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Chapter Text

Shang Hua is seven years old, playing in the cold shallows of the Luo River, when the storm rolls in.

His curly hair is wind tangled and damp against his forehead from chasing frogs all afternoon. One of the older children told him if he caught four of them, they would bring good luck to his home. With his mother so busy trying to make ends meet, Shang Hua devoted himself to the task.

Now, with the clouds rolling in and the sky growing dark, Shang Hua thinks he should head home. Three frogs croak miserably at him from the basket on the shore and he glances back to the reeds.

He just needs one more.

Thunder rumbles, distant drums rolling closer and closer until lightning cracks across the valley and Shang Hua screams.

.

The washerwoman finds him hours later, long after nightfall has further darkened the stormy skies. She is drenched to the bone from searching in the storm for her son and nearly missed the soaked through heap hiding near the shore. 

Her relief is audible when she finds him, fevered and cold, but breathing. Even for a scrawny child of seven, he is dead weight in her arms, but she has carried heavier to provide for him before. She bundles him close, thanking the gods, and hurries home.

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Consciousness is a fickle thing as memories slide against his mind like water across stones.

He is Shang Hua, an orphan boy found and cared for by a lonely woman.

He is Luo Hua, a teenager abandoned in the rift between estranged parents and their new families.

He is Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky, a man struggling to survive with only his words.

He is seven. He is twenty-eight. He is thirty-five and he is desperate to start living on his own terms.

There is an image, a day dream, a prophecy of what is to come. A man standing on the bones of the three realms, an emperor with the world at his fingertips and an ache in his heart that can never be soothed. 

Shang Qinghua, Emperor of the Three Realms.

Shang Qinghua, Protagonist of Proud Immortal Demon Way.

Shang Qinghua, bound role of User001, Luo Hua.

Role of Shang Qinghua equipped with Protagonist’s Golden Halo.

System Updating.

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When the fever finally breaks and Shang Hua sits up on his own, his mother weeps as she wraps him up in her arms. What little savings they had must have gone to the apothecary for the herbs and medicine at his bedside, but she says nothing of it. She doesn’t guilt her child for needing help, doesn’t threaten to hold it over him for years to come.

She just pulls him against her chest and begins to comb through sweat tangled locks. “My Xiao-Hua,” she says softly, her relief palpable. “You must be blessed.”

Shang Hua rests against her, content to share her warmth and bathe in her love while he has it.

She never notices the green venom and divine gold glow that backlights her son like a halo. And he is simply too tired to deal with it himself. 

For now he has her. And he will let himself soak in her kindness. He only has a few years of it left. 

.

When his mother dies, it is a quiet, awaited thing. Shang Hua watched from the corner of his eye during those years as the venomous glow was slowly purged by divine light, all the while doing what he could in their little village to repay the one parent he’d ever had. 

He finds all the herbs the apothecary hides behind his counter out in the wilds free of charge. Shang Hua learns the recipe himself from Airplane’s memories, doing all he can to ease the old woman’s illness. But even the writer can’t cure everything when his powers are sealed.

Shang Hua is twelve years old when he weeps at his mother’s bedside, her hand still and cold in his. He weeps until he has nothing left to give, until every sorrow is washed out of him with his tears.

Luo Hua never got to mourn his family. He was the one that may as well have been dead, what right did he have to cry and mourn when they would never have done the same for him?

Airplane stands up from the bed, looking down at the woman who raised him, and wonders what he’s meant to do to honor her. If anyone ever did the same for him.

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With his mother put to rest, Shang Hua turns his back on the river valley that cradled him for all of his new life. There is nothing left here, no one, no plot. But he knows where to go, and he hasn’t been alone since the night the storms raged.

“System?” he calls, unafraid of being heard as he walks down the valley road.

There is a soft ping as the golden interface pops into existence, its light dancing in chocolate brown eyes and illuminating the foggy morning.

Greetings Admin! [1] new quest available! 

Call To Adventure: Ascend The Mountain! 

Do you accept?

The text floats along with him and Shang Hua stretches his arms up over his head as he walks. He contemplates viewing the rewards, but this is a hero’s journey he knows all to well. Only this time, this Shang Hua will not be walked all over by his martial elders. 

Airplane had been so frustrated when he wrote that angsty whump fest. Therapy hadn’t really been an option when he was flat out broke, so he had opted for the next best thing: throwing all of his trauma and then some on top of a boy who could one day for sure overcome it all. 

Except at some point the story he wrote to heal himself had become the noose threatening to close around him. He wrote whatever fans demanded of him, desperate to keep that one bit of income. It was better than the odd jobs he found, better than asking his parents to bail out a stranger. He told himself that every day, and sometimes he believed it.

But he missed writing for himself. He missed the notes that fell to the wayside because he knew it would never sell.

When Airplane first hit publish on chapter one of Proud Immortal Demon Way, it had been for himself. His story. His happiness. The last time he hit publish, Airplane barely recognized the words on the page.

Stuck in the body of his protagonist, bound to the world he created, he doesn’t need that trauma anymore, no thank you. 

This will be his story. 

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The road from the Luo Valley to Cang Qiong Mountain is a long and winding one, but Shang Hua never worries about the dangers most would find along the way. He travels by foot or by cart with bartered herbs a child such as himself was so lucky to find along the way. He sleeps beneath the stars and shelters in barns when the nights are cold, always able to find a thread of good luck when he needs it.

He catches an apple from a man on a donkey who cheerfully points him towards the mountain and thanks him, never catching the raised brow the cultivator gives him before their paths part.

The man told him he had just missed the sect’s entrance exam and that he was perhaps better off journeying to another sect if he was so insistent on beginning his training. But Shang Hua just continued to smile and insist that Cang Qiong would be his sect no matter what.

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At the foot of the great mountain, he stares up the Heaven Ascending Stairs and rolls his shoulders. “A xianxia elevator would be really great about now,” he mutters to himself.

“What are you doing, boy?”

He spins on his heel and there is a young man in sect robes approaching him. Small glasses perched on his nose and a dozen scrolls tucked under his arm. The young man looks severely overworked and Shang Hua could guess he was a disciple of An Ding well before he took in the robe’s bamboo greens.

“Climbing the mountain,” he says with a grin.

The young man pinches his nose. “There are arrays, kid. You can’t just climb the mountain. You’ll just have to wait until next year’s ceremonies if you’re trying to join.”

Shang Hua bows politely. “Thanking shixiong, but this one would like to try anyway.”

“I am not your… Never mind.” He sighs and shifts his hold on the scrolls before crouching at Shang Hua’s level. “It’s not a matter of trying. You won’t be able to make it up. You’re just going to climb a lot of stairs, for a long time, and then eventually one of my shimei is going have to lead you back down here. Just, go on home, okay?”

When they inevitably come to an impasse, the young man just shakes his head and wishes Shang Hua the most sarcastic of ‘good luck’s before ascending the mountain on a newly drawn sword, as if that would prevent Shang Hua from following.

He tips his head back to watch the disciple above join with another cultivator in similar robes returning to the sect. This cultivator spares a glance down in his direction, but backed by the sun with a head of heavy curls, Shang Hua can’t make out what expression the traitorous Peak Lord sends his way. Doesn’t matter, they’re both gone in moments and Shang Hua is left to his should-be-Sisyphean task.

It’s just a real shame that the arrays can’t account for a Protagonist with Admin privileges.

Of course, it’s still not an easy hike. He is still a child with no cultivation foundations to speak of yet. He’s barely half way up and already through the first layer of arrays when he starts to notice eyes in the sky. A cultivator here or there who seem to aimlessly fly past him, though he feels their eyes on him every time.

No one stops him, no one tries to even engage. They just watch, each one more curious than the last until Shang Hua finally feels himself break through the final array. The silence of the mountain suddenly lost to the evening bustle of activity in a prestigious sect.

The curly haired man from earlier stands further up the path with his arms crossed, sharp eyes trained on the scrawny child who just clawed his way through their defenses. But Shang Hua doesn’t give a shit about his little traitor son right now.

It’s the man beside him who’s captured his attention. In deep blue robes, towering over both Shang Hua and his shidi, as if they were no more than ants beneath his heel, stands Mobei Jun, the esteemed Qing Jing Peak Lord and the first true villain of Proud Immortal Demon Way.

Shang Qinghua might have been his self-insert, but Mobei Jun had always been his favorite. He was tall, handsome, cold, strong, dangerous, beautiful, and a dozen more adjectives Airplane had used liberally anytime the man was on the page. He was everything Airplane wanted — to be or to have, he wasn’t picky really. How could he not be his favorite?

Then the noose that was a stallion novel started to tighten around his neck. 

By time his protagonist had been at a point where Airplane was comfortable to start pushing certain filial boundaries in an enemies-to-lovers tale… that just wasn’t what the readers wanted. They wanted Shang Qinghua to seek vengeance, to establish himself as the only dominant lead, the only one who could woo anyone, have everyone — except the one character Airplane wanted him to have.

There was rent to pay and he needed to eat. So Airplane took all of his notes and buried them deep down. He couldn’t even call himself a sell out (though certain people certainly did), because you had to be making actual money for that.

Now though. Now there were no fans to appease, no bills to pay. He could greedily unearth his original outline and no one, not even the System, could stop him.

With the final step of the Heaven Ascending Stairs under his feet, he clasps his hands and bows at once to the silent Peak Lords. “This Shang seeks admittance to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. He knows this is not the usual way, but he hopes these great masters will reconsider.”

“Tch.”

“Hn.”

He hides his face behind his sleeves so they can’t catch the twist of laughter on his face. Ah, his sons. So eloquent. What lofty immortals you both are.

There is a discussion, a borderline interrogation, from the master of strategy and the snake in the grass, before it is decided that it is late and Shang Hua may stay one night before the sect leader can decide his fate.

Luo Binghe opens his mouth, hand half raised to instruct the boy to follow him, when Mobei Jun simply says, “Come,” and turns towards Qing Jing peak without once looking back.

“Mobei-shixiong, I really don’t think—” but his frustration falls on deaf ears as both the man and the boy are already half way down the path.

Shang Hua will admit, he hadn’t expected to catch the eye of the An Ding Peak Lord, but he feels that forge hot gaze boring into the back of his head as he trails after his future shizun. He is an anomaly now, not just another child digging a hole. It shouldn’t surprise him the snake wants to keep an eye on him.

Thankfully, Mobei Jun is just as vindictive and calculating as he knew he would be.

They might be martial brothers, but Mobei Jun never trusted Luo Binghe. His favorite was too smart to overlook the viper coiled beneath the roses. Luo Binghe’s interest in him only cemented his future on Qing Jing peak. Check and mate.

It is only once they are on Qing Jing peak and half way down the path to the Plum Blossom House that Mobei Jun turns to address him at all.

“You are not a disciple,” he says as point of fact. “You are not allowed into the dormitories.”

Ah, so kicked right into the wood shed, huh? Damn shizun, couldn’t even extend a courtesy to a supposed guest? He really did you write you mean.

“Shang Hua will sleep in this master’s home.”

If Shang Hua wasn’t completely sure the Protagonist Halo wanted to keep him very much alive and well, he would assume he was concussed at some point. “Huh?” he manages, just as eloquent as either of his lordly sons.

Mobei Jun doesn’t deign himself to explain, merely continues on the path leaving Shang Hua to follow or not.

A few disciples in Qing Jing blues look at the road worn child at their shizun’s heels curiously and he can’t help but wonder what rumors will already be spreading across the mountain before he meets the sect leader.

That being a distinctly tomorrow problem, he follows Mobei Jun inside. And for as out of character as he thought the frigid man was just moments ago, inviting him into his home, finding himself sleeping on the cold hard floor of said home quickly rights that presumed deviation.

Can’t even spare a pillow from that bed of yours, Shizun? Yeesh.

Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations!

Important things must be said three times!

Quest Call To Adventure: Ascend The Mountain has been completed!

Reward: 200 Protagonist Points

Admin may apply PP to any Protagonist Skills at his leisure!

Heh. PP.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Shang Hua is treated to a shocking amount of hospitality before he is ushered before the sect leader.

Mobei Jun doesn't so much as offer a bath as he demands Shang Hua bathe before introductions are made and does away with his dirty travel robes while he has the chance. Clean disciple robes are left in their place, though notably without any of the proper belts or insignia of a true disciple.

He barely earns an approving hum from the frosty lord before he is told to follow and they make their way to Qiong Ding Peak.

In the light of day, the sect is every bit as stunning as Airplane first imagined it would be. A misty sanctuary atop the mountains, a place of cultivation and learning for hopeful disciples. It was the sort of landscape worthy of paintings and poetry. Not a bad place to spend the next couple years of his new life.

Unsurprisingly, Luo Binghe is one of the several Peak Lords summoned for this meeting. He sits at a long table, not far from the central seat, surrounded by scrolls as if he were keeping minutes. The moment he and Mobei Jun enter, Luo Binghe’s attention snaps towards them.

Mobei Jun seems to consider taking his seat at the sect leader’s side, but instead tucks his hands in his sleeves and stands tall where he is. With ivory pale skin, a dark braid  twisted over his shoulder, and eyes like ice, even while standing still the man is the perfect image of an immortal master. A sculpture unaffected by the world around him.

Seated at the center and watching them both, is a woman in autumnal robes with tiger sharp eyes. She balances a carved pipe in her hand and greets them with a warm smile. “Mobei-shidi, Luo-shidi was just telling us about our guest.”

Madame Meiyin was a deceptively fierce woman in Proud Immortal Demon Way and even with his Halo, Shang Hua does not want to get on her bad side. She carried herself and the sect through numerous incursions and helped seal away the last of the Heavenly Demons before ever ascending to Peak Lord. 

His cradle seal was still well and truly in place, she would have no reason to suspect his lineage of all things, but Luo Binghe's interest has already shown the ripple effect of change Shang Hua was making to the narrative. He would very much like to play it safe and coast through some early disciple years in peace, thank you Madame.

Even without the golden reminder of the System and his next quest hovering at the corner of his eye, he bows deeply to the Matron of the Peaks and pleads his case before her and her martial family.

Not all of the Lords are present, with many out on hunts or otherwise called away from the sect if he were to guess. To no one’s surprise, least of all Shang Hua’s, the Bai Zhan Lord is among those absent. At a glance, he confirms Zhuzhi Lang, the physician, Sha Hualing, the Mistress of Xian Shu Peak, and Meng Mo, the forgemaster, all watch him closely. 

Again, he is a curiosity. Never before has an outsider, one without an ounce of cultivation and an untapped golden core, ever made it past even one of the sect’s arrays. That Shang Hua made it up the mountain entirely shows remarkable promise.

From Meng Mo’s perch, he strokes his beard and eyes Shang Hua up and down before declaring an interest in taking him as an apprentice.

Luo Binghe scowls and reiterates that if the child could pass their arrays so easily, then a mind that sharp belongs at An Ding. 

(Shang Hua can’t help but think the man is reaching.)

Zhuzhi Lang is soft spoken, but even he has a better claim to Shang Hua’s talents than the logistics peak does when they factor in the tale he told of his late mother.

All the while, Mobei Jun remains silent, eyes boring into Madame Meiyin alone, as if the arguments of his shidi are far beneath him.

Eventually, Madame Meiyin pats the table before her and beckons Shang Hua to approach. “You have already proven yourself quite the remarkable child. What do you know of the divine arts?”

More than her, Airplane wants to say, since he was the one that bullshit the entire fabric of the realms. “Not much,” Shang Hua says instead. “My mother used to say I was blessed.”

The Madame smiles and holds out her hand for his. “Let’s see if your mother was right.”

Which, damn. Imagine if he wasn’t the Protagonist? What a slap to the face that could have been. “By the way your dead mother lied, you’re basic.” He’s going to have to pour one out later for all the shijies and shixiongs of Qiong Ding whose spirits were crushed beneath this woman.

He gives his hand and she traces manicured nails down the lines of his palm. They could say anything at all, but the smile she gives him is...unsettled.

“You are a rare talent indeed, Shang Hua. I foresee a great future ahead of you, but the details of which are… hidden from me.” Saying so seems to pain her and Sha Hualing and Luo Binghe both whip their heads towards her in shock. Even Mobei Jun twitches.

Of course, Shang Hua knows why. Madame Meiyin, outside of her combat prowess, is the greatest diviner of the age. She has never given anything less than a picture perfect reading in her life and rarely does so because of it. Just offering to read Shang Hua’s palm now was a great honor never bestowed on a simple disciple. To be unable to see his future? Unheard of. 

“Cang Qiong will happily accept you as one of our own. Your study and training here will no doubt be crucial in whatever role the gods have in store for you. By now, you have seen my martial family all wish to support your growth, and you would do well with any of them, even myself. But alas,” she says, a smirk tugging at painted lips, “it would seem you have already been selected by Peak Lord Mobei. Unless you object, Shang Hua, I will honor my shidi’s claim.”

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In the days that follow, Shang Hua is treated to the early injustices of his whump fest writing. He grins and bears it just long enough to find his footing, to see what exactly his sudden arrival in the sect has disrupted and where the winds blow. 

To his not at all surprise, Mobei Jun seems fit to ignore his existence, as if securing Shang Hua’s future on his peak was more important than actually cultivating that future at all. He sees the man at a distance most days, preoccupied with Peak Lord duties or teaching the older disciples. Between menial tasks and dodging the attention of certain bullies, Shang Hua can’t help but want to watch him.

It’s just… he’s so cool! And Shang Hua gets to see it in real time. 

Despite his frigid demeanor, Mobei Jun is a good teacher. Strict for sure, but Shang Hua watches him correct forms with a simple “again” until his disciples perfect their techniques and earn a muted, but proud, hum of approval. He allows young disciples to watch as long as their own studies and chores have been seen to and Shang Hua isn’t the only one who sits against the wall to spectate.

If he wasn’t also a bit of a dick, he’d probably get teacher of the year. 

Training his disciples to his exacting standards also means that if they cannot keep up, Mobei Jun does not slow down. Mobei Jun does not coddle weakness. Those who cannot stand up for themselves, who cannot ensure their own survival on the peak and the cultivation world at large, are not shown an easier path. 

You either learn to swim or you drown. 

It was that mentality that had tormented Shang Qinghua in the early novel. Mobei Jun never needed to raise a hand to the protagonist, he simply watched on as others did, unimpressed with any perceived weakness in his disciples.

Qing Jing was the home of Cang Qiong’s strategists, those who would one day be tasked with directing life or death battles against evils that would not hesitate to strike. As far as Mobei Jun was concerned, learning to exploit weakness was just as valuable as learning to defend your own.

If that meant a child was ground into the dirt, so be it. 

It was no secret that Qing Jing Peak, despite its illustrious reputation, had fewer disciples than any other peak. Mobei Jun held the door open for any who could not cut it under his rule.

More than once, Airplane’s precious protagonist had been shown the door, but he always stubbornly clung to the hope that things would improve if only he did better.

Shang Hua knows that isn’t going to be the case. The odds were never supposed to be in his favor. 

But oh, what’s that? Admin privileges? Odds who?

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He starts simple. He has about five years to spend at Cang Qiong if things continue along his prewritten path. There’s no reason to hurry that timeline along and risk changing the story so much. Shang Hua wants to improve things, not get accused of witchcraft or something.

Sitting out in the woods, Shang Hua calls up the System interface and feels a bit like Tony Stark as he slides golden windows and drop downs in the air around him. He calls up the roster of Qing Jing disciples, cultivators, and hallmasters, anyone who might regularly call the mountain home and studies the list. Many are names he knows, had written down or met in passing, but some were of the System’s creation, faceless NPCs now generating as real people in the world around him.

Shang Qinghua had been a little white lotus, unwilling to step on another to better himself, until his pure white petals were blackened with dirt beneath the boots of others.

Shang Hua is more than willing to play the game.

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First, he needs a proper cultivation manual. The one generously gifted to him by Ming-shixiong was a scam and they both knew it. As he was just starting out, it was easy enough to see where this manual was wrong through the author’s eyes, but if he wants to improve his spiritual cultivation before any treks into the Abyss, he’ll need the real deal. 

Just because he wrote the world doesn’t mean he has any idea how this works in practice.

He could steal another’s manual. He could even swap his with someone else’s. But wasn’t he here to fix the story?

An accident of his creation and yet no fault of his own, ruins his cultivation manual during morning lessons. Ming Fan is left speechless as the manual is reduced to tatters and ash, charred by an unlucky slip of his own spiritual energy. Shang Hua quickly puts on the puppy dog eyes, distraught by the destruction of his manual. 

The shijie instructing the class quickly tries to regain control. Ming Fang is made to apologize for his carelessness and is sent off to run laps to think on how such a slip could have been worse. 

Crouching down with Shang Hua, his shijie picks up one of the tatters and turns it over in her hands. “Shidi, this manual is a lost cause, I’m afraid.” She hands him a talisman from her belt like a hall pass and says, “Report to Qiong Ding’s archive and acquire a new manual, bring this and it to me when you’re done.”

Shang Hua crosses the bridges to Qiong Ding and thanks the disciples who point him off in the right direction. He expects to simply go in, show the talisman in his hand, and be sent on his way with a brand new, totally not rigged manual.

Instead he walks almost face first into Mobei Jun the minute he steps inside.

Mobei Jun looks down at him as frostily as ever and raises a brow as his disciple hastily stammers an apology. “What brings Shang Hua here?”

It’s probably the first thing the man has said to him directly since they returned from Madame Meiyin’s audience weeks ago. 

“There was a mishap,” he says quickly. “One of my shixiong sort of destroyed my manual? Fa-shijie sent me to get a new one.”

The brow raised at him does not lower. Instead, Mobei Jun simply turns and retreats into the archives. When Shang Hua continues to stand there, he glances back. “Well? Do you wish for a new manual or not?”

Shang Hua jumps to it and scurries after his shizun. This was not at all how he expected this to go, but he can’t say he hates the opportunity here.

Mobei Jun leads him down aisles of meticulously organized books and scrolls. Only once they turn into a dead end does he reach his finger out and start to feel along the shelves, dark eyes quickly taking inventory. At first, he reaches for a manual that Shang Hua has seen among the other disciples of his year. But then his eyes flicker back towards Shang Hua, appraising, and he returns it to the shelf.

“Shang Hua is still behind others of his year.”

Owch. Rude much?

He laughs nervously. “This disciple had a late start.”

“En.” Mobei Jun keeps searching the shelves before he finds another manual, this one older than the last. He pulls it out and hands it to the boy. “Shang Hua will study this manual and come to this master with questions.”

For a moment, Shang Hua is speechless. Holding the book in his hands, he cannot believe that the Frigid Immortal would offer even an ounce of tutelage to a yet unproven disciple. What sort of OOC bullshit—

“If he cannot keep up, then perhaps Shang Hua has no place in this sect.”

Ah. There it was.

“Yes, Shizun…”

.

The second issue Shang Hua needs to address are his sleeping arrangements. Shang Qinghua might have slept in the damn wood shed, but Shang Hua was not about that. He had already lived in the smallest possible studio in China and the saddest hovel in the Luo Valley. 

He is, quite frankly, done with that shit.

The next time he’s bullied out of the dormitories by Ming Fan and his lackeys, something that’s become more frequent after the training manual incident, he pulls out the big guns.

There is no use going to Mobei Jun about petty disciple squabbles. Survival of the fittest is the way of law on Qing Jing after all.

So he just needs to make this an issue bigger than Qing Jing.

There is a pond outside the Plum Blossom House that Mobei Jun meditates at in the evenings. It is, generally, a time the mountain respects as his and one only his most senior disciples are permitted to interrupt for emergencies. Shang Hua is not one of them and this is most certainly not that. Still he makes his way past the house and stops at the edge of the pond’s garden.

“Shizun?”

There is the barest of rigidity that crawls up the man’s spine, easily missed if his own creator wasn’t the one watching for it.

“Hn.”

“Shizun said this disciple could come to him if he had questions.”

One hand emerges from Mobei Jun’s robes and motions to the stone beside him at the water’s edge. “What question does Shang Hua have?” he asks once the boy seats himself beside him.

“Ah, well. It’s not about the manual,” he begins. “That’s been going really well and Fa-shijie says I have been improving in leaps and bounds.”

“This master is aware of Fa Yifei’s assessment.” 

Shang Hua laughs nervously. “Of course, Shizun is well informed of his disciples.”

“En.”

“Which is why this disciple might hope for Shizun’s guidance in a different matter. You see there are some disciples who have been making it difficult for me to sleep in the dormitories…”

“How is Shang Hua handling this?”

“Sleeping in the woods some nights when it gets too difficult to deal with them.” He sees Mobei Jun finally turn to stare at him, as if Shang Hua were a koi that had just crawled up beside him. “But it’s starting to get colder with winter approaching. So I was hoping to figure something else out.”

“Then Shang Hua is running out of time.”

“Ha... yeah.” Now this is about where the sweet white lotus would have wilted and shuffled off to the wood shed. “Maybe… Qing Jing isn’t the best fit for me, Shizun… Luo-shishu has said there is plenty of room on An Ding.”

Airplane wasn’t about to wilt. Airplane was going to go for the throat.

“Nonsense,” Mobei Jun nearly growls beside him, a flash fire of fury Shang Hua was not expecting. The man stands at once and looks away from Shang Hua to the forest beyond the pond, silently reigning in the rare show of emotion. “Shang Hua will not run from his problems. Doing so will make him nothing but a coward. Are you a coward, Shang Hua?”

Was he? Maybe once. Luo Hua had certainly never been lionhearted. It was always easier to hide from his problems then. But Luo Hua died years ago.

“No, Shizun.”

“Good. I do not tolerate cowards on my peak.” Mobei turns towards him and Shang Hua scrambles up to his feet. “You came to this master with a question and you will have an answer. Fight back.”

“Shizun?”

Mobei Jun leans down and Shang Hua fights the base prey urge to step back. Hey may be the protagonist, but Mobei Jun is still a dragon. “Fight back. You cowed to your shixiongs and made yourself a target. Fight. Back.”

They stand locked in that moment for longer than Shang Hua can track. He should move, he should leave, but he feels trapped under Mobei Jun’s gaze. The moment only breaking at last when Mobei Jun turns and retreats to the Plum Blossom House.

“Good night, Shang Hua.”

.

That night, when the older boys try to bully him from the dorms again, Shang Hua kicks Ming Fan’s legs out from under him and threatens him with a fist raised above his eye. For a minute, it feels like Ming Fan can see past the cradle seal to the demon lurking inside him.

When Shang Hua rolls off of him and takes the bed furthest from the rest, no one stops him.

.

The next morning at breakfast, Shang Hua can’t help but continue to think of the look in Mobei Jun’s eyes as he drinks his tea. As though it wasn’t only Shang Hua he was answering.

Chapter Text

Life in the Luo Valley had been utterly unremarkable and therefore entirely predictable. From the moment Airplane woke up, he knew the course to take and how to steer him and his mother safely through to the other side for as long as possible.

Cang Qiong is far less predictable.

Airplane didn’t write the day to day of the sect, he wrote the big moments that later defined Shang Qinghua. Everything in between? Maybe a sentence or two to show passage of time and then off he went to the action.

He couldn’t just filler sentence his way out of growing up though. No no. He had to deal with adolescence again, but this time paired with the rigorous training of Qing Jing.

Needless to say, he was all too ready for one of those major plot points to roll around as the seasons went by.

Shang Hua knew it had to be coming soon. He regularly checked with the System, but its loading times reminded him of the old computers he grew up on, jumping from a download time of ten years to twenty minutes in the blink of an eye for no reason what so ever.

Incoming Event

Revelation of Saints [Loading… 75.3252/100]

It had been stuck there for literal days. So when an explosion on Qiong Ding sends birds scattering across the skies and plumes of dark smoke into the air, Shang Hua is a little peeved to hear that melodious tone chime in a moment later.

Timed Event Revelation of Saints is now active!

Good luck, Admin!

Quickly falling into step with a dozen other disciples speeding towards their sister peak, Shang Hua mutters under his breath, “Really? This is your idea of a warning?”

b(￣▽￣*)

It’s absolute chaos with older disciples trying to both defend and corral their younger martial siblings from the demons that have invaded their peaks. Towering and bestial forms lurk like wolves around the edges, funneling those lured to Qiong Ding closer while access to the other peaks are systemically shut down.

There’s shouting and laughter and jeering yips as the southern demons have their fun, but Shang Hua’s eyes are scanning the crowd for flashes of red. He hears the jingle of bells over the clamor and jerks his head towards the source the same time a monster of a man slams his hammer down, displacing paved stones like sand as he shouts, “Silence!”

His order echos over the peak as demon and disciple alike go quiet.

Standing before the living mountain are two demons dressed in red. Though nearly half the man’s size, he defers to them with a bow of his head, no more than a weapon for them to wield.

The demons are every bit as amazing as Airplane first pictured them, both draped in fine silver jewelry, so that every minute twitch and shift sends a melody rippling across their ankles, wrists, ears, and hair. The woman dressed in alluring red silks, a veil covering her face save for hypnotic silver eyes and the scarlet zuiyin on her brow, stands like an empress surveying her empire. Her matching companion stands beside her, confident and scowling, as though he can’t imagine a single threat in this crowd and is deeply annoyed by it.

“You stand before the Twin Saints of the South,” their guard announces, “Saintess Liu Mingyan and Saint Liu Qingge.”

Whispers being to ripple again and another crack of his hammer on the stone silences the disciples once more.

Liu Mingyan steps forward, her arms tucked behind her back. “We came to see if the illustrious Cang Qiong lived up to its reputation,” she says. “Unfortunately, we find you lacking.”

“Disappointments, all of you,” Liu Qingge huffs.

“However,” Liu Mingyan adds, raising a hand to her chest, “we are gracious. And will give this sect one chance to prove itself before we take our prize.”

She snaps her fingers and the demon behind them stomps towards the main hall of Qiong Ding. Effortlessly, he rips the sect’s plaque down and holds it up high with a sneer. 

“A best of three,” Liu Mingyan continues. “Select your champions and we shall select ours. Beat us, and we will leave. Fail, and we will take as we please.”

Voices raise again and this time the demon muscle allows it. In the cacophony, Shang Hua pulls up his System window and starts scanning the crowd.

In Proud Immortal Demon Way, this was a fight Shang Qinghua had been severely unprepared for. His cultivation was still in shambles with a fake manual and Mobei Jun had all but dangled him before the demons as an example to the rest of the disciples: master your cultivation or leave the sect before it cost the lives of your martial family.

So where the fuck was Mobei Jun now?!

All Shang Hua could see were disciples in the various robes of their peaks looking between each other nervously with not even the idea of a Peak Lord to protect them.

NPC Mobei Jun is out of range. Please try again later.

Unhelpful! No Mobei Jun. The Bai Zhan Peak Lord was still in seclusion. And if he had to guess, Madame Meiyin and Peak Lord Zhuzhi were still in the town below the mountain making arrangements for an upcoming night hunt at the behest of a wealthy trade partner.

Which meant they might be well and truly on their own. Shit.

A shijie from Xian Shu steps forward and draws her sword. Liu Mingyan, waiting primly for her challenger, hums softly and falls into a fighting stance, her movements so fluid her bells barely chime. 

His shijie puts up a good fight, but Shang Hua can see the gleam in Liu Mingyan’s eyes. She’s playing with the girl. They trade blows for awhile before Liu Mingyan strikes the disciple’s wrist and her sword clatters across the ground. Her hand flashes towards the girl’s throat, pausing in the frightening mimicry of a caress when the girl shouts, “I yield!”

Liu Mingyan holds the girl’s wide eyed gaze for a moment longer before turning away with a sigh. “1-0. You may be right, ge.”

Liu Qingge snorts and crosses his arms, waiting for his sister to return to his side. “What do you expect from humans?”

“The Saintess need not have bothered,” their guard agrees. His terrible sneer only grows, killing intent rolling off him in waves that has Shang Hua suddenly concerned about other deviations from his story. “Let this elder show them the way.”

This was the demon Mobei Jun had thrown the original flavor to. Elder Sky Hammer.

It had been an absolute mess of a fight. Shang Qinghua didn’t even have his own sword at the time and it was nothing but the Protagonist’s Halo that got him through the fight, coming out on top to the admiration of his eventual suitors and conquests.

Shang Hua has a sword, a gleaming blade named Zhen Yang, and he is still not liking his odds against this fucking mountain of a demon. Just because his victory’s prewritten doesn’t mean it won’t hurt like a bitch!

Just as he’s psyching himself up to deal with this titan, a sword glare whistles through the air and throws Elder Sky Hammer back in a cloud of dirt and stone.

Mobei Jun descends in a whirlwind of blue and white silks. The white blade of his sword glitters like ice in the sun and he cleaves it through the demon, his eyes dark with fury. “You dare?” he demands as the surrounding demons begin to cry foul play.

Liu Mingyan raises her hand and her warband falls silent. “We dare. Your sect claims noble prowess and yet it crumbles before us and your victories rely on trickery. We merely came for a fair fight.”

Mobei Jun scoffs and flicks his blade to the side, Elder Sky Hammer’s blood splattering over the stone. “If it were a fair fight, my sword would not be stained black.” And sure enough, a black ichor creeps up the length of the blade from where it made contact with the fallen demon. “Lin Ya 凛雅 detects poison, what of this fight is fair?”

Ah, right. Without A Cure. God that was a bad name even by his standards. Well, that was one way to simply wipe it from the narrative!

Liu Mingyan sighs and shrugs. “You cut him down before he had a chance, perhaps he would have removed his armor. He would have hardly needed it against these disciples,” she says, barely concerned about her guard’s death. “Here I allowed them to even yield. Yet you cultivators have the audacity to call us beasts.”

“Cang Qiong did not agree to this pathetic excuse of glory seeking.”

“Cang Qiong agreed the moment that silly girl stepped forward.”

Shang Hua watches as the shijie in question quickly ducks away to avoid Mobei Jun’s glare. He snorts and looks back at the saints. “What are the terms?”

“Best of three,” she says. “We stand now at 1-1.” Mobei Jun moves to step forward, blade still in hand, and she clicks her tongue. “You have already fought, Peak Lord. Another must come forth.”

