Volume One, Chapter Six: Autumn Rain

With every autumn rain comes a touch of chill. This rare downpour at the start of the season drenched Qinghe District from head to toe, leaving the air brisk and cool. A series of footsteps, muffled by the drumming rain, splashed through puddles pooled at the end of narrow lanes, rounded a corner, and finally the outline of the apartment building came into view. Mo De couldn’t help but quietly let out a sigh of relief. Shoes soaked through, he stepped inside, closed his battered, rain-battered plastic umbrella that was on its last legs, and hesitated at the entrance, wiping his shoes on the mat and debating whether to retire the ten-yuan umbrella early or let it serve a little longer.

After fishing out his keys and wiping them dry, he unlocked the door. Mo De exhaled deeply—at last, home. He double-locked the door, set down the thoroughly wrapped grocery bags, peeled off his shoes and socks, and tiptoed briskly toward the bathroom, carrying them in his hands. Stripping off his damp clothes and tossing everything into the washing machine, he turned on the shower and let out a long sigh, relishing the warmth pouring over him. Humming a tune, he lathered up, letting the water wash away the mingled sweat and rain, banishing exhaustion and cold alike.

“A hot shower, a good sleep, and a hearty meal—truly the three great joys of life. The ancients did not deceive me,” he murmured, wrapping himself in a towel and brandishing his shoe brush as he joined the rumbling washing machine in post-storm labor. Once everything was washed, Mo De gathered up the basin of clothes and a pair of shoes, and stepped out onto the balcony, gazing at the sky, lost in thought.

Was he hanging up laundry in this storm because his clothes weren’t wet enough, or because his head was waterlogged? Smiling wryly, he summoned the space heater from its off-season retirement two months early and arranged his clothes around it to dry. Running a hand through his hair—already nearly dry at the roots—he left the heater, found a set of fresh clothes, and changed.

Draping the towel over the back of a chair near the heater, Mo De rolled his sore shoulders and returned to the entryway to retrieve the carefully protected groceries, ready to prepare dinner.

In the kitchen, he stood straight at the chopping board. Though his arms ached, his grip on the knife was steady as he deftly dispatched the ingredients. He had forgotten to check the weather before heading out that morning, and, as on any other day off, had dashed out of the city’s quiet quarters, wandered for hours, and circled back to his secret, deserted training ground for another round of “daily exercise.”

Youth was his greatest asset. Though when it came to awakening, he was utterly talentless—“all but one of his seven apertures open,” as he joked—his robust constitution, forged since childhood, meant that even on missions in the thick of action, he rarely lost his composure. Even when there were no assignments, Mo De seized his bi-monthly breaks for intense physical training. But things were different now; he no longer pushed himself to exhaustion. After all, now he was alone. Rested after exercise, he jogged back, weaving through the streets of Qinghe District.

Double-checking his shopping list on his phone, he made his way to the mall. By the time he arrived, the leaden sky had grown ever gloomier. When he finished shopping and reached the exit, a glance upward made him pause, and he decisively turned back, persuading the cashier to give him a few extra plastic bags for insurance, and, on impulse, bought a cheap ten-yuan transparent umbrella to help her meet her sales quota. The umbrella was flimsy, the rain was torrential, but something was better than nothing—it offered some protection. And as he reached his door, his umbrella arm’s sleeve was still dry. That was proof enough.

Back in the living room, he set the induction cooker to boil a pot of water and arranged a stack of ingredients neatly on the dining table. Pouring in the beef tallow base and preparing the dipping sauce, Mo De patiently waited for the broth to boil once more.

He remembered the first time he met that man—he had been treated to a beef tallow hotpot. As a child, expressionless, he had watched the man across from him sweating profusely, slurping and gobbling down food with flying chopsticks. Rising to fetch the freshly cooked rice from the kitchen, Mo De returned to the table. Hotpot with rice—the collision of rich fat and warm grains elevated both.

He slipped a slice of lamb into the bubbling pot, swirled it briefly, then dunked it in thick sesame sauce and laid it atop the rice. Another scoop, a mouthful down.

Each plump grain of rice had soaked up spicy, savory broth and sauce, its hearty texture and fragrance filling every inch of his palate and mouth. As he chewed, the springy, tender lamb broke through, dominating all other flavors, launching an all-out assault from atop the mountain of rice.

He fished out a piece of tofu—its rich beany aroma mingled with tingling spice, the silky, slightly hot texture lingered deliciously. He popped a stubbornly floating tofu puff, pressed it into the broth, and when it resurfaced, drenched it in an oil-based sauce no one could resist.

A large slice of tripe, barely swished in the broth, was lifted out and rolled in a heap of dry seasoning, spicy and crisp, utterly addictive. A heart of Chinese cabbage, eaten raw, brought sweetness and freshness to cut through the richness.

A quick blanch for crown daisy and lettuce, and the avalanche of rice was unstoppable—bowl after bowl. Frozen tofu, duck intestines, potato slices, enoki mushrooms, green bamboo shoots, cuttlefish balls, mini sausages, rice cakes, beef rolls, konjac noodles, shrimp paste, tender pea shoots...

One after another, the ingredients went into the pot, the broth cycling from calm to rolling boil and back again, over and over. Each ingredient, cooked to its ideal doneness, was retrieved in turn—orderly, harmonious, never interfering.

A final helping of hotpot noodles, fished out and dropped straight into the bowl. The broth, now thick and rich, coated the spicy, salty noodles, which tangled with the last grains of rice—a carbohydrate bomb to end this solitary feast.

Burp.

He rose to clear the table and wash the pots and dishes. Removing his apron and switching off the kitchen light, he found the sky outside had already turned pitch-dark, rain pouring down, thunderous. Folding and stacking his now-dried laundry, Mo De dragged over a chair, straddled it backwards, rested his arms on the back, and his chin on his arms, gazing silently through the rain at the night sky.

No moon, no stars—endless darkness filled with a thousand inky beads crashing to earth, shattering and merging into torrents, reflecting the distant glow of human lights.

By nature, he was a cold soul—born in darkness, well-versed in hell, traversing seas of blood, resting atop mountains of corpses.

It was the man who had pulled him back to the world of the living.

“Kid, first time meeting you, let me introduce myself. My surname is Li. As for my given name—well, just call me Changsheng, like everyone else.”

“What’s wrong? Why so quiet? Kids shouldn’t be so deadpan. Give your uncle a smile—well, no worries if you don’t. Here, let uncle smile for you—eh, heh heh heh…”

“Eat and drink more, that’s how you’ll grow—hey, hey, that’s crab stick packaging, you can’t eat that…”

In Mo De’s memory, the man was always so carefree, yet somehow gave off an inexplicable sense of comfort.

The man had racked his brains to teach him what feelings were, and then taught him how to control them.

The more you care, the harder it is to let go—when you care, you lose your head. Nothing could be truer.

“I was a cold-hearted soul, born in mountain depths, till a chance meeting with a girl in red shoes left my heart in turmoil…” Mo De sang softly, an old folk tune the man had taught him when drunk. He tapped his fingers on the chair-back, keeping time, gazing at the curtain of rain, lost in thought for a long while.

“Hotpot is delicious, just a bit too spicy.”

He stood up, left the room, and went to bed.

Let the endless rain and howling wind outside do as they pleased.