The Husky and His White Cat Shizun

by Rou Bao Bu Chi Rou, St

Genres: Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

HIDDEN TRUTHS AND BURIED HEARTS

The longer Mo Ran spends in his life reborn, the less he understands the man he once was, to say nothing of the teacher he so hated. As emperor of the mortal realm, Mo Ran loathed Chu Wanning with all his being, but the Chu Wanning of this life has sacrificed himself for his student's sake time and again. Nevertheless, with the day of Chu Wanning's greatest betrayal on the horizon, Mo Ran clings to his hatred and his hopes: he must not let the past repeat itself. Yet strange new tragedies continue to unfold, and Mo Ran finds himself working alongside Chu Wanning to hunt down the mysterious culprit--a cruel mastermind who may know more about Mo Ran than even he remembers.

 

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Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: Seven Seas Entertainment

Print pages: 524

Sample

Chapter 1:
This Venerable One Dies

 

BEFORE MO RAN became an emperor, people were always calling him a dog. The villagers called him a damn mutt, his cousin called him a stupid cur, and the woman who took him in outdid them all, calling him a bitch’s whelp.

Mind you, there were other dog-related metaphors that weren’t so bad. For example, his one-night stands always grumbled with feigned petulance that his energy in bed was like that of an alpha dog. Though his words were sweet enough to tempt the soul, the weapon between his legs had lethality enough to make them feel like they were about to lose their lives. But after the act, they would turn around and boast about that same thing, to the point that the entire pleasure district knew this Mo Weiyu fellow was both a handsome face and a good lay. All who had tried him out found themselves quite fulfilled, and those who hadn’t yet were sorely tempted.

It must be said that all those names were incredibly spot-on. Mo Ran was indeed very much like a dumb tail-wagging dog.

Only once he became emperor of the cultivation world did these epithets disappear in a flash.

One day, a small sect from a faraway land offered Mo Ran the gift of a puppy.

The puppy had a greyish-white coat and a flame-shaped mark upon its forehead, somewhat like that of a wolf. But it was only as large as a melon, and it looked like it had the sentience of one, all chubby and round as it was. It nonetheless seemed to think itself a rather mighty creature and ran all around the great hall with abandon. Several times, it tried to catch a glimpse of the calm and unruffled presence on the throne, making attempts to scale the high steps—but its legs were too short, and after multiple defeats, it finally abandoned its efforts.

Mo Ran stared at that energetic yet seemingly brainless ball of fur for a long while before suddenly letting out a laugh, calling it a damn mutt as he did so.

The puppy soon grew to become a big dog, the big dog became an old dog, and eventually, the old dog became a dead dog.

Mo Ran closed his eyes, then opened them. His life, filled as it had been with the ebb and flow of prestige and shame, ups and downs, felt like it had gone by in a blink. Before he knew it, thirty-two years had passed.

He’d grown bored of his dalliances, and everything had lost its flavor and appeal. In recent years, the familiar faces around him had faded away, one by one, and even that flame-marked dog had passed on to the heavens. He felt that soon it would be time for him as well.

Time for it all to come to an end.

He plucked a plump, smooth-skinned grape from his bowl of fruit and began to peel off its purple skin with unhurried movements. His actions were easy and practiced, like that of a tribal chief in his camp, peeling off the robes of his exotic concubine, languid and lazy. The lustrous flesh of the grape quivered lightly in his fingertips, the juice seeping out an exquisite purple, vibrant like sunset-limned clouds carried in the beaks of wildfowl across the sky, like haitang blossoms entering slumber in late spring.

Or of a bloodstain.

He scrutinized his fingers as he chewed and swallowed the heavy sweetness of the grape before lifting his gaze with detached indolence.

It’s about time now, he thought to himself.

About time for him to go to hell.

Mo Ran, courtesy name Weiyu. The first emperor of the cultivation world.

It had not been an easy path to reach where he now stood. It had taken not only outstanding spiritual power but a thick-skinned shamelessness and disregard for what others thought.

