MW CH28

Chapter 28: All Desires Bring Suffering

After Quiz Island shut down, I sank—listless, couldn’t muster energy for anything. Thought two breakups had taught me how to crawl out of a relationship. Wrong. Breakups are breakups; heartbreak’s different—no comparison.

Post-breakup, I’d eat, drink, class, hang out—miss them, sure, but not obsess. Heartbreak? That person, those moments—they hijacked every second, left no room for anything else, no will to think beyond.

Class, ball games, even bench-sitting—I’d wonder: Is this MK?

I’d stare at the game icon—doodle a chibi loli mid-sketch. Meals? Tasteless—sigh halfway, appetite gone.

That dazed, soul-lost haze dragged into summer. That year, like always, Aunt Wan invited me over for the hottest days.

Maybe I was too off—Yan Chuwen held it in, but day three, he cracked. “Why’re you zoning out so much?”

He’d been munching watermelon—leaned over, peeked at my phone. “Huh? You play this too? Fun?”

Blinked, looked up. “You know it?”

App lingered—test phase done, unopenable. Kept it anyway.

Yan Chuwen cradled half a melon, nodded. “Yeah—Mochuan played it. Even checked it walking.”

Mochuan played?

Him—otherworldly, detached—on a mobile game?

Shock, then sense. Zhao Chenyuan’s archery club—probably handed out beta codes. Mochuan, too polite to refuse, downloaded it—played a month or two, ditched it when the novelty faded.

“He’s good—server top, you hear of him?” Yan Chuwen lobbed a nuke, casual. “Goes by MK.”

“…”

Brain blank—ruins, nothing left.

“MK… Mochuan?” I locked on Yan Chuwen, begging for a lie. If it’s a prank, I’d laugh it off.

No dice—he doubled down. “Yeah, his initials.”

“Shouldn’t it be M…” Stopped—hit me, dry. “He’s Cenglu—‘Mochuan’s just the Xia sound…”

Yan Chuwen nodded, pleased. “Right—his Cenglu name’s ‘ma-kà’—MK. Played daily—then the old priest got sick, he went back, hasn’t touched it since…”

Tuned out after—Mochuan? Him? Mind blown—absurd.

No wonder he dodged meeting…

Him—game “marriage” was wild enough—IRL with some rando? No shot.

Six months flashed: him gifting a red flower, hearing my family mess; Orange hatched, I asked names—he deferred to me; skirts I bought, he’d grumble “too pricey” but wear them; “wife” calls—he’d resist, then gave in, even answered…

My wife—that cute wife—Mochuan? How?

Collapsed—shock hit harder. Dropped four, five pounds in a week—Aunt Wan freaked, dragged me to a doc. Checks done—stress, anxiety, they said. Chill out.

Ha—chill? What else? Anyone else, I’d chase—but Mochuan? Only option’s letting go.

Not one to dwell—snapped out of it. New semester, fresh start—studies, no more love riddles.

Fate disagreed—too comfy, it stirred trouble. Dodged Mochuan’s electives via Yan Chuwen—thought I’d nailed it, just him as overlap. Nope—oil painting class, teacher hauled him in as model.

“…” Watched, numb, as they plopped Mochuan center-stage—semester task: paint him.

North City’s millions—why him? Last term’s cafeteria lady booked?

“Mochuan, sit, read.” Teacher—harsh with us—cooed at him. Later learned he’d seen Mochuan shoot arrows on a stroll—smitten, conned him into modeling.

Less for us—more for him.

Silver lining? Two classes weekly, big group—I’d rarely face him solo.

Sketched his outline—erased, redid—never good enough.

Forced myself to look—drooped lashes, sharp nose, sculpted lips. Side profile? Jawline pure art.

No shock the teacher picked him—heard pre-class he’s a beauty nut, obsessed with perfection.

Hand froze mid-flip—Mochuan’s gaze nailed me.

Stared back—pencil gouging paper. Chest surged—wanted to storm up, demand why no divorce. But I flinched, looked away—did nothing.

Class end—just a faint sketch. Teacher frowned—try harder.

Harder? I’m a fool already—more effort, more pathetic?

Each session, Mochuan arrived early—fixed spot, different books. Essays, novels—sometimes folklore.

