Chapter 119: Remembering September

Page 1 of 3

I remember Chang’an in the ninth month.

The sunlight was warm and pleasant, the shadows of the trees swayed softly, and the whole city seemed steeped in lazy comfort.

Chang’an City. Ancient Chang’an Street. Beneath the Son of Heaven’s feet.

The streets were crowded with people coming and going, bustling with noise and life. Vendors on either side called out their wares, while wherever crowds gathered, performers and entertainers displayed their finest skills, drawing wave after wave of applause.

A young boy walked along the street, looking this way and that. His eyes were filled with curiosity, and every corner of the city fascinated him—as though some country child who had never seen the world had suddenly entered a great metropolis.

He appeared to be twelve or thirteen. Though young, he had sharp brows and bright, starry eyes, a straight nose, thin lips, and a spirited bearing. Dressed in a blue Daoist robe, with his hair bound by a silver ring, he was exceptionally handsome. Yet now and then a sly glint betrayed itself in his eyes, and he bounced from side to side, unable to keep still for even a moment.

One could see him at the trinket stalls, the fruit stands, and even beside the rouge shops. He showed no shyness at all. With his handsome face and a few honeyed words, he instantly won the hearts of several middle-aged women, drawing peals of laughter from them.

Of course, this favor was limited to the women. The men nearby, seeing their wives laughing helplessly at the antics of some little brat, would frown and prepare to mutter a few sarcastic remarks. Yet men had always held the lower position in the household. One glance from their wives was enough to make them fall silent and retreat gloomily to the side.

In scarcely any time at all, the boy’s arms were laden with gifts from the women. In its own way, this too was a sign of youthful promise and early success.

Still, for someone with such a handsome and upright appearance to be forever engaging in these shameless little schemes—it created a truly jarring contrast.

“Mo’er, it is time to go.”

A deep voice rang out.

The boy was none other than Baili Mo in his youth. Yet no one looking at this radiant, righteous-looking child could possibly have imagined that he would one day become the culprit responsible for slaughtering the Southern Profound Sect.

The stern call made Baili Mo, who still had half an apple between his teeth, jolt in alarm. He hurriedly bade farewell to the proprietress of a rouge shop, causing the shopkeeper beside her to release a long breath of relief. Seeing his wife gazing at the boy with eyes full of infatuation, anyone unaware of the truth might have thought she was carrying on an affair.

After a long round of polite refusals, Baili Mo accepted the rouge-seller’s gift without the slightest embarrassment. He stuffed the miscellaneous trinkets into his arms, bit off the remaining half of the apple in one gulp, dusted his robe, and straightened his appearance. Once he had confirmed that nothing about him seemed improper, he obediently went to walk beside a Daoist priest.

He lifted his head, thrust out his chest, straightened his back, drew in his stomach, and followed behind the priest with an expression of righteousness. He was utterly different from the mischievous child he had been moments before.

The Daoist priest radiated an air of solemn righteousness. His hair was white as a crane’s, yet his face was youthful, and he strode with astonishing speed. A horsetail whisk rested in his hand. He wore dark blue cloth shoes with raised toes and a blue Daoist robe, appearing majestic and imposing.

“Mo’er, the mortal world is filled with disputes, sorrow, and resentment. When there is nothing to say, do not stir up more trouble with your words,” the priest said, as though offering a warning.

“Master, if one does not enter the world, how can one ever transcend it?” Baili Mo retorted.

“Mo’er, right and wrong, turmoil and confusion—silence is a form of cultivation, and saying nothing is itself a realm of attainment.” The priest, evidently unwilling to give up, continued after hearing this.

Page 2 of 3

“Master, when one lives in the mortal world, where can one go without gathering dust?” Baili Mo countered without the slightest concern.

“You, you really are something. Your talent is lacking, your cultivation is lacking, and day after day you do nothing but practice that silver tongue of yours.” The priest spoke helplessly.

“You flatter me, Master.” Baili Mo continued following behind him with an air of humility, though his mouth clearly held no fear of offending the man before him.

“...This time, I have brought you down the mountain first to complete the task assigned by our sect, and second to let you see what the mortal world is like.”

The priest could not help shaking his head. It seemed he had once again lost an argument to his only disciple, so he shifted the conversation elsewhere.

“Master, the mortal world is truly so different from our sect. Everywhere I look, I see something I have never encountered before. It is far more amusing than life within the sect!” At the mention of the mortal world, Baili Mo suddenly grew animated and began chattering without pause.