Liu Qingge unhooks his cloak and it flutters down to his feet as he steps forward. “It does not matter who, I will make this quick.”

Having witnessed the Saintess fight, no one is thrilled to go up against the Saint, especially not now with Mobei Jun’s scrutiny on them. Cold eyes flicker across the disciples gathered, no doubt running the numbers on who among them stands the best chance, when Shang Hua steps past him.

“I’ll handle this, Shizun.”

If Mobei Jun is surprised, he hides it behind a mask of ice. “Do not disparage Qing Jing.”

Shang Hua keeps his hand on the hilt of his undrawn blade as he walks carefully into the circle of demons and disciples. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Liu Qingge to fight fair, he does, he just also knows Liu Qingge ranked among the strongest generals in the protagonist’s army. The man takes to combat the way fish do to water.

The silver eyed demon huffs, giving Shang Hua a single once over before drawing his sword. There is no fanfare. They circle each other like wolves for a moment, then lunge in twin blurs of blue and red. 

It is the sort of anime ass fight Luo Hua used to get hyped up for during any tournament arc and Shang Hua cannot help but grin. They are, shockingly, evenly matched, trading blow for blow and narrowly weaving between sword strikes that could mortally wound on impact.

Sparks sing off their blades as they go toe to toe for just a moment and there is not a scrap of indifference in Liu Qingge now. Excitement thrills under his skin, the barest hint of a fanged smile giving him away. 

“Still disappointing?” Shang Hua taunts.

Liu Qingge does not respond. But there is the unmistakable flicker of interest in him as he disengages and circles Shang Hua again, revaluating his prey. 

Time and time again they clash, seconds ticking by like hours as each strike wears away at them both. Neither of them will yield. Liu Qingge is too proud. And Shang Hua cannot lose.

Still, the Demon Saint is slowly pushing him into a corner and Shang Hua knows his options are dwindling. There’s a reminder from the System that he could purchase a buff, but maybe he’s a little bit stubborn too. He wants to win this right. Liu Qingge might outclass him with a sword, but when it comes to raw power, the protagonist is unmatched.

Shang Hua shouts as one heavy swing sends both his and Liu Qingge’s blades across the ring. Before Liu Qingge can register what just happened, Shang Hua is on him, taking the man to the ground and trapping his arms to his sides between his thighs.

His hand shoots towards his throat, a mirror of the Saintess’s maneuver, and pins him down. “Yield!” he demands. He can hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears as he and the Saint lock eyes. 

For a moment, he sees something like fear in the demon’s gaze, a cocktail of shock and awe and something else, before Liu Qingge’s head falls back against the earth, his throat bared. “I yield.”

The peak falls into a riot of noise around them, disciples cheering, demons swearing. But for the minute Shang Hua catches his breath, he can’t help but admire the demon beneath him. 

The saints were both meant to be suitors in his very first draft. The mysterious and cool Saintess, his best strategist. The honorable Saint, one of his strongest generals, utterly unmatched with a blade. How many iterations had he gone through with them after the first time he put their names to the page?

Not that any of it mattered in the end. 

Those notes didn't fit with a stallion novel and so Liu Qingge was sent to quell rebellions, never becoming a threat to the emperor's growing harem. And Liu Mingyan became just the first of many wives to follow. Not the fate he wanted for either of them, but the one that pleased the most fans.

With Liu Qingge spread out beneath him, he really can't help but think his readers had been truly missing out. The demon, with that cute little mark under his eye, was unfairly pretty.

Liu Qingge’s eyes widen, cheeks flushing as red as his demon mark. And ah. Maybe he said that part out loud.

Thankfully, there isn't time to dwell. Around them, Mobei Jun’s already well into demanding the demons take their leave and Liu Mingyan holds up their deal, ordering the raiding party out.

Shang Hua rolls off him quickly, but Liu Qingge is already on his feet, returning to his sister’s side before he can even consider offering him a hand.

“The victory is yours for now,” Liu Mingyan says over her shoulder. “May you be so lucky in the future.”

Timed Event Revelation of Saints is complete!

Congratulations, Admin!

Shang Hua watches them retreat for just a moment longer, the System’s voice still ringing in his ears with earned points and rewards, before whipping around at the call of his name.

Mobei Jun watches him closely, those deep ocean eyes of his impossible to read. “Shang Hua did well.”

A compliment? From Mobei Jun? He beams. “Thank you, Shizun.”

“If this master sees Shang Hua willingly disarm himself again, he will raise his own blade against Shang Hua.”

He drops his head. “Of course, Shizun…”

.

By time Madame Meiyin and Zhuzhi Lang return the sect, most of the literal and metaphorical fires are put out. 

Despite his win, Mobei Jun keeps Shang Hua among the disciples on active clean up duty. So he gets to watch first hand as Madame Meiyin’s qi lashes briefly like fire around her when she learns what happened.

“Is anyone hurt?” is her first question.

“Zhuzhi-shidi’s disciples are not the ones being kept busy right now,” Mobei Jun assures them. “The An Ding disciples are already collecting work orders for the damages.”

Zhuzhi Lang quickly excuses himself to go see to his disciples regardless.

Madame Meiyin’s bone white grip on her pipe doesn’t lessen any, but she keeps her qi under control. She surveys her peak in silence for a time before her eyes land on the abandoned corpse of Elder Sky Hammer, still sprawled out where Mobei Jun downed him. 

Her lip curls in disgust. “Get rid of that thing.”

“It’s covered in poison, zhangmen-shijie. I thought it best to let Zhuzhi Lang have a look at it first.”

“You didn’t say so while he was here?”

“You did not ask while he was here.”

Shang Hua keeps his head down as he continues to clear out debris. He knows how cultivators view demons in this world, of course he does. But outside of night hunts with rampaging, wild beasts and evil spirits, he hadn’t seen much of demonkind just yet. Elder Sky Hammer was an intelligent and powerful demon, but they spoke of him the way they would a Three Tailed Phase Scorpion. Just something else to deal with and dispose of.

“Eesh. Really screwed myself on some of this, huh?” he mutters to himself.

.

It is a week later, when all signs of destruction have been cleared and repaired, that the peace of the mountain is disrupted once more.

Shang Hua is on his way to deliver the list of disciples from Qing Jing who will be accompanying Qian Cao disciples on an upcoming mission to Madame Meiyin’s head disciple when he hears the roar. He nearly jumps out of his damn skin with half the mountain’s wildlife, but most of the older disciples don’t even blink.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE WERE DEMONS ON THE MOUNTAIN?”

Ah.

Six Balls left seclusion.

The Peak Lord shoots through the air like a missile from Bai Zhan to Qiong Ding, as if harassing the sect leader is the only way to get his answers. Jumping from his sword, he nearly leaves another crater for An Ding to fix and storms inside the main hall.

Shang Hua taps the scroll he’s wielding nervously in his palm and looks around before scampering off away from the main hall. Maybe he’ll look for that shijie of his somewhere else first.

Chapter Text

Liu Mingyan considers herself an insightful woman. She knows what makes people tick, in part because she loves to write but more so because one of the Twin Saints must.

She loves her ge. He is a hurricane of a man on the battlefield. He is also a fool.

On their journey back to the southern lands, she keeps an eye on Liu Qingge along the way. He has been out of sorts since the fight against that human, quieter than usual which makes him a ghost among their warband. And, more surprising, his explosive temper has dampened significantly. It’s as if losing this fight rewired her dear brother’s brain chemistry.

Something will need to be done about this.

They leave the majority of their entourage at the border of their father’s territory and make the rest of the way to his lair alone. 

“You think with your face too much,” she says suddenly.

To prove her point, he turns furrowed brows in her direction. “What?”

“You haven’t stopped thinking about that human, have you?” His steps falter and Liu Mingyan sighs. He would be lost without her, truly.

“I- He-” Liu Qingge stammers his way into silence before rubbing a clawed hand over his face. “Meimei… I’ve never… lost a trial before.”

“I’m aware,” she hums. “So. Do we distract father from our failure with preparations for your dowry?”

“MINGYAN!”

She arches a brow, the scarlet veil hiding her smirk. “Is that not what you’ve had your head in the clouds about this whole time?”

Despite having come of age first, Liu Mingyan knew for a fact her brother was shockingly chaste by demonic norms. Where she was more than happy to take a demoness or two to her bed, to play political games and blow off steam, her brother would do no such thing. Wouldn’t even entertain the idea.

Liu Qingge heard the stories their mother used to tell of courtship and mates and had devoted himself to such a fairytale path of antiquity. Taking only a mate who could best you in trial by combat. Accepting their mark as claim. 

It was, frankly, silly. The elders had all expected Liu Qingge to grow out of those ideals.

But she knew her brother. And she saw the way he bared his neck to that human.

Still spluttering for a comeback, Liu Qingge’s face burns crimson. Though in rage or embarrassment, that she can’t tell.

She pats his cheek gently. “I am jesting, gege. Besides… telling father you want to take a human as your mate is probably worse than telling him we lost.”

Chapter Text

If Shang Hua had hoped Mobei Jun would favor him more after his victory against the Demon Saint, those hopes were dashed quickly.

There was no elevation of his rank, no favored treatment. In fact, Shang Hua may as well have lost since victory only brought him more work on the peak. Whether it’s running errands or assisting his shixiong and shijie with morning lessons for the younger disciples, Shang Hua was being run ragged in every direction.

It felt like anytime Mobei Jun spotted him not doing anything, he suddenly had some other task to assign him, the tyrant.

Laying in bed, Shang Hua pulls a pillow over his face and swears to himself, about himself. Why the hell did he write this man so mean? His favorite? What does that say about him?? How much of an M is he? Yeesh.

In the last month, he’s barely had time at all to check in with the System. He didn't need to keep track of quests and events when Mobei Jun was busy filling his schedule! So when he tries to check in and view his stats, he’s unprepared for the glitching golden text at the bottom of his vision.

Err̷̨̗̠̥̙̲͙̗͖̫͚̺̣̾̈́ơ̴̭̩̥̥͓̝̭̪̭͙̬̝̜̍̈́̍̀͜r. Virus detec̶̰̜̠̙̭̩̩̻͗͐̌͑̎̉͠͝t̴̙͙̣̟͎̝̺͉̦͚̪̞̬̋͆̄́̆̇͗̒͌̽͝͝ed.

Virus? The System could get a virus?? 

“How?”

Virus detected. Error. E̶͂̚ͅř̶̰̗͓̼̒̿̏͝r̷̨̗̠̥̙̲͙̗͖̫͚̺̣̾̈́ơ̴̭̩̥̥͓̝̭̪̭͙̬̝̜̍̈́̍̀͜r̷̙͖͓͉̔̽̉̇͗͝. Virus q̸̻̖̬̱͎̻́̈́͂͌̄̈́̀͜ua̵̦̳̝̕rantin̸̛͙̜͂͂̊͋̋̈́̊̃̽̈̀̑͘͘ed̴̛̗͇̞͕̻̬̭͍̭̤͚̲́ ̸̢̣̝̟͈̮͉̣̦̮̺̣̂͛̈̽͂͋̆̍̅͑̎̕̕̕͝ẗ̶͕̥̯̗͖̓͗̅̚o̷̧̗̝̥̝̜̗̦̻̣̙̐͌͆́̊͋͠ͅ the Admin.

“Woah woah- hang on a minute!”

He sits up in his bed and pops open window after window, trying to see what diagnostics nightmare is happening when he remembers.

“System, spend 100 PP on Experience Pusher: Dream.”

Er̷̨̗̠̥̙̲͙̗͖̫͚̺̣̾̈́ror. Dream p̵͉̯̙̲̻̪̰̤̩̫̖̳̓̿͊̈̈́́̍̚ͅǘ̸̧̢͓̼̳̖̥̘̤͈̰͍͖ṛ̶̻̲͕̩̰̥̳̃̃́͗̓̈́̊̃̊̎̋̒͜͜ͅc̶̰̜̠̙̭̩̩̻͗͐̌͑̎̉͠͝h̷̰̠̝̜̯̤̜̪̹͂̇̎̓̽͘̕ͅased. Admin quar̵̲͓̹͍͙̖͓̾͆̀͐̿̐̄͂̇͜͝ͅá̶͓͓̝̀́̍̏̈́̇̈́̇͝n̸͕̜̯̂͂̊̉͊͌̚̚ͅtined.

E̵̛̮̤̲͍̬̞͍̲̟̼͐͗̏̈́̀̔̎͆̏̚͠͝n̴̡̹̜̖̠͗joy!

Sleep hits him like fucking Truck-kun, but he knows he made the right call when opening his eyes again he’s face to face with a mild mannered older man with whiskers and glasses.

How the hell did Mu Qingfang register as a virus? He was the protagonist's demonic mentor for fucks sake, it wasn't like the System hasn't been expecting him!

“Ah, so you could sense me,” the demon chuckles. “You are a promising one aren't you?”

“How long have you been in my head?”

Mu Qingfang smiles, warm and kind if not for the fangs behind it. “Long enough that this old Mu thought he would need to be the first to reach out.”

He crosses his arms. “You were testing me?”

That was… not how Mu Qingfang was supposed to operate. The dream demon was supposed to latch on at the first scent of Heavenly Demon heritage and present himself as a mentor.

“Well, yes. It's not every century I come across someone whose dreams are as fractured as yours. But ah, allow me my introductions. I am Mu Qingfang, the last of the dream weavers.” When there is no shock and awe from Shang Hua he sighs, “Cultivators butcher everything — a dream demon.”

“I know what you are.”

Mu Qingfang tilts his head. “Oh? All the more curious then. I don't smell a bit of fear on you.” Around them, a world of shadow ripples into a quaint tea shop and Shang Hua finds himself suddenly seated across from the demon pouring tea. “Sit, sit. We have much to discuss.”

Mu Qingfang was a strange creature, a weird uncle that lived in Shang Qinghua’s head. When a curse, centuries ago, destroyed his physical form, he had been rendered as little more than a dream himself, forced to sustain and exist off dreamers. But Shang Qinghua carried a thread of power that resonated with the old demon’s magic. He could interact with him and, even better, learn from him.

Shang Qinghua alone could keep the legacy of Mu Qingfang’s power alive and so Mu Qingfang clung to him.

But right now, the part that sticks out to Shang Hua is the singular fact that Mu Qingfang can not betray his secret to anyone. All his prim and proper training rushes out of him in a flood as he props his cheek against his fist, lazy eyes trained on Mu Qingfang. “More than you know, old man.”

“Peculiar child. No deference to this ‘old man?’”

“Make me your student and I’ll consider it.”

Mu Qingfang laughs. “You are bold, Shang Hua. Or perhaps I should say, Luo Hua?”

Shang Hua’s warm brown eyes darken in an instant, though his expression does not change. “So that’s what it meant by virus, huh? Shang Hua. Luo Hua is dead.”

“Is he now?” Mu Qingfang asks curiously. “My mistake.” He sips from his tea, something altogether too floral that Shang Hua won’t touch, and peers from over his cup. “Shang Hua. Luo Hua. Admin. Protagonist. Quite the interesting mind you hide behind divine arrays. This old Mu cannot help but wonder how, when you taste of power and potential both.”

“Promise your cooperation, and I’ll show you what you want to know.”

“Cooperation? With what, child?”

He drums his fingers on the table and considers his options. On the one hand, this Mu Qingfang is clearly holding his cards to his chest. On the other, Shang Hua finally has the chance to show someone his hand. “You mentioned my potential, yeah? Help me refine it. That's why you found me, isn't it?”

This is what the demon is supposed to want. The original had to tempt Shang Qinghua with the promise of a real mentor and the power to protect himself to earn his trust. Shang Hua is all but handing him that, so why does it feel like he’s the one trying to tempt Mu Qingfang?

Airplane had never written him… conniving. But in this moment, the demon is a mystery to his creator. The look in his eyes, it's so unlike what Shang Hua expected. It's almost like…

He sits up straighter. “Answer me something, Mu-xiansheng. How long have you been waiting for me to notice you?”

Annoyance trickles in the cracks of Mu Qingfang’s gentlemanly facade. “Nearly two weeks.” But Shang Hua hears the doubt in those words.

Mu Qingfang wasn't trying to be conniving just for his own ends. He was afraid.

“The demons raided Cang Qiong over a month ago.”

He knew something had been off. But with how busy Mobei Jun had been keeping him, he didn't have the time to consider that one of his plot points was running late.

“Impossible,” he whispers. Red eyes train on Shang Hua and the tea is all but forgotten as the world again shifts, like ink in water, and the demon is standing over him. “This Mu would realize if such a thing happened.”

Shang Hua holds up placating hands and puts a step of distance between them. “I’m not lying. I have no reason to. You- I’m guessing you poked around in my head and found something you shouldn’t have,” he explains, tapping a finger to his skull. 

You know. He never expected the System to act like a bug zapper when pesky demon moths got too close to its flame. That’s a new one! It takes the value of his life and much of Qing Jing’s training to keep from bursting out laughing at that image.

“You are but a child, one raised human at that. You could not have laid such an array.”

If this was the original flavor, then yeah. He’s not wrong. “You peeked past the arrays… did you find the cradle seal as well?”

Mu Qingfang regards him curiously, the wariness never fading from his eyes. “So you are aware.”

Shang Hua grins and taps his empty brow. “Heavenly Demon, yessire.”

After the longest moment Mu Qingfang wilts back, clawed fingers pinching at his nose and pushing his little round glasses further up his face. “You are…”

“Delightful?” 

“This Mu weaves dreams, not lies,” the elder demon says flatly. “I was going to say an enigma.”

Shang Hua laughs. “Yeah, that’s fair, bro.”

The demon blinks. “‘Bro?’”

Laughing nervously, Shang Hua waves his hand. “Ah ha, we’ll get there, don’t worry.”

.

It takes awhile, long enough that Shang Hua is certain the demon plays with the perception of time while he dreams, but they come to an agreement of sorts. 

Mu Qingfang will teach Shang Hua his secrets (again that whole author-to-practitioner skill gap was really annoying) and Shang Hua will let the demon live rent free in his skull.

Of course, living in his head means Mu Qingfang has to get really okay with some really weird shit really fast. (And Shang Hua has to adjust to yet another voice only he can hear.)

Shang Hua is handling his daily chores in the kitchens a few days later when he hears the demon hum.

‘Found something interesting, did you?’ he asks as he stirs.

Once Shang Hua had managed to, essentially, give Mu Qingfang an access key to the System, the demon had delighted in delving into the memories of his creator’s former life.

Shang Hua insisted he is not a god, but even his memories prove this Mu correct.

The stirring stops and he blinks in confusion at the pot of congee. ‘No?’

Did he not endure two tribulations?

‘I definitely didn’t, old man.’

When Mu Qingfang doesn’t respond again, Shang Hua groans. He finishes up with the meal, passing the pot off to one of his shijie, before ducking out of the kitchen.

‘Hey, have you come across the phrase ‘left on read’ yet? Because it’s fucking rude.’

He mutters to himself as the silence continues and heads out into the woods, settling himself quickly at the base of an old tree. Meditation isn’t the same as sleeping, not at all, but it does let him clear his mind enough to wrangle the demon in for a chat.

However instead of pulling Mu Qingfang face to face, he feels the demon’s influence on his consciousness pull him deeper. It’s like wool drawn over his senses, dulling the world around him until the darkness behind his eyes reforms into two distinct scenes like stages.

In one, he sees himself from before. Airplane sitting at his desk, ramen in hand. 

Shang Hua’s head jerks away from the moment that follows — a spark, a scream, a thud, and the burning smell that haunts his dreams even now. He can’t even tell if Mu Qingfang meant for the smell to follow this little play or if it is so ingrained in his memory of it, but it chokes him in the back of his throat regardless.

On the other stage, his body lays nearly as still as in the last. Tiny hands clutch at wet, curly hair as he screams on the shore of the Luo River, lightning flashing overhead.

Lightning is a sign of the heavens, Shang Hua. You, heavenly child, have survived such a tribulation twice, ascended twice.

Do not lie to your Xiansheng, nor yourself.

Shang Hua jerks suddenly back into his body, barely registering a hand just above his face before he’s springing up. He can still smell burnt flesh. He can still see lightning flash across his vision. He feels cold and damp and can’t tell if it’s sense memory or a cold sweat. The forest is gone, Qing Jing is gone, he is alone and cold and scared, he is—

“-ang Hua.”

He whips around and blinks quickly, not trusting his eyes.

Mobei Jun stands over where he had settled moments? minutes? hours? ago and watches him, brows drawn tight in concern. 

Out of character, he wants to laugh. Ridiculously so. Mobei Jun? Concerned for him? He manages a wet laugh and rubs the back of his hand over his face.

“A-apologies, Shizun.”

“Is Shang Hua alright?” the stoic man asks. He stands up straight, tucks his hand back into his sleeve, and cocks his head ever so slightly. “This master heard you scream.”

“Ah ha, fuck me,” he mutters, praying Mobei Jun’s insane cultivator hearing lets that one go, just this once. “This disciple is fine,” he insists, bowing stiffly. “He did not mean to alarm.”

Mobei Jun, of course, doesn’t buy it. Why would he? Shang Hua could cry.

But rather than interrogate his disciple, Mobei Jun holds out his palm. “Give this master your hand.”

Stun locked, Shang Hua does so slowly, without a fuss.

Long, cold fingers wrap around his wrist as Mobei Jun’s other hand begins to trace over his skin. Qi begins to drip into his meridians like snow melt as Mobei Jun forces Shang Hua’s qi to regulate with the steady flow of his. 

His eyes fly up to Mobei Jun’s, but the man is focused and unaware of the gaping fish before him. Or at least politely ignoring it.

It’s a simple process, a quick one too, but Shang Hua is locked in that moment, mind empty save for Mobei Jun.

He must have just thought his idiot student was somehow about to qi deviate on his mountain and simply did not want to have to clean that up. He’d do this for any of them, Shang Hua tries to tell himself. Mobei Jun was cold after all, not cruel.

But it still stirs something in him to have that ice sharp focus on him.

Gradually, the snow melt peters off, and Mobei Jun withdraws his hand. “Better?”

“Yes…”

He nods and turns and Shang Hua expects him to disappear like some sort of winter spirit without another word. But the man is full of surprises, it seems, and says, “Shang Hua will come to this master’s residence tomorrow evening, after his lessons. This master will check his meridians again. Shang Hua should take care until then.”

In the silence of the woods, amidst rustling leaves and the songs of White Toed Cricket Moths, a dry voice slips into the emptiness between his ears.

And this is the one you might have killed? Ah, yes. An absolute terror. Let this Mu never earn your ire.

Chapter Text

It feels like a dream when he’s invited back into the Plum Blossom House, but dreams make more sense to him these days than… this development.

Shang Hua sits as instructed, across from Mobei Jun, his eyes darting nervously around the house. 

Not much has changed since he slept on the floor of this place years ago. But in the light of day and without being shoved towards a bath like a dog, he can better see the painted scrolls of winter mountains hanging on the wall. The largest of them, Shang Hua knows, is of the Cang Qiong Mountains. In it, a dragon curls around the twelve peaks with scales of dark ink and indigo, protective and fierce and daring any threat to try. 

In all his time at the sect, he’s never heard a legend of a dragon guardian, so he chalks it up to artistic liberty, perhaps a metaphor for the wards placed around the mountains.

It makes for a much safer place to look than at the disciple serving him and Mobei Jun tea. Ming Fan shoots him a murderous look — a brave choice for someone who can still be eaten by ants! — before he sets the pot down and bows out of their shizun’s home.

“Drink,” Mobei Jun says, because god forbid the man use multiple syllables, let alone words. But Shang Hua nods and does so.

Unlike the too floral tea Mu Qingfang serves in his dreams, this one is a pale, white tea, different even from the tea served to the disciples, which tend towards black or green depending on the season. And the taste! The taste was subtly sweet, but more importantly, this was more caffeine in one sip than he’s had in literal fucking years. 

Airplane nearly moans as Shang Hua takes another long sip, uncaring if he burns himself in the process. He refuses to think about what his face is doing, too busy reveling in a caffeine addiction re-blossoming.

There is a tiny snort, a mere huff of air across from him and Shang Hua instantly remembers he’s not alone and very definitely under scrutiny. Thankfully, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say Mobei Jun looks amused?

“A-haha. Apologies, Shizun. It just… reminded me of something I haven’t had in a very long time.”

“Shang Hua enjoys it then?” And yeah, that sounds like amusement. Weird.

“Very much so, Shizun. This disciple thanks Shizun for this gift.” 

And for letting him know this exists somewhere on this peak. Airplane is going to get his grubby little hands on this thank you very much.

Mobei Jun nods graciously and takes a sip as well. They sit in silence for a time, the subtle crawl of sunset’s glow across the walls fading into shadows before Mobei Jun holds a hand out across the table. “Shang Hua’s hand.”

Right. Meridians. He sets the tea down and allows Mobei Jun to examine him. The snowmelt of qi is familiar now, flowing far easier than it had when Mobei Jun found him yesterday.

The man hums to himself and releases his hold with a small nod. “Better. Has Shang Hua checked the meridians of his martial siblings?”

Shang Hua retracts his hand and scratches nervously at his neck. “No? But I understand the process.”

“Good, it will be useful for Shang Hua to monitor his students.”

“My what?”

Mobei Jun reaches into his sleeve and lays a scroll between them. Shang Hua takes it hesitantly and unfurls it, finding a very basic training manual of sorts inked across the page. “Shang Hua will be taking over lessons for Qing Jing’s new disciples.”

“Me?” he squeaks.

Shang Qinghua had never been given a class of his own. It wouldn’t have happened even if Mobei Jun had been held at xianxia gun point. It was already ridiculous Mobei Jun was having him assist his shijie and shixiong with classes.

“Shang Hua questions this master?”

“Ahaha no, no. Just, uhm, surprised,” he says quickly.

“Hn. Shang Hua has shown, between peak duties and in combat, he has earned this.”

Earn is a bold turn of phrase. 

The new disciples are… a trial run of sorts on most of the peaks. New disciples are the strongest mix of attentive, eager to please children and bratty young masters. Even when half their lessons are to just sit down and learn to circulate qi, there is always at least one pipsqueak who will swear they know better. Generally, if an older disciple can handle a class of new disciples without yeeting one off a peak, they earn the right to lead other classes.

Still, there was no mention of reducing his other responsibilities to make room for this one. Ahahaha. Jerk.

“This disciple will not let you down, Shizun.”

“Good.”

There’s a chuckle in his head and for a moment, Shang Hua deeply hates both his teachers.

He expects to be excused. He sips his twice refilled tea. He drums his fingers silently on his knee. But Mobei Jun makes no move to free him from his presence. The man is perfectly content to sip his tea and pretend Shang Hua isn’t still there.

Just as the anticipation claws at him enough to consider prompting his dismissal, Mobei Jun stands and Shang Hua follows, moving swiftly into a bow.

“Your lessons will begin in three days in the Lotus Pavilion, make what preparations you need. Good night, Shang Hua.”

“Good night, Shizun.”

.

If, later, he returns to his bed and falls asleep to the memory of that little huff and amusement in sapphire eyes, it’s no body’s business but his.

.

No body includes a certain nightmare who should learn about boundaries before Shang Hua learns how to lock him in a mental trunk somewhere! He doesn’t need this peanut gallery act, thank you!

.

For as much as Shang Hua could complain about the chores and the training, Cang Qiong has been home for the last few years, and one he knows he’s going to miss. It doesn’t quite compare to the home he had with his mother. She loved him, unconditionally so, and her affections were never bought or manipulated with the power the System allowed him. She was home in a way Luo Hua never knew, in a way Airplane could only imagine as ink on a page.

Cang Qiong and Qing Jing are a different kind of home. One with younger siblings who actually look up to him and older siblings who would care if something were to happen to him. Sure there were some people he still didn’t get along with, but that was normal with family, right?

The ever looming reminder of what’s to come doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to miss this.

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There’s still time, but it’s not enough.

You could simply avoid the ‘plot point,’ could you not?

‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.’

You are happy here, aren’t you? 

‘Duh.’

Yet you will not sink your claws in to keep it?

Shang Hua sighs and leans his head back against the wall of the wood shed. He might never have used it to sleep, but he had it on wonderful authority that no else one would go snooping around it either. It made for a great workshop for his preparations.

‘If I don’t go to the Immortal Alliance Conference, I think the plot will find me anyway, Mu-xiansheng. At least with the Conference I can make plans and be ready. If my seal breaks on Qing Jing?’ He sucks in air between his teeth. There’s too much opportunity for destruction. Too many ways for things to go wrong. He needed to keep to his story to fix his future, not throw out the book and fuck himself in the process. ‘Besides, can you imagine if it breaks near Madame Meiyin? Woman will end me.’

Mm. She is the— what’s your phrase? Boogeyman of demons?

‘Exactly. I’ll take the Abyss and my own bullshit writing over her throwing me under a mountain with my mother.’

The Abyss… well it’s going to be a goddamn nightmare. There’s no getting around that. But. Author privilege. He doesn’t have to go into this blind like his poor white lotus protagonist.

It took some time to get his hands on a qiankun pouch, but once he did his preparations began to snowball, especially over the last couple of months. Anything he can squirrel away or quietly filch from under-inventoried storages across all twelve peaks have been slowly accumulating in his pocket.

If any of the mountain lords catch on, he’ll be absolutely and irrevocably fucked, but it’s a necessary risk. And one he is pretty sure the System could bail him out of in a pinch. Hopefully.

Mostly he hopes it doesn’t come to that.

Especially because there really isn’t any good way he could explain away some of this.

The blade stolen from one of Meng Mo’s projects. A small fortune in healing tinctures and salves from Zhuzhi Lang. General survival gear from Luo Binghe’s peak. Any kind of preserved foodstuff  from Qing Jing’s own kitchens. (Including some of that hyper caffeinated tea Mobei Jun stocked solely for himself, sorry Shizun, but he’s going to need it more!)

Most of it was taken in small amounts over time, hidden carefully away before the qiankun pouch fell into his hands. Most of it wouldn’t be missed, hadn’t been missed. It was easy to return only some of his supplies from missions. 

But Zhuzhi Lang’s rare herbs and Meng Mo’s sword? Shang Hua has no reasonable explanation for those even before factoring in the rest of it. And given how suspicious his traitor son is of damn near everyone, he has no doubt the An Ding lord would make things incredibly difficult for him if this got out.

Looking through the pouch, he thinks he has the majority of what he’s going to need for this. Word of, well, him said he could survive without any of this, but it was going to be so, so much easier with it.

Shang Qinghua had an arm ripped off in the Abyss, only learning after the ordeal that his Heavenly Demon body could regenerate. Shang Hua does not want to push this body to those limits, no thank you.

He was not going into the Abyss with nothing but fragments of Zhen Yang and his claws.

He was not going to fight for what little the Abyss provided or starve.

He was not even going to fully rely on his own blood to stave off the poisons of the Abyss.

Shang Qinghua fell. Shang Hua was going to saunter vaguely downward.

Isn’t that—

‘I don’t need the plagiarism check in my own head, thank you!’

Teaching the dream demon about the modern world might have been a mistake.

.

In the months following his delegation of lessons, Shang Hua finds himself in Mobei Jun’s presence more and more. This is something he should have expected, but hadn’t really considered at the time.

Mobei Jun is an active mentor to his disciples. Even if he sits idly through some of the lessons he supervises, leaving the instruction to his older disciples, he closely tracks the progress of everyone on his peak.

Naturally, even the great Lin Ya Sword cannot be everywhere at once, so he relies on reports from those disciples tasked with instruction. Twice a month, Shang Hua gathers with the other instructors in one of the pavilions to share updates with Mobei Jun.

Mostly, written reports are handed off to him between such times, either directly or through his head disciple. But Shang Hua cannot, for the life of him, figure out where Ning Yingying’s bounced off to tonight. (Sometimes he wonders how the hell both he and Mobei Jun looked at this girl and decided she was head disciple material — and then Shang Hua watches her fight like a Six Eyed Tiger Crane and remembers, right. That’s why.)

So with scroll in hand, Shang Hua makes his way to the Plum Blossom House and knocks at the door. A simple “enter,” comes from within and Shang Hua bows upon doing so.

“This disciple has Shizun’s reports.”

Mobei Jun does not rise from where he’s seated, nor do his eyes leave the scrolls laid out before him. He merely holds out a hand and waits for Shang Hua to hand over his report. This is normal, Shang Hua has learned. Little distracts Mobei Jun when he is focused.

He steps away from the man and is prepared to bow and excuse himself when Mobei Jun says, “Shang Hua will wait a moment.”

His fingers twitch at his side and Shang Hua mentally begins to swear up a storm. No chance Mobei Jun has caught onto him stealing from the peaks, right? Sure he’s taken a bit of that tea from the kitchens, but it’s not like Mobei Jun personally checks on those stores himself.

Shang Hua is running rapidly through contingencies and back ups when Mobei Jun tells him to stand up and he does so slowly.

Cold eyes sweep over him and even standing while Mobei Jun sits, Shang Hua feels the man looming over him. “Does Shang Hua have reason to be nervous?” he asks, baiting a mouse into a trap.

“No Shizun, just confused is all.”

“Hm.” He looks back down at the papers across his desk and Shang Hua chances a glance at his master’s sharp calligraphy, picking out the three words that spell his fate. 

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“The sect is busy with preparations for the Immortal Alliance Conference. This will be Shang Hua’s first attendance, does he have plans?”

“I hope to make the sect proud,” he lies. 

“Hm.”

Shang Hua expects that will be all, just another reminder that Mobei Jun expects the best from his disciples, especially in such an esteemed event just weeks away. He doesn’t expect Mobei Jun to pull a scroll box from his sleeve and hand it to him.

The wooden shell is smooth to the touch, not a splinter out of place, and painted with a delicate pattern of blue lotuses and golden accents. It is also, perhaps, the only golden thing Shang Hua has ever seen within the Plum Blossom House.

“Shizun?”

“Shang Hua should study that manual well. Learn your enemies so that you may use their strengths against them when the time comes.”

Even without opening it, Shang Hua knows this isn’t a manual about demons or spiritual beasts, the sort of monsters that are corralled by the great sects for this event. Between the lotus pattern and the gilded edges, there’s really only one place a scroll like this might have come from. “Is this not a friendly event, Shizun?”

