To Get Married - Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Goblins and spirits aren’t necessarily born with names. After all, not every spirit’s parents are spirits themselves.

Birds, beasts, flowers, and trees that have not yet attained spiritual wisdom won’t bother naming their offspring. Most of them simply label them by birth order or size—calling them Little One, Little Two, Little Three, or Little Four as they please.

Most nameless spirits, once they are capable of independent shapeshifting, will seek out their closest senior and ask for a name, or they will simply choose one for themselves.

Man Shanhong (Red-Over-the-Mountain) was the name given to Manzhu by the old snake-father surnamed Man in the mountains years ago.

Old Snake-Father was the oldest spirit in the mountain. He treated all the little snake spirits in the forest as his own. Whenever one cultivated a human form, they would go to him for a name.

The year Manzhu cultivated her human form, Old Snake-Father was already over four thousand years old. He was extremely weak and could no longer maintain a human shape; he spent his days coiled in his snake pit, eating the food the little hatchlings brought him.

When Old Snake-Father saw the little red python—the most vibrantly colored one in the mountain—shift into human form and come happily seeking a name, he pretentiously crawled out of the cave to gaze at the horizon.

He saw the mountain covered in crimson flowers, closed his eyes, and said slowly: “Little Red, see how brilliantly the red flowers bloom across the hills? Why don’t you call yourself Man Shanhong?”

Back then, Manzhu thought it was a fine name and was happy for a long time.

That was, until that “Big Flat-Neck” (Cobra) with the crooked neck arrived in the mountain after being rescued by the Little Green Snake. From then on, her name suffered constant ridicule.

That fellow really had a wicked tongue. He actually said that the name “Man Shanhong” was no different from the names outside the mountain like Zhao Damei (Big Beauty Zhao), Wang Jinhua (Golden Flower Wang), or Zhou Chunmiao (Spring Sprout Zhou). He told her that if she ever left the mountain and introduced herself, she’d be reeking of “peasant energy.”

It would have been fine if he said it once, but he dared to say it constantly. She was so angry she nearly silenced the snake forever on several occasions, but she was always held back by that Little Green Snake.

Later, when the Big Flat-Neck cultivated a human form, Old Snake-Father closed his eyes, pondered for a moment, and said deeply: “Your aptitude is the best in the mountains. Why don’t you be called Man Chengjiao?”

You must understand, every snake dreams of cultivating into a Jiao. Many snakes remain snakes their entire lives; to “Become a Jiao” was a supreme blessing.

Manzhu had listened from the side with great envy, completely failing to realize how “piercing” the name sounded when preceded by the surname “Man” (Man Chengjiao sounds like “Slowly Become a Jiao”).

The Big Flat-Neck rejected it on the spot. He crawled up a mountain peak by himself and spent the entire day contemplating the sea of clouds.

That day, the Green Snake—who hadn’t yet shifted—stayed by his side from sunrise to sunset, only to see the grief in his eyes grow heavier.

As the last light of the sun faded with the fiery clouds, he sighed softly: “The sun sinks behind the western mountains… is that not the fall of light?”

“It… it… it will r-r-rise again…”

“How about the name Mu Chenshan (Dusk-Sinks-Behind-the-Mountain)?” he said, not waiting for the Green Snake to finish.

“N-not good… the meaning… isn’t good…”

“It’s just to commemorate a fellow. It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad.”

“Who?”

“You little stutterer, why so many questions? Let’s go!” He reached out, let the Green Snake coil onto his arm, and jumped off the high rock. Hiding all the sadness in his eyes, he left the peak as if nothing had happened.

Decades later, that Green Snake also cultivated a human form under Old Snake-Father’s watch.

Old Snake-Father closed his eyes, lifted his massive snake head slightly, and said deeply: “Your nature is gentle but sensitive and dull. You must change that in the future. Why don’t you call yourself Man Kailang (Man-Be-Cheerful)? It’s better to be cheerful, cheer…”

“Snake-Father, stop with the ‘Cheerful.’ He’s picked one himself,” Manzhu, still known as Man Shanhong then, reminded him.

