Chapter 15 The Bodhisattva's Love Needs Blood to Sharpen It
Meng Shutai was exceptionally precocious; even when he could barely walk steadily, his memories were already crystal clear.
It felt like sitting alone in a small boat, with ripples spreading out, long and serene.
The days were dull, like the green balm his mother used for her toilette, sitting quietly in a jade bottle, its languid fragrance reminding him of eternal sleep.
The adults, with smiling faces, fluttered around him, bent down to get close to his face, and called him "Little Gentleman, Little Bodhisattva" as if they loved him dearly.
That superficial smile is especially repulsive.
The vast world bowed down to him, a tiny person, and Meng Shutai knew he should be happy.
But just as his mother's suffocating green oily smell actually disgusted him, he tried his best to force a smile out of boredom, laughing until his mouth was dry.
At the age of five, a high fever left him in a daze for a month, and no amount of bitter, dark brown medicine could help.
In his hazy state, he would always hear bursts of heart-wrenching cries, from his mother and father, and sometimes from his wet nurse and other servants.
Sick people have heavy eyelids and can't open them. Their whole body feels like it's suffocated by a thick blanket, like a coffin made of cotton.
Meng Shutai wanted to tell them that it was a bit noisy and that the Bodhisattva wanted to sleep peacefully for a while.
But he couldn't speak; he could only silently vent his childish tantrums behind the closed curtains of his eyes. The adults, meanwhile, continued to wail and cry.
Not long after, his wish came true. His parents and relatives seemed to have all disappeared overnight, and the crowds of people no longer thronged around his bed.
After sleeping for countless nights, Meng Shutai began to feel an emptiness in his heart, vaguely like the sugar figurine he bought from outside during the New Year that melted in the stove in the warm room. He felt a lump in his throat and wanted to cry.
Have his parents turned into sugar figurines? Why don't they come looking for him?
His mind was still foggy, and his whole body was a mess.
The surroundings became lively again, with something being set up outside. Shadows moved about on the doors and windows. Meng Shutai lay on the bed, their cool shadows lingering on his face and then moving away, as if deliberately teasing him.
Suddenly, I heard a few whispers: "Hang it a little closer," "It's crooked," "Place it in the middle"... Are they decorating for the holiday? Why don't they wake him up for the holiday?
A feeling of abandonment saddened him. They were all out there, free and unrestrained, leaving him alone in a daze, oblivious to the passage of time.
He slowly sat up, suppressing the urge to vomit and the weakness that made him feel like he could collapse at any moment, and pushed open his bedroom door with his skinny little hands.
In the bright sunlight, everything was white. White silk, white brocade, white satin—all adorned the railings and eaves of the small courtyard.
Meng Shutai suddenly smiled, and asked in a weak voice, "Has it snowed?"
The servants who were holding the white silk to hang by the door were startled and exclaimed in unison, "Young master!"
Meng Shutai frowned.
Why are you screaming? Shouldn't he have come out?
Before long, his parents rushed over from the front yard, embracing him and wailing. The sound of their crying filled his ears, and Meng Shutai thought: Here we go again, what a nuisance.
Several doctors rushed to the mansion with their medical kits, taking his pulse and feeling his forehead. Meng Shutai couldn't remember what they looked like, but he recognized their gray hair, which resembled the blind raccoon he had found.
How's the cat doing? Has it gotten fatter or thinner? Is it comfortable living in the gold and silver cage he made for it, and hasn't run away?
The "old foxes" offered their congratulations, saying that if Meng Shutai took good care of himself, he would have no problem surviving. The mother's tears flowed even more freely, and she buried her head in Meng Shutai's thin shoulders, trembling.
The father bowed three times to the heavens, then said with lingering fear, "It truly is a blessing from heaven. It seems that arranging a marriage between children to bring good luck really worked..."
As Meng Shutai watched him direct his men to take down the white cloth with black lettering and put it away, he suddenly realized, as if a withered tree had sprouted a new bud: today was not a festival, but his funeral.
The time before this illness felt like a dream. He was only just being carried ashore from the small boat, about to be born.
The sunlight of the new world shone on him, a lonely soul who had just found a physical body.
A somber truth crept into Meng Shutai's heart—illness, loneliness, and death were all his alone. This loneliness was immense and unsolvable, highlighting how hypocritical love truly was.
Meng Shutai suddenly understood the reason for his previous boredom.
His mother's heartbroken tears soaked the fabric of Meng Shutai's clothes on his shoulders, and he stared blankly at the top of her head.
