urging Mochuan to a real hospital, voice thick with self-doubt.

They both turned as I barged in—Mochuan mid-dressing, frozen.

“You…” He couldn’t figure me out. “What’re you doing here again?”

I ignored him, grabbed the bloodied prayer beads off the table, flashed the doc a grin. “Thanks, man.”

Heard or not, courtesy counts.

Then I hooked Mochuan’s waist, hauling him out, no fuss.

He stumbled, frowning. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting you a shot.”

We stepped outside. Past five, sun not fully down—sky fading deep blue to light, gold at the edge. Temps dropped with night; breath fogged thicker.

“This scratch doesn’t need a hospital.” He shook me off, yanked his robe shut, and headed for Deer King Temple.

I gripped the beads tight—jade groaning under pressure.

“No car, you’ll be the first Cenglu Yan Guan to die of tetanus!” I roared at his back, past caring. “You croak, Li Yang takes over Pinjia—quits school at eight, stuck in this dump like you! If you can stomach that, die then! Not my problem—I didn’t ask you to block that blade!”

He stopped. I shut my eyes, steadying my shaky breath.

No more convincing needed—Li Yang hit his weak spot, crumbling his stubbornness. Seconds later, the guy I couldn’t budge turned, opened the passenger door, and got in.

Deep breath in, slow out—few rounds, calmer—I slid in. Mochuan faced the window, avoiding me. I tossed him the beads. The drive stayed silent, save the GPS’s robotic voice.

Navigation said 160 kilometers—two hours max on the recommended route. Then a highway wreck stalled us, traffic stretching miles.

Six to seven, crawling pace—red ahead. I rolled down the window, elbow on the frame, peeking out.

Sky behind blackened like ink; ahead, the sun clung, a sliver of light. Melting gold, cars inched toward the horizon—quiet, grand, like a disaster flick’s opening.

“Hungry?” I asked Mochuan.

He stared at the traffic, fingers pausing on the beads. Two words.

“Not hungry.”

I was, though—should’ve kept those apples; they looked sweet. I mused, gazing out.

Yan Chuwen called past eight. The worst jam cleared—just kilometers from the hospital.

Phone linked to Bluetooth, I hit accept. Nie Peng’s voice blared through.

He grilled me on Mochuan—where we’d gone, why we’d vanished.

“Your Pinjia’s a grown man—think I’d kidnap him…”

“I’m fine,” Mochuan cut in. “We’re headed to the hospital—almost there. How’s Chunna?”

“Meng En says he won’t block her schooling, but I don’t trust him. Sent her to Teacher Zhou’s—don’t worry, Zhou’s got two girls already, she knows the drill.”

Mochuan sighed. “Thank Teacher Zhou for me.”

They swapped key updates—Nie Peng, reassured, handed off.

“Bai Yin, Nie Peng filled me in—knife wound’s safer checked at a hospital. Not there yet?” Yan Chuwen asked.

“Traffic jam—almost there.” GPS showed the hospital right ahead; I spotted a white building—probably it.

“Cool, call if anything’s up.”

Call ended, I turned into the hospital gate—meant to drop Mochuan at emergency, park slow. He opened the door, and I remembered something critical.

“Wait—got cash?”

No spending in Cuoyansong—he likely didn’t carry money. No phone on him either.

“Cash?” He froze, just realizing it too.

“Yeah, divine son—outside world, doctor’s visits cost money. Didn’t know?” Good thing I kept bills for emergencies. I fished out my wallet, handed over a few hundreds.

“You know how to see a doc, right?” I double-checked.

He stared wordlessly, snatched the cash, and got out.

“Don’t call me that.” The door slammed hard—like I’d insulted him.

[Note]: The Five Evils: Calamity Evil (famines, disasters, diseases, wars—termed Calamity Evil); View Evil (evil doctrines abound, ignoring cause-and-effect truths, neglecting good paths—termed View Evil); Affliction Evil (lust, greed, flattery—termed Affliction Evil); Sentient Evil (people shun good deeds, disrespect parents, fear no karmic retribution, break precepts—termed Sentient Evil); Life Evil (once humans lived 80,000 years, now barely a hundred, rarely even that—termed Life Evil). A spacetime bearing these five states of existence is called the “foul world of the Five Evils.”