GU MANG'S BLUE EYES looked into Mo Xi's as the smoke of the incense drifted past them in silence. He didn't speak.
He seemed to hear Jiang Yexue sighing right by his ear. Mo Xi was only seven years old when Fuling-jun died. He was betrayed by his second-in-command, his corpse mutilated, his spiritual core dug out. In the letter he didn't live to send, he wrote, "Who says we have no clothes, for we share the same robes of battle." You did the exact same thing his killer did. And you expect Mo Xi to forgive you?
The ash dispersed on the wind and incense smoke clouded the air. "Mo Xi I don't think...I like war either."
For some reason, his heart and throat both ached as he spoke; he choked
with it. Although he had no memory of the past, he felt that his words were
sincere. Mo Xi didn't understand him. Mo Xi was mistaken. How could he like
going to war..? So many dead, bathing wretchedly in blood; a singular achievement paid for with ten thousand withered bones. How could he like that?He hadn't fought for himself, or for honor, or for an opportunity to advance. If he had, he wouldn't now see so many ghosts. Wouldn't see them questioning him, blaming him.
He'd been living with guilt all along.
"I know...how you feel." I know how it felt to lose your father. I do, I swear..
Mo Xi was silent. He didn't want to argue in front of his father's grave. It was true that he had once believed without reservation that Gu Mang valued human life and camaraderie above all else, but now, he found Gu Mang's words entirely ridiculous.
Gu Mang who had once said, "You can't be too atached to past affections," and stabbed his former brothers in the name of revenge. How could he understand how Mo Xi felt? He was nothing like Gu Mang. There was no way he could excise past attachments and feelings from his heart, just as he still couldn't stand the sweet scent of osmanthus in full bloom. Just as he could never forget all that happened while his father had been alive, despite how young he'd been. He could close his eyes whenever he wanted and be met with scenes from the past—Mo Qingchi standing under the osmanthus tree, his silhouette tall and upright. Mo Xi couldn't even bear to handle his own weapon. Despite the
passage of years, he could never forget the question he had once asked his father: Papa, what's your weapon made of? It was like a curse.
As Mo Xi looked at the golden strings of characters that read Fuling-jun, Mo Qingchi. May his valiant soul rest in eternal peace, he could picture every single plant in the Mo Manor's back garden without effort. He remembered the promise his father had made to him.
Mo Xi cosed his eyes. "You can't understand me."
At the age of seven, he had learned what the fires of war meant. That understanding came at the cruelest price—his father's life. The child Mo Xi had been was tender and immature; he hadn't understood what battle entailed. He only thought it ferocious and found the thrill and vengeance of fighting terribly attractive. He badgered his father constantly with questions about weapons. He liked how his father looked in military uniform: stately and commanding imposing and impressive. He liked when his father rushed to the battlefield. In his heart, his papa couldn't lose. All that the fires of war bestowed on the Mo Clan was supreme glory.
He had been too naive. He'd had no idea what war would take from him.
As for Mo Qingchi, he'd probably thought Mo Xi too young to bear such heavy talk of life and death. "Papa has two spiritual weapons," he had said with a smile. "One is cast with Shuairan's soul, passed down through generations of the Mo Clan. It'll be yours eventually. The other, Papa received when he first entered the academy."
Mo Xi looked up at his father with shining eyes and tugged his sleeve. "I wanna see, I wanna see!"
Mo Qingchi reached down and plucked off an osmanthus blossom that had fallen in Mo Xi's hair. Smiling, he raised his hand, palm up. "Xiaoyue, come."
A beam of golden light rose in the center of his palm. Flecks of brilliance
coalesced into the shape of a sperm whale that swam with leisurely strokes
around the tree. It flicked its tail, and osmanthus flowers rained down across the courtyard.
The little boy stood at his father's side, his dark eyes wide in wonder as he watched.
"Weapon transformation." At Mo Qingchi's command, the spiritual form
of the sperm whale transformed at once into a golden shield. Mo Qingchi grasped the shield and smiled down at his son. "Xiaoyue is cast from the spiritual core of a whale that had become a spirit. Once transformed into a weapon, it becomes a shield. This is Papa's second weapon."
