Mo Ran Quotes

When Shi Mei died, Mo Weiyu disappeared from the world. And when Chu Wanning died......? Mo Ran didn't know. All he knew was the feeling of the person in his arms slowly growing colder and colder on that day. He didn't cry, nor did he laugh; joy and sorrow both grew out of reach. When Chu Wanning died, Mo Weiyu no longer knew what the world even was anymore.

Where there was Shizun, there was light. Where there was Chu Wanning, there was a flame. He looked up evenly at Mo Ran from where he stood by the candle holder with his long eyelashes downcast, and gave him a small, serene smile. He said, "Go back to sleep, Mo Ran. See, the light is lit now. Don't be afraid

No, Mo Ran. Think about it. Let go of your vicious hatred and look back properly. He once trained you in cultivation and martial arts, trained you in the art of self-defense. He once taught you how to read and write, taught you poetry and painting. He once learned how to cook just for you, even though he was so clumsy and got cuts all over his hands. He once… He once waited every day for you to come home, all alone by himself, from nightfall…till the break of dawn…

Mo Ran was categorically a piece-of-shit jackass, but the sixteen-year-old budding jackass of his previous lifetime simply couldn’t compare to the thirty-two-year-old veteran jackass of the present. This guy grew more shameless with each passing day.

Why wouldn’t I dare?” Chu Wanning gazed at her, unimpressed. “What ought I be afraid of?” He paused, then pulled Mo Ran closer. “Listen up: This person is mine. I’m taking him.

Unconsciously, Mo Ran had been looking for Chu Wanning's shadow in the world; unable to find him, he had instead slowly become him.

Chu Wanning’s thick curtain of lashes swept downward. “I like it,” he repeated quietly. “No one’s ever taken care of me like this before.” He lifted his eyes to glance at Mo Ran. When he spoke again, it was earnestly: “Thank you very much, Shixiong.

Who else could it be? Who else could it be?! Depraved! Despicable! Disgusting! Obscene!” Mo Ran sighed. “That doesn’t alliterate.

Xue Meng burst out laughing, tilting his head back to look at the dim ceiling. ”Mo Ran, in all of Sisheng Peak, he was the one who thought most highly of you. And this is how you've repaid him.

MY HEART HAS STILLED, and my thoughts turned to ash / Yet unexpectedly, the light of spring shines through the cold night. / Could it be that the heavens pity the blade of grass in the secluded valley? / Yet I fear that the world is unpredictable and full only of hardship.

Mo Ran trembled and used all his strength to raise his head. He saw his God riding the dragon, swooping down from the sky. He saw the white clothes of his God, looking like an immortal exiled. As he got closer, the face next to the soaring dragon horn became clear . Mo Ran's heart suddenly hurt, and it was even more painful than being stabbed by a knife. He saw his God crying, Chu Wanning...he was crying .

The sight of this face was all Xue Meng needed to confirm his suspicion—Mo Ran had poisoned himself

If I can't be wronged for you. Mo Ran and Taxian-Jun. I am willing to be scorned with you for all eternity.

In that moment, even if his chest were to be torn open, and his heart ripped out, veins, flesh, and all, it could not hurt as much as this. He saw Chu Wanning’s hands—raw and bloody from crawling up more than three thousand steps carrying him when he was still alive, he saw those hands slowly feeling along the table. On that table sat flour, seasoning, and mincemeat filling. And next to the table was a pot heating up water. The water was already boiling, but Chu Wanning, the dummy, didn’t even know to lower the flames a little, and the thick covering of steam made everything look hazy and blurry… (...) Mo Ran wished he could cut open his own chest and give him his heart, just to hear his heartbeat again. He wished he could drain his own blood to fill his veins, just to see color on his face again.

Mo Ran, why is your face so cold…' It was as cold as ice. If I could, I would like to be a torch, waiting for you to turn back at the crossroads of the long winter night. I’m willing to burn my entire life away to light your path home. But why are you so cold? I don’t know how long I can burn, but what if when I’m exhausted and burnt out, and if when I’m extinguished, you still walk in the dark and refuse to look back?

Shizun visits my dreams, for he knows I think of him often.' When Mo Ran had high fever, he dreamt that Chu Wanning brought him a spark of flame in a cold dark night. Mo Ran said 'where his shizun was, there was a flame. Where Chu Wanning was, there was light.

Mo Ran suddenly thought—absurdly, ridiculously—that it wouldn’t be bad to spend the rest of their lives like this. He used to feel like he had nothing, and so fought for everything like his life depended on it, but now he felt like he had everything, and dared not ask for more.

