MW CH7

Chapter 7: Don’t Eat Here

“Are you swapping all of these?” I scanned the courtyard, roughly counting—at least two dozen flowerpots stacked around.

“I can’t swap that many alone. I’ll do half today, the rest tomorrow,” Mochuan said. His Yan Guan robes were striking but impractical for labor. He set the plastic pots aside, deftly slipped off both sleeves, and tied them at his waist, revealing a narrow-sleeved white shirt beneath.

A natural clothes hanger—broad shoulders, cinched waist, long legs. Better figure than a TV star.

“How about… I help?” I rubbed my nose, volunteering.

Mochuan paused, eyeing the ground, hesitant. “That’d be too much trouble.”

I was already shedding my jacket. “I’ve got nothing else going on—plenty of time.”

“Helping” was an overstatement. All I did was toss some clay pellets into the plastic pots, sprinkle base fertilizer, and hand them to Mochuan.

The rote task freed my mind to wander—like how people say orchids are tough to grow, but it depends on who’s tending them.

Back in the dorm, Mochuan had a bunch of plants on the balcony. After he left, Yan Chuwen took over but lacked the knack—turned into a plant assassin. By senior year when he moved out, most were dead or dying, except one orchid clinging to life.

It looked pitiful, so I gave it to my grandma. Under her care, it bloomed yearly, thriving, growing bigger.

Good times didn’t last—she passed a few years later, and it became ownerless again.

That little orchid, passed hand to hand, sparked some kinship in me—I took it to my studio. But maybe I wasn’t tending it right; it never flowered again.

Maybe, like “a scholar dies for a confidant, a woman adorns for her lover,” flowers only bloom for the right person. And I wasn’t its match.

“These past few years, have you ever left this place?” I asked abruptly, handing him the last pot.

Mochuan’s fingers loosely gripped the rim. “Leave for where?”

“Out there. In seven years, have you been outside? Don’t you want to see how the world’s changed?” I watched his face, pressing on. “Different sights, new food, sex with someone you love—freedom to come and go. Don’t you want that?”

Such brash questions—rude as hell. I expected fury, but he just looked at me and countered, “What good is wanting?”

I’d aimed to provoke him, but he turned it back on me.

With a slight tug, he took the pot, gaze drifting to a cypress by the woodshed door in the back courtyard. “That tree might want to see the world too, but its roots are sunk here, bound tight to this land. How could it leave?”

He nestled the orchid’s fleshy roots into the pot, filling around them with fresh clay, his face free of any resentment.

“So, what good is wanting?” His tone was calm, flat—like a lake frozen over in winter.

It hit me.

“What good is wanting” wasn’t a retort—it was the answer.

I opened my mouth, feeling I should say something—offer a practical fix. But running through every “way out” in my head, I landed where he did: What good is wanting?

His role locked him out of freedom’s reach.

Lips pressed shut, I dropped the subject. Our talk ended there.

The pots were done—no reason to linger. I dusted my hands, grabbed my coat, and turned to go.

“Wait,” Mochuan called, gesturing for me to stay put.

He ducked into the kitchen and returned with a winnowing basket holding a few plump persimmons—round, red-orange, dusted with a thin frost, downright cheerful-looking.

“Thanks,” he said simply.

“Cool.” No point in playing polite—I reached for it, but he pulled the basket back.

A snow-white handkerchief appeared, nudged toward my dirt-smudged fingers. Message clear.

“Fancy,” I smirked, snatching one end and yanking it over. I scrunched it into a ball, rubbed my hands a few times like it was tissue, and tossed it back.

Mochuan stared at the crumpled “cauliflower,” brows twitching faintly, but he took it anyway.

The soft cotton grazed my fingers as it left—I curled them, resisting the tickle, and kept my hand out.

The basket came back, and this time I grabbed it.

“See ya,” I said offhandedly, heading out. After a dozen meters down the steps, I glanced back—Mochuan stood at the top, having followed me out.

Polite to a fault, no matter who it was.

I waved him off. He didn’t budge, just stood there, eyes lowered.

Most folks here had darker skin—even Yan Chuwen had tanned noticeably over the years—but Mochuan’s stayed a cold pale, untouched by sun, then or now.

Framed against the ancient temple, he almost blended into the white walls.

No, I thought, looking away and descending.

Maybe he’d already fused with them long ago.

Back at the institute, I’d just set the basket down when Yan Chuwen came downstairs.

“Where’d these persimmons come from?” He snatched one and stuffed it in his mouth.

“Mochuan’s.”

His face lit up with shock. “You went to Deer King Temple?”

“Yeah.” I skimmed over dropping off the package, skipping the flowerpot bit.

Gripping a persimmon by its stem, I took a big bite—sweetness flooded my mouth.

