Before Mo Ran became the emperor, there was always someone calling him a dog. The shopkeepers called him a mongrel, the patrons called him a damn mutt, his younger cousin called him a dumb dog, and the woman who took him in outdid them all, calling him a child raised by a dog mother.

     Of course, there had also been a few other dog-related descriptions that weren’t too bad. The most common one, for example, were his brief affairs always scolding him with a bit of feigned anger, saying that his hips were as powerful as a dog’s, that his sweet words were enough to tempt the soul, and that the weapon below had the power to claim countless lives.

     Yet in the blink of an eye, they’d also turn around, boasting to others about the same thing and making it known to all that he, Mo Weiyu, was a skillful man with a ferocious weapon. Those who had tried were thoroughly satisfied, and those who hadn’t couldn’t help but be swayed by the prospect.

     Although it had to be said that these people were absolutely right. Mo Ran really was like a silly dog wagging its tail, and it wasn’t until he became emperor of the cultivation world that such ways of referring to him abruptly disappeared.

     One day, a small, faraway cultivation sect sent him a young puppy as a gift. The puppy was gray and white, with a three-flame mark on its forehead. It somewhat resembled a wolf, but it was only the size of a melon and very melon-like in appearance and intelligence too. Despite being plump and round, it seemed to think it looked rather mighty, running around the main hall with enthusiasm.

     Several times, it wanted to climb up the high steps to catch a glimpse of the calm and unperturbed person sitting on the emperor’s throne, but its legs were really too short, and its attempts only resulted in failure. Mo Ran stared at the energetic but brainless ball of fur for a moment before suddenly letting out a laugh. As he laughed, he cursed under his breath, “Dumb dog.”

     The puppy quickly grew into a big dog, the big dog became an old dog, and the old dog ultimately became a dead dog.

     Mo Ran closed his eyes, then opened them again. His life, filled as it had been with twists and turns of extravagance and disgrace, felt like it had gone by in the blink of an eye. Before he knew it, thirty-two years had passed. He’d grown tired of these trivial days and now only felt bereft and lonely. In these years, there were fewer and fewer familiar faces around him, and even the three-flamed dog had died. He felt that it was about time for him as well. Time for it all to come to an end.

     He picked up a shiny, smooth grape from his fruit platter and peeled off its purple skin with unhurried movements, his actions calm and practiced, much like the languid indolence of a tribal chief in his camp stripping the robes of his exotic concubine.

     The lustrous purple flesh of the grape quivered subtly under his fingertips as juice seeped out. Its color was faintly purple, like the vibrant sunset, like clouds carried in the beaks of cranes as they soared through the sky, like haitang blossoms slumbering in late spring.

     Or like filthy blood.

     He scrutinized his fingers as he swallowed the cloying sweetness, then slowly lifted his gaze with detached indifference.

     It’s about time now, he thought to himself.

     About time he also went to hell.

     Mo Ran, name meaning “burning ink,” courtesy name Weiyu, meaning “light rain.”

     The first emperor of the cultivation world.

     It truly wasn’t easy to reach this position. Not only did it require unrivaled spiritual power but also thick skin as hard as solid rock. Prior to his rule, the ten major sects of the cultivation world had been at odds with each other, like the clashing of dragons and tigers, each fierce yet restricted in power. The sects kept each other in check, and no one was capable of emerging as the frontrunner with the prowess to singlehandedly overturn the world.

     Moreover, the various sect leaders were all outstanding talents well versed in the classics. Even if they wanted to give themselves titles for amusement, they feared the historian’s brush, afraid they would bear eternal infamy in the annals of history.

     But Mo Ran was different. He was a scoundrel. What others dared not do, he’d gone and done it all. He drank the finest wine in the world, married the most beautiful woman in the world, became Taxian-Jun, meaning “immortal treading lord,” at the pinnacle of the cultivation world, and declared himself emperor.