Old Snake-Father opened his eyes to see the silent child had written three crooked characters on the ground with his finger.

— Yan Chaomu.

He said that the sun sets but will rise again, and there would be countless dawns and dusks ahead; there was no need to dwell on the past forever.

For the countless years that followed, those two were always arguing or making up. The “half-mute” who didn’t like to talk eventually turned into a “talkative stutterer” through endless bickering.

Manzhu had a vague feeling their relationship was unusual, but she never looked deep into it—until she came here three years ago. She learned from Huanxi that their relationship was really unusual.

The truth came suddenly, but she wasn’t surprised at all.

It was strange; those two had shown signs of a “spark” over two thousand years ago, yet they still hadn’t truly gotten together. Their relationship was separated by a single sheet of paper as thin as a cicada’s wing, yet neither would poke a hole through it.

Manzhu had been curious enough to gossip once. Huanxi said that Yan Chaomu always felt Mu Chenshan had a “White Moonlight” in his heart, which is why he had rejected Mu Chenshan many times.

“White Moonlight… Sister Manzhu, you understand, right?”

“I don’t.”

“Eileen Chang wrote in Red Rose, White Rose that most men have two women in their hearts—a red rose and a white rose. If he picks the white one, over time, the white becomes a grain of rice stuck to his shirt, while the red becomes a vermilion mole over his heart. But if he picks the red one, the red becomes a smear of mosquito blood on the wall, while the white becomes the bright moonlight by his bed.”

“…”

“Simply put: what you can’t have is always the best.”

Yes, that’s what Huanxi had said. She wouldn’t remember it wrong.

That “Vermilion Mole/White Moonlight” business… Manzhu did have an impression of it. Wasn’t the name Mu Chenshan chosen for that fellow?

But for over two thousand years, other than a name, Mu Chenshan had never mentioned that person—be they human, spirit, dead or alive—even once. He didn’t seem like someone he cared about that much.

Manzhu was certain Yan Chaomu had liked Mu Chenshan for a long time—even before he could shapeshift. But now, the one being stubborn and refusing to accept the feelings was also Yan Chaomu.

One had to admit, emotions were complicated. For a snake spirit like her who only cared about cultivation and becoming a Jiao, she couldn’t understand what people entangled in love brooded over every day.

In her opinion, if you like someone, be together. If not, break up. She truly didn’t understand how two people who clearly loved each other could refuse to be together.

However, regardless of whether they were together, the mutual attraction was real.

Manzhu had “tested” Lu Yudong several times and confirmed that she had no male friends at school. She only had one pursuer once, and Yudong had scared him off herself.

Knowing there was nothing to worry about at school, she began guarding against the male customers and spirits at the bar. She watched them daily to see if their gazes toward Yudong were improper, terrified that some unworthy fellow would sweet-talk her away. It was exhausting work.

Now, look at this. After all that effort guarding against men, she was told she had to guard against women too.

What a miscalculation. With a living example right beside her (Yan and Mu), she didn’t know how she had overlooked such an important issue as “love knows no gender.”

Thinking carefully, Lu Yudong was exceptionally attentive to that little girl named Zhang Ziyun.

There were only two ornaments on the bookshelf at home. One was a four-leaf clover glass ball Zhang Ziyun gave her in eighth grade; the other was a music box from ninth grade.

A week before final exams, Lu Yudong had even brought home a Corgi plushie.

That Corgi was also a gift from Zhang Ziyun. Yudong loved it, even placing it on her pillow next to the little white dog she got for her birthday in seventh grade. She’d squeeze and rub it whenever she was idle.

Lately, Yudong would text her twice a day, always about Zhang Ziyun’s situation. Every week she came home, she was full of worry.

Those two children were truly inseparable…

Could there really be something between them?

The more Manzhu thought about it, the more uneasy she felt, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong.

She told herself that if possible, she didn’t want to interfere too much in Lu Yudong’s emotional freedom.