Back then, Mo Xi had burned with admiration and curiosity. He very carefully reached out to touch the shield. "Are all cultivators' weapons made from spiritual forms?"
"Just about." Mo Qingchi chuckled. "Bronze and iron weapons often can't
handle the flow of spiritual energy, nor can they be summoned at will, so they
have to be carried around with you. That's why most people don't choose weapons made from common metals."
This explanation was a little over Mo Xi's head. Blinking in confusion, he looked at the shield again. "Papa, will I have one too?"
"You're the only son of the Mo Clan. You'll enter the cultivation academy
soon, so of course you'll get one too."
Mo Xi's spirits instantly soared. He was filled with the naive fearlessness of youth; he yet felt no reverence for arms or mortality. He only thought that having a weapon was something amazing, In the future, he wanted to be just like his papa, fighting on the frontiers astride a splendid warhorse. Having never experienced eternal separation, he ignorantly and impetuously believed that he would adore such a blood-soaked career. To let loose an arrow that pierced the storm, to surrender his life on the fields of slaughter—what a heroic daydream that had been. Mo Xi couldn't help but touch his father's shield, his eyes sparkling. "Then what will mine be? Will I have a big fish just like Papa?"
Mo Qingchi bent until he and his son were nearly eye-to-eye. He smiled as
he patted Mo Xi's soft, black hair. "The elders at the academy will set you a trial. During it, you'll summon the holy weapon that fits your soul best. You might get a big fish just like Papa, or it could be something else—it could be anything, from magical flora to spiritual fauna."
"I'Il get it as soon as I enter the academy?"
"Pretty much." Mo Qingchi smiled.
"Then let's go to the cultivation academy!" Mo Xi tugged on his father's
sleeve, eyes huge. "Can we go tomorrow?"
"Not tomorrow," Mo Qingchi laughed and explained patiently. "You'll have to wait till you're seven at least. The academy doesn't take students any younger. Once you turn seven, Papa will ask His Imperial Majesty to admit you into the academy, and then you can undergo the trial. Then our Fireball will be a real little cultivator."
Mo Xi, all unknowing, had grinned. Then something seemed to occur to him. He asked hesitantly, "Papa.."
"Hm?"
"Is the trial hard? What if I can't pass and they send me home?" After all, it was only natural for such a small child to be nervous.
"Don't worry," Mo Qingchi smiled. "Even a fool would be able to pass the trial; you'd have no trouble even if you took it with your eyes closed. You have nothing to fear at all." He smacked his own forehead. "Right—a shixiong or shijie will accompany you. If you encounter any challenges, they'll help."
Hearing that, Mo Xi relaxed. He'd absorbed his father's words raptly, as though he wanted to grow up as fast as possible and receive his own weapon. Papa had promised to take him there once he was seven; so from that day on, Mo Xi counted the days until his seventh birthday in eager anticipation. He diligently marked off each passing day in a Chonghua calendar before he went to sleep at night. With every stroke of the brush, it seemed he was nearing his dream of becoming a powerful war god. He liked batle, and he couldn't wait to get his weapon, to dedicate himself to learning cultivation, to grow up and fight shoulder to shoulder with his father. How thriling that would be!
Then the Liao Kingdom attacked. Mo Qingchi was appointed to his usual post of commander and rushed off to the battlefield.
That year, Mo Xi finally had his longed-for seventh birthday. But what he
received was neither weapon nor admittance to the academy. Instead, it was a military report from a very long way away. Before he could begin to wrap his young mind around the idea of mortality, Mo Manor was draped in white silk and mourning bells tolled from the imperial palace.
"Fuling-jun has pased!"
Cries of grief rang across the city, and paper money covered the ground
like unmelting snow. People came in droves to Mo Manor to shed their tears and pay their respects. Regardless of whether Mo Xi knew them or not, regardless of whether they were familiar faces or practically strangers, each one wailed as they knelt on the ground. His mother sobbed herself into a stupor more than once, and his perfidious uncle feigned heartbreak as he arranged his foster brother's funeral.
