MW CH20

Chapter 20: Just Be Your Pinjia

I lifted the curtain—Mochuan froze at the sound, turning.

Standing there bold as brass, I didn’t blink. “Need help?”

He thought it over—one hand’s a hassle—then passed me the shirt.

My eyes roamed his chest, abs. How’s this guy, cooped up in a temple all day, built like this? I hit the gym twice weekly and can’t match him—racial perk or what?

Slipping one arm through a sleeve, I sidled close, tugged the shirt around from behind, guiding his other arm in.

A faint antiseptic whiff off him cut through the hall’s murky incense like a spring breeze—crisp, refreshing.

“This comes off, right?” Before buttoning, I reached for his beads—barely touched them when he grabbed my hand, pulled it aside.

I backed off, hands up. “Got it, no touching.”

He unhooked the beads himself, tossed them on the bed—long beiyun draping down, brushing the frame. I winced—ouch, my heart.

“You should store that stuff proper—leaving it out… not safe,” I hinted, eyeing the dazzling rack.

No clue if he heard—face stayed blank.

Pajama had knot buttons—one hand struggled, so I stepped in. Done, I retreated—he yanked his belt, and the piled clothes at his waist hit the floor.

Stepping out, he grabbed beige pants off the bed, chin-jerked toward the door—message clear.

“No help needed?” I played dumb.

He stared, stone-faced, unwavering.

Hands raised, I backpedaled. “Fine, fine—I’m out. Back tomorrow.”

I locked the courtyard gate for him, trudged solo to the institute.

Next few days, I showed up as promised, handled odd jobs. Less verbal sparring, more harmony.

Days: chess with him, watching him greet devotees, splitting wood. Nights: stocked the stove, waited till he showered and changed, then split.

Rare times, I’d take his calls.

Like now.

His room had a phone—old white landline on the nightstand, ancient, years deep.

We’d played chess all night—he crushed me. When it rang, I bolted. “Go, go—phone! Late calls to a landline? Big deal.”

On speaker, I chirped in customer-service mode, “Hello? Hi, who’s this for?”

Long pause—then a young voice. “Xia? Who’re you? Where’s my uncle?”

Uncle?

“You’re Xiao Yuan, right?” I pegged him fast. “Your uncle’s here—silent practice, can’t talk. Say it, I’ll pass it on.”

“Silent?” The teen’s voice, past cracking, rang with wild edge—like his name. “Why sudden silence?”

I glanced at Mochuan—he shook his head. I got it, skipped the precept break. “Dunno—ask him yourself when you’re back.”

“Who’re you then? Why’re you there so late?” One answer down, more questions up.

Felt like a cop grilling me.

“College buddy of your uncle’s—Bai Yin. By rank, you’d call me ‘uncle.’ We were just playing chess,” I laughed.

“College… you know Teacher Yan?”

“Yan’s my childhood pal.”

He quieted, mulling, no more probes.

Mochuan reached over, cut the call—faint annoyance flickered.

“What’s that for? He wasn’t done!” I gaped.

He flicked me a look—wordless, but I swear I read: I handle my nephew—butt out.

I flopped on his bed, elbow on the rail, chin propped. “Fine, I’ll shut up. You talk to him.”

Minutes later, it rang again—Mochuan hit speaker. He Nan Yuan again.

“That was your uncle hanging up—not me!” I cleared myself fast.

He didn’t dwell—didn’t even mention it, like it was routine.

“I’m back day after tomorrow,” he switched to Cenglu.

Winter break timing—I figured this was the call’s point.

“Teacher Yan’s good, but not all Xia are—watch yourself.” Then he hung up.

Me: “…”

This kid—two phone sentences, and I’m a bad guy? Prejudiced against Xia much?

Still reeling, Mochuan opened his wardrobe, grabbed clothes, headed out.

I tailed. “Shower? Want me to wash your hair?”

Followed to the bathroom—bang—door slammed an inch from my nose, a hard no.

I scratched my nose, lit a smoke in the yard.

Pengge’s sky was stunning—no city glare, no smog. Deep blue velvet, stars like Type IIa diamonds—pure, blinding.

Used to miss the city’s noise, hated this quiet. Now, leaving, I’d miss it.

People are messed up—crave what’s out of reach, ditch what they’ve got.

Smoke done, I paced, hands and feet numb from cold. Bathroom door creaked open—steam poured out, Mochuan’s hand beckoned.

In old tales—deep woods, dark night, a hand like that? Demon or ghost.

Me? The doomed scholar stumbling by.

“Coming!” I huffed into my palms, stepped in.

He’d pants on—I took the shirt, slid it on him, buttoned bottom-up, wrung his towel, dried his dripping hair—arm’s healing, no migraines wanted.

