Encountering a Snake - Chapter 8

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“I want to marry you,” Shen Qingxuan said two hundred years ago.

 

Ji Jiu wouldn’t say it directly; he would only hint at it by asking, “Why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you take me away earlier?”

 

Today, Liu Yan said, “I want to marry you.”

 

Yi Mo stood there in a daze when suddenly a flash of red appeared before his eyes. The vivid red, like fresh blood, came with overwhelming force, engulfing the sky and earth. Even though he knew what it was, Yi Mo found himself incapable of dodging.

 

The red wedding veil covered him.

 

Liu Yan looked at the figure who now seemed like a bride and smiled faintly. Through the veil, he murmured softly, repeating over and over, “I want to marry you.”

 

Nineteen hundred years ago, before humanity had the chance to spread and encroach upon the farthest reaches of the East, the mountains and forests remained pristine, untouched by cultivation or farming. Birds flitted among the tree canopies, chirping as they feasted on wild fruits. Cunning beasts darted stealthily through low shrubs, searching for prey. Year after year, in the thick layers of decaying leaves, a small snake was born.

 

It was no different from other snakes. When hungry, it climbed trees to swallow bird eggs, sinking its sharp fangs into the flesh of prey and using its venom to corrode their consciousness, thus sustaining itself.

 

If no unexpected events occurred, within a few years, its life would end, leaving only bones, with its flesh nourishing other creatures in the mountains.

 

But before its life reached halfway, the arrival of humans irreversibly altered its destiny.

 

The clamor of swords and spears at the foot of the mountain signaled the spilling of blood, nourishing the earth and gathering resentful spirits into demons.

 

The birth of a new demon spelled disaster for humanity, and so two Taoists ventured into the forest, where they encountered the snake, emerging from hibernation and moving its stiff body.

 

With a drop of celestial wine, the snake became a demon. No enlightenment of its spiritual nature was needed, nor years of cultivation; it gained a long life by sheer luck, embarking on a new journey.

 

For over a thousand years, it cultivated in the mountains and wandered among humans. Blessed with a handsome appearance, it attracted enchantresses, seductive spirits, and mortal women, sharing moments of intimacy with them. The entwining of bodies felt no different from mating with female snakes—coiling together, exposing themselves, joining through their sexual organs. It had also heard various sweet nothings, words filled with affection and tenderness. Yet in the end, none lingered in its memory.

 

It was, after all, a snake—cold and covered in hard scales. Its newfound powers made it impervious to external harm. Ordinary weapons couldn’t wound it, nor could the flood of love confessions move it. Perhaps it was this aloof nature that caught the attention of celestial beings.

 

Most animals that achieved demonic cultivation yearned for something, eventually inviting trouble. Only this snake, which had not chosen to become a demon of its own will, remained disinterested even in causing mischief.

 

As a snake, it had the instinct to feed; as a demon, it found itself aimless.

 

Watching sunrises and moonsets, observing the changing seasons—it neither laughed nor cried.

 

No scenery could astonish it anymore; no beauty could captivate it. Countless stories and legends reached its ears, but under the sun, there was nothing new.

 

To it, this year was no different from the last or the next; the future, present, and past overlapped into one.

 

Life became an endless, monotonous stretch of black and white, with no end in sight.

 

Sleep became its favorite pastime. It no longer bothered accumulating virtue; while other demons needed only a thousand years to ascend as immortals, it remained a snake demon after sixteen hundred years of cultivation.

 

And then that afternoon came. After another near-century of slumber, when it had taken its original form to bask in the sun, it encountered a cup of hot tea—and the person who spilled it on it.

 

That person met the snake.

 

“Shall we walk the same path to the end?”

Before their first intimacy, that person said.

 

The snake was a demon; the place of its birth was a blurred silhouette in its memory, and its final destination had become an untouchable term lost in the passing years.

 

Over countless ages, everyone it had met faded into dust. No one shared its life, walked alongside it, or could die with it.

 

In the end, only it remained.

 

But the frail, thin man sitting in a wheelchair said, “We will walk the same path to the end.”

 

Yi Mo stood silently. The red veil before his eyes turned the world into a sea of vivid red.