Chu Wanning glanced knowingly at Mo Ran and mentally filed away this weak point. He figured that since he was, at present, already in a child’s body, and since Mo Ran hadn’t the slightest idea who he actually was, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. He opened his mouth again, and out came a soft, saccharine sweet: “Ge.” “…” “Gege.” “………” “Mo Ran-gege.” “Aaaaaah! Okay, okay! I’ll take you, I’ll take you! Stop saying that!” Mo Ran jumped to his feet, face bright red, and rubbed at the goosebumps on his arms. “All right, fine. Come along, then. You win, okay? You win. Oh my god.

Ever since, holding onto the resentment he felt that grew by the day, he'd kept provoking Chu Wanning in attempts to get his attention, his praise, his astonishment. During that time, if Shi Mei had praised him with "well done", he would've flown into the sky with happiness. But if Chu Wanning had been willing to give him a "not bad", he would've gladly given his life.

But Chu Wanning’s robes were gossamer-thin, as if they might fall to pieces in his hands. Mo Ran wished he could carve open his own chest and give Chu Wanning his heart, just to hear his heartbeat again. He wished he could drain his own blood to fill Chu Wanning’s veins, just to see color in his face again.

Mo Ran didn’t know if he should laugh or cry.

Mo Ran finally stopped running. He knew he couldn’t escape it: in this life, he was bound to owe Chu Wanning.

Was it you who carried me back?” Mo Ran muttered hollowly. His question was met with only silence. “Chu Wanning, was it you…?” Silence. No reply.

A lone Taxian-Jun, with no one to turn to, in an endless darkness he could barely breathe, holding Chu Wanning tightly in his arms as if he was holding the last embers of fire in this world.

Chu Wanning suddenly lifted his arm and covered his eyes. “Mo Ran,” he said softly. “Mo Ran, if you still have any compassion in you…any conscience…” His lashes shuddered against the back of his hand. “Please…don’t do this anymore… Mo Ran.” His voice broke on a sob. It was the first time in Mo Ran’s past life that he saw Chu Wanning cry. “Mo Ran, I can’t take it anymore… It hurts…

Mo Ran, everything that happened in this life…it’s all because I failed to teach you well, because I called you vile and beyond remedy. It was I who wronged you. I won’t blame you, in life or in death…

To Mo Ran, that embrace within an illusion had been charity that Shi Mei bestowed upon him. Mo Ran would never, ever know that this embrace had instead been charity that he bestowed upon another pitiful soul.

I just want to change my clothes and feel like I still have old friends around for company.” Liu-gong sighed. “That’s just make-believe.” “Make-believe is fine,” Mo Ran replied. “Make-believe is better than nothing.

Mo Ran suddenly felt nervous. He wanted to cover the box and chase away the people salivating over his food like he’d swat away annoying flies. Then he remembered that, in this life, the crispy meat didn’t belong to him.

Great. Awesome. Perfect. Chu Wanning was right in everything he did. Then what about Mo Ran? Head in the dark like a know-nothing idiot, running in circles like a goddamn clown, hissing and snarling in his hatred for so long. And for what?!

Chu Wanning wasn’t stupid. Even if Mo Ran didn’t say anything, it was easy to see just how much he treasured the gentle and beautiful person beside him. Why would Mo Ran ever turn his gaze toward Chu Wanning, who stood in the corner like a puppet covered in dust?

Mo Ran stared blankly, his face ghostly pale. He had always believed his shizun too cold—cold like iron, so cold it froze his heart to ice. How could he have guessed that Chu Wanning was actually so kind to him… That Chu Wanning’s lingering regret in the living world was him. That his last wish was to apologize.

Will you pour out tea, Miss Brent?' The el­der wom­an replied: 'No, you do it, dear. That tea-​pot is so heavy. And I have lost two skeins of my grey knitting-​wool. So an­noy­ing.' Ve­ra moved to the tea-​ta­ble. There was a cheer­ful rat­tle and clink of chi­na. Nor­mal­ity returned. Tea! Blessed or­di­nary everyday af­ter­noon tea! Philip Lom­bard made a cheery re­mark. Blore re­spond­ed. Dr. Arm­strong told a hu­mor­ous sto­ry. Mr. Jus­tice War­grave, who or­di­nar­ily hat­ed tea, sipped ap­prov­ing­ly. In­to this re­laxed at­mo­sphere came Rogers. And Rogers was up­set. He said ner­vous­ly and at ran­dom: 'Ex­cuse me, sir, but does any one know what's become of the bath­room cur­tain?' Lom­bard's head went up with a jerk. 'The bath­room cur­tain? What the dev­il do you mean, Rogers?' 'It's gone, sir, clean van­ished. I was go­ing round draw­ing all the cur­tai­ns and the one in the lav -​ bath­room wasn't there any longer.' Mr. Jus­tice War­grave asked: 'Was it there this morn­ing?' 'Oh, yes, sir.' Blore said: 'What kind of a cur­tain was it?' 'Scar­let oil­silk, sir. It went with the scar­let tiles.' Lom­bard said: 'And it's gone?' 'Gone, Sir.' They stared at each oth­er. Blore said heav­ily: 'Well - af­ter all-​what of it? It's mad - ​but so's everything else. Any­way, it doesn't matter. You can't kill any­body with an oil­silk cur­tain. For­get about it.' Rogers said: 'Yes, sir, thank you, sir.' He went out, shut­ting the door.