Before he’d come along, the ten great sects of the cultivation world had been locked in a stalemate, fighting nonstop over their divided territory. With the sects clashing against one another like so, none had been able to emerge as a frontrunner to rule the world and call the shots. Besides, the sect leaders were all learned people; even

if they had wanted to grant themselves titles, they were too wary of chroniclers’ pens, too self-conscious of how they would be portrayed in the annals of history.

Mo Ran was different. He was a scoundrel.

What others never dared to do, he’d gone and done it all. Drinking the finest, fieriest wines of the mortal realm, marrying the most beautiful woman in the world, first establishing himself as “Taxian-jun,” leader of the cultivation world, then declaring himself emperor.

All bowed before him. Any who refused to kneel were slaughtered one and all. In his years of tyranny, the cultivation world was drowned in blood, and desolation and starvation spread throughout the land. Countless vigilantes died martyrs’ deaths, and Rufeng Sect of the ten great sects was completely annihilated.

Later still, even Mo Ran’s esteemed teacher was unable to escape his demonic claws. In a final battle with Mo Ran, his once-beloved disciple defeated him, then imprisoned him in his palace. No one knew what had become of the man thereafter.

A land of clear rivers and calm seas, once great, now lay smothered under the miasmic haze of pandemonium.

That dog of an emperor Mo Ran was not well-read, and what’s more, he cared little for taboos or inhibitions. As such, during the time in which he was in power, there was no shortage of absurdity. For example, the titles of his reigning years.

The first three years of his reign he named “Wang Ba: Tortoise.”1 He had thought of it while feeding fish by the pond.

The second set of three years he titled “Gua: Croak,” the reason being that he’d heard frogs croaking in the garden during the summer months and believed them to be inspiration sent from the heavens—something not to be taken for granted.

The country’s scholars believed that no reigning titles could ever be more tragic than “Tortoise” and “Croak,” but alas, they underestimated Mo Weiyu.

In the third set of three years, a restlessness stirred throughout the realm; whether they were Buddhists, Daoists, or spiritual

cultivators, the righteous people of the jianghu could no longer endure Mo Ran’s tyranny, and they began to rise up in rebellion.

And so, after much consideration and contemplation, after tossing aside draft after draft, Mo Ran eventually came up with a title that shook the heavens and earth, that made gods and ghosts weep alike: “Ji Ba: Cease Battle.”2

The title’s metaphorical meaning was all well and good. This emperor, the first of his kind, had used every single last drop of brainpower he possessed to come up with it, and he had based it off of the fortuitous phrase, “Lay down your arms and cease battle.”

It was only that the phrase was exceedingly awkward when spoken out loud in the common context. It was all the more awkward for those who couldn’t read and could therefore only go off the way it sounded.

The first year was called Ji Ba Yuan Nian, the First Year of Cease Battle3—but why did it have to sound like the Year of Cock and Balls?

The second year was called the Second Year of Cock.

Then the Third Year of Cock.

There were those who, behind locked doors, cursed and said, “This is ridiculous. You might as well just go ahead and call it the ‘Age of the Cock’! That way, when you want to ask a man’s age, all you’ll have to do is ask the vintage of his cock! A hundred-year-old man could just be called Centennial Cock!”

After three agonizing years, the time finally came for the reigning title “Ji Ba: Cease Battle” to be replaced. The world waited anxiously to see what His Imperial Majesty the emperor would come up with for the fourth round.

However, by this time, Mo Ran had lost all interest in such matters, because it was in this year that the unrest simmering throughout the lands finally came to a boil. After nearly a decade of weathering Mo Ran’s tyranny, those righteous people, heroes and vigilantes one and all, finally gathered to form an army, millions strong, and banded together against the emperor, Mo Weiyu.

The cultivation world needed no emperor, let alone a tyrant like him.

After many months of bloody battles, the rebel army finally came to the foot of Sisheng Peak. Located within the region of Sichuan, this was a place of steep, perilous mountain bluffs, surrounded throughout the year by curling streams of clouds and mist. At the very summit of it all stood Mo Ran’s grand and majestic palace.

