Chapter Text
"...Time makes no sense, these walls, the ceiling, the floor, the dirt, the light filtering through the cracks, we've become one and here we remain, believing that one day I will be saved didn't work and never will, I am condemned..."
His handwriting became increasingly messy and nonsensical; Mo Xuanyu himself forgot what he had written between the incessantly scribbled paragraphs. He never had wonderful handwriting, but it was legible; now he only writes to clear his head and get his head somewhere, a moment to let his emotions pile up without worrying that anyone would even understand his madness. However, eventually the papers will run out, and he doubts his uncles will be willing to grant his request for more. Mo Xuanyu, seen as a shameless and mentally ill man, clung to this title without complaint; it's all that's left of his life since his imprisonment in these rooms.
The unpleasant visits from his cousin, Madame Mo's screams echoing in his ears and disturbing his dreams, in the end all that remains is exhaustion, without the strength to resist. Mo Xuanyu laughs, no humor present in his laughter, only the despair of a soul committed to the emptiness of death, no one loved to offer proper condolences at the moment of his passing. The man gasps and begins a fit of laughter, as if he had heard a great joke, one of those that makes his stomach ache. Analyzing the ceiling full of cobwebs and mold, that web looks like a fishing net, Mo Xuanyu imagines himself on the village dock, catching a fish, one of the ugliest possible, seeming as rejected as himself.
He remembers — or doesn't, sometimes it's confusing — his expulsion from the Langlin Jin Clan. His memories over time have become a box of surprises; sometimes he confuses his daydreams with recollections. In one of these episodes, Mo Xuanyu hesitantly asked Madame Mo if one of his memories was true. In his defense, he was more confused than Madame Mo herself upon hearing his question. The woman didn't even question him to that extent; she slapped him on the head, and his weakened body didn't fight back, falling on his backside and staying there. "You ask me such nonsense!? Do you think anyone really cares about you, you lunatic!? Don't try to disturb me again, I won't be so merciful next time." His breath falters, and a strangled sigh escapes his throat as he takes a direct kick to the ribs. He shrinks to the ground in a failed attempt to alleviate the pain at the painful sound of the door slamming shut. Mo Xuanyu prefers to let this memory dissolve into the river of forgotten recollections.
However, the boy remembers the woman who raised him, or what remains of her in his memories. She was beautiful, the most beautiful of women; understandably, his father chose her from among the ladies of Mo Village. Her black hair danced in sync with the region's excessive winds during the cooler seasons. On walks near the river, Mo Xuanyu insisted on following her; it was one of the few moments alone with his mother when no one stared at the back of his neck, cursing his breathing. Even in hardship, she still tried to cheer up little Mo, letting him feel comfortable enough to engage in his childish mischief and tending to his wounds while scandalous cries escaped amidst tears.
Her hugs were so warm; they could keep him warm all winter long, and he would never refuse. However, Mo Xuanyu still had a certain awareness that his mother was never as well as she claimed. From a young age, the boy faced the villagers' hatred towards them. His sweet mother tried her best not to show it, but deep down he knew she was always depressed.
Until the point of her death, Mo Xuanyu didn't acknowledge his grief; the resentment was greater than the love she had nurtured during her life, but he didn't want to think about it. It was easier, it always had been.
"The rejection of you caused her death."
The incessant phrases directed at him seep through his skin, corrode his veins, and settle deep in his stomach, causing dizziness and convulsions as if hanging upside down, with no escape. It still hurts, the physical pain of guilt. Mo Xuanyu hears them screaming, writhing in his conscience, as if death is pursuing him and will take him too. In a desperate act, he covers his ears and retreats into his body, but nothing will silence the noises of his own mind.
While in a more sober state, Mo Xuanyu abruptly stands up, bitterly regretting it as nausea hammers in his brain, 'a book, I have a book on the floor', his cousin stole all the cultivation artifacts he brought with him, it's not like he'll use any of them, the boy wouldn't know how to use any even if Mo Xuanyu tried to teach him, given the circumstances he wouldn't be of much help by a long shot.
Crawling like a worm, the boy reaches the worn wood on the floor and, using what little strength he has left, rips it off.
His bitten nails try to scratch the floor on the surface of the wood; he feels his fingers ache, but whether they bleed or not, the man ignores the pain. Abruptly, he pulls with all his might, and the force of the impact makes him lose his balance to the side. The sweat of adrenaline lingers as he looks at the contents of the hole. A simple notebook, worn from the long time it has been hidden. Delicately, Mo Xuanyu grasps the notebook and with light strokes cleans the remaining dirt ingrained in its yellowed pages.
"Why is it here?" Mo Xuanyu searches aloud for the moment he came into possession of this book, but nothing comes to mind. Curious, he cautiously flips through the pages as if they would crumble at the mere touch, and stops at the first page. His body reacts before his own eyes as he reads the beautifully drawn calligraphy, but he observes it long enough to recognize the name before reading it.
'Property guarded and protected.'
— Jin Guangyao
His eyes fix on that name.