     Tens of thousands of people knelt in subservience before him. All those who refused to kneel were hunted down and eradicated. During his reign of terror, it could be said that the cultivation world flowed with rivers of blood, filled with grief and sorrow. Countless righteous heroes met their demise, and one of the ten major sects, Rufeng Sect, was met with disaster and utterly annihilated.

     Later on, even Mo Ran’s esteemed teacher was unable to escape his demonic clutches. He was defeated in the final duel against Mo Ran and imprisoned in the palace by his once-beloved disciple. No one knew what had become of him. The once-peaceful world of clear rivers and calm seas now lay smothered under a dark veil of billowing smoke.

     But this dog-emperor Mo Ran wasn’t well-read. He hadn’t undertaken many formal studies in his life and was a person who didn’t care about things like taboos or limitations. There was thereby no shortage of absurd occurrences during his reign, such as the reigning era titles.

     During the first three years of his reign, the reigning era title was “Wangba,” meaning turtle. It had come to mind while he sat by the pond feeding the fish. But the pronunciation also sounded like another word: bastard.

     During the second three-year period, the reigning era title was “Gua,” meaning croak. This was because he heard frogs croaking during summer in the courtyard and concluded this was inspiration sent by the heavens that he couldn’t waste.

     The esteemed scholars of the world thought there could never be any reigning era titles more lamentable than “Wangba” and “Gua,” but alas, they underestimated Mo Weiyu. During this third three-year period, restlessness stirred across various regions, and the people were ready to take action. Whether they were Buddhists, Daoists, or spiritual cultivators, the righteous people of the martial world could no longer tolerate Mo Ran’s tyranny and began to rise up in rebellion one after another.

     So, this time, Mo Ran spent a long while mulling it over. After countless drafts, he finally came up with a title that shook the heavens and earth. And just like that, the most appalling reigning era title was born: “Ji Ba.” It was well-intentioned. The emperor had racked his brains to come up with these two words, which carried the noble meaning of “cease battle.” Only, it was a bit awkward for people to say out loud and was even more unseemly to those who were illiterate.

     The first year was called “First Year of Cease Battle,” but no matter how you listened to it, the words sounded like “First Year of Cock.”

     The second year was “Second Year of Cock.”

     “Third Year of Cock.”

     People had cursed behind closed doors, “This is ridiculous! You might as well go ahead and call it ‘Age of Cock’ to complete the circle! This way, next time you see a man, you won’t need to ask him how old he is, just ask him how old his cock is! A hundred-year-old master can just be called a hundred-year cock!”

     After enduring three mortifying years, it was finally time for the reigning era title, “Ji Ba,” to be replaced.

     Everyone in the world apprehensively waited for His Majesty the Emperor’s fourth reigning era title, but this time Mo Ran had lost all interest in such matters and had no intention of choosing one. It was in this year that the unrest churning across the cultivation world finally erupted. Having suffered in silence for nearly ten years, the righteous martial artists and heroes of the cultivation world finally joined forces and amassed a mighty army of millions to besiege the first emperor, Mo Weiyu.

     The cultivation world needed no emperor.

     Especially not a tyrant like him.

     After many months of blood soaked campaigns, the rebel army finally reached the foot of Sisheng Peak, meaning “life and death peak,” located in the Sichuan region, a place of steep, perilous mountain cliffs shrouded in clouds and mist year-round. At the very summit stood Mo Ran’s grand and magnificent palace.

     With the arrow drawn on the string, it would only take one final strike to overthrow the tyrant. But this strike was the most dangerous to make. Just as the light of victory lay right before their eyes, discordancy arose amidst the allied forces, which had initially been united by their hatred. Once the old regime was overthrown, a new order would have to be established in its place. No one wanted to expend too much of their power at this critical moment, and so no one was willing to be the vanguard and lead the charge up the mountain.

     They all feared that this cunning and ruthless tyrant would suddenly descend from the sky, baring his beastly white fangs, to rip apart those who dared to besiege his palace, tearing them to pieces.