All were in mourning garb—even the emperor himself came in white. "To
lose Fuling is to lose a part of me.." Forehead pressed to the coffin, the late emperor wept, his voice cracking. "Heavens, why must you be so cruel!"
The court officials were on their knees; their sobs filled the air. Outside the main hall was piled a mountain of sacrificial treasures. The high priest blew into the horn of a spirit yak and a beam of golden light rose from the casket, motes of brilliant warmth melding into a whale that swam circles in the hall before gliding out into the courtyard.
The osmanthus tree there had long shed its flowers. There would be no rain of petals as that great creature swam by for the last time. It soared into the lofty skies and returned to its sea of drifting clouds.
"The holy weapon has been released," the high priest cried, kowtowing as he knelt. "May his spirit rest in peace?"
The crowd wept as they pressed their foreheads to the ground.
"Fuling-jun was a hero!"
"May his valiant soul return home"
Among this crowd of otherworldly apparitions clad in white, Mo Xi was the only one who didn't cry. He silently knelt, watching in dazed confusion.
Who had left?
Who had passed...
Who was the hero?
Who had become a valiant soul?
What did hero mean, exactly? Growing up, he had often heard that word, but with his father's death, it was suddenly horribly foreign. This word, which had once seemed so dazzling, the battlefield he had endlessly yeamned for—what were they, really?
"May his valiant soul return home— may his spirit rest in peace—"
No, no—Mo Xi's body shook. He didn't want any valiant deeds; he didn't want his father to be a hallowed hero; he just wanted his papa to be standing in the courtyard, to take him to pick osmanthus blossoms in the autumn and brew a pot of sweet flower wine.
He just wanted his papa to return, to come back and take his hand, to lean down and say cheerfully, "Little Fireball, you're seven years old, so Papa will take you to the academy. Be good and learn diligently from the elders."
At that thought, he almost seemed to see his papa standing in the doorway,
turning his head to smile at him. ''Little Fireball," he said, "good boy—come
here, let Papa take a look at you."
Dazzled, Mo Xi walked toward the silhouette in that beam of sunlight. It was just then that the funeral firecrackers went off. Their crackling seemed to wake him from some dream deep in his soul. "Dad?" he asked blankly. "Dad, where are you?"
Wh-where are you? There was no one at the door, only a bolt of white silk hanging low. His fingertips were ice-cold. In that cruel moment, he finally, dimly, understood the meaning of death.
With a great wail, he shouted for his papa, pelting out of the hall. The crowd of court officials were shocked and grieved by the sight as they wiped their endless tears. His uncle rushed after him and scooped him up as he struggled. "Xi-er, be good," he said, eyes red. "Come to Uncle, come to Uncle..."
"I saw Papa! I saw him!" Mo Xi cried, his voice cracking as he threw himself into his uncle's arms and bawled. "I saw him... Why did he leave? Why did he leave? Why doesn't he want me anymore?!" The child shouted himself hoarse. Each cry was more mournful than the last, his entire face blotchy with tears.
In the end, his trembling lips formed one last question. "Why doesn't he want me anymore..?"
That was the year he turned seven, the year he had yearned for with his papa. When it came, it wasn't what he had expected at all. So this was war. This was the price of glory.
Months later, his birthday arrived. He was still dressed in mourning clothes, sewn with the most exquisite thread and finest workmanship. The Mo Clan's stature had only risen after his father's death, but what did that matter?
He walked to the window, where the osmanthus tree outside was once again in bloom. Golden stars were scattered between slim leaves of jade, each like a tiny reflection of the past year. Awash in their fragrant scent, he sat down with the Chonghua calendar he'd marked for two years. A thick layer of dust had accumulated on it.
His own voice from years past seemed to echo in his ears. "How many days are left until my seventh birthday?"
Back then, Mo Qingchi had patted Mo Xi's head with a large palm. "There's no rush."
"But I'm in a big rush. Papa." Mo Xi grumbled. "I really want to skip these two years and wake up when I'm seven."
Mo Qingchi burst into laughter, the sound at first vivid, then muffled, then gradually subsumed in the soft rustle of the leaves outside.
