Mute Words

The dock was small, hosting just one weathered wooden boat. A group huddled by it, murmuring—then Mochuan glanced up, spotted me, froze briefly, and strode over.

“What are you doing here?” His brow furrowed, voice edged with irritation, like my presence repulsed him.

“Just wandering,” I said, peering past him.

He stepped to block me, spitting two curt words: “Go back.”

I nearly laughed from sheer exasperation. “Can you tell a person from a dog? I’m human—not your pet. I don’t heel on command.”

Our gazes clashed, sparks practically visible in the air. Before it could ignite, someone called my name, approaching.

“Little Bro!”

I flicked my eyes over—Nie Peng.

He reached us, oblivious to the tension, greeted me, then leaned in to Mochuan, voice low. “It’s ready.”

I didn’t know what “it” was, but Mochuan clearly cared—enough to drop his insistence on shooing me. “Don’t linger,” he tossed over his shoulder, then left.

The crowd gathered shoreside. Only Mochuan boarded the boat with the ferryman.

The oars dipped, easing the craft to the lake’s heart. Mochuan stood at the prow, robes billowing in the wind. Onshore, men steadied women as eyes reddened; soft sobs rose from the group.

Something felt off. His push to ditch me wasn’t dislike—maybe I’d stumbled into a private rite.

I wavered on retreating when Nie Peng wove through the crowd toward me again.

He shook a cigarette from his pack, nodding me aside to talk.

We each lit up. He sparked mine first, then his, took a deep drag, and exhaled toward the lake.

“Remember when I dragged you to fix broadband? The sick woman next door—this is her water burial day.”

I paused. “Vaguely. What’d she have?”

“Cancer. Late-stage by the time they caught it—barely forty,” he sighed. “Had a daughter, Yunduo. Ran off with some guy years back, never returned. Her mom died wanting her, but she ditched family for an outsider.”

“Couldn’t find her, or could but she wouldn’t come?”

If she just didn’t want to, fine—but the former screamed trafficking, cop-level stuff.

“We can reach her—she won’t come,” Nie Peng said, voice tinged with something raw. “Those guys chase them ‘cause they’re pretty—where’s the real care? A year or two, beauty fades, and nine times outta ten, they’re dumped.”

“Little Bro, we’re men—we know men, right? A guy who snags a girl and bolts—trustworthy? I’d kowtow to my horse and call it Dad first!”

Rough words, solid truth. Back then, Bai Qifeng sweet-talked my mom into a secret engagement—forced my grandparents to accept him. Turned out he was trash.

And Mochuan’s sister in the secular world—unwed mother, waiting her whole life for a no-show, dying broken, leaving a kid behind.

Staring at that white figure afar, I muttered, “Yeah, men can’t be trusted.”

Good thing I’d never have kids—boy or girl, it’d be a headache.

Nie Peng caught his rant’s edge, backpedaling. “Not all—good ones exist! Me, you—we’re solid. Pinjia’s the gold standard among us!”

On the vast lake, the ferryman somehow steadied the boat midwater, then dumped a heavy sack overboard.

Mochuan raised a horn to his lips. A deep, piercing blast roared across Bazhai Sea—primal, mysterious, soul-shaking.

For two minutes, the wind died unnaturally. No sound but silence. Under a blue sky, atop the clear lake, that lone white silhouette stood—whiter than snow, lighter than breeze.

A spotless divine bird, born of pure earth and sky—a Cenglu priest too pristine for a speck of dust—a being mortals couldn’t touch…

“The dead’s flesh and bones sink, feeding the water’s life, nurturing this land in return.”

Nie Peng’s voice snapped me back. Wind bit my face, the horn’s echo lingered—my reverie shattered like ripples on the lake.

At the center, Mochuan lowered his arm, gazing skyward. Black hair and wide sleeves fluttered, like he’d ascend any second.

But it’s futile—I knew, and he did too. His wings were clipped; flight was impossible.

As the boat rowed back, families waited onshore. Nie Peng joined them, rushing to thank Pinjia the moment he stepped off.

Mochuan waved it off—“It’s my duty”—but fatigue shadowed his face. His glance grazed me; this time, he said nothing.

The crowd swept him away. I trailed behind, then felt something underfoot—a tassel. A beiyun tassel.

Maybe the occasion called for it—Mochuan wore solemn sandalwood beads today, the tassel shorter than usual, fringed to an arm’s length.

The beads and tassel were detachable. I checked—the hook was broken.

Watching him fade into the distance, I didn’t chase. I pocketed it instead.

Done with sightseeing, I drove back to the institute, tossed the tassel on the table, and opened my pad—wiping out days of painstaking sketches.

Two months back, Huangfu Rou landed me a gig: a shipping tycoon’s daughter in East Asia, marrying her long-time boyfriend next year. She wanted a “perfect” necklace for the wedding.

Perfect—two words, easy to say, hell to pull off.

I’d tweaked it for months, never happy. Yesterday, I thought I’d cracked it—ready to submit. Post-Bazhai, it was garbage.

Pen hit screen. No bride’s white veil filled my head—just that lone figure on a flatboat, still water beneath.

Two majestic wings unfurled on the digital canvas—every bird’s feathers, yet no bird’s at all.

Inspiration surged. I refined it—forgot food, sleep—worked through the night. By dawn, I dropped the stylus, slumping back in my chair.

The most beautiful wings I could dream up.

Each feather curled, frozen mid-breeze.

A Bib Necklace—big, bold, ornate. Feathers studded with mother-of-pearl and diamonds, the centerpiece…

Sleep crashed over me. I hadn’t picked the central stone before tipping into the chair, out cold.

