MW CH42

Chapter 42: He Doesn’t Believe Me

No wonder justice shines bright while darkness cloaks evil. Dim light really does loosen morals, letting modern civility slip away easy.

Like now. Forget seven years ago—seven days ago, I wouldn’t have pictured myself pulling this.

Mochuan didn’t dare move. “Bai Yin, let go first.”

“But I’m scared.”

Stalemate. Neither of us spoke for a bit.

Then Mochuan broke. “Fine, don’t hug my waist—it’s hard to walk.”

Reluctant, but knowing this wasn’t a one-shot deal, I played it smart and released him.

He straightened his rumpled clothes, turning with a molested-level scowl.

“Wait here. I’ll grab a flashlight.” He started off—I snagged his arm quick.

“Wait!” Sliding down to clutch his sleeve corner, I faked panic. “Come with me—it’s too dark, don’t leave me alone.”

He stilled, didn’t yank free, didn’t say a word—just let me “lead” him to his room.

Digging out a high-beam flashlight from a drawer, he flicked it on. Bam—room lit up like day.

“This thing’s badass.” City life rarely calls for these—I marveled, reaching to check it out, then remembered my “persona” and ducked behind him.

Next second, he shoved it at me.

I eyed it, then him, wary. “Why’re you giving it to me?”

“It’s not dark with this. Take it and go.” He nudged it closer.

“…”

I clutched my ribs, groaning weirdly. “Ow, you might’ve hurt me earlier—ugh, can’t straighten up, can’t walk alone.”

Bent slightly, I kept a death grip on his sleeve.

He pulled the flashlight back, studied me, then said, “Wait here—I’ll call someone to take you to the hospital.”

Seeing him reach for the phone, I gritted my teeth, grabbed his wrist through the fabric, and yanked him back. “Not that bad—just help me back.”

“Help you back?” His gaze dropped to my hand on him—question in his voice, but his body didn’t resist.

“Or…” I licked my palate, soft. “I don’t have to go.”

A glare sliced over, lethal—say more nonsense, and he’d beat me out with a stick.

I laughed quick. “Kidding!”

He locked the hall door and, in the end, walked me back to the institute himself.

Pengge’s nights are dim enough—power out, it’s pitch black. Lucky his flashlight was a mini spotlight—lit the whole staircase, beaming hundreds of meters.

With light this strong, “I’m scared of the dark” wouldn’t fly. I pivoted.

“About that ‘Feather of God’ I said I’d give you—aren’t you curious why I dropped it?” I glanced at his chest—same cyan jade beads. He wears those a lot, must like them.

If Feather was still around, it’d be on him now.

“It’s yours—you can give it to anyone or not.” He watched his steps, barely engaging.

The favored act fearless—I used to think he didn’t care, didn’t like me much, so my gifts meant nothing. Now I know he cares, enough to ditch his Yan Guan role for a sec. Only explanation: he doesn’t think Feather was made for him—just some trinket I tossed his way.

“I didn’t want to give it to anyone else—just you. My ex-manager sold it behind my back—to some tycoon’s daughter. We fought big, split ugly. She took half the studio, made me pay a fortune to buy back shares.” Pausing, I leaned into the pity play. “I’ve got nothing left.”

No royal blue sapphires, no Jedi spinels, no chrysoberyls—my gem cabinet’s bare, cleaner than Erqian’s food bowl.

Wait, scratch that—still got that fifty-carat red spinel. Couldn’t let it go.

The flashlight beamed ahead. Mochuan’s tone dripped disdain. “You Xia—screwing over your own kind?”

He’s soaked in Xia culture for years, but all ivory-tower stuff—no street time. As Pinjia, he’s seen backward ignorance, not raw human nastiness. His role shields him from that here.

“Yep, backstabbing specialists.” I piled on the woe. “Knew her abroad, years of friendship—I saw her as a pal, she saw me as a chump.”

He mulled it, then said, “You’re young—money comes back.”

“But Feather’s gone—can’t get it back. Even if I did, it wouldn’t suit you anymore.”

For him, it’s got to be one-of-a-kind—no one else’s hands on it. Worn by another, even my masterpiece, it’s unfit.

He tuned out, lost in thought, missing my words till I called his name twice.

“What’d you say?”

I didn’t mind his drift, smiled. “Said I’ll owe you—long as I’m alive, I’ll make something new, make it up later.”

He stopped, stared silently, then said, “If Chuwen went missing, I’d do the same—you don’t owe me anything.”

I froze. “I…”

He glanced at my chest, dropped his supporting hand, and headed down. “You can walk, right?”

The beam carved light; shadows grew darker. Before they swallowed me, I rushed to catch up, blurting, “That’s not what I meant—I’ve figured it out, no more backing off or doubting. Don’t you believe me?”

No answer—his silence said it all. He didn’t.

After that, whatever I said, he heard but didn’t reply—like I was on mute.

At the institute gate, he finally spoke. “Here. Go in.”

