The Husky and His White Cat Shizun

Chapter 123: Master Enters My Dreams, Reminding Me of Enduring Memories

"Venerable Daoist Zhao, Venerable Daoist Li, have you both seen the rankings? That dark horse who emerged from the Spirit Mountain Convention was truly extraordinary!"

In the Pearl Beach Teahouse, a few wandering cultivators were eagerly discussing the latest gossip over a plate of peanuts and a pot of hot tea, more animated than the steaming brew itself.

"I've seen it, of course! The winner turned out to be the Edge of Life and Death, a sect from the Lower Realm, which has left the elders of the Upper Realm fuming. Especially the Confucian Wind Sect – oh boy, I bet their ancestors' coffins can't hold back the outrage! The young Immortal Ruler who won is called Xue Fenghuang, right?"

"Huh? Hahaha, Xue Fenghuang? You're really cracking me up, Old Zhao. 'Fenghuang' is just his nickname. His surname is Xue, his given name is Meng, and his courtesy name is Ziming. His father is Xue Zhengyong. Like father, like son – this Xue Ziming is incredibly skilled!"

By the hearth, a tall and cloaked figure sat, engrossed in sipping his tea. Upon hearing their conversation, the man softly hummed an "Hmm?" The teacup paused at his lips, motionless.

"One often hears he's a fledgling phoenix, and it's not mere talk. Other young masters have divine weapons, but he wields a curved blade that severs others' escape routes – truly miraculous."

"But have you considered who his master is? A disciple of Yu Heng of the Nightfall Jade Balance Sect – do you think they're pushovers?"

"Yet, I believe Xue Ziming won by a narrow margin. Haven't you heard? In their dual, Xue Ziming matched up with Nan Gongsi evenly. If not for that girl tagging along with Nan Gongsi holding him back, hah, I'd say the outcome could have been different."

The man, who had been attentively listening, finally set down his untouched teacup upon hearing these remarks.

He turned around, his eyes sharp as lightning, with an ethereal beauty like autumn water and frost. He smiled at the cultivators and said, "Fellow practitioners, I apologize for the disturbance. I was practicing in the mountains recently, unaware of the passing of time, thus missing the gathering on Spirit Mountain. I accidentally overheard you mentioning Xue Meng's victory... I'm quite curious, may I ask a few more questions?"

The others were eager to have an audience and promptly welcomed Mo Ran, making space for him to sit with them.

Mo Ran, now more composed than when he first left the mountain, politely declined their offer. He asked the teahouse owner to serve six pots of Spirit Mountain's exquisite rain tea, along with honey dates, pickled apricot kernels, sweet-sour cherry wine, and snake gall seeds to share among them. Only then did he smile and say, "Xue Ziming is a child of destiny, even without divine weapons, it's not too surprising that he claimed first place. But I heard you mention that during the duals, Nan Gongsi from the Confucian Wind Sect brought a young lady...?"

In this circle of men, they were always happy to discuss matters involving ladies, even if she wasn't one of them.

"Indeed, how tragic for heroes to be lost in such beauty. Otherwise, with Nan Gongsi's spells, it might not have been certain whether Xue Ziming would come out on top."

"That does sound intriguing." Unlike the previous life, in the last Spirit Mountain gathering, Ye Wangxi and Nan Gongsi had tied for first place. Mo Ran originally thought that Chu Wanning's death had motivated Xue Meng, but now it seemed there were more variables at play than just the little phoenix.

"I wonder what kind of background that young lady has?"

"She's named Song Tong... or something like that, I can't quite recall, but she was incredibly beautiful. I'd say that young master from the Confucian Wind Sect has completely fallen for her."

"Not only is she beautiful, she's a heavenly beauty. If I were Nan Gongsi, I'd rather forsake being the first on Spirit Mountain just to make her happy."

Mo Ran: "..."

Indeed, that was the case.

The Spirit Mountain Grand Assembly consisted of individual contests, dual battles, and group eliminations. The combined rankings from these three events determined the ultimate champion.

In his previous life, Xue Meng and Shi Mo had formed a duo to compete against Nan Gongsi and Ye Wangxi. Ye Wangxi later became the second strongest warrior in the world, next only to Chu Wanning. The outcome of that match was predictable. But in this life, something seemed to have gone awry—Nan Gongsi didn't team up with Ye Wangxi but instead brought along the woman Song Qiutong as a liability...