Since life is so fragile, why be so obsessed? People are foolish and delusional.
He returned to his room and lay there for almost half a year. This time, no one's shadow flickered over his face, but Meng Shutai still found it difficult to fall asleep. Until one day at mealtime, a small table was placed in front of his mother, with only boiled tofu and clear soup with sunflowers on it.
The mother looked shy and demure, while the father smiled at her, his gaze tender and affectionate. He heard his mother say, "He's been bothering me so much lately that I can't eat anything. These are the only things I can swallow."
The father held Meng Shutai's hand and gently placed it on the mother's belly, saying, "In four months, a little person will come to keep the Bodhisattva company."
Little one?
Meng Shutai's thoughts were racing.
He knew about that kind of thing. A man and a woman, naked, screaming and pounding like pigs, dogs, cattle, and sheep. The adults called it "pleasure."
Four months left... Meng Shutai counted down the days, the little one had arrived just when he was critically ill.
Is it because they feel he is about to die, so they are rushing to create a new life? Or is it that even the impending death of their blood relative cannot quell their insatiable appetite for life?
Meng Shutai once again confirmed that sobering truth—even the closest and dearest are nothing more than human flesh and blood, a pile of mundane bones.
His little hand pressed on his mother's belly. Suddenly, he felt agitated and wanted to press down hard, crushing the baby into a bloody mess.
The day my mother gave birth to my younger brother, the sun was shining brightly, and basins of bloody water were carried out of her room.
Like crimson moons falling into the water and being held up, a scene of serene bloodshed.
He stood outside the door, bewildered.
So this is maternal love? The most primordial love of creation in the world is bloody.
Placenta, umbilical cord, uterine blood.
Love needs blood to be sharpened.
The raccoon was sleeping in the shade of a tree. Sunlight dappled its furry body.
It suddenly barged into Meng Shutai's courtyard, with no origin and no owner, but it was quite at ease. It would drink water, eat food, and live in a small cage woven with gold and silver.
Everyone praised it for being affectionate and intelligent, but Meng Shutai thought its easygoing and friendly nature was extremely foolish, and that it might die because of it someday. Of course, he didn't tell anyone.
Meng Shutai looked up, searching for a warm source of light among the verdant branches. On days bathed in sunlight, living was also dying. This world was utterly boring to Meng Shutai.
But Yuan Jingming didn't think so. He and Meng Shutai squatted side by side, constantly stroking the kitten's fur and patiently responding to its every meow.
“Bodhisattva, it’s so well-behaved! Its fur is so soft and cute!” Yuan Jingming grinned foolishly, but Meng Shutai didn’t want to pay attention to him.
"If only we had a baby in our family, but unfortunately my dad won't let me raise one." Yuan Jingming sighed heavily, making his small frame look even thinner.
"Don't you have a dog named 'Mohei'? She'll have puppies."
Yuan Jingming shook his head desperately: "No way! My father never lets male dogs near her. He said he couldn't bear to see Mohei suffer like my mother."
They couldn't bear to see the princess suffer the pain of childbirth? She still died, didn't she?
Love, how absurd.
Meng Shutai sighed solemnly, his heart filled with even more resentment and a profound sense of boredom, reaching a state of utter desolation.
A flock of sharp-beaked birds struggled in his stomach, making him want to vomit. Meng Shutai looked down at the obedient and ignorant kitten, and for the first time in his life, he couldn't tolerate a life existing before his eyes.
His blood rushed to his fingertips; he had to do something, or he would surely be crushed, stirred, and devoured by the void.
"Your Highness, it's time to go home!" A voice called from afar, and Yuan Jingming jumped up. "Bodhisattva, I have to go home with Granny. Next time, we'll go fly kites together by the Luo River! See you later!"
He had only run a few steps when he turned back, flashing a big smile at the kitten: "You too!"
The footsteps faded into the distance. Meng Shutai, expressionless, picked up the blind cat and walked towards the flowering tree in the corner.
The gray kitten was just the size of his two hands. He lifted it above his head and slammed it against the corner of the wall. The soft, boneless creature let out a miserable scream.
Blood gushed out, a mass of flesh and blood, just as it had been at birth. Meng Shutai stared intently at the cat's corpse, his usually calm eyes finally brightening with life.
In the midst of his utter boredom, he actually discovered the only concrete thing—death.
Meng Shutai's hands trembled, a thin layer of sweat appeared on his skin, and his whole body felt cold from the wind.