     Someone said with a grim expression, “Mo Weiyu’s spiritual power is substantial, and he is very cunning. We must be cautious above all else so we don’t fall into his traps.”

     The leaders all expressed their agreement.

     However, at this moment, an exceptionally handsome man with proud features emerged from the crowd. He wore a set of silver-blue light armor secured by a belt embellished with a lion’s head, his hair up in a high ponytail with an exquisite silver headpiece fastened at its base.

     The man’s expression was exceedingly dark as he said, “We’ve already reached the foot of the mountain, yet everyone is lingering here, unwilling to go up. Don’t tell me you’re waiting for Mo Weiyu to crawl down here himself? What a bunch of cowardly good-for-nothings!”

     His words ignited a bustle of reprimands from the assembly.

     “Xue-gongzi, what are you saying? What do you mean by cowardly? It’s vital for warriors to be cautious. If we’re all brash and reckless like you, who will take responsibility if something goes wrong?”

     Another person immediately ridiculed, “Heh, Xue-gongzi is the darling of the heavens, but we’re just ordinary people. Since the darling of the heavens can’t wait to fight the emperor of the mortal realm, then by all means, please go up the mountain on your own first. We’ll arrange a banquet at the foot of the mountain and wait for you to bring back Mo Weiyu’s head. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

     These words were a bit more intense. An old monk hastened to hold the man back from exploding in a rage, putting on a kind expression to gently persuade him. “Xue-gongzi, please listen to this old monk’s words. This monk knows you and Mo Weiyu share a deep personal grudge, but the matter of sieging the palace is critical. Please do think of everyone. Don’t let your emotions guide you to act on impulse.”

     This “Xue-gongzi” under public criticism was named Xue Meng. Over ten years ago, he was a young prodigy praised by everyone—the darling of the heavens. But circumstances had changed over time, and he had fallen from grace, now forced to endure their mocking and ridicule to go up the mountain and meet Mo Ran again.

     Xue Meng’s expression twisted, his lips trembling with anger, but he still painstakingly tried to compose himself, asking, “Then exactly how long are you planning to wait?”

     “We should at least survey the situation further.”

     “That’s right. What if Mo Weiyu set up an ambush?”

     The old monk who tried to smooth things over just now also advised him, “Xue-gongzi, don’t be hasty. We’ve already reached the foot of the mountain, so it’s better to be cautious. In any case, Mo Weiyu is already trapped in the palace and can’t climb down the mountain. He’s at the end of his rope, and there is nothing else he can do to resist. Should we act recklessly just because of a moment of urgency? There’s so many people down here at the foot of the mountain, with many nobles and prominent figures in our company. If they lose their lives, who will take responsibility?”

     Xue Meng was immediately furious. “Responsibility? Then let me ask you, who is responsible for my shizun’s life?! Mo Ran has kept my shizun imprisoned for ten years! Ten whole years! My shizun is just up the mountain! How can you expect me to wait?!”

     Hearing Xue Meng mention his master, everyone’s expressions shifted uncontrollably. Some people looked ashamed, while others looked left and right, averting their gazes without saying a word.

     “Ten years ago, Mo Ran titled himself Taxian-Jun, massacred the seventy-two cities of Rufeng Sect, and even planned to decimate the remaining nine major sects. Later, Mo Ran proclaimed himself emperor and wanted to kill all of you. Who was the one who ultimately stopped him during those two disasters? If not for my shizun risking his own life to protect you, would you still be alive?! Would you still be able to stand here unscathed, spouting these empty words at me?!”

     Finally, someone dryly coughed a couple times before saying calmly, “Xue-gongzi, please don’t be angry. About Chu-zongshi… We all feel guilty and grateful towards him. But just as you said, he’s been imprisoned for ten years, and if something happened to him, he would have long since… Well, you’ve already waited ten years, so waiting another moment won’t hurt, right?”

     Xue Meng mocked, “Right? Like you’d ever be fucking right!”

     That person’s eyes widened. “How dare you curse me out?!”