Mo Ran set down his teacup and rubbed his temples.

He really couldn't fathom what that fellow was thinking.

"Women, oh women, even that untamed stallion, Nan Gongsi, isn't tamed now?" someone mused, and the others followed with laughter.

Mo Ran couldn't help but ask, "What about Ye Wangxi?"

"What?"

Mo Ran repeated, "Ye Wangxi."

Seeing the confusion on everyone's faces, a faint discomfort stirred in Mo Ran's heart. That was the War God who had given him such bitter suffering in his previous life... How could they not know?

So he gestured and explained, "It's another young master from the Confucian Wind Sect. He has long legs, is quite tall, has a gentle temperament, doesn't talk much, wields a sword, and…" Seeing everyone's blank expressions, Mo Ran sighed. He already had a vague idea of the outcome, but he still finished his sentence.

"And a bow."

"No idea."

"He's not very well-known, this person."

"Buddy, who did you hear this from? At the Spirit Mountain Summit, the Confucian Wind Sect sent out sixteen disciples to compete, but none of them were named Ye."

As expected, in this life, Ye Wangxi didn't participate in the battle.

Mo Ran fell silent for a moment. Recalling how Ye Wangxi had told Nan Gongsi on the wine tower, "If you come back, I'll leave," he suddenly felt a twinge of guilt and unease.

Could this be true?

Did Ye Wangxi really leave the Confucian Wind Sect?

Thinking back to the previous life, when Ye Wangxi had told the executor before his death that he wanted to be buried in the Confucian Wind Sect's Heroes' Tomb, next to Nan Gongsi's grave, Mo Ran couldn't help but sigh. How had things turned out like this? A slight, subtle change had somehow rippled into endless consequences.

And then the heavens turned upside down, as the vast oceans transformed into fields of mulberry.

For destiny's transformations could be as tempestuous as a storm, requiring scorching blood and bitter tears to bring a wayward soul back on track, erasing past grievances.

Such was the case with him and Chu Wanning.

Yet destiny could also shift in the quietest of moments, like the encounter between Ye Wangxi and Nan Gongsi.

Perhaps it was that day at the inn when Nan Gongsi offered shelter to Ye Wangxi and his companions. In the night, feeling thirsty, he descended to fetch a pot of tea, coincidentally meeting the pitiful Song Qiutong.

Maybe it was Song Qiutong pouring him a cup of water, or perhaps her limp causing her to stumble while climbing the stairs; who could say for sure?

Or maybe, in his haste to drink, he spilled some onto his broad chest, and she, careful and considerate, offered him a handkerchief.

At the time, it seemed an insignificant moment, with Nan Gongsi simply uttering a casual "thank you."

But none of them knew that, as the stars shifted and constellations changed, their lives were altered dramatically by a handkerchief, a cup of water, and a simple expression of gratitude. None but fate itself heard the thunderous proclamation:

Nan Gongsi yawned and climbed the stairs, unaware of the impending transformation.

Song Qiutong stood gracefully, gazing at him with slender elegance.

Inside the room, Ye Wangxi lit the candles, engrossed in a book he had yet to finish.

In his previous life, Mo Ran was ignorant of the vastness of heaven and earth, believing himself capable of transcending life and death.

Now he realized that they were merely drifting duckweeds, scattered by a single night's wind and dispersed by a fleeting rain. A stone cast by someone on the shore could shatter their ethereal spirits.

How fortunate he was, to have drifted away yet still return to Chu Wanning's side.

To be able to fulfill filial piety before his Master and to say to Chu Wanning, "I'm sorry, I've let you down."

After finishing his tea, he bid farewell to everyone.

The wind picked up outside, foreshadowing an impending rain.

Mo Ran donned his cloak and ventured into the dense, tangled forest.

His figure grew increasingly distant and intangible, eventually becoming a mere speck in the twilight, akin to a fading ink stain in a washbasin, until it was no longer visible.

Rumble!

A thunderous boom echoed across the gloomy sky, accompanied by flashes of purple lightning and a downpour like an army of thousands charging forward.

"It's raining," someone in the teahouse remarked, peering outside before quickly retreating at the sight of the thunderstorm's intensity.

"What a heavy rain... it's really... our grain at home is drying, but no one can gather it now. It'll probably be ruined."