“Does Shang Hua walk into a garden and expect there to be no snakes?” Mobei Jun’s voice is flat and cold. He finally rises from his desk and comes to stand in front of Shang Hua. He’s grown since the first time he stood toe to toe with Mobei Jun, but even so he still has to look up at him. “The Conference is a way of displaying strength. Huan Hua Palace is always eager to see our Cang Qiong Sect lose footing for their own gains. Do not allow them that opportunity.”

There is something unspoken here, something slipping from Shang Hua’s memory and he can’t put his finger on what. 

There is hate in those dark eyes. Hate for Huan Hua Palace. Hate for… Oh.

‘System, who is the current Old Palace Master?’

Current Old Palace Master is NPC Mobei Linguang.

So the System had pulled from those notes. Yeah… that explains the look.

Shang Hua clutches the box to his chest and bows his head, too close to the man to do more. “This disciple understands. I won’t let Shizun down.”

When he raises his head, there is something else in his master’s eyes, but it is gone in an instant. “Good.”

.

He brings the scroll box to the woodshed. He doesn’t know what this deviation of the plot can possibly mean, but he doesn’t dare to open it where his martial siblings may see and question.

The scroll within is old and carefully protected. He can feel the faint tremor of magical arrays protecting the scroll itself and he unrolls it in his lap with the care of a historian.

As he expected, the maneuvers detailed on the scroll are those of the distinctly militaristic school of Huan Hua Palace. There is an art to the forms, but it is harsh in a way those of the peaks are not. 

This is something Mobei Jun does not share with his disciples.

This is something Mobei Jun must have carried with him for years, one of his last physical ties to the palace he should have inherited if not for his uncle’s deception.

This never made it into your original creation story.

Shang Hua can practically feel Mu Qingfang leaning over his shoulder to study the scroll.

‘No. There was going to be a whole arc where Huan Hua was toppled and the Old Palace Master was going to be revealed as a piece of shit. But at that point Mobei Jun was already hated by the fanbase and redeeming him wasn’t going to be worth going hungry.’

Instead, he never even put the Old Palace Master’s name in the novel. Shang Qinghua just made moves to take down all four great sects in one fell swoop and all that intrigue just went out the window with the bath water.

What will you do with it now?

‘Tch. Good question. Even when things pop off during the conference, the Old Palace Master won’t be the one in the valley checking on disciples. Not like I can just kick him into the Abyss with me or something.’

No, that does seem unlikely. What about when you return?

‘Guess it depends on what I return to. I don’t plan on waiting five years down there.’

Mm. I wouldn’t recommend it. 

.

When Shang Hua slips into the dream realm, after a long day of wrangling his younger shidi and shimei, Mu Qingfang materializes like smoke at his side.

“Fucking- You don’t give a man a minute, do you?”

“Minutes, seconds, hours. What do they matter here?”

Shang Hua shakes his head and the two walk side by side through the realm, stepping from one sleeping island of dreamers to the next. “Find anything useful?”

The dream demon is bound to him, yes, but the world of dreams is a fluid thing, Shang Hua has learned. Mu Qingfang can step easily between sleeping minds, like stones in water, without fear of slipping. Shang Hua has mostly gotten the hang of it, but his mentor is far more surefooted in the realm than he is.

The old demon shakes his head. “That Luo Binghe still has wards up around himself, I’m afraid. You won’t know until the day of what he and the Lord of the North have in store.”

“Unfilial brat,” he mutters before throwing his hands up. “He’s altered things since the moment I got here. I know whatever he’s planning is going to be off book.”

Mu Qingfang hums thoughtfully. “From what I could see of his head disciple’s mind, nothing appears different from your script.”

Shang Hua waves a dismissive hand. “She wouldn’t know anything. Luo Binghe’s not that sloppy. Paranoid bastard.”

The demon chuckles softly and waves long clawed fingers through the nothingness before them until a thread of silver appears pinched between his forefingers. “Speaking of, I have refrained from entering your shizun’s mind, as you suggested. But I found a memory that might interest you.”

“Yeah?”

“The Bai Zhan Lord lacks some of the protections the others employ,” Mu Qingfang explains. “He was a disciple still at the time, but he was there the day Peak Lord Mobei first arrived at the sect.”

When Shang Hua takes the thread between his fingers, he can feel the fragile nature of it, a thread worn thin, a memory aged and nearly forgotten, lost in the recesses of the mind. He rubs it gently with his thumb and closes his eyes. (Mu Qingfang might be able to pull scenes from memories like plays on a stage, but it’s easier still for Shang Hua to let himself fall into it, a spectator rather than a director.) 

There’s little detail to the memory, like watching the scene behind a filter. Everything is muted with time, but not so distorted that Shang Hua can’t tell where they are. It’s not the sect, not exactly, but an old inn the sect frequents on missions. Six Balls, no more than fifteen, is among a small group of disciples seated around one of the tables on the lower floor when the inn door crashes open.

In white robes, with a sash of cinnabar red around her waist, a young Madame Meiyin appears with a pale figure half draped over her shoulders. Black hair caked in mud and blood is plastered to the figure’s face, but Mobei Jun is unmistakable, even as a child, even in tattered Huan Hua golds.

The memory fades as she carries him away with demands for supplies and one of the team’s medics to follow her as Six Balls’s involvement in the scene becomes barely tertiary.

He hits fast forward, willing the memory on, but it seems like Six Balls’s interest in his future martial brother began and ended in that moment until, days or weeks later when Mobei Jun resurfaces, bruised but well, wearing disciple blues alongside the rest of them.

“Ah Shizun,” Shang Hua sighs, dropping the thread back into the weave of dreams. “So that’s the plot you followed.”

.

Finding privacy in the sect is hard enough without a demon living in his head. Shang Hua is thankful for those who tuck in early, because it means he can sooner shoo Mu Qingfang towards their sleeping minds instead of his own for a little while. (Luo Binghe, of course, still alludes them, but he’s a lost cause at this point.)

Mu Qingfang’s absence is a subtle thing. If he focuses, he can find the tether between him and the demon, like a thread he could tug to call the demon back.

Shang Hua will not be tugging that thread tonight. He’d put the whole thread in a lead box if he could, but he settles for what he has.

He slips into the baths with a sigh and lets himself disappear in the milky white waters right up to his nose. He sits there, steam coiling up from the waters in lazy clouds around him and the stress of training and all his plans melts off him. 

It’s been over two weeks since Mobei Jun handed him the Huan Hua Palace manual and he is that much closer now to the conference looming over them all. Shang Hua has been made of nothing but stress and he desperately needs a minute to himself.

When no shixiong or shidi come barreling in and the night remains quiet save for the mountain song of White Toed Cricket Moths, Shang Hua takes himself in hand and lets his mind go blank.

There was truly no way to describe the disconnection Shang Hua felt from his body for the longest time. It was his, he grew up in it. But it wasn’t his, he just designed it. It was… odd. Especially when his body and mind didn’t mirror one another.

Second puberty? Yeesh. Hated that. Once was rough enough. At least the white lotus protagonist never had to endure the suffering of acne Luo Hua had. Small miracles.

(Shockingly, Zhuzhi Lang’s dual cultivation lesson had significantly not helped anything at all. For how many plants and poisons could be cured by the papapa, he really should have expected this sort of thing. But watching the dainty, owlish man explain sex for the greater good to a pavilion of teenagers had been… something. Airplane definitely never wrote about that.)

Sure, Shang Hua and Airplane were still not the same age, but he’s once again a young, red-blooded adult with eyes. And everyone around him is unfairly hot all the time. (This is what he gets for writing with Little Airplane, okay, he knows that now.) He could allow himself to make this body his.

He bites back a soft moan as his hand slides over his length beneath the water (and there’s certainly nothing ‘Little’ about that thing). He doesn’t want to think about who he is, isn’t, or will be. He doesn’t want to think about anything, just to exist in the moment and feel the warmth coiling in his lower dantian.

There isn’t time to spend on drawing it out, not when any number of his martial brothers could stumble in here, so he chases his pleasure with half conceived whispers and images in his mind. Nothing solid, nothing real, just the slick tight hold of his hand and desire to carry him through.

Shang Hua’s head thumps behind him against the bath’s edge, heavy breaths mingling with the wisps of steam as he draws closer and closer.

And then there is dark hair and pale skin and cold blue eyes and Shang Hua jolts forward, biting a cry into his hand as he comes. 

Water splashes as he moves to curl over the bath’s edge. He catches his breath, hiding his face in his arms. “Really?” he mutters, tugging on his curls. “Just imagining him looking was enough? Fuck me.”

Mobei Jun had always been a weak spot. A solid go to whenever Airplane was a little too horny and a little too single. But the effect the man has on him as something real is so incomparable to his imagination from before.

Shang Hua takes his time, trusting the cleansing talismans on the baths to do their work, and carefully regulates his breathing before scrubbing himself clean. Best to not think about it. In a few weeks… well it wouldn’t matter.

.

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Chapter Text

If you asked Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, Luo Binghe has never failed a mission. His exemplary record is no small part of how he moved up the ranks of An Ding. He is intelligent, quick witted, charming, and capable — everything the logistics peak requires of its lord.

Luo Binghe, as the record keeper of the twelve peaks, knows his reputation is a lie. And it started when he was still a disciple. 

It was a straightforward mission, requiring disciples of the beast and medical peaks. A representative of the logistics peak was requested for record keeping purposes and Luo Binghe had been chosen by recommendation of his elder cousin, Zhuzhi Lang.

Simple. It wasn't even a night hunt, just a simple excursion to acquire venom from a few beasts for Qian Cao.

So of course, it went off the rails almost immediately.

When a demonic beast phased into the middle of the flock of Brown Furred Otter Geese the disciples were harvesting from, their peaceful night exploded into utter chaos. The creature darted around the field, above them, dropping in and out of sight as it teleported around them. It threw two of Luo Binghe’s shixiong into trees, dangerously close to the cliff side they were near. 

And when it turned on Zhuzhi Lang, he acted without thinking, throwing himself between it and him.

Except it didn't try to throw Zhuzhi Lang. It tried to take him. And it pulled Luo Binghe through time and space with it instead, Luo Binghe wrapped in its lashing tentacle like a fish in the grasp of an octopus.

The creature phased beyond the cliff, high into open air, only to release its grasp and disappear once more. Without Luo Binghe. 

Luo Binghe was plummeting, left to free fall and splatter across the ground to make an easy meal. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for hard ground and broken bones and an extended stay at Qian Cao if he was very very lucky.

A wave of nausea hit him hard and fast first, probably an effect of his imminent demise — and then he jerked upwards with a hand on his collar.

His eyes snapped open the same time he was thrown to the ground at the feet of his apparent savior. “What—”

“Silence.”

Luo Binghe's jaw clicked shut and he looked up. The man standing over him was dressed in black, silvery blue belts and accents glittering like stars against the night sky. For a moment, he thought the young man a cultivator.

Then the creature phased in once more with a screech and his savior smirked. He slashed his fan through the air and ice spears formed and launched from the ribs, piercing the creature through before it could even attempt to flee again.

It gurgled, another screech drowned out in its own blood, and fell with a shudder into the stillness of death.

No, not a cultivator.

The demon hummed in satisfaction, his ice melting into the corpse, before finally turning piercing ice white eyes on Luo Binghe, still prone beside him.

Luo Binghe stared at the blue zuiyin on the man’s brow and wished, suddenly, to have been left for the creature. Being at the mercy of a Shen — well, they weren't known for mercy.

The Shen paced a circle around him, tapping that bladed silver fan against his palm before using it to tip Luo Binghe’s head from side to side. “Hn. You’ll do. Get up.”

Luo Binghe scrambled up, mind racing. Before any of the dozen questions could fall from his mouth, the demon grabbed his chin and forced him silent.

“Do you know how demons repay debts, little beast?”

With violence, Luo Binghe thought. He’d later learn that wasn't wrong, but he shook his head.

“Tenfold. Your life is mine.”

Luo Binghe’s eyes widened. The demon didn't look all that much older than him, maybe closer to twenty than Luo Binghe’s sixteen, and yet it felt as though he was staring into the face of a great and ancient serpent that could swallow him whole.

“What do you want?” he finally managed.

The demon sneered. “Don't tell me you're dim. I just said.”

Luo Binghe tried to pull back, but the Shen held him firm. “So what, you’ll kill me?”

“You are much more valuable to me alive. If I wanted you dead, your guts would be painting this gully.”

He roughly released Luo Binghe and he stumbled back. “I thought the Shen Clan hated humans.”

“Oh we detest you,” he laughed cruelly. “But that means my idiot cousin will never expect one to work for me.” He snapped his fan open and a gust of winter chill followed. “You are in the service of Shen Jiu, heir to the Shen throne and future king. Serve me well, and we both will rise. Dare to betray me, and I will make you wish for death. Am I clear, Luo Binghe?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Because I can hear your little shixiong calling for you, beast.”

Luo Binghe glanced up, the cliffs edge hundreds of chi above them, and back to the winter demon. 

“Don't be stupid and think you have a choice in this matter,” Shen Jiu said coolly. “Your life is mine.”

Luo Binghe grit his teeth and slowly bowed. “As you say, my lord.”

Shen Jiu huffed and snapped his fan closed. “We’ll work on your manners later. For now,” he held out his hand and wisps of shadow coiled and froze into a small black, ice sphere no bigger than a piece of candy, “eat this.”

Luo Binghe took it carefully between his fingers and sniffed it, giving the demon a curious look. “Why?”

“Dogs don't question their masters. Eat it.” Then with a roll of his eyes added, “It's not poison.”

He placed it on his tongue, but Shen Jiu was sharp and he narrowed his eyes.

“Swallow.”

Before he could reach for Luo Binghe and force the thing down his throat, Luo Binghe swallowed it. He watched Shen Jiu’s eyes seem to follow it through him.

“Good. Wherever you go, this lord will find you.” Shen Jiu stepped closer, ignorant of any personal boundaries, and Luo Binghe braced himself for — nothing. Shen Jiu reached behind him and pulled Luo Binghe’s sword free before turning towards the fallen beast.

He stabbed the blade into the corpse’s wounds, painting its steel in dark blood and concealing the spears’ strikes with Luo Binghe’s own weapon. “There. Claim the kill, reap whatever rewards your mountain offers.” Shen Jiu left the sword in the body and paced back over. “If you mention a single thing of this to anyone-”

“I’ll wish I was dead.”

A clawed hand pat his cheek sharply. “Good beast. You’re learning already.” He stepped back and Luo Binghe watched him disappear into the shadows, but not before he added, “I’ll be in touch.”

When the other disciples found him, Luo Binghe had further set the scene, smearing the beasts’ blood and dirt into his robes. It became the first of many missions his master twisted for their shared benefit.

“You will make something of yourself, beast,” he said once, “so as not to disappoint me.”

For the longest time, Luo Binghe didn't know what to make of the demon. He was cruel and selfish and looked at Luo Binghe as nothing but a pawn, a dog on a very short leash. But it was also with his help that Luo Binghe rose as quickly through the ranks of the peak as he did.

He was confident he could have done it without Shen Jiu, but he would be stupid to think it would have been as easy.

Their meetings, in the beginning, were infrequent. Luo Binghe’s freedoms on the peak were limited and his absence would be noted had Shen Jiu plucked him from his duties for long. But as Luo Binghe rose, so too did Shen Jiu’s expectations.

And now, with the mantle of lordship on his shoulders, Luo Binghe has grown from Shen Jiu’s mutt to his favored hound. The freedom of one station strengthening the bondage of another.

Stepping from the shadows of the Bamboo House to the Northern Palace, Luo Binghe trades the marks of one position for the other with ease. With fluid practiced motions, he pulls his guan from his hair and raises a bestial silver mask to the lower half of his face.

A flash of qi from his fingertips affixes it to his jaw, allowing its lion dog maw to open and close with his. A second flash of qi turns his robes from green to black as quickly as a flash frost withers a new bud.

In an instant, An Ding Peak Lord Luo Binghe is gone and in his place stalks the Beast of the North.

He strides into the throne room and moves to stand at Shen Jiu’s side, a dog at heel to its master and a warning to any demon present in the court.

Luo Binghe stands in silence while Shen Jiu holds his father’s court. It's a familiar process. Whether it is one of his subjects or an ambassador of another court, Shen Jiu lounges like a bored master on the throne, hidden behind his fan. And woe to any demon who mistakes his apathy for inattention now that his word is law, no further threats to his claim to the throne remaining.

Luo Binghe can predict his lord’s answers even as the demons plead their cases. He has spent too many years at Shen Jiu’s side to not know how the demon thinks.

When a demon gets too bold in their requests, he does no more than put a hand on the hilt of his sword and the demon nearly jumps out of its leathery skin. He catches just the edge of an amused smirk on Shen Jiu’s lips and allows a smirk of his own behind fangs of silver.

“Dismissed,” Shen Jiu orders eventually, his fan snapping shut, and the court disperses until only the master, his hound, and the palace guards remain. “Report.”

Luo Binghe walks around the throne and kneels before Shen Jiu. So much has changed since their first meeting. Luo Binghe stands taller than the demon now, but he brings himself low before him with ease. 

“The preparations are ready. The talismans Cang Qiong is supplying have been replaced without issue. At nightfall, they will burn to ash and with it the protection arrays over the valley.” He looks up at Shen Jiu and meets familiar ice eyes. “At that point, my lord can open his portals.”

“And you, beast?”

“This servant will stay amongst the seniors and monitor from afar, letting my lord know should anyone of interest become isolated.”

Shen Jiu taps the fan in his palm. “Good. The more we remove, the better.”

“This servant still believes his lord should leave this work for the dogs.”

“Tch. You think a pack of rabid mongrels will be more efficient than the one who tames them?”

He lets out a breath through his nose and closes his eyes. “Of course not.”

Shen Jiu leans forward, crystals clinking softly against their chains as he moves, and Luo Binghe cannot help but watch him. “Do you think me weak?”

“Never.”

“Then speak.”

Shen Jiu, for as demanding a presence as he maintains, is a slight creature. Pale blue skin, ice white eyes, and long night dark hair pierced through with icy horns like a crown, he is exactly the false-person monster humans fear. His robes lay open in a way that would make humans blush, but is fairly modest by demon standards with only a v of his lithe, muscular chest on display. Where others in the North wear furs and layers, Shen Jiu’s robes are light and airy, marking him as one of winter’s children and unaffected by her frigid touch.

But it’s Shen Jiu’s covered arm Luo Binghe’s eyes flicker to, vividly recalling the burns still healing there.

It has only been a month since they disposed of Qiu Jianluo, Shen Jiu’s poisonous cousin with eyes for the throne. Shen Jiu had employed holy fire, acquired via Luo Binghe, to strike the other ice demon down, but burned himself in the process. Even now the burns remain a brilliant red beneath his black silk, as vicious as the day they scorched his skin.

“My lord is still recovering and the conference begins in a few days. You are not weak — you're also no fool.”

He watches permafrost eyes harden, but he does not budge as Shen Jiu stands over him. “Do you think I would let something such as this ruin plans years in the making?” he hisses.

“Delegating will not ruin-”

“No. If I want a thing done right, I will do it myself. And you, beast, will remember your place." The sharp point of a fan clicks against the silver along his jaw and forces his head up sharply. “If you think you can snap your jaws, I will remind you your place.”

The worst thing, Luo Binghe thinks, is that he doesn't know when he began to care about this bastard who clearly doesn't care for him. Shen Jiu is right, he is a beast. One who chases the hand that feeds him and who would be instantly destroyed should Shen Jiu find him rabid or lame.

He has spent years of his immortal life serving Shen Jiu, watching the prince rise in power and esteem and growing into his own as peak lord alongside him. He is a tempest in physical form and a bastard in all but his birth. He has seen him covered in the blood of his enemies and wounded by them just the same, and Luo Binghe has stood beside him through it all.

So why must Shen Jiu still fight him when all Luo Binghe wants is for this idiot demon he's allied himself with to not get himself killed?

“This servant would never forget,” he says, even as the fan continues to dig. “He only worries.”

The demon scoffs and there is suddenly a hand on his hair, holding him fast where he kneels as Shen Jiu leans in. “Don’t tell me my beast needs another lesson.”

“No, my lord.”

“Good.”

They stay locked in that moment, dark brown eyes on white, for longer than Luo Binghe's knees like. But he does not move, does not resist, simply exists until Shen Jiu releases him and sweeps away from the throne.

“Go.”

He rises to his feet, bows to the demon’s turned back, and leaves through the main doors of the hall, passing the lingering demons from court as he goes. No one stops him, no one engages with the human that wanders the palace. They give him a wide berth, having long since learned he bites, and he makes his way to his office in peace.

Even here, his mask remains. He reviews the papers left for him — work orders, shipping requests, inventories, trade deals — every responsibility he holds on An Ding shared here in its demonic flavor. From the moment Shen Jiu found his father's staff lacking beside the talents of his favored hound, he removed them from the payroll (or their mortal coils in some instances) and left their work to Luo Binghe.

He tallies it all, stamps the mark of his station where required, and divvies out the work to his underlings in utter silence.

There is still much to be done for the conference with very little time left. Contingencies to plan for, cultivators who must be neutralized early, so many minor things that Shen Jiu has left in his hands. 

If the demon won't guard himself, Luo Binghe will have to. It’s simply what a hound does for its master.

Chapter Text

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck. And FUCK.

Shang Hua is going to get his hands on his little traitor son and shake him like a rag doll until that pretty head of his pops off his stupid shoulders. Unfilial!!

What the hell is Shen Jiu doing here??

“Shizun!” 

And of course, Mobei Jun isn’t listening. Why would he listen? Why would any of his creations just do what he expects them to even once?

Fuck!

Loa̵̺͋̏̐̈̎́͠͝ḑ̸͓̻̝̘̰̇͋̈́̉͆́͐͝ing.̵̬̳͙̱̹̟̰͎̳̲͉̎͐̇̏̑̚..

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The Jue Di Gorge is already teeming with cultivators when Cang Qiong arrives. Shang Hua knows this is the event of the cultivation world, but even he’s blown away by the sheer numbers around them.

For the first time in years he feels like he’s back in Shanghai. Thousands of people, everyone milling about, bumping shoulders, trying to make space for themselves, the loud call of friends finding friends in a sea of people. 

Most of the cultivators present wear the colors of the four great sects, but interspersed through them all it's not hard to find smaller sects, clans, and rogue cultivators. And while the current generation, Shang Hua and his peers, are dressed for combat, the older generation has arrived in their finery, ready to watch and gamble on their successors.

He glances up to the dais where, already, some of the seniors have gathered.

In his novel, Mobei Jun did not partake in the betting. His cold shizun had been above that. No, that had been behavior for Six Balls and Sha Hualing to engage in with the other sect leaders.

As he looks for the man now, he instead spots an eerily familiar man in robes of gold. He shares Mobei Jun’s sharp features, but his long black hair is threaded with a streak of silver and pinned in place with a gold guan — the Old Palace Master, Mobei Linguang.

It couldn't be a secret Mobei Jun and he were closely related, right? Yet no one spoke a word of it at Cang Qiong. And even now, with Mobei Jun seated as far as possible from his uncle across the dais, no one seems to be making any kind of fuss.

He needs to figure out just what else from those notes came to life — but once the young cultivators are split between the various entry points, that becomes a problem for future Shang Hua to unravel.

While welcoming ceremonies commence and instructions are reiterated for the contestants, Shang Hua busies himself with examining the dozens of cultivators around him. A number of golden robed Huan Hua disciples stand whispering amongst themselves, a young woman in plain black listens closely to the master of ceremonies, and a few plain robed monks stand at the ready. Just as he thinks he is perhaps the only member of Cang Qiong in this group, Ning Yingying bounces up beside him.

“Are you nervous, shidi?”

He huffs a laugh. “No chance.”

She smiles, her twin braid loops swaying as she bounces on her heels. “Want to make a game of it?”

“Is Ning-shijie considering betting?” he teases with a wicked grin.

In a ‘no, never, not me’ move, she examines her nails with a playful little grin of her own. “Betting? No no, just some friendly competition with my favorite Shang-shidi.” 

“Uh-huh. Alright, I’m listening.”

“Loser takes over all morning lessons for a week.”

Shang Hua bursts out laughing, garnering an annoyed look from the black robed cultivator before waving her back to her precious instructions. 

A week of lessons. Well, no harm. Ning Yingying is unfortunately going to be taking on more lessons than she likes in the coming weeks anyway. But a small part can’t help but wish there’s a chance he could lose.

He holds up his palm and says, “You’re on,” before she high fives him with a small burst of shared qi flaring between them.

“Good luck, Shang-shidi!”

Before he can wish her the same, several heavy gongs are struck around the gorge, their booming echoes announcing the start of the event. Shang Hua shares one last grin with his shijie before they dart off into the woods.

.

Shang Hua tries to make a good showing before the conference collapses into chaos.

He and Ning Yingying parted ways early on, but he finds himself with a small gaggle of young juniors tailing him not long after he felled his first spiritual beast. Not all of them seem keen on actively participating, several far too young to do so in his opinion, and all content to just not be mauled by anything. 

Two of his little flock wear gold robes and Shang Hua can’t help but remember his shizun’s warning as he plucks another prayer bead from a corpse, its body slowly but surely turning to ash before their eyes.

One of the girls in white bounds over to him to see if he’s alright (and he is). The little nun introduced herself as more of a healer than a fighter when she joined the group and Shang Hua can’t for the life of him remember if she’d been in the original Immortal Alliance Conference or not.

Given her, ah, ample assets, he’s inclined to think she found her way into the harem eventually. Oops. Sorry miss!

By nightfall, Shang Hua has over a good dozen prayer beads strung together and tied to his belt. A few of the juniors have a handful of their own from supporting Shang Hua in a few larger scuffles, but for the most part their belts are bare, insisting they are happy to watch Shang Hua fight.

(When the Huan Hua jiejie says so, it feels more like a threat than encouragement. Maybe Mobei Jun has rubbed off on him.)

“Shang-xiong,” one of the juniors calls, “should we set up camp soon? It’s getting late.”

He might not be able to keep his eyes on this group for long, but Shang Hua can’t set them up for an ambush either. He keeps scanning the treeline and the shadows, waiting for the moment all of this falls apart. “Not yet, not yet…”

There’s murmuring behind him and a soft rustle of fabric at his side catches his attention. The Huan Hua jiejie, Pei Zhi, brushes her shoulder with his. “You’re looking for something.”

“Huh? Me?”

“Yes you. What are you looking for?”

He laughs nervously, never taking his eyes off the forest. “Nothing and everything, you know? We don’t know what’s in the gorge. I just don’t think this is the best place for a camp.”

Pei Zhi scowls. “You have stopped us from camping at two defendable locations.”

Shang Hua rolls his eyes. “Look, you want to camp? Camp. I’m not stopping you.”

She barks a sharp laugh at that. “And take my eyes off you? No. You are up to something.”

Shang Hua turns, blocking her path, and narrows his eyes. “Does Huan Hua just breed paranoia or what?” he hisses. “I am just trying to make sure they’re safe.” He gestures to the younger juniors. “Not everyone is as capable as we are. So maybe? Back off.”

Her pretty face is marred with annoyance and then, briefly, a flash of fear as her hand goes slowly to her sword.

The forest is suddenly too silent, the juniors’ whispering a fading echo.

Ah. He shouldn’t have turned around, huh?

It’s instinct and reflex that has him rolling to the side just moments before the snapping jaws of a demonic beast close in where his throat had been just moments before.

Two of the juniors shriek as Shang Hua and Pei Zhi quickly fall into place between them and the creature. Behind him, he hears swords unsheathe and the fluttering of talismans as the others prepare themselves.

Killing intent ripples off the creature. Despite its doglike form, its mouth splits in four places, viscous saliva and ichor stringing between its jaws, as it clicks at them, turning its eyeless face in their direction. Its body is sleek with velvety black fur, bony protrusions down its spine, and vicious claws at the end of long spindly legs and the end of its whiplike tail. 

An Umbral Raptor Hound.

Why the fuck did he make this thing?

“This… this shouldn’t be here,” Pei Zhi whispers.

“Yeah, well, it’s here now,” he mutters. 

The creature’s head snaps towards him in that moment and the stillness breaks. Talismans zip past his face as he brings Zhen Yang up to block the tailstrike. The juniors move in, trying to circle the beast while it has its focus on Shang Hua, but they turn their back to the woods as more of the foliage rustles around them.

“These things don’t hunt alone!” he snaps just as another hound pounces and tears into the arm of one of the rogue juniors.

Dark blood quickly coats Zhen Yang as Shang Hua slices into the first beast. He ducks and slides between its attacks and maneuvers himself towards the second hound.

It’s stupid and crazy and if he didn’t trust the power of the Golden Halo and OP Protagonist Bullshit, he would never try to pull aggro on both of these demonic beasts at once. But he does.

When both hounds start clicking at him, forgetting the easier prey just behind them, Shang Hua spares a single glance at Pei Zhi. “Use the flare,” he orders as several sparks fly up in the distance around the gorge. “Get the others out of here. I’ll distract them.”

“Are you absolutely insane?!” Pei Zhi seethes.

Shang Hua laughs and cuts a line of red down his own palm. The hounds click and hiss and prowl closer at the scent of fresh blood. “Yeah. I probably am.”

The moment the hounds lunge in tandem, Shang Hua springs back into the woods, away from his hunting party. He keeps his pace slow enough to entice, but quick enough to stay out of their snapping maws, and he thanks the gods he wrote these things as pair bonded and not pack creatures.

A flare goes up behind him and Shang Hua kicks off one of the trees to send himself back towards both hounds in a cyclone of steel. From his sleeve, he throws a paralyzing talisman at the first hound, it won’t last long, but just long enough for him to deal with the second. 

Their blood leaves black stains on his sleeves and boots, but in a matter of moments he’s standing over two steaming corpses. These don’t turn to ash. There are no prayer beads to collect. He wipes Zhen Yang on their fur and chances a glance back the way he’d come. 

Hopefully, the seniors come to their rescue soon enough. But as more and more flares light up the sky above the gorge, he knows the older generation is going to be spread thin. The invasion was designed to cripple the cultivation world, to tear into the ranks of the up and coming.

His fault. Luo Binghe’s fault. It doesn’t matter. He can’t stop this. He’s hopefully saved a handful of disciples, but more than them will die tonight. He just prays his martial family gets out okay.

It’s the most he can do as he darts deeper into the forest to find destiny.

.

Shang Hua leaves a path of death in his wake as he hunts for the Black Moon Rhinoceros Python. The thing is, he can’t fucking find the damn thing and he’s sure by now he should have heard it. They’re not really known for stealth, you know?

As he hunts, he manages to help a few of the other combatants, fighting back the beasts with grim determination. Like yeas ago in the fight with Liu Qingge, he knows he can’t lose, so why not keep fighting?

He catches his breath over the corpse of a Blue Star Jackal Viper and wipes its dimly glowing blue blood from his face with his sleeve. He doesn’t remember writing these into the conference.

Actually, he doesn’t remember writing a lot of the creatures he’s found so far into the conference. Just how off book has this all gotten? And why?

Just as he’s about to push forward again, something pulls his gaze up. Between the flash of cultivators on swords and the ever continuous spark of flares, one shape grows larger as it descends in the night.

Mobei Jun steps nimbly off Lin Ya and drops down before Shang Hua.

The relief of seeing Mobei Jun is quickly beaten down with the growing coil of anxiety in the pit of Shang Hua’s stomach. If his shizun is here, then it must nearly be time.

“Shang Hua, report.”

“I’m fine, I- I’ve been making sure others get out,” he says. “The disciples I was with, we were attacked by Umbral Raptor Hounds. I’ve been luring the demons away from others so they can call for help.”

Mobei Jun’s eyes rake over him, no doubt looking for wounds or signs his disciple is the one that needs help. But all he finds are torn robes and demon blood, just a few splashes of crimson where Shang Hua’s been nicked.

He puts a hand on Shang Hua’s shoulder and it’s only with that steady presence that Shang Hua realizes he’s shaking. 

“You have done well,” Mobei Jun says softly. “But now it’s time for Shang Hua to light a flare. Let this master take it from here.”

He- What? No! That’s not how this goes.

Shang Hua shakes his head. “I’m fine, Shizun. We don’t know what’s happening.” And boy, he wishes that was a lie. “I can’t just leave!”

His shizun doesn’t waver. “Shang Hua, go.”

“No!”

Why is he still shaking? Why does it feel like everything has gone so cold?

There is a cruel laugh and both he and Mobei Jun whip their heads to the side as a figure in black steps out of the shadows. “Is this just a trait of Cang Qiong?” Shen Jiu sneers from behind his trademark fan, “Do they not teach their children how to obey?”

Whatever soft expression Mobei Jun may have been wearing instantly hardens as he moves to step firmly between his disciple and the demon lord. Lin Ya gleams in his hand as his qi flares up, warning the demon back. “Leave this place.”

Shen Jiu merely laughs.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fuck, fuck. And FUCK.

Shang Hua is going to get his hands on his little traitor son and shake him like a rag doll until that pretty head of his pops off his stupid shoulders. Unfilial!!

What the hell is Shen Jiu doing here??

“Shizun!” 

And of course, Mobei Jun isn’t listening. Why would he listen? Why would any of his creations just do what he expects them to even once?

Fuck!

Shang Hua refuses to be defended like some helpless maiden. He steps beside Mobei Jun, mirroring his master’s stance as Shen Jiu eyes them both. 

He doesn’t even get the chance to appreciate how fucking cool his second in command looks because he’s too busy trying to figure out just how they got to this point and what he’s going to do about it. Sure. Shang Qinghua could take Shen Jiu in a fight, but he isn’t Shang Qinghua yet! His seal is still whole and Xin Mo is still lost to the Abyss.

And despite how much he loves Mobei Jun as a character, he has no idea if the man can keep up with Shen Jiu. They never shared a page together!

“Stand back,” Mobei Jun orders. He sweeps his hand out, billowing sleeves meant to shield Shang Hua as Lin Ya floats between them and the demon, the blade quivering with killing intent to match its master.