Steamy bathroom—stuffy, warm. Wiping his hair, my eyes slid over his brows, landed on his lips.

Pengge’s silence seeped into this cramped space. I stared at his water-glossed lips, hands slowing.

“Leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

He froze, met my gaze—lips parted like he’d speak. I waited—he didn’t break silence, just yanked the towel off, brushed past, out.

Cold night air rushed in, warmth gone.

I sighed at the empty room, killed the lights, lingered outside. Hall dimmed—I left.

Next afternoon, splitting wood in the yard, music blasting, Zhao Chenyuan called.

“Busy man, when’s dinner?”

Panting, I swung the axe. “Who else—your wife?”

“Her for sure.” He caught my noise. “What’s up? Not interrupting something juicy, am I?”

“What juicy?” Multitasking muddled his innuendo.

“What else? That stuff. You with Jiang Boshu?” He cackled, suggestive.

Chopping’s new to me—his jab threw me. Axe veered, wood chip flew, hit my forehead. Eyes shut, sharp sting flared.

“Shit!”

I crouched, clutching it—him still laughing.

“For real? Dinner’s on you then—Shen Jing’s your matchmaker.”

Jiang Boshu and I share Shen Jing—Zhao’s wife. He’s their biz director, she’s finance—colleagues.

Design’s gay-heavy—I didn’t think twice. Now, sounds like Shen Jing set us up.

“Chopping wood, bro—I’m in Shannan, not with him,” I groaned, leaning on the axe.

“Shannan? Why so far?”

“You offline? Didn’t see me trend?”

“Swamped with OT—hold on, searching…” Gasps, “tsk-tsks” followed.

Verdict: “Bai Yin, still a badass.”

Stacking wood to the shed, I said, “Back tomorrow—set a time, tell me.”

“Got it!”

Caught up, hung up—he circled back to Jiang Boshu, offering more if that flopped.

“…” Stacking, I laughed. “Married now, can’t stand singles?”

“You’ve been solo too long—university you were wild, even I heard,” he marveled.

Wood piled, I leaned on it, huffed through my nose.

Who’d I play? Where? Babyface smearing me out of spite?

Eyes wandered, locked on the opposite wall.

“Call it a clean slate,” I brushed off, ending the call.

Shed’s a mess—straw-strewn, junked tools, furniture. Day or night, I’d focus on wood, ignore the rest.

Today, lingering, I spotted faint marks.

Shoved a busted table aside—grimy, mossy wall bore shallow “正” scratches,凹凸 under my fingers—carved.

Who’d etch “正” in this dump? What’s it mean?

Yanked off my earbuds, bolted to the hall.

Guess brewing—I needed proof.

Mochuan was hosting—a fortyish couple, their kid coughing, seeking the Mountain Lord’s blessing.

I listened—they gushed about their sweet, smart boy. My mind flashed to eleven-year-old Mochuan.

That age, he should’ve been his parents’ treasure—yet chosen as Yan Guan’s heir, ripped from kin, stuck in this temple.

A kind old Yan Guan? Nope—harsh, rigid. Tiny slip, he’d beat him. Those “正” marks—how many lockups stacked up?

Day by day, year by year—from defiant kid to this. No fight, no resentment—just duty, like his “father” drilled.

I eyed the giant deer-man statue. No mercy in its gaze now—just cold.

Pinjia carries prayers—who carries Pinjia’s?

Couple left after ten minutes—I took their spot across Mochuan.

His eyes hit my forehead, brow creasing. I touched it—swollen, scabbed.

“Oh, wood chip flew up splitting earlier,” I explained.

He fetched alcohol wipes, a bandage—came back.

Arms crossed on the table, I tilted up, let him fix it.

“Hiss, ow!” Alcohol stung—minor, but I hammed it up.

His hand jerked, eased off.

Enjoying the pampering, I squinted. “Found tons of ‘正’ in the shed…”

Wipe lingered too long—then he dropped the tweezers, slid the bandage over.

“One stroke a lockup or a day?” I peeled it, handed it back.

He slapped it on one-handed, pressed hard—too hard.

“Ouch, easy!” Real pain this time.

He trashed the wipe, ducked into his room.

Dodging—clear as day.

While he was gone, I dug out the Go set, swapped for checkers, laid it out.

He returned—I was ready. “Go’s dull—five-in-a-row. I win, you spill on the ‘正.’ ”

He stared, disdain flashing—Why play this kiddie crap?

“You win, I donate ten grand.”

Deer King Temple takes offerings, donations—government-tracked, funneled to Cuoyansong’s economy.

Ten grand’s a drop here, but maybe ten meters of road?

Bait set—he bit.

Legs crossed, he nodded me first.

Go? He’s ace. Five-in-a-row? Toast. Two minutes, cornered—double five.