     “Why wouldn’t I dare?! Shizun put his life on the line just to save people like… people like…” He couldn’t go on, his throat choking up. “It wasn’t worth it for him.”

     Xue Meng turned his head away, his shoulders trembling slightly as he held back his tears.

     “We never said we wouldn't save Chu-zongshi…”

     “That’s right. Everyone remembers Chu-zongshi’s kindness in their hearts. We didn’t forget. Xue-gongzi, you’re really putting a label of ungratefulness on everyone by saying this. I won’t stand for it.”

     “But when you think about it, isn’t Mo Ran also Chu-zongshi’s disciple?” someone remarked softly. “If you ask me, the master should share responsibility for his disciple’s evil deeds. As they say, to raise without teaching is the father's failing; to teach without discipline is the teacher's failing. Perhaps this whole thing was inevitable. So what is there to complain about?”

     Now this was definitely going too far. Someone shouted at once, “What are you saying?! Mind your tongue!” Then he turned around to appease Xue Meng with an amiable expression. “Xue-gongzi, please don’t be in a hurry…”

     “How can I not be in a hurry?!” Xue Meng cut him off, his gaze furious. “It’s easy for you to stand around and talk without any care in the world, but that’s my shizun! Mine!!! I haven’t seen him for so many years! I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead, much less how he’s doing! What do you think I’m standing here for?!”

     He panted harshly, his eyes rimmed with red. “Do you think that if you wait like this, Mo Weiyu will come down the mountain on his own and kneel before you to beg for mercy?!”

     “Xue-gongzi…”

     “Other than Shizun, I have no one dear to me left in this world.” Xue Meng pulled the corner of his robe from the old monk’s hold and said hoarsely, “If you won’t go, then I’ll go alone.”

     With those words, he went up the mountain on his own, a solitary figure with a sharp sword.

     The cold, damp wind carried the sound of rustling leaves. In the thick fog, it was as if countless ghosts whispered and moved about within the forested mountains. Xue Meng climbed to the peak alone, where Mo Ran’s majestic palace was lit with a peaceful candlelight in the night.

     He suddenly saw three graves before Heaven-Piercing Tower. When he got closer, he saw that grass had grown and covered the first grave, and on the headstone, a line of words had been carved in a childish, crooked scrawl: “Grave of the Steamed Noble Consort Chu.”

     Opposite to this “Steamed Noble Consort,” the second grave was newly dug, the earth only just settled. Carved on the headstone were the words: “Grave of the Deep-Fried Empress Song.”

     “…” Xue Meng was speechless. If it were more than ten years ago, Xue Meng would’ve laughed out loud when he saw this outrageous scene. Back then, he and Mo Ran had been disciples together under the same master, and Mo Ran was known for being quite the troublemaker. Even though Xue Meng deemed Mo Ran unpleasant, he still found himself amused by the other’s antics from time to time.

     He didn’t know what the hell this “Steamed Noble Consort” and “Deep-Fried Empress” meant. Perhaps this style of naming displayed by “Scholar Mo” upon the burial of his two wives was the same that had led to Wangba, Gua, and Ji Ba. Nonetheless, the reason he would confer such titles on his empress and consort would remain unknown.

     Xue Meng examined the third grave. Under the night sky, the tomb was open, and there was a coffin lying within, only there was no one inside, and there were no words carved on the headstone. But even so, in front of the grave was a pot of Pear Blossom White wine, a bowl of chili-oil wontons that had gone cold, and a few plates of spicy food, all of which were Mo Ran’s favorites.

     Xue Meng stared blankly, stupefied, before he was finally overcome with shock. Could it be that Mo Ran had no intention of resisting and had already dug his own grave? That he’d decided to die?

     At this thought, he felt himself break into a cold sweat. He couldn’t believe it. Mo Ran was a person who always fought until the end, never knowing what exhaustion and surrender were. With his way of doing things, he’d definitely fight to the death against the uprising armies until the bitter end, so why would he…

     These past ten years, as Mo Ran stood at the height of power, what exactly had he seen? What had happened? No one knew.