“Yes, child,” Shen Jiu purrs, “stand back.” There is something about how Shen Jiu’s eyes flicker over him that adds to the ever growing anxiety inside him. “This lord shall deal with the great Lin Ya Sword, and then I’ll deal with you.” 

Yep. Ever growing anxiety. Shen Jiu, what the fuck?

In the next moment, Lin Ya is singing through the air, the white blade cutting through icy spears with frightening speed.

Mobei Jun places a hand on Shang Hua’s chest and the burst of power from his palm, a mere drop of Mobei Jun’s strength, sends him back a dozen paces and out of the wreckage of their violent dance. 

Because it is a dance. Shen Jiu is lightfooted and nimble, every step and flick of his wrist is art in the same way Mobei Jun ducks and spins in tandem with his blade.

Shang Hua could watch them for hours if he wasn’t panicking.

Lin Ya pierces through Shen Jiu’s fan and the demon prince snaps the fan shut, pinning the sword in place between its silver guards as frost begins to creep up the blade. “Let this lord teach you what it means to be cold.”

Mobei Jun has barely a second to react before Lin Ya shoots back towards him, ice and winter winds propelling the sword, pommel first, into its wielder. He manages to catch it, but the demon’s gales push it and him back, leaving grooves in the dirt as he fights to hold his ground.

Shang Hua moves before he realizes what is happening, his body and all its martial training faster than the panic of his mind.

Shen Jiu raises his arms and snaps his fan and his palm together, a blast of pure, unfiltered ice aimed and released at Mobei Jun.

Until Shang Hua leaps between them.

Someone calls his name, but its a distant thing. All he can feel, all he knows, is the cold that threatens to shatter him into a hundred different pieces. 

And then something cracks. 

For a brief, terrifying moment, Shang Hua pictures his skin fractured like porcelain. He fights the ice trying to freeze him from within and looks down at his hands.

There are no fractures, no cracks. Just two human hands tipped with black, demonic claws.

He staggers to his knees as power surges beneath his skin. Hunching over himself, he digs his claws into his shoulders. He tries to pull air into his lungs and keep himself from bursting at the seams.

Somewhere, Shen Jiu’s delighted laughter echos alongside shattering ice and clashing steel. “Oh. Now this is poetic.” Shang Hua can feel the way the shadows bend to Shen Jiu’s will, every one of his senses suddenly amplified to the nth degree. The last thing Shen Jiu says, before disappearing and taking the cold with him, is a single, gleeful request: “Put him in his place.”

Shang Hua’s focus swims and his senses echo and overlap as demonic and spiritual qi try to surge into the same veins. It’s a torrent of too much too fast and when he grits his teeth against the pain, he feels the scrape of new fangs in his mouth.

Mobei Jun is suddenly in front of him, tilting his head up with his hands, and Shang Hua can focus just enough to see the way blue eyes dilate.

Let it out, Shang Hua.

Shang Hua tips his head out of Mobei Jun’s grasp and screams. Qi flares around him in wild chaotic bursts like a bonfire and Shang Hua is made of nothing but gasoline.

Mobei Jun stumbles away from him, his cultivator’s grace lost in the turmoil.

He doesn’t know when it happens, what exactly triggers reality to tear. Was it Shen Jiu’s doing? The fault of his cradle seal not just cracking, but breaking? 

Mu Qingfang remains a steady presence in his mind, the one solid thing Shang Hua can grip onto as he shatters and is remade.

The Abyss is opening. Breathe.

Easy to say when you’re nothing but a spirit.

Still, he pulls air into his lungs, chest heaving, and staggers up to his feet. “Shizun…”

Mobei Jun stops his pacing, a flurry of silk suddenly falling still as he turns to look at his disciple turned demon. Lin Ya gleams in his grasp and for brief second, Shang Hua sees the glow of his zuiyin reflected in the blade.

Shang Hua runs his tongue over parched lips and a sharp fang and watches Mobei Jun.

He is a demon. He is the creature his sect fights and destroys. And once, in a story that has changed so many times since it was penned, Mobei Jun threw him into the Abyss for it. It didn’t matter that Shang Qinghua was scared. It didn’t matter that he wanted someone to tell him what to do to make things right. His master saw a monster and so it was a monster he became.

“Put him in his place.”

Shang Hua, despite the jackrabbit beat of his pulse, isn’t that same scared boy.

With Mobei Jun’s focus entirely on him, he steps closer, approaching Mobei Jun like a frightened deer. However, even deer have antlers and Mobei Jun raises Lin Ya carefully between them.

Clawed hands come up slowly and grasp the blade, holding it steady near his heart but never pushing it in nor away. Instead, he smiles and tightens his grip until red blood drips down Lin Ya. Between them, a familiar black ichor spreads from Shang Hua’s bleeding hands up the poison detecting blade.

In that moment, Mobei Jun looks stricken. “Shang Hua- You-”

“It’s okay, Shizun,” he says, lips pulling up in a grin bordering on feral. “The story is going to be different this time.”

He releases Lin Ya, arms out wide, and takes a step back, then two, then turns his back on Mobei Jun and walks steadily towards the Abyss. 

Sulfur and smoke clog his senses, a distant red magma glow barely visible in the tear between the planes. The first and last moonlit night of the Immortal Alliance Conference can barely illuminate the craggy rocks of the land below. 

Boy this is going to suck.

With one last glance back, Shang Hua sees Mobei Jun frozen with indecision, no doubt trying to figure out if he should poke his errant disciple with Lin Ya for good measure when he jumps. 

So before he can make up his mind, Shang Hua winks and steps off the ledge, plunging straight into the Abyss.

.

.

He never sees the hand that reaches to try and yank him back.

Chapter Text

Shang Hua shouldn’t be surprised when he lands in the Abyss and the craggy wasteland he expects to find is instead pockmarked with magma and lava flows. Sure. Why wouldn’t it have dropped him off in a different location? Not like anything else went according to plan.

He staggers up to his feet, knees bloodied and slowly reknitting themselves from his fall, and presses a torn sleeve to his nose as he takes in the dismal view.

His entire body feels like it’s actively being used as a Bai Zhan training dummy. Regardless of where he is, he needs to find somewhere to hole up until he can regulate his qi.

If my estimation is correct, you are in the Ever Burning Fields, a week’s journey from the assumed point of entry.

Thank fuck for Mu Qingfang. Shang Hua might not be able to focus, but the demon sharing his body still can.

He grunts acknowledgement and starts scanning the horizon. If the dream demon is right, he should be able to find… there.

A colossal skeleton lies partially submerged in the cool magma, an ancient leviathan that walked the earth long before even Mu Qingfang’s time. Its skull, still above the stone, is large and solid enough to provide shelter to any creature that can defend it.

Shang Hua rolls his shoulders, feeling more than a few bones pop, and starts towards it.

Thankfully, some aspect of his world still chooses to favor him, because the fields are quiet on his journey there. No geysers of flames. No Obsidian Flesh Stalkers. Just Shang Hua and the looming skeleton. 

Even there his luck holds out, the skull recently abandoned if the still present smell of rot on gnawed bones is anything to go by.

Ripping into his thumb with a new pearly fang, Shang Hua draws out the protection arrays at the skull’s maw. Three layers of wards, enough to make the talisman peak proud, drawn in Heavenly Demon blood should be enough to keep the creatures of the Abyss at bay. At the very least, the first ward will rouse him enough to prepare for whatever wants to tear him limb from limb.

With the wards drawn and the rotting leftovers of the previous occupant tossed outside, Shang Hua finally lets exhaustion catch up with him. He leans his back against the skull and slides down to the ground without an ounce of grace.

Rest now. This Mu will summon you once you’re ready.

Shang Hua barely nods, red eyes already slipping shut as sleep pulls him under.

.

Sleep keeps him in its claws for longer than he plans. There’s so much to do and prepare that he couldn’t with his seal in place. But with the thing broken beyond recognition, Shang Hua’s mortally trained body struggles to keep up.

So long training arc, Shang Hua is being tossed right into the thick of it, huh?

Thankfully, he’s not alone in this.

When he comes to, torn between the feeling of having just closed his eyes while having also slept for a year, he finds himself in the ever familiar tea room of Mu Qingfang’s domain.

The room has definition, but no end. It's as though anything Mu Qingfang could want for exists within the space and is never out of reach. The dream demon sits with a cup held delicately in his hands and watches Shang Hua.

“Feeling better?”

“Good as the grave,” Shang Hua yawns. Feeling tired in his own dream realm should be illegal. “Let me see the maps.”

The thing that had plagued Shang Hua for years was his own inability to recall everything he wrote. There were hundreds of thousands of words by the time he was done. Trying to recall fine memories of Shang Qinghua’s early life had been a nightmare when he was lucky he remembered the name of the wife of the week while he was writing it.

Enter Mu Qingfang. The dream demon was a master of the mental arts and few memories could hide from him for long.

So while Shang Hua might not recall something, Mu Qingfang could delve into those memories and pluck what they needed. And what they needed for the Abyss were maps.

Every scribbled map on the back of napkins and receipts, every line written about the layout of the Abyss, all of it compiled between them to make a fairly accurate map of the realm. At the very least it’s the best they will come by without needing to marry some tribal princess.

Mu Qingfang reaches to the side and, where Shang Hua is certain a tea tray had sat, pulls over a map scroll. The map unfurls across the table with a snap and a sharp claw taps at the north edge of the page. “You should be about here.”

Shang Hua rubs his face and looks over at the much less on fire portion of the map just south east of that claw. “Too much to ask, huh?”

“Oh, your prophecy is very much ‘off the rails’ as you would say.”

“Tch.”

The map is not nearly as detailed as he wishes it was, but the major landmarks are there: colossal skeletons that dot the land, swamps of toxins, seas where only the dead float, the central hubs of various tribes, the deadly hunting grounds of giant beasts, the ruins of a forgotten castle — either once built in the Abyss, or long since fallen into it — and, of course, Xin Mo’s shrine.

“It would seem you’re actually a fair bit closer to Xin Mo than we expected,” Mu Qingfang hums. “Is your goal to still circumvent the blade for the time being?”

He laughs and leans back. “Yeah. I don’t need another voice in my head just yet,” Shang Hua huffs. “Especially not that one.”

“You will need it to get out of here.”

“And I’ll get it once I’m ready. Trust me.”

Mu Qingfang arches a brow. “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

“Not really,” he laughs.

“What an awe inspiring god you are, A-Hua.”

Shang Hua rolls his eyes and props his chin on his fist. “Told you, not a god.”

“So you say.” He takes a sip of his tea. “What of your plans then?”

“We keep to them.” He holds up his hand and starts ticking off fingers as he goes. “I need to get my qi in order. I need to see what I’m capable of with Shen Fucking Jiu shattering the whole damn seal. I need to adjust to Meng Mo’s sword.” He stops, wiggles his last two raised fingers and adds, “Well two and three go hand in hand with four — I need to train and cultivate down here so that next time I see Shen Jiu I can kick his stupid ass.”

“And then you’ll retrieve Xin Mo.”

“Then I will make a detour and then I will retrieve Xin Mo, yes.”

The dream demon makes a questioning noise. “What detour?”

Shang Hua points to a nearly empty point on the map towards the very south and grins. Under his claw, new characters begin to form on the map in wisps of smoke and ink: Forge.

“Why is this the first I am hearing of a forge?” Mu Qingfang asks carefully.

“Ah, because it never existed before.”

“Pardon?”

Shang Hua laughs and rubs his neck. “Honestly, I don’t know if it exists now. But we’re going to find out.”

Mu Qingfang’s gaze is piercing from behind his glasses. In spite of his gentle demeanor, the man is still a near ageless demon, a fact Shang Hua always seems to forget until he turns that force on him. 

He swats at the air in front of him, but doesn’t move to block Mu Qingfang’s mental prying. “Can you at least ask before digging in my skull?”

The demon settles back and folds his arms, utterly unimpressed with the half-demon in front of him. “Not when my student is denying divinity as he actively rewrites the cosmos.”

“It’s not the cosmos…”

“You are attempting to bend reality as you built it.”

“No. I am distinctly trying to bend reality that I never bothered to build in the first place,” Shang Hua corrects.

It’s Schrodinger's Abyss as far as Shang Hua is concerned. 

Does it exist if the protagonist never interacted with it and there was nothing to ripple effect out from it in the first place?

The System filled in so many blanks, but it took over a calender year to ‘download’ the Abyss. So couldn’t Airplane try to will that download to include a bit of extra DLC with a bit of focused meditation?

“Look,” he says. “The Abyss is the one place that Qinghua never went back to in all of the chapters I wrote. It was his lowest point. As soon as he was out, he was out. I never needed to flush out the rest of the Abyss and never really got to go into Xin Mo’s lore.” Which. yes, he knows he never did, his favorite anti stubbornly persisted on that hill for ages. “So while you were delving into my memories of the Abyss, I was trying to… trick the System into creating a few more?”

It’s a long shot. There’s no telling what the System loaded into the Abyss or what this attempt could have possibly disrupted — if it did anything at all! But the System wanted a better story, right? Well, this could tie up some nice little bows on Xin Mo.

They sit in a long, strained silence before Mu Qingfang removes his glasses and rubs his face. “Who am I to question the heavens?” he mutters. “Let’s say you venture into this forge, if it exists, what do you hope to find?

“Easy. Xin Mo’s scabbard.”

.

Had anyone ever asked: “Airplane, do you imagine yourself camping out in the fossilized skull of some mythological titan of your own creation?”

The answer would have been a resounding: “Hey, what the fuck?”

But having now spent several days doing just that, Shang Hua decides it isn't the worst option out there for the freshly fallen protagonist.

The skull and his wards around it hide him from an entire ecosystem out to get him. And with his preparations back on Qing Jing, he has enough supplies to stay in his nice skull bubble until he recovers. No getting backed against a lava flow by Skittering Scarlet Scarabs for him!

Instead, he spends those days in meditation, conditioning his dual qi to coexist, and making acquaintances with his new sword.

Turns out, when you steal a sword partially unfinished from its creator, it gets a little testy with you. Where Zhen Yang had been a natural extension of himself, this blade needs to be coerced into agreement — a promise to return it to Meng Mo when they’re out of the Abyss is the only thing that seems to settle the stubborn blade.

Yong 蛹 does not like Shang Hua, but it will tolerate him and that’s good enough.

To train with Yong, Shang Hua ventures beyond his arrays to go through Qing Jing’s sword forms until he and the blade are more or less in sync. Sweat drips down his back as he returns to the skull each night and it's a fifty-fifty guess if it's from his drills or the lava flows around him.

“Fuck it,” Shang Hua mutters one morning, the heat already visible in the air before the sun even rises. He peels off his outer layers and steps outside half dressed in just his inner robes. He's alone in the Abyss with no one but Mu Qingfang to complain about propriety — he's going to be comfortable, damn it.

.

As days turn into weeks, Shang Hua knows he needs to leave the lava fields. More creatures begin to lurk in the night outside his bubble of safety and it's only a matter of time before those creatures lure in something bigger and far more dangerous.

Deciding to go on foot, Shang Hua picks his way through the cooled magma rivers as he heads east, towards cooler climates and away from Xin Mo. His qiankun pouch, kept safely on a cord around his neck, bounces gently against his chest with each step he takes away from the skull — it is far too valuable to be left dangling on his belt.

Could he fly on Yong? Sure. But then he'll no doubt have to contend with some winged monstrosity in the sky. And the prospect of cracking his skull on the ground and being forced to endure the reknitting of flesh and bone isn't really how he wants this arc to kick off.

Besides, it's much easier to test out his new limits with both feet on the ground.

He’s faster now. He tires less. He manages to leap and crawl his way up cliff sides in hours instead of days.

Not to mention his senses are off the charts now. The rustle of grass in the distance, the low distant snarl of something hungry and vicious. An ordinary cultivator might not be caught unaware, but they wouldn’t be able to turn the tides of ambush against abyssal beasts. Shang Hua’s sword glares cut through his would be predators and leave blood and gore in their wake.

It’s only to Shang Hua’s surprise when he gets a little too cocky with his new abilities.

While scaling the cliffs, he finds the nest of an extremely territorial Thunder Shrieking Terrorbird. Feeling confident with Yong, he decides to try something new: a trick Shang Qinghua picked up much later in his abyssal journey. To fend off the terrorbird, he channels his qi into a glare not from the sword, but his claws.

The shot goes wide, missing the terrorbird entirely, and instead takes out a chunk of the cliffs above them. The sudden rockfall is bad enough, but the bird starts shrieking because of it and Shang Hua’s sensitive ears pound under the assault.

It’s only after managing to dodge the rocks, kill the bird, and pillage its nest for eggs that Mu Qingfang offers his input:

Perhaps A-Hua should practice with stationary targets first.

Shang Hua throws his hands up, nearly sending his hard won eggs careening over the edge.

“Did I ask?”

The chuckle in his ear haunts him the rest of the way up the cliff.

.

Shang Hua makes the journey out of the Ever Burning Fields and to the Sun Scarred Crags in approximately a quarter of the time the journey would have taken Shang Qinghua in his early arc.

The crags are only slightly better than the fields below, but Shang Hua and Mu Qingfang’s maps guide him to an oasis. For the first time since he’s fallen, Shang Hua sees tufts of pale green grass growing in the cracks of sun baked clay and the shimmer of fresh water. 

Of course, he’s not the only creature drawn to such a place. 

Lizards lounge on hot stones. Bugs skim across the water’s surface, only to be snatched from the air by quick finned fish below. A mountain cat sits on a high rock, its pelt hiding it from the herd of beasts that take turns dipping their heads to the water.

If he squints, it’s like a scene out of a documentary. Then he remembers that nearly everything here can try to kill him twenty different ways — including the bugs — and he knows even David Attenborough would wash his hands of this place.

With Yong drawn, he makes his way towards the water. For now, until he claims Xin Mo, Shang Hua is just another creature of the Abyss with just as much claim to the resources as any other.

But as noses turn towards him and tongues flick in his direction, Shang Hua releases his careful grip on his qi. Like turning on a faucet, power begins to roll off him, raw and unrestrained. 

The lizards dart into the safety of rocky crevices as he passes.

The herd huffs and paws at the ground, giving Shang Hua a wide berth as he nears the water. 

Above them all, the mountain cat growls and, very literally, disappears into the stone, not wanting to fight for its meal.

Now, now. Don’t get too cocky. Again.

Shang Hua huffs a laugh as he kneels at the shore. ‘Just testing the waters.’

After making the trek here, the cool oasis waters are a welcome respite from the heat. He drinks greedily from cupped hands and splashes himself cool. When blood and dirt run off his skin, Shang Hua wrinkles his nose. “Okay, bath it is.”

This place is open, attractive to nearly every creature looking for a drink or a snack, with no defensible position. He won’t be able to linger here long without something challenging him, so best to make the most it while he can.

It’s only as he’s untying the hanfu hanging around his waist that Shang Hua realizes something: he hasn’t seen his own reflection since he was on Qing Jing.

Suddenly curious, he stands and peers into the water. The image ripples with movement and the passage of fish below, but the man peering back at him is undeniably of demonic birth.

Between the red glimmer of his eyes, the knife sharp point of his ears and claws, and the dim glow of the zuiyin on his brow, no one would mistake him for human now. His grin, sharp and fanged, doesn’t help either.

Shang Hua laughs, poking and prodding at the changes as if he hasn’t lived in this body for weeks. The changes are somehow more distinct now that he can see the bigger picture. Sure the picture is a grimy mess, but it’s a demonic grimy mess and that’s neat!

“Alright,” he decides, stripping off the last of his clothes and wading into the water. “Things could be worse.”

Chapter Text

Things could not be worse.

As a strategist for one of the great sects, it is Mobei Jun’s duty to prepare for worst case scenarios. And this is well beyond anything he has accounted for.

He does not regularly attend these conferences. In fact, he hasn’t attended once since the year he was crowned Peak Lord of Qing Jing and he had only done so to appease shijie. That year they had all attended as hosts of the event. Every conference after, he merely submitted the names of those disciples selected to compete and spent the week maintaining order across the peaks in his shijie’s stead.

It was a much better use of his time than restraining the urge to sink Lin Ya into his uncle’s chest.

That Mobei Jun had agreed to attend this year spoke not of buried hatchets and forgiveness, but of pride in his students and a barely hidden desire to see them crush golden beetles beneath their heels.

Shang Hua and Ning Yingying were two of his best, despite everything that suggested neither of them should be.

He was a bold, penniless orphan who time and time again wiped the dirt from his face and kept climbing even when the universe shrieked at him to stay down.

She was a spoiled young miss who acted as though the world would always bend to her whims and who had the cunning to make it so.

Mobei Jun would see them succeed here.

And while some saw the conference as a game, a chance to drink and to gamble, Mobei Jun did as he always did and prepared for the worst regardless.

He prepared for creatures breaking containment.

He prepared for either of his students coming in below the darlings of Huan Hua Palace.

He planned for the the quick hands of his uncle and poison in his cups.

He didn’t dare plan for the conference to collapse into chaos, demonic and abyssal creatures ravaging the gorge, and for the lives of every young cultivator within to be endangered.

Who could ever plan for that?

Beneath a night sky painted in sparks of red, Mobei Jun’s eyes dart between the remaining crystal panels, looking for any clue as to what triggered this nightmare and how to cut it off at the source.

Around him, his colleagues leap to their swords and disappear into the night, blindly chasing down any cry for help from below. 

Sha Hualing’s wine drips down the edge of the dais and shattered porcelain as she sails through the sky on Mei Huo 美火. Six Balls is but a distant glimmer as he throws himself headfirst into the battle.

A hand on his arm snaps his attention to Luo Binghe at his side. “Shixiong,” he says pointing out to the most recent spark of color in the sky, “that is near where your disciple was last.”

He nods and draws Lin Ya, prepared to leave when he considers his shidi for a moment. “You’re not going out?”

The An Ding lord is solemn when he shakes his head, steady as ever. “I will keep an eye on the flares from here. Someone needs to track where we dispatch aid. Go.”

Mobei Jun does not find Ning Yingying nor Shang Hua, instead he finds the group of disciples Shang Hua had led. He doesn’t allow possibilities to strangle him. He guides the young juniors to safety and sets out again, and again. He ferries three groups of disciples beyond the barriers before he spots a familiar flash of blue in the moonlight below. Some part of his soul releases the icy grip on his heart.

And it is only then, with Shang Hua safe before him, that worse somehow digs deeper.

Prince Shen of the Northern Desert.

An up and coming threat among the demons, but one that typically keeps his storms to the demon realm. He is on Cang Qiong’s radar, yes, but as nothing more than an eventuality. A problem for the future. 

Mobei Jun draws Lin Ya without hesitation. He is ready for this to be over with. If a Shen is here, there is no doubt in Mobei Jun’s mind that he is among those responsible. 

He is a strategist, the master of Qing Jing, but before that he is a fighter. He moves in a deadly arc towards the son of winter and strikes without mercy. Ice rains down around him, cuts into his robes, grazes his skin, but for every cut he takes he gives two more.

There is give and take in combat, Mobei Jun knows this well. The first rule he teaches his students is to always give twice what they take. It's how you win. It's how you survive.

It's why he endures the gale that sends him and Lin Ya backwards. It's why he’s prepared to use his qi like a shield, to reflect back whatever icy attack Shen Jiu has in store.

It’s why, for the life of him, he could never have predicted Shang Hua to take the blast first.

“Shang Hua!”

Mobei Jun hovers for a moment near Shang Hua, but the demon cackles, his assault never once letting up, and he is forced to move, to dance, to repel this creature back. There is fury in his eyes and rage in his heart and he pushes Shen Jiu into a defense the demon cannot maintain for as long as Mobei Jun can.

What is it they say? Demons deal retribution tenfold?

In this moment, Mobei Jun is willing to be the demon.

But before he can deal such a blow, the shadows open for their master and Shen Jiu slips away with a request that Mobei Jun, in the heat of battle, cannot comprehend: “Put him in his place.”

He waits a moment, his breathing heavy in his ears, to see if another attack will come from the darkness. When nothing does, he is before Shang Hua in an instant.

His disciple is hunched over in agony. Mobei Jun tips Shang Hua’s head back, prepared to do whatever he must to stabilize him before taking him away from this place.

Red. Red eyes. Red zuiyin. All he sees is red.

His eyes lock with Shang Hua’s for a moment, all the breath gone from his lungs. And then Shang Hua screams as qi burns around him and Mobei Jun is forced to pull back or burn.

A demon.

Shang Hua is a demon.

Shang Hua is a demon?

Red is burned into his vision as he paces out of range of the volatile demonic energy pouring off his pupil. 

How? How could this have happened? How could none of them have known?

Is this what shijie meant by a great unknown destiny?

Around him the night continues to slip into chaos. He feels energy, separate from Shang Hua’s, rip like claws through the night as something begins to open. Not the shadows of Shen Jiu, but something else. The way these creatures entered the gorge, some distant, still rational, part of him thinks.

“Shizun…”

Mobei Jun stops, the frantic flurry of silks, half torn from his fight with Shen Jiu and the burst of energy off of Shang Hua, fall to eerie stillness as he looks at Shang Hua. 

This is his disciple, the strange boy of fortune that climbed his way to Cang Qiong and carved out his home on Qing Jing.

This is a demon, one bearing a mark Mobei Jun has seen only once before.

“Put him in his place.”

He should. He should do it before Shang Hua forces his hand. But how could he?

It’s distrust of the unknown that brings Lin Ya up between them as Shang Hua approaches. He means to make the boy keep his distance. Instead, clawed hands gingerly grasp the blade and squeeze until rivulets of red drip between them and Lin Ya turns black with the poison of Heavenly Demon blood wetting its edge.

“Shang Hua- You-”

“It’s okay, Shizun,” he says. “The story is going to be different this time.”

Different? Story? He furrows his brows, trying to process what he could possibly mean when he sees Shang Hua turn and approach the tear in reality, ever growing, ever more dangerous.

His eyes widen as Shang Hua goes to the edge. No. Whatever story this boy means, it cannot be this.

Shang Hua, of all things, winks and steps out into nothing as Mobei Jun lunges. But his fingers close around air. And before he can think of anything else, the tear closes behind Shang Hua, like its toll had been paid, and the night falls silent. 

In a clearing both frozen and scorched, Mobei Jun lands on his knees before an innocuous patch of grass alone.

He stares blindly at the grass for longer than he knows, thoughts racing and sluggish all at once.

That flares continue to burn in the sky and monsters howl in the distance is incongruent with this which feels like it should herald the end. 

His disciple is a demon.

His disciple is gone.

Mobei Jun forces himself back to his feet and to move. There are always losses in war and this is yet another battle they face against evil. Against demons.

He shutters off that thought and all that follow it as Lin Ya flies smoothly back to his hand. Then his eyes catch on another blade, forgotten and still in the grass. 

Mobei Jun stares at Zhen Yang before ripping the last thread of silk from part of his tattered robes and carefully wraps the sword in the deep blues of the Qing Jing peak lord. Like its lost master, the blade is scorched in places, its tassel beyond repair, but unlike Shang Hua it is here.

He carries it with him as he mounts Lin Ya and returns to the sky. This battle must still be fought and won.

“Shizun!”

Ning Yingying flies towards him, another young cultivator draped over her shoulders. She looks a mess, dark blood across her robes, one of her braid loops fallen loose and dangling beside her cheek, but she is alive and she is here.

“Ning Yingying, you are alright?”

She nods. “Got into a few scraps with this shimei, but we’re okay. Shizun, what is going on? Where did these things come from?” Then her eyes fall to the blade in his hands and she freezes. “That- Shizun, that’s Zhen Yang…”

“Yes,” he says softly, hand tightening around the silk.

Tears well up in her pretty green eyes but she blinks them back. “Shang-shidi…”

“Come, we mustn’t stay here.”

She nods, eyes drifting down to a devastating clearing below them, and quietly falls into formation behind him.

When they return to the edge of the barrier, he directs her and her passenger to the gathering of cultivators below. Many are wounded, many are shaken, and an untold number are lost. Zhuzhi Lang moves below with the others of like cultivation to tend and heal and he makes sure Ning Yingying finds her shishu before he returns to the dais from which he departed.

Stepping off Lin Ya, he brushes past Luo Binghe and makes his way to Madame Meiyin, her back to him but the familiar cinnabar robes and curl of smoke from her pipe drawing him closer.

It’s only when he is too close to divert course that he sees the man she speaks with is none other than his uncle. His fists clench until Zhen Yang nearly bites into his skin despite its shroud, but he does not waiver.

“Zhangmen-shijie.”

“Mobei-shidi,” she begins, no doubt prepared to keep him and his uncle apart, when her voice falls flat and her eyes settle on the sword in his hand. “Shang Hua…”

He holds up his hand, not wanting to discuss this in front of him. “What do we know?”

She purses her lips and taps out some ash. “Not enough, I fear.”

“There was a Shen in the gorge,” he relays, ignoring his uncle even as the man’s gaze makes his skin crawl. “He fled from this lord, but it would be foolish to believe him gone.”

Madame Meiyin swears, turning to look out over the gorge. For a moment, he sees a flicker of pearlescence in her eyes, but it fades just as briefly. “First things first, we protect our own before we hunt him down. The Shen Clan will regret this.”

Mobei Jun nods and turns to leave, when the man beside them sighs. “A terrible tragedy to lose a disciple like this. My condolences, nephew.”

Strangely, Lin Ya isn’t the only blade in his grasp that yearns to silence Mobei Linguang as Mobei Jun disappears into the sea of cultivators below.

.

When the sun rises on Jue Di Gorge, it rises on one of the greatest devastations the cultivation world has seen in generations. 

No one lords over anyone when these numbers come in, the bets and the scoreboards the evening prior long forgotten.

.

Back at Cang Qiong, a memorial is held in the days that follow. Seventeen swords, including Zhen Yang, are ceremonially cleansed and returned to Wan Jian Peak.

Dressed in white alongside every other lord and disciple, Mobei Jun watches Ning Yingying present her shidi’s sword back to Meng Mo’s care. He lifts it with a bow of his head and returns it to the stone wall behind him with so many others until only the hilt remains.

.

No one speaks of the burned osmanthus sword tassel that hangs on Lin Ya.

.

Nor does Mobei Jun speak a word of how his disciple fell.

.

In the weeks that follow, Mobei Jun cannot shake the memory of that night in the gorge.

It haunts him at all hours of the day. When he expects to hear Shang Hua’s laugh carrying through the pavilions. When he sleeps and sees red eyes in the shadows of dreams.

Shang Hua is not the first disciple he has lost. It is the way of things in a world like this, where cultivators fight so that others may survive.

But Shang Hua…

Mobei Jun sits at the pond where years ago, a brash little disciple came for guidance. He told that boy to fight.

Is Shang Hua fighting now?

He can’t help but wonder. He doesn’t know where that tear sent Shang Hua, but he has ideas and none of them are good. 

Wouldn’t he have returned by now if he could?

Would he even try?

Red. Red eyes. Red zuiyin. All he sees is red.

Mobei Jun lowers his face into his hands.

The mark of Heavenly Demons sat on his disciples' brow. All sense tells him to inform his shijie that her last great battle isn’t over. That, somehow, another of that cursed bloodline had spent the last several years learning from the sect.

And yet he continues to bite his tongue.

Why? Why can he not say the words that sit heavy in his mouth?

Why does it feel like a betrayal to consider it?

.

He sits through the night on that stone, only rising with the sun itself to go locate his head disciple. After informing her that he will be in the Ling Xi Caves for a week, Mobei Jun departs with his hand resting solemnly on Lin Ya. 

As he caresses a broken tassel, he thinks time in the caves will clear his head.

Chapter Text

Okay. Remember that whole “things could be worse” schtick?

That was spoken by a Shang Hua who definitely hadn't remembered the fish in the oasis were more like piranhas than sweet little koi despite their pretty scales. That Shang Hua was a fucking idiot.

Aiysh. The heavenly pillar was not a snack for you, you stupid fish!

Shang Hua’s never more angrily torn into a roasted fish in either life.

.

Without the System’s calendar in the corner of his vision or Mu Qingfang’s weirdly perfect internal clock, Shang Hua would have no idea just how much time passed in the Endless Abyss. Days that aren’t spent cultivating either of his spiritual pathways are spent dragging himself across the map from one safe-by-comparison-to-everything-else-around-him location to the next.

From the Sun Scarred Crags, Shang Hua makes his way to the Storm Cloaked Highlands — which, if you could believe it, are always cloaked in storm clouds — and there he really loses track of the days. It’s a fair bit cooler than the crags or the fields had been, but without the presence of the sun, it’s anyone’s guess if it’s actually nighttime or if a few more clouds have just rolled in.

Luckily for Shang Hua, the highlands only carry the threat of storms at all times, distant thunder rumbling constantly through the sky. 

Unluckily for him, today is one of those days where the threat is a little more real.

It’s not that he’s, you know, afraid of storms. He dealt with them fine on Qing Jing. But that was where there were roofs and awnings to duck under, voices and music that carried through the mountain regardless of the weather. He was never alone in the storms.

He’s very much alone here in the Abyss. And with his demonic senses, thunder reverberates through his bones and lightning dances across his vision until everything about him feels like static.

Shang Hua hunkers down in a small cave, his wards drawn, and sits with his knees to his chest, arms over his head. “Should have fucking gone south,” he hisses to himself.

You have survived two heavenly tribulations. Compared to them, this is nothing.

“You can take your heavenly tribulation bullshit and shove it,” he growls. “You’re not the one that’s actually died.” He can’t see Mu Qingfang, so he can’t be sure the demon is rolling his eyes, but he’s pretty sure the demon is rolling his eyes. “And what do you mean two? The seal doesn’t count?”

The seal does not count.

“That shit sucked.”

Something can suck without being a tribulation, A-Hua. Besides, you knew that was coming and knew the outcome was in your favor. That is not a tribulation.

“I think you just make this shit up as you go.”

Oh that is rich from you.

Shang Hua smiles a bit despite himself. Mu Qingfang’s banter is a welcome relief from the cracks of lightning beyond the cave. Despite being centuries old, Mu Qingfang acts more like an older brother or strange uncle than some timeless grandfather. When he wrote him, Mu Qingfang was Shang Qinghua’s xiansheng, his teacher in all arts dream and demonic. Now, he’s glad for the weird bond they’ve built.