Holding my grin, I said, “Bet’s a bet—day or time?”

Lips tight, he sulked, nudged pieces into “day.”

Hundreds of days—post-writing. Pre-writing, how many more?

“Mochuan, you knew, right? That door—one kick, it’s down, you’re out.” Recalling eleven-year-old him, I’d wondered—why not smash that flimsy shed door?

Three, five—maybe not. Eleven, adult—why not then?

He packed the pieces, held out his hand.

I unlocked my phone, gave it over.

He typed, flipped it: “Out—to where?”

His counter punched my smugness flat. Same as asking if he’d leave Cuoyansong—unanswerable.

I’d never stomach that door.

But me—who’d dare lock me up?

Not that he couldn’t break it, ditch the lock—out there, nothing changes. So he forced himself to bear the dark, the alone.

Studying him, I threw a curveball. “Seven years back, I called after you quit school. You said something in Cenglu—what was it?”

That summer, Yan Chuwen said he’d drop out, return to Cuoyansong—I called, once.

Short, nothing big. I swore he’d regret it—why ditch freedom?

Long silence, then: “This is my life, Bai Yin.”

His life, his call—my nose stayed out.

Epiphany hit—like today, a wake-up slap.

Stunned, I laughed. “Fine—here’s to a bright future, breezy steps, you and your Mountain Lord, lovey-dovey forever.”

My jab didn’t faze him—he replied in Cenglu, hung up.

Back then, Cenglu was gibberish to me—curse or praise, no clue. Later, fluent, memory fractured—words lost.

This trip, I’d meant to ask—dragged till he went silent.

His brow twitched, eyes met mine—no move to type.

“One more—I win, you tell; I lose, twenty grand.” I tossed pieces down—he stood, done with my games.

I lunged, grabbed him—crash—board, pieces scattered, chaos.

“Mochuan!” Face hard, fingers dug in, arm shaking.

He looked down, merging with that golden deer statue—aloof, emotionless, godly.

My grip slipped—sleeve brushed free—I clutched air, empty.

He scooped my phone, keys clacked in the hush, handed it back.

“Forgot. Go back.” Two blunt words, a shove out.

Fist clenched, I glared, slammed the table, stormed off, pissed.

Next day, evening flight—two hours to the airport. To dodge delays, I left after lunch.

Luggage in, Yan Chuwen floored it—two minutes, stopped.

Under the temple’s long stairs, I frowned. “Why here? Someone else?”

“Known him this long—leaving without a goodbye?” He pointed up.

I eyed him, the distant temple. Gritted teeth, yanked the door.

“Ten minutes—I’ll say bye, be back!”

Three steps at a time, thousand-plus stairs—minutes to the top. Perfect timing—Mochuan stepped out as I neared.

We locked eyes, stopped dead.

“I’m leaving.” Few meters down, I looked up—words churned, but only four spilled.

I came—he was a pristine deity, untouchable. I leave—he’s still every god: silent, desireless.

My stay… changed nothing.

“…That’s it. Bye.” I didn’t close in—turned after farewell.

Then he stepped forward, hand out, offering something.

I squinted—folded hundreds. Hospital cash, repaid.

Staring at the red bills, I muttered, “You actually remembered to pay me back…”

Up a few steps, I pinched the stack, laughed. “Between us, clean slate—no debts, huh?”

Silent, he let go. Rage peaked—I charged, hugged him hard before he could react.

One-sided, a goodbye hug.

“I’m gone for good this time—be your Pinjia.”

His hands twitched—push me off?—but he held back, let me trespass.

Nose grazed his ear—I pulled away, forced my eyes off him, raced down.

Midway, a tall teen—sixteen, seventeen—in Cenglu garb, backpack, long hair, dark skin, deep features… Mochuan’s spit.

We sized each other up, passed without stopping.

Out for his nephew—makes sense.

Back in the car, Yan Chuwen drove, GPS humming. Leaving Pengge, he said, “Said all you needed?”

I reclined, basking in sun through glass, grinned. “He’s silent—what’s there to say?”

“You tell me,” he said. “Long trip—no regrets, right?”

Odd vibe—couldn’t pin it. Like his dad, academic nut—always spouting weird stuff.

“Not zero regrets…” Eyes shut, voice softened in the warmth. “But life’s gotta have some.”

Post-Jiang Xuehan’s monkhood, I couldn’t grasp her cold cut-off—Bai Qifeng betrayed her, yet she severed all.

That puzzle drove me through scriptures—answer found.

Buddhism: shed the unshedable, bear the unbearable, do the undoable—escape the three realms, claim the Bodhisattva path.

Inhuman feats—rare souls pull it off. Never thought I’d be one.

Guess Jiang Xuehan’s genes gave me some wisdom after all.