     Xue Meng turned, his figure becoming one with the night, and strode towards the brightly lit Wushan Palace.

     Inside the palace, Mo Ran’s eyes were closed tightly, and his face was deathly pale. Xue Meng had guessed correctly. He was truly resolved to die. Mo Ran had dug the grave outside for himself.

     A shichen ago, Mo Ran had dismissed his servants with a teleportation spell and taken a deadly poison. Since his cultivation level was incredibly high, the poison spread especially slowly throughout his body, causing him to feel every moment as the agonizing pain of his organs being eaten away and dissolved became deeper and sharper.

     The palace doors opened with a creak. Mo Ran didn’t raise his head and only said hoarsely, “Xue Meng. It’s you, right? You’re here?”

     Xue Meng stood alone upon the golden brick floor of the hall, his ponytail swaying as his light armor gleamed. Former sect disciples were reunited once more. But Mo Ran’s face was devoid of any expression as he sat with his chin propped against his hand, his curtain of long, thick lashes hanging low in before his eyes.

     Everyone made him out to be some kind of exceedingly hideous demon, but in truth, he was actually very good-looking. The bridge of his nose had a gentle curve, and his lips were pale yet full, his natural features gentle and sweet. By appearance alone, anyone would think he was a good and kind person.

     At the sight of his complexion, Xue Meng knew he had taken poison. He didn’t know what he was feeling. He looked like he wanted to say something, opening his mouth to speak, but no words came out. In the end, he only clenched his fists, simply asking, “Where is Shizun?”

     “…What?”

     Xue Meng demanded sternly, “I asked you, where’s Shizun?! Yours, mine, our Shizun?!”

     “Oh.” Mo Ran hummed softly and finally slowly opened his eyes. His black pupils had a hint of purple and seemed to pass across years upon years of time before landing on Xue Meng.

     “Thinking about it, you and Shizun haven’t seen each other since parting at Kunlun Taxue Palace two years ago.” Mo Ran smiled faintly. “Xue Meng, do you miss him?”

     “Enough nonsense! Give him back to me!”

     Mo Ran watched him calmly. Enduring the pain twisting in his stomach, he leaned back against his throne, the corners of his mouth twitching into a mocking sneer as darkness constantly threatened to overcome his vision. He could feel just how acutely his organs were contorting and dissolving, turning into foul, bloody liquid.

     Mo Ran said wearily, “Give him back to you? How foolish. Think about it, there is such deep resentment between me and Shizun. How could I allow him to live on in this world?”

     “You—!” Xue Meng’s face suddenly drained of all color, and his eyes widened as he retreated step by step. “You couldn’t have… You’d never…”

     “I’d never what?” Mo Ran laughed softly. “Why don’t you tell me why I wouldn’t?”

     Xue Meng’s voice trembled. “But he’s your… He’s your shizun after all… How could you do it?!”

     He raised his head, looking up at Mo Ran, who sat high above on the imperial throne. There was Fuxi in the heavens, Yanluo in the underworld, and Mo Weiyu in the mortal world. But as far as Xue Meng was concerned, even if Mo Ran became emperor of the mortal world, he still shouldn’t have become like this.

     Xue Meng’s entire body shook, tears of hatred rolling down his face. “Mo Weiyu, are you still human? He once…”

     Mo Ran looked up indifferently. “He once what?”

     “You should know very well how he once treated you…” Xue Meng said in a trembling voice.

     Mo Ran suddenly smiled. “Are you trying to remind me how he beat me until I was covered in wounds and made me kneel publicly to admit my guilt in front of everyone? Or are you trying to remind me how he stood in my way for your sake and for all of those insignificant nobodies, meddling in my plans over and over and ruining my great pursuits?”

     “…” Xue Meng shook his head in pain.

     “No, Mo Ran.”

