Chapter Text
"I heard that the Chang’e came down from the heavens and was so taken by his beauty that she gifted him with hands of gold."
“Laopo, what a romantic you are.”
“Hmph. That’s what all the ladies at the market say.”
"Ridiculous. Everyone knows that Jin-xianzun fought Caishen and forced him at swordpoint to hand over his power. Jin-xianzun is a handsome man to be sure, but it's his fighting skills that won him his abilities."
“Xue-zhangfu, you old fool-”
Looking over from his drink, Mo Ran considers the amiable bickering of the couple at the table next to him. He has been on the road for days, and is feeling especially hungry for the little comforts-good wine and interesting conversation included. The pair go back and forth on the origins of this mysterious individual for another minute, enough to sufficiently pique Mo Ran’s curiosity. He pastes on a cheerful smile.
"Pardon me my good lord and lady," Mo Ran leans towards them. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. What's this about your Jin-xianzun?"
The two look aghast at him. The woman speaks first.
"Gongzi is not familiar with the legends?"
Mo Ran can only duck his head in apology.
"I am a traveler, just passing through. But can I tempt you with an offer of this inn's best wine in exchange for some of your stories?"
The man puffs up, and immediately starts to clear their dishes from the side of the table closest to Mo Ran.
"Of course, gongzi. You look like a man of culture, but I'm sure that even you will find something of interest in our Jin-xianzun. Please, come join us."
Mo Ran smiles politely at the clear attempt at flattery, and moves to their table. He lifts the wine jug towards the waiter, who rushes to bring another along with two more cups. Mo Ran pours the couple's drinks and then raises his in a toast. The man takes a generous sip, letting out a sigh of contentment.
"There is nothing like our peach blossom wine when it comes to drinks. But what do you think, gongzi? You must have tried wines from far and wide on your travels. How does our local spirit compare?"
"It's good. Very delicate and sweet, but never overpowering."
"Quite well said, gongzi. I can tell you are a true connoisseur," the wife nods.
"Ayi is generous with her praise. But I wonder if I might hear more about that Jin-xianzun…?" Mo Ran smiles disarmingly.
"Ah, gongzi knows what he wants. Now that's a good quality in a man," the wife cuts a glance to her husband, who promptly busies himself pouring another cup of wine.
Taking advantage of her husband’s silence, the woman shakes out her sleeves as begins to spin her tale.
“It must have been about ten years now since Jin-xianzun graced our humble town with his presence. Sisheng has long been at war with the lands. Generations have born and died within the harsh cycle of droughts and floods that have plagued Sisheng for many centuries. But its people are a stubborn kind. Our roots go deep, even when the harsh winds come down from the mountains and threaten to carry us from the earth. Still, Sisheng has never been a flourishing town. We have always gotten by, but nothing more than that.
“Jin-xianzun came and brought life back to Sisheng. When he first appeared, even carrying only the robes on his back, it was clear that he wanted for nothing. His wealth seemed only bound by his generosity, which equally knew no end. Any small kindness was paid-overpaid truly-in pure gold. He did not seem like the altruistic type, for he rarely smiled and never once did he speak socially with anyone. But his purse strings were always loosened whenever anyone came asking.
“It is because of Jin-xianzun’s eternal kindness that Sisheng has been put on the map, and quite literally too. The roads into town, the bustling market, even the strong walls of this inn would not exist without his making them so.”
“And where does Jin-xianzun make his money, I wonder? I heard mention of hands of gold, surely that must be a metaphor,” Mo Ran quirks an eyebrow.
“Exactly what we all wondered as well, gongzi,” the husband chimes in, taking over. “Children would ask why Jin-xianzun did not jingle when he walked, with as much gold as he seemed ever to be laden with. But his power is truly nothing short of a miracle!”
“So he can actually…?” Mo Ran starts.