Back then. Mo Xi hadn't known what the future would hold. He only felt that those two years would be so very long and boring, He wanted to get through them as quickly as possible so he could turn seven and take one step closer to the battlefield he yearned for. He had no way of knowing that those two years he rushed through were the last with his papa. And afterward, no matter how deep his regret, no matter how thoughtful or sensible he became, he couldn't go back. He could never relive those last seven hundred days, the days he had resented and wished to discard.
He hugged that big calendar, its reckoning forever paused at the sixteenth Lunar New Year's Eve of the era. The day they'd received the battle report.
"Pара." he whispered. "Today's the day. I can go to the academy now." He waited a while, but there was no response. There never would be.
Mo Xi buried his head in his arms, curling up on the table. Shoulders shaking, he sobbed himself breathless.
"Papa...what if we stopped going to war... Don't go... Come back..."
Come back...
Hero is such a cruel word. I just want you to stand in the great hall and watch the osmanthus flowers bloom in autumn with me.
Come back...
When I grow up, I'll take your place on the battlefield, okay? I won't do it for rank or fame. I don't like battle anymore—I just want to protect you; I just want to be at your side.
I wish you'd come home. Papa...
"You'll never understand me." On the cloud-draped peak of Warrior Soul Mountain, Mo Xi had risen to his feet. Now, he slowly opened his eyes. His gaze paused on Fuling-jun's jade gravestone before shifting to Gu Mang. "If you weren't reveling in battle for the sake of your own ambition, then I don't understand why you would defect to the Liao Kingdom."
Gu Mang was silent.
"It's true that Chonghua wronged you—we owed a debt to you. But there was more than one path before you, and more than one country you could have fled to. Yet you went to the Liao Kingdom." Mo Xi's eyes were clear and cold. "You wanted revenge. For your dashed prospects, for your dead comrades-in-arms, for your own advancement. You didn't care whose blood you spilled."
"Mo Xi..."
"Sorry, I'm the useless one here," Mo Xi said, self-mocking. "Not even the price of my life was enough for you to turn back."
Gu Mang watched Mo Xi's eyes; they were too dark, too cold, too deep. In the sunlight at the summit of Warrior Soul Mountain, the near decade of disappointment they carried was so clearly visible.
His heart was suddenly seized by an overpowering impulse. He didn't know what kind of emotion it was—all he knew was he didn't want to see Mo Xi like that.
He didn't want Mo Xi to look at him like that.
Heart pounding, the words slipped from his mouth. "Can you trust me again?"
They were like an assassins arrow: these words caught both of them off gaurd. Mo Xi's eyes widened. Astonishment was clear on that handsome face, paired with an extremely rare blankness. He seemed almost dazed. "What?"
Gu Mang bit his lip and stood, looking at Mo Xi with his back to the sky. "I don't know how bad I used to be. I have forgotten everything from before. But right now, I agree with you. I don't like to fight either, and I don't like to be betrayed either."
The brisk spring breeze ruffled his white robes. As a dense cloud withdrew from the path of the sun, a thousand beams of gold cascaded around Gu Mang like a shower of arrows—as though flying down to kill a man from years ago, or as if to pierce someone's heart.
The former Beast of the Altar stood before Mo Xi. Backlit as he was, Mo Xi couldn't make out Gu Mang's features, but the voice he heard was no less determined than before he lost his memories.
"I want to atone. I don't want to disappoint you," Gu Mang said, his voice
overflowing with a deep, soul-stirring conviction. "Can you trust me once more?"
Without waiting for Mo Xi's response, Gu Mang got down on one knee, white sleeves fluttering. For the first time, he lowered his head in true deference and shame. Harboring hope and earnest warmth, burdened by bloody crimes and frezing with cold, he softly said, "I beg my lord to teach me."
Mo Xi was struck speechless.
At that very moment, there came the sound of clapping. A voice diaphanous and chilly as smoke dritted over. "Good heavens, how moving. What a lovely performance—pray tell, what tale of redemption is this? Tsk, I might
just drown in my own tears."