As the sky turns white and Shang Hua’s claws dig further into his skin, Mu Qingfang sighs softly.

This won’t let up for some time, it seems. So let’s look at this as an advantage. Your wards are in place. Come, we will work on your weaving.

His dream magic has been taking the backseat to his cultivation lately, but it’s still simple to pull the shroud of sleep over himself. His anxiety is still through the roof from the storm outside, but he focuses on the weave and when he opens his eyes next the cave is replaced with the tranquil stillness of the dream realm.

No lightning. No howling winds. No sharp stones digging into his butt. Just calm, black stillness. The starry night above reflected below and all around him. The first few times he’d entered this realm, being so unmoored from reality had almost been enough to jerk his mind back into waking. Now it’s a welcome relief from the Abyss.

Mu Qingfang appears beside him midstep, his hands tucked into his sleeves in the image of a noble scholar. They walk in silence, Mu Qingfang’s presence beside him a subtle reminder that he isn’t actually alone, until Shang Hua shakes the last bit of unease.

“I haven’t run into any intelligent demons in the highlands yet. Have you sensed them?”

“Mm. Distantly. But you are not going to search for their minds right now. Your understanding of beasts needs work.”

Shang Hua’s lip curls back in annoyance. “I hate animal dreams, they almost never make sense.”

“Precisely why you need the work.”

He rolls his eyes. “Knowing that a demon squirrel wants demon nuts is not going to pave the path to becoming Junshang.”

Mu Qingfang doesn’t move and still Shang Hua feels as if he’s just been hit upside his head.

“Hey!”

“My student will know how to read any dream he crosses,” Mu Qingfang states, no room for argument. “Animals remember just as well as people. And people do not hide their actions from animals the way they do another. You complain now, but when a squirrel saves your life because it watched the hunter lay a trap for the wolf, you will thank your xiansheng.”

.

Abyssal beasts are no more interesting than the beasts of the human realm, it turns out. But Shang Hua spends the next few days flitting between the dreams of predator and prey alike until he can regularly sift through the base desires of dreams to find threads of memory.

After an avian dream shows him the smoke and clamor of a demonic reptilian tribe further down the coast of the Pitch Dead Sea east of him, Mu Qingfang remains unbearably smug for days after.

.

Shang Hua gets plenty of practice with more traditional dream structures too. While the reptilian tribe is a fuzzy blend of sentience and bestial urges, the harpies whose territory he crosses into are much more familiar.

Well, familiar in that they have a language beyond hissing and clicking and tearing off limbs. With them, he can delve into thoughts and find understanding.

What he ends up understanding is he’s made terrible calculations and it's mating season for the flock whose territory is smack dab in the middle of his safest route south.

This was, of course, some papapa plot once upon a time. He vaguely remembers Shang Qinghua finding safety with the flock, specifically in the wings of the matron's young daughter. But he does not have time for this.

He doesn’t feel like plugging his ears with wax to block their songs — sorry Ody — but a silencing talisman under the collar of his robe does the trick.

It's after fighting off two scouts for the flock — wounding one and killing the other after they struggled to understand ‘get lost’ — that Mu Qingfang’s curiosity of the situation peaks.

I wonder what has changed Shang Hua’s proclivities.

‘What do you mean?’ he answers through their mental link, not willing to risk drawing further attention as he travels.

In your prophecy, many of Qinghua’s problems were solved carnally.

Shang Hua nearly chokes. There is something about a fraternal-paternal figure saying the word ‘carnally’ that is going to haunt him, he's sure of it. ‘What? You want me to fuck my way through the Abyss?’

Hardly. This Mu is only curious as to the source of this change.

Shang Hua briefly presses his head against the stone cliff he’s scaling, debates smashing his skull against it, and ultimately decides against doing so since it’s not like unconsciousness can keep Mu Qingfang away. He keeps climbing. 

‘So the story wasn’t supposed to have, like, that much in the way of ‘carnal problem solving,’ right? It was just what paid my bills. Sure, there was gonna be some papapa, I mean look at the supporting cast, but like. It was going to be the cherry on top, not the whole damn meal.’ 

So there is nothing of interest to Shang Hua in the Abyss?

‘Why do you sound like an auntie trying to set me up?’

There was much to sift through when reading the original prophecy.

Shang Hua pauses at the lip of the cliff, his body half pulled up over the side. ‘Please don’t tell me there’s some abyssal meimei out there that you were hoping to get a front row seat on.’

Do not be crass.

It’s the sharpest he’s ever hear Mu Qingfang be about something unrelated to his lessons. 

Shang Hua snickers to himself as he climbs up, dusting himself off. ‘I mean, I get it. If I were some ancient demon without a body, I’d probably be feeling the metaphorical blue balls by now too.’

Please. I have to take enough precautions to avoid your desires from leaking into my mind plenty enough. If Shang Hua followed his prophecy, perhaps this Mu may get some peace.

“Hey!”

I am only grateful that Shang Hua’s interest in his teachers is limited to just the one.

Shang Hua splutters alone on the bluffs, crimson creeping across his cheeks faster than he can will his blood parasites to knock that shit off.

.

Some parts of the Endless Abyss are beautiful, Shang Hua discovers. Definitely beautiful in a ‘one false move and you will die horribly’ sort of way, but still! Not everything is on fire, scorching hot, or cloaked in endless storms. He did give his protagonist some reprieve. Ish. Again, the die horribly bit is always just around the corner.

And sometimes that die horribly bit is, unfortunately, so much closer than around the corner.

Shang Hua sucks in a ragged breath, trying to focus on the glittering cliff face above him rather than the pain of his body stitching itself back together.

Turns out, he named Charging Sapphire Antlered Yaks pretty well despite certain someone’s criticisms of yaks with antlers. The herd’s bull had caught him off guard. In a fair fight, Shang Hua knows he could have taken the damn thing. In fact, he plans on climbing back up there and killing it out of spite now. But it charged him from behind while Shang Hua stood at the edge of the cliff its herd was grazing on and sent him careening to his would-be death.

And fuck if that didn’t hurt.

Mu Qingfang might be able to teach him the ways of the demonic arts, but blood parasites are a uniquely Heavenly Demonic trait. Everything Shang Hua knows about his blood is through author’s memory, trial, and error.

Trying to keep away from the verge of death, Shang Hua’s focus on dulling the pain is split. He can feel every bit of bone and flesh stitching itself back together in a way that makes him want to throw up. 

He’s closed up injuries before, in a way that’s like his dream weaving, a delicate balance between pain management and repair. But there’s too much damage now to control with any elegance. Any movement pulls a scream from his body and his throat and he’s forced to just lay in a puddle of blood and rainwater. 

This can’t kill him. Shang Qinghua recovered from worse. He will survive. But truly, and sincerely: Fuck.

He tries to distance himself from his flesh. 

He tries to focus on only the blood parasites. 

He tries to ignore what death feels like.

At least he’s out of the storms.

.

Once the fatal injuries are healed, Shang Hua is able to take better control of the parasites now that their frantic preservation is done. He wills them through his system. He numbs the worst of what remains. And he pulls himself to his feet.

His qi rages off of him, warning everything in the vicinity away — luckily, anything nearby knows that wounded tigers are the most dangerous. Yong can barely support him as he follows Mu Qingfang’s quiet guidance to a cave system they had found early in the day. 

Shang Hua only manages one array at the mouth of it before he collapses again. 

It’s not his nor Mu Qingfang’s dream magic that pulls him under after that.

.

Days later, he manages to trade the antlers and pelt of the yak to some creepy little abyssal merchant skulking around the cliffs for some replenishing potions. The potions are rare, difficult to make with the limited resources of the Abyss, and will allow him to push forward through some of the worst areas on the map without stopping.

And because he wrote this damn world, he knows to threaten the weird little toady goblin into giving him the real potions and not his snake oil.

He’s had enough bullshit.

.

The Everburning Fields. The Sun Scarred Crags. The Storm Cloaked Highlands. The Crystal Tears. The Crimson Grasslands. The Shadowed Glade. The Rainforest of Ten Thousand Nights. So many locations with so many creatures that try to hunt, challenge, and/or flirt with him — all without success.

It’s an exhausting journey that takes months on foot, but eventually he approaches the corner of the map he most actively tried to play god with. Somewhere within the Eyes of the Wilds, a somehow creepier corner of the Rainforest of Ten Thousand Nights, is the possibility of Xin Mo’s forge.

Shang Qinghua had never ventured this deep into the rainforest. The sense of being watched by the very plants and earth had been enough to keep him on the border of the territory. And with what demons he encountered that made the Eyes their home being vicious, terrible things, it was safer for Shang Qinghua to steer clear of this cursed land.

And now Shang Hua gets to walk right into it and hope he finds what he’s after before anything else finds him first.

Hm. Maybe this was a mistake.

He focuses on pulling his qi in tight within himself, trying to conceal his presence from the Eyes as he creeps slowly through the jungle. The land is overgrown and wild, vines and roots twisting across the ground, even bigger roots cresting like bridges from one fertile patch to another. It’s prehistoric in a way Airplane had never truly imagined, having written the place off.

Shang Hua keeps to those bridging roots, leaping silently from one to the next whenever he can. Something tickles at the back of his senses to avoid touching the vines across the jungle floor. At first he can’t put a claw on why, but when he catches the vines slithering in the corner of his eye, he decides to keep trusting his instincts in this place.

Everything here is watching him. And everything here will kill him if given half a chance.

He spends hours searching, Mu Qingfang’s near eidetic memory the only thing keeping him from getting lost in the constant sameness of deadly jungle greenery, but he never spots anything even remotely manmade, let alone a forge.

Shang Hua fishes around in his qiankun pouch and pulls forth the last of his replenishing potions, drinking it down in two hard gulps. He’s not stopping anywhere in this place to rest. He has visions of being coiled up by vines and fed to some god awful plant demon. No thank you. He doesn’t want the weird vore chapter today. He just wants to find this damn forge.

Perhaps there are limits to even Shang Hua’s abilities. As you said, this was a long shot.

Mu Qingfang is right, but Shang Hua doesn’t want him to be. 

He sits down on the root, his legs tucked up under him because he’s not about to make his feet a nice dangling snack for something, and scrubs a hand over his face. ‘I just need to think.’

The System’s familiar golden glow pops up across his vision as he wills it to. 

Quest Escape the Abyss is Active.

‘Yeah, no shit.’

He swipes through the various pop ups and windows, trying to find some hint, some stray bit of System tech talk that alludes to the existence of his experiment.

He tries a long shot. ‘System, how far from quest location Xin Mo’s Forge?’

Error. [Xin Mo’s Forge] is not a valid search.

Fuck.

Did Admin mean to search for key phrase [Core Forge]?

He perks up, red eyes bright in the gloom of the wilds. ‘Yes!’

System locating…

Admin is approximately [30] li south of the entry to [Core Forge].

He could cry. Holy shit. It worked.

Shang Hua is on his feet before the glittering gold text fades from his vision.

.

Trusting the System’s idea of MapQuest is not the worst idea he’s had since jumping face first into the Abyss, but its idea of routing could definitely use an upgrade. It never mentioned anything about the forge being 30 li away and then underground.

The clearing he winds up in after a cheerful little ping of Admin has Arrived! is one he knows he passed through before. Largely because its sheer openness in the heart of the jungle gave off severe autosave-boss-music-now-playing energy.

How he missed the entrance is easy. He was looking for a forge, a structure, sign of humanoid(?) habitation. He was not looking at the ground for a pile of stones hidden under vines and jungle detritus.

It looks a lot more like a well than an entryway. And when he drags his claws over the black stones that make up the ledge of this infinitely deep looking pit, they come away stained black. 

“It’s a chimney… Holy shit, it’s a chimney to an underground forge!”

Something rustles in the distance and some batlike birds spook from the nearby trees, but Shang Hua doesn’t care because this is it. This is the forge. This is proof that he can shape things to his will.

Oh, that’s so going to his head.

Will you believe me now?

“I am slightly more inclined.”

Shang Hua crouches down and peers into the darkness, but even with his enhanced vision, he can make nothing out past the descending stonework along the walls. He plucks off one of the broken chunks of stone, drops it down, and waits.

He doesn’t hear it hit the ground.

“Ahaha… great. Hey System? I asked for the entry?”

Correct!

“This is a chimney.”

Correct!

“You couldn’t… add a door somewhere?”

(ㆆ ᴗ ㆆ)

Alright, alright. He’ll use the chimney.

He’s spent enough time scaling the frankly too many cliffs and mountains in this realm, so he trusts his ability to descend safely. It won’t be pretty on the ears, but between his claws and qi, he’ll be able to slide down the wall at a pretty controlled pace.

How do you intend to get up?

With one leg already over the ledge, Shang Hua laughs nervously. “That’s tomorrow Shang Hua’s problem.”

Of course it is…

And then he drops, claws scratching a terrible symphony on the stone as he goes.

.

Because Shang Hua is just so very lucky, the pitch black forge he descends into is, of course, not entirely abandoned. In the minute he says a prayer, free falling through the dark from the chimney to the roof of the forge (thankfully only seven or so meters down), something distinctly unholy answers back.

His darkvision keeps him from being immediately overwhelmed by the swarm of demonic spider-bat creatures that have infested the ancient forge, but they are angry, hungry things. And they are many. They spit acid that burns through his clothes and flesh and move as if part of a hivemind, never allowing Shang Hua a moment to process and regroup.

He definitely did not write these creatures. Which can only mean the System decided to fill in some blanks of its own in the rudest possible way.

It’s slow work, but the things steadily fall to Yong’s blade. Sword glares light up the forge in bursts as he carves through the swarm. Each creature averages out to the size of a large dog with some few even more grotesque and larger than the rest — are they knights? queens? He’s not sure. He just knows that after what seems like an hour or more of dodging, diving, swiping, and slashing his way around the forge, the sound of skittering and flapping finally stops.

He waits and he listens, but when no more come for him he tentatively lowers Yong and looks around.

Past the piles and piles of corpses — and huh, he hopes he didn’t just become an extinction event — the ancient forge looms tall in the shadows. 

Shang Hua is no smith, but he knows for a fact there is nothing like this on Wan Jian. Meng Mo himself might not even know how to get this thing burning again. It’s just, so massive. Like Erabor massive. 

Fuck, there better not be a dragon down here…

Do you know who you attributed this forge to?

He snorts and picks his way over the corpses. “Nope,” he says, keeping his voice low just in case. “Sorta spray-and-prayed my way to this being here at all, never mind what ancient demons must have built it.”

Mu Qingfang hums in his head, a very near presence in his mind as Shang Hua explores the cavern, half natural and half sculpted.

Most of the stonework is covered in centuries of webbing and guano, making any attempt to decipher potential frescoes or scripts a herculean task. But as Shang Hua approaches the long cold hearth, something flares to life. 

Not the forge flames itself, but a crystalline insignia above the entry point — an insignia Shang Hua knows very, very well.

Well. There’s our answer.

The crystal, once lost in the shadow of the abandoned forge and easily overlooked, now glows a deep and steady red, as does the matching zuiyin on Shang Hua’s brow.

Heavenly Demons. Xin Mo was forged by Heavenly Demons.

Maybe even the first of them, given just how old this place seems to be.

Shang Hua looks around with a new sense of awe as the crystal lights the surrounding forge in its red glow. He made this. He willed this into being. And the world answered with his very bloodline.

.

After several hours of clearing corpses from the forge proper and turning the place upside down in a way that would make an archeologist weep, Shang Hua is still empty handed. No sheath. No clues from his lineage. 

He does manage to light a few sconces, the flicker of Heavenly Demonic qi lighting them up as he nears, but he remains otherwise empty handed.

And that replenishing potion is only so potent. He makes camp in the forge and decides to try again with a bit of shut eye.

.

Nearly a week into his underground stay, he has relegated every corpse to a far corner of the cavern, burned away hundreds of webs, crawled into more gross looking nests than he cares to think about, and still nothing.

.

He thinks the System is fucking with him. Like, his halo keeps it from enacting punishment protocols like it threatened when he was younger, and it’s always seemed petty about its relegation to point penalties, and he’s starting to think this is its revenge.

Create this nonsense labyrinth of a forge and put nothing but some stupid bugs in it. Make him think he’s got something going here and then just never actually deliver.

He thinks he might have to find a way to throttle this golden piece of shit if true.

.

His dream realm is starting to look like the workings of a mad man the longer this search goes on. Even in his sleep he is reviewing the entirety of the Core Forge as he knows it, trying to figure out what he’s missing.

.

There’s a wall near the back of the forge that Shang Hua has stood in front of countless times. It just… feels different. And he can’t figure out why. He has searched it for hidden panels and seams and come up empty every time. Even throwing bursts of qi at it has done nothing but dislodge a few pebbles and clear some lingering webs.

Unlike most of the perimeter walls of the Core Forge, this one is carved to look like a wall all the way until it reaches the curved roof of the cavern. Most of the walls are just cave stone. Softened in some places by time or hands, but certainly not carved into structure.

This one is different. This one is pissing Shang Hua off.

Hovering on Yong, he decides to take a step back at a different angle, hoping that if he crosses his eyes enough he’ll see the hidden picture in the stone.

Qi ripples out of him like a cresting wave, and this time, high above on Yong, he sees five points glimmer red in the center of the massive wall.

He speeds towards it, whipping the blade around last minute so that he stops just inches from the stone where there is, up close, the barest impression of a hand print. Not carved, with sharp clear edges. More like someone just pressed into the stone as if it were clay.

Shang Hua raises his hand and feels dwarfed by the memory of whichever ancient Heavenly Demon left their mark here. With his fingers spread wide, he can barely cover the print, but it’s enough.

The moment he flares his qi again, the wall before him shudders and groans, stone scraping on stone, as the whole thing rearranges itself. No longer is the wall a solid, impenetrable barrier. Now, an archway leads deeper into the earth, sconces flickering to life in a chamber just beyond.

Landing with Yong now in hand, Shang Hua ventures into, what he assumes with the level of security involved, has to be a vault.

It’s not a vault.

Instead, he finds himself entering the long dead forgemaster’s dwelling. It’s old and out of style by more than just generations, but the blueprints to a home are all still there: bedding, a low table, a fire pit, a basin for water, a storage chest. All of it sealed off and protected from the infestation and march of time.

It’s almost as though the former occupant merely locked up one morning, with all intentions of returning by nightfall. And left their sword sheath leaning against the door frame for their eventual return.

Shang Hua picks up the sheath and instantly feels a buzz of unfamiliar energy coming off it that has Yong recoiling in his grasp. He sheaths Yong in its proper home and turns over the ancient scabbard.

There is no doubt in his mind that this is Xin Mo’s match. The deep lacquered wood is nearly pitch black, even in the soft glow of the sconces, and an ancient script is inlaid with gold down the sheath. 

Shang Hua has never, not once, seen that script before. And still he knows it. “Xin Mo.”

The scabbard pulses in his grasp at the spoken name, yearning for something lost from it for so long. He runs a hand down the length and fingers the silken red ribbons still dangling from the scabbard’s throat.

A small laugh bubbles out of him. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

Chapter Text

Shang Hua spends two more days within the Core Forge, particularly in the forgemaster’s home. Now that his frantic search is over, his body demands a moment of rest in the first actual bed he’s seen in nearly a year. Sure it’s a little bit musty, but it’s honestly softer than any bed he’d had as a disciple and he lets himself dream in peace there.

It's only his dreams, he can't manage to cross the chasm between him and anything sleeping on the surface, but it’s peaceful.

During the day, he digs through the remains of whatever ancestor of his called this place home. Outside of a few personal trinkets and some scrolls that risk disintegration on contact, he doesn’t find all that much. While it does seem the previous tenant just walked out one day and never came back, they didn’t leave all that much to come back to.

Probably just the System being lazy, if he had to guess.

Despite Yong’s protests, he straps the empty sheath to his hip alongside his blade the day he decides to finally head out. (He tried to put it into the qiankun bag first, but it had been a lot like trying to force two very heavy like magnets against each other. So Yong was just going to have to deal!)

And unable to find an actual exit to this place, he rides Yong to the chimney’s opening and begins the long climb out. It's a tight squeeze now that he has to actually climb, and he’d still kill for an elevator, but a few sichen later and he’s back in the Eyes of the Wild — and surrounded by so many more vines than he remembers there being when he descended.

Aiysh. He should have just stayed in the forge.

.

One frankly ridiculous tentacle plant plot he never even wrote later, and he’s free to leave the Wilds behind him once and for all.

.

With the scabbard in hand, he really has no reason not to go get Xin Mo now. But the Abyss is a training arc and he knows he shouldn’t just speed run his way through it if he wants to continue on the path to becoming Junshang, but… he could just go and cultivate somewhere else, right?

He toys with that idea as he travels north towards Xin Mo’s shrine. 

Shang Qinghua spent five years down here. Five. That’s a lot of level grinding in the world’s worst version of a tutorial island.

Shang Hua does not want to be down here for five years. He refuses. But doubt creeps into the back of his mind when it comes to taking Xin Mo. Has he done enough to wield the blade? Will the sheath even work the way he hopes it will? What if it can’t suppress Xin Mo?

So maybe he doesn’t go straight to Xin Mo just yet.

His winding northward path veers sharply to the west after he leaves the jungles for more traditional forests. Things don’t want to kill him any less here, sure, but it’s a nice change from the humidity also trying to kill him.

Forests become grasslands become twisting mountain paths as Shang Hua travels further into the Abyss. And of course… there is more climbing. Sending a big middle finger to his past self for that, but moving on.

High in the mountains, there is a spot that Shang Qinghua had spent months searching for. It had called to him, his spiritual energies reacting to it. Some nights, he could even see the glow of something in the distance. But he could never find it up close.

A rabbit demoness from the Dappled Moon Clan in the nearby forests had eventually led him there after he’d done some stallion thing or other to prove himself to her and her people. Had she been the one he protected from the cave dwelling creatures beneath the mountains? Or had he found some lost treasure for her people… 

Shang Hua can’t remember. Nor does it matter. Because Shang Hua has no intention of alerting the clan to his presence just yet.

It’s a simple trick to find the glade he seeks, but when the entire realm is out to get you, caution usually wins out, as it had for Shang Qinghua. And traveling at night, when the shadows themselves can get you if prowling monsters don’t, well, it’s not usually not the cautious choice.

In this case, it’s the only choice.

Bypassing the markers of the Dappled Moon Clan’s borders, he travels deep into their territory before locating a tall, sturdy tree. As he climbs, something hisses at him from one of the gnarled knots, but he ignores it, moving higher and higher into the branches as the sun begins to set. 

And then he waits.

That’s it. That’s the trick. 

The glade can only be easily found at night when its power is strongest. Searching by day, if you don’t know where to look, can mean walking right past it while its power is dormant — a thing Shang Qinghua had done several times before that demoness helped him out.

As the sun dips and the shadows grow longer, darker, and bolder beneath him, a soft blue glow begins to rise from the mountain peak to his east. A miniature northern lights guiding him to the glade.

He doesn’t want to risk the shadows here, truth be told, they really are nasty things. So from his perch in the tree top, he summons Yong and quickly sails over the forest to his destination. A few nightmarish fluttering things lift from trees below to see what new kind of bird he is, but some well aimed claw glares (he practiced!) send them scattering into the night.

In the gloom and doom of the Abyss, the glade is a small and beautiful respite around him when he lands. An ancient willow, its trunk bowed like a grandmother's spine, blankets the glade with wind rustled branches and scattered leaves. Beneath her, a calm pool of clear water reflects the full light of the abyssal moon, the only break in its reflection from the tips of her branches.

The Dappled Moon Clan had been unimaginative in their naming practices. To them, this was simply the Sacred Glade and Airplane had never named it further beyond that.

For the Abyss, it’s a deeply unnatural place. The water is almost too pure, unable to sustain any of the usual aquatic ecosystems. The leaves of the willow, so fed by power, are so white they shine silver with moonlight. But with the rising sun, the leaves will regain their sage green hues.

Shang Hua walks into the heart of the glade and breathes deep, the energy here practically buzzing in his lungs. A place like this in the human realm would be so jealously fought over by the great sects, but here the rabbit demons remain unopposed in its ownership.

Demons can’t do much with pure, spiritual qi after all. But for a half breed like the protagonist, there’s no better place to cultivate down here.

Underneath the tree, Shang Hua settles on a smooth flat rock beside the water and begins to meditate. Every breath draws that power into him, feeds his spiritual veins, and smooths over any long remaining tatters in them that his broken seal tore.

.

Some untold time later — hours? days? — Mu Qingfang’s voice rings in the quiet of his mind.

Shang Hua has company.

‘Shang Hua is aware.’

But Shang Hua does not move, does not react. He simply remains where he is, where he has been, with the willow to protect him. He feels her branches trailing over him, laying across his chest, curled loosely around his arms. Unlike the vines of other woods, there is no aggression from the tree. She simply exists and so does he and their powers resonate with one another, like finding like.

Even without opening his eyes, he can feel the very shift of energy as the rabbit demons scout the glade. His senses extend with the branches, the roots, until he and the tree are one in the same. He feels the wind in his leaves, the light steps that reverberate through his roots. There is nothing they can do in this moment that he is not prepared for because he is ancient and part of the land.

If the Moon Dappled Clan has problems with him being in their glade, they have problems with the tree accepting him as one of her own — a rite few in the clan’s history have ever earned from her. Their own mythos wouldn’t dare allow them to do him harm, not with the willow’s favor already bestowed.

Eventually, his company departs, never saying a word. And Shang Hua falls back into deeper meditation.

.

It is hard to guess how far along his cultivation is with his dual cores. He knows he’s had several breakthroughs while in the Endless Abyss, his ability and necessity to do so on hyper drive from the moment his cradle seal shattered. But Shang Hua just can’t tell what level of cultivation that puts him at. Does it only count for his spiritual qi? Does his demonic cultivation add on like a buff, or does he have to track two exp bars?

The System is, of course, no help. 

When he comes out of meditation, rolling his shoulders until a series of satisfying pops ripple down his spine, and asks for his stats, the System gives him the Windows processing spinning circle of hell and never gets back to him.

Typical.

“What do you think?”

I think A-Hua is sufficiently leveled to take Xin Mo.

He groans and the willow’s branches, still wrapped loosely around him, give a pitying squeeze before releasing him and drifting off with the breeze.

This Mu is a demon. What should I know of spiritual cultivation?

“You know everything I do!”

Exactly.

Shang Hua huffs. “Yeah, but you’re supposed to be the smart one. I’m making this up as I go, remember?”

Vividly.

Shang Hua shakes his head and stands with a few more loud pops, god he’s old, and settles his hands on his hips. “Fine, fine. We’ll start going towards the stupid shrine. But if this old man gets all blood crazy, it’s on you.”

.

From the Sacred Glade, it is a long and dangerous road to Xin Mo’s shrine. He crosses paths with numerous monsters, trades with what few amicable demon tribes he meets, and sends messages in blood to those who prove less amicable. At night, he holes away somewhere safe from shadows that hunt and great stalking beasts in the skies, and in the morning he sets out and does it all again.

He crosses plains, hills, swamps, passes through the ancient castle grounds, and keeps ever winding his way north until he reaches a massive lake with an equally massive island at its heart. The island is so big, the lake is more of a moat around it than a separate geological entity in its own right. And standing at the edge of it, Shang Hua once again curses his former self for writing this into existence.

An island with a moat. It should be fine, right? 

Hahaha. Obviously not. 

This is the Endless Abyss. Nothing is fine. What story have you been reading?

Even at the height of day, that island is shrouded with a dark miasma, as if sunlight alone could never pierce its shadows. Shang Qinghua had been tormented trying to find his way through. Constantly hearing his own nightmares in the shadows. Being attacked by faceless, shapeless things. Losing his way so thoroughly that even when he moved straight for sichen at a time, he somehow never hit the island shores.

Shang Hua was not looking forward to it. Nope. Hadn’t been actively dreading this for years or anything like that. Haha. This is fine. Definitely, definitely fine.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about the water.

He looks down and makes a face as the bony spine of some terrible thing swimming beneath the dark surface crests and disappears without a trace.

Yep. Thank you Yong, he loves you dearly. You’re the MVP of this whole damn arc.

.

Once upon a time, Shang Qinghua made his way through the Abyss. He carved a bloody trail through the land, but only after it had left its bloody mark on him first. He pulled scraps of rumor, of legend, from any demon he encountered who didn’t try to take their cut of flesh. He wanted to escape by any means. But short of waiting for a portal to open itself and being lucky enough to find it, the only clue he ever found was about a sword lost to legend.

So with nothing else to go on and desperate to get out, he found the island the legends pointed towards. Every demon he met tried to steer him away. So many pretty meimeis and jiejies tried to beg him not to go, that it would be safer if he just stayed with their clans. But Shang Qinghua couldn’t resign himself to a life in the Abyss. He went to find the blade Xin Mo.

Legend said Xin Mo was a dangerous artifact, one even Mu Qingfang had heard of and remained wary of despite its power having not been seen in his long lifetime. But it could carve through the realms and it was Shang Qinghua’s best hope. 

On its own, the blade was going to be difficult to wield and master. Getting to it was no easy feat either.

Even after he survived the dead waters around the island, got past the skeletal leviathan that guarded its shores, he had to deal with the island itself. Whether it had been fed by Xin Mo’s resentment or if the island was made to be a prison for the blade had been lost to time. What remained certain was that any demon who ever tried to take the sword for themselves was never seen again. 

Shang Qinghua was quick to learn why, as the shadows of the island aimed to disorient him. Voices of people who couldn’t be real tried to lure him to his death. Creatures that wore faces that weren’t theirs, if they had faces at all, would claw at him and try to bury him beneath the snarled roots of dead trees. 

Ming Fan. His mother’s cruel employer. The boys who tormented him all his life. Mobei Jun.

Everyone who rained down cruelty on him, who allowed it to happen, who made his life this. They all tried to kill him here. To set his mind at unease. To crush him one more time and make sure a demon like him never crawled out of the Abyss they had pushed him into.

This island was the shrine and prison of Xin Mo, the Heart Devil Sword, and heart devils fed the nightmare creatures that struck down each and every soul that tried to claim the blade. 

Shang Qinghua had done it. Shang Hua could do it too. His life was far less disastrous than his protagonist’s. It should be easy.

Having landed right in the heart of the island with Yong’s help, he doesn’t exactly feel like any of this will be easy. Even if it does take the island a minute to become aware of its intruder, like glitching into a game zone by bypassing the loading screen, the shadows quickly reorient themselves and zero in.

Shang Hua doesn’t know what shape his nightmares will take and, frankly, he doesn’t want to find out. He moves quickly, sending his qi out in waves around him, willing it to repel what it can and direct him towards what it can’t. If he’s lucky, it can help him find Xin Mo in this terrible maze.

He runs and keeps running, never looking back, always following the barest pull of qi deeper and deeper into the island. (How is there anywhere deeper to go? Didn’t he land in the middle?) And the entire time the shadows lick at his heels, tendrils clawing at his robes from all sides.

He just has to reach Xin Mo. Once he does, the spirit of this island will stop. He just has to—

“Make it? You really think you can make it? Oh, Luo Hua. That’s sad.”

Shang Hua trips up and comes to a skittering halt as laughter echoes in the woods around him. That wasn’t a voice from his past. But it was familiar. His own voice, deeper and taunting.

A shadowy visage of the protagonist steps out of the path before him and Shang Hua feels dread coil tight in his stomach.

This isn’t just a reflection of himself. This is Shang Qinghua. The Heavenly Emperor of the Three Realms. In all his shadowy demonic glory with his own version of Xin Mo on his hip. Everything about him is monochrome smoke and shadows, everything except for his eyes and the mark on his brow. Those of course still glow a frightening shade of red in the dark.

“Shut up, you’re not real.”

The emperor laughs again. “Aren’t I? And what makes you anymore real than me, fate stealer?” He grins, cruel and sharp, and stalks closer, circling Shang Hua. “You couldn’t even make it in the world you were born into, you think you can make it in mine?”

“This is my world.” His hand goes to Yong’s hilt, ready to cut through this nightmare the second it gets within reach. “I wrote it. I wrote you. You are nothing without me!”

“And you’re just nothing. Which of us is more pathetic?” The red of his zuiyin flares and he’s gone, before suddenly he’s pressed behind Shang Hua, claws digging into his throat. “Poor little Luo Hua,” he coos into his ear. “Unwanted, always alone. That you could ever delude yourself into thinking you’re the hero of this story, when you’re nothing but a sad, pathetic little man who hid himself away in fantasies until the day he died, all alone and forgotten.” 

The claws dig deeper, lines of red dripping down Shang Hua’s neck as he splutters and tries to pry the hand free. It’s all lies. It’s all talk. This isn’t real. Yet he feels Shang Qinghua’s claws grow sharper, forcing his jaw up and back. And boy, the blood down his throat feels pretty fucking real.

“You don’t deserve this life. This power. You ruin everything,” he whispers, like its a secret shared between lovers and not a knife between Shang Hua’s ribs. Shang Qinghua digs his nails into Shang Hua’s hair and yanks his head back, pulling a growl from the flesh and blood half demon. “But don’t worry. I can fix the story now.”

For a moment, time stands still. Shang Hua, eyes wide and heart racing, feels out of his own body as his protagonist (antagonist?) looms over him, ready to tear out his throat with fang and claw.

He could die here. He could actually die here. For all the bullshit protagonist halo garbage he’s clung to, this is the first time he’s truly felt fear for this life— his life. Who else but the protagonist could defeat the protagonist after all?

Well, the author could.

In a blink, time snaps back into place and Shang Hua’s hand flies not to Yong, but to Xin Mo’s scabbard. He yanks it off his belt and jams it throat first into the face of the demonic visage behind him and Shang Qinghua howls.

He tears himself free of his double’s hold heedless of the pain doing so brings and whips around to jab forward with the sheath again and again. “Stupid! Unfilial! Brat!”

Every stab of the scabbard rips a tear into the shadows of Shang Qinghua’s form. He howls as his body ripples, trying to become something more bestial, something more nightmarish, but Shang Hua is unrelenting and refuses to give him the chance.