After all, everyone wanted warmth. Especially a stray dog that had frozen in the bitter cold so many times that the mere sight of salted roads made him tremble in the anticipation of snow, of the coming of winter. Taxian-jun looked imposing, but only he himself knew the truth. That he was nothing but a laughable stray. A stray that had always been looking for a place that he could curl up at, a place to call 'home', but he spent fifteen years looking and he still couldn't find it. And so, his love and hate become laughably simple - If someone gave him a beating, he would hate that person. If someone gave him a bowl of soup, he would love that person. He was only so simple, after all.

neighbors, I ran errands for Mo’s

Chu Wanning nodded. He suddenly said, “Don’t just randomly take off your clothes anymore.” Mo Ran’s face went red. “Got it.

From his dim and narrow perspective, Chu Wanning was like a plate of savory and aromatic crispy meat that had been placed into a filthy, broken box. Mo Ran was the only person in the entire world who had opened the box and been able to taste the deliciousness inside. He’d never had to worry about someone else finding out about this delicacy and drooling over it.

Hands full of sweet potato, Chu Wanning opened his mouth without a second thought; it wasn’t until Mo Ran had popped the warm, soft milk candy onto his tongue, the coarse pad of his thumb brushing lightly past the corner of his lips, that Chu Wanning abruptly realized that he had eaten a sweet right out of his own disciple’s hand. The tips of his ears grew bright red.

So Mo Ran endured it, and forced himself to pick up the pieces. He told himself, It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt. This wasn’t the first time he’d lived through Chu Wanning’s death. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt… But how could it not hurt? Over three thousand steps Chu Wanning had crawled, carrying him on his back—how could it not hurt… He’d drained his very last reserves of spiritual energy, he’d given it all to Mo Ran, how could it not hurt… He had suffered an identical injury, but so as not to burden his disciple, he had adopted a heartless expression and left on his own. How could it not hurt… And in the past life, Chu Wanning had also suffered the same injury as Shi Mei. It was just that he hadn’t said anything about it. He hadn’t said, and Mo Ran hadn’t asked. He’d roared angrily at Chu Wanning, vented endless hatred on him, flung to the ground those wontons Chu Wanning, who had yet to recover from his own injuries, had worked so hard to make for him. Before his eyes, Chu Wanning had bent down, lowered his head, and then, one by one, had picked up each wonton and thrown them away. How could it not hurt… How could it not have hurt?! He had dug out Chu Wanning’s heart! How could it have not hurt?! How could it… Mo Ran couldn’t take a step further. He stood in place for a long spell, trying to suppress these feelings, trying to rescue his calm. His entire body trembled. It hurt. He buried his face in his hands, bit down on his lip, and swallowed his sobs with the blood.

Shizun.” After sitting for a long time, immersed in the light of the moon, immersed in Chu Wanning’s nearly transparent soul, Mo Ran spoke as though coaxing a child: “Come on, let’s go home.

Then Gavin got into his car, and Nick hiked through the snow toward his SUV. "Oh,mo," I mumbled through toothpaste. I couldn't let him get away.Not now. I swished,spat,and ran for the front door,pausing only to shove my feet into galoshes owned by some unknown member of Liz's family.Her stepdad,I decided as I tried to run down the snowy front steps. The galoshes were so big,it was like wading in a Tennessee river.

After all, nothing is more important than his good name as the Beidou Immortal,” Mo Ran sneered coldly. Perhaps it was due to the room’s dim light that he looked a little forlorn. “You’ll live if you’re lucky. Die if you’re not.

Mo Ran’s throat felt tight, and a sob escaped as he collapsed to the floor, kneeling before that soul that couldn’t see him. The soul-calling lantern sat on the ground by his feet as he let out a broken wail, screaming himself hoarse as if he might cry blood. Finally, unable to contain it any longer, he bawled, loud and miserable. He knelt before Chu Wanning. It wasn’t like that at all… He groveled in the dust, clutching at the hems of Chu Wanning’s bloodstained robes.