     “Think about it carefully. Let go of your vicious hatred and look back. He once instructed you in cultivation and martial arts and always carefully protected you. He once taught you how to read and write, how to compose poetry and paint. He once learned how to cook for your sake even though he was so clumsy that his hands were covered in injuries in the process.

     “He once… He once used to wait for you to come back, day and night—alone, from nightfall… until daybreak…”

     He had so much to say, but his words were swallowed up in his throat. In the end, Xue Meng could only sob, “He… he has a bad temper, and his words sound harsh, but even I know that he treated you so well. Why… How could you have the heart to…”

     Xue Meng raised his head, holding back an ocean of tears. His throat was choked up, and he couldn’t say any more.

     After a long pause, Mo Ran’s soft sigh lingered in the hall, and he said, “Yes.”

     “But Xue Meng, did you know?” Mo Ran’s voice sounded so tired. “He once caused the death of the only person I ever loved. The only one.”

     There was a long, deathly stillness. The ache in Mo Ran’s stomach was like a fiery blaze as his flesh and blood were ripped into thousands of tattered shreds.

     “Still, we were at least master and disciple. His body is in Red Lotus Pavilion on the southern peak. He’s lying in the lotus flowers, very well preserved, like he’s asleep.”

     Mo Ran exhaled, forcing a calm appearance. When he said this, his expression remained blank, but his fingers dug into the rosewood armrest of his throne, his knuckles white and blue. “His corpse is sustained completely by my spiritual energy, so it hasn’t decayed. If you miss him, don’t waste your breath here with me. Go quickly, while I’m still alive.”

     A foul tang surged up in his throat. Mo Ran coughed a few times, and when he opened his mouth again, his lips and teeth were covered in blood, but his gaze was at ease. He said hoarsely, “Go. Go and see him. If you get there too late and I die, my spiritual energy will be cut off, and he’ll turn to ash.”

     After these words, he shut his eyes dispiritedly. The poison had reached his heart, bringing with it a torment like a raging inferno. The pain was so consuming that even Xue Meng’s anguished cries seemed so distant, as if they were separated by the waters of a vast ocean.

     Blood poured uncontrollably from the corners of Mo Ran’s lips.

     Mo Ran clutched his sleeves as muscle spasms wracked his body, and when he at last opened his bleary eyes, Xue Meng had long since left. His qinggong wasn’t too bad, so it wouldn’t take him much time to reach the southern peak.

     He should be able to see Shizun one last time.

     Mo Ran propped himself up, bracing himself as he staggered to his feet. He formed a seal with his bloodstained fingers and transported himself to the area before Heaven-Piercing Tower of Sisheng Peak.

     It was late autumn, and the haitang flowers were blooming beautifully. He didn’t know why he chose to end his life of sin here. But, since the flowers were blooming so splendidly, it would be a fine burial. He lay down in the open coffin and gazed up at the flowers as they fell soundlessly in the night. They danced and fluttered into the coffin and onto his cheeks one after another, drifting and fading away like the happenings of the past.

     In this life, he’d experienced countless hardships, starting out as an illegitimate child with nothing and becoming the only emperor of the mortal world. He was the very embodiment of evil, his hands covered with blood. He’d loved and hated, desired and detested, and in the end, there was nothing left.

     When the time came, he didn’t inscribe anything on his own headstone with those unrestrained words of his. Be it an extremely shameless “Emperor of the Ages” or something as ludicrous as “Deep-Fried” or “Steamed,” he didn’t write a single thing. In the end, not a word had been left behind on the grave of the first emperor of the cultivation world.

     The farce that had lasted ten years finally came to an end.

     Many, many shichen later, the rebel army raised their lit torches and invaded the palace like a colossal, fiery snake. But all that awaited them was an empty Wushan Palace, a deserted Sisheng Peak, a Xue Meng who lay on the ash-covered ground beside Red Lotus Pavilion, having cried so much he was numb—and, in front of Heaven-Piercing Tower, Mo Weiyu, whose corpse was already stone cold.