Encountering a Snake - Chapter 14

v2c14

Yi Mo left.

He departed from the general’s residence and returned overnight to the mountains—the forest of the Shen family’s villa, the lonely peak where Shen Qingxuan was buried.

Standing in the small courtyard nestled within the mountains, the surrounding scenery remained unchanged. Various fruit trees bore their fruit, both ripe and unripe, hanging from the branches. When Shen Qingxuan still lived here, he loved to have people pick fresh fruit from the trees, refusing the washed and prepared ones. As he used to say, “The soul of the fruit hasn’t gone far yet.” He often cradled freshly picked peaches and plums in his arms, eating them with juice dripping down, sometimes wincing at the sourness.

Later, when they left the mountains and returned to the Shen estate, during harvest season, he would still enjoy wandering in the orchard. When he grew tired, he would let Xiaobao ride on his shoulders to pick fruit from the trees. Xiaobao always picked a pile, each one perfectly ripe and sweet. Shen Qingxuan would then carry him down from the tree, sit directly on the ground, and start eating without washing the fruit, eating until his face turned red as if drunk. Finally, clutching his stomach, he would fall asleep under the tree.

Yi Mo could hardly remember how many times he had carried these two, drunk from eating fruit, back to their rooms from beneath the trees.

Now, the Shen estate was gone. Years ago, a great fire reduced it to ruins, and the pear and peach trees vanished without a trace. The land was rebuilt with a new residence owned by the Fang family, merchants who, compared to the Shen family of old, were far less distinguished. Their garden was gaudy and crude, a reflection of urban taste. Yi Mo never visited it again.

Only this mountain remained as it had been a hundred years ago—rocky and lush with greenery, with mist perpetually shrouding the hot spring at its summit. Even the small courtyard was unchanged. But after two years of absence, the furniture in the courtyard had weathered and decayed from exposure. The wooden chair by the roses was rotten, and the one who once sat on that chair, smiling as he inhaled the roses’ fragrance, had long been buried beneath the earth, now reduced to bones.

Yi Mo felt unwell, as if something weighed heavily on his heart, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to speak to someone, but all around were only birds and beasts, busy preparing food for the winter.

Yi Mo went to Shen Qingxuan’s grave. The greenstone tombstone had turned pale, weathered by time. Even this resilient stone had lost a layer of its color, making one wonder if anything in this world could remain fresh and untarnished. The mound of yellow earth atop Shen Qingxuan’s grave remained undisturbed, free of weeds, and the surroundings were meticulously maintained, clearly tended by someone regularly.

Yi Mo knew that anyone who visited this mountain would stop by this grave, clearing away dust, pulling out weeds, and burning paper offerings during festivals. It was as if Shen Qingxuan had become the city god of Yongcheng.

Upon reflection, it made sense. Over a hundred years ago, his relationship with Shen Qingxuan had spread throughout the city. The more information-starved people were, the more they craved it, and even trivial matters could spread from one city to another. Though both of them were reserved by nature, this matter could not be suppressed and spread widely.

When Shen Qingxuan was alive, he endured much scorn and disdain. To his face, people called him “Young Master Shen,” but behind his back, they added the epithet “rabbit lord.” After his death, however, these same people began to praise him for his virtues—his disaster relief efforts, donations to bridge construction, and funding for academies. Public opinion shifted entirely in his favor, leaving no mention of the actions deemed immoral or improper in his lifetime. Even the county annals edited by the local government transformed the events into a romantic tale, cementing them as a local legend.

Ultimately, it was simply the way of the world to revere the dead. Besides, Shen Qingxuan’s tombstone bore an inscription personally written by a demon who styled himself as Shen Qingxuan’s “surviving spouse.”

Who would dare slander him now? Who would risk their life so recklessly?

Later, the great fire that consumed the Shen estate burned for an entire day and night, leaving no bodies to be found. Rumors changed again, with people saying that Yongcheng was protected by an immortal, and that immortal was none other than the one named on Shen Qingxuan’s tombstone.

From then on, Shen Qingxuan’s grave was never neglected again.

Yi Mo sat cross-legged before the grave, his fingers brushing over the tombstone. It was smooth yet icy. He stroked it for a while, feeling an inexplicable sense of suffocation—indescribable and unvented frustration.

The only one in this world who had stayed by his side and understood him was now buried in the earth. Even if he wanted to talk, there was no one to listen. He could only keep his words in his heart and revisit them in his mind, like a ruminating animal.

After some thought, Yi Mo transformed into his serpent form. Instead of lingering by the tombstone, he plunged headfirst into the mound of yellow earth. The soil slid down, revealing a crack through which Yi Mo slithered inside.