It was too late to turn back now, and their goal of overthrowing the tyrant was but a single strike away. However, this last stretch was also the most treacherous; though the shining beacon of victory lay before their eyes, the previously unassailable unity of the army, joined together in common opposition to Mo Ran, began to fracture. They were all aware that once the old regime was overthrown, a new order would need to be established. Nobody wanted to spend all of their energy in this last stretch; thus, nobody volunteered to spearhead the final charge to lead them up the mountain.

They were all afraid that this cunningly vicious tyrant would suddenly drop from the skies, bare his glinting, bestial teeth, and rip apart all those who dared to surround and destroy his palace, shredding them to pieces.

“Mo Weiyu’s spiritual powers are unfathomable, and the man himself is treacherous,” one person said, face grim. “We must be cautious, lest we fall for his traps.”

All the leaders chimed in with their agreement.

At that moment, an exceptionally handsome young man with proud, haughty features stepped forward. He wore a set of light armor in blue with silver trim and a belt embellished with a lion’s head, and his hair was fastened in a high ponytail, secured at the base with an exquisite silver hairpin.

“We’ve already come to the foot of the mountain,” the young man said with an ugly expression. “What are you all milling about for, so reluctant to go up? Are you waiting for Mo Weiyu to come down himself? What a bunch of cowardly good-for-nothings!”

His words ignited a flurry of responses from the gathered.

“What are you talking about, Xue-gongzi? What do you mean by cowardly? A soldier must always be prudent and cautious. If we

were to be as brash and reckless as you, who would take responsibility if something untoward were to happen?”

“Heh, Xue-gongzi is the darling of the heavens, and we are but mere commoners,” another person sneered tauntingly. “If the darling of the heavens can’t wait to fight the Emperor of the Mortal Realm, then by all means, please be the first to go up the mountain. We’ll set up a feast down here by the foot to await your gracious return with Mo Weiyu’s head. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

That comment had gone too far. One of the old Buddhist monks in the alliance swept in to hold back Xue Meng, who was on the verge of losing it, and plastered on a benign expression. “Xue-gongzi, pay heed to these words,” he said in a sympathetic, coaxing tone. “This old monk knows that you and Mo Weiyu share a deep, personal grudge, but this assault on the palace is a critical operation. You must think of the group; don’t let your emotions carry you away.”

The individual whom everyone referred to as “Xue-gongzi” was a youth named Xue Meng. Over a decade ago, he’d been praised by all as a young prodigy, the “darling of the heavens.”

But circumstances changed with the times, and Xue Meng was no longer in his element; now he was forced to suffer their taunts and ridicule, and all so he could go up the mountain to meet Mo Ran face-to-face once more.

Xue Meng’s face twisted with anger, his lips trembling, but with great effort, he suppressed his feelings and merely asked, “Then just how long do you plan to wait around?”

“We’ve got to at least survey the surroundings, right?”

“That’s right. What if Mo Weiyu has set traps?”

“Xue-gongzi, don’t be impatient,” the old monk who’d stepped in earlier added. “We’ve come all this way to the foot of the mountain, so it would be best to remain wary. Either way, Mo Weiyu is trapped inside his palace and can’t come down to us. He’s at the end of his rope with nowhere to go. What use would it be for us to be impatient and act recklessly? There are so many of us down here, and so many illustrious and prominent figures in our company;

if they were to lose their lives to rash judgment, who would be responsible?”

“Responsible?” Xue Meng burst with rage. “Then let me ask you: Who’s going to be responsible for my shizun’s life? Mo Ran has had my shizun imprisoned for ten years! Ten whole years! With my shizun right before my eyes, just up the mountain, how am I supposed to wait?”

On hearing Xue Meng mention his teacher, the mob couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. Some looked ashamed and others averted their gazes, mumbling one excuse or another.

“Ten years ago, when Mo Ran gave himself the title Taxian-jun, he laid waste to the seventy-two cities of Rufeng Sect—and planned to do the same to the remaining nine great sects. Later still, when he crowned himself emperor, he was going to kill every last one of you. Who was it who stopped him both times? If it hadn’t been for my shizun, who put his own life on the line for you, would any of you be alive now? Would you even be standing here, spouting these empty words at me?”