Mo Xuanyu possessing this notebook means it was never truly his from the start. How it ended up in his filthy hands is unknown to him, or perhaps he prefers not to know. Apparently, it's a relic; if he paid closer attention, he would notice the golden details. The strangest thing is that it contains nothing else — no symbol of the Lanling Jin Clan, nor the sect's jargon.
The noises in his mind resonate sharper, a frantic metallic clang echoes in his head.
"I told you not to touch that, A-yu."
That voice, which once brought peace to his torments, had become the keeper of his nightmares.
Putting down the book, feeling it burn between his fingers, Mo Xuanyu ran his blood-stained hands through his hair to calm himself. "I didn't do anything... get out of here... ah! This hurts, stop! I beg you!" He pulled at his hair to distract himself from the incessant pain that accumulated inside his brain, groaning in frustration at not being able to control his own body.
He needs to do something more than wallow in self-pity; it has an expiration date. His previously unfocused eyes now scan the corners of the small room, searching for a paintbrush. When his gaze falls upon the object laid out on a small table, Mo Xuanyu throws himself onto it, gripping it tightly and smearing himself with the remaining paint, licking the brush to moisten the ink. The man doesn't care that this beautiful book will be the target of his outbursts; he needs to let them out. The emptiness within him has become a part of him, and being filled with unwanted questions drives him even crazier than usual.
Incoherent ideograms smear the first pages, until the brush runs dry and his mind is calmer, remaining amidst the continuous noises.
Engrossed in his nonsensical work, Mo Xuanyu feels a pang of embarrassment upon noticing that the book is more ruined than it was under the floorboards. With a grimace that causes some rice powder to fall from his face directly onto the book, he flips through the other pages that haven't been scribbled on and are immaculate. The man feels dizzy for a brief moment, the sensation of having missed something, cautiously returning to the beginning of the book. Mo Xuanyu doesn't remember making any notes when he first opened the book, but there it was, with few words, yet very... convenient.
'What the hell was that supposed to be?'
Really, what was that note supposed to be? He must be hallucinating again; the writing was already there, he just hadn't noticed it, right?
Under circumstances like this, a test is necessary, so he decides to test his luck, or bad luck depending on who's watching. The boy dips the ink in the paint again with his tongue; he's determined to understand if that object is talking back.
'Am I going crazy? Are you communicating with me?'
Stepping back from the book to get a better look, Mo Xuanyu no longer cares about the awkwardness of believing he's talking to blank pages. A few seconds pass and nothing happens, enough time for the boy to confirm his suspicions, until they are overcome and a faint light crosses his eyes fixed on the paper and words form.
'If you're confused, we're on the same page, I don't understand how this is possible.'
That doesn't answer much; an annoying itch threatens to distract him, and as he runs his hand through his hair and the dirt falls to the floor, his expression is reduced to a questioning grimace.
'Are you trapped in this book?'
It seems like a silly question, but at this moment any question would be less surreal than talking to a book. This time his writing is legible enough to be acceptable, but it looks ugly even to himself. His concept of time no longer works as it once did, however Mo Xuanyu's notion is that the book takes a little longer to respond. Does it take an effort for the spirit to communicate? Who owns these words?
'I catch a glimpse of you, and what the hell is that on your face? I can't explain where I am, but you could say I'm not inside the book.'
A pang of indignation shoots through the chest of the miserable boy, who frowns. It's a strange painting, but it's not like he has many products at his disposal or a manual; he likes how it looks, and that's all that matters. Therefore, this doesn't stop him from almost involuntarily bringing his hand to his face and rubbing it all off, as he did when he was caught messing with Madame Mo's products or by his cousin — the spirits know how much he wished he'd never been found by him — but this isn't any of them, it's just a book with a trapped spirit communicating, get that into your head.
'I like it this way.'
Mo Xuanyu reconsiders whether or not to ask, however, starting by asking the spirit's name seems too impersonal.
'Are you evil?'
'I'd have a better plan if I tried something against you, so no.'
'Liar, he'll trick you.' A sharp voice makes him squint, "no. Not now."
Of the few things he remembers, he's never seen a trapped spirit that didn't harbor menacing resentments. This isn't an ordinary spirit; its description is of 'not being bound to the book,' so where is it and how can it communicate with it? A chill runs down Mo Xuanyu's spine. Could it be some assassin with a high level of cultivation? Does that even make sense? It's not like he's protected; if anyone tried to kill him, they'd probably have been sent by Mo himself, and they'd refuse to soil their otherwise clean hands.
A reckless thought swirls in his mind.
'Who am I referring to?'
The seconds he waits seem like an eternity. Would the spirit lie or reveal its true name? To be cursing Jin Guangyao's book, it must not be weak; however, if it were strong, it would have attacked him long ago. It must have awakened the moment he began writing. There are so many possibilities...
His unfocused eyes return to normal as he intently observes the small beam of light during the spirit's imaginary brushstrokes. Too anxious, Mo Xuanyu feels sweat pooling on his hands, and when the glow fades, everything stops at that moment. He reads with much more elegant handwriting than before, and with a stronger ink, as if the spirit had duplicated his effort in writing. The shock leaves his mouth dry as he opens it slightly, forgetting to regulate his breathing as he chokes.
'Wei Wuxian.'