He was excited, experiencing an unprecedented and ecstatic joy in his life.
I dug a hole with some branches and grass, and buried the cat's body under the flowering tree. Pale pink petals fluttered down, gently kissing the slightly raised mound of earth.
The next afternoon, everyone took him to visit his frail younger brother.
The younger brother was wrapped up, just like soil covering a cat's corpse.
"Bodhisattva, is my little brother being good?"
Meng Shutai clung to the cradle with both hands, raised her little face, and smiled so hard her mouth was dry: "So good."
"May the Bodhisattva give my younger brother a nickname."
Meng Shutai reached out and poked his little face. It was as soft, warm, thin, and tender as that blind cat's.
“Call him ‘Li Nu’.”
His parents were amused by his naive idea and said, "Alright, alright, let's call him 'Li Nu' (狸奴)."
It's strange, what exactly are these stupid people who only know how to eat, drink, cry, laugh, and make love happy about?
Meng Shutai lowered his eyes and carefully looked at the cat in the cradle.
Yes, it is a little different.
As her mother slept soundly, Meng Shutai reached out her tiny hand and turned the mirror on the dressing table. Bright sunlight, like flames, shone on the baby's face, and her delicate little eyes slowly reddened…
That's more like his raccoon dog.
The cat's cries awakened the entire Meng household, plunging everyone into chaos and wailing.
Meng Shutai stood by her mother's bedside, gently wiping away her tears, behaving as obediently and considerately as she had always done:
"Don't cry, Mother. I'm here for you. The Bodhisattva will treat your little brother very well from now on."
Upon hearing this, the adults bent down and adopted that tone that sounded utterly hypocritical and exaggerated to Meng Shutai: "Our young master is so sensible! Master and Madam, look, we still have our eldest son!"
"Young master is truly a wonderful child bestowed upon our Meng family by a god or Buddha."
"Cough cough cough..." He wanted to laugh, but his thin throat was choked by the laughter and he coughed instead.
The expressions of those around him changed, and their gazes toward Meng Shutai softened with pity. His mother's red eyes were fixed on him, tears welling up: "My son... It's pitiful that you are so young and have fallen seriously ill, yet Heaven has given you such a kind heart."
She put her younger brother down, hugged him, and burst into tears again.
The father kept stroking Meng Shutai's back, trying to suppress his emotions that were on the verge of collapse because of his "naive" answer.
In their emotional state, Meng Shutai realized a kind of magic trick—as long as he spoke good words and did good deeds, these fools would regard him as a treasure, praise and cherish him, and with a little bit of sickly pitifulness, they would no longer be able to guess what he had secretly done.
This is a mysterious game that belongs to him alone.
Meng Shutai was so happy that he coughed loudly.
Thus, whether it was admiration or tender care, the respect of ordinary people poured in like a gentle rain, permeating this bodhisattva. Over time, he almost forgot that he was originally a soulless, spiritless ghost who had been brought back to life.
Until, through the fine, silvery rain, a young eunuch carrying an umbrella walked in.
With just one glance, Meng Shutai saw the familiar compassion and love in that person's eyes.
But he didn't come for him; he had other plans.
Meng Shutai was a little unhappy; there was a little bug gnawing at his heart.
The ivory dagger gleamed like snow in my hand, just like the bright eyes of that little eunuch.
The little insect gnawed at his heart and flesh, growing larger day by day, and the aching, stinging sensation became increasingly clear.
Let's just kill him.
The thought came to him, and he sharpened the dagger.
The young eunuch cared a lot about Jiang Yingyun, so he used that woman to set a trap.
Descending from Tiger Head Mountain, the moon, perched among the branches like a fallen nest, cast a disdainful glance at him, this evil spirit stripped of his bodhisattva's golden robes.
But so what? He now has another "ghost" to keep him company.
Jiu'an died a tragic death, and people say that the spirits of those who die tragically never rest.
very nice.
Then let's imprison his soul under the lotus seat of the Bodhisattva.
Meng Shutai was overjoyed, stroking the ivory dagger and unable to stop smiling, carefully wiping away the dark, congealed bloodstains from his heart among the carvings.
He now possesses that person completely, from birth to death.
A note from the author:
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Part One of this book is over! [Sprinkling flowers][Sprinkling flowers][Sprinkling flowers]
Because I'm on the editor's picks list, updates are slow even though I have drafts saved up. [Please][Please][Please]
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