The tomb was pitch dark, impenetrable by any light. The smell of soil mingled with the stench of decayed wood and bones, forming a foul, heavy odor. Yi Mo seemed utterly unaffected, moving forward until he touched the wooden coffin. Without pause, he rammed into it, creating a hole in the coffin’s surface. The odor inside was even stronger.

Through the opening, Yi Mo slipped into the coffin, stopping only when he felt the remains. Then he transformed back into human form and lay within it.

As soon as he lay down, he felt something pressing against him and quickly turned to his side, only to bump into something again. What could it be? In this coffin, who else could there be but Shen Qingxuan? After being poked and prodded a few times, Yi Mo became annoyed. He pushed the bones aside and flicked his fingers. A green light emerged, dimly illuminating the cramped space, gradually growing larger and brighter.

He saw what had been pressing against him: Shen Qingxuan’s finger bone. Picking it up, Yi Mo muttered to himself, “Even in this state, you’re still not behaving.” He said this with complete self-assurance, without the slightest sense of impropriety for invading someone’s coffin and occupying their resting place, as though he were entirely justified.

Using the light above, Yi Mo lay on his side and rearranged the bones. He also tugged at the tattered scraps of cloth—Shen Qingxuan’s burial clothes—that had deteriorated into a ragged heap. Finding them unsightly, he set them on fire within the coffin, controlling the flames with his demonic power to avoid causing a blaze. Thankfully, no underground fire erupted; otherwise, it would have become another curious tale recorded in the county annals.

After arranging the bones, Yi Mo found Shen Qingxuan’s scalp, still attached to strands of hair, and placed it back on the skull. However, finding it unpleasant to look at, he tucked the scalp and hair beneath the pillow.

With nothing left to do, Yi Mo lay down again, curling up on his side in the coffin. Facing the skeleton, he closed his eyes, one hand resting idly on the bones. His fingers lightly scratched as if the bones in his arms were a living person. It reminded him of those times when the person in his embrace would review accounts while he held them with closed eyes, lazily scratching at their body. Such gestures would usually provoke a few playful twists and turns before they resumed reading, only to fidget again a few pages later. Though they constantly disrupted each other, it somehow felt natural—peaceful and serene.

Yi Mo fell asleep like this.

In his sleep, the bones scattered again with his movements. Ribs and arm bones ended up together, and the skull slid off its jade pillow. When Yi Mo woke, he caught it just in time and held it in his arms.

He muttered softly, “Shen Qingxuan, look at you, still restless even in sleep.”

After a moment of silence, he retrieved a brass gourd, opening its mouth to release a rich, fragrant aroma that filled the tomb. Yi Mo shook the gourd, then looked at the skull in his arms. He smiled faintly and began talking about the gourd and its wine.

The wine was, in fact, stolen. The only one capable of brewing this “Hundred-Day Drunk” was the Taoist who had enlightened him years ago—no one else. Immortal-brewed wine was naturally of exceptional quality. Yi Mo had descended the mountain to seek the Taoist’s reincarnation but couldn’t find him. Instead, he encountered the old immortal, who was jubilantly preparing to unseal the wine, said to have been brewing for five hundred years. Out of regard for their past acquaintance, the immortal had offered Yi Mo a taste, and Yi Mo went along.

The wine, named “Hundred-Day Drunk,” took five hundred years to brew yet could only intoxicate someone for a hundred days—a fact the old man was particularly proud of. Yi Mo paused in his story, stroking the skull in his arms as he asked it, “Isn’t he foolish?” Then, answering his own question, he said, “Very foolish.”

Such foolishness was rare even among immortals. Yi Mo thought of this, and without hesitation, snatched the gourd from the immortal’s waist, filled it, and left, leaving the immortal behind, stomping and cursing, “You shameless serpent! Utterly shameless!”

Yi Mo looked down at the skull in his arms. The bone offered no response—just stark whiteness and hollow eye sockets. What was there to find pleasing? He took a sip of the wine, and for a moment, it felt as though he heard a faint voice from that misty, rainy night long ago. From behind the billowing curtains came a teasing reprimand: “You wicked snake.”

—“You wicked snake.”

Yi Mo closed his eyes and drank the entire gourd of wine. A haze quickly filled his vision, like a layer of white mist, and beyond it, he seemed to see Shen Qingxuan lying on his chest, smiling at him with tender eyes.

“Shen Qingxuan.”

Yi Mo cradled the skull and pressed his lips against it, kissing it softly and carefully, with boundless reverence.

“You just left like this,” Yi Mo thought, drunk and sorrowful, holding the skeleton tightly.

His lips brushed against the cold bones as he muttered, “Did I truly bully you so much? Is that why you’re repaying it all in this life? How petty of you.”

He was truly drunk, clutching Shen Qingxuan’s remains, wishing only to remain in this intoxicated state forever.