“Just as you are imagining, gongzi! It was not long before he made his gift known. Jin-xianzun is a man of many oddities, much of which we took to be the eccentricities of the wealthy. You see, no one of any importance had ever shown up in Sisheng before, so we could only guess at his behavior. As my wife mentioned, he appears very cold and uncaring at first glance, and he never joined us for drinks, no matter who extended the invitation. But most curious of all were the gloves he always wore. Never seen without them, I tell you. Very strange, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quite so,” Mo Ran replies archly, playing into the man’s theatrics while taking another swig of his drink. Will you get to the point already? These two must have been entertainers in a past life.
“Well wouldn’t you know, one day he did accept an invitation for drinks. No one could believe it, but there he was, sitting in this very inn, though it wasn’t much to speak of back then. The mood was very tense as Jin-xianzun never actually drank anything himself, just sat there silent as could be. But as the night stretched on, everyone kept drinking and the mood relaxed into something more comfortable. Poor Xiao Jia couldn’t hold his liquor too well at that time, and he had the audacity to ask Jin-xianzun about his gloves!”
“And how did he respond?” Mo Ran wonders aloud, patiently settling into his role of the enraptured audience.
“I’ll tell you what he did! He motioned for Xiao Jia to set down the cup he had been waving around. Then he tugged off a glove and took the cup in his fingers. Everyone in the room watched in awe as it turned to solid gold before their very eyes,” the man finishes dramatically. He holds his own cup aloft and widens his eyes for effect.
“Were you there that night, shushu?” Mo Ran asks pointedly, trying not to let the skepticism color his words.
The man deflates, scowling a little.
“Wang-furen had taken ill with our Meng-er, otherwise I would have been right there with them.”
“Don’t blame me! If I recall, weren’t you and Rong-ge the ones too sick to leave the house? Serves you right for getting drunk in the middle of the afternoon!” she humphs.
“Ah, this one’s memory is not what it used to be,” the man shakes his head, evading his wife’s cutting glare. “But everyone in town has seen Jin-xianzun’s gift for themselves by now. You can too, gongzi. You’ve actually come to Sisheng at the perfect time.”
“Eh?” Mo Ran pauses with his cup halfway to his lips.
“Mn, over the years Jin-xianzun has become even more reclusive than before. Life in Sisheng was so much improved, but some in town became greedy. It seems as though he grew weary of the incessant requests, more and more were they motivated by selfishness. He saw people less and less until one day he locked the doors to his mansion altogether.”
“So he just left everyone to fend for themselves? How cruel,” Mo Ran sniffs, his opinion of the curious stranger dropping further.
“Ah, gongzi,” the wife smiles kindly. “You are still so young. I do not think Jin-xianzun was wrong to go into seclusion. There will always be men swayed by temptation, those who would pull every stone from the earth to bring to Jin-xianzun’s hands if they could. His absence serves as a reminder of where all the comforts we have grown used to came from. When he finally opened his doors after the first year, we were nothing but grateful. He was firm in his promise-that he would aid Sisheng as it needed-in whatever it needed-but he would offer this but once a year. Each fall, three xun before the Mid-Autumn Festival, Jin-xianzun opens his doors to us and hears our concerns.”
“Three xun,” Mo Ran tries counting backwards, struggling to imagine the calendar in his mind.”That’s…”
“Today. Gongzi truly has an auspicious sense of timing. If your aim was to get a glimpse of Jin-xianzun, you could not have timed your arrival here more perfectly!”
“Does he really go around calling himself Jin-xianzun? Is that how he introduced himself?” Mo Ran wonders, unable to keep from wrinkling his nose.
“Oh no,” the wife cuts in, waving her hands. “That is what the townspeople took to calling him. Jin-xianzun has never objected to it, though he can admittedly be rather difficult to read. If you see him, you will understand,” she gives a small smile. “The name he gave to us when he came was Chu Wanning.”
Chu Wanning.
A suitably elegant name for what sounds, by these accounts, to be nothing less than the gods’ gift to the people of Sisheng.