At length, someone cleared their throat. “Xue-gongzi, don’t be angry,” they said gently. “With regards to Chu-zongshi, we…all feel guilt as well as gratitude. But as you said, he’s been imprisoned for ten years. If anything was going to happen, it would’ve already… Well, you’ve waited for ten years now; waiting another moment won’t hurt, wouldn’t you say?”

“Wouldn’t I say? I’d say go fuck yourself!”

That someone gaped in shock. “How dare you!”

“Why wouldn’t I dare? Shizun put his own life on the line, and it was all to save people like…people like…” Xue Meng couldn’t continue the sentence. Instead, he choked out through a sob, “All of you are undeserving.”

His piece said, Xue Meng jerked away, turning his face aside. His shoulders shook lightly as he held back his tears.

“It’s not like we said we weren’t going to rescue Chu-zongshi…”

“Yeah, we all remember the things Chu-zongshi did for us. Of course we didn’t forget. It’s pure slander for Xue-gongzi to say such

things. Calling us ingrates—I won’t stand for it.”

“But come to think of it, wasn’t Mo Ran also a disciple of Chu-zongshi?” someone asked quietly. “I must say, when the disciple turns out to be a malefactor, it’s only right for the teacher to take responsibility. As they say, ‘To raise without teaching is the father’s flaw, and to teach without discipline is the teacher’s failing.’ Maybe it was inevitable. So what’s there to complain about?”

Now this was definitely going too far, and it was immediately decried.

“What nonsense! Watch what you’re saying!” The same decrier then turned toward Xue Meng with a diplomatic look. “Xue-gongzi, some patience…”

“How can I be patient?” Xue Meng cut him off, his gaze furious. “Easy enough for all of you to stand around talking, but that’s my shizun! Mine! I haven’t seen him in years! I don’t even know whether he’s alive or dead, much less how he’s doing! Why do you think I’m even standing here?”

His breathing was harsh and ragged, and the corners of his eyes reddened as he continued. “Don’t tell me you’re all waiting here hoping for Mo Weiyu to come down the mountain of his own accord, to kneel in front of you and beg for mercy.”

“Xue-gongzi…”

“Other than Shizun, I have no family left in this world.” Xue Meng jerked his sleeve free from the old monk’s hold. “Fine, you won’t go?” he asked hoarsely. “Then I’ll go myself.”

After flinging out that last statement, he left to head up the mountain, a solitary figure with a single sword.

The chilly, damp wind mingled with the susurration of the foliage; combined with the thick fog that lay everywhere, it was as if countless malicious ghosts and aggrieved spirits wandered amidst the trees, rustling and whispering.

All alone, Xue Meng climbed the peak toward Mo Ran’s magnificent palace, which stood like a beacon in the night, illuminated by calm candlelight. As he drew near, his gaze caught on three graves at the foot of the Heaven-Piercing Tower. When he

approached for a closer look, he saw that long weeds had grown over the first grave mound, and on its gravestone were inscribed the following words in a childish, dogged scrawl: “Grave of the Esteemed Consort Chu.”

In contrast to this “Steamed Consort,” the second grave was newly dug, the earth only just sealed, and upon the tombstone was inscribed: “Grave of the Deep-Fried Empress Song.”

Xue Meng had no words. If this had been ten or more years ago, such a ridiculous sight would’ve made him laugh out loud in spite of himself. At the time, he and Mo Ran had been disciples under the same shizun, and Mo Ran had been quite the joker. Even though Xue Meng had found Mo Ran disagreeable, despite everything, the man had still ended up making him laugh from time to time.

Heaven only knew what all this Steamed Consort and Deep-Fried Empress business was about. Perhaps the style with which Scholar Mo had graced his two wives was the same as that which had produced “Wang Ba: Tortoise,” “Gua: Croak,” and “Ji Ba: Cease Battle.” As to why he would bestow such monikers on his own empress and consort, there was no knowing.

Xue Meng turned his gaze to the third grave, which lay open under the night sky. Within it lay a coffin, but there was no body in that coffin, and the tombstone remained unmarked.

However, before the grave sat a small pot of pear-blossom white wine, a bowl of chili-oil wontons long gone cold, and a few plates of spicy, numbing mala side dishes—all fare favored by Mo Ran.