“Mochuan’s pretty decent, huh?” Yan Chuwen wolfed his down and reached for another. I swatted his hand away quick.

He clutched his reddened hand, gaping. “Why’d you hit me?”

I didn’t even know why—after a pause, I mumbled, “Dinner’s soon. You’ll spoil it eating all these.” I grabbed the basket and headed upstairs.

Halfway up, Guo Shu came down for dinner. She started to say hi, but I thrust the basket at her. “Pick one—four left.”

“?”

She cautiously took one, thanked me, and continued down, puzzled.

I faintly heard her ask Yan Chuwen, “Senior, are Bai Yin’s persimmons pricey or something? Why’s he so…”

On my ninth day in Cuoyansong, the Cenglu’s Winter Abundance Festival arrived.

Before 7 a.m., firecrackers jolted me awake. Swallowing a curse, I shoved the window open—outside, the long steps swarmed with people.

“Up yet?” Yan Chuwen knocked right then.

I raked my messy hair and opened the door.

He and Guo Shu were off to the temple to grab some porridge, soak in the festivity, and asked if I’d join.

Young or not, they loved a crowd.

“Nah.” I shut the door.

Yesterday, I’d spent all night tweaking drafts, only to realize they were trash. Now, I wanted nothing but sleep.

Yan Chuwen nagged through the door like a mom. “If you get hungry, rummage in the fridge. The auntie who cooks for us is helping at the temple today.”

I dug out earplugs from my suitcase, popped them in, and tried sleeping—ten minutes later, I shot up, pissed.

Sleep had bolted like a rabbit in a field—gone the second I lost grip.

Rubbing my face, exhausted, I hit the bathroom for a shower. I came out refreshed.

Downstairs, the crowd had thinned a bit, but it was still a dark mass. No clue where Yan Chuwen and Guo Shu were in line.

Winter Abundance was the Cenglu’s second-biggest festival after the Deer King’s Birthday. Pinjia would be busy dawn to dusk, serving blessed porridge to clansfolk flocking to Pengge. Drink it, and the next year promised peace, health, immunity to all ills.

No porridge cures disease, obviously—but when luck sours, people cling to pretty hopes, no matter how absurd.

Why not try? It’s free. Might shift your fortune. Might… spark inspiration?

My head buzzed with those thoughts. Next thing I knew, I was in the throng, part of the line.

“…”

I tried backing out, but couldn’t squeeze through. Luckily, despite the numbers, it was orderly—everyone shuffled forward calmly, no shoving.

Plenty in the crowd dressed like me, Xia-style. I asked a family—they were mostly Shannan locals, not believers, just driving over for the vibes.

“Our kid’s got college exams next year. Heard this Pinjia was a top student—scored over 600 back in the day—so we figured we’d soak up some luck,” the woman said, grinning as she ruffled her son’s hair.

The boy, speckled with acne, dodged her hand, annoyed. “Ugh, don’t mess up my hair!”

The dad jumped in, mussing it more. “What’s wrong with a pat? I’ll style it cooler.”

“You don’t get it—this is trendy now.”

“Your eyes are half-covered—trendy, huh…”

Watching them bicker and laugh, a pang hit me.

Driving hundreds of kilometers just to borrow some academic luck for their kid.

That boy might never realize how enviable his fortune was.

The line crawled. After half an hour, my turn.

First table: an auntie handed me a plastic bowl. Second: another scooped porridge from a giant steel vat into it. Third: I got a palm-sized flatbread.

Bowl in one hand, bread in the other, I reached Mochuan.

A small wooden table stood between us, topped with an old copper basin holding a fresh cypress sprig in water.

He didn’t notice me at first—right thumb, index, and middle fingers flicked the water’s surface, ready to bless me. Then he saw my face, froze, his smile locking in place.

“Grabbing breakfast,” I said with a grin, chomping a big bite of bread.

He lowered his eyes, silent. Like he’d done for countless others, he pressed two fingers to my forehead, then slid his damp, cold thumb across my lips.

I stopped chewing. Breathing stalled. Sweetness seeped from my lips into my mouth—I thought that was it, but his hand lingered, still on my lip’s peak.

Not done?

Puzzled, I froze as he spoke low, his first words to me today.

“Don’t eat here.”

His fingertips pressed slightly—a warning.

“…”

Resisting an eye-roll, I gulped the mouthful down. “…Got it.”

His hand stayed for the first two words, then flicked away like I was gross by the last.

In the winter chill, his fingers, soaked in water all day, were red from the cold.

“Lajieluo,” he said, looking aside, clenching his hand as if it ached.

Lajieluo—with my shaky Cenglu vocab, it meant “God prevails.” Tied to the festival, it was probably like “Amen” in Christianity—a praise to the divine.

Gazing at his solemn, sacred face, I echoed, “Lajieluo.”