He turned to leave. I hesitated, then grabbed his hand—bare this time, no sleeve.

“I know it’s hard to trust me quick, but that’s fine—days are long. I’ll prove it.”

Thumb rubbing his hand, his face stayed blank, but every knuckle tensed—like a wild thing burned by a trap, wary of humans.

“Who’s that?” A door creaked upstairs—Yan Chuwen, caught in the flashlight’s piercing glow.

Mochuan snatched his hand back, didn’t even greet Yan Chuwen, and bolted toward the temple, a hint of panic in his stride.

“It’s me—back!” I waved up at Yan Chuwen.

Eyes off him, I pushed inside.

Like I told Mochuan—days are long. No way I’d snag the Mountain Lord’s prize this easy. Day one—keep at it.

Next few days, I hit the temple daily with some excuse—orchid care tips, random sutra lines, even Li Yang and He Nanyuan’s likes.

Figured I’d end up with Mochuan someday—those kids’d be my stepson and nephew, rounding up. Summer’s near—if I win them fast, they might put in a good word.

“Li Yang and Qia Gu?” Mochuan paused his pen, looked up, baffled. “Why’re you asking?”

“Curious.”

I came every day—he didn’t smile, but never kicked me out. Tells me, despite his front, he’s giving me a shot to prove myself.

“Li Yang’s good—playful age, loves what little boys do. Qia Gu…” He paused, odd. “Best you don’t show up near him.”

I quirked a brow. “Why?”

His pen flowed sharp. “He hates Xia—especially Haicheng playboys like you.”

Last six words—maybe my imagination—felt extra icy.

I’d been itching to clear my name, seized the chance. “Hold up—that’s bias. I’m a Haicheng guy, sure—‘playboy’? Where’s the ‘play’? Your Cenglu date two folks and they’re Cuoyansong Casanovas? Plus…” A near-thirty playboy still a virgin—does that even track?

“Hm?” No follow-up—he glanced up light.

“…Nothing.” Face hot, too embarrassed to say it, I looked away. “I’m not a player, period.”

Hall went quiet. Breeze wafted ink scent—I inhaled deep, calmest I’d felt in months.

Just staying by him like this… not bad—

“Pinjia!” Niepeng’s gruff bellow broke it.

Mochuan’s pen jerked, slashing a long ink streak. Setting it down, he eyed the near-done sutra, then crumpled it slow, expressionless.

“What’s up?” Tossing the trash, he flashed a mild smile.

Niepeng skidded to a stop. “Yo, little bro’s here too.” He nodded at me, bowed slight to Mochuan. “Zuochang village chief’s outside—wants you to check their grapes.”

“Wait, I’ll change.” Mochuan headed in.

“Grapes?” I stood as he did.

“Wine grapes,” Niepeng said.

Yan Chuwen once mentioned grapes as a Cuoyansong cash crop.

“Pinjia blesses grapes too?” Can’t blame my guess—blessing stuff’s his gig.

“Nah.” Niepeng grinned. “Tech help—pest control, smart spraying, pruning. Pinjia’s pro—even our crop support team’s boss gives him props.”

Tech support, huh? Explains why he took Plant-Based Prosperity as an elective—putting it to work.

I pointed at myself. “Can I tag along?”

Niepeng didn’t blink. “Sure, why not?”

He slung an arm over me, introduced me to Zuochang’s chief, Lei Lang, outside—told him to drive slow, said I’m that Xia who got lost on the mountain, ribs still healing.

Lei Lang gripped my hand hard. “Pleasure—heard of you.”

“Hey, hey.” I laughed, awkward.

Good news stays home; bad news flies. Whole Cuoyansong knows me now?

Mochuan came out fast—Yan Guan robes too heavy, he’d swapped to Xia gear: black low-neck knit, gray wool pants, short boots. Light, dirt-proof.

Zuochang’s twenty-odd kilometers—not far, but winding mountain roads stretched it to an hour at Lei Lang’s cautious pace. I dozed off halfway—Mochuan shook me awake at the end. Head fuzzy, I stumbled out, barely clocking the scenery before something slammed me—back hit the car, shoulder twinging.

“Bro, you’re here too?” Kun Hongtu, fist out, grinned with blinding teeth.

Rubbing my shoulder, ribs aching too, I groaned, “Kid… forget I’m still busted up?”

He blanked, then panicked, massaging my shoulder. “Sorry, bro—slipped my mind. You good?”

“Fine…” I swatted him off, about to ask why he’s here, when glass tapped behind me.

Turning—Mochuan, in the car, pointed at the door handle, mouthing two cold words: “Move.”

I stepped aside—other side was walled off.

Door swung hard—he stepped out, long legs striding, shutting it with a jolt that rocked the car.

Not a glance my way—he breezed past me and Kun Hongtu, gave the welcoming crew a polite nod, then headed into the vineyard.

“Pinjia in a bad mood today?” Kun Hongtu stared after him, worried.

I shoved him off, sour. “Back off!”