Five Wonders

When Su Yuandao first entered the sect, he was far slower than his peers at grasping the mechanics of clockwork and springs. Fearing he might bring shame upon his master, he often kept company with a lone oil lamp and a wooden eagle, toiling until the break of dawn. These private struggles did not go unseen by his seniors. None mocked his lack of talent. Instead, they made a habit of keeping him close, ready to unravel any mysteries he encountered. He realized then that the principles of the Mohist way were never confined to ancient scrolls. They lived and breathed through the actions of the Mohists themselves. The Founder once said: "He who speaks with fervor yet acts with sloth shall find no audience, no matter how eloquent his plea. He who labors greatly yet boasts of his merit shall find no favor, no matter how vast his toil." The Founder also said: "Thus, the noble-minded grow stronger each day through relentless effort. Those who surrender to ease and desire sink into complacency, while those who live with resolve flourish ever further." Following the example of his seniors, Su Yuandao inscribed these tenets into his journals, practicing them one by one. He had never been the fastest, but every step he took was firm and unshakable. Later, when he was tasked with overseeing the sect's discipline, his judgment in reward and reprimand was so impartial that not a single soul dared voice dissent. Order reigned supreme upon the mountain. Even when his own master, Elder Bulbul, neglected his lectures for the sake of his research, Yuandao remained incorruptible, docking his master's stipend without exception. Yet the very next day, he would arrive at his master's door with candied kumquats, the elder's favorite treat, to offer a personal apology. Private affection never clouded public duty, nor did duty wound their bond. Elder Bulbul accepted the penalty with grace, finding no room for resentment, and could only marvel: "In my hall stands a true gentleman; my own disciple has become the very yardstick of our Way." When the younger disciples eventually arrived, it was by the side of their Eldest Senior Brother that they were raised. Yuandao rarely lectured or scolded, yet he carried an immense gravitas in their eyes. The Fourth Sister and Fifth Brother were stubborn souls who often clashed with their master. Yet at Yuandao's mere presence, even the most unruly party would quietly lower their heads and fall silent. The clumsy fledgling of the past had become the sect's bedrock, leading by example and weaving the teachings of the Mohists into the hearts of the next generation. Yet, Yuandao often reflected. His Second Brother possessed a photographic memory. His Third Sister had an iron will. His Fourth Sister carried vast erudition, and his Fifth Brother held a visionary mind. All of them possessed natural gifts far greater than his own. However, these brilliant juniors had once stood on the brink of death amid the fires of war, nearly robbed of the chance to even come of age. In this vast world, how many more luminous talents, who ought to have blossomed like his juniors, were never granted the sanctuary to grow? The Mohist sect was a sanctuary. But in truth, it was far too small. "Shadows stir within the Court; the North may soon face peril." When the scouts' reports were delivered to the Elders, the hall fell into a heavy silence. Since the Battle of Zhongdu Bridge, years of Khitan incursions had nearly decimated the disciples beyond the mountains. Only in the last two years had the sect begun to glimpse the first signs of renewal. Standing within the hall, Su Yuandao knew that the tide of war could shift in a single heartbeat. He dared not imagine how many more children would lose their chance to grow beneath the flames of conflict. A gentleman is no mere bell, sounding only when struck. To grind oneself from crown to heel for the benefit of all under Heaven is a duty he must fulfill. Reining in his horse for one final glance back, he knew that by descending the mountain, he was no longer the Elders' prized disciple. He had become a renegade of the Mohists. Yet as he gazed upon the Mohist City, a spark still burned brightly in his eyes: Should the day come when all the world is as the Mohists... then I shall truly be home.