"Never mind, madam, another pot of tea please. We'll head back when the skies clear."

Mo Ran hurried through the rain, ran in the rain, fled in the rain, and tried to escape from the absurdity of his past thirty-two years.

Although Chu Wanning had forgiven him, he had not forgiven himself. The weight of his guilt was suffocating.

He was willing to spend the rest of his life doing good deeds to make amends.

But could the torrential rain of his remaining years truly wash away the sins ingrained in his bones and the impurities in his blood?

He wished for this rain to fall for five long years.

All he wished for was to stand before Master Chu Wanning when he awoke, just a little cleaner, and cleaner still.

He didn't want to remain as filthy as he was now, contaminated like sand, dust, or the grime beneath a laborer's sole, the grit in beggar Alpha's fingernails.

Before Chu Wanning regained consciousness, Mo Ran wanted to do better, even better than that.

Perhaps then, as the worst of all disciples, he could muster a sliver of courage to call out to the best of all Masters once more.

That night, Mo Ran fell ill.

His constitution had always been robust and sturdy. When such a person fell ill, it often happened with the force of an avalanche, unstoppable and devastating.

He lay in bed, nestled under heavy blankets, asleep. In the night, he dreamed of his past life, envisioning how he had tormented Chu Wanning back then, dreaming of Wanning thrashing beneath him and perishing in his embrace. Startled from his slumber, he found the world outside shrouded in a mournful wind and rain. Fumbling for a flint to ignite a candle, he struck it repeatedly, yet it refused to spark.

With a self-deprecating air, he carelessly tossed the fire knife and flint aside. burying his face in his palms, he rubbed fiercely, clenching his hair in agony. His Adam's apple bobbed, and from deep within his throat, a mournful howl akin to that of a wild beast escaped.

He evaded death, escaped condemnation, but in the end, he could not escape his own heart.

Filled with dread, he often found himself unsure whether he was in a dream or reality. At times, he couldn't help but repeatedly verify whether he was awake or asleep.

He was in immense pain, feeling as if his soul had split into two halves - one from his past life and one from this life. These two souls were tearing at each other, with one cursing the other for its blood-stained, insane actions, while the other retaliated, demanding to know how the other could remain unscathed and still have the audacity to live.

The soul of this lifetime raged against the past-life soul:

Mo Weiyu, Heaven-Stepping Lord, you're despicable! Why did you commit such atrocities? How am I supposed to atone for them in this life?

I wanted a fresh start, yet why do you haunt me relentlessly? In my dreams, in my drunken stupors, in the dimly lit corners, you appear unexpectedly with your twisted face, cursing me?

Cursing me to die a thousand deaths without redemption, cursing me to reap what I've sown as an evil man.

You curse it all as a dream, destined to shatter once more. You laugh wildly, saying that no one will ever care for me in this lifetime.

The only one willing to sacrifice their life for me, I ended up killing.

But was that me?

No, it wasn't me, it was you, Heaven-Stepping Lord! It was you, Mo Weiyu!

I am not like you; I am different...

There's no blood on my hands. I—

I can start over.

The other half of my soul howls in agony, its sharp teeth bared, its features contorted:

Aren't you plagued with guilt?

Didn't you make a terrible mistake?

Then why don't you die? Why don't you offer your blood as atonement to those you wronged in your past life?

Bastard! Hypocrite!

What makes you any different from me? I am Mo Weiyu, aren't you? You bear the sins of your past life, you carry the memories. You can never escape me; I am your nightmare, your inner demon, the question that haunts the repulsive depths of your soul.

Start over anew?

On what grounds? With what face, what right, do you have to demand a second chance? You deceived the world, you deceived those who loved you.

All your good deeds are merely to soothe that tiny sliver of guilt in your heart! Hah! Mo Weiyu! Do you dare let them know who you were in your past life?

Do you dare let Chu Wanning know that it was you who stabbed him with a blade, draining his life until he wished for death? It was you who brought famine upon the world, leaving it desolate and filled with sorrow!

It was you.

Hahaha, beast, I am you, and you are me. You can't escape, Mo Weiyu. Do you dare to deny it?

Driven nearly mad, Mo Ran reached for the fire knife and flint by the bed. He struggled to ignite the candle, desperate to dispel the night's terrifying darkness clawing at him.

But even the candle spurned him, too disdainful to save him.

