Chapter 23: 23 The Long Kite to Shuoyu

Because of that one sentence, Mingzhu did not speak a single word to Zhou Fuxue for the rest of the way—not until all three had lodged in the little town nearest Rizhao’s border.

Zhou Fuxue had only meant that compared to five years ago, Mingzhu had gained a bit of flesh, no longer so unhealthily thin—at the very least, carrying him no longer left bones digging painfully into his back. There had been no scorn in it whatsoever.

But the remark had struck some unnamed nerve in Mingzhu. No matter how Zhou Fuxue explained, he wouldn’t listen—wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t listen, absolutely would not listen—hopping expressionlessly down from Zhou Fuxue’s back and stumbling a few quick steps to catch up with Lu Qingkong, ignoring him entirely.

Zhou Fuxue, normally at ease with everything under heaven, tasted helplessness for the first time in his life. Words had never been his strength; with Mingzhu, it had always been Mingzhu doing the endless chattering. In all these years, when had Mingzhu ever ignored him?

Even after they entered the smoke-wreathed little town, Zhou Fuxue still had no idea how to explain himself.

The town lay remote, yet the traffic was heavy. Dusk approached, and the roads teemed with people, bustling and jostling—far livelier than Rizhao Mountain by any measure.

Mingzhu, who hadn’t seen worldly bustle in who knew how many years, lit up at once. A few quick steps carried him into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, red robes flashing, and he was gone.

Zhou Fuxue and Lu Qingkong, cold-tempered both, disliked crowds, and followed at a distance, unafraid of losing him.

However little Lu Qingkong liked Zhou Fuxue, he remembered he had come down the mountain to chaperone his junior brother’s training. Seizing the moment, he asked idly, “This trip down—where do you plan to go?”

Zhou Fuxue’s gaze kept chasing that flash of red through the crowd. Absent-mindedly, he answered, “Shuoyu City.”

Rizhao Mountain never had many rules; calling this a training descent was really more of an outing. Shuoyu City was the most prosperous city in the Ximu Kingdom—countless travelers daily, luxury everywhere, streets paved in gold. A fine place indeed to relax… ahem, to train.

Lu Qingkong said, “Rizhao to Shuoyu City is a good thousand li at minimum. Even by flying kite, it’s two days’ travel. Are you sure Eldest Senior Brother can endure it?”

Only then did Zhou Fuxue pull his gaze back, cutting Lu Qingkong a cold glance. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Everyone in Rizhao knows Eldest Senior Brother charges the mountain gate at fixed intervals. All these years, he’s finally gotten his wish and escaped that cage he’s trapped in. Surely you’re not naive enough to think he’ll play house with you in Shuoyu City and then meekly return to Rizhao without doing anything?”

Zhou Fuxue’s heart plummeted.

He was no longer the child who believed whatever he was told. Though Mingzhu idled and chased pleasure in his daily life, every stretch of days he would still, unshakably, charge the mountain gate once. Though every attempt ended the same—hurled back by Rizhao Mountain’s overwhelming barrier, then punished by a furious Daoist Master Guining—nothing could stop him from this willful search for death.

Zhou Fuxue had thought himself long since fluent in Mingzhu’s temperament, yet this was the first time he had ever seen him so stubbornly, obstinately fixated on a single thing. Once, he had unknowingly followed along, and had seen the Mingzhu who was usually gentleness itself—spring rain, soft wind—wearing, toward that transparent cage, a vicious, sinister, venomous expression. If only for an instant.

Watching the color drain from Zhou Fuxue’s face, Lu Qingkong felt an inexplicable satisfaction. “You brought him out this time. But are you confident you can bring him back to Rizhao? If he refuses to return even at the cost of his life, how will you answer to Master?”

Zhou Fuxue looked at him coldly, wanting to argue—yet finding his words not without reason.

Lu Qingkong was about to twist the knife further when a sudden commotion rose from the bustling crowd ahead, people shouting strange things like “An immortal descended to the mortal world!”

Zhou Fuxue glanced over, and a bad premonition seized him. With no time to bicker with Lu Qingkong, he shoved through the crowd heedlessly, squeezing for ages before finally reaching the thick center of the throng.

Sure enough, Mingzhu’s bewitching face was on utterly unobstructed display, suffering the gawking of the town’s worldly-inexperienced rubes. But Mingzhu himself cared not a whit for the racket around him; he was crouched before a stall picking through the goods, occasionally inquiring after prices from the red-faced stallkeeper, oblivious past all reason.

Looking closer, the crowd clustering around, refusing to disperse, was mostly men. While Zhou Fuxue gaped, a decently respectable-looking man coughed delicately, fanned himself over, and crouched down beside Mingzhu, murmuring, “Miss.”

The “miss” in question looked up in confusion, blinked, and pointed at himself, utterly lost.

The moment the man saw Mingzhu’s face head-on, a flash of stunned admiration crossed his eyes. Playfully snapping his fan shut, he tipped Mingzhu’s chin up with it, voice honeyed. “Fated souls meet across a thousand miles. To encounter you here, miss, is destiny itself. Might this humble scholar learn your honored name?”

To see someone flirting with his Eldest Senior Brother right under his nose set Zhou Fuxue aflame with fury. He was just about to charge over and teach this man that even a broken leg today could be called “fate”—when Mingzhu suddenly laughed, soft and light.