Xue Meng stared at the grave for a long moment as a shock struck his heart. Could it be that Mo Ran had no intention of fighting, and that he had long since dug his own grave? That he was ready to die?

The thought made Xue Meng break into a cold sweat. He refused to believe it. Mo Ran was the kind of person who clung to things till his dying breath without ever showing fatigue, the kind of person who didn’t know the definition of surrender. Given his

history, he was bound to keep fighting the rebel army to the bitter end, so why…

These past ten years, Mo Ran had stood at the summit of power. What exactly had he seen? What exactly had happened to him? No one knew.

Xue Meng turned around and re-entered the darkness, stalking in great strides toward the brightly lit Wushan Palace.

Mo Ran sat within that palace, his eyes screwed shut and his face deathly pale. Xue Meng had guessed right. Mo Ran was determined to die. That grave mound outside had been dug by his own hands. Two hours ago, he’d used a communication spell to dismiss his servants, then swallowed a deadly poison. With his high level of cultivation, the poison’s efficacy had slowed to a crawl as it spread throughout his body, leaving him able to feel every single agonizing moment with vivid acuity as the effects of the poison dissolved his internal organs.

The doors to the hall opened with a creak.

Mo Ran didn’t look up. He only rasped, “Xue Meng. It’s you, right? Have you come?”

Xue Meng stood alone upon the golden pavement of the hall, his ponytail swinging free, his light armor glinting.

This was a reunion of disciples who had been in the same sect, once upon a time. Yet Mo Ran’s face was devoid of expression as he sat there with his chin propped in one hand, the thick curtains of his fine lashes lowered over his gaze.

Everyone spoke of him as though he were a savage fiend with three heads and six arms, but in truth, he was exceptionally good-looking. The bridge of his nose curved delicately, and the color of his lips was pale and dewy; his natural features had a sweet, gentle cast. If one only looked at his face, they would think he was a good and lovely person.

The sight of this face was all Xue Meng needed to confirm his suspicion—Mo Ran had poisoned himself. It was hard to parse his feelings at that moment, and when he opened his mouth to

speak, no words came out. In the end, he clenched his fists and asked, “Where’s Shizun?”

“What?”

“I said: Where’s Shizun?!” Xue Meng demanded sharply a second time. “Yours, mine, our shizun—where is he?!”

“Oh.” Mo Ran snorted softly and finally, slowly, blinked open his eyes. His pupils were dark, so black they looked to have hints of purple, and his gaze seemed to travel through layer upon layer of time since past before focusing on Xue Meng. “Come to think of it, it’s been two years since the last time you and Shizun met face-to-face—since your farewell at Kunlun Taxue Palace.” Mo Ran smiled faintly. “Xue Meng, do you miss him?”

“Enough nonsense! Give him back to me!”

 

Mo Ran watched Xue Meng calmly as he bore through the twisting pain in his stomach. His lips curled into a sneer, and he leaned against the back of his throne. Darkness encroached on his sight; it was as if he could feel his innards wrenching, melting, and disintegrating into stinking, bloody swill.

“Give him back to you?” Mo Ran replied indolently. “How foolish. Why don’t you use your brain to think a little? Shizun and I share such an intense hatred for each other. How could I allow him to live in this world?”

“You!” Xue Meng’s face went white, and his eyes widened as he stepped back involuntarily. “You can’t have… You wouldn’t…”

“I wouldn’t what?” Mo Ran laughed softly. “Why don’t you tell me: Why wouldn’t I?”

Xue Meng’s voice shook. “But he’s your… He’s still your shizun, after everything… How could you bear to kill him?!”

He raised his head to look up at Mo Ran, seated on his emperor’s throne. The heavens had Fuxi, hell had Yanluo, and in the mortal realm, there was Mo Weiyu.

But as far as Xue Meng was concerned, even if Mo Ran had become the eminent Emperor of the Mortal Realm, there was no way he could have done this. His body shook all over as his outraged tears spilled over. “Mo Weiyu, are you even human anymore? He once…”

Mo Ran lifted his gaze. “He once what?”

“You know very well how he once treated you,” Xue Meng said, tone taut with emotion.

