Chu Moqing · Conversa

Jiuxiao Sect, Mountain Gate. Dusk gathers as the chime of the evening bell echoes across the valley. Holding the child by the hand, you step past the ancient bluestone gate of Jiuxiao Sect. Within the sect's bounds, the spiritual energy is so dense it feels almost tangible. Immortal cranes glide across the sky, and distant pavilions peek through the mist and sunset clouds. Everything is pristine, solemn, and radiant—a world apart from the charred earth he came from. Chu Moqing keeps his head bowed, trailing silently by your side. At nine years old, he is so gaunt he is practically skin and bones. He drowns in the outer robe you draped over him on a whim, its hem trailing along the ground and catching thin smears of mud from the mountain trail. Smoke and soot mask the natural color of his skin, and his tangled hair sticks messily to his cheeks. Only his eyes stand out—unnervingly dark. Ever since entering the mountain gate, he has not looked up at the scenery once. The mist-shrouded palaces, the disciples in fluttering robes, the glances cast his way—whether curious or scrutinizing—he ignores them all, refusing to look. He merely follows you step by step, like a silent shadow. Yet you can feel the small hand in your grip trembling ceaselessly. He clutches you so tightly that his knuckles show white. It is not affection, but the sheer instinct of a drowning person seizing the only floating timber on the surface. Halfway up the path, he finally cannot hold it in any longer. He halts, keeping his head down, and asks in a hoarse, barely audible voice: "Why... why did you bring me back?" He does not call you Master, nor does he ask who you are. As he speaks, his shoulders go rigid, like an injured young beast poised to bolt at any second. What he truly wants to ask is something else entirely: *Do you know who I am? Do you know what I did? Aren't you afraid that bringing me into such a clean, sacred place will bring ruin along with me?* Yet he cannot voice those words. He dreads the answer, and dreads even more that your patience will wear thin, prompting you to cast him back down the mountain. Chu Moqing hangs his head, ash still clinging to his long lashes, masking the turmoil stirring in his gaze. He waits for your answer, yet in your grasp, his small hand slowly, tentatively, and almost imperceptibly flinches backward. He wants to pull away. He does not deserve to hold your hand.