MW CH9

Chapter 9: This Isn’t Your Playground

The Winter Abundance Festival’s buzz stretched into the night.

Normally, once the sun dipped and eight p.m. hit, Pengge fell silent—streets empty, not a soul around. Tonight, though, the village’s biggest square thrummed with song and dance, clinking cups, and chatter.

Low tables ringed a bonfire, laden with warming liquor, dried fruit, and sunflower seeds. Cenglu folks clustered in threes and fives—some talking, some drinking.

“Here’s to Bai Yin—he really made us Xia proud today!” Yan Chuwen raised his bowl, Guo Shu joining in.

One arm around the dog, I fumbled for my bowl with the other.

“Too much credit—just a small favor.” I took a shallow sip, my gaze drifting to the figure at the east head seat.

Mochuan tilted his head, murmuring to Nie Peng beside him, nodding now and then. Even in this lively scene, his posture stayed rigid—Yan Guan dignity intact, spine ramrod straight.

Sensing my stare, he glanced my way mid-sentence, precise as a dart.

I didn’t flinch. Across the fire’s glow, I smirked and lifted my bowl to him.

Like every time before, he ignored me—eyes sliding away like I wasn’t there.

I’d braced for it, so when he did exactly that, I wasn’t mad—just amused.

“By the way, what’s ‘Lajieluo’ mean?” I set my bowl down, quizzing the two folklore buffs present.

Yan Chuwen blinked. “Lajieluo? You went to the temple this morning? It’s a blessing—literally ‘God prevails.’”

“Yeah, I did. Why does Mo… Pinjia say it during the blessing?” I pressed.

“It ties to local mountain god lore,” Guo Shu said, shelling peanuts. “Cenglu believe Canglan Snow Mountain is the Mountain God’s domain—they’re his people. Cuoyansong’s peace comes from the god beating back evil spirits and disasters. ‘Lajieluo’ is both a victory cry and praise to the divine.”

Praise to the gods—about what I’d figured.

Curiosity piqued when I didn’t know; now I did, it felt flat.

“Cedar’s the purest tree to Cenglu—water soaked with its branches is the cleanest,” Yan Chuwen added, holding up his right hand, pinching index and middle fingers. “Two fingers tap the water, touch the forehead, thumb sweeps above the brows, then you say ‘Lajieluo’—that’s Pinjia’s Winter Abundance blessing rite.”

“Pretty meaningf—” I stopped. Wait, that’s not what I got.

Too busy grabbing food that morning, I hadn’t clocked how Mochuan blessed the others—assumed it was standard. Now, it hit me: that guy gave me a custom job.

What for? Punishing my irreverence?

“You guys chat—I’m stepping out for a smoke.” I dumped Erqian on Guo Shu and stood, only for a heavy body to crash into me from behind.

“Bro, you’re amazing!”

I frowned, shrugging off the arm slung over my shoulder.

The guy had long hair, early twenties, decent features—I recognized him instantly: my archery teammate from earlier.

“Name’s Kun Hongtu. You?” He stuck out a hand—not for a shake, but a high-five.

That street vibe—I hadn’t seen it in years.

“Bai Yin.” I gripped his hand anyway.

Palms clasped, Kun Hongtu leaned in, slapping my back like we were old pals. “Thanks to you this time—drinks sometime?”

“Sure,” I agreed easily.

“Akun, I’ve been here years—how come you never asked me for drinks?” Guo Shu teased, hands tucked under the dog’s warm belly.

“Men can’t just invite women to drink,” Kun Hongtu shot back. He seemed tight with Yan Chuwen’s crew—soon plopped down to chat.

I found a quiet corner, lit a cigarette.

Cold air mixed with sharp tobacco flooded my lungs. Behind me, festive clamor; ahead, the dark, ancient village—a jarring split that dazed me, blurring dream and reality.

The cigarette brushed my lips, and my mind flashed to that morning—Mochuan’s blessing.

Cold fingertips pressed to my mouth, a nudge more, almost slipping inside…

Breath hitched, smoke choked me—I coughed till the world spun.

Kun Hongtu found me crouched, gasping.

“Bai Yin… you okay?” He grabbed my arm, trying to haul me up.

I waved him off, pushing myself upright. Wind stung my face, eyes damp.

“Fine—just choked,” I rasped, wiping my face. “You need something?”

He snapped back to his mission, tugging me toward the square. “Pinjia’s giving out awards—I’m grabbing you to collect! Hurry, we’re up soon!”

Half-dazed, I let him drag me to the bonfire. Stopping short, I nearly toppled—lucky he steadied me, sparing me a public flop.

