MW CH46

Chapter 46: Buddha and Demon Are One, Shaped Only by the Mind

Solan has two sons, both twenty-four or twenty-five, raised tight with Kun Hongtu—thick as thieves.

But that bond cracked when we teamed up for Fight the Landlord.

Facing a pair of 4s, Big Cousin passed. Kun Hongtu shot his teammate a baffled glare, yanked a pair of 8s from his hand in a rush.

Second Cousin frowned, swapped cards back and forth, finally played a cautious pair of 10s.

I sat by Mochuan, quiet, letting him play his hand.

He scanned the table, mulled it over, then dropped his only bomb—four Kings.

I raised a brow. Four Ks on a pair of 10s? Bold move.

The three “peasants” froze, stunned by the play—no one could top it. They waved him on.

Then Mochuan played a 6—smallest card he had.

I: “…”

Real slick.

Big Cousin couldn’t even throw the game now—after some thought, he played a 7.

“A single 7? You serious?” Kun Hongtu slammed an Ace.

Second Cousin topped it with a Joker—Kun Hongtu’s face turned green, chest heaving.

“Wait—you’re on whose side? Why crush me?” He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Second Cousin gave him a “you’re an idiot” look. “Cause I feel like it.”

Mochuan’s hand was all small fry now—no topping the Joker. He shook his head. “Pass.”

Big Cousin and Kun Hongtu passed too.

Second Cousin smirked, pulled… a 3.

“You fu—” Kun Hongtu’s curse cut short—remembered Mochuan, slapped a hand over his mouth.

Solan, stitching on the side, watching us, burst out laughing—eyes crinkling shut.

Mochuan zeroed in on this three-on-one, like it wasn’t some casual card game but a Yan Guan honor test.

With few cards left, he played careful—fingers hovering, settling on a 2. Glanced at me.

I jutted my chin. “Go for it.”

Two cousins played turncoat, siding with the landlord. Kun Hongtu fought solo, but no dice—lost fast. Next rounds, whoever teamed with Mochuan usually won.

Only loss was Kun Hongtu as landlord—cards too good. I coached Mochuan all game, still couldn’t beat him.

Loser’s penalty: three hug-squats. Kun Hongtu, shortest of us, got picked by his cousins every time—hugged and squatted. His turn, he couldn’t lift anyone, begged Aunt Solan for help.

Solan started nervous, got the hang of it—stood unprompted, giggling nonstop as her nephew hoisted her.

Mochuan lost once—rules are rules.

Sleeves rolled up, he rose, stepped to the open space.

Kun Hongtu bounced up, ready to be the weight. Mochuan didn’t glance his way—palm up, beckoned me.

“Bai Yin, come.”

I blinked. “You’re squatting me? I’m a hundred forty pounds.”

He stretched his limbs. “Come.”

Pinjia speaks—who dares disobey?

Grinning, I walked over. “You asked for it—don’t regret it.”

Arm around his neck, next second, strong arms scooped me up. No strain on his face—like lifting a pot.

Does being Pinjia come with manual labor? How’s he this strong? Secret push-ups at night?

Before I puzzled it out, he’d nailed three steady squats—Solan’s clan cheering as he set me down.

“Stand firm.” His hands lingered on my waist, eased off once I was solid.

Game wrapped at ten sharp—not a minute over or under.

We cleared the table, ready to crash. Solan, needlework basket tucked underarm, sidled up to me and Mochuan while the others were distracted. “Put clean pants in your room—new, unworn.”

Yesterday, she’d been all awe with Mochuan—cautious, formal. One day in, respect stayed, but fear faded. She looked at him like a proud elder at a promising kid—warm, fond.

“Oh, cool—thanks, Aunt.” No clue what pants, but if she prepped them for us, gratitude’s safe.

Picking up the neatly folded white cloth on the bed, I squinted, turned to Mochuan. “This is your…?”

He sat at the table, pouring water, glanced over. “Calf-nose pants—your underwear.”

Triangle top, rectangle bottom—like a sealed “Y,” two tied strings at each end. Simple, but blew my Xia mind.

Holding it up, I asked, “How do you pee? Take the whole thing off?”

“Tie the strings at the waist, tuck the cloth in to hold everything. Big business, pull the back; small, the front—tuck it back after.” He paused. “Old style—most don’t use it now.”

I nodded, curious, eager—grabbed the pants and pajamas, hit the bathroom.

Solan’s shower was basic—weak stream. Spring, though—not too cold.

Post-shower, I fiddled with the cloth, slipped it on easy. Like briefs, but breezier.

Back in the room, Mochuan slumped at the table, cheek propped—brain off, body barely on.

I wondered if his card-game flubs weren’t newbie nerves—maybe exhaustion, gears grinding to a halt.