I started early too. Sometimes just us—he read, I sharpened pencils, music on. Quiet—page flips, blade on lead—till a third showed, then chatter drowned us.

One day, teacher stepped out—someone sparked chaos: wandering, chatting. Dropped my brush, glanced at unfazed Mochuan—grabbed my phone.

“Bai Yin, your lockscreen’s adorable!” A classmate glimpsed it, leaned in. “Who’s this loli—game character?”

Still that old screen: blonde twin-tails, pink-blue gown, red crown—curtsying dainty.

MK—Mochuan’s avatar. Some weird urge—I’d never swapped it.

“Game wife,” I said, handed her the phone.

Her eyes popped. “Didn’t peg you for this…”

Mochuan—zero reaction. That chest surge roared back—stronger, wilder.

Loud—loud enough for him—I said: “She’s badass—server top. We’ve got a kid—little gold dragon, ‘Orange.’ I love buying her skirts—she’s thrilled, spins around me!”

He froze—I pulled back, smug with revenge.

“Uh… cool wife,” she mumbled—clueless, weirded out—returned the phone, left.

Why suffer alone? Stay out? Dream on.

Malice brewed—I stopped avoiding him, seized every chance to hover—hit Yan Chuwen’s dorm more.

His discomfort? My relief.

Slow days, I’d crash his elective.

Still recall it—Plant Wealth Guide. Teacher droned: sick grapes, northwest crops, apple yields—gibberish. Mochuan alone took notes—back row dozed.

I didn’t listen—just sketched his back. Done, added a chibi hammering his head.

First time he saw me there—shock, brows knit. Walked up: “Why’re you here?”

Leaned back, grinned up. “Into plants—can’t I audit?”

Doubt flashed. “Thought you’d avoid me.”

Fake smile held. “Just class—not dating—what’s to endure?”

Lashes flickered—hit home—he fled wordless to the front, farthest seat.

Fate—or me playing with fire, eating the fallout. A year in, it flipped—annoying him turned to provoking, craving his notice, wanting to stand out…

All desires bring suffering—none, strength. More you want, worse you lose. Mom learned; so did I.

Junior summer—old priest died—Mochuan quit to take the role. First day back, he handled paperwork, packed.

Bounced to Yan Chuwen’s for food—empty bunk. Thought he’d skipped—then: “You didn’t know? Mochuan dropped out—just left.”

Blood drained—September, yet ice in my limbs.

“Why?” My voice—weak, ghostly.

Yan Chuwen sighed. “His duty.”

Bullshit duty!

Bolted—dialed him mid-sprint.

“Where are you?” Connected—I pounced.

Wind screamed—gasped, ran like hell to the gate, clinging to slim hope he lingered.

Pause—calm, flat: “On the way to the airport.”

“Finish your last year! One more—quitting now, you okay with that?” Pleaded hard. “Don’t go… Cuoyansong won’t collapse without you—you don’t have to be priest…”

Everyone’s born free—me, Yan Chuwen, him too.

He’d left—why return?

“Leave now, you’ll regret it—you will…” Throat rusted—chest burned running.

Gate chaos—cars, crowds. Flagged a cab—airport.

“We’ll figure it out—don’t go—wait, I…”

“It’s my life, Bai Yin.” Cut me off—second line since pickup.

Ice water—doused my fire. Sweaty heat faded—chilled slow.

AC hit—I shivered hard.

Right—his life. Who am I? No right to decide—he didn’t even tell me he’d go.

Like Jiang Xuehan, all for Buddha—family, friends gone. Raised to serve the Mountain Lord—my “freedom”? Trash to him.

Begged—he’s still leaving… Freedom’s nothing next to his god.

Gripped the phone—jealousy, venom for that thing spiked. Words turned bitter, no blessings.

“Fine—wish you glory, smooth winds, eternal love with your Mountain Lord—never apart.”

“…” Light laugh—unintelligible Cenglu—click, gone.

Stared at the phone—madness ebbed like tides, washing away delusions, forcing reality.

“Driver, back to school.” Deleted his number—slumped, eyes shut, spent.

Seven years—no contact—till I wrecked “Pinewood Stream.”