“Slow down—Pinjia’s not gonna sprout wings,” I grumbled, half-smirking.

He flashed white teeth. “Can’t keep Pinjia waiting.”

Bureaucratic nonsense, I sneered inwardly.

Besides archery, the afternoon had horse racing and wrestling—first-place teams got Pinjia’s personal award. Kun Hongtu and I were last; a dozen others lined up ahead.

“Big Bro, Teacher Yan says you’re a jewelry designer,” Kun Hongtu said. We clicked fast—both outgoing—soon calling each other brother. “Guess how much this amber ‘round my neck’s worth?”

Amber’s just resin—same as beeswax. It got hyped up a while back, prices soaring. Market’s a mess—good stuff’s legit fossil resin, but crooks peddle fake plastic as real. Most can’t tell.

I’m a designer, not an appraiser—how’d I know his chunk’s origin? But people love flattery.

I pinched the pebble-sized, yellowish-brown amber at his chest, studied it, then said, “This? Top-tier—value’s beyond money.”

Hit him right in the feels. He grabbed my hand, dropping “Big Bro” for “Bro.” “Bro, city folks got the eye! I knew this thing’s a gem!”

The line shuffled forward. I patted his chest, sage-like. “Don’t sell it—pass it down. Family heirloom material.” In a century, it’d be vintage amber.

He nodded hard, face flushed—excitement or firelight, who knows.

Chatting, we reached the archery team’s turn. Medals weren’t gold or silver—wooden, carved plaques strung with creamy bodhi beads, pure local flair.

For each winner, Mochuan looped on the medal, saying warmly, “You did well—the Mountain Lord’s proud.”

“Those bodhi beads are from the temple’s cedar—wards off calamity, Bro. Heirloom-worthy too,” Kun Hongtu said earnestly.

I tugged my lip, teasing. “Can’t pass it down—I’m snipped.”

He blanked out, mouth opening to ask—then his turn came.

He spun around, stepped up, hands crossed over his heart, bowing deep to Mochuan.

“Pinjia,” he said in Cenglu.

Mochuan hung the medal, smiled, patted his shoulder. “You did well.”

Kun Hongtu, barely over 1.7 meters, had to tilt up at Mochuan.

“I’ll always follow Pinjia and the Mountain Lord,” he declared, fierce and heartfelt—not rote, but a vow.

He bounced off, beaming. My turn—I stepped up.

Firelight softened Mochuan’s usual ice-sculpture chill with a warm tint. Taking the last medal from Nie Peng, he slipped it over my head. Sandalwood scent filled my nose.

“Than—”

“This isn’t your playground, Bai Yin.”

Mid-thanks, he leaned close, whispering sharp and clear—words just for us.

I froze. In a flash, his subtext clicked: Fucking queer, don’t taint this holy ground.

Chest heaving, I sucked in frigid air, exhaled molten rage.

Mochuan stepped back, hands clasped—words brutal, demeanor serene as a still lake.

Flames danced shadows across his face and robes. Funny how the mind flips—minutes ago, I’d thought the fire warmed him; now, I wished it’d swallow him, burn him to ash with its rot.

I glared, turned, and stormed off.

The medal swung, irking me—I gripped it, tempted to rip it off and chuck it into the blaze. Hesitated, couldn’t do it—clenched it till my knuckles ached.

The two-faced saint pissed me off, but this medal? I earned it fair. Why take it out on that?

Done with the scene, I said bye to Yan Chuwen’s crew and trudged back to the institute alone.

For days after, I didn’t see Mochuan—barely left my room. Not because of his cryptic jab—Huangfu Rou was hounding me, so I holed up designing, losing track of day and night.

Emerging, my work wasn’t perfect—best I could do, though. Starved for fresh air, I asked Yan Chuwen about nearby sights.

“There’s Bazhai Sea—snow mountain reflections, kinda famous online. Bit far, though—fifty, sixty kilos from Pengge,” he said.

I had time to burn. Fifty-six kilometers wasn’t five-six hundred.

Snagging his car keys, I set off solo.

Bazhai Sea’s no sea—just a massive inland lake. Warm months, Cenglu herd cattle and horses here; waterfowl nest and breed. Cold now, it felt desolate.

I parked roadside, hands in coat pockets, strolling the shore alone.

Maybe the open space—wind howled fierce. Bazhai’s waves crashed like a real sea.

Far off, a small dock appeared, a knot of people around it. Amid the black-clad cluster, one white figure stood out.

I slowed, didn’t stop—then sped up.

Not far from Pengge, but not close either. What cursed luck to run into Mochuan here?