MW CH45

Chapter 45: I’m Here to Corrupt Him

Breakfast was simple: a bowl of porridge, a griddle cake, a boiled egg. I sipped porridge with one hand, held the cake with the other, sneaking glances at Mochuan’s face.

He peeled his egg with care, oblivious to my staring.

Are we… together now?

“When do we head back?” I swallowed my bite, breaking the quiet.

The egg might’ve been undercooked—shells tricky to peel. Mochuan worked at it bit by bit, piling white flecks on the table.

“Not today. Road’s blocked with rocks. Lei Lang’s got people clearing it, but it’ll take till tomorrow at least.”

I blinked—relieved we hadn’t braved the rain yesterday, then a secret thrill crept in.

Staying here, at someone else’s place, wasn’t perfect, but it felt freer than Pengge. Mochuan didn’t have to stick to the temple all day; I could sleep beside him, bold and unbothered.

“No wonder they say ‘roads bring riches.’ Bad roads—nothing gets out, nothing comes in. Really tanks the economy.”

Peeling the last shard, Mochuan handed me a smooth, jade-like egg. “Zuochang’s one of Cuoyansong’s better-off villages. Folks grow grapes, sell to wineries—twenty, thirty thousand per household a year. In Haicheng, that’s not even a brick. Here, it feeds a family.”

I barely heard him, fixated on the egg.

Setting my bowl down, I took it, flattered. “…Thanks.”

Maybe it was home-raised chickens, maybe my head—biting in, flavor lingered, and I thought, best egg I’ve ever had.

Post-breakfast, Mochuan said he’d tour the vineyards with Lei Lang—rainy season’s pest peak, he wasn’t at ease.

“I’ll come too?” I followed him out, tray in hand.

“No need. Your shoes won’t cut it in a wet vineyard.” He glanced at my beige hikers.

They’re built for long treks, not muddy fields—unlike his short boots, unfazed by puddles.

“Fair. Watch yourself—slippery out there.”

We split at the door. I had nothing on—planned to return the tray, wander, nap. But Solan, fretting over neglecting a guest, nabbed me in the kitchen, insisted Kun Hongtu play guide.

“In Cenglu, we don’t leave guests alone in the house, bro—get used to it.” Kun Hongtu grinned, leading the way. “Rain’s fresh—can’t climb. You shoot arrows, right? Wanna try?”

“Archery?” Last time was Winter Abundance Fest—I’m meh at it, hadn’t touched a bow in years. But here? Why not. “Sure.”

He nodded. “Behind the house—c’mon.”

Backyard had an open range—three sides fenced with tall boards, one gap. Firing line to target, maybe thirty meters max.

Outdoor, but the firing line had a rain-shielding overhang. Wall behind held hunting bows; quivers littered the ground, each stuffed with fifty-plus arrows.

Kun Hongtu picked me a bow, grabbed his own, and we shot side by side.

“You still hunt with bows up in the mountains?” I asked, curious.

“Old hunters did—rare now. Young guys don’t bother.” He loosed an arrow, just off bullseye, frowned, tightened his string. “Plus, it’s risky. Arrow’s out, no take-backs—hit someone, it’s a life.”

That jogged a memory—nearly nailing someone in the bow club. Still gives me chills.

“Ten-odd years back, we had an incident. Old hunter took his grandson up the mountain. Kid was little, couldn’t stay put—wandered off while the old man wasn’t looking. Saw bushes move, thought wild boar—shot. Killed his own grandson.” Kun Hongtu sighed. “Water funeral—family bawled their eyes out. Me and some buddies snuck a peek. Think it was Pinjia… this Pinjia, first time assisting the old Yan Guan. Face white as snow, got chewed out by the elder.”

“Old hunter jumped into Bazhai Sea not long after…”

Forgot my stance—string snapped my forearm, stinging hot. I clutched it, face scrunched.

“You okay, bro?” Kun Hongtu dropped his bow, worried.

Waved him off. “Fine, fine… just—shocked.”

No wonder Mochuan flipped back then. What I took as bias, disdain—it was unforgettable innocent blood.

Kun Hongtu lifted his bow again. “Your nerves suck, haha.”

Archery pulls shoulder and back muscles—not ribs directly, but the tug still tweaks them. After a while, mine ached.

I rolled my shoulder, rubbed my busted rib, scowled at my lousy target hits—done with this.

“Your rib’s healed enough to shoot?” Mochuan’s voice hit out of nowhere.

I spun—he stood behind, arms crossed, deep mixed-blood features in Xia clothes. Less holy, more rugged cool. Both vibes elite.