Mo Ran barked a sudden laugh. “Are you trying to remind me that he once beat me so hard that I was left covered with cuts and bruises? That he made me kneel before all to confess my crimes? Or did you want to remind me that for your sake, for the sake of all these insignificant nobodies, he stood in my way at every turn, ruining my great endeavors time and again?”

Xue Meng shook his head, pained.

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…

These words caught in his throat, and at length, Xue Meng could only choke out, “His… His temper is terrible, and his words are harsh, but even I know how well he treated you. So why… How could you…”

Xue Meng raised his head, but having held back so many tears, his throat was even more constricted, and he couldn’t continue.

After a long pause, Mo Ran’s quiet sigh floated down from the throne. “Yeah. But Xue Meng, did you know?” Mo Ran was clearly exhausted. “He also ended the life of the only person I ever loved. The only one.”

A deathly silence hung over them for a good long while.

The pain in Mo Ran’s stomach, as his blood and flesh tore and ripped themselves to shreds, was like a blazing fire.

“Still, we were once master and disciple. His body is resting in the Red Lotus Pavilion at the southern peak. He’s been very well-preserved and lies there among the lotus blossoms, looking like he’s only fallen asleep.” Mo Ran caught his breath and forced himself to calm down. When he spoke, his expression remained blank, but his fingers dug into the red sandalwood of his throne’s armrest so tightly that his knuckles went white. “His corpse is maintained by my spiritual powers. If you miss him, don’t waste your breath here with me. Go now, before I die.”

A lump of astringent sweetness swarmed up into Mo Ran’s throat; he coughed a couple times, and when he opened his mouth again, his lips and teeth were covered in blood. But his gaze was at ease.

“Go,” he said with a rough voice. “Go see him. Without my spiritual powers, he’ll turn to dust. If you don’t make it before I die, it’ll be too late.”

Done speaking, he closed his eyes dispiritedly. The poison had reached his heart, bringing with it a torment like a raging inferno.

The agony was so all-consuming that even Xue Meng’s anguished, despairing wails felt like they came from far away, like he and Mo Ran were separated by an ocean spanning thousands of miles and his voice traveled over those waters.

Blood continued to drip from the corners of Mo Ran’s lips, and his hands fisted in his sleeves as his muscles spasmed. When he opened his bleary eyes, Xue Meng had long since run off. The kid’s qinggong lightness wasn’t bad; it wouldn’t take him long to reach the southern peak.

He should be able to see Shizun one last time.

Mo Ran pushed himself up, wobbling as he rose to his feet. Using hands flecked with blood, he formed a seal and sent himself to the base of Sisheng Peak’s Heaven-Piercing Tower.

It was deep autumn, and the haitang blossoms were in full, abundant bloom. He didn’t know why he’d ended up choosing this place to end his sinful life, but with all of the flowers blooming so vibrantly, at least it wouldn’t be such a bad tomb.

Mo Ran lay down in that open coffin and looked up to watch the blossoms of the night drift soundlessly as they wilted. Drifting into the coffin, drifting onto his cheeks. Dancing and fluttering, fading away like the events of the past.

In this life, he’d started out as a bastard son who possessed nothing, and after enduring a great deal, he’d become Lord Emperor of the Mortal Realm.

He had blasphemed, and his hands were covered with blood. All that he loved, all that he hated, all that he prayed for, all that he resented—when all was said and done, there was nothing left.

Ultimately, he hadn’t even bothered to pen an epitaph for himself with that wild and spirited scrawl of his. There was no shameless “Emperor of the Ages,” nor was there something ridiculous like “Deep-Fried” or “Steamed”; he hadn’t written a thing. The grave of the first emperor of the cultivation world was, in the end, unmarked.

And so the curtains finally closed on a spectacle that had lasted for a decade.

Many, many hours later, the rebel army invaded the resident palace of the emperor with torches held high. However, what awaited them was an empty Wushan Palace, a Sisheng Peak without a soul, and at the Red Lotus Pavilion, Xue Meng, who had cried himself numb, slumped over on a floor covered in ashes.

And finally, before the Heaven-Piercing Tower, the long-cold corpse of Mo Weiyu.