The dignified bearing he had assumed vanished in an instant. His clear, shining eyes once again darted about, taking in every dispute and spectacle of the bustling world.

The priest sighed deeply. During the years of secluded cultivation within the sect, he had long since learned what sort of child this was. He was simply incapable of sitting still.

After that, the two of them walked on in silence along Chang’an Street. One large and one small, they were aloof and otherworldly, suffused with an immortal air that set them apart from the ordinary people around them. They stood out like cranes among chickens. The common folk could tell at a glance that the pair were no ordinary men, and so none approached them for conversation, though many turned to stare.

After a long silence, it became clear that they had not yet reached their destination. The twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy was still too playful by nature. Walking behind the priest, he looked left one moment and right the next. Compared with the quiet days of cultivation on the mountain, this splendid world was simply too fascinating, and restlessness continued to stir within him.

“Master.”

At last, he could not bear it any longer. Baili Mo spoke from behind the priest in the softest of whispers, as though he were somewhat afraid of this so-called master of his.

“Hmm?” The priest continued walking without turning his head and answered lightly.

“Um, Master, what is that?” Baili Mo asked curiously, pointing at a shop nearby.

“That is an escort agency. It is a business where mortals protect the property or safety of others,” the priest explained after glancing in the direction Baili Mo indicated.

Hearing his master respond, Baili Mo seemed both excited and relieved, as though he had finally let out a long-held breath. He promptly resumed looking around in every direction.

The priest glanced at Baili Mo’s expression. Though helpless, he merely smiled faintly and no longer tried to restrain him.

“Master, Master, what about that? What is that?” Baili Mo secretly peeked at his master before pointing toward something in the distance, sounding almost impatient with curiosity.

“That is a paper-offering shop. Mortals live only a few short decades. They believe the dead should be honored above all and that everyone must be laid to rest. One way the family of the deceased entrusts their longing is by burning the paper offerings sold in such shops. They believe that the dead, far away in the other world, can receive their thoughts and remembrance.”

The priest spoke softly as he looked at the paper-offering shop beside them.

What mortals could not see was the faint golden-gray aura drifting above the shop. It was hidden virtue, the merit accumulated by mortals. It could protect the people who ran the shop, granting them peace throughout this life and blessings in the next.

Page 3 of 3

To give form to the living’s longing and gently send the dead into rest—this was the meaning of the shop’s existence.

Baili Mo listened to his master’s words, seeming lost in thought. A mortal’s life was truly far too short, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

“Hmm? Then, Master, what is that shop? Why are there so many young women there?” As he walked, Baili Mo was once again distracted by a strange-looking establishment and could not help asking his master.

What he failed to notice was that the priest, walking ahead of him, glanced toward the place Baili Mo was looking at—and his aged face suddenly flushed red. He stammered for a long while, unable to produce an answer.

After a deep sigh, perhaps feeling that he could not afford to lose face before his disciple, he thought for a moment and finally said, “That is a hell capable of luring people into ruin, a place that can shatter the Dao-heart of those who cultivate the Way. Remember this: we who pursue the Dao must never become entangled in the troubles of the mortal world.”

“Master, that is basically the same as saying nothing at all...” Baili Mo could not help replying, speechless.

He looked once more toward the loft beside them. Women of every kind sat beside the windows on the second floor, waving to passersby and constantly trying to draw them inside.

Yet no matter how Baili Mo looked at it, the establishment beneath the sign bearing the name Pavilion of Crimson Delights hardly resembled a hell. Nor did it seem as frightening as his master had claimed. On the contrary, everyone entering and leaving wore bright smiles, as though they were having a wonderful time.

“Ah, I am sorry.”

Baili Mo had been so absorbed in admiring the splendors of the mortal world that he failed to notice he had walked into someone. He quickly apologized.

“It is of no consequence.”

The voice was gentle and deeply resonant.

Baili Mo took several steps back and looked up. Pale sunlight spilled across the stranger’s face. Beneath its brilliance, the features of the person before him were difficult to make out, and even the expression remained indistinct.

He only saw the stranger’s lips move slightly, as though speaking. The words were vague and blurred. The light made him dizzy, and he could hear only a few indistinct syllables.

“I have found you.”

Twisting, entangling, joining into lines, winding into knots.

Time began to turn.

Fate began its cycle.

Toward the same final destination, crossing paths and restraining one another.

The abyss opened its bloodied maw.