Even as dull grey light pours through every tear, the shade creature refuses to back down. Hooked claws tear at his arms with every strike. It snarls and lunges forward and Shang Hua meets it with a roar. 

“This is my world! My story! My life!” he screams. “You’re nothing but a shitty fucking stallion from a shitty fucking novel!” Killing intent rolls off him in tidal waves as he plunges the sheath into its chest. “AND I. AM. 

YOUR.

GOD!”

The shade freezes. Its now formless body falls limp, wisps of shadow begin to slough off it and vanish into nothing. Shang Hua’s eyes are wild, breath coming out in heavy puffs, blood still trickling down his arms and throat. The creature shudders violently once and collapses into memory.

The woods around him goes unnaturally quiet. Not even the wind creaks in the branches.

Just Shang Hua, alone.

Nightmares that break free of the dream realm are not easy things to defeat. 

You did well, A-Hua.

No, not alone.

He wipes the blood from his neck, wills his parasites to knit his flesh back together, and ties the scabbard back to his belt. “Let’s get out of this fucking place, Xiansheng.”

.

The path to Xin Mo doesn’t clear, but if any part of the nightmare remains, it keeps its distance. Shang Hua is allowed to wander aimlessly for awhile more in peace before his qi flickers, the slow wave of it rolling off of him finally bouncing off of something in the distance.

He reroutes his course and moves quickly through the broken forest before finally coming upon the shrine. The stones that make it are old and weathered, covered in broken ivy and cracked with wisps of shadow. There are no runes, no markers, just a blade plunged into the ancient stone.

Shang Hua stares. He really found it. He can leave. It’s right there. He just needs to take it.

He clenches his hands at his side. “Man I really hate this fucking blade…”

The blade does nothing, the island is quiet, and yet he feels them both mocking him.

“You really think you can make it?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. “Hey System? Can I just like, drag and drop the Shen Jiu file into the Abyss and Uber home?”

No~! 

“Tch.”

Admin must complete quest Escape the Abyss alone.

He waves his hand through the text and grumbles. “Yeah, yeah.” It probably wouldn’t be great to rely on that son of his as his Uber driver anyway. Man would leave him in a glacier or something.

It will be alright, A-Hua. Just look what that miracle scabbard of yours has already done here. You will master this. Just center yourself and take the sword.

Mu Qingfang is right. He presses his hands over his eyes, shakes them out at his side, then hops a little from foot to foot. He can do this. It might fully suck. But he has the scabbard. He can do this.

Years ago, he stood before the Sword Wall and pulled Zhen Yang from the stone. Now, he curls his hand around Xin Mo’s hilt and pulls it free with the same, unsettling ease.

There is a pulse, a shudder, as whatever bound the blade falls like dust off it and its consciousness wakes. Shang Hua feels it instantly. He can feel the pressure of it pushing against his mind, his core.

It wants.

He keeps his breath steady and steps away from the shrine. Like with Yong, all those months ago, he brings Xin Mo through Qing Jing’s sword forms, a smooth fluid dance, the obsidian blade cutting through air and shadow.

And it wants.

He presses back and continues his forms. Ever aware of the pressure, the desire, that pushes at his awareness.

It has been so long. So long. 

It wants.

Out.

On that, Shang Hua agrees. And with a sharp slice, he feels Xin Mo catch on something and he drags the blade through it, air tearing like flesh as he slices through the fabric of reality itself. 

There is fresh air. Sunlight. Birdsong. 

He doesn’t question it, doesn’t wait. Shang Hua throws himself through the rift, rolling nimbly into a crouch as he takes in his surroundings. He breathes deep in the air of the Mortal Realm, the faintest taste of spiritual qi from the forest around him lingering in the back of his throat.

Behind him, there is a snap, an extinguishing spark, and the rift seals itself.

“I did it...” 

Well done, A-Hua.

Xin Mo hums in his hands, pleased and eager. And still wanting.

Shang Hua stands and turns the blade over in his hands. “You. We are going to work on boundaries,” he warns it before plunging the sword in the scabbard.

In an instant, the pressure vanishes with a pop.

Laughing, Shang Hua throws his hands up in the air, whooping with victory and scaring off more than a few small animals in the process. “Hacking works! Fuck YES!”

Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations!

Important things must be said three times!

Quest Escape the Abyss has been completed!

Chapter Text

After Shang Hua feels a little less unhinged, the adrenaline rush of Xin Mo and portaling out of the Endless Abyss finally simmering back down to functional human levels, he rips off his qiankun pouch and gets to work.

He has absolutely no idea where he is and the System is too busy tallying points and reconfiguring his stats to be of much help. So he’s going to have to get his bearings the old fashion way. And step one to any kind of ‘talk to the locals’ plan means not looking like he just crawled out of hell.

His robes are torn and bloodied, his hair is a wild mess, but hey. He had changes of clothes and soap with him throughout all of this — take that, you stupid shadow bastard. Shang Hua won the Abyss game.

The simple black cultivator robes he’d stored in the way back of the pouch just for this don’t fit quite as well as they used to around the shoulders, but they’ll do. And after setting fire to the old, bloody set with a spark of qi, he’s left looking like a cultivator who had a rough night hunt. Much more approachable.

Well. Mostly like a cultivator. He has to focus on concealing his demonic heritage. Flexing his fingers, he watches the claws shrink and dull, and runs his tongue over flat teeth. A quick touch to his ears and a glimpse in Yong’s blade confirm the other changes have receded as well.

Good. No need to scare the mortals. He’s just a guy who couldn’t harm nothing. Totally fine and trustworthy!

Where to?

‘An actual bath, goddamn.’

.

Luckily, Shang Hua is not out in the middle of no where. Also luckily, he’s far enough away from Cang Qiong that he’s not worried about crossing paths with any of his martial family just yet.

Ascending on Yong — Xin Mo is still in time out, he’s hoping some scabbard time will settle it — he rises out of the forest and sees a golden monastery gleaming on a peak in the near distance: Tian Yi Overlook. Perfect. The taoists would have no reason to bother with a rogue cultivator passing through.

Soaking in the rays of the sun without any worry of abyssal beasts, Shang Hua flies towards the first settlement he spots on the horizon. The proximity of Tian Yi means few of the locals are bothered by him landing at the gates and making the rest of the way in on foot — he still has Qing Jing’s manners ingrained in him, unlike a certain wrecking ball of a shishu.

It is… disorienting to be surrounded by humans again. His guard is still up from so long in the Abyss, his eyes searching for weapons and threats. But these are just people. Merchants and farmers and kids playing in the streets. It’s tempting to just sit somewhere, find a bag of melon seeds, and just watch for a bit, allow himself to breathe and remember what it means to be human. But a bath will really help with that step too.

Finding the inn here is simple, it’s easily one of the largest buildings with a colorful banner fluttering beside its door. He ducks inside and is instantly greeted by a middle aged woman in simple blue robes. “How can I help you, daozhang?”

He grins. “Oh no, I’m not with the temple. Just passing through.” From his belt, he pulls several silver taels from a pouch. “But this gongzi would appreciate accommodations, if you have them.”

Her eyes widen a little. Shang Hua is not skimping on his first respite from the Abyss, thank you. “Gongzi is generous,” she says, eying the silver in his hand. “I have them.”

“Wonderful!” He laughs, handing over the coin. “Will that cover a room, a hot bath, and a meal? It’s been a very long time since I had a hot meal.”

The innkeep tucks the coins away in a flash and smiles. “Of course, gongzi. Please, sit. I will see your room is put in order.”

.

When he’s led to his room, nearly a suite, he finds the bath is everything he dreamt of. Sure, he slaps a heating talisman to the wooden barrel, but that’s mostly because they might have to pry his boiled chicken corpse out of here with how long he intends to soak. For the first time in ages, there’s nothing trying to chase him off or take a bite out of him. He’s going to savor this.

.

The home cooked meal is warm and cooked with fresh, familiar ingredients, and while it’s not his mother’s cooking, in this moment it's a close second. 

He eats himself into a food coma in peace and collapses onto the bed with a sigh. Yong and Xin Mo are both kept within reach and there are talismans on the door and windows because he’s only a healthy bit paranoid, but slowly the stress of the Abyss seeps off of him into fresh pressed sheets.

.

Come morning, with a belly full of congee and hot tea, Shang Hua thanks the innkeep for her hospitality, verbosely praising her good cooking all the while. She sends him off with a smile and laughter and Shang Hua departs to explore the town.

It’s not a large town. But its proximity to one of the great sects means it doesn’t hurt for business opportunities. And Shang Hua has nearly two years of shopping to catch up on and long saved silver burning holes in his pockets.

He detours immediately from his years long plan to stop in a little bookshop that speaks his language. And two incense times later, he walks out with several yellow books to shove into his qiankun pouch and a dream demon shaking his metaphorical head.

Shang Hua is accepting no criticism in this. Ahem. 

Back to his agenda, he picks up a few supplies and replenishes a few more thanks to Tian Yi’s local influence, before making his way out of town. Yong flies him to a secluded spot down the road where he sheaths the blade and puts a hand on Xin Mo. 

“You’re going to behave this time, right?” he warns.

Silence.

“That’s what I thought.”

Unsheathing Xin Mo turns the air thick with its evil energy. But, this time, so far at least, it isn’t pushing against his mind as forcefully as it had before.

He wraps both hands around the hilt, inhales, and slices through reality once more. 

Now to see how well he can aim this thing.

.

Well. He could be worse. 

A few missteps later, he finds himself on the border of the Mortal and Demon realms and decides that’s close enough for today. After nearly dipping his toes back into the Abyss with one such misstep, he’s just going to huff the next leg of this on foot.

And ignore the blade that feels like it’s laughing at him. Back into the sheath with you, brat.

.

It’s strange to leave behind human settlements so soon after getting out of the Abyss, but Shang Hua has business in the Demon Realm before he can consider returning. Unfortunately, the Southern Wastes are barely a step up from the Abyss in terms of scenery, but at least the locals are more willing to entertain the idea of peaceful encounters. Sometimes.

Shang Hua keeps his zuiyin hidden and passes himself as just another demon among the tribes and caravans of the Wastes as he goes. He has to also shed a few layers of robes to not be mistaken for “cultivator scum” sure, but given how the sun beats down on the Wastes, that’s no hardship.

The dialects of the southern demons are guttural, growling things, and yet Shang Hua finds himself able to understand it all with ease as their conlanger. His own pronunciations are “fuck all shit” according to one of the old uncles of the Blood Soaked Ursa Tribe, but he still earns a hearty pat on the back that knocks the air from his lungs for trying.

It’s with said old uncle’s help that he is pointed towards the lair of the Twin Saints.

“Really?” he scoffs, giving Shang Hua a stern once over and a long sniff. The bear headed demon strokes his greying chin with his claws. “You don’t know where the Saints are? And yer lookin’ for them?”

“Yes, sir. Not from around here.”

He snorts, the force of it blowing Shang Hua’s hair back. “Not with that accent you ain’t. What business you got with the Saints?”

Shang Hua smiles at him, all sharp teeth and glowing red eyes. “We’ve got an old score to settle.”

“And you didn’t bring yerself a warband?”

“Don’t need one.”

The ursa mutters to himself about young whelps and shakes his head, settling in on all fours. “Saintess is goin’ to eat you alive, boy. That is if the Saint don’t give you a poundin’ first.”

Medals of honor. Shang Hua deserves medals of honor for keeping a straight face.

“Who knows,” he manages to say, “I might surprise you.”

“Doubtful.” He yawns and settles in for a nap, raising one claw to point off to the northwest. “You head that way, ‘bout a day, and you’ll start seein’ the trophies. Look for a loxodon with the one tusk, he guards the entrance.”

Shang Hua bows. “You have been most helpful, uncle.”

“Mhm. I’ll leave some scraps at the trophy they make outta you.”

.

The old uncle, while not really the encouraging sort, does give good directions. Nearly a day later, Shang Hua begins to come across markers that can only be the forewarned trophies.

A gruesome display of strength lines the way to a cave at the foot of a weathered mountain. The bone displays are, well, reasonable enough for demons, but the fleshier kills still rotting on spikes are a little much. Even at a distance, Shang Hua wrinkles his nose.

At least most of the trophies are the monstrous kills of the Saint’s hunts, rare beasts that display his prowess, as if it was ever called into question. The more humanoid ones, however, are likely all that remains of those demons who made enemies of the Twin Saints and the Liu Clan.

Well, he understands the old demon’s concern.

In the distance, at the end of the path, he sees the loxodon. The elephant demon is a thick, towering warrior guarding the mountain. And as the sun begins to set, he is also distinctly a tomorrow problem.

Shang Hua turns away and makes a simple camp far enough away from the mountain to go unnoticed and quickly sinks into the dream realm. He and Mu Qingfang have some recon to do before Shang Hua demands an audience with the Saints. He’s three years early after all, who’s to say what plots are active on this side of the realm.

.

Come sun up, Shang Hua wakes, rifles through his things to find some parchment, and pens a quick letter with blood for ink. In a flash of qi, the blood dries and the scroll snaps closed, sealing itself in his palm to tuck into his sleeve for safe keeping.

Their dream walking had been very enlightening.

.

When he makes his entrance in the Saint’s court, for just a moment, Shang Hua wishes he could see the forums again. His life was a miserable slog and blur of words as Airplane, but there was a distinct joy in seeing his characters come to life in the artwork and animations of people infinitely more talented than him. And this moment is one he would kill to see committed to art, just so he could see it from an outsider’s perspective.

Because in this moment, Shang Hua feels like a badass and it’s exhilarating to think the training arc has paid off.

Around him, the Southern Tribe’s court has fallen deathly silent as the broken tusk of the loxodon guard continues to roll across the cave floor where Shang Hua tossed it. 

He is going entirely off book now, may as well have some fun with it, right? He wanted to make an impression. What better way than to enter uninvited, unannounced, and to throw the tusk of the court’s guard in a ‘challenge me if you dare’ maneuver?

It certainly gets attention! Some of the southern demons look furious, others simply curious. Strength is the language of the land, after all. But Shang Hua’s focus is solely on the twin figures in crimson at the end of the hall.

He follows the path of the broken tusk, puts a foot up on it, and waits with a smile on his face.

Liu Mingyan sighs heavily, her veil fluttering. “One Tusk is going to need a new name again.”

Shang Hua throws back his head and laughs. “Ah, who knows? Maybe he’ll let me try to fix it when our business is done here.”

The Twin Saints are royalty here, and they lounge as such on an altar of bone and furs. It’s a showing of power and luxury in the barren wastes of the south, but without the opulence often expected of rulers. Outside of the silver they wear, there’s little in this cavern hall that speaks of such wealth — demons respect power, not coin. And in the oft warring wastes, gold is not a resource worth killing for.

Liu Qingge leans over towards his sister, silver eyes never leaving Shang Hua, and whispers something that makes her perk up and look closer at the half demon before them.

“And what business do we have with Cang Qiong?” she asks, a bit of glee dripping into her words.

Shang Hua arches a brow. “The Saints remember me?” Demonic traits aside, it has been a few years. Waves of chestnut hair fall around his face and past his shoulders over a half open black hanfu now — he’s a far cry from the clean cut, neatly bunned disciple in blue.

“How could we forget? You’re still the only one to best ge in combat.”

Murmurs break out around them, outrage and curiosity both rising until Liu Qingge stands and snaps, “Out.”

The dismissed court exchange glances before slowly filtering out through various tunnels connected to the chamber. A few dare to speak up, insisting their loyalty demands they stay, but a hand on Liu Qingge’s sword sends those bold few scurrying.

“Gossip mongering fools,” he mutters before sitting back down beside his sister. He narrows his eyes at her, a tint of pink across his face, “Did you have to say it like that, Mingyan?”

She waves a hand, dismissing his protest. “Who could have guessed the boy from the mountain was a demon all along. That does better explain how you beat ge then, I suppose.”

“Nah, my powers were fully sealed back then,” Shang Hua chuckles, giving the blushing Saint no face. “I’m not here on Cang Qiong’s behalf. This doesn’t concern them.”

“Then why have you come?” Liu Qingge asks, arms folded across his chest.

“Well, the Demon Realm is about to get really interesting,” he says idly, as if discussing nothing more exciting than the weather. It's a forecast of imperial conquest today, expect snow next week! “And when it does, I want you two on my side.” 

Between heartbeats, the mark of Heavenly Demons burns red on his brow and both twins sit up straight.

“How…”

“You’re-”

“Mhm.” He chuckles and clasps his hands behind his head, perfectly at ease where they are no doubt reevaluating their choice to send their court away. “So you see, been a few decades since the last Empress, and I need to fix some messes made while she’s been gone.”

Suddenly, Liu Mingyan’s laughter rings like the bells she wears. “Oh this is simply too funny,” she giggles, a hand pressed over her veil. “You show up, out of nowhere, and think we’ll, what? Sign ourselves to your service because you say so? No one even knows your name.”

“You can call me Shang Hua for now,” he announces, “but it will be Junshang soon enough.”

“Oh. You’re bold.”

He flashes a sharp smile at them both. “And you’re intrigued.”

Liu Mingyan spins a ring on her finger in contemplation. “If you’re a Heavenly Demon, am I correct to believe that Empress Su was your mother?”

“Correct.”

“And your father?”

“A cultivator. Will that be a problem, Saintess?”

She smiles, stilling the ring. “Do you intend retribution on the cultivators who sealed your mother?”

“Those most responsible.”

There is a look the siblings share, silver eyes speaking volumes where their tongues do not. Liu Qingge gestures once and Liu Mingyan snorts in reply. Shang Hua cannot imagine the sort of bond the siblings share, but they seem to come to an agreement when they both move to stand.

“We don’t rely solely on promises and empty words like your mountain might. Loyalty is earned here. Power in the child will be respected, not the legends of the mother.”

“You’ve had no Shu Rong 殊荣, Shang Hua,” Liu Qingge says.

Shang Hua shrugs. “Raised human, what can you do?”

A Shu Rong was a demonic inheritance rite among the more powerful demon clans. Each clan had their own way of holding the ceremony — for the Liu Clan it was trial by combat where as the Shens built a ritual around inheriting their bloodline’s power. The result was always the same: the next generation’s leader took the character Qing 清 into their courtesy name — a sign of their distinct right to rule. Of course Shang Hua hadn’t had one.

“We can make a deal,” Liu Mingyan says. “Prove to us you’re worthy of respect. Since you have no elder to fight for your ceremony, Qingge will stand in as a proxy. Beat him and the South will honor your Shu Rong. And then perhaps we can humor talks of allegiance.” 

The former protagonist had simply taken the name after conquering the Demon Realm under the advice of his closest generals, a way to further command respect from those who still saw him as “just” a half breed. Shang Hua doesn’t mind the idea of earning his a little differently if it means fighting with Liu Qingge again.

He smiles and dips into a flourishing bow. “That is most generous of the Saints to offer this Shang. Perhaps I can offer something in turn.”

They exchange another silent glance with each other before turning twin silver gazes on him.

From his sleeve, he pulls out the sealed scroll. “Inside, you will find some information that should be very enlightening. Your father has recently been ill and refusing your aid, am I right?” He gives the scroll a little shake. “The details you seek are all in here. I don’t expect you to just take my word for it, of course. I want you both to investigate its contents. My Shu Rong can take place once you’ve settled this.”

Liu Mingyan’s hand snaps out, demanding the scroll, and Shang Hua walks it over to her with a grin. 

“I think we're going to be good friends,” he says with a wink. “But I am happy to submit myself to, let's say, house arrest?” He steps back, arms spread out in invitation. “If either of you thinks I’m a lying rat after your investigations, I am at your mercy.”

Where the Saintess slides her eyes from Shang Hua to her brother, the Saint’s gaze never waivers, his pupils dilating almost like a cat already primed to pounce the rat. Shang Hua tips his head to the side, still smiling if not a little warily now, and the look vanishes.

Yeesh. He knew making allies of the Saints would be tricky, but Liu Qingge doesn't have to look at him like that already. At least read the scroll!

He takes another step back and gives the twins their space as Liu Mingyan cuts her claw across the seal and reads. This gives him a front row seat to enjoy the many expressions that flit over Liu Qingge’s face as he reads over her shoulder. The Saintess, as always, is harder to read, but the way her claws threaten to tear the scroll to shreds in her grasp betrays her.

“How would you come across this information?” she asks, voice deceptively level. 

“That, I won’t share. But you’ll find proof now that you know what to look for.”

Liu Qingge narrows his eyes, fighting the urge to bolt and solve this matter immediately. “If these claims are false-”

“As I said, I’m yours.”

Plots are always afoot in the demon realm, everyone vying for power by eliminating their biggest threats. Liu Qingge, the pride of the Southern Wastes, was one such figure many sought to remove. How many attempts on his life has he thwarted by now? Dozens, easily.

For Shang Hua to waltz into their court, their home, and announce their own father was the latest to fail — and to fail so spectacularly that the poison he’d sought for Liu Qingge had infected himself — that was a tough pill to swallow. 

But, so was a father losing his right to rule to a son barely more than a child. Liu Qingge’s Shu Rong had been a spectacle, after all. Challenging his father at no more than thirteen and trouncing him in combat, proving himself the strongest of their clan, and then simply shrugging the responsibility of rule back off onto his beaten father. That bitterness could only fester.

“Ge, I will start looking into this. Find somewhere for our honored guest.”

Despite seeming ready to argue, Liu Qingge snorts and looks back at Shang Hua. “Come, I will take you to a… guest room,” he says, as if that’s a foreign concept. Given how the Southern Wastes tends to operate, it very well might be. 

Still, Shang Hua offers the Saintess a bow and trails off behind Liu Qingge.

It’s a good view. One of the best he’s had in months. Liu Qingge’s long ashen ponytail sways behind him as he leads Shang Hua through the tunnels, the faintest jingle of silver echoing off the stone as they go.

But from what Shang Hua had previously seen and from what he wrote, he expects a certain level of… pantherlike grace from the demon. Everything is typically beneath him and thus boring and not worth his attention. An overgrown cat with nothing to chase, but always ready for the hunt. 

The man leading him deeper into the caves still retains that grace, but it's as if molten lead was poured down his spine, making his movements stiff. Surely it's not from an assassination attempt that wasn't even actively attempted.

‘Is he… afraid of me?’ Shang Hua asks incredulously. That can’t be right.

Mm. I don’t think that’s it.

Before he can question the dream demon, Liu Qingge turns abruptly and draws his claw over a groove in the cave wall. There is a shimmer of illusion magic dispelling to reveal a decently sized room beyond. 

Shang Hua leans into Liu Qingge’s space and peeks inside. It’s… well it’s better than the Abyss! But it’s still a cave. Which. Sure. He’s in a cave system. But a man could hope for more. Still, the nest of furs and pillows isn’t nothing, he’s pretty sure some of those are insanely rare and they’re just…thrown in a heap in the “guest” room that is more likely a “political hostage” room.

“It is not befitting a Heavenly Demon,” Liu Qingge admits, brows furrowed as though this is an insult to himself. “But until we investigate, Mingyan will not trust you to roam freely.”

Shang Hua chuckles a bit and steps smoothly around the Saint and into the room. “Like I said, I remain at your mercy. I want you both to be able to trust me.” Besides, it’s not like they could keep him trapped here anyway. Xin Mo made for a wonderful skeleton key. “Deal with your dad and then we can talk about VIP upgrades.”

Liu Qingge nods, but hesitates to leave, his hand still hovering over the indentation beside the door and eyes still stuck on Shang Hua. It might be a little disconcerting if not for the steady flush of pink dusting his cheeks, accentuating Liu Qingge’s red zuiyin.

As Shang Hua opens his mouth, Liu Qingge quickly drops his hand down to his sword hilt. There is a well earned and well deserved flash fire of panic as Shang Hua prepares to reach for his own blade, before a closed fist is shoved in his direction.

“For you.”

Red eyes blink rapidly in sheer confusion before Shang Hua slowly holds out a hand, only for a crimson sword tassel to be dropped into his palm. The confusion only increases, especially so as laughter echoes in his head. “This is…”

“Cultivators give these to one another, do they not?” A flicker of doubt crosses the demon’s face before he adds, “Unless you do not consider yourself such anymore?”

“No, I do,” he says, still staring at the tassel in his palm. He flicks his gaze back up to Liu Qingge. “You do know why cultivators give these out, right?”

The blush fully matches his attire now. Shang Hua remembers having this man beneath him once before, calling him pretty, and watching that same blush bloom. Huh.

Liu Qingge nods once, meets his gaze, and then quickly slams his palm over the door array for a veil of stone to shudder into place between them.

Mu Qingfang is still laughing.

As I said, I don’t believe its fear he feels for you.

In a daze, Shang Hua drifts over to the nest of pelts and sinks down, still staring at the tassel like it too must be some sort of illusion. There is being the protagonist of your own harem novel and there is realizing you are the protagonist of your own harem novel. With how much of that side of the plot he’s outright ignored, it’s entirely weird to be faced with even a sliver of it now. 

Especially a sliver of it out of his original notes!

Still, Shang Qinghua was almost always the one making the first move beyond casual flirting and damsel in distressing. How could he have expected this?

You did make the first move.

‘Fucking when?!’

The day you met. You beat him, did you not? It aligns with old demon traditions. The strong seeking stronger mates, taking only those who can best them. I spent many years drifting through this realm, A-Hua. I am familiar with the young Saint’s mind. He is one who upholds old traditions.

‘But he thought I was human.’

Please. You are hardly the first half breed.

Shang Hua… sits with those revelations for awhile. 

.

When Liu Qingge returns to offer Shang Hua a meal and update him on his and his sister’s investigation, it’s to find a crimson tassel hanging on Xin Mo’s hilt. His update dies on his tongue and he all but thrusts the bowl he’d brought into Shang Hua’s hands before fleeing again.

.

Three days of meditation, reflection, and dream walking pass in the relative safety of the Saints’ care before Liu Mingyan is finally the one to visit. 

“I take it you’ve made a decision?”

“Mm. I look forward to seeing you and ge fight again. It’s such a shame father passed from his illness last night and so can only attend in spirit,” she says without shame or regret.

Shang Hua dips his head. “A tragedy, but life moves on.” And he can cross off several hundred thousand words regarding rebellions sparked in the Wastes by that conniving old demon and his cohorts now.

“Indeed.” She turns to leave and Shang Hua follows at her side, his pleasure barely contained. “So it would seem you’ve earned our trust, but now you must earn our respect. Does Shang Hua prefer to conduct his Shu Rong before or after the feast? We will be toasting father’s memory and naming two new generals — their predecessors have suddenly stepped down.”

He snorts. Stepped down. Sure. More like their bodies were likely thrown into a ravine for scavengers, but stepped down works.

“Give your new generals their due. We can hold the Shu Rong after.”  

The feast Liu Mingyan leads him to is held in a great hall deep below the mountain, lit by both night pearls embedded like stars in the ceiling and the ever burning bonfire in the center of the hall. While long tables flank either side of the fire for warriors and visiting members of court, Shang Hua, with his birthright bright on his brow, sits at the head table with the Saints as their honored guest.

With an elbow on the table and his fist against his cheek, Shang Hua watches the night proceed with a lazy smile and idle chatter with the Saints. The new generals are announced to roars of approval, the Twin Saints toast their father as all kinds of demonic meats roast over the fire, and various demons come to pay their respects with gruff pledges of loyalty to the Liu Clan. 

It is, by demon standards, a pretty tame affair if you ignore the definite patricide that occurred hours prior.

As the night goes on, Liu Mingyan tips her head towards Shang Hua, silver eyes never leaving the room at large. “You will understand, that even if you prove your strength here, we will require a bit more than words to pledge ourselves at your side. You are about to make many waves, Shang Hua. We want assurance that you will not forget us as the tides of power shift.”

He glances over at her as she swirls a goblet of wine. He’s not sure he’s seen her veil move once this evening, yet the cup is half empty and her plate clean but for scraps. 

“What does the Saintess propose? I’ve already said, I intend for you both to take rank as generals of the realm, as well as keep your rule of the Wastes.”

“You have. But those are similar to the promises Empress Su made and she had much more to initially offer our father in those talks. You, without an army, a palace, a reputation…”

Shang Hua leans back and sighs. The original flavor had simply wiped the floor with half the Wastes before dueling the Twin Saints, forcing loyalty or death, and winning Liu Mingyan’s hand in the process. He’d been hoping diplomacy would have been cleaner. “Yet. I don’t have those yet. I am still a Heavenly Demon.”

“Yet,” she agrees, and he watches her eyes crinkle with a veiled smile. “And so it is on that trust we have built with you already which this olive branch now sits. Should you defeat Qingge, it will mark our alliance and your engagement.”

Bonus Quest now available! 

Red is an Auspicious Color 

Do you accept?

Told you.

With both the System and Mu Qingfang popping off in his skull, it takes a great deal of effort for the half demon — who has spent nearly the last however long alone and talking to air — to keep his face and his mouth from reacting before his brain has a chance to catch up. 

Engagement?!

He looks past Liu Mingyan to her brother and sees him stony faced and blushing darker than his silks behind the lip of his own goblet, gaze stubbornly cast anywhere but at the demons to his right. Whom he can definitely hear with his demon senses! 

“I take it that won’t be a problem?” she asks casually. “You are wearing that little trinket he’s had saved for you.”

This woman! Why does he feel suddenly like they have been playing him this whole time and not the other way around?

“Saint Qingge,” he begins carefully, “I asked if you understood what this tassel means. It’s interest, affection, courtship... Knowing that, I will accept an engagement of courtship. But I am not rushing us into marriage. As you said, Saintess, I have neither palace nor reputation to offer your clan yet.”

Liu Qingge finally snaps his attention to Shang Hua, silver eyes wide as his sister hums her assent between them. “That is a wise choice, I suppose,” Liu Mingyan agrees. “I would prefer Qingge’s dowry not be your only bit of wealth when you wed.”

He can’t help the splutter of, “Dowry?”

“Of course. He will be your wife if you can beat him, as is our ancient tradition.”

“Shang Hua has already won once,” Liu Qingge finally adds, the blush a now permanent feature on the Saint it would seem. “But Mingyan believes it should be done before our court and with your… active knowledge of such things. And I am not opposed to continue waiting.”

‘Xiansheng…. Was that really a proposal?’

In a way.

‘Ahahah fuck. Okay then.’

This is a good thing, A-Hua. Even if you do continue to pursue that Shizun of yours, it would do you well as Junshang to have a concubine. Heirs are important.

‘Excuse me?’

I said, heirs are-

‘I heard that! But this is Liu Qingge!’

There is a long suffering sigh.

Yes. The Liu Clan values strength in their mates above all. Regardless of gender. They have maintained a good relationship with Madame Qingqi and the eastern succubi clans for that reason.

Shang Hua has a sudden flashback to a bonus chapter he’d written of Liu Mingyan, her three cultists, and a mommy kink that sold… incredibly well. ‘That- That was never in the main story!’

It was still the word of a god.

Again. Fuck.

For all the harem nonsense he wrote, he hadn’t actually expected to start building one! 

Liu Qingge was, well, one of his old favorites. He wasn’t Mobei Jun tier, no one was, but Airplane had definitely written a not insignificant number of fanfics on his alt about this man. He wasn’t about to just turn down one of the most powerful demons of the age, who also happened to be a whole damn snack of a man!

But still there was Mobei Jun! Who last he’d seen had been… honestly, he wasn’t even sure what he’d been. Confused? Alarmed? Ready to give him the ol’ Lin Ya poke into the Abyss?

No way was Mobei Jun of all people going to just put himself on a platter for Shang Hua. (Not that he had been expecting that of Liu Qingge either.) But there was going to have to be some serious courting to make that multi-life-spanning crush happen and he had hoped bringing the Demon Realm to its knees before then would make for a good… courting gift?

‘See, Shizun? You don’t have to worry about demon invasions, all handled!’ or something!

He hadn't figured Liu Qingge into those half baked plans!

Oh fuck. Was he going to have to introduce Mobei Jun and Liu Qingge? He doesn’t even know if either of them are the jealous type. 

God, they’re probably both the jealous type.

Man he really should have dug deeper into the Saints’ dreams while he was under house arrest. Then he wouldn’t have been blindsided with marriage of all things. But no, he tried to give his OCs privacy. What a mistake!

“Does Shang Hua accept these terms?” Liu Qingge asks, cutting his hopefully-all-internal breakdown short, and god if the man doesn’t sound… hopeful.

Shang Hua looks back at Liu Qingge and really, how could he ever say no? 

Bonus Quest Red is an Auspicious Color is now active!

The feast winds down around them as the three of them finalize the terms of both the Shu Rong and the engagement, agreeing to keep the latter private for the time being. By the end of it, both men are a bit pink in the face and Liu Mingyan is positively delighted.

She calls over an advisor of their court, an old bull headed woman who bears a striking resemblance to the late Elder Sky Hammer, and informs her of the Shu Rong. The woman nods along, the bell pierced through her nose jingling with each slow bob of her head, and moves to stand as the formal witness at the end of the table.

Then Liu Mingyan rises and the hall grows silent until only the crackling flame can be heard.

“Some of you have noticed we have a guest tonight,” she says, gesturing to Shang Hua. “The lost child of our late Empress Su, the last of the Heavenly Demons.” 

What murmurs break out around her she ignores as the wiser of her people shush their noisy neighbors. 

“Today, the Southern Wastes graciously grants him the chance to prove himself. In place of his mother, Saint Qingge has offered himself as a proxy in Shang Hua’s Shu Rong. Because if he cannot beat us, he certainly cannot rule us,” she declares and the demons assembled cheer.

As the two lords stand, the onlooking demons hastily push their banquet tables back and line the walls to give them space. Among the Lius, these ceremonies tended to get destructive. Best to make all the room they can while Shang Hua and their Saint take their places.

The two begin by circling around the bonfire, their shadows throwing long, monstrous shapes across the cavern walls as they draw their swords, one with and one without a tassel.

Xin Mo hums in his hands, eager for its first fight in millennia. Yong might have been the safer option, but if he’s here to make a showing for himself among the demons, he’s going to make a show of it. He briefly catches Liu Qingge’s gaze flickering to the blade, its evil energy impossible to ignore now free of its sheath, and uses that moment’s distraction to strike.