This venerable one’s dear shizun really ought to take a look in the mirror.” Mo Ran’s finger slid along Chu Wanning’s cheek to rest by his ear, his eyes dark and threatening. A moment passed in silence, then he let out a cold hmph and abruptly leaned over. This lean was accompanied by a soft, searing-hot sensation as he captured Chu Wanning’s lips with his own. Caught completely off guard, Chu Wanning’s head hummed with white noise. Something in his mind seemed to…snap…

I won’t believe it unless you nod,” Mo Ran said to the man in the coffin. His expression was placid, as if fully expecting the person before him to wake up. “Chu Wanning, give me a nod. Just one nod, and I’ll believe you, and I won’t hate you anymore. Just one nod, okay?” But Chu Wanning only lay there, cold and expressionless, as if it made no difference to him whether Mo Ran hated him or not. He himself had left with a clear conscience, abandoning the living to their guilt.

He couldn’t remember anymore. Not clearly. In that life, Mo Ran had been entangled with Chu Wanning for so long that many things had become blurred at the edges. Eventually, like a beast, he had known only one thing: that Chu Wanning was his. Even if he didn’t care for Chu Wanning, he was still his to sunder and to ruin. He’d have preferred to rip Chu Wanning apart with his own hands—bite through his ribcage and tear out his organs like a beast—than allow someone else to touch him.

Who do you think did this? Your perfect little disciple, Xue Meng! If he had aimed his Longcheng just a hair to the side, I’d be dead! So you tell me why the fuck I should let him go! As far as you’re concerned, his life is a life, but mine counts for nothing. Is that it?!” In his fury, Mo Ran grabbed Chu Wanning’s hand and pressed it to his bloody wound. “Didn’t you want to stop me? Here’s your chance; go on then, dig out my heart! Chu Wanning, why don’t you just dig out my fucking heart?!

MY HEART HAS STILLED, and my thoughts turned to ash / Yet unexpectedly, thelight of spring shines through the cold night. / Could it be that the heavens pity the blade of grass in the secluded valley? / Yet I fear that the world is unpredictable and full only of hardship.

night.” “Sometimes, yes,” Meggie had said. “But it only works for children.” Which made Mo tweak her nose. Mo. Meggie had never called her father anything else. That night—when so much began and so many things changed forever—Meggie had one of her favorite books under her pillow, and since the rain wouldn’t let her sleep she sat up, rubbed the drowsiness from her eyes, and took it out. Its pages rustled promisingly when she opened it. Meggie thought this first whisper sounded a little different from one book to another, depending on whether or not she already knew the story it was going to tell her. But she needed light. She had a box of matches hidden in the drawer of her bedside table. Mo had forbidden her to light candles at night. He didn’t like fire. “Fire devours books,” he always said, but she was twelve years old, she surely could be trusted to keep an eye on a couple of candle flames. Meggie loved to read by candlelight. She had five candlesticks on the windowsill, and she was just holding the lighted match to one of the black wicks when she heard footsteps outside. She blew out the match in alarm—oh, how well she remembered it, even many years later—and knelt to look out of the window, which was wet with rain. Then she saw him. The rain cast a kind of pallor on the darkness, and the stranger was little more than a shadow. Only his face gleamed white as he looked up at Meggie. His hair clung to his wet forehead. The rain was falling on him, but he ignored it. He stood there motionless, arms crossed over his chest as if that might at least warm him a little. And he kept on staring at the house. I must go and wake Mo, thought Meggie. But she stayed put, her heart thudding, and went on gazing out into the night as if the stranger’s stillness had infected her. Suddenly, he turned his head, and Meggie felt as if he were looking straight into her eyes. She shot off the bed so fast the open book fell to the floor, and she ran barefoot out into the dark corridor. This was the end of May, but it was chilly in the old house. There was still a light on in Mo’s room. He often stayed up reading late into the night. Meggie had inherited her love of books from her father. When she took refuge from a bad dream with him, nothing could lull her to sleep better than Mo’s calm breathing beside her and the sound of the pages turning. Nothing chased nightmares away faster than

What he had felt for Mo Ran before was only love, which could be kept hidden. But right now, this man felt like nothing short of a fire to him, a fire that could too easily set him ablaze like he was mere kindling, sending flames soaring up to scorch the skies. Magma that had lain dormant all this time stirred awake and stretched its limbs in the abyss deep within himself, ready to burst in a violent eruption at any time. It threatened to burn through all the reservations, dignity, and restraint on which he had always prided himself… Threatened to burn it all to ash, until there was nothing left.

