"SIT" MO XI said lightly. There was no one else in the hall.
Gu Mang was certainly not one to stand on ceremony. He pulled out the other chair and quickly sat, then reached out and took the lids off the platters in front of him.
There were eight different dishes: sea cucumber sauteed with green onion, yellow croaker fish fried with green onion, venison roasted with green onion, beef stir-fried with green onion, green onion tofu, green onion egg drop soup, green onion pancake—as though someone in the kitchen had sworn a blood feud against green onions. The only dish without this vegetable was a whole roast goose arranged over a charcoal brazier to the table's side.
After an entire day of swinging an axe, Gu Mang was so hungry he felt like a hole had been punched through his stomach. Without a care for Mo Xi's reaction, he immediately dug in with bare hands. He spared not a glance for the jade chopsticks and plates on the table. First, he grabbed a yellow croaker fish and took a large bite.
After chewing once, he spat it back out. "Yuck."
Mo Xi didn't bat an eyelash. He watched Gu Mang with elegant poise from his chair at the other end of the table. "Try a different dish."
Gu Mang reached for a piece of the roasted venison with green onion. After a few nibbles, he spat that out as well.
"Does it also taste bad?"
"Mn."
"Then try another."
This time Gu Mang hesitated, scanning the table full of dishes over and over. Cautiously, he picked a green onion pancake out of a bamboo basket. This time he didn't immediately take a bite. He held up the pancake and sniffed at it, wrinkled his nose, then sniffed at it again, dissatisfied.
In the end, he licked it, the tip of his tongue as delicate as a flower pistil. The sight of his flicking tongue seemed to stir something in Mo Xi's memories. His dark pupils glimmered as a hint of shadow flitted across his solemn features. He turned away.
"I don't like this green thing," Gu Mang said a few licks later. His complexion took on a sickly tinge. "I can't eat it."
Thats hardly surprising, thought Mo Xi. It would be stranger if you had liked it.
Great numbers of people had once invited the former General Gu to share a meal with them, but very few knew his preferences. Gu Mang, subject to the Murong Clan's strict discipline since he was a child, had a kind disposition. He would never consider pointing out what dishes he didn't like at a banquet; instead, he always thanked others for their generosity. Not even Murong Lian knew Gu Mang's disgust for green onion, despite living with him for so manyyears.
Mo Xi, however, was well aware of it.
"What's the green stuff called?"
"Green onion," Mo Xi answered, expressionless.
Mo Xi didn't reply. With a twitch of his finger, his spiritual energy set the flames in the brazier roaring higher. The roast goose had been stuffed with berries and skewered on a branch to roast slowly over a fruitwood fire, and was now golden-brown and crisp. Mo Xi sprinkled salt on it and picked up a small knife. He leisurely cut off one of the goose's legs and passed it to Gu Mang. "Try this."
Gu Mang accepted the food, but after having experienced the nightmare of the green onions, he was profoundly wary. He held up the drumstick and carefully inspected it, staring at the shimmering grease and burnished amber skin. Steam rose off it, carrying the savory aroma of meat and the smoky fragrance of fruitwood. Gu Mang swallowed unconsciously, yet still carefully asked, "There's no green onion?"
"None."
He bit down, the crispy, golden skin crackling between his teeth. The savory meat, running with hot juices and fat, instantly filled his mouth with flavor. Gu Mang polished off the drumstick in a few bites, even licking his fingers. Then he stared at the roast goose in the firepit with shining eyes. "More," he demanded.
Strangely enough, Mo Xi took no offense at being ordered about like a cook. He even thoughtfully pushed the dish of sour plum sauce in front of him over to Gu Mang. Then he carved Gu Mang a full plate of roast goose and watched his unbridled delight as he ate it, without taking a single bite himself.
"Do you like this roast goose?" Mo Xi asked.
Cheeks bulging, Gu Mang mumbled, "Yes."
"That's good," Mo Xi replied, his voice was even, without inflection. "This is the only dish I made—everything else was prepared by the cook."
"Good job." Gu Mang tossed out a mindless compliment for Master Chef Mo before busying himself with the roast goose again. Mo Xi's voice clearly held far less allure than the goose's crispy skin.
