MW CH5

Chapter 5: No One Is Worthy

After dealing with the dog poop—scrubbing my hands front and back with soap, even digging into the nail crevices until my skin wrinkled and the tiny cuts on my palm turned pale—I shook them dry and trudged back to the front courtyard.

Erqian was neatly tied to a pillar by the main hall, but Mochuan and the shattered flowerpot were nowhere in sight.

Breaking something and just walking off didn’t sit right with me…

I hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the hall.

The white-robed Yan Guan sat behind the low table beside the statue, brush, ink, paper, and inkstone laid out as before.

“How much was that pot? I’ll pay you.”

Mochuan didn’t look up. “No need. It’s not worth much.”

The hall’s lighting was dim; even in daylight, it needed lamps. But perhaps to preserve the sacred ambiance—avoiding anything too modern—the glow was a warm, candle-like orange, primal and muted.

I plopped down across from him, cross-legged. “The dog broke the pot, sure, but it only ran loose because I didn’t hold the leash. The blame’s mostly mine. I don’t like owing you, so cut the crap—tell me how much, or I’m not leaving.”

Only then did he glance up at me, though his eyes soon dropped back to the half-finished character on the page. He completed the remaining strokes and said flatly, “Whatever.”

He was casual about it, so I got casual too—sitting there, watching him copy scriptures. As long as I wasn’t awkward, the awkwardness fell on someone else.

My phone buzzed. I opened it to find a message from Jiang Boshu, asking if I was free Saturday for dinner and a play.

My hand ached from the fall, and washing it in cold water had stiffened my fingers, making typing a chore. I sent a voice reply instead.

“I’m out traveling, not in Haicheng. Ask someone else.”

Jiang Boshu and I shared a mutual friend. We’d met at a gathering—he worked at a big ad agency, not in design but close enough for us to click over shared interests. Over time, we got familiar.

I could tell he liked me. He’d often find excuses to grab a meal or watch a game together, but he never said it outright, so I played dumb.

Seconds after my voice message, the phone rang.

I frowned at the vibrating screen and hit accept.

“Where’d you go? You never mentioned a trip,” Jiang Boshu said. His looks were average, but his voice had a warm, lingering charm.

“Shannan. Spur-of-the-moment thing. My childhood buddy’s here, and I had some free time, so I came to hang out.”

“When’re you back?”

I chuckled softly. “You’re not my boyfriend—why so nosy?”

The brush tip paused on the paper for a split second before moving again, showing no sign of disturbance.

The silence on the other end stretched longer. After a beat, he stammered, “I-I didn’t mean…”

“Kidding,” I cut in, easing the mood and answering his earlier question. “Maybe ten days, maybe a month or two—depends on how I feel.”

“Getting away’s nice. No internet, no drama.”

He sounded ready for a long chat, so I nipped it in the bud. “Yeah, we’ll grab food when I’m back in Haicheng. Gotta handle something—hanging up now.”

“Oh… okay. Talk when you’re back, then,” he said, disappointment clear in his tone.

I was about to end the call when another came in. The caller wasn’t surprising but was a definite headache. Between picking up or ignoring, I grudgingly chose the former.

“Hey…”

“Bai Yin, you’ve got three seconds to tell me where you are,” Huangfu Rou snapped. Her voice—nothing like her soft name—came out cold and hard, though still controlled.

“Baby, relax. I’m with a friend in Shannan—no vanishing act,” I said with a light laugh, trying to soothe her.

Huangfu Rou was my business partner and sort of my agent. Anything unrelated to jewelry design, she handled for me.

Coming to Cuoyansong was partly what I’d told Yan Chuwen—needing a long break after too long without rest. But there was more to it… a longer story.

I had a prized creation called “Pinewood Stream.” The necklace was a cascade of over a hundred aquamarines and diamonds, shaped like flowing water. At its center hung a pendant—a pinecone, intricately layered and encrusted with diamonds.

Beneath the pinecone, cradled like petals, was the centerpiece: an uncut emerald over fifteen carats. Unpolished, it had a jade-like texture unlike typical emeralds, its pale hue reminiscent of pine trees peeking through misty clouds.

Crafting it took over three thousand hours—more than a thousand just on the pinecone’s setting. To find that perfect emerald, I’d scoured its major origins, sifting through thousands of stones to pick the one that spoke to me.

That piece didn’t just turn heads at my grad exhibition—it clinched me two top honors at the Starlight Awards, one of jewelry design’s biggest: Best Design and Best Craftsmanship.

It was my breakout work, my ticket into the design elite. For three years, countless offers came to buy it, but no price ever tempted me.

I wouldn’t even let people wear it. Loans required ironclad contracts.

So when I scrolled online and saw Hang Jiafei sporting my necklace on the latest MIMA magazine cover—trending for how “perfectly” it suited her—I was blindsided.

Hang Jiafei was a rising film star. Her wearing my work wasn’t beneath it, but… not “Pinewood Stream.”

How could it be “Pinewood Stream”?!

Before that, I’d been churning out designs I hated, surviving on three or four hours of sleep a night. Sleep deprivation and fury snapped my restraint. I jumped into the fray, retweeting the post with a loaded caption:

[“She’s not worthy.”]