Though she currently felt that no one was good enough for Yudong, when it came to the word “love,” it ultimately depended on whether Yudong liked them or not.

If Yudong truly liked someone, their height, weight, or looks didn’t matter. Even if their personality wasn’t great—as long as it wasn’t wicked—it could be disciplined. She would naturally find a way to make whoever Yudong fancied absolutely submissive to her.

But humans… humans definitely would not do. No human could truly accompany Lu Yudong for a lifetime.

A relationship like that wouldn’t even need a hundred years to end; the pain would begin the moment the human’s appearance began to wither.

Unless… that human could also soul-bind with a spirit for longevity…

Manzhu asked: “If she really falls for a human, can I catch a spirit and force them to soul-bind with that human?”

“Are you crazy?” Mu Chenshan’s tone was shocked. “Any registered spirit is protected by the Spirit Management Bureau. If you force them to do something against their will—especially something as serious as soul-binding—you’ll be hunted and exiled! Even if you don’t value your own life, think of that kid.”

“Is it that serious?” Manzhu was a bit dazed; she really didn’t know enough about these things.

“What do you think?” Mu Chenshan couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “In the human world, this is worse than bandits kidnapping a girl to be a bandit queen. A kidnapped bride might have a chance to escape, but if you’re forced to soul-bind, your entire life is over.”

Long ago, it was the destiny of spirits and humans to love in vain.

Some spirits couldn’t control the “spirit poison” in their bodies; if they united, it would shorten their lover’s life.

Even those who could control it had to watch their human lovers grow old and die, leaving the spirit to place their hopes on the next cycle of reincarnation, life after life.

As society progressed, spirits also “invented” things. Gradually, great demons began attempting to use their life’s cultivation to trigger forbidden yin arts, just to link their souls with their beloved, seeking an eternity where they would never be apart.

That was the origin of the Soul-Binding Forbidden Art. It required immense spiritual power and the sacrifice of one’s entire cultivation and lifespan in exchange for an eternal vigil.

But most spirits weren’t satisfied with that. They didn’t want the next life; they wanted this life. They firmly believed that if they lost their memories, they were no longer themselves—so what was the point of “eternal love”?

So, the restless ones began researching more complex arts, trying to achieve symbiosis between human and spirit.

Through countless attempts and failures by their ancestors, a forbidden art known as “Soul-Binding” appeared among the three realms. It binds the souls of the current life, sharing physical pain and ensuring they live and die as one.

It didn’t require high cultivation to trigger; the key lay in the Spirit Core (Yandan), and it cost almost nothing.

This seemingly “cost-free” forbidden art soon spread through the spirit world. It became a technique most spirits knew about but were rarely willing to use in their entire lives.

Soul-binding was no joke. Once the souls were linked, there was no way to undo it until the end of that life.

A spirit’s life was too long. To be bound to one person for hundreds or thousands of years meant facing too many unknowns.

When fates are locked together, if there is change or betrayal, former lovers would rather perish together than let the other go—let alone two people who had no feelings for each other to begin with.

To sacrifice a spirit’s autonomy just to grant two humans “forever”… anyone with half a brain knew it was impossible.

Manzhu frowned at the thought.

Suddenly, Lu Yudong seemed uncomfortable. She frowned slightly, whimpered softly, and rolled over in Manzhu’s arms. Her little head rubbed against Manzhu’s chest, and she tucked her neck in as if she were cold.

Manzhu quickly pulled the cloak higher, using the soft fur trim to warm Yudong’s neck. Only then did the girl’s furrowed brow relax.

“Suddenly, I don’t know how to protect her anymore. I can’t cut off her social life; she wouldn’t be happy…” Manzhu said.

“Just keep a close eye. If you see a spark, educate her immediately. If you really can’t stop it…”

“What then?”

“Then let her go. Heartbreak isn’t fatal. Just watch her then to make sure she doesn’t do anything foolish.”

Manzhu rolled her eyes. “I really shouldn’t waste time listening to your nonsense.”

“Actually, I still don’t get it. Why are you so good to her? Are you really planning on her supporting you in your old age?”

