MW CH19

Chapter 19: So Vivid It Dazzles

All the way, I kept sneaking glances at Mochuan in the passenger seat, fishing for words, but he stayed half-lidded, half-asleep, ignoring me.

Silent practice—zhiyu, or closed-mouth meditation—I’d read about it. A discipline to purify body, speech, and mind by shutting your trap.

“Trouble starts at the mouth,” they say—proof it’s the body’s top chaos-maker. Keep it running, and verbal karma piles up. Some set a timer—days, months, years—to cut it down.

Others vow silence for the world’s sake, wishing away disasters, pain, disease, dedicating the merit to all beings. Or, like Mochuan, after breaking a precept, they emergency-mute to ditch stray thoughts, reclaim clarity.

It’s not weird, makes sense, but…

“You’re silencing for seven days over two bread rolls outside mealtime? Isn’t that overkill?”

No answer, not even a glance.

Break a minor “no off-hour eats” rule and he’s this hardcore? Break something big—like lust—and he’d probably rip out his tongue, go full mute for real.

Rain stopped, but the road to Cuoyansong was a muddy slog. Good thing Yan Chuwen’s jeep had guts—tires slipped, but raw horsepower pulled us from pits.

Slow going, we hit Pengge near noon. Maybe dodging folks at the front, Mochuan had me loop to the back hill, drop him there.

I parked by a narrow path, got out with him, popped the trunk, handed over the hospital meds.

He took the bag, dipped his eyes and head—a quiet thanks—then hiked up the winding trail.

I stood below, hands in pockets, leaning on the door, watching his back fade till it vanished.

Digging out the toffee from my pocket, I peeled it slow—too warm from my body, it’d started melting, sticking to the wrapper.

Yep, melted…

Staring at the gooey mess, appetite gone, I rewrapped it, shoved it back in.

Back at the institute, Yan Chuwen was up. Couldn’t wait for my shower—lurked outside the bathroom, grilling me on yesterday.

“See? You say they snub you, but he took a blade for you!” he cut in when I hit Mochuan’s injury.

I scrubbed shampoo, paused, then kept going. “You’ve known him years—don’t you get it? He’d do that for anyone. That’s not about me.”

He sighed. “Fine, go on.”

“Then… hospital… storm… silence…”

Shower done, story too, I toweled my hair, pushed the door open—Yan Chuwen leaned on the wall, arms crossed, brooding.

“…No one cooking today?” I guessed from his face.

He paused, looked up. “Tonight, I’ll go with you to check on Mochuan.”

I blinked. “He’s silent—what’s to see?”

“He does his thing, we visit the sick—separate deals.” He straightened, heading out. “I’ll see if I can grab fruit.”

Missed the morning market—nothing. Yan Chuwen bagged those apples and potatoes I’d dumped on him, hauled them to the temple that night.

Even I thought it was shameless—told him if it’s nothing good, skip it; Mochuan’s not starving.

“Light gift, heavy heart—intent counts,” he grinned, eerily like his dad.

We left after dinner, hit the temple gate just past six. Courtyard open, main hall lit—voices murmured inside.

Yan Chuwen and I swapped looks; he called first, “Mochuan, we’re here!”

Hall went quiet. We stepped in—Nie Peng sat across from Mochuan.

“Little bro’s here too?” Nie Peng, on a cushion with Mochuan, started up. “Just wrapped my stuff—won’t crash your reunion. Catch you later…”

A low table between them held a thick stack of paper, neat brushstrokes—Mochuan’s silent chat method.

“No, no, Nie Peng, sit—join us…” Yan Chuwen waved him down, grabbed a cushion, plopped.

I followed, sitting by Mochuan’s other side.

Maybe Nie Peng’s presence shamed him—Yan Chuwen stashed the “sick-visit” bag, too embarrassed to flaunt it.

“Sixteen stitches, Bai Yin said? No lasting damage?” Yan Chuwen leaned in, peering through his glasses at Mochuan’s arm like he could X-ray the gauze.

Mochuan shook his head, fixed his sleeve, penned two shaky characters on fresh paper: “No issue.”

Right hand—hurt one—wrote it, strokes wobbly, less steady.

“Li Yang’s not here—one hand’s tough. Someone should help a few days,” Yan Chuwen suggested.

No clue why, but I swore his eyes flicked my way, loaded.

“Yeah, bathing, dressing—one hand’s a hassle. Why didn’t I think of that?” Nie Peng slapped his head, volunteering. “Pinjia, I’ll stay at the temple—how’s that?”

“Whoa, Nie Peng, village chief—busy enough! Why burden you?” Yan Chuwen shot me a look. “Bai Yin’s perfect. Pinjia got hurt for him—he stays, makes sense.”

I jolted. “Me?”

Sudden, yeah—but… not impossible? Mochuan did take the hit for me.

“I’m cool—your call?” I turned to Mochuan.

“…” He frowned, pen trembling worse, half a “No” down—Yan Chuwen snatched it.

“Ease up on that hand—settled.” He set the brush back, grinning. “Don’t fight it—rare chance to boss Bai Yin around. He’s gone soon—who knows when next?”

Nie Peng roared laughing, thumbed-up Yan Chuwen. “True friend.”

Maybe he bought it, or couldn’t refuse—Mochuan didn’t push back, just stared at the half-“No,” letting it slide.

Nie Peng lingered, checked the time—had to go, road too dark. Yan Chuwen stood too.

Hands braced behind me, I waved them off, staying put.

“You two head out—I’ve got this.” I’d already embraced my new gig.

Mochuan rose, walked them to the gate, returned, glanced at me, knelt back on his cushion.

“No Xia stay overnight—sleep, go back,” I read off his slow scrawl, snickered. “Got it—won’t taint your temple.”

Scanning around for chores, I saw the stove’s wood low—not enough for the night. “I’ll grab some from the shed.”

He nodded, let me go.

Flashlight on, I nudged the shed door—creakier than a decade ago, groaning like it’d collapse.

Beam hit the wall—neat stacks of wood. I grabbed an armful, juggled my phone between fingers, shuffled back.

Hall empty—Mochuan gone.

A weird mix of wood, ghee, and incense hung in the air. I fed the stove, eyed the giant deer statue, then hunted for him.

Li Yang once said Mochuan hosts and eats here, sleeps in the side room—so I headed there, no hesitation.

Red door ajar, bead curtain swaying—a small room, all in view.

A wall-spanning wardrobe, carved ornate; a window-side bed-sofa hybrid; books shelved high to low; and—jaw-dropping—a rack dripping with beads and beiyun.

Jade, pearls, gems—so lavish it didn’t just catch your eye, it stole your soul.

Cenglu, Cenglu… you’re damn lucky it’s me. Anyone else, this rack’s worth would spark a murder spree.

But soon, something else snagged me.

Mochuan, unaware, held a beige shearling pajama, mid-change. Back to me, shirt bunched at his waist, baring chiseled shoulders and a half-hidden slim waist.

Yesterday’s bloodied teal jade beads were off—now, vivid coral beads, a deep-red beiyun knotted with white jade. Long tassels, usually neat, caught in his robe, spilling like blood across pale skin—so striking it blinded.

Cenglu, Cenglu… I shut my eyes, teeth gritted. You should all thank your stars I’m not a real psycho.