Abandoned in the dark, his trembling hand struck the flint again and again, yet nothing happened, not a single spark.

Finally, he collapsed onto the bed, wailing in despair. He apologized incessantly, and in the darkness, it seemed as though a crowd had gathered around his bed, their shadowy figures cursing him, demanding his life, telling him he was evil in this life and the next. Mo Ran didn't know what to do; he felt utterly helpless. All he could manage was to keep saying, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." But nobody paid him any heed.

No one forgave him.

His forehead burned with fever, his heart aflame.

Suddenly, he seemed to hear a soft sigh.

Amidst the ghosts and goblins, he opened his eyes to see Chu Wanning approaching. Chu Wanning was still as he had been before, with his white robes trailing on the ground and wide sleeves billowing. His sharp features remained unchanged.

He came closer, standing by Mo Ran's bedside.

With a choked voice, Mo Ran said, "Master... Am I not worthy to see you again?"

Chu Wanning didn't respond, but picked up the fire knife and flint to light the unlit candle in front of Mo Ran, doing so slowly.

Wherever Master was, there was fire.

Wherever Chu Wanning was, there was light.

He stood before the candle holder, his long lashes drooping. Raising his eyelids, he gazed at Mo Ran quietly, then smiled peacefully, his smile faint.

He said, "Go to sleep, Mo Ran. Look, the lamp is lit. Don't be afraid."

Mo Ran's heart felt as if it had been struck fiercely by something heavy. His skull throbbed with pain, and the words seemed strangely familiar, as if he had heard them before.

But he couldn't recall it.

Chu Wanning brushed aside his sleeves and sat down on the edge of the bed. Though it was a cold, rainy night in Wu, the room was warm. The darkness had vanished.

Chu Wanning said, "I'll stay with you."

Upon hearing this, his heart swelled with a bitter ache, twisting into a tight knot.

"Mistress, please don't leave," he reached for Chu Wanning's hand beneath the wide sleeve.

"Alright."

"If you go, the sky will turn dark."

Mo Ran wept, feeling somewhat ashamed. He lifted his other hand to cover his eyes. "Please, don't abandon me... I beg you... I really... I truly don't want to be the Emperor anymore, Mistress... Please don't forsake me..."

"Mo Ran..."

"Please," perhaps the fever had muddled his mind, making him unusually vulnerable. Or maybe he subconsciously knew that this was all just a dream, and upon waking, Chu Wanning would vanish. He kept whispering, "Please, don't abandon me."

That night, outside the window, clanging metal and icy rivers of souls pounded against the panes, as if seeking to claim his life.

But in Mo Ran's dream, Chu Wanning lit a lamp. Its faint glow dispelled the endless chill, and Chu Wanning said, "Alright, I won't leave."

"Not leave?"

"No, I won't."

Mo Ran wanted to express his gratitude, but what emerged from his throat was a sob, a sound akin to a dog trying to appease someone with a hint of grievance.

"You all say you won't go, that you won't abandon me," Mo Ran mumbled, half-awake and half-asleep, his vision blurred. "But in the end, you all reject me. Nobody wants me. I've been a discarded dog for half my life... Everyone takes me in for a few days and then leaves me behind... I'm so tired... truly... Master... I'm really exhausted, I can't take it anymore, I can't keep going..."

He was like a stray dog, living on the streets and without a home, his fur dirty and his paws worn, forced to compete with beggars and wild cats for scraps just to survive.

Bullied for too long, he trusted no one. When someone knelt down in front of him, a domesticated dog might think they were about to feed it, but a discarded dog would only anticipate being pelted with stones. He wandered anxiously, always on edge, baring his teeth at everyone – such was his fate.

"Master, if there ever comes a day when you no longer want me, please just kill me. Don't abandon me."

Through his sobs, he whispered softly.

The sensation of being discarded time and again was too painful; he would rather die than endure it...

Indeed, he had burned himself into a delirium.

Eventually, he couldn't tell where he was, and the identity of the person who appeared in his dreams began to blur in his memory.

"Mother," he murmured before slipping into a deep sleep, "It's dark, and I'm so scared... I want to go home..."

Author's Note:

The title is derived from a poem by Du Fu, "An Old Friend Comes to My Mind in a Dream, Knowing I Often Think of Him; You Are Now Ensnared, How Can You Have Wings to Fly?" To avoid misunderstanding, I felt it necessary to clarify.