Well, might as well see what all the fuss is about. It’s not like Mo Ran has any better plans for his afternoon.
“When do the doors open?” he asks.
“It will not be long now,” the husband muses. “Usually around shen-shi.”
Mo Ran raises his cup in his clasped hands and bows his head.
“Then this one will leave you to finish your meal in peace. Many thanks for the good stories and the better company. Perhaps I will see you over there.”
The couple tuts at him in cheerful amusement, returning the gesture.
“I hope gongzi will not find our stories lacking,” the wife offers with an excited twinkle in her eye.
“I am sure you have more than done your Jin-xianzun justice.”
With that, Mo Ran finishes off his cup, leaving the rest of the jug at the table. He spends the next few incense-stick’s worth of time wandering about the streets. As far as Mo Ran can tell, Sisheng seems to be doing quite well under Chu Wanning’s patronage, meted out as it now is. While he strolls through town, he notices a murmur of excitement in the people that he had not picked up on before.
Finally, the appointed hour arrives. Even without being given the location of Chu Wanning’s mansion, it is not difficult to follow the crowd of people making their way to the outer gate at the edge of town. It is tucked away against the mountainside, with a large stone wall wrapping around the parts of the compound not protected by the natural terrain. Mo Ran looks up at the imposing barrier, smooth and tall enough to thoroughly discourage any potentially ill-intentioned passersby. The only thing that hints at the illustrious occupant that resides within is the shining gold knocker in the center of the heavy wooden door. A sharp-eyed phoenix wraps its way around the heavy ring, each feather perfectly molded in the gleaming metal.
A hush falls as a low creaking sounds from the gate. Slowly, almost impossibly so, the door swings open to reveal an empty courtyard. No one stands ready to greet them, and everyone hesitates for a moment before filing in. Mo Ran lets himself be swept up by the current of eager bodies who know the way better than him and wonders how many other outsiders are in attendance today.
Like the outer gate, everything inside appears sturdy and well-constructed, though lacking the flair of ostentation usually preferred by the wealthy. The quality comes through in subtler ways though-in the warm gleam of the polished wood beams and the intricate carvings in the stone facades.
There is less gold than Mo Ran would have expected. In fact, there does not seem to be any aside from the door knocker. He wonders at it, though the thought flits from his mind as he moves with the crowd from the courtyard and into the main hall.
The space is cavernous and imposing, perhaps even more so for the sparseness of the ornamentation. It instills a sense of ascetism, like the temples full of pious believers that Mo Ran generally makes a point of avoiding. There are no seats save but one at the head of the room that is already conspicuously occupied. Settling himself against the back wall, Mo Ran catches hints of nervousness, even a little fear. It seems that not everyone in attendance thinks as warmly of Chu Wanning as his friends from the inn.
For all the simplicity of the room’s furnishings, it is hard to see Chu Wanning sitting atop his throne, enrobed in white, as anything but Jin-xianzun. Even in stillness, his air is definitively regal. And while he could objectively be called a beauty, the weight of his austerity is too heavy a burden to overlook. His hair is swept away from his face and secured in a brightly golden guan. His hands rest delicately in his lap, crossed at the wrists, slender fingers gloved in intricately embroidered satin. Naturally, they are also gold, and the subtle beaded embellishments add a sparkle that winks in the lamplight with every minute movement of the flames. Chu Wanning raises his chin, and there is haughtiness in the movement that itches at Mo Ran.
He could at least make an effort not to act like everyone here is beneath him, he rolls his eyes.
With the room filled, Chu Wanning scans around impassively, then closes his eyes and dips his head in the barest of nods. Apparently with this unspoken signal-or otherwise with nothing more than the sheer power of his tiny gesture-the room lets out a collectively held breath, though it does nothing to dispel the cloud of uneasiness that has settled within the hall. The crowd churns restlessly, pushed and pulled by the opposing sway of their insatiable curiosity and their petrifying fear of the man before them. People shift their weight uncomfortably, none willing to be the first to call attention to themselves under Chu Wanning’s ice-cold gaze.