"Not really. I'm no good in the kitchen. A shixiong of mine taught me how to make this goose dish years ago, back when the two of us were stationed at a fortress on the frontier."
Outside the window, snow flurries drifted down and onto the latticework, where they formed a layer of glittering crystal. Inside, Gu Mang was still engrossed with his food. Mo Xi spoke with a rare calm, like a beast trapped within the mire of memory, unable to summon its ferocity ever again.
"At the time, we were still low-level cultivators, looking out for each other within our own squad." Mo Xi paused. "To be fair, it was more him looking out for me. He was three years my senior, and more advanced in both maturity and cultivation. Back then, I thought there was nothing on earth he didn't know. Be it supernatural mysteries or roast goose, he could explain anything perfectly.
"It was winter then too, and we had just fought a hard battle. The enemy soldiers had attacked our supply lines and cut off our provisions.
Our troop didn't have enough food, and what little we had was distributed according to rank."
As Mo Xi studied Gu Mang, his gaze, usually so sharp, was uncommonly distant. "Neither of us had enough to eat," he murmured. "One night, we were on duty, patrolling on either side of the camp. I don't know how he did it, but in all that snow, he somehow brought down a fat goose. He could have eaten it all himself, but for some reason, he cheerfully called me over. You know, I was in the middle of a growth spurt back then, so my appetite was actually much bigger than his."
At this, Gu Mang paused and looked up. After a beat of silence, Mo Xi asked, "What's wrong?"
Gu Mang licked his lips and dragged his plate closer to Mo Xi. "Gimme another drumstick."
Arching his brow, Mo Xi carved off the remaining drumstick and gave it to Gu Mang. Then—careless of whether Gu Mang was listening—he continued his story. "He picked some berries from a tree."
Gu Mang looked up and fixed him with another stare. Mo Xi pursed his lips. "There's no more. Each goose has only two drumsticks. Besides, you haven't even finished the one on your plate."
But Gu Mang suddenly cut in, seemingly without rhyme or reason. "Berries are so good."
Mo Xi paused and gave him a thoughtful look. "You're right, berries are good. That man also liked berries, and he often went to a lot of trouble to climb trees and pick them. He insisted that the difference between hand- picked berries and those struck down with magic was night and day. The roast goose recipe he taught me was very simple. Other than the goose, it only called for some salt and a handful of fresh berries."
"You eat it with the berries?"
"No, the berries were for stuffing the goose. He skewered it with a branch and smoked it over pine and lychee wood," Mo Xi said. "We sat by the firepit, and he added branches from time to time. Once the goose was golden, he sprinkled salt on it and took it off the fire. First he removed the berries, and then he dove right in. He warned me to be very careful."
"Careful of what?"
"We'd kept watch over that goose and smelled it cooking for so long, staring as it crisped and browned over the fire, watching its drippings trickling down. Obviously, we were ravenous after all that, and could hardly wait to take a bite," Mo Xi said lightly. "It was hard to avoid burning our tongues."
"Did you burn your tongue?"
"How could I possibly?" Mo Xi's eyes were hazy and vacant. "You, on the other hand..."
Gu Mang gnawed on the drumstick and licked his lips. "Look, I didn't burn mine either."
Mo Xi hesitated. "That's not what I meant. Forget it—it doesn't matter. Pretend I didn't say anything."
Thus instructed, Gu Mang paid no more mind to aught other than his meal. He ate half the entire goose, then fell into a stupor as he stared at what remained. In the end, he didn't eat any more.
"You're done?" Mo Xi asked.
Gu Mang nodded.
Mo Xi found this somewhat strange. Gu Mang's appetite seemed formidable these days, so how could half a roast goose be enough for him? But before he could give it more thought, Gu Mang asked, "Your shixiong, what was his name?"
This question was like an arrow piercing his heart. Mo Xi's head snapped up and he met Gu Mang's eyes, which were clear and filled with open curiosity. In the face of that gaze, Mo Xi's heart slowly began to ache.
Gu Mang...are you pretending? If you are, how could you be so calm...?
"That person." Mo Xi paused. "His name was..."
What was his name? It was two simple syllables, but they lodged in his throat, unutterable no matter how hard he tried. Mo Xi choked on that name: he had spoken those two words so many times before, but now they were like the shards of a tender dream that had shattered years ago, stabbing him until his heart and lungs were full of blood.