Mingzhu had evidently noticed the man had mistaken him for a woman. Any ordinary man, so mistaken, would either die of shame or erupt in rage at the insult to his manly dignity—but Mingzhu was born different from other people. His face was simply that much thicker.

Still holding the pose of chin tipped up by the fan-handle, he fluttered his lashes in feigned tenderness, squeezing his voice to a silken thread. “This humble girl’s surname is Zhou; her given name is Fuxue. Might this young hero be so kind as to share his own illustrious name?”

Zhou Fuxue: “…”

The blind-as-a-bat man saw nothing amiss—no hint that Mingzhu was, like himself, a man—and worked himself into a lather, rattling off three generations of his ancestors unprompted.

Mingzhu, apparently high on his own performance, gazed at him with dewy, tear-glazed eyes brimming with adoration. He handed his selected goods to the stallkeeper and patted his sash—then suddenly cried “Aiya!” in feigned panic. “I left in such a hurry I forgot my purse. I’m afraid…”

Lust flooding his brain, the man didn’t wait for him to finish—fished a money pouch from his robes, eyes reddening. “I’ll pay for the young lady!”

Mingzhu thanked him up and down in delighted tones, then shamelessly picked out several more pricey trinkets before rising in satisfaction and taking his leave.

Zhou Fuxue: “…”

He watched, wide-eyed, as his senior brother walked off with an armload of goods without spending a single coin, sweet-talking his entourage of admirers away in a few sentences before strolling over, all smiles.

Mingzhu, apparently addicted to playing the woman now, even walked with a naturally coquettish sway. Had Zhou Fuxue not known better, he too might have mistaken him for a woman along with those foolish men.

Reaching Zhou Fuxue’s side, the little game had apparently made him entirely forget the earlier grievance over being called fat. Beaming, he said, “Hahaha, coming down the mountain is so much fun! They actually mistook me for a woman—am I truly that beautiful?”

As he spoke, he blew a fingertip kiss at a man still sneaking glances at him; the man went crimson, his steps turned to water, and he nearly walked straight into a pillar.

Zhou Fuxue: “…”

Lu Qingkong, who had been waiting all this while, casually clapped a bamboo hat hung with black gauze onto Mingzhu’s head. “Don’t invite unnecessary trouble. Come. We’ll find an inn for the night, and head for the Flying Kite Terrace tomorrow morning.”

Mingzhu, hat on head, mumbled through a mouthful of purchased snacks, “Flying Kite Terrace? We’re riding a flying kite?”

“Mm. The flying kite is a substitute long kite developed by the Shishen Kingdom. They say the skeletal frame beneath its hull is built from the bones of a dead long kite; endowed with formation arrays and spiritual power, it can haul ten thousand qing of weight and covers a thousand li a day.” Lu Qingkong said, “Walking from Rizhao to Shuoyu City, we’d run ten horses to death and still need over a month. Riding the long kite will be much faster.”

Mingzhu gave an “Ah,” puzzled. “I’ve heard of the flying kite. Supposedly it’s a great ship that carries a thousand people. But as far as I know, there’s no main river on the way from here to Shuoyu City that could carry a ship that big.”

Lu Qingkong’s brow arched faintly. “And where exactly did you read that the flying kite travels by water?”

Mingzhu pointed at Zhou Fuxue. “He read it to me once before bed. I remembered the gist.”

Zhou Fuxue pressed a hand to his forehead, exasperated. “Senior Brother, I remember reading the part after that, too. The flying kite can travel by water—but water is not the only way.”

“Oh, then I must have fallen asleep before that part.” Mingzhu asked curiously, “So if not by water, then by what?”

He chuckled, teasing, “Surely not flying through the sky.”

The two of them looked at him in silence.

The smile drained from Mingzhu’s face.

Lu Qingkong drawled, “Flying. Kite. Senior Brother, I just told you—the flying kite’s hull is built from a long kite’s bones. Do you think an artifact made from the frame of a long kite that flew needs wheels to run along the ground?”

Mingzhu’s face turned the grey of ashes.

With his face veiled, the journey grew far easier for the three of them, and they soon reached an inn, taking the last two vacant rooms.

Mingzhu had apparently been scared witless by the flying kite’s brutal mode of travel, wandering dazed. Hearing that only two rooms remained, he instinctively chose to room with Zhou Fuxue, while Lu Qingkong, happy not to squeeze in with anyone, locked his own door behind him and set to fiddling with who knew what.

Zhou Fuxue carried up some of the inn’s famous dishes and pastries; pushing the door open, he found Mingzhu sitting on the narrow bed, robes hitched up, hand feeling his own belly, expression grave—as if solemnly deliberating just where, exactly, he had gotten fat.

Zhou Fuxue: “…”

Startled by the door, Mingzhu looked up, spied the delicacies in Zhou Fuxue’s hands, and instantly put on an aloof air of “I have no interest in such vulgar things,” wrapping himself in the blanket and rolling away across the bed.

Zhou Fuxue set the food down and coaxed, “Senior Brother, come eat something.”

Mingzhu had long since achieved Inedia, but being a creature of pleasure, he had never once refused food. This was the first time Zhou Fuxue had ever seen him turn down a meal.

Mingzhu sat with his back to the wall, blanket pulled over his head, voice muffled from within. “Not eating.”

He patted his flat stomach, thinking: Eating makes you fat.