Excessive talent often breeds a spirit of sloth. Ye Zhuo had a habit of narrowing his eyes whenever he smiled, giving him the appearance of a perpetually drowsy, cunning fox. The other disciples affectionately called him "Ye the Half-Immortal." Yet this nickname did not stem from any grand ambition to shape the cosmos. He simply helped his peers with their mundane troubles: how to talk their way out of being caught skipping class, how to unravel the puzzles their master had left behind, or what topics the elders might quiz them on. He always seemed unhurried. With just a few casual words, he could untangle problems that had left the younger disciples in knots for days, elevating the art of saving effort to absolute perfection. As for his master's intricate arts of springs and clockwork, he had mastered them long ago. Yet since his master never pressed him, he saw no reason to show it off, as boasting would only invite more lessons to learn. All things in this world carry their own truths. There is no need to pry too deeply; knowing enough to get by is enough. To grasp but seventy percent of the wisdom hidden within the mountain is more than sufficient to weather a lifetime. The greatest priority in this world, after all, is a good night's sleep. To dwell among mountains and streams carrying the title of "Half-Immortal" is surely the height of bliss! But when his Eldest Brother came to entrust him with the affairs of the sect, he sensed a ripple in the still waters. His brother had always been a poor liar, and Ye Zhuo had never been an easy man to deceive. His master had once warned him: "Among the five of you, you are the most adaptable. The Eldest is overflowing with righteousness but lacks flexibility. You must help me keep watch over him." In the end, Ye Zhuo had let those words drift past his ears like the wind. Fine. To descend the mountain is to be swept into the currents of the age. The generals harbor deep suspicions, and old grudges have calcified. Factions intertwine like twisted roots, and the ambitious lurk in the shadows. To untangle such a web is truly the most vexing chore under Heaven! But without me, I doubt any of you could even begin to sort out this mess. Could you truly prevail? Very well. I suppose I can endure a little more hardship. "If you intend to descend the mountain and save the commoners of Chu, count me in." How could a "General" march onto the battlefield without his "Strategist"? A mere mayfly of a man, reaching out to grasp the clouds. Yet in the year they left the mountain, the rains of Neiqiu were far too cold, and far too long. That Half-Immortal found not a single moment of rest. He exhausted his mind and poured out every ounce of his knowledge, yet in the end, he could not turn the tide for the weak against the strong. Time flowed onward, and the world changed. That battle became no different from countless others before it, fading into smoke. Countless names were buried in the earth as though they had never drawn breath. The mountain's "Five Wonders" were spoken of no more, leaving their ingenious mechanisms to gather dust beneath the pines. The historical chronicles, blunt and unforgiving, record it only thus: "The Khitan general led tens of thousands of cavalry to invade the borders, assaulting Neiqiu. After five days, they failed to capture the city and suffered heavy casualties. Five hundred garrison soldiers rebelled, opening the gates to the Khitan forces. The garrison was slaughtered, and Raoyang fell." History is a hard, cold stone. How many moths must fling themselves into the flames just to alter a single line carved upon it?

Ding Jiexiang once heard an elder say: "Profound love is fleeting; supreme wisdom brings its own ruin." Thus, whenever she saw that man posturing and flaunting his brilliance, an inexplicable spark of anger would ignite within her. "They say true wisdom hides in plain sight. Which true sage have you ever seen act as boastfully as you, Ye Zhuo?" The man would just narrow his eyes and smile with that roguish air of his. "They also say a razor's edge on the tongue hides a soft heart beneath. For all your bluster, no one is more tender-hearted than our Third Sister." Ding Jiexiang could only admit defeat, leaving behind a hasty scoff as she quickly walked away to hide her shifting expression. This fox was too clever. She could never gain the upper hand. With just a few words, he would completely shatter her defenses. She loathed the arrogance carved into his very bones, yet despite herself, she was entirely captivated by it, as if there was truly nothing in this world that could baffle him. She hated the feeling of being seen through, yet whenever they bickered, every word he spoke seemed to make her want to laugh. She hated his arrogance, perhaps because it made her feel she was unworthy of him. She hated being seen through, perhaps because she believed he would never like her true self. In the game of love, the players are always blind. The entire world knew that she and Ye Zhuo belonged together. Everyone, except her. Ye Zhuo could not heal the scar upon Ding's face. But through the quiet passage of time, he silently smoothed over the scars hidden within her heart, until that day finally came. The world's most flawless performance will always crumble before raw instinct. When Ding spurred her horse through the dead of night to catch up with the departing group, she saw panic flicker across his face for the very first time. Ye's expression turned cold, sharp as a winter icicle hanging beneath the eaves. Ding felt like a mischievous child who had snapped that icicle off simply to wave it around in play. So, this smug fox also had moments when he was at a loss? "Ding Jiexiang, leaving the mountain is easy, but returning is a path barred! To leave without permission is treason against the sect. Do you truly understand?" "Ding Jiexiang, this is no sightseeing trip! This is city defense and open war. People are going to die out there!" "Ding Jiexiang, is it because you like me that you insist on clinging to me? Must you shadow my every step?" "Ding Jiexiang! What on earth are you doing? If we all leave, who will take care of the Master?" "Ding... please go back... I'm begging you. Just this once, go back." Ding Jiexiang followed the group in silence. As the sky began to brighten, she turned to Ye Zhuo and smiled. For the first time, her smile carried no burden. "If the whole world were like you all," she said softly, "if everyone could look past the scar on my face... do you think I wouldn't have married you long ago?" Ye Zhuo froze. He fell entirely silent. He knew then that his words no longer had the power to turn her back. "Ye Zhuo, you merely received the news a heartbeat before I did. We descend the mountain for the exact same reason... Because we are Mohists." The morning sun surged over the horizon. With open confidence, Ding held her head high, allowing the brilliant light to bathe her face and the scar across it. In that early dawn light, every one of them was blazing.