After several tense moments, a trembling man makes his way on shaking legs towards the edge of the dais that Chu Wanning’s seat rests upon. The man’s robes are simple, dotted with mud and moth-worn holes, and he carries a roughspun sack on one shoulder. His hair is dirty, though styled in a sorry attempt at recreating the courtly fashion. He prostrates himself lowly, forehead kissing the polished floors with the depth of his reverence.
He must be truly desperate, Mo Ran considers, waiting to see how the whole performance will play out.
“Please,” the man’s wavering voice echoes in the expanse of the hall, and he cringes at his already fumbled address. “Most honored and exalted lord. This humble one’s family…The drought…That is, our farm,” he stammers before collecting himself. “We have lost all of our worldly possessions, our home, and our living with the drying up of the river in the eastern valley. I have come to humbly ask if Jin-xianzun would do the honor of bestowing your holy gift to help us. This lowly one is not deserving of such grace, but-”
Chu Wanning lifts a single, gloved hand. The man snaps his mouth shut in terror, dropping his head back to the floor. If he could go lower, Mo Ran thinks he would. Chu Wanning looks discerningly down at the man. The fierceness of his phoenix-eyes imparts a calculating, almost-cruelty to his gaze. It is no wonder he strikes such unease in the hearts of his rapt audience. As he stares down, Chu Wanning’s face remains unchanged-smooth and immovable as jade.
“Rise.”
It is the first word he has spoken and though no one has dared talk since arriving, an even more oppressive silence takes hold of the room. Chu Wanning’s voice is deep and commanding, richly honeyed as the aurulent gifts bequeathed by his storied hands. It slides underneath Mo Ran’s skin, flooding his veins with a fire that thrums further through his body with each beat of his heart.
The man startles, but lifts up from his bow, though he keeps his eyes trained on the floor. At least he has not forgotten all measures of propriety.
Chu Wanning stands with a flourish of his hands, aided by the billowing gossamer of his outermost robes. The hem of it ripples like water at his feet as he settles his hands at his sides. The man on the floor hunches further into himself-as if there was any place to hide from Chu Wanning’s piercing eyes.
“What have you brought?”
The man freezes like a rabbit caught in a trap before he slips his hand into the rucksack. From it he reveals a small totem. From where Mo Ran stands, it is difficult to make out, but it appears to be nothing more than a small wooden toad. The features are crudely carved-clearly the maker was of low skill. It is a laughable offering, and some in the crowd titter at the sight. The man’s face burns with shame.
“It is all this one has. It was meant to be a birthday gift for my daughter, but along with everything else, she has gone the way of the river,” he admits thickly, blinking back tears that he does not allow to fall.
The tittering dries up, and it is almost as if the light in the great hall shines differently upon the man. His back is bowed, but not unbroken. What had first appeared as weakness now exudes an august sort of strength-the kind that can only come from desolation.
“Are you sure?” Chu Wanning inquires stonily. “It cannot be undone.”
The man cups the figurine in his hands. The grief seems to spill out before him into a puddle and for a moment he looks as if he will pull away. But then he draws himself up and holds out his hands. With arms outstretched, he dips his head, assuming a position of utter supplication. Chu Wanning purses his lips in something akin to unhappiness.
“Very well.”
With all the grace that his title suggests, he slips off one of the shimmering gloves. The hand that reaches out is ghostly pale, fingers just as lithe and willowy as the rest of him. Even in this inert state, golden power still as yet unveiled, the sight of Chu Wanning’s hands is a gift enough in itself. Mo Ran leans forward in anticipation, noting idly that he is not the only one to do so.