Shang Hua launches himself over the fire between them in an arc, bring Xin Mo down on Liu Qingge’s quick parry, dirt kicking up beneath him as he lands. He presses closer, their blades singing as he pushes into the other demon’s space. “No holding back, Qingge.”

The lingering blush is quickly replaced by a bark of laughter as he steels himself and pushes back. “I would never.”

They break free and return in waves, each crash of their swords a test of the other’s strength. In ways, it’s reminiscent of their first encounter, blurs of red and black dancing and weaving around each other and the fire that burns between them. But Liu Qingge has only grown stronger and more sure of himself, his one defeat enough to drive him to new heights. And Shang Hua, with his powers unleashed and tested by the Endless Abyss itself, is a far cry from the disciple Liu Qingge last fought.

Even with the promise of a betrothal on the line, maybe even because of it, neither demon pulls their punches. Every strike that is dodged and deflected carries with it the force to wound and kill. Liu Qingge needs to prove their match. Shang Hua needs to prove himself.

Around them, the demons of the Wastes chant and jeer. Some calling for the Saint to put the stranger in his place. Others simply keeping pace with rhythmic war chants, music for their courting dance.

In his hands, Xin Mo craves bloodshed. And though Shang Hua maintains control, his strikes come down harder and behind curled lips his fangs itch to tear into Liu Qingge, to mark and claim. The blade wants more.

He needs to end this.

Liu Qingge sweeps out and Shang Hua leans back and dips away, moving in a whirlwind. He returns with two more strikes of his own, forcing Liu Qingge back once then twice, each step dodging Xin Mo and forcing him to weave closer and closer to the bonfire.

Until at last, Liu Qingge stops, his breath coming heavy as fire threatens to lick up his back. Xin Mo kisses the tender skin of his neck, dragging up until his chin is raised and silver eyes meet blood red.

“Do you yield?”

Liu Qingge drops his blade and licks dry lips. “I yield.”

The demons roar around them as Xin Mo is once against sheathed and, this time, Liu Qingge takes the hand Shang Hua offers him.

“Last time,” Liu Qingge begins before hesitating. “Last time, did you mean it?”

The demon, with that cute little mark under his eye, was unfairly pretty, he remembers thinking, the words slipping out without his realizing at the time.

 Now Shang Hua chuckles, that familiar flush creeping across Liu Qingge’s cheeks again. “Yeah. I did.”

“Good.” He quickly pulls away to pick up his sword and retreats to Liu Mingyan’s side. 

By time he speaks again, the Saint has schooled his face enough that the lingering flush on his cheeks can be mistaken easily for exertion and nothing more. “As I am only a proxy, I do not dare to choose your name. But as Saint Liu Qingge of the Southern Wastes, I acknowledge your right.”

Liu Mingyan extends her hand, dipping her head invitingly, and Shang Hua steps up. He looks to the Twin Saints and then to the demons all watching in barely restrained silence.

“I am the son of Empress Su Qingxi 苏清夕, last of the Heavenly Demons. And from today on, you will know me as Shang Qinghua.”

Despite whatever misgivings the demons held before, in the face of his victory and the Saints’ clear approval, the demons do not hesitate to celebrate the Shu Rong and shout, “Shang Qinghua! Shang Qinghua!”

On either side of him, there is the rustle of red silk and jingling bells as the siblings step past him, turning as one to kneel before Shang Qinghua. The cave falls utterly silent as they do and in one voice, the Twin Saints make their pledge:

“We and the Southern Wastes are at your service, Junshang.”

Chapter Text

Shen Jiu’s ascension looms ever nearer and Luo Binghe’s workload only continues to grow. It does not matter that all eight of his elder siblings have been dealt with. It does not matter that the Qiu branch of the clan now rots. Until the moment Shen Jiu absorbs his father’s power, and the power of every Shen that came before them, it is an exploitable weakness of the North and something Luo Binghe must guard.

He moves through the Northern Palace like a shadow, slipping reports and orders into the hands of those under him as he goes. No one stops or questions the Beast. They simply take the scrolls and bow their head, never giving reason for him to bite.

If only his master would listen so easily.

The old king lies on his death bed, but Shen Jiu refuses to hasten him along. For no reason so filial as the bonds of father and son, but because he refuses to let anyone doubt his right, even as the sole remaining heir.

It’s an admirable notion, Luo Binghe thinks. But a foolish one. The previous Shen Qingqius who have ripped their inheritance from the still beating chests of their predecessors were not remembered fondly, yes, but Shen Jiu has had no one who could possibly challenge him for nearly two years. And no one would fault him for showing his father such mercy.

Lou Binghe comes before a door of heavy ice, sealed by Shen Jiu himself, and just makes out the shadowed figure of the old king, frail, wasting away, and still as stubborn as any Shen.

If the demon would just die, Shen Jiu could take his inheritance and become an unstoppable force, even beyond the Northern Desert. But the longer he lingers… there is always a chance something could go wrong. An outside threat. A poison. Hell, the man could even wake up. And Luo Binghe will not allow everything he’s done, everything he’s sacrificed, for Shen Jiu to be for naught.

Perhaps he should return to Cang Qiong and have tea with his cousin soon. See if Zhuzhi Lang doesn’t have something worth keeping on hand to subtly send the man to his grave.

He sighs and continues past the old king’s chambers towards Shen Jiu’s own. There is a delegation arriving tomorrow from the Wastes and Luo Binghe should set out his master’s clothes for the morning.

.

There are few times within the Demon Realm where Luo Binghe allows himself to remove the Beast’s mask. While he doesn’t expect the average demon to see him outside of peak lord regalia and know him as Luo Binghe, he doesn’t risk it. But sleeping in his own quarters of the Northern palace is one of those times.

Up until someone bangs on his door like the palace is on fire. And if it’s not on fire, Luo Binghe may set them on fire.

Jolting out of bed, Luo Binghe reaches for the mask at his bedside and slides it on. That is far more important to him than covering his sleep clothes as he yanks open the door with a growl. “What?”

A male harpy shudders away from him, snowy white wings coming up over his head protectively. “A-a thousand apologies, sir! This one has been scouting the delegation as you ordered! There’s been a change!”

The tense line of his shoulders does not settle. “What change?”

“J-just before twilight, this one saw the Twin Saints among the delegation!”

Luo Binghe scowls behind the mask. The Saints? There was no mention of them arriving with the delegation and, more alarmingly, his spies hadn’t mentioned them at all since they crossed into the Northern Desert four nights ago. Luo Binghe has a perfectly detailed roster of every demon approaching and not once were they mentioned.

It’s not that the North and the Wastes are on bad terms, they generally keep to their own inhospitable territories and call it a day. But they always have the decency to announce themselves ahead of time. He doesn’t like this.

“Are they still being monitored?”

“Yes, sir,” the harpy says, poking his head out from under his wings. “Two others are keeping an eye.”

“Good. Fly back. If the Saints split from the delegation, I want two tails on them.”

“Yes, sir!” The harpy bows quickly and takes off down the darkened halls of the Northern Palace, flapping his wings with every other step to spur himself faster. 

Luo Binghe slams his door shut and dresses quickly into his palace uniform, before sweeping away towards his office. No going back to sleep now. He’ll have to inform Shen Jiu at once, but something about this, other than the obvious, is bothering him.

There have been a series of odd reports coming in from his network over the last couple of weeks of oddities in the Southern Wastes. Tribes that don’t usually see eye to eye suddenly at peace. Movement of caravans that don’t align with the seasonal routes previously taken.

Rumors of a new demon making waves after his Shu Rong. 

Rumors of a new Heavenly Demon.

In pieces, these are nothing to worry the North over, not immediately, not without proof. But all together, with the Saints all but at their doorstep, it adds up. And Luo Binghe isn’t sure what to, but he knows he doesn’t like it.

.

“Heavenly Demon?” Shen Jiu scoffs. “Impossible.”

Luo Binghe stands at attention beside the door as Shen Jiu affixes his guan and other such ornamentation of his station. With the arrival of the Saints within their borders, he’s opted for a finer showing than his typical dress for court. The last time Luo Binghe had made the offer to assist him with such things as a servant might, he’d been struck down for it, and so he keeps his hands tucked in his sleeves.

“That is what the rumors from the South say. But this one agrees, it seems unlikely we wouldn’t have heard of this demon before.”

Shen Jiu considers his reflection in the mirror, a thumb brushing against his lip as his mind whirls beyond the confines of this room. He shakes his head after a time and looks back at Luo Binghe. “Arrange for additional guards to be ready in the wings. Whatever the Lius are planning, I will not be caught off guard in my own palace.”

Luo Binghe acknowledges the command with a bow and slips out of Shen Jiu’s chambers. He has already doubled the usual guards since the harpy reported last night, but he will rouse the rest of those on duty and focus their attention on the great hall and the delegation. 

Just to be safe. 

The itch that something is deeply wrong does not fade.

.

By time the delegation has arrived on the castle grounds, Luo Binghe has made every preparation he could to assure there are no blind spots in their defenses. And still he would rather bar the demons entry than let them into his master’s palace.

Shen Jiu, fan tapping impatiently in his palm, waits before his throne as Luo Binghe assumes his position beside it.

Normally, Shen Jiu greets delegations in a manner of simple elegance. For as costly as his robes may be, they are functional things, allowing the prince to move swift as the northern winds. He does not adorn himself in more regalia than is necessary for even a stranger to the Northern Desert to not know who he is. 

He maintains that functionality now with the Twin Saints approaching, but a fur cloak sits over his shoulders too, protective magic woven into the fine Arctic Narseal fur making it near impenetrable. In fact most of what he’s adorned himself with offers some kind of protection beneath their glittering surfaces. Even the delicate metalwork of chains dripping down Shen Jiu’s left arm and hand, though a pretty way of disguising his burn scars, is a level of defense he does not usually maintain within the confines of the palace.

Nothing is right with this, but at least his prince is ready for it.

When the doors to the hall open, a young snow hare demoness scurries in with a scroll clutched in her paws. Her already floppy ears sag somehow lower, even as she tries to straighten her posture and read the introductions.

“Before Prince Shen Jiu, we welcome the delegation of Saintess Liu Mingyan, Saint Liu Qingge, and” — she hesitates, long enough to flinch at the sharp snap of a fan into the prince’s palm — “and Junshang Shang Qinghua.”

Alarms ring in the distance of Luo Binghe’s mind because, surely, that is an odd coincidence. Shen Jiu made him aware that one of his shixiong’s disciples was revealed to be a demon at the Immortal Alliance Conference, but Mobei Jun declared the boy dead, must have even been the one to do it — has even been out of sorts since. 

Shang Qinghua is just a coincidence. It has to be.

So why is the ghost of his former shizhi walking into the hall, flanked by the Twin Saints themselves, and followed by rest of their delegation?

His fingers clench around the hilt of his sword. How is this possible?

Between the ever iconic scarlet robes of the Saints — and robes they are for once, their usual revealing silks unbefitting of the frigid Northern Desert — enters a young man in black with two swords at his hip. His robes are trimmed in a blood red, deeper than the Saints’ scarlet, to match his demon mark and the gleam of his eyes. At a glance, he is no more special than any demon lordling.

But Luo Binghe knows that face. He is well familiar with the shizhi who climbed his way up the mountain and into the favor of not just Mobei Jun, but the sect leader and other lords as well. How many times had this very boy shown up at his doorstep to deliver missives to him personally, somehow always casually evading his disciples to do so? How many times had he heard his name mourned in the months that followed the conference?

Seventeen disciples died that day, and yet it is Shang Hua’s name he recalls. 

How?

He loathes to take his eyes of Shang Hua — Shang Qinghua — but he risks a glance at Shen Jiu. He is difficult to read at the best of times, but Luo Binghe catches the clench of his jaw and the white knuckle grip on his fan.

“Greetings, Prince Shen,” the Saints say.

Shang Qinghua smiles. “It’s been awhile, Prince Shen.” And. Against so many odds that at this point Luo Binghe is going to set fire to the betting book, Shang Qinghua tips his head towards him and winks.

Luo Binghe would say he’s never truly earned the moniker “rabid dog” but he feels inspired in this moment to do so. However, all his training and restraint win out, even as his knuckles crack around his sword hilt with the force of doing so.

The pleasantries of court are gone before they begin, frost white eyes narrowing in on the stranger among them. “You survived?” Shen Jiu growls.

Shang Qinghua has the audacity to laugh. “I did! And truly, I’ve been meaning to thank Prince Shen for breaking this lord’s cradle seal,” he says, his honeyed voice doing nothing to hide the venom. He taps his head, as if suddenly remembering something. “Tch. Where are my manners? We haven’t been properly reintroduced, have we? I’m Empress Su’s son.”

Luo Binghe’s eyes snap to his zuiyin. HE is the Heavenly Demon they have heard about?

“I do not care whose child you are,” Shen Jiu says, snapping his fan open.

“Shang Qinghua has earned the right of Shu Rong,” Liu Qingge warns. “He is not some common demon you can talk down to.”

Shen Jiu positively bristles. “This is my palace, Liu Qingge. I will talk down to whomever I so please. And what right of Shu Rong? Against who? You? Don’t make me laugh. You Saints are not so heavenly.” His cold gaze snaps back to Shang Qinghua, who smiles even as the Saint scowls. “And you. You should have stayed dead.”

Shang Qinghua steps forward, arms out wide. “Then you should have finished the job,” he laughs. “But none of that, now. I come for peace and you’re picking fights already. That’s not very nice.”

“Peace?” Shen Jiu scoffs. “There is already peace between the North and the Wastes.”

Liu Mingyan shakes her head. “Junshang does not speak for the Wastes.”

“I speak for the realm.” Shang Qinghua pauses and then shrugs, as casual as he ever was at the sect with his peers. “Or I will. We’re getting there.”

The room around them grows infinitely colder, puffs of white drifting out between the fangs of Luo Binghe’s mask.

“I have heard enough-”

“Careful now, it’s getting a little cold in here.” Shang Qinghua teases, giving an over exaggerated shiver. 

Most people are wise enough to acknowledge the temperature drop as a warning and never speak of it, in fact they then do just about anything to reverse it. Apparently whatever Shang Qinghua’s been up to for two years involved some sort of brain trauma. 

Luo Binghe doesn’t even realize he’s taken a step forward, ready to deal with his shizhi himself, until Shang Qinghua grins again.

“You should keep your dog on a tighter leash, Shen Jiu. Wouldn’t want shishu getting hurt.”

Luo Binghe pales, frozen midstep.

Of course demons could not place him as the Lord of An Ding, but he was rarely put in a position where cultivators who knew him had a chance to see past the mask. And those few he had encountered, well, they were not left with the means to spread rumors. 

This… This is unsettling.

He shoots a look towards Shen Jiu, but the demon keeps his attention on the threat, the blade sharp conversation continuing to roll past Luo Binghe in his moment of panic. Pathetic. He needs to get it together.

“-want us to come to an understanding,” Shang Qinghua is saying. “You don’t trust me, that’s fair. So lets make little deal, yeah?” He steps up and rests a hand lazily on one of his swords. “You don’t seem to think my Shu Rong was valid — then you and me, we’ll settle any doubts right here.”

Behind him, the Saint scoffs. “Shang Qinghua should not have to settle anything.”

With a smile, Shang Qinghua holds up a hand and glances back at Liu Qingge. “Nah, he’s got a point. I proved myself to you both, I’ll do the same here.” With his gaze sliding back to Shen Jiu, the smile morphs into something sharper. “You said you wanted me dead. So give it a try.”

Shang Hua was always a mouthy one. His mouth moved faster than his sense, but this was bold even for him. Quite literally asking for death from a demon who would be all too happy to oblige.

Hell. Luo Binghe wouldn’t have to worry about his secret or deal with Mobei Jun if Shang Hua simply remained dead.

“Tch. Am I supposed to be scared of some half breed the world’s thought dead — if it even bothered to think of you at all?”

“God, you really are such a bitch,” Luo Binghe catches the half demon muttering to himself. It would almost be funny if the rest of this wasn’t already a nightmare. “If you are so confident, then you wouldn’t oppose a deal, yeah? Kill me, and we’re done here. The Saints and their people leave,” Shang Qinghua says, ignoring the outraged siblings behind him, “and you wipe this under the rug of weird shit that happens in demon courts and move on. But,” he adds, holding up a finger, “when I beat you, you are going to kneel.”

Shen Jiu snaps his fan and winter winds blast down the length of the hall, sending some of the delegation sliding back with startled yelps and growls, though the Saints and Shang Qinghua hold fast. “I am done listening to this,” he growls. “You come into my kingdom, into my palace, and you dare?” The shadows grow around Shen Jiu and ice creeps out from each step he takes. “When I am through with you-”

Shang Qinghua unsheathes his sword by just an inch and Shen Jiu freezes. Luo Binghe, the less than righteous cultivator that he is, nearly chokes on the oppressive force of evil that rolls off that blade. Just what the hell happened in two years?

“We could have done this the easy way,” Shang Qinghua sighs, fully drawing the blade. “I really was just going to thank you for breaking my seal, maybe fluff up your stupid ego. But no. Oh well. Let’s do this.”

Luo Binghe is accustomed to powerful demons, to fighting them off, fighting alongside them. He has not been bested by any demon that matters. Even he nearly loses track of Shang Qinghua’s movements when he lunges. How is this possibly the same child from Cang Qiong?

Forced to take a step back towards the throne as the two demons crash into one another, Luo Binghe barks a command at the guards stationed around the hall to move back as well. They will do Shen Jiu no good if they get caught in his storm.

He has to trust that his master can handle whatever his shizhi has become, which means he needs to handle everything else. Across the hall, the Twin Saints have also retreated, Liu Mingyan ushering her people back and away as Liu Qingge stands guard between them and the North, silver eyes darting across the room following ice, shadow, and glares.

Luo Binghe breathes in deep, exhales another puff of white breath, and runs through the calculations. If either Saint involves themself in the fight, Luo Binghe will step in. He will order the guards to surround and make their move. He will handle it as he’s handled countless other threats.

Shen Jiu will put the boy in his place. They will make sure the South never tries something like this again. And things will continue as they always have. Maybe he’ll even be able to nudge Shen Jiu into speeding up the timeline for his own Shu Rong now that Liu Qingge has gone and poked the bear.

It will be fine.

His knuckles haven’t unclenched since Shang Qinghua walked in and he’s still got that awful itch telling him something is deeply, deeply wrong. But it will be fine.

This is far from the first time violence has broken out in the wake of diplomacy, but it is the first time Shen Jiu hasn’t simply destroyed the offending demon on sight. Shang Qinghua… It’s as if he can predict Shen Jiu’s usual tricks. Where normal demons have gotten tripped up and frozen in place by creeping ice, their attention on the demon himself and not the space around them, Shang Qinghua never gives Shen Jiu the chance.

The two demons are, at a glance, evenly matched. Their hits are superficial, even as they strike to kill. Neither hesitates, they dive and dip around blade and ice in a terrifying display of control and prowess. And even now, with demonic energy fueling each strike, Shang Qinghua moves like his master, the art of Qing Jing ingrained into every strike and blow.

But Luo Binghe is not just glancing at this fight. He is tracking every aspect his human eyes can follow, the way sword glares shatter ice and the way Shang Qinghua nimbly leaps aside every time Shen Jiu slips through the shadows around him. Shen Jiu is known for three pronged attacks, with no one ever able to keep up their guard on all sides. And yet Shang Qinghua is.

Shen Jiu and Shang Qinghua are as evenly matched in this fight as Luo Binghe and his master — which is to say Shang Qinghua is holding back.

It’s hard to say if that damning realization comes to Luo Binghe or Shen Jiu first. He can see the fury painting itself across Shen Jiu’s face, the way the snap of his fan comes faster, sharper, trying to close the distance between them.

Shang Qinghua needs to slip up. He must. It is impossible for him to maintain this long against Shen Jiu. It has to be.

The younger demon charges forward, Shen Jiu nimbly back stepping away as ice forms around them, arrows nocked and poised to fire.

He slashes with that evil sword too early. 

Shen Jiu, of course, is just a moment faster, saving that burst of speed to make the opening he needs. But in the moment the ice flies, Shang Qinghua dives forward and vanishes.

In the staggering seconds where Luo Binghe and Shen Jiu both are processing the fact that this demon can portal too, Shang Qinghua reappears behind him, a rift of reality shredding shadow forming just behind the northern prince.

“My lord!” 

Shen Jiu jolts, but it does not matter. Shang Qinghua is at his back, that wicked blade pierced straight through his cloak and into flesh. Nothing should be able to pierce that cloak.

Luo Binghe is moving before he realizes it, qi burning along the edge of his blade.

Shen Jiu does not yell or scream. He only grunts as Shang Qinghua’s weight on the blade forces him to his knee, his fan clattering against the icy marble.

“Yield,” Shang Qinghua growls, sounding more demonic than Luo Binghe’s ever heard him. 

Sword drawn, he moves to separate Shang Qinghua from Shen Jiu, right up until a blade humming with demonic qi meets his throat and forces him still.

“Do not interfere, Beast,” Luo Qingge warns. He’d forgotten all about the Saint in this. Foolish.

Shen Jiu huffs a laugh that sounds ripped from his throat. “Do it,” he growls. “I will curse this land to ruin… before I ever surrender it to you.”

Shang Qinghua sighs. “Is there just ice rattling around in there?” he asks, having the audacity to flick the back of Shen Jiu’s head. “I don’t want your kingdom. I want your loyalty.” He leans close and Luo Binghe can barely hear him say, “I told you, I’d put you on your knees and I did. Now yield and we both win.”

“Loyalty…” he hisses. “What loyalty?”

The half demon releases his sword, leaving the dark blade pierced through the ice demon as he walks around and crouches in front of him. “You’re stubborn. I respect that, really I do. Part of why I know you’re worth more alive than dead is because I know you, Prince Shen.”

“You know nothing.”

“I know demons pay their debts ten fold,” he says with a lazy grin. “And I know, despite the rumors, you’re a demon of honor.” He leans closer, ignoring the snarl on Shen Jiu’s lips. “I’m sparing your life, Shen Jiu, so now it belongs to me.”

Luo Binghe feels as if he’s been punched in the gut with a fistful of qi. 

How dare…

His sword nearly rattles in his hand, but the Saint’s blade presses closer until crimson beads beneath his silvered jaw.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Shang Qinghua continues. “The North is yours. Like I said, I don’t want your kingdom. I want you.” His clawed hand reaches out, forcing Shen Jiu’s chin up. “You are going to swear yourself to me. You are going to serve me. And we will bring the Demon Realm to heel.”

When Shen Jiu remains silent, Shang Qinghua releases him with a shrug.

“Either that, or you die and I find someone else to take your daddy’s power.”

That threat cuts through the pained indifference of the ice demon and he bears his teeth. “That is my birthright!”

“It is. So make the right choice, Shen Jiu. I’m either going to be your biggest ally, or I’m going to be the one who ends the Shen line.”

The fight never leaves him, not even as Shen Jiu grits his teeth and bows himself, the demon blade dragging through him as he drags the words through his teeth. “As you say… This Shen is yours… Junshang.”

“Fantastic!” Shen Qinghua reaches then into his sleeve and pulls out a small, ceramic alcohol cup. He wastes no time in slashing his claw against his palm and spilling the blood right to the rim, his wound knitting itself together in seconds. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Luo Binghe growls, ignoring Liu Qingge’s warnings.

His shizhi only laughs. “We’ll talk later, Beast. This is between the demons right now.” Shang Qinghua turns his bloody gaze back on Shen Jiu and offers him the cup. “This is a little act of trust for us, Prince Shen. You know what I am, you know the rumors of what my blood can do. Drink this, and I‘ll heal your wound. And once I have, I’ll draw out every drop of my blood and refill this cup.”

“Us?” he snorts. “The only one trusting here is me. I know what your kind can do.”

“Mm. Sure, you have to take the risk here. Apologies for that. But if you don’t do it, I know I’ll be expecting an icicle in my back in the future.” 

Luo Binghe has seen Shen Jiu rip his own family to shreds and he has never seen such fire in the ice demon’s eyes as when he looks at Shang Qinghua. He grabs the cup from him and throws it back with such aggression Luo Binghe would be worrying for the way the sword still pierces him if Shang Qinghua wasn’t in the process of already healing him.

Shang Qinghua stands and pulls out the demonic blade with no care for the demon who’s back it protrudes from. The moment the thing is sheathed, the oppressive evil that had blanketed the hall vanishes and Shang Qinghua puts a hand on Shen Jiu’s shoulder. 

From here, he cannot see whatever work the half demon’s heavenly blood is doing, but he can see the way tension eases from Shen Jiu, the taught line of his shoulders never fully relaxing, but losing the tension of distress. His master never draws attention to his pain, so it has become Luo Binghe’s job as well to monitor for it, to understand the subtle signs and address them in ways that are least likely to have him struck down. In mere moments, all signs of injury from that cursed blade vanish, and Shen Jiu’s humiliation remains the only pain writ across his posture.

Blood slithers like a snake up and out of Shen Jiu’s wound, back into the cup Shang Qinghua holds before his chest. It fills to the brim as it had before. “There. You can heal the rest, but Xin Mo’s damage and my blood are gone.” He tips his hand over and the blood splashes to the floor alongside the puddle of Shen Jiu’s.

Disgusting. As if Shang Qinghua’s blood could ever be worth that of his prince’s.

He pushes Liu Qingge’s blade away and returns to his master’s side now that the battle is done. He holds out his hand to assist and is unsurprised when Shen Jiu ignores him and pushes himself to stand on his own.

Shang Qinghua smiles at them, all sharp teeth and wicked intentions, as the Twin Saints come up on either side of him. “See? Good as new.”

Luo Binghe would love nothing more than remind Shang Qinghua of his manners, but he bites his tongue and retreats to Shen Jiu’s shadow.

What conversation follows is one-sided thing as Shang Qinghua ever so casually suggests Shen Jiu continue with the accommodations made for the delegation, that the four demon nobles will discuss what their new alliance means this evening. A flick of his wrist draws Shen Jiu’s fan back into his hand and signals Luo Binghe to see to it all.

“My palace is yours,” Shen Jiu all but growls. 

Shang Qinghua bows, “Prince Shen is most generous. This is the start of a prosperous alliance.”

.

Once the delegation has been taken care of — and not in the more final manner of speaking that Luo Binghe wishes it were — he makes his way to Shen Jiu’s study. He’s not positive the ice demon is there, but it’s a safe bet given everything that’s happened in the last several hours.

He doesn’t knock, he never does — Shen Jiu always knows where he is — and finds the torn and bloody cape dropped in a heap at the door of the room.

“Dispose of that useless thing,” Shen Jiu hisses from where he’s bent over his desk, rifling through several scrolls. These are not the materials Luo Binghe had fetched on the Southern Wastes and he guesses Shen Jiu stopped at the library to find whatever the palace had on Heavenly Demons and his father’s connections to the demon Su.

He picks up the cape and folds it over the arm of a nearby chair. “This one will see if the enchantments can be improved.”

Shen Jiu turns his frigid glare on him and Luo Binghe stands perfectly still, as if the man’s rage is triggered by movement and not the very shifting of the winds. “So now you want to play obedient dog?” he hisses. When Luo Binghe does not answer Shen Jiu growls and a blast of freezing qi knocks Luo Binghe off his feet, crashing into the door.

He falls in a pile and pushes himself to his knees, head lowered, nails scraping against the floor. “In what way have I been anything but obedient?”

“That half breed was in your sect and you never once realized what he was?” Shen Jiu snaps.

“He was sealed.” Luo Binghe slams his hand against the cold stone and glares up at him. “You were the one to break that! You were the one who could have known what he was!” 

“Excuses.”

Shen Jiu carries a tempest in his chest, he always has, and right now it threatens to spill out of him, to tear everything apart, starting with the demon prince himself. Luo Binghe can see it in the tremors of his hands, in the wild spark in his eyes. 

“He was never my disciple. Would my lord prefer I hound every child on the mountain and bleed them dry just because demons cannot keep track of their spawn?”

The kick that comes is one he’s ready for and he rolls with it, grunting when Shen Jiu stands over him and digs his boot into his chest.

“How dare you?” he hisses, that tempest funneling towards Luo Binghe now. Good. If Shen Jiu needs to direct that energy somewhere, Luo Binghe will weather it, just as he has for years.

So he continues to push.

“What have I dared?” he growls through silver fangs. “I told you all that I knew. You were the one who never said he was a Heavenly Demon. If I had known, if anyone had said a word, you know I would have looked into it. You know I would have. You said he should be dead. Mobei Jun said-”

Silence echoes between them as he chokes suddenly on his words. Shen Jiu grinds his boot harder into his chest, forcing them out in the parody of first aid.

“Mobei Jun said he was gone.”

Two years of conversations, of rumor and whispers, turn over in his head. Mobei Jun never once said Shang Hua was dead.

So many juniors had been lost that night. And given the creatures Shen Jiu released into the gorge, some bodies were never found. Whether they were destroyed in death or scavenged later, it hadn't come across as odd when Shang Hua’s body didn't return to the sect. Of the seventeen disciples lost, only fifteen bodies made it back.

And later learning his shixiong must have been the one to kill him when his true nature was revealed. If some creature hadn’t torn his shizhi’s body to pieces that night, then Mobei Jun at least had taken measures to avoid anyone learning he'd raised a demon in their sect.

Damn him. Damn them both.

Did Mobei Jun know? Did he know his demonic disciple was alive? Was his grief a farce?

Were they plotting together?

Luo Binghe swears and slams his head back down against the stone, closing his eyes. Damn it all! “This servant was deceived. His reports were false.”

Shen Jiu scoffs and pulls away, as if Luo Binghe’s not even worth the disdain.

When Luo Binghe moves, it’s not to return to his work, to assist Shen Jiu at the desk, to even rise to his feet. He rolls onto his knees and lowers himself, waves of curls falling down around his face as he bows, head pressed low to the stone.

That tempest in his master is never gone, but it settles. Winds fall still and blizzards become flurries, never soft and gentle, but only cold rather than freezing. It takes time, it takes patience. And Luo Binghe has seen what the lack of either brings him. So he waits, he endures, until Shen Jiu collects himself and the storm becomes passable once more.

“Get up.”

He rises slowly, head still bowed.

“Arrange for the members of the delegation to take their meal in the dining hall as was planned. The Saints and the half breed will dine with me in the eastern library. Go.”

Luo Binghe nods and takes his dismissal with a bow.

Taking dinner with the three nobles in the library will be a far more private affair than the dining hall. It’s a show of trust, to confine himself to a space smaller with them, but also one of control, keeping the Saints from the rest of their delegation and forcing them to dine surrounded by Shen Jiu’s personal servants.

He’s already mapping out the assignments of who will serve where for the evening, making sure there are guards, unassuming but present, with the delegation and that those servants in the library are of a particular nature. This, at last, is normal. The sort of work in the palace that Luo Binghe is familiar with. For a moment, he can even pretend that his wayward shizhi is not involved in any of this. This is just a diplomatic matter. Predictable. Normal.

There is a second dinner to arrange now and instructions to draw up for the staff before then. Luo Binghe unlocks his office and steps inside, stopping dead in his tracks when all pretenses of normal are shattered by the grinning demon inside.

“Hello shishu. Let’s chat.”

Chapter Text

Shang Qinghua and the Twin Saints follow behind a cowering little rabbit demon tasked with showing them to their rooms. Everything from her nose to her flanks to her tail quivers as if she expects the demon lords to gobble her up at any second.

She stops before two doors across from each other and presses herself low like prey in the grass as she bows. “Apologies to J-Junshang. A-another room is being prepared. This lowly one d-did not know you would be joining the Twin S-Saints.”

Shang Qinghua smiles as gently as he can with a fanged grin. “The Saints and I have business to discuss, no harm.”

It seems she doesn’t dare to breathe a sigh of relief, only bows and thanks her way down the hall until she can safely scurry off and away.

The moment the door closes behind the three demons, having all entered the southern of the two suites, Liu Qingge is rolling his eyes. “Pathetic. No servant of the Southern Palace would show such weakness.”

Liu Mingyan, draping herself over a silvery blue divan, laughs. “Shen Jiu likes it when they’re afraid of him.” She drags her claws gently over the brocade and tips her head back, her veil never once at risk of slipping. “He wants them broken, like horses. Better they fear the one with the whip than risk them bucking.”

Shang Qinghua huffs a laugh, walking idly around the suite and surveying the accommodations, fingers tracing ancient wood. “You’re not wrong.”

“Except for the Beast,” Liu Qingge says, silver gaze sliding towards his betrothed. “He is different. And Shang Qinghua knows him, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Liu Mingyan purrs. “You called him shishu.”

“Mm. What do the Saints know of the Beast of the North?”

Liu Qingge furrows his brows. “He has been with Shen Jiu for many years. An attack dog who keeps the rest in line.”

“A human attack dog,” his sister adds. “No one knows where he came from. The Shens hate humans more than most of us, especially Shen Jiu. So why keep one?”

Plucking a pastry left by their hosts from a little silver platter, Shang Qinghua sinks his teeth into the nutty confection while he considers his words. “I won’t spill their secrets yet, just that he is from Cang Qiong, yeah.”

“But you do know their secrets.”

He spares a glance at Liu Mingyan and smirks, licking a bit of sugar from his thumb. “I do.”

She sighs. “One day you must tell us how you seem to know all these secrets of yours. You wouldn’t hide things from your wife and dear sister, would you?”

“Mingyan…”

Shang Qinghua only laughs. “One day, I promise.”

.

Navigating the Northern Palace is easy when your sword is an almighty cheat code. Halls and guards who? Shang Qinghua hasn’t spent the last several weeks training with Xin Mo and Liu Qingge for nothing. 

He promises a quick return to the Saints and then pulls his blade through time and space, letting himself into Luo Binghe’s office with his skeleton key. He hears Liu Qingge’s judgemental huff just before the rift closes and can’t help but snicker to himself before taking in the office around him.