Slept till afternoon. Woke once, neck screaming, shifted spots, crashed again. Fully up, I was starved—downed a huge bowl of rice to revive.

Any driven designer feels joy nailing a piece they love—I was no different.

That high sharpened everything—air smelled sweet, food tasted rich, even Erqian’s crap-smeared butt looked cute.

Even… good enough to fix Mochuan’s tassel.

Since I’d fixed it, might as well return it.

Next day, after sleeping all afternoon, I barely rested overnight. Up at dawn, I grabbed the tassel, heading to the temple. At the gate, I ran into Li Yang with a basket on his back.

I asked where he was off to so early. “Pinjia’s appetite’s been off. I’m digging mushrooms in the woods.”

“In this cold?” Late December—ice everywhere—what mushroom’s that tough?

“Yeah, those black ones, lumpy—Xia love ‘em. Teacher Yan says they’re pricey outside.” He cupped his hands, sizing a ping-pong ball.

“Truffles?” I guessed.

“Right, that’s it!”

I didn’t trust a kid alone in the woods—and curious how he’d snag truffles—I offered to tag along.

He sized me up, dubious. “You? You sure?”

First time a half-grown punk questioned me—stung my pride for a sec. Then again, ignorance is bliss—what’s a kid know?

I’d hiked Switzerland—3,000-meter averages, 20 kilos a day, ten days straight—while he was still suckling in Pinjia’s arms.

“I’m fine—real fine. Bet I’ll outdig you.”

Li Yang wrinkled his nose, brushing past. “Big talk.”

I pivoted, falling in.

“Let’s see, then.”

Fact is, hiking’s no match for scampering through woods like a monkey, digging truffles.

Li Yang hit the forest like Sun Wukong back in Huaguo Mountain—knew it cold. I’d need a tracker to keep up.

Too proud to slow him down, I gritted through—slipped on a slope instead. Thick brush cushioned my fall; a tree broke my tumble. Just mud-caked and scraped hands—no big damage.

“Uncle, you okay?” Li Yang jolted at the noise, half-dug, rushing over.

Sprawled flat, a mess, my bravado long gone—I stretched out a hand. “Help me up…”

Back at the temple, Yan Chuwen was there to play chess with Mochuan. Seeing me muddied, he gaped. “What happened?”

He circled me, checking for breaks, relaxing only when sure I was intact.

“Slipped,” I mumbled, scratching my brow—dust flaked off.

Forget why I’d come—I just wanted wings to fly home, shower, ditch the filth.

Meant to say bye to Li Yang—blinked, and he was gone.

“I’m head—”

Mid-exit, Mochuan and Li Yang emerged from the main hall, one after the other.

Mochuan’s face was pale, but he seemed alert—health probably fine.

He stopped short at me, surprised. “…You’re okay?” His eyes raked me top to bottom.

Li Yang, panting with his basket, caught up. “Pinjia, I wasn’t done—he fell down a slope, but he’s fine.”

Mochuan turned to him, brow creasing, silent for a beat.

Li Yang shrank under the stare, edging from his side to mine.

But Mochuan didn’t let it slide. “Next time, say it in one breath—don’t split it.”

Not harsh, but Li Yang drooped, head low.

“…Oh.”

I rubbed the kid’s head, stepping in. “You cut him off—why blame him?”

Mochuan’s frown deepened. “He’s not ‘him’—he’s my disciple, future Yan Guan. Teaching him’s my duty.”

Translation: His people, my rules—none of your business.

I snorted, ready to snap back—Yan Chuwen yanked my sleeve hard.

“Stop it—safe’s what matters. No harm done.”

Who’s fighting? I’d have to be stuffed to bicker with him.

“Later.” I waved, turning off.

Yan Chuwen called after. “Oh, the cooking auntie’s got family stuff today, Guo Shu’s out—make noodles if you’re hungry.”

Of the institute trio, Guo Shu cooked best—even baked treats. Yan Chuwen was edible-ish. Me? Barely non-lethal.

Noodles? My head throbbed. I spun back. “What about you?”

“Me?” He grinned, shameless, pointing behind. “Eating here.”

“…”

Realizing too late, he backtracked to Mochuan. “Look, Bai Yin fell trying to get your mushrooms—midday and all…”

He trailed off; Mochuan got it.

A flat glance my way, then back to Yan Chuwen. “Stay for lunch, then.”

In public, he was flawless—no fault to pick, even his faint smile measured.

“I’ll prep!” Li Yang bolted to the kitchen with his basket. Yan Chuwen followed.

I eyed the caked mud on my pants, asking Mochuan, “Got spare clothes I can borrow?”

He pointed past the kitchen. “Wash up first—I’ll grab some.”

I’d just meant to swap the dirty stuff, clean up back home post-meal. Nope—he meant bathe here, wear his. Tsk, only our pristine Yan Guan’s this particular.

The bathroom—probably an add-on—had weak water pressure. Thankfully, the overhead heater worked; I didn’t freeze.

Mid-scrub, a knock.

“Unlocked!”

Silence, then the wooden door creaked open. A bag slid in.

The hand holding it—nails trimmed neat, fingers long, knuckles even—gripped hard, veins and bones popping on the back.

A hand pretty enough to match its owner’s vibe.

Maybe I dawdled—the bag shook impatiently. “Take it.”

I wiped water from my face, hesitated, then grabbed the bottom, avoiding his skin.

“Finish up—lunch is ready.” Assured I had it, the hand withdrew.

I stared at the closing gap, sighing near-silent. “Got it.”