 

It resembled flowing, surging blood, brimming with vitality, which poured into his body and transformed into the strength to live. A bittersweet ache filled his chest, and his dry eyes grew moist, as though the withered life within him was being rejuvenated, brimming with sap.

 

“Fool.” Beneath the veil, Yi Mo’s voice sounded, indifferent and devoid of emotion as he asked, “Why do you want to marry me?”

 

“To be with you.” Foolish Liu Yan stood before the veil and answered earnestly, “Shen Jue said that if we bow to heaven and earth and marry, we can be together forever and never part.”

 

—Never part.

 

The fool lacked learning, couldn’t write or paint, nor compose poetry. He couldn’t even write his own name, despite many attempts to teach him. After countless lessons, all he could manage were two clumsy, crooked characters: Yi Mo.

 

Two hundred years ago, this man had said, “We will walk the same path to the end.”

 

Back then, Yi Mo hadn’t realized this was the most beautiful love confession he would ever hear in his long life. That’s why, when they embraced, he felt peace. When they joined, he felt safe.

 

It was as if a pin had been driven into his black-and-white life—a pin that brought vibrant colors, fixing them firmly in his world, forever inseparable.

 

Yi Mo raised his hand and removed the red veil from his head. He paid no mind to where the bridal items had come from. At this moment, such things didn’t matter. From his sleeve, he produced two folded papers.

 

The papers, yellowed with time, seemed to have been carried for countless years. No one had seen them before, not even Liu Yan in recent years. So, when Yi Mo revealed them, Liu Yan widened his eyes with curiosity.

 

Yi Mo carefully unfolded one, revealing a scroll that had once been burned to ash but was restored through magic.

 

When the scroll was unfurled, Liu Yan’s first impression was: red. Vermilion, crimson, pomegranate, scarlet, peach blossom, and hibiscus—the hues of red filled the painting with countless petals, layered and spread in a cascade. A sea of blossoms, breathtakingly beautiful.

 

The intricacy of the colors hinted at the tremendous effort it must have required. The individually distinct petals, arranged so intricately, bespoke unimaginable dedication.

 

Amid the sea of flowers lay two entwined men.

 

Their bodies, devoid of clothing, embraced tightly. The man on top was instantly recognizable to Liu Yan, even from his back—it was Yi Mo. The man beneath him, his body adorned with peach blossoms—branches and vines entwined, large blooms in full flourish—lay among the flowers as if one with them. With his head slightly tilted back, half-closed eyes, and one leg hooked around Yi Mo’s waist, he seemed to merge into the painting.

 

Liu Yan was stunned.

 

Yi Mo pointed to the inscription on the painting and said softly, “This is my homeland.”

 

Unrolling the second scroll, Yi Mo revealed a solitary grave. In front of the grave stood a tombstone, unmarked, flanked by two white funeral banners.

 

Yi Mo spoke softly, “And yet, I let you take this grave as your homeland for two lifetimes.”

 

As he spoke, his gaze dropped, and a glimmer of water seemed to flash in his eyes.

 

Liu Yan stared blankly at the painting. Though he didn’t fully understand, a wave of sorrow surged within him—indescribable yet profoundly painful. His eyes instantly turned red, and tears began falling, one by one, as he stood there dumbfounded.

 

After a long time, Yi Mo lifted his head again and asked Liu Yan, “Even if your homeland is a lonely grave, would you still marry me? I am a demon.”

 

Hearing this, Liu Yan’s gaze shifted from the painting to Yi Mo’s eyes. Choking back his tears, he asked, “If I marry you, will you be my bride?”

 

Yi Mo didn’t answer.

 

Liu Yan, still crying, repeated, “If I marry you, if I want to marry you, will you be my bride?”

 

Yi Mo had anticipated this response. Liu Yan was simple-minded, the reincarnation of Shen Qingxuan. Though every reincarnation brought slight changes, those differences merely revealed different facets of the same soul. Just as Ji Jiu had once asked, “If he’s good, he’s Shen Qingxuan; if he’s not, he isn’t?” Whether good or not, he was always himself, foolish or otherwise. He had never changed.

 

There would never be another soul like this one in the world. Even after drinking the soup of forgetfulness and crossing the Bridge of Helplessness, losing all memories and living different lives, in the end, his feelings for Yi Mo remained the same.