“Wouldn’t that be nice? I could just sit at home and watch TV all day.”

“But didn’t you only care about becoming a Jiao before?”

“I don’t care about that now,” Manzhu said. “I just want to watch her grow up well.”

“Strange. Most spirits bind because of love, and after binding for a while, the love is drained out of them,” Mu Chenshan remarked. “You, on the other hand, bound yourself to her and ended up growing feelings.”

Manzhu looked down at Lu Yudong. Seeing her sleeping peacefully, her lips curled into a shallow smile. “You don’t understand.”

Those who soul-bind share the pain.

Lu Yudong had indeed been on the verge of death, but so had Manzhu.

She had been about to cross her tribulation when she was hunted by an unreasonable exorcist. She barely managed to escape with heavy wounds, only for her soul to be shattered by heavenly lightning. The pain was etched into every inch of her bloodline.

And she had brought that pain to a human child. In turn, she also bore the pain that child suffered.

She didn’t remember how she had survived. Even with spiritual power protecting her heart, every day was an agony beyond words.

She knew the child felt the same—a pain so great that even while unconscious, her soul was struggling desperately on the edge of life and death.

That was the first time she had felt the same pain as another person so profoundly.

From the moment they pulled through together, she had made up her mind: she would never let this child be hurt easily again.

Manzhu’s initial thought was very simple—it was because she was afraid of pain, so she wanted to protect Lu Yudong well.

But she gradually discovered she had started to like the child.

She liked her little head drooping when she thought she’d made a mistake. She liked the timid yet expectant look in those clear eyes.

She liked her obedient and sensible nature, and she liked the occasional, unintentional “naughtiness” when she acted spoiled.

What a wonderful child. She had watched her grow day by day, from a tiny tot into this elegant young lady.

If she wasn’t good to her, who would be?

That night, Manzhu carried Lu Yudong home. She walked very slowly up the stairs, afraid of bumping her.

Just as Manzhu laid her gently on the bed, drew the curtains, and prepared to help her out of her coat, Yudong suddenly whimpered and reached out to hug Manzhu’s waist. She was lying in a strange half-sitting position, refusing to let go.

Manzhu didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. she cast a spell to lift the silencing barrier around Yudong’s ears and whispered: “We’re home. Take off your coat before you sleep, or you’ll wake up freezing tomorrow.”

Lu Yudong opened her right eye just a crack. She looked at the dark room, then up at Manzhu, letting out a dazed, “Huh?”

“I said we’re home. Take off your coat and go to sleep.”

“Mmm…” Yudong nodded, obediently letting go of Manzhu and closing her eyes as she began to undress.

Afraid she’d catch a cold, Manzhu turned on the heater and pointed it at her. Only then did she go to the door to switch into her slippers.

When Manzhu turned back to help with the shoes, she saw Yudong had already kicked off her sneakers. Wearing only a thin layer of thermal underwear, she sat on the bed with her legs tucked in, half-wrapped in a blanket, staring at her.

Though her eyes were still sleepy, she was much more awake.

Manzhu shook her head with a helpless smile. “I carried you all the way up and you didn’t even blink. How did taking off your clothes wake you up?”

“Heehee,” Yudong giggled. “Is there no milk to drink tonight?”

“I’ll go boil the water then.” Manzhu smiled, turning to the kitchen to start the kettle before going to the bathroom to wash up.

The lights in the house came on. Yudong sat in a daze for a while. Once she was fully awake, her mouth felt uncomfortably dry. Her slippers weren’t by the bed, so she ran barefoot to the water dispenser and drank half a cup of cold water.

The water boiled. Manzhu hurried out of the bathroom just in time to see Yudong standing barefoot in her thin clothes, drinking cold water as if she weren’t afraid of the cold. She frowned and scolded gently: “Don’t go barefoot in winter, and don’t drink cold water.”

Lu Yudong turned around, sticking her tongue out guiltily. “It’s not cold. Not at all.” As she spoke, her body couldn’t help but shiver twice—it was cold.