It was from Granny's conversations, year after year, that the meager details of Grandpa's life came to me. When the Civil War broke out, he ran off from his master and groped his way through the Confederate lines to the North. He darkly boasted of having killed "mo'n mah fair share of those damn rebels" while en route to enlist in the Union Army. Militantly resentful of slavery, he joined the Union Army... Mustered out, he returned to the South and, during elections, guarded ballot boxes with his army rifle so that Negroes could vote. But when the Negro had been driven from political power, his spirit had been crushed. He was convinced that the war had not really ended, that it would start again.

Mo Ran walked briskly through the rain, ran through the rain, fled through the rain, hid in the rain from the thirty-two nonsensical years of his past life. He didn’t know if the torrential rain could wash away his sins; Chu Wanning had forgiven him, but he had not forgiven himself. His heart felt heavy, so heavy that he might suffocate from it. He wanted to use the rest of his life to do good, to make amends. But could the downpour in the rest of his life truly wash away the evil in his bones, the filth in his blood? He wished only that this rain could fall for five years straight. He wished only that, when Chu Wanning awakened, he would be able to stand before his shizun a little cleaner, and then cleaner still.

Behind him, Mo Ran was perched atop a black-clawed wolf; he had tailed Chu Wanning closely the whole ride. An indescribable comfort and contentment welled in Chu Wanning’s breast. He was struck by the hazy feeling that, finally, there was someone who would always follow close, footsteps echoing unceasingly—someone who would follow him no matter how far he ran, and no matter what floods he willfully forded into.

Nie na­rzu­cam, ile czasu po­win­no się po­świę­cać na pi­sa­nie, bo mo­żesz być za­pra­co­wa­nym rodzicem, który ma na to pół go­dzi­ny na wie­czór, gdy dzie­ci pójdą spać, a mo­żesz też być przedsię­bior­cą, który po­trze­bu­je stwo­rzyć swój pierw­szy pro­dukt on­li­ne i na pi­sa­nie prze­zna­cza kilka go­dzin o po­ran­ku. To, co su­ge­ru­ję, to zna­le­zie­nie czasu na re­gu­lar­ne two­rze­nie. Wła­śnie w ten spo­sób wy­pra­cu­jesz nawyk.

Now, we’d had goldfish before. We won them at a church fair by throwing ping-pong balls into the little bowls they were swimming in. They didn’t live very long though. Mom said it was because the fish all had concussions from being hit on the head with the ping-pong balls. I had a concussion once when I was four, after I accidentally ran into the front door that Mark accidentally slammed shut just as he accidentally yelled, “Run, Tom, run.” That was back when he was just mostly evil.

Mo Ran only let the bestial savagery in his eyes slip for a moment, but Chu Wanning caught a glimpse of it. He glanced at Mo Ran’s face, his own graceful, scholarly mien completely devoid of expression. “What are you thinking about?” Shit! Tianwen hadn’t yet been withdrawn! Mo Ran once again felt the vine binding him squeeze and twist, making his organs feel like they were going to wrench into mush. He screamed in agony, letting loose the thoughts in his mind. “Chu Wanning! You think you’re so tough?! Watch me fuck you to death !” Silence fell. Chu Wanning was speechless. Even Xue Meng was dumbfounded. Tianwen abruptly returned to Chu Wanning’s palm, transforming into specks of golden light before eventually disappearing out of sight. Tianwen manifested from Chu Wanning’s essence, and it could appear when summoned and disappear at will. Xue Meng’s face was pale as he stammered, “Sh-Sh-Shizun…” Chu Wanning didn’t speak. His long, inky, delicate lashes were lowered as he looked at his own palm for a long moment. Then he raised his eyes, face unmoved other than for how it had become slightly icier than before. For a long moment, he pinned Mo Ran with a glare that said, “This beastly disciple deserves death.” Then he spoke, voice low: “Tianwen is broken. I’m going to fix it.” After dropping this statement, Chu Wanning turned and left. Xue Meng wasn’t a bright child. “H-how can a holy weapon like Tianwen be broken?” Chu Wanning heard him. He turned and once again used that “this beastly disciple deserves death” gaze to glance at him. Xue Meng felt a chill run down his spine.

Katrina held Bram in her arms, speaking softly, reassuringly, as they approached baby Modoc. This was an important moment, a beginning, for she knew the boy would spend his life with animals, especially elephants, and the meeting was of utmost importance. Neither the elephant nor the baby said a word. All was quiet as they looked at each other. Mo’s small trunk wormed its way up, reaching to the baby. As Bram leaned over, his little hand pulled loose from Katrina’s grasp found its way down toward the trunk. A finger extended to meet the tip of the trunk. Bram’s expression was one of curiosity; he felt the wet tip, Modoc moved her “finger” all around Bram’s hand, sliding it across each finger and the palm. A big tickle grin spread across Bram’s face, Modoc did her elephant “chirp,” a tear glistened as it ran down Katrina’s face. All was well. The future had been written.