He watches as Chu Wanning reaches out effortlessly to pluck the carving from the man’s palms. The second his fingers touch the wood, it begins to transform. Some in the room gasp, others cry out, but most just watch, entirely spellbound, as the gold spreads lazily across the wood until there is nothing left of what it had been. In form it is identical, but where there was once a father’s undying affection carved into the toad’s squat face, now it is nothing more than a lump of shining metal, entirely void of any of the love it used to hold.
Mo Ran considers, somewhat unkindly, that the gods must have had a sense of humor in bestowing this power to Chu Wanning. Mo Ran has never met someone who could so uncaringly suck the life out of something, both literally and figuratively.
Chu Wanning deposits the golden toad back into the man’s palms, his hands dropping under its newly wrought weight. He peers down at it, expression shielded by how he has curled himself around the gift.
“This one is undeserving, but still offers his eternal thanks to Jin-xianzun. It is a debt that can never be repaid,” he says in a hush.
Chu Wanning nods, and Mo Ran thinks that will be the end of it when he opens his mouth again to speak.
“What will you do with it?”
The question brings the man up short. Like Mo Ran, he had not been expecting a follow-up, and he hastily falls into another deep bow.
“I-I will bring it to the market,” he stutters. “This will be more than enough to purchase rice to last my wife and I a year.”
Chu Wanning makes no reply, but Mo Ran reads disapproval in the tension of his jaw.
“Xian-xianzun? Is that all?” the man hesitates when nothing further comes.
“Mn.”
Chu Wanning’s voice bears all the hallmarks of a dismissal, and the man rises. Standing at his full height, he brings his hands together for another final, reverent bow. He does not turn around again as he leaves the hall, the crowd watching him with a mix of pity and respect that he gives no reaction to. His soft footsteps echo softly through the quiet. And then he is gone.
Looking out the way the man has gone, Mo Ran ponders his devotion-to the land, to his family, to Chu Wanning. Even when he has almost nothing left, even when it is the object of his devotion that ruins him, he stays. Mo Ran thinks there must be a point at which dedication goes the way of stupidity-which is why he lives the way that he does, unencumbered by expectation and uninhibited by responsibility. True, Mo Ran has never found anyone or anything worthy of his devotion, but then again, no one has ever proven themselves as deserving of it in the first place.
As a child starving on the streets of Xiangtan, no righteous junzi had ever showed him the smallest ounce of generosity. Instead, he watched them take jobs from families and merchants who could actually afford to pay them, never bothering to sully themselves with the lowly concerns of the poor.
All these years later, Mo Ran has traveled far and wide-enough to know that people are the same no matter where you go. No one is ever just kind for the sake of it. Everyone is always out for something, and he doesn’t believe for a second that Chu Wanning is without reasons of his own for doing all of this. Maybe it’s good old-fashioned guilt. Or maybe Chu Wanning just gets off on others’ suffering. Maybe he likes to watch even the proudest of men subjugate themselves at his feet.
The growing seed of anger helpfully supplies an image of Chu Wanning being the one to grovel on the ground while Mo Ran sits on that ridiculous throne looking down at him. The reversal sets something stirring in him.
As the wheels in his mind spin, Mo Ran realizes that his hands have gone tightly fisted at his sides, and he works consciously to relax them.
When he raises his eyes back to the front of the room, he is startled to find someone watching him intently. Mo Ran blinks back dumbly. It is Chu Wanning.
Mo Ran has no idea how to interpret his expression, though he thinks he catches the minutest widening of his eyes at being caught out. He should probably bow or turn away or make even the slightest show of respect, but self-preservation has never been Mo Ran’s strong suit. So instead he lets his lips slide into a sly smile and winks.
He watches gleefully as a muscle twitches in Chu Wanning’s jaw and his eyes flash even harder. Mo Ran’s grin just grows wider until Chu Wanning breaks the deadlock and looks away.
No one else seems to have noticed Chu Wanning’s momentary distraction, but Mo Ran finds himself endlessly fascinated by the brief exchange. Perhaps he will stay a little longer in Sisheng after all.