“Shower?” I brushed his face light.

His eyes flicked, he stood, shuffled out—grabbed nothing.

I snagged his clothes, followed, half-laughing. “That tired? Should’ve sent you to bed.”

He took them, pinched his nose. “Wasn’t tired playing—hit me just now.”

Watching him round the corner downstairs, I returned, moved one quilt to the table. Bed’s small—two’s a squeeze. Weather’s fine with one. Plus… two quilts kill the vibe.

Mochuan came back showered—I was on the bed, eyes shut, faking sleep.

Click—lights out. Dark hit; the quilt lifted, a soapy, steamy body slid beside me.

I opened my eyes slow, felt his breathing, turned to face him.

His steady rhythm hitched, then smoothed. No sound, no move.

No way—actually asleep?

I propped up—eyes adjusted, shapes emerged.

Gaze traced his sharp face, down to the main event.

Counting Haicheng, it’s always me stirring things up—he just reacts. My lust burns; he’s textbook abstinence.

Does he… not want me?

Thought led hand—fingers landed there. His body jolted—before he could act, he gripped my wrist tight.

“What’re you doing?” Shower or shock, his voice was awake, sharp.

“Can’t sleep.” I laced our fingers, swung a leg over, straddled him. “Don’t mind me—sleep.”

I leaned in, nipped his lower lip, pulled back, bit his chin, then down—harder—on his Adam’s apple.

He tipped his head, sucked in a breath like he’d choke, free hand clamping my nape.

“How do I sleep like this?” He tried lifting me off. “Get down.”

Neck pinned, I couldn’t shift—stayed put, lips on his Adam’s apple, tongue teasing the jutting cartilage.

Wanted to rip, suck, mark him bloody—mine. But reason held me back.

No marks—he’s stolen from the Mountain Lord. Our thing’s unspeakable; no one knows he’s mine.

“Bai Yin…” He yanked my collar, voice roughening.

I ignored him, lips grazing his neck, weight on my knees—striking sparks like a match on flint.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, a stifled grunt—he crushed my fingers, like he’d snap them.

Then I felt it—where I sat, something rose, unstoppable, like a music box dancer breaking free.

“Oh…” I faked surprise. “Thought your monk vows rewired you—guess it’s still plenty lively.”

“Bai Yin!” His voice dripped restraint.

“Shh—someone else’s house.” His hand on my neck stopped tugging, just kneaded hot skin. I licked my lips, went for his.

Tongued past his lips, plundered—mimicking raw instinct. The dancer matched pace, swords clashing, wild stabs.

“Get off—I’ll help…” He turned away, panting, words jumbled. “I can’t…”

“Never done this?” I kissed his cheek, other hand worming between us.

“It’s fine. Confucius said, ‘Food and sex—humanity’s big drives.’ Not easy to ditch.” I coaxed, twisting logic. “Sutras say ‘enter the true law through crooked means,’ right?”

Sweaty hands locked, my breathing faltered.

Mochuan’s eyes shut tight—no words, no heed—focus locked on fighting the soul-melting rush.

“…Call me your crooked teacher.” I licked his ear up, hot whispers sinking deep. “Where that master falls… you fall too.”

Swords sparked in my grip.

Dark room—long stretches of my voice, cloth rustling.

Scalp tingling, I rubbed against him—body shaking, voice trembling. “Buddha and demon are one, shaped only by the mind. You’re saving me, Pinjia… Mochuan…”

A damp hand slid from neck to back—not to push this time.

“Shut up.” Harsh words, soft moves—he pulled me in fierce, trembling, bit my shoulder.

I gasped low—pain, no surrender—collapsed, spent.

He held tight—like he’d meld me into his bones. Ages passed; ragged breaths settled. His grip eased, one arm still around me.

“…What kind of ‘teacher’ are you?” A grumble, laced with sated laziness.

Doesn’t matter what kind—you fell, vows broken.

Stifling glee, I pulled free, sat up. “Once breaks it, twice breaks it—again?”

“Lust burns hot—too many wicked thoughts.” He said it, still yanked my shirt, dragged me down.

I dipped, words muffled. “Then… be my Ajari—purge my crooked views, take me to bliss.”

Notes:

Enter the True Law Through Crooked Means : From the Vimalakirti Sutra—like “wine and meat pass the gut, Buddha stays in the heart.” Using flawed ways to reach enlightenment.

Where That Master Falls, You Fall Too: Vimalakirti Sutra—to save a demon, join them, fall as their “teacher” to lift them up.

Buddha and Demon Are One, Shaped Only by the Mind : Vimalakirti Sutra—literal meaning.

Ajari : Buddhist exemplar teacher.

Crooked Views : Twisted, unrighteous fixations.