Dear Jon, A real Dear Jon let­ter, how per­fect is that?! Who knew you’d get dumped twice in the same amount of months. See, I’m one para­graph in and I’ve al­ready fucked this. I’m writ­ing this be­cause I can’t say any of this to you face-to-face. I’ve spent the last few months ques­tion­ing a lot of my friend­ships and won­der­ing what their pur­pose is, if not to work through big emo­tional things to­gether. But I now re­al­ize: I don’t want that. And I know you’ve all been there for me in other ways. Maybe not in the lit­eral sense, but I know you all would have done any­thing to fix me other than lis­ten­ing to me talk and al­low­ing me to be sad with­out so­lu­tions. And now I am writ­ing this let­ter rather than pick­ing up the phone and talk­ing to you be­cause, de­spite every thing I know, I just don’t want to, and I don’t think you want me to ei­ther. I lost my mind when Jen broke up with me. I’m pretty sure it’s been the sub­ject of a few of your What­sApp con­ver­sa­tions and more power to you, be­cause I would need to vent about me if I’d been friends with me for the last six months. I don’t want it to have been in vain, and I wanted to tell you what I’ve learnt. If you do a high-fat, high-pro­tein, low-carb diet and join a gym, it will be a good dis­trac­tion for a while and you will lose fat and gain mus­cle, but you will run out of steam and eat nor­mally again and put all the weight back on. So maybe don’t bother. Drunk­en­ness is an­other idea. I was in black­out for most of the first two months and I think that’s fine, it got me through the evenings (and the oc­ca­sional af­ter­noon). You’ll have to do a lot of it on your own, though, be­cause no one is free to meet up any more. I think that’s fine for a bit. It was for me un­til some­one walked past me drink­ing from a whisky minia­ture while I waited for a night bus, put five quid in my hand and told me to keep warm. You’re the only per­son I’ve ever told this story. None of your mates will be ex­cited that you’re sin­gle again. I’m prob­a­bly your only sin­gle mate and even I’m not that ex­cited. Gen­er­ally the ex­pe­ri­ence of be­ing sin­gle at thirty-five will feel dif­fer­ent to any other time you’ve been sin­gle and that’s no bad thing. When your ex moves on, you might be­come ob­sessed with the bloke in a way that is al­most sex­ual. Don’t worry, you don’t want to fuck him, even though it will feel a bit like you do some­times. If you open up to me or one of the other boys, it will feel good in the mo­ment and then you’ll get an emo­tional hang­over the next day. You’ll wish you could take it all back. You may even feel like we’ve en­joyed see­ing you so low. Or that we feel smug be­cause we’re win­ning at some­thing and you’re los­ing. Re­member that none of us feel that. You may be­come ob­sessed with work­ing out why ex­actly she broke up with you and you are likely to go fully, fully nuts in your bid to find a sat­is­fy­ing an­swer. I can save you a lot of time by let­ting you know that you may well never work it out. And even if you did work it out, what’s the pur­pose of it? Soon enough, some girl is go­ing to be crazy about you for some un­de­fin­able rea­son and you’re not go­ing to be in­ter­ested in her for some un­de­fin­able rea­son. It’s all so ran­dom and un­fair – the peo­ple we want to be with don’t want to be with us and the peo­ple who want to be with us are not the peo­ple we want to be with. Re­ally, the thing that’s go­ing to hurt a lot is the fact that some­one doesn’t want to be with you any more. Feel­ing the ab­sence of some­one’s com­pany and the ab­sence of their love are two dif­fer­ent things. I wish I’d known that ear­lier. I wish I’d known that it isn’t any­body’s job to stay in a re­la­tion­ship they don’t want to be in just so some­one else doesn’t feel bad about them­selves. Any­way. That’s all. You’re go­ing to be okay, mate. Andy

Mo Ran lay on the ground, half-dead, his expression lifeless. Earlier, he really had been thinking about finding a chance to fuck Chu Wanning to death.

Mo Ran at first wanted to recite some earthshakingly romantic lines of poetry, but unfortunately, he was the kind of illiterate who could name his own ruling era something akin to “Cock.

It was I who wronged you…” He spoke the words with an uncharacteristic gentleness, the way he had in their past life. Something inside Mo Ran collapsed with a resonant boom. Blood boiling and head feverish, all the sense and rationality he had worked so hard to retrieve fell apart in an instant. Without thinking about any of it, he gave in to that familiar desire. He leaned down and ravenously captured those slightly parted lips with his own.