He couldn't say it. Desperately as he tried to endure the pain he felt, the rims of his eyes gradually reddened. He abruptly turned away, and when he spoke again, his voice was much harsher than before. "What's the point of asking? What does it have to do with you?"
Gu Mang answered him with silence.
Mo Xi's interest in the meal waned. After Gu Mang left, Mo Xi's gaze fell on the sour plum sauce that had been next to Gu Mang's elbow. During the meal, Mo Xi hadn't explained what the sauce was for, so it had gone completely ignored. It remained perfectly untouched.
Closing his eyes, Mo Xi seemed to hear a familiar voice.
"Shidi, eating the roast goose by itself is no fun at all. Try this dipping sauce made from cooked plums—it's sweet and sour. When you take a bite of crispy skin with this stuff—whoa." The smile in that voice was audible. "It's so good you'll want to lick the plate."
Even now, Mo Xi could still remember certain details from back then clearly: the pristine blanket of snow on the ground, the occasional flurries of windblown ash, the brilliant flickering of the fire pit—and the person sitting by his side, laughing as he played with pine branches. Gu Mang.
Gu Mang had turned his head, features bathed in the warm glow of the orange flames. His dark eyes were so deep and bright. "Come, try this piece. I dipped it in sour plum sauce."
"How is it? Is it good?"
"Ha ha ha, of course it is—when has your Gu Mang-gege ever lied to you? I'm the most honest man in the world. I've never tricked anyone."
Mo Xi's fists clenched against his will, his nails sinking deep into his palms. He had specifically carved the goose into many thin pieces for Gu Mang to eat. He had also made a point of talking to Gu Mang while he ate, because he knew that people became more easily distracted when they were preoccupied with two things at once.
In the past, whenever Gu Mang ate this kind of crispy-skinned goose, he absolutely had to dip each piece in the sweet and sour plum sauce. Even if he forgot before he took the first bite, he would pause and dip it in the saucer before continuing. This habit of his was deeply ingrained. Mo Xi had thought that if Gu Mang was pretending, it would be hard for him to keep his guard up while he maintained the conversation. Gu Mang probably would've dipped the goose in the sauce at least once, just out of habit.
But he did not. Gu Mang seemed completely oblivious to the purpose of this dish. That congealed dish of plums remained every bit as untouched as it had been when Mo Xi had first set it down; in contrast, the hope that had filled Mo Xi's chest when he pushed the dish toward Gu Mang had gone.
Snow fell heavily beyond the window, but the remains of the feast before Mo Xi seemed colder than the winter wind. Mo Xi didn't know why a spate of violent resentment suddenly coursed through his body. Hate prickled hot in him, and he lunged and overturned the entire table of cooled leftovers with an almighty crash.
Li Wei was drawn by the commotion; he rushed in to find Mo Xi by the window, exhausted, face buried in his hands. His head hung low, as if the loss of his hope had taken with it his will to live.
"My lord..."
"Go away."
"My lord, why go to such trouble? It doesn't matter if he remembers or if he's pretending; the end result is the same. Why bother—"
No, it wasn't the same.
The Gu Mang he wanted, the Gu Mang he hated, the Gu-shixiong he admired—they should all be whole. They should be capable of fighting him, of wielding a blade to meet or to match him. Only within the enmity of betrayal could he draw gasping breath; only there would he have a future to strive for. Only there could he have the satisfaction of taking revenge; only there could he have hope. Only there would he have something beyond this debilitating feebleness that felt like punching a wad of soft cotton. He had his hatred and his resentment, but he had lost the only target upon which he could set his emotions loose.
"My lord, my lord!"
A servant ran into the hall. Li Wei turned instantly to nail him with a glare, mouthing silently, Stop yelling! Can't you see Xihe-jun is in a foul mood?!
The servant had the look of being caught between a rock and a hard place. After a moment's hesitation, he nevertheless bent his head and made his report. "My lord, a herald from His Imperial Majesty has arrived and is waiting outside."
Mo Xi tilted his head minutely, his sharp brows knitting in a frown. "Herald?"
"Yes." The servant swallowed nervously. "It's terribly urgent—he says that His Imperial Majesty, because of...a certain matter of importance, requires you at once!"