 

No matter how excessive Yi Mo’s actions were, they were easily forgiven; no matter how harsh Yi Mo’s demands, they were always met with boundless recompense.

 

This soul was unique.

 

Gentle yet ruthless, decisive yet tender. As sharp as a blade, as resilient as seaweed.

 

There would never be another soul like this in the world.

 

Although he knew what Liu Yan would say, hearing the words still gave Yi Mo a subtle sense of salvation. In Liu Yan’s moist eyes, he could see only a small reflection of himself and nothing else. Only himself, within that thin layer of moisture. It seemed as if that same membrane also draped over his heart, slowly infusing it with warm liquid.

 

He had walked alone for too long. Living aimlessly and numbly, he had passively accepted the existence of this soul, unknowingly falling deeper and deeper. Only after losing him did it feel like a needle had pierced his apathy, awakening other sensations—regret and pain.

 

Yet only a small part had awakened, while the majority of his numbness persisted. In his search and pursuit, he watched as Liu Yan died again, sought him out again, accompanied him again.

 

Through this process, it seemed that he gradually awoke, no longer numb but hopeless.

 

Not knowing when this pursuit would end. Not knowing when the regret would finally fade.

 

But now, it was different.

 

Yi Mo leaned in close, his lips brushing against Liu Yan’s ear, and softly asked, “Fool, have you missed me during these days?”

 

Caught off guard by the sudden change of topic, Liu Yan didn’t try to steer it back. Instead, he answered earnestly, “I have.”

 

Unexpectedly, Yi Mo paused briefly before whispering, “I’ve missed you too.”

 

His voice, like his body temperature, was always cool. Low and with a hint of chill, it had a quality that once heard, could never be forgotten. He had always been aloof, accepting others’ devotion passively and without emotion.

 

He never spoke sweet words of affection.

 

That habit seemed to have been broken.

 

Or perhaps, very long ago—two hundred years ago—that steadfast habit had already begun to crack. Over the span of two hundred years, the cracks gradually expanded, spreading like a web across his fortress. Now, all it needed was a slight trigger to reduce that fortress to dust.

 

And the trigger was this childlike soul.

 

Liu Yan froze for a moment. When the realization hit, he burst into tears, clinging to Yi Mo and sobbing like a child made of water, shaking him as he cried out with all his heart, “I missed you!”

 

Yi Mo wrapped his arms around him, repeating softly, “I missed you too.”

 

The sobbing Liu Yan, pitiful and disheveled, kept murmuring his feelings of longing, repeating over and over, “Yi Mo, I like you. I like you. I like you.”

 

After many repetitions, the one holding him finally responded, “I like you too.”

 

Liu Yan’s wailing abruptly stopped. His mouth gaped in astonishment, as if he couldn’t believe he’d actually heard those words, his face a picture of bewilderment.

 

His tear-streaked face was a mess, mouth agape, looking foolish beyond measure. Yi Mo gazed at him and unexpectedly smiled—a slight sigh accompanying his words: “I like you too…”

 

The successive shocks seemed to jolt Liu Yan’s brain into functioning more keenly. Immediately, he latched onto the tail end of the conversation, saying, “Then you’ll marry me. Let’s get married.”

 

Yi Mo wiped his tears and cleaned his snot-covered face. Only after tidying him up did he smile faintly and reply, “Alright.”

 

“Ah?”

 

Yi Mo said, “I’ll marry you.”

 

As he said this, his smile deepened as if recalling something. Yi Mo’s expression softened into one of true happiness—a smile of release and fulfillment.

 

He was already incomparably handsome, and when he truly smiled, Liu Yan was utterly transfixed. Gazing at him, his adoration was evident, unhidden.

 

In Yi Mo’s smile, the fool became a complete and utter fool. But Yi Mo retracted his smile, cupping Liu Yan’s face as he murmured, “Fool…” His tone seemed filled with emotion, his eyes reflecting contemplation, as if lost in thought. After a while, all those emotions disappeared, and Yi Mo’s eyes returned to their tranquil state, though no longer cold.

 

“I have some matters to attend to,” Yi Mo said lightly. “Wait for me at home. When I return, we’ll get married.”

 

As he spoke, he kissed Liu Yan’s face before disappearing once again.