My verified badge made it undeniable. The internet erupted. Hang Jiafei’s fans stormed my feed, accusing me of reckless slander and demanding I delete and apologize.

I was itching for a fight. I picked out the most obnoxious comments and fired back:

[“@BaiYinYann: Not worthy means not worthy. I’ve lived this long—don’t need you teaching me how to talk. //@CutestPiggy: ‘Not worthy’? You’re an amazing designer, but you can’t just say whatever!”]

[“@BaiYinYann: Why’d I need clout? To land a movie role? //@FeiBaoDarling: Clout-chasing much? Stop riding coattails, creep!”]

[“@BaiYinYann: Wanna hear worse? Scram! //@BlueFrogRiver: That’s harsh. What do you think you made? Hang Jiafei wearing it is a favor!”]

I was mid-brawl when Huangfu Rou called, laying out what happened.

“Hang Jiafei’s loved ‘Pinewood Stream’ for ages—she even tried buying it, remember? You said no. Then she asked to borrow it. I heard she’s pushy, so I refused, worried about trouble. But this time, we slipped up—she got it through MIMA. I asked Little Min—she was watching the necklace the whole time, except for a two-minute bathroom break. They must’ve snuck it on her then,” she fumed.

We should’ve sent two people—one to watch if the other stepped away. But it was a rush job, and with big names at the shoot, Huangfu Rou figured it’d be fine with just one assistant.

In the dark, I stared at Hang Jiafei’s solo cover on my screen, took a deep drag of my cigarette, and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray. It’d been days since I’d emptied it—barely room left.

“Where’s the contract? I’m suing them.”

“They haven’t sent it back yet… The editor’s my friend, so I lent it informally. My screw-up—I’ll take the heat,” she said.

Four years working together, and this was her first mistake. With her personality, she’d beat herself up without me saying a word, but a penalty was due. In the end, I docked her a month’s pay—symbolic more than anything.

After simmering overnight, Huangfu Rou posted a statement from the studio’s account: concise, clear, condemning MIMA for ignoring the “no wearing” clause and letting Hang Jiafei use “Pinewood Stream” for their latest cover.

Soon, Hang Jiafei and the magazine responded.

Hang Jiafei claimed ignorance of any agreement, saying my team was there and didn’t stop her.

The magazine was shameless—said they never got a contract, so how could they know it wasn’t allowed? A breezy “communication might’ve been untimely or unclear” brushed it off.

Clearly, they’d coordinated their stories.

It turned into a he-said-she-said mess. Two against one, I was losing ground. With Hang Jiafei’s hired bots and PR spinning me as arrogant and misogynistic, the online chorus was all hate, no dissent.

Growing up, I’d always been the one making others eat dirt—never the other way around.

Swallow this quietly? Not a chance.

After a night of brooding, I pulled “Pinewood Stream” from the safe, ran my fingers over it tenderly, then grabbed the ashtray and smashed it down without blinking.

Emeralds are fragile, riddled with natural flaws. It shattered on impact, the mangled pinecone and broken stone looking like a squashed kiwi.

I snapped a photo and posted it:

[“#DirtyNow,DoneWithIt#”]

The internet exploded—comments, DMs, a tidal wave of venom. I ignored it, deleted Twitter, called Yan Chuwen, booked a red-eye to Shannan, and left.

So yeah, I was here to lie low.

“You really smashed ‘Pinewood Stream’?” Huangfu Rou asked, voice hoarse.

My smile faded, then deepened. “Yup, for real. Go to my place now—you could still give it a funeral.”

She went silent, clearly reeling.

Leaving her to face the online storm alone already gnawed at me, so I softened my tone.

“It’s fine—they can’t touch me. Don’t take it too—”

“Bai Yin, was it worth it?” Her voice carried exhaustion. “Jewelry’s made to be worn, right? If Hang Jiafei’s not worthy, who is?” She’d been holding that in for a while—today, it spilled out.

Mochuan’s lapis lazuli earring gleamed a rich purple under the warm light. The back ornament he wore today wasn’t yesterday’s—pearl strands in front, something understated in back, though I hadn’t caught the details.

With his bold, vivid features, subtle accessories didn’t suit him. The flashier, the more extravagant, the better—they’d complement him without being overshadowed by his face.

“No one is worthy,” I said quietly.

“What, you designed it for gods?” Huangfu Rou half-laughed, exasperated.

“Sure, call it that.” The two calls had killed my mood to keep sparring with Mochuan. I stood to leave. “I’ll head back in a bit. Hanging up, babe—love you.”

“Wait—”

I cut her off, pocketed my phone, and walked out, no intention of saying bye to Mochuan.

One foot crossed the threshold when I heard two low syllables behind me—strange yet familiar.

I froze mid-step, turning back in disbelief. “What’d you just say?”

Mochuan crumpled the paper in his hand slowly, meeting my gaze without a hint of guilt.

“I said, ‘Safe travels,’” he replied, deadpan.

My chest surged with a storm of emotions.

Bullshit—you just cursed me in Cenglu, calling me “frivolous”!