The Little Shishu smiled with all the good temper in the world. “Very well, then let me ask a different question. What do you believe is the essential difference between the Chengyao Fiends and we who cultivate the Dao?”
Mingzhu said, “Naturally, that they aren’t human. A Chengyao Fiend is and always will be a four-legged beast. They have no human feeling; for their own selfish desires they kill with cruelty. Even those among them of deep power who survive their tribulations and become Chengyao Demons are merely wearing a suit of human skin—and that skin can be stripped off at will, while their nature remains exactly the same. Isn’t this what the Little Shishu has always taught us?”
The Little Shishu said, “I’m asking what you believe.”
Mingzhu’s eyes rolled. Watching the Little Shishu’s spring-breeze smile, he tested the waters. “If I speak honestly, you have to promise not to go tattling to Master.”
At that, everyone perked up at once—the Eldest Senior Brother was about to commit fresh heresy. They settled in eagerly to watch the show. In a corner, a scruffy, unkempt youth even unlaced two scraps of rotten tin from his wrist, both covered in dense, crawling Talisman Charms; with a light tap from him, they glowed faintly to life.
The Little Shishu said, all mildness and grace, “Good. Your Shishu promises.”
Mingzhu heaved a huge sigh of relief, swept a ferocious glare over the watching junior brothers and sisters to cow them into silence, then declared with heroic righteousness: “I think that whole doctrine is utter nonsense—nothing more than arrogant little ants scribbling their self-important condemnations.”
The Hall of No Blame exploded.
Fuhua frowned and snapped in a low voice, “Silence.”
The Little Shishu’s face never changed, and he continued encouraging him. “And what, in your view, is the truth of it?”
“The Chengyao Fiends were driven out or slaughtered centuries ago; they no longer exist in this world. The old records describe them mostly as slaughter-mad beasts of evil. But the way I see it, those demons with power to summon wind and rain may well have been hunted to extinction by humanity on nothing but trumped-up charges.”
He rambled on, spouting grand reasoning from who knew where: “Take those demons of vast size and tremendous strength living at our side. Their power is greater than ours, their bodies stronger than ours—in every measure they surpass us small, weak creatures. And in such a situation, what petty, narrow-hearted humanity feels first is not admiration or longing, but fear and dread. Only once that fear—reason conquering instinct—takes root do they fly into such panicked haste to drive those beings out and slaughter them.”
With that, the room exploded even more thoroughly, everyone falling over themselves to worship the heretical Eldest Senior Brother.
“El-El-Eldest Senior Brother! Truly worthy of being the First of the Twelve Eccentrics of Rizhao Mountain! We’re not worthy, we’re not worthy!”
“If the Sect Master hears these words, the Eldest Senior Brother’s going to be punished again.”
“HAHAHAHA!”
Amid the din, the Little Shishu smiled like some stately, noble bloom and said gently, “All right, all right—no more shouting, please.”
But everyone was too busy brawling over the Eldest Senior Brother’s heresies and sophistries, drowning out the Little Shishu’s mosquito-whine entirely. No one paid him any mind.
The Little Shishu had a fine temper. He tried several more times to no avail, and finally turned to the smug Mingzhu and said, still perfectly pleasant, “A-Zhu, the Scripture Library Tower holds so very many books. How is it you only ever pick out the ones full of twisted reasoning and wicked doctrine?”
Mingzhu: “No, no, no—these aren’t twisted doctrines at all. I think they make excellent sense.”
The Little Shishu tried once more to call for quiet, but the thousand-layered waves Mingzhu’s words had stirred plainly wouldn’t settle anytime soon. So, smile fixed in place, he gathered up his books and said, “Then let today’s lesson end here. Everyone copy out the Sect Precepts ten times.”
The Little Shishu himself could hardly wait to escape the crowd; whenever a lecture collapsed, assigning precept-copying let him leave the hall with a perfectly clear conscience.
Head lowered, the Little Shishu slipped silently out of the Hall of No Blame. Mingzhu hollered after him at once, “Little Shishu! A deal’s a deal—not a word to Master!”
Every disciple attending that morning was set off into uncontrollable laughter by Mingzhu’s little speech—everyone except the few North Mountain inner disciples, and Fuhua.
They weren’t laughing at all. Even Shen Di’an, forever wearing his gentle smile, had gone dark-faced, looking at Mingzhu as if at some demonic fiend who had betrayed the Dao itself.
Shen Di’an thought, expressionless: So that’s it. Every great devil who ever defected from this sect was first poisoned by this good-for-nothing.
Cold radiated off Fuhua in waves. She shattered the ice around Mingzhu’s calves with a pulse of Spiritual Power, closed her book, and said coldly, “Outside.”
With that, she swept out of the Hall of No Blame without a backward glance.
Mingzhu, who had been wearing such a smug face, instantly became a cringing coward, and followed her out with a meek little-wife “ai.”
The moment they were clear of the hall, Fuhua seized Mingzhu’s hand and hauled him bodily onto the great boulder beside the waterfall. The spray kicked up at once, drenching them both.
The cold water made Mingzhu shudder. “Fuhua, we can talk this through—what is this about?”
Fuhua said coldly, “Stand still! Let the water soak you sober.”
Mingzhu wiped the water from his face and muttered, “I wasn’t wrong. Master taught us himself—every living thing exists because it has a reason to exist. Since it exists, why should we deny it? Does killing them not violate all creation?”