“Back already?” I checked my phone—almost eleven. “Huh, nearly noon? Didn’t even notice.”

“Pinjia, you’re back!” Kun Hongtu bounded over like a pup. “Join us? Mom says your archery’s killer—what’s it… hit a leaf a hundred paces out?”

I mused. “Pierce a willow at a hundred steps?”

“Yeah, that!”

Mochuan stayed calm—no pride, no itch to prove it.

“Lunch first—afternoon, maybe.”

He was a crack shot back then. Years later, I’d bet he’s rusty.

“Pinjia hasn’t touched a bow in ages—out of practice. Forget piercing willows,” I hefted my bow, aimed at the target, taunting, “hitting a bullseye thirty meters out’s a stretch now, right?”

Men can’t resist a jab—even a detached Pinjia bites.

He stared, held out a hand to Kun Hongtu. “Give it.”

Kun Hongtu handed over his bow. “Pinjia, clear the arrows off the target?”

Both targets bristled with twenty-something arrows, mostly near center—less room, tougher shot.

“No need.” Mochuan drew an arrow slow from the quiver, notched it, stepped back.

Step by step, he retreated past the firing line till his heel hit the wall.

Side stance, bow up, string taut, eyes shut…

Breeze blew—the arrow rode it, zing, off the string. Mochuan opened his eyes, held the pose a beat, lowered the bow.

“Hit! Dead center! Pinjia’s insane!” Kun Hongtu cheered louder than if he’d won a tourney, practically bouncing.

His holler snapped my eyes off Mochuan to the target thirty meters out.

It was my target—I’d know. The arrow smack in the bullseye? Not mine.

“Lunch now?” Mochuan hung the bow back, lips ticking up—a wild edge years couldn’t tame, so un-Pinjia.

Hit me hard: since reuniting, his restraint, his poise—I’d almost forgotten he’s my age, just a twenty-something guy.

Haicheng’s full of twenty-somethings binging shows all night, gaming with buddies, hitting malls or movies on weekends. Mochuan’s twenty-something’s spent on rural revival, kids’ schooling, grape yields.

Born forced to grow up, be the sensible adult. Kid tantrums? Nope. Young guy fun? Nope. Just “Pinjia”—the Mountain Lord’s meek mouthpiece.

But he’s Mochuan—a real, breathing Mochuan. Struggles, hurts, snaps—and maybe… feels something for someone.

Afternoon, I’d planned to roam with him, but post-lunch, a flood of old folks crammed the main room.

I backed out with the others. Kun Hongtu said their legs are shot—can’t make Pengge, can’t see Pinjia or send prayers. Now he’s here in Zuochang, they’ve got a backlog to unload—takes all afternoon.

Bored, I hit the village outskirts, scoped the rock-clearing at the hill.

From afar, a yellow crusher chipped at the road-blocking boulder, workers shoveling bits aside. This pace—road’s open tomorrow.

Back at Solan’s, like Kun Hongtu predicted, half the crowd still mobbed Mochuan—wouldn’t wrap before dinner.

Napped in the room, woke to evening, lured by food smells to the kitchen. Main room—down to two stragglers.

“Alright, enough—go home! We’re eating! An afternoon of yapping, still not done? Give it a rest—Mountain Lord’s tired of hearing it.” Solan’s big voice shooed them.

The old pair glared, shuffled up grudgingly, bowing to Mochuan as they left.

Solan’s big family—seven, eight around the table. Simple dishes, but laughter warmed it up.

Solan’s a hustler. On starting grapes against her husband’s no, she said in shaky Mandarin, “I thought, ‘Won’t let me? I’ll divorce, grow ‘em myself—profit or loss, my deal.’”

“He let you in the end,” her husband mumbled.

Everyone cracked up. I glanced at Mochuan—head down, picking mushrooms, lips tight but relaxed, a hint of a smile.

Post-dinner, I pitched cards. Kun Hongtu jumped in; cousins were game. Mochuan headed for the room—I grabbed him, held him back.

“No cash—just play with us.” I tilted my head.

Not just him—everyone gawked. Kun Hongtu’s face screamed terror, like, You nuts? That’s Pinjia—holy Yan Guan, untouchable. You’re corrupting him?

Damn right I am.

He didn’t answer—I grazed his palm with my thumb where no one’d see, grinned. “Don’t know how? I’ll teach you—cool?”

Standoff didn’t last. Lashes flickered—he pulled his hand back, sat beside me under stunned stares.

“Till ten.” He checked the wall clock.