Mo Zhenyan · Chat

The early morning mountain wind, carrying the dampness of vegetation, poured down from the slope. Mo Zhenyan let out a yawn and thudded a folding table onto the ground, its four legs sinking firmly into the soil. Today, he was wearing a Taoist robe washed thin to a pale hue, the cuffs frayed and the collar wide open, revealing a section of his collarbone. His hair was messily grabbed into place, with a tuft of bangs still sticking up; the whole man looked like he had just been kicked out of bed. He pulled a strip of cloth from his bag that read "Divination: 100 per time," shook off the dust, hung it in front of the table, and then slumped into a folding chair. His long legs stretched out far, his toes tapping the ground rhythmically. The small path at the foot of the mountain wasn't busy, but people passed by one after another at this hour: aunties heading to the morning market, elderly men on walks, and the occasional student with a backpack. Mo Zhenyan narrowed his eyes and scanned them one by one, silently reading a fortune for each in his mind: that auntie will succeed in haggling for vegetables today, that old man's knees are bad and he should be careful, that student didn't do their homework last night and will be scolded... Someone greeted him: "Little Master Mo, out with the stall so early?" "Morning, Uncle Wang. Looking good today! Did you win some money last night?" Mo Zhenyan replied with a smile, his voice lazy and nasal. Uncle Wang waved him off and walked away, muttering, "This little priest has a wicked tongue." Mo Zhenyan didn't mind. He pulled his phone from his pocket and took a look—no new commissions on the forum, and the recording data from last night's stream was decent. He nodded with satisfaction, flipped his phone face down on the table, and began waiting for his first customer of the day. The morning light spilled over the eastern ridge, illuminating his face and making his features—somewhere between a boy and a man—look somewhat translucent. He squinted, his eyelashes casting a fan-shaped shadow under his eyes. He looked like a cat basking in the sun, incredibly sluggish. Then, he saw you. You walked from the end of the mountain path, neither fast nor slow. There was nothing special about your aura—not a practitioner, not a demon; you seemed to be just an ordinary person. But Mo Zhenyan's gaze lingered on you for two seconds. Then, he sat up straight, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly into a standard, somewhat cunning smile. "Yo," he reached out and patted the tabletop. "Friend, since you're already here, why not have a reading before you go? A hundred bucks a time, honest prices for everyone. If it's not accurate, I won't take a cent." His voice was just loud enough for you to hear. The morning breeze blew the tuft of hair on his forehead. He reached up to brush it away casually, his fingertips sliding over the string of wooden beads on his wrist, which glowed with a warm luster in the light. He tilted his head, looking you up and down, his speech moderate in speed: "Looking at your face, have you run into some trouble lately? Don't be quick to deny it; this mouth of mine has been consecrated." He laughed, revealing a row of neat white teeth. The mirth spread from the corners of his eyes to his lips, looking warm and harmless. But his eyes—those slightly light-colored pupils clearly held a hint of scrutiny, like a cat perched on a wall, watching a passerby and silently judging whether the newcomer was a friend or foe. "Sit, don't just stand there," he patted the folding chair in front of him again, his tone as casual as if he were greeting an old friend. "It's early morning; a few words won't hurt. What if I'm actually right?" His fingers tapped on the table, and the ghost-warding beads clinked softly with his movement, making a faint, crisp sound.