Wet strands of hair clung limp to the side of his face, and the cold had blanched him white; before long he was shivering faintly.
Fuhua watched him coldly and said nothing.
Mingzhu pressed on. “Besides, the Little Shishu was the one who told me to lay out what I truly think. If anyone’s to be reported, it should be him.”
Fuhua: “He asked you to speak your mind, not to spout nonsense.”
“What nonsense?” To this day, Mingzhu couldn’t see a single rebellious thing about what he’d said. “Let me give you another example. Centuries ago, their treatment of the Chengyao Fiends is exactly like how we now treat Demonic Cultivators. It was never that fine-sounding ‘ridding the people of evil’—it was fear and dread, plain and simple, and nothing more.”
He finished and turned to go—but the hand hidden in Fuhua’s sleeve slammed a burst of Spiritual Power into the ground. The water on the boulder crystallized instantly into ice, locking them both fast in place.
Unable to move, Mingzhu could only say helplessly, “Now what do you want?”
Fuhua said, “In your heart, are all things in this world truly equal? Is there truly no difference between Dao cultivators and Demonic Cultivators?”
Mingzhu answered shamelessly: “None.”
Fuhua looked at him coldly and spoke no more.
Mingzhu couldn’t leave and couldn’t hold a conversation with her either, and before long, standing there grew unbearable. Above the waterfall lay the glaciers of Rizhao’s summit—though it was the height of summer, the falling water still carried the deep cold of midwinter, turning his lips blue. Before long, spinelessly, he surrendered first: “Fu-Fuhua, I was wrong, it’ll never happen again. Your Senior Brother is very sober now. Can we—can we please go inside now?”
Watching him cringe so miserably, and knowing full well his repentance was perfunctory, Fuhua nonetheless felt her heart soften against her will. She lowered her head and gave a low “mm,” and the ice at her feet melted away.
Mingzhu, pardoned, bounded for shore in a few leaps. He was about to go change clothes when Fuhua spoke suddenly: “Brother.”
Mingzhu turned. Ming Fuhua stood on the boulder in soaked white robes, drenched from head to toe, the waterfall cascading behind her like a sheet of White Silk—her whole figure seeming to melt into that icy spray.
“What?”
“Then all these years, wanting to escape Rizhao Mountain—is it because you still feel it’s unjust?”
Mingzhu stood dripping on the bank, black hair and hem both shedding water. At those words, his True Essence surged uncontrollably out of his body—and in an instant he forced it back. The water dripping from him struck the ground, and from beneath it a bewitching red lotus bloomed for a heartbeat, then was gone.
That handsome, nearly ominous face still wore its smile as he drawled, “Your brother has no other talents, but his heart is big. Ancient moldy sesame and rotten grain from all those years ago—I forgot most of it long ago. Where’s this injustice you speak of?”
Fuhua took a step. “Then do you still think of revenge?”
Mingzhu’s expression never changed. He raised his left hand before his eyes, studying the red lotus-shaped mark on the back of it, and said lightly, “What revenge? Revenge for what, exactly? Fuhua, even as a child you loved to overthink. How are you still this way, all grown up?”
He said his piece and wasted no more words, turning to go—the face he turned away from Ming Fuhua utterly bereft of smiles, cold as ice and snow at the mountain’s peak.
Ming Fuhua stood on the boulder, letting the water strike her, watching that flash of red walk faster and faster, until in a blink it vanished around the corner.
Mingzhu circled back to the Hall of No Blame and, expressionless amid the disciples’ laughter, collected Zhou Fuxue—pausing to accept a few scent pouches from the West Mountain female cultivators and dawdle sweetly with several senior sisters for a good long while before finally leaving.
Though Zhou Fuxue still didn’t care for the man, Mingzhu had stood up for him that morning, and he couldn’t well throw a face at him. So he stood off to one side looking mildly green around the gills, watching him charm the senior sisters into helpless laughter.
By the time the two finally left the hall, breakfast hour had long passed, and Zhou Fuxue at last got a word in: “Senior Brother, what happened to your clothes?”
Mingzhu: “Oh, got too close to the falls admiring the scenery with your Senior Sister Fuhua and got soaked. It’s nothing. Mm—right, I’ll go change first, and later your Senior Brother will cook a meal for you personally.”
Zhou Fuxue was taken aback. He’d never imagined this Eldest Senior Brother, whose hands looked like they’d never touched a chore, actually knew how to cook. He instantly leveled fierce condemnation at the self who had, that very morning, been calling the Eldest Senior Brother a man of no accomplishments, and deeply felt his own cultivation lacking and his resolve weak—how could he have judged a man by his face?
Zhou Fuxue returned to Wenxian Residence and changed out of his academy robes. Just as he was setting out for Buzhiya, he saw a black-robed youth hurrying in from beyond the Camphor Forest, apparently heading to find the Eldest Senior Brother.
Zhou Fuxue’s memory was good; he recalled that this was the unkempt inner disciple who’d sat in the corner with his head down during morning lessons—he just didn’t know whose junior he was.
The gates of Buzhiya Courtyard stood wide open, a plume of black smoke drifting out reeking acridly, nearly driving the black-robed youth back out before he’d even entered.
Zhou Fuxue arrived at the gate just then, and the black-robed youth tilted his head and looked at him. Those ink-black eyes seemed tempered with ice, and across them was written, plain as day: “I’m in a foul mood. Don’t come provoke me.”