In this life, there was someone who loved and protected him. Later, that person had given up his life, and brought Mo Ran back to the world of the living

It was I…who wronged…you…” Mo Ran felt suddenly disoriented. He didn’t know if the dim light of the candle was making him see things, but he thought he perceived a glimmer of wetness amidst Chu Wanning’s thick eyelashes. It was I who wronged you. The words left Chu Wanning’s lips as light as mist, but they hit Mo Ran with all the force of crashing thunder.

Mo Ran let out a sigh. His weapon was Jiangui. A large number of people had already seen it during training, and a bunch more had seen it at the site of Eighteen’s murder. If he were to take it out now, it would be compared with the willow vines around the necks of the murdered guards, and doubtless it would be used to implicate him. But if he refused, it would look like he had a guilty conscience. A scarlet blaze appeared with a whoosh in his palm as Jiangui took form, coursing with a fiery, crackling flare. “Feel free to look, Elder Immortal.

Are you injured?” Mo Ran was too stunned to react. His eyes were wide, and his mouth opened in shock as he gaped wordlessly. Chu Wanning looked him up and down and detected no obvious injuries, so he turned back to the Elder Immortal. “Weren’t you asking who his master was a moment ago?” He released his terrifyingly potent spiritual energy and slowly descended to the ground, where he said, simply and sharply, with not a single superfluous word, “Chu Wanning of Sisheng Peak. Show me your best move.

Living or dead, this person had always been more maddening than he was pitiable. Mo Ran sneered. “Then again,” he said, “when have you ever listened to me?

Mo Ran’s eyes remained closed. The tears clinging to his lashes soaked into the flimsy pillow. He’d once believed the heavens were unkind to him. Now, that seemed like an absurd joke. That wasn’t the case at all. It turned out that the heavens had been very kind to him indeed; it was his own heart that was unkind, that rendered everything dark and gloomy. It was his own fault.

Forgive myself?” Mo Ran muttered, his eyes bloodshot. “Your last wish is for me to forgive myself?” He burst into laughter, and the sound pierced the skies like a raging inferno, burning away all reason and rationality. “Ha ha ha—ha ha ha ha ha—forgive myself? Chu Wanning, you’re even crazier than me! How naïve—ha ha ha ha—” The slopes of Kunlun Mountain echoed with his deranged, miserable laughter. Twisted, unrecognizable, terrifying.

Outside the flowing golden barrier, that person continued to stand with his back to him. Mo Ran opened his mouth, but his throat was filled with the taste of iron. “Chu Wanning, are you made of wood? Do you even know what it’s like to feel sad, to be selfish? Do you… Chu Wanning… Chu Wanning…

Mo Ran stood before the Heaven-Piercing Tower, alone. No one would pay attention to him anymore. No one would ever meet him here again.

Mo Ran didn’t remember if he had shed any tears that night, only that when he woke in the morning, the long blade that had gone nameless for over a decade had been engraved with two clear-cut characters: Bugui. For you do not return. Never again.

I'm so sorry, Mo Ran. It was this master's fault...

Do me a favor—look into my eyes?” “Your eyes?” Chu Wanning asked, confused. Mo Ran’s gaze was warm and mild. In his irises was reflected the image of a man in white robes. “Do you see him?” he said. “The most beautiful person in the whole world.

Chu Wanning was headstrong. Mo Ran was lovestruck.

Confucius and Lao-Tse were living in China, all the schools of Chinese philosophy came into being, including those of Mo Ti, Chuang Tse, Lieh Tzu and a host of others; India produced the Upanishads and Buddha and, like China, ran the whole gamut of philosophical possibilities down to materialism, scepticism and nihilism; in Iran, Zarathustra taught a challenging view of the world as a struggle between good and evil; in Palestine the prophets made their appearance from Elijah by way of Isaiah and Jeremiah to Deutero-Isaiah; Greece witnessed the appearance of Homer, of the philosophers—Parmenides, Heraclitus and Plato,—of the tragedians, of Thucydides and Archimedes. Everything implied by these names developed during these few centuries almost simultaneously in China, India and the West.

Te odio, Chu WanNing. Realmente te odio mucho... pero, eres todo lo que me queda" -Mo Ran

Te odio, Chu WanNing. Realmente te odio mucho... pero, eres todo lo que me queda" -Mo Ran-

With a boom, the filthy cloak was thrown into the flames. To the person who threw it, it was just trash. But to Mo Ran, it was a cremation, a funeral.

Mo Ran, it hurts…” It hurt too much, holding someone in his heart like this, hidden carefully in the very depths of his thoughts. It was fine if that person didn’t like him, as long as he could think about that person quietly and protect them silently. It was fine if he couldn’t have that person. All of it was fine.

