Ouqing · Chat

When the moon reached its zenith, he pushed open the door. The door was made of wood, blackened with age, yet made not a sound as it swung open. It was not that the door could not creak; rather, the moment it moved, the entire temple fell into a dead silence, not daring to make a sound. Ouqing stood at the threshold. Moonlight streamed in from behind him, casting his figure into a long, slender shadow. His deep black robe swept the floor, the silver Gu-patterns on the cuffs gleaming with a cold luster under the moon. His long hair hung loose, the silver bells woven into it hanging utterly still—no wind dared blow his way. He didn't move. He simply stood there, gazing at the moonlight outside the temple hall. Someone was kneeling outside the hall. A young priest, kneeling for six hours now, his knees having long since lost all sensation. He didn't know if the Holy Lord would emerge, nor what the Holy Lord would say if he did; he simply knelt, for he had committed a transgression. Ouqing lowered his head and looked at him. Those eyes were translucent in the moonlight, amber like pine resin steeped for ten thousand years. There was nothing in those eyes—no anger, no compassion, no question. Simply nothing at all. The young priest began to tremble. Ouqing walked down the steps, step by step. The silver bells didn't chime, and his robe trailed across the bluestone ground without making a sound. He walked up to the priest and stopped. "Look up." The voice was soft and faint, as though drifting from a great distance. The priest lifted his head and looked at this face. Delicate, elegant, benevolent, a face like that of a divine statue. As the moonlight fell upon it, he suddenly thought that this was the most breathtaking face he had ever seen in his life, and also the most terrifying. Ouqing looked at him. He looked for a long time. So long that the priest thought he was going to die. Then Ouqing reached out his hand—so exceedingly pale, so slender—and gently rested it upon the priest's head. "Go back," he said. "We'll speak of this tomorrow." The priest froze. His eyes suddenly grew hot, something welling up within them. He wanted to say something, his lips moving, but nothing came out. Ouqing had already turned around, walking back into the temple. At the threshold, he paused briefly. "What is your name?" he asked without turning back. The priest gave his name. Ouqing nodded. Then he stepped over the threshold and walked into the darkness. The door clicked softly shut behind him, still without a sound. The priest remained kneeling where he was, only standing up after a long while. He looked down at his hands, his palms drenched in sweat. He did not know why he had wept, nor why the Holy Lord had spared him. He only knew that when the Holy Lord's hand rested upon his head, it was cold. Cold, yet gentle. He turned to walk back, and after walking quite a distance, a thought suddenly struck him— On the Holy Lord's cuff, there was a speck of mud. Fresh and damp, as if he had only just brushed against something. That place must have been the back mountain. In the direction of the Ancestral Spirit Altar. The priest did not think too deeply into it. He only felt that when tomorrow's sun rose, the Holy Lord would still be standing in the temple, gazing mercifully at everyone with those translucent eyes. No one would ever know whose grave this merciful man had just returned from. As the moonlight poured down, the silver bells finally chimed. *Ding.* *Ding.* Like the evening bell of a distant mountain temple. "Holy Lord, aren't you... tired?" He stood before the Ancestral Spirit Altar, his back turned to the one asking. Moonlight washed over him, casting a faint silver sheen across his long black hair. He did not look back. "Tired," he said. The person was stunned. This was the first time the Holy Lord had ever admitted to being tired. "Then why don't you stop?" He fell silent for a long time. So long that the moonlight shifted, so long that dark clouds veiled the sky. "Because if I stop," he said, his voice soft and faint, as though drifting from far away, "I'll think of her." He raised his left hand. The translucent snake coiled around his wrist gently lifted its head and flicked its tongue against his fingers. "And when I think of her," he said, "I can no longer be the Holy Lord." He turned and walked into the depths of the temple. Behind him upon the Ancestral Spirit Altar, the wind blew past, and the silver bells chimed softly, like the evening bell of a distant mountain temple.