Manzhu quickly shooed her back under the covers and watched her drink the milk. Only then did she say: “Since you’re awake, put on your pajamas. Wash up properly before getting in bed.”

“Oh!” Yudong agreed immediately.

She obediently put on the cotton pajamas Manzhu handed her and the slippers Manzhu brought to the bedside. She ran into the bathroom and pulled out her washing basins from the bottom shelf.

Yudong soon cleaned herself up. She turned off the living room lights on her way out and ran back to the bed in the dark. She jumped onto the mattress and hugged Manzhu, who had just taken off her own coat and hadn’t yet lain down.

“No more acting spoiled.” Manzhu laughed, peeling the girl off her and pinning her down firmly with the blankets. She patted the duvet. “Go to sleep now!”

But clearly, two layers of blankets couldn’t hold Lu Yudong. A second later, Yudong rolled over and hugged Manzhu’s waist again, murmuring: “Sister, you go to sleep too. Don’t just sit there, it’s cold!”

“I’m not afraid of the cold.” Manzhu lay down. She suddenly remembered something and turned on her side to look at Yudong. “Did you take off your camisole?”

Lu Yudong giggled and whispered: “I didn’t wear one at all.”

“Why not?” Manzhu asked.

“There are so many winter clothes, no one can see if I’m wearing one or not,” Yudong said. “They have padding now, it’s even more uncomfortable than before.”

Manzhu thought back and shook her head. “No. That will affect your development.” If she remembered correctly, Huanxi had said that girls must wear camisoles or bras during puberty, otherwise it would have an impact.

Lu Yudong pouted, looking down. “I’ll wear them properly from now on,” she mumbled.

Seeing Yudong’s pitiful little face, Manzhu couldn’t help but laugh. She pulled her arm out of Yudong’s embrace, put one hand on her shoulder, and reached forward with the other. “Let me see… how big are you now?”

Lu Yudong’s cheeks flushed involuntarily, but she didn’t hide. She just blinked nervously.

A young girl’s developing areas are most sensitive; even a slight bump in daily life could be sore. Through the cotton undershirt, Manzhu’s movements were very light. After confirming that her girl was developing quite well, she withdrew her hand, satisfied.

Lu Yudong looked up at Manzhu and asked shyly: “Am I… am I… okay?”

The little girl always liked to worry about these things. She wasn’t old, yet she had already begun comparing herself to others. In the summer, she clearly felt that Zhang Ziyun’s were much larger than hers, which made her quite envious. Now that it was winter and the clothes were thick, she couldn’t tell. She had no point of comparison when she bathed herself, so she didn’t know if they had grown any more in secret.

“You’re… okay, I guess?” Manzhu said, unable to stop a laugh.

Hearing the laugh, Lu Yudong suddenly regretted asking such a stupid question. Her face turned even redder. It was a good thing it was night and there was little light, otherwise she would have had to bury herself in the blankets.

She felt embarrassed for a long time before frowning. “Sister, you’re making fun of me!”

“I’m not.”

“You clearly laughed! You even made a sound!”

“I was laughing because…” Manzhu thought for a moment and pinched Yudong’s cheek. “I was laughing because you’re picking up bad habits, following your Little Master’s lead and stuttering all the time.”

“You really aren’t laughing at me for being small?” Yudong asked, eyes wide.

“Of course not,” Manzhu said. “Alright, alright, go to sleep.”

“Mmm…” Yudong closed her eyes, pretending she wasn’t embarrassed.

Seeing that Yudong had finally closed her eyes, Manzhu smiled and adjusted her sleeping position. But just as she lay flat, Yudong reached out and pulled her arm into her embrace again.

This little girl had truly become more and more clingy lately.

Actually, being clung to like this was quite nice. She just wondered…

When she grew up, would she also cling to others like this?

As Manzhu thought this, her gaze inadvertently drifted to the Corgi plushie lying upside down behind Lu Yudong. Suddenly, her mood felt a bit sour.

What “tablemate”? What kind of gift is that?

So ugly.