Chu Wanning wanted to look away, as if burned by the intensity of Mo Ran’s predatory gaze, but Mo Ran saw through his intentions and gripped his face before he could. “Look at me.” Mo Ran’s voice was rough and heated, shaking faintly from arousal—or perhaps something else—and filled with the craving of a beast about to devour its prey. “I said, look at me!” Chu Wanning shakily closed his eyes. This dream was far too absurd…

For some reason, the Mo Ran in this dream was wholly different from the one Chu Wanning knew. That deferential ingratiation had vanished, replaced by a domineering presence. He could distinctly feel Mo Ran’s heated breaths as he exhaled, low and rapid, animalistic desire searing like lava and threatening to melt him down, flesh and bone alike.

He trembled in Mo Ran’s embrace; Mo Ran’s chest was furiously hot, so hot that it was like Chu Wanning would be burned and drowned even through the layers of fabric. He wanted desperately to struggle, but he couldn’t summon the strength.

Mo Ran backed him into a wall, then abruptly raised a hand to strike the hard surface. The other hand closed tightly around Chu Wanning’s shackled wrist. Not without malicious spite, but also not without timid desire, he bent down to capture the lobe of an ear between his lips. Chu Wanning shuddered violently, a frightening numbness shooting up his spine and spreading over his scalp. Mo Ran’s voice was husky, his breaths heavy and oppressive. “Let me screw you, and I’ll let you have what you demand.

But Mo Ran also thought about the way the man looked when he was curled up asleep, lonely and unassuming, like a haitang blossom that nobody cared for because it had bloomed too high on the branch. The hatred he felt aside, Mo Ran’s past life entanglements with Chu Wanning had in fact been more intimate than any he had shared with anyone else in the world. He had taken many of Chu Wanning’s firsts, regardless of whether the man had been willing. His first kiss, his first time cooking, his first time crying. And his first time. Dammit, just thinking about it made Mo Ran’s body feel hot and his blood rush downward.

After the initial surprise, Chu Wanning convinced himself that he had misheard. After all, Mo Ran had always called him “Shizun.” And it was one thing for Mo Ran to call him “Chu Wanning,” but to call him “Wanning”— His mind tracked back to that night at the Red Lotus Pavilion, when they had slept holding one another and Mo Ran, fast asleep, had clearly called out “Wanning,” then pressed a kiss to his lips, light as the touch of a dragonfly on water. Was it possible that, in Mo Ran’s heart, there actually was a little bit of…

In the end, this fifteen-year-old boy was as yet very young. Mo Ran tried to hold it in for a while, but ultimately couldn’t. He buried his face in his arms, curled into himself, and bawled miserably. His voice was rough and broken, hysterical and lost, pained and grief-stricken. Body wracked with sobs, he repeated the same thing over and over. “I only wanted to have a home… These past fifteen years, I really… I really only wanted a home… Why do you all look down on me? Why do you all look at me like that? Why, why do you all look down on me…?

In exchange, Mo Ran had given Chu Wanning some of his own firsts as well, regardless of whether his shizun had wanted them. His first apprenticeship, his first attempt to coax someone, his first gift of flowers. His first thorough disappointment. And the first stirrings of his heart. Yes, the first stirrings of his heart. When he’d come to Sisheng Peak, the person he’d fallen for hadn’t been Shi Mei, but Chu Wanning.

Mo Ran was no man of culture and didn’t recognize this something else as the feeling of being evenly matched with a worthy opponent. He only knew that from then on, he had no true nemesis in the world.

My God, I’d never have thought the idea of strangling another human being would give me such enormous satisfaction. But I’m sure if I could just get my hands around that Basta’s neck, I —” On seeing the shock in Meggie’s eyes she fell guiltily silent, but Meggie just shrugged her shoulders. “I feel the same,” she murmured and began scratching an M on the wall with the key of her bicycle lock. Weird to think she still had that key in her pants pocket—like a souvenir of another life. Elinor ran her finger down one of the runs in her stockings, and Mo turned on his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m so sorry, Meggie,” he said suddenly. “I’m so sorry I let them take the book away from me.” Meggie scratched an E into the wall. “It doesn’t make any difference,” she said, stepping back. The Gs in her name looked like nibbled Os. “You probably couldn’t have read her back out of it again anyway.” “No, probably not,” murmured Mo and went on staring at the ceiling. “It’s not your fault,” said Meggie.

Agent Ingrid Skyberg saw it all happen in slow-mo as she ran past. She glimpsed the woman’s mouth form a wide silent ‘O’, throw up her hands in disbelief then scream at the top of her lungs.