It’s… well. It’s an office. He’s been in Luo Binghe’s Bamboo House a number of times on delivery in the past, so he’s not surprised by the absolute order he keeps the place in. But it is a little bit lifeless. A desk, his inks and brushes, some books all firmly shut, a single chair, and a simple divan that, Shang Qinghua knows, sees more use from a bratty prince than his shishu.

There’s no character, no decor. Not even a weird little statue on the shelves against the wall.

Hm. Speaking of shelves. Shang Qinghua sheaths Xin Mo and walks over to the inset shelves, running his claw along the edge. 

“Which one was it again…?”

Third.

“Ah ha!” Shang Qinghua grins and begins pulling every book off the third shelf, stacking them mostly neatly on Luo Binghe’s desk, before he digs his claw into a tiny little divet on the left side of the shelf and pulls. A little flare of spiritual qi unlocks it and the whole back wall slides aside, revealing a single green leather book.

“Thank you, Xiansheng,” he purrs, taking the book back with him to the divan.

This is how the Beast ruled in the North. Every secret, every deal, every bribe and threat. All of it documented in this. Luo Binghe had his hands in too many cookie jars to rely on even his memory.

He’s deep into the book, deciphering Luo Binghe’s codes with Mu Qingfang’s assistance, when he finally hears the tell tale turn of a key. 

With a grin, he snaps the book shut the moment the door swings open, eyes bright. “Hello shishu. Let’s chat.”

Luo Binghe stands as frozen as any ice sculpture in the Northern Palace and it is his lack of reaction that betrays him. The Beast of the North would never show fear, Shen Jiu beat that out of him long ago. Instead, he stands still and silent as the grave before the new master of his master.

Shang Qinghua lets his grin melt into something lazier, but no less feral, and motions to the desk chair with the tome, Luo Binghe’s eyes tracking the green leather with cleverly disguised horror. “Come, sit. We have so much to catch up on, shishu.” He tips his head in thought and flaps the book casually. “Take off the mask, relax. We’re martial family after all.”

The door closes with a heavy thud behind the other cultivator as he grimly takes a seat in his own office. There are questions swimming in his eyes, but he bites his tongue and slowly removes the mask, setting the silver muzzle on the desk.

Every breath he takes is even, his heart rate slow and steady, and Shang Qinghua knows it’s merely a show of his control and not his state of mind.

“That’s better! Now, before you waste your breath — how I know any of this is my little secret,” he adds with a wink. “But no one else knows what I do about you, shishu. Rest assured.”

Ha! As if that would settle his traitorous son at all! Maybe Shang Qinghua was being a little mean, toying with him, but Luo Binghe did orchestrate the Immortal Alliance Conference — and send the whole thing off book no less! Shang Qinghua’s allowed to be a little mean.

He watches as Luo Binghe centers himself with the same focus he would show on a battlefield, his fists curling only once into the knees of his robes, before he dons the mask of An Ding Peak Lord with a careful smile. “What can this master do for Shang-shizhi?”

Shang Qinghua chuckles. “There we go.” He drops the book beside him and leans in, elbows on his knees, before extending a wrist towards Luo Binghe. “In the absence of my Shizun, I ask Luo-shishu to evaluate my core.”

The peak lord’s smile doesn’t waver, even as his eyes flicker, glancing form Shang Qinghua’s face to his chest. Carefully, he takes his hand in his. “Shang-shizhi is unable to evaluate his own progress?”

“Ah, see. It gets tricky being a half demon, I've found out. I can tell I'm progressing, but even though I can feel and follow the two veins of qi, my core feels tangled. Not a bad tangled, just impossible to feel where one ends and the other begins. So here I am. Seeking shishu’s guidance.”

The other man makes a small humming noise and runs two fingers down the length of his vein. Qi flows through him like a crisp autumn breeze through leaves and Luo Binghe’s masterly mask briefly cracks. “Shang... Qinghua has made much progress since this master last saw him.”

“Oh?” He flashes the man a sharp, toothy grin and pulls back his hand. “Don’t keep me hanging.”

“Your golden core is well into the Core Formation stage. And at your age…” he stops himself and then sighs, shaking his head. “If only you had trained on An Ding. Your training would have been better guided.” 

Your training would have been monitored by me and my master, is what he doesn’t say. But Shang Qinghua knows the dog and the brat too well to not read between the lines he himself wrote.

“Ha! No offense, shishu, but I've done the errand boy thing before. Even if it meant not dipping into the Endless Abyss for a bit, I'm good.” Nope. He did not transmigrate into his own novel just to get stuck running chores and doing paperwork for a bunch of lazy cultivators. Pah. Absolutely not!

The look Luo Binghe shoots him at the mention of the Abyss, however, erases any other such confusion his comments may have caused. “The Endless Abyss?”

He huffs a laugh and pats the demonic blade on his hip. “Yep. Shen Jiu’s portals and my seal breaking had some nasty effects that night. I only got out, mm, a few weeks ago now?” 

Luo Binghe was a clever man. He didn’t get this far in both Cang Qiong and the Northern Palace by being a fool. He knew better than to openly poke lying Polar Diamond Claw Drake Bears. But oh, that didn’t mean he didn’t want to. Shang Qinghua could practically feel the heat of spinning gears as he weighed his options against his curiosity.

“Does Mobei-shixiong know?” he finally asked.

“Oh I’m sure Shizun knows plenty,” he laughed. “He’s a very accomplished cultivator, master of strategy at our dear Cang Qiong. He couldn’t achieve all that without knowing something.”

For shame, shishu. Thinking Shang Qinghua was going to fall for that low IQ trap. His antis would have a field day if the Protagonist fell for his own tricks like that.

Luo Binghe’s smile grows tight. “I mean, does he know about the Abyss?”

“Possibly,” Shang Qinghua allows. “Last he saw me, he knows I was alive. But I’d wager he didn’t think I would be for long. He saw the rift, but who’s to say what he thought of it, ah? Not this lowly disciple.”

There is a snort across from him, barely more than an exhale, but Shang Qinghua can’t help but snicker. Luo Binghe has seen too much to fall for that act anymore.

It’s almost a shame Shen Jiu will kill this man one day. Almost. Shang Qinghua can’t say he’s too attached to the ice prince’s loyal dog, he didn’t exactly write him lovable. But even so, he can’t say Luo Binghe had earned his death in Proud Immortal Demon Way, not really. Well, there was never a tipping point, at least. Never a moment where Shen Jiu — then Shen Qingqiu — had just cause to kill him once and for all.

No, instead he’d been a tipping point for Shang Qinghua to finally address the instability of his right hand. Shen Qingqiu was fierce and deadly, but volatile and paranoid to all hell. It was that paranoia that would get his shishu killed one day and give Shang Qinghua a plot that finally couldn’t be solved with a wedding.

Not that Shang Qinghua doesn’t think he couldn’t have fixed Shen Qingqiu with some papapa, but the sisters who’d have eaten that up definitely wouldn’t have been able to make up for the loss of readership he would have faced. And Airplane needed to eat.

Luo Binghe was loyal, blindly so, to Shen Jiu. He would never have betrayed the man. Even his loyalties to Cang Qiong and his own cousin were only ever secondary in the end. Maybe there was a teensy bit of homoeroticism written into that one-sided devotion, but it wasn’t as though anything could have come from it. Instead, the tragedy in the subtext had at least managed to feed a few of the commenters.

Given all the other changes he’s seen to his novel so far, he can’t help but wonder what’s changed with them now too. But given the, well, everything of Shen Jiu and Luo Binghe he’s seen so far, he’d safely wager neither has gotten laid in this lifetime either. So maybe not everything’s changed.

Shang Qinghua stands and Luo Binghe rises with him, a hand covering the mask as if it were a lifeline. “Well, I should be going. This disciple knows shishu is busy.”

“Yes… Shang-shizhi-” He stops and considers himself again before squaring his shoulders and asking, “What are you planning?”

“Ah, so you did decide to ask,” he laughs, more to himself than anything. “I could see you cooking this whole time. Hm, how much to tell,” he teases, cocking his head to the side. “We both know anything I tell you goes right back to Shen Jiu, so let’s not even pretend otherwise about that.”

Luo Binghe doesn’t react, but it doesn’t stop Shang Qinghua’s grin from growing. Maybe he hadn’t appreciated Luo Binghe enough, he was fun to tease.

“There is someone out there who has, shall we say, wracked up a debt with me. And I intend to make him pay.”

“Him?”

Shang Qinghua replies, his grin filled with too sharp teeth: “Mobei Linguang.”

.

With his cards more or less on the table, dinner goes about as well as it could have. Shen Jiu’s posturing is expected, but with a common enemy placed before them via his shishu’s loose tongue, the ice prince’s anger is tempered for the time being.

He doesn’t even try to have them poisoned through any of the courses! Not that he could have, with Shang Qinghua and the Saints having toasted in wine and blood in the Wastes, but it’s nice to know the blood mites have the evening off.

Of course the siblings knew about the blood mites, he had made it very clear it was meant only as a precaution against Shen Jiu. Shang Qinghua promised he would remove the Heavenly Demon blood from their systems the moment they requested it, and he meant that. But the Saints never cease to surprise even their creator. Liu Qingge seemed positively offended that his fiance would rescind the offer of his blood and Liu Mingyan had laughed, calling it research for her next book.

Look. Shang Qinghua adores his demonic daughter, but he has a sinking feeling a Heavenly Demon Emperor will be featuring in yet more yellow books to come.

Ah well. Do him proud, Mingyan. His starring in porn is a much lesser concern than the ice demon across from them now. 

Between the final courses, Shang Qinghua swirls a goblet of ice wine in his hand. He ignores all manners, his elbow digging into the dark wood of the circular table they’re seated around in the library. Silent servants linger in the shadows of books around them and he ignores them too, except for the ever present hound lingering at its master’s side.

“Tell me, did the great sects ever seek recompense for the Immortal Alliance Conference?”

Shen Jiu snorts behind the shield of his fan. “They did not.”

Liu Mingyan arches a brow at that. “They certainly made a fuss at the border afterwards.”

“No campaign has ever survived the Northern Desert in all my clan’s history,” he says primly. “Of course they had to make a fuss, as you say, at the Borderlands. It’s the only place they feel they have control.”

Shang Qinghua hums at that and turns a bloody red gaze on the only other cultivator among them. “I’ve heard so much about the Beast, you have your nose to the ground nearly everywhere in your realm. What is the opinion of the sects on this matter?”

Lesser trained servants would have started whispering among themselves along the walls, but these were no doubt Shen Jiu’s personal staff. They knew better than to whisper while the master watches. But even so, for a visiting demon to address the Beast with more than disdain was unheard of. For the Beast to reply, even more so. It would be the talk of servant quarters in due time.

“The North has been their prime suspect since the beginning,” the Beast reports. “Prince Shen was seen that night by several cultivators, it was not meant to be a secret. The attack was designed to inspire fear and leave little in the way of available retribution.” 

“In your opinion, Beast, would the sects still seek retribution if it came knocking?”

He watches brows furrow, the only sign of emotion visible from behind the silver maw. “Some more than others.”

“Huan Hua Palace?”

“Their loss was the greatest, so this servant imagines so.”

Well, that was what happened when you sent untrained children into the event to simply fluff your numbers. 

Shang Qinghua takes another sip of wine before setting the goblet down. He folds his hands and settles his chin atop them, turning his gaze back to Shen Jiu. “What does the Prince think of Huan Hua Palace?”

The fan snaps shut with a growl. “I would see it frozen and shattered.”

Of course he would. One of his cousins, a member of the Qiu branch if Shang Hua recalled, had left him for dead on a hunting trip once when they were both young. What better way to secure the throne than by letting one of the more vicious sects do the dirty work for you? Shen Jiu hated the Palace, and justifiably so, more than most demons would.

Shen Jiu might not like him very much, but that well of hatred easily eclipsed any disdain he had for Shang Qinghua and the Twin Saints. Hell, offering a chance to fuck with the sect was practically like getting the man a gift basket.

“Then I have a proposition that you’re going to enjoy.”

.

By time they finish scheming, the Northern Palace is a dark and empty thing when they bid goodnight to their host. What servants attended them in the library guide the three visiting demons to their rooms, with a third having been prepared for Shang Qinghua in the same wing.

With a wink to the Saints, Shang Qinghua slips into his room and latches the door behind him.

The curtains are drawn back from huge windows, allowing the light of the moon to illuminate the room and cast shadows across the walls. It’s a stately room, just as grand as was prepared for the siblings. Dark word, silver accents, rich brocades. All manners of displaying wealth and good will to visiting dignitaries.

Dressing down for the evening, he lays his swords beside him on the wide bed and allows himself to sink into the mattress with a world weary sigh.

Sure, his accommodations in the Wastes had been upgraded following his Shu Rong, but there was something to be said about the opulence of the North. Maybe he could convince Liu Qingge or Liu Mingyan to invest in some proper mattresses, at least until he takes the Underground Palace back from the rot and decay of his mother’s absence. This one had to be stuffed with more down than found in an entire flock of Fire Spitting Geese and Shen Jiu will have to be grateful if he doesn’t spirit it away when they’re done here.

For now, he settles on spiriting himself away instead, allowing his mind to sink into the Dream Realm. Mu Qingfang is not waiting for him in the twilight depths of the realm as he normally is. Instead, the elder demon has already been busy chasing dream and memory of the denizens of the palace. He doesn’t need to rely on Shang Qinghua’s sleep patterns to do his own snooping after all.

And with his Xiansheng hard at work, it means Shang Qinghua is free to see to more personal dream matters on his own without hovering judgment.

Since leaving the confines of the Abyss, Shang Qinghua has found the reach of his dream walking amplified more than tenfold. It was as if the Abyss existed within a magical lead box, allowing no prying eyes in or out of it. After his little tree time mingling, he’d been able to extend his reach to nearly any sleeping mind in the Abyss if he knew where to look, but no further.

Now, free of that box and more powerful than ever, there were few places he could not reach.

While in the Wastes, he’d begun to stretch his mind further and further out into the realms. He found demons far beyond the reach of the mountain with dreams of conquest and lust and humans along the border with nightmares of marauding bands and fierce corpses. It was the minds of the humans that encouraged him to keep pushing forward.

There was no map to the Dream Realm, not even one Mu Qingfang could share with him. It was ever changing, based on the dreamers who populated and shaped it. At best, they would only ever know how to navigate through it and back to their own minds. They would never be lost, but they would never know its full scope either.

However, if they knew where to look, they could follow minds like stepping stones until they found their destination. That was how Shang Qinghua first found his way back to Cang Qiong Mountain, even as his body lay in the Southern Wastes. And how he did so again here and now.

‘Found you, Shizun.’

Chapter Text

When Mobei Jun opens his eyes, he knows seasons have passed since he last did so. The Lingxi Caves are deep and winding labyrinths, rich in spiritual qi, and the heat of summer, bathing the mountain above in sunlight, has left the current of qi warm as candle fire around him. Not a dangerous or oppressive heat, but soothing in the dark of the caves themselves. Like waking from winter sleep to the warmth of hearth and home.

He sits, still in his meditation, and comes back to himself piece by piece before finally standing. As a cultivator, his bones do not creak and pop after the stillness, but it's a near thing.

The way to the cave mouth from his chosen hollow is a twisting path. Without strength of mind and body, no mortal could confidently navigate this place beneath Qiong Ding, but Mobei Jun has not been mortal for many years. His steps are confident and steady in the silent passages until the pinks and oranges of a setting sun begin to glow along the walls up ahead.

He is above ground for no more than a moment when his attention is caught.

"Mobei-shibo?"

To the side of the cave mouth, a young man scrambles up to his feet. His single arm does little to hamper him and he bows with as much grace as Six Balls ever drives into his students. The head disciple of Bai Zhan, a young fellow insisting on following his master's proclivities and naming himself One Arm, stands to his full height at Mobei Jun's acknowledgment.

"Is something wrong, shizhi?" The boy might insist on Six Ball's naming methods, but Mobei does not encourage it. The night at Jue De Gorge is one he would rather banish from his mind than commemorate with the youth's chosen name.

The boy had been brave, yes, but foolishly so, sneaking away from the medics' care at every turn to dive back into the gorge and fish out another traumatized junior. Of course, by time he returned with half his arm shredded off by the fangs of some venomous beast, Zhuzhi Lang had personally stepped in to sedate him. There had been no saving the tattered limb and with demonic necrosis eating at the flesh, Zhuzhi Lang had done the boy a kindness by removing the rest up to the shoulder.

Some of the Qian Cao disciples had feared the reaction of their shixiong when he woke. His joviality at the matter was all the more concerning, thinking perhaps he'd had some previously missed brain damage. But no, he took after the Bai Zhan Lord when it came to good humor. As long as he could still swing a sword, he refused to be stopped, barely even allowing time to adjust to his new circumstance.

So to see worry in the boy's eyes now, Mobei Jun's hand is already moving towards Lin Ya.

"Did Mobei-shibo perhaps come across my Shizun in the caves?"

Last Mobei Jun recalls, Six Balls had entered seclusion prior to himself, but there was no trace of his shidi's molten qi in the rivers of spirit beneath the mountain. Hand still on Lin Ya, he turns to re-enter the caves.

"How long?" he asks. How long has he been in seclusion? How long past since he should have emerged? The disciples on his own peak would know the cost of wasted words, he hopes this one does as well.

"Ah! Mobei-shibo! This disciple was not clear, please wait!"

He stops as the boy jumps in front of him, arm held out to block him, and Mobei Jun gives him a cool look that demands clarity. Now.

One Arm lowers his guard and scratches his neck. "What this disciple meant to say, he is waiting to stop Shizun before he enters. He was only hoping Shizun had not beaten him to the caves."

The hand on Lin Ya rises, leaving the burnt osmanthus tassel swinging at his side. He crosses his arms. "And why should a disciple think he can stop his master?"

"Ah, see. Shizun sent a letter to Shiniang that said he would be entering seclusion on his return. This disciple is only here on Shiniang's behalf."

In the blur of the last few years, Mobei Jun recalls the addition of his newest shimei, a wedding on the peaks was not a common affair after all. That Six Balls was the first among their generation to make three bows was the even more surprising part. But he and she were fairly suited to one another.

A cultivator from another sect, they had met on a series of night hunts, as Six Balls likes to recount. It was only once they both realized they were each hunting more than demonic beasts that their meetings turned towards courtship. Within a season, they had come before Madame Meiyin for both her approval and a reading of their star charts. Within a week, they were wed.

No one could say Bai Zhan and its lord were without passion.

If his memory serves him, shijie had mentioned something about a child on the peaks soon when they last had tea. And if he were correct about the time of year that would mean…

"Ah."

One Arm shoots him a crooked smile. "So I really must stop him before he enters or Shiniang's threatened to give me a beating with my own arm."

Yes, the two were incredibly well suited to one another.

"This lord was alone in the caves, shizhi has nothing to fear."

With a quick bow, he says, "Thanking shibo for his confirmation," and returns to his perch on a nearby rock.

Mobei Jun leaves him to it.

His shidi's affairs are not his concern. He has a mountain of his own to return to, his own head disciple to check in on. Apparently what his shidi struggles to remember is that the world continues to turn when even in seclusion.

Rather than fly back to Qing Jing, Mobei Jun takes the rainbow bridges, soaking in the last rays of the summer day he's woken to. Yes, the world continues to turn, even if the meaning of its doing so continues to evade even immortal masters such as him. And how he has searched for that meaning.

As he crosses from Qiong Ding towards his Qing Jing Peak, he spots a woman standing at the zenith of the rainbow bridge. She wears simple robes lined in misty lilac, swirls of smoke decorating the hems, and little ornamentation beyond the hair crown gifted to her on her wedding day. And by the heavy swell of her belly, Mobei Jun has the final bit of confirmation as to just how long he has been away.

"Oh, Lord Mobei," Chen Die greets, turning towards him with a disarming smile. "You haven't seen my darling husband, have you?"

"I have not, Chen-shimei."

"Good," she laughs, settling a hand over her belly. "Though this wife is fully prepared to rip him screaming out of those caves herself, she would rather not. But if that fool husband of mine thinks he can miss the birth of our child—" she clicks her tongue.

Mobei Jun can't help the slightest twitch of a smile. If there were ever a woman to keep Six Balls in line, he's sure Chen Die is that woman. "Should I see him, I will send him home."

"Thank you, Mobei-shixiong. And oh, that does remind me," she hums. "Zhangmen-shijie asked that when I see you, to send you her way. I believe she is taking tea at Qian Cao this evening."

He has spent long enough around Madame Meiyin to no longer question what she can and cannot foresee. It is best to simply thank Chen Die and, regrettably, divert towards the medical peak. If shijie was planting messengers around the mountain looking for him, there's no use in delaying. Even if he rather retire to his own peak after so many months of seclusion, it's clearly not in the cards just yet.

Transferring to the Qian Cao bridge is simple, the network of rainbow bridges woven as a web, and before long Mobei Jun is walking the manicured paths of his shidi's peak. White and amber robed disciples hurry between pavilions, arms laden with tinctures and tomes. Only a a few eagle-eyed disciples catch sight of their shibo and bow before darting off again.

Mobei Jun does not bother to acknowledge either category of disciples as he steps down the path towards the Leisure House — a rather inappropriate name, he thinks, for one of the least leisured peak lords.

Perhaps it was aspirational.

He knocks only the once before Madame Meiyin's voice carries through the home like a gong. "Enter shidi." Mobei Jun does so and catches the tail end of her next comment in a much more conversational tone, "-told you he would be along."

Familiar smoke fills his lungs as Mobei Jun lets himself inside, it blankets the usual scents of medicinal herbs and toxic blooms. Various plants grow along the walls, some situated on neat shelves, others simply climbing as they wish. Notes and vials litter most surface space within the home, the physician's work rarely ending even when he retires, including across most of the low table where Madame Meiyin herself sits. Pipe balanced between her lips, she pours the third and final teacup set out amidst the scrolls for Mobei Jun as he takes his place opposite her.

The physician himself, however, titters about the house with the same kinetic energy as his disciples outside. With the usual pleated braids he wears down and his hair damp and curling at the edges,a bath must have pulled him from his work at least somewhat recently.

He plucks bottles of viscous fluids, examines them once, then drops them back into place before continuing again, sometimes rattling the contents, sometimes merely weighing the bottle in his hand before it too is discarded. Looking for something, clearly, but by the half wild look in golden eyes, Mobei Jun is doubtful even the physician knows what he seeks.

Meiyin raps the table with her pipe. "Zhuzhi-shidi. Enough, sit."

He spooks like a Nightshade Mouse and turns owlish eyes on them both, as if suddenly remembering he wasn't alone in his home. Dipping his head, he slinks over and takes the seat between them. "Apologies, shijie. This Zhuzhi knows time is of the essence."

"Precisely," she agrees. "Which is why we need to catch Mobei-shidi up before you pack half your home in a qiankun bag."

Zhuzhi Lang tips his head, as if suddenly considering that an option, before the pipe is rapped in front of him again.

"Enough. Speak."

"It appears this lord has missed much," Mobei Jun says from behind the rim of his cup.

"This," Meiyin says, with a gesture to Zhuzhi Lang, "is thankfully a more recent development. One, I hope, you will be able to assist with, shidi."

The development, is as follows:

There is a city that sits along the border of the territories of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect and Huan Hua Palace. Its protection often falls to Huan Hua Palace, whose golden gleam sparks kinship with the merchant class that dominates the city. But a missive recently arrived from Jin Lan City begging the sect for help.

At first, a few disciples from Qian Cao, An Ding, and Bai Zhan were sent to look into the matter. One Qian Cao disciple returned, demanding additional aid be brought to Jin Lan.

By time she returned to the city with her seniors in tow, she was the only of the original disciples who hadn't succumbed.

Mobei Jun's tea sits forgotten. "Succumbed to what?"

"That, shixiong, is what this Zhuzhi has been trying to discover. When I went down to Jin Lan myself, it is like a ghost town. The place is silent, doors shuttered. Those unaffected are unwilling to talk to strangers. And those who are affected, well. Unless shixiong knows a way to speak with the dreaming, they do not offer much more than the rest."

Sleep? Of all the afflictions that could strike a town, sleep is, at least, a more moderate option.

"Nothing wakes them?"

"Nothing that I have been able to test." Zhuzhi Lang tucks his hands into his sleeves and cocks his head to the side. "I have tried much. Smelling salts, qi infusions, various remedies that should kickstart a body's responses. The list goes on. I returned to the mountain just this morning to reevaluate and restock." With a glance to the window he adds, "I brought Disciple Xuan back with me. She was the last of the first group to succumb."

"Was that wise? You don't know what causes this affliction and you brought it to the sect?"

Zhuzhi Lang simply nods. "Huan Hua has been sending disciples to and from the city, but it has not spread to their palace. Whatever this is, it is affecting those in the city. With any luck, even just being away from there may help wake Disciple Xuan."

At the mention of Huan Hua Palace, Mobei Jun scoffs. "Do you trust they would tell us if this affliction had infested their halls?"

Meiyin moves to raise a hand and still him, but Mobei Jun already tastes bile in the back of his throat at the thought of that place and what he would and wouldn't do to preserve its image.

Thankfully, before he can be riled further on the matter, Zhuzhi Lang is already shaking his head. "No, Mobei-shixiong is correct. There is something they are not telling us. Which is why I brought Disciple Xuan to an isolated ward on Qian Cao. Beyond myself, no one caring for her is leaving that ward until we have answers."

Zhuzhi Lang is a soft spoken man most of the time, a shadow at their shijie's heels. Sometimes, Mobei Jun forgets the man can be ruthless too. With lives on the line, he does not hesitate in the pursuit of answers, no matter the risk to himself or his peak. Healers do not earn their name, their merit, by hiding in books and theory.

The lives of those with the slumbering disciple have been left to balance on a thin line — either they are safe from the afflictions, or they are not; either they wake their shimei, or they lose her. Qian Cao is no place for those of weak heart.

"And you believe yourself to be safe?"

"En. So far, none of the afflicted have practiced inedia. I am not allowing myself to do more than meditate until we have more answers."

He sits with that information for a moment, slowly nodding and taking another sip of the tea poured for him. It's not the blend he prefers, but it's also not the usual herbal blend Zhuzhi Lang tends to serve him. That tea is no better than medicine and his shidi's claims that it's good for clearing the mind do not outweigh the fact it tastes like Mobei Jun is swallowing down weeds. This is his shijie's doing, the smoky undercurrent and bite of something citrus more familiar and slightly more welcome.

"How does this pertain to me?" he asks, the puzzle of this affliction already turned over and over again in his mind.

"As we have yet to discover a cause, this shidi would request the Lin Ya Sword to accompany him back to the city." His big, golden eyes are turned on Mobei Jun, and once again it is so easy to forget the calculations running behind them. "I cannot find reference to any disease that matches this, nor known poisons. If this is something new, Lin Ya's ability would be most welcome. And if it is not poison, then we can focus on curses or other causes."

It is a simple solution, but one that relied on Mobei Jun's availability. Of course, given the foresight of Madame Meiyin, he has no doubt the smiling woman beside them had already known the timing would work out. If only that Sight of hers saw everything.

"What does shijie have to say on the matter?"

Tapping her pipe idly, Meiyin hums softly. Her brilliant eyes retain their color, the pearlesent gleam of her Sight missing even as she stares into the smoke. "I have seen little about this, if that is what shidi asks. The portents of true misfortune are absent and the stars shine no less favorably than they ought. But there is something, not quite hidden, but lurking. A tremble that tells a tower is about to fall, a dynasty about to shift. I cannot say what this feeling is, but it has been present since that first missive arrived at our door."

It is rare Meiyin cannot see a more accurate future when she seeks it. And Mobei Jun cannot help but recall a previous reading, a boy with sun struck curls and a small hand settled in hers, and how his future evaded her too.

Greatness, she had said. And yet his is a memory that haunts.

Perhaps that in itself is a type of greatness, to be remembered. But Mobei Jun had foolishly expected more.

"I see. When does Zhuzhi Lang intend to leave for Jin Lan?"

"I can be ready to leave tomorrow, but if shixiong need attend to his peak, this one can wait another day."

He waves a dismissive hand. "Tomorrow will do. I trust Ning Yingying has not burned down Qing Jing in my absence?"

"Not at all," Madame Meiyin responds with a laugh. "She has been keeping the other head disciples on their toes, if anything."

"Good." It's a single, simple word, but there is pride there.

Ning Yingying is a clever, talented cultivator. If his own time as peak lord was anywhere near its sunset, he would trust the mountain in her hands. Alas, he expects she will move on from the sect at some point. Madame Meiyin did not foretell greatness in the girl, but Mobei Jun saw it in her nonetheless. She would not waste immortality at his side forever.

Standing up, Mobei Jun says, "If that is all, I will go make my own preparations."

"Does shixiong need anything before he goes?" Zhuzhi Lang asks, quickly rising with him. "I believe I have more of the incense you requested last time we met. Would you like more?"

If Meiyin is curious about the incense, she says nothing, merely packing more tobacco into her pipe. Mobei Jun has no interest in bringing her opinions into the matter now and he doubts this will be the last he hears of his prior prescriptions from the physician if he is to travel with him tomorrow.

However, no amount of cloying incense is going to be enough to clear his mind tonight. Not when they journey into a den of gilded wolves.

He holds up a hand and shakes his head. "I will pass. Goodnight, Zhangmen-shijie, shidi," he says, bowing in turn before stepping into the night.

.

For all that there are days he wishes his shijie saw less than she did, he welcomes her good foresight into alerting Ning Yingying of his return. It is late when he descends from Lin Ya and steps onto the path of his home, but the Plum Blossom House is lit like the most welcoming of lanterns to greet him.

Inside, waiting at the table, he finds a simple meal beneath a cover, warmed with a talisman drawn in his disciple's flowing hand, and single scroll set out beside it, a summarized detail of the goings on of the mountain and its students. He allows himself the meal after so many weeks of inedia and writes up a scroll of his own as he does so. Ning Yingying's insights on the mountain are good, but he makes some adjustments and leaves her with a plan to cover things until he returns once more.

He won't be ordering her or any of his other disciples to follow him into this cursed city, but there is research in the libraries of Qing Jing that can be done. Best to have the scholars on his mountain join heads with those on Qian Cao while he and Zhuzhi Lang wade into the thick of it.

With as many preparations made as he can for the evening, he begins the familiar process of turning the house down, flames extinguished and night pearls dimmed. It would be wise, he recognizes, to meditate for the night. To settle on his bed, rather than in it, after potential exposure to Zhuzhi Lang. But after seclusion and the knowledge that sleep will be evading him until the affliction is dealt with, it is hard to resist one night in his own bed.

He pinches at his brow for awhile before his shoulders drop and it is not Peak Lord Mobei, but Mobei Jun, infinitely tired and weary down to his marrow, who dresses down for the evening.

One evening's sleep, it is the least he can allow himself before he must face the dogs of Huan Hua Palace.

.

They are under a day's travel from their destination when a farmer flags them down. He is a mess, half covered in dirt and blood, and begs the two cultivators to save his family. A tiger yao snuck into their midst and now held his wife and daughter captive. It had already torn his son-in-law to shreds.

Their mission is priority, but they are cultivators of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. A tiger yao will not delay them long.

Or it wouldn't have, if there had been just the one. But it was not just a single tiger yao, instead it was a mother and cubs.

One cub already lays dead at Mobei Jun's feet, its mother yowling in demonic rage at the sight. Good. It will draw her ire to him and give an opening for his partner to dispatch the other cub and see that the family is alright.

Her blind fury is the most dangerous thing about her now, turning the lethal hunter unpredictable. She is a huge beast of a yao, her orange pelt burned red in outrage. A gorgeous creature, one Mobei Jun would normally have left in peace — if she had not come down the mountains and made these people her prey.

Now she'll make a fine pelt.

Lin Ya makes quick work of her. She focuses her attention so thoroughly on Mobei Jun, his sword seals meaningless to her before the white blade cuts into her belly as she lunges. Her roar is a booming burst of sound across the field that could have dropped men, or even lesser cultivators to their knees, bowling them down like blades of grass in a storm. A last ditch effort from a dying beast to take her killer with her.

His blade flicks the yao's blood from itself and flies back to its sheath as soon as the creature stops twitching.

Mobei Jun presses his hearing to its limits in the echoing silence following her death knell. He can hear the faintest murmurs coming from the farmhouse and turns towards it.

"Shizun!"

Darting around the side of the building, in robes of blue and white, is Shang Hua.

Alive. As he should have been.

Mobei Jun stills and waits for his disciple to cross the field and join him over the corpse of the mother yao.

In the moonlight, Shang Hua is half cast in shadow and its silver light. Even with blood splashed across his face, he grins, his hand resting easy on the hilt of Zhen Yang.

Handsome. His disciple deserved to grow into himself, to stand at the side of his shijie and grasp their immortality together.

"Report."

"The second cub is dead. Other than the son-in-law, everyone is accounted for."

Mobei Jun nods and while Shang Hua begins to examine the mother yao, Mobei Jun pulls a talisman from his sleeve. His qi flares once and the talisman and its pair, in the hands of the farmer at the edge of the woods, burn to harmless ash. A silent message of safety telling the man to return.

"What should we do with the yao, Shizun? If I recall, the liver of the adults are often wanted by Qian Cao, yeah?"

Clever. His disciple had always been so well read, even in manners beyond literature and sword forms. He was an enigma Mobei Jun had yet to solve before his end.

"En. They're rich in yang, good for a number of remedies." He looks towards the horizon, the edges of the farm dark and hazy. "This master will send word to the sect for their retrieval. A stasis talisman should keep them preserved until a team from An Ding arrives."

Reaching into his pouch, he pulls out another talisman, this one already inscribed with xiang 向 and fei 飞, characters for thought and flight.

Such a simple thing. And yet Shang Hua had always been so entertained by the paper birds the sect used for messages.

Before he can send the message back to Ning Yingying, he makes the mistake he always makes. His eyes catch on Shang Hua in just the wrong light.

Where his disciple should stand is a ghost. His robes are torn and tattered, white and blue turned black with frost and ash. The splash of yao blood across his face has shifted, morphed and glowing red on his brow like a—

"Shizun?" the memory says, cocking its head to the side.

His disciple is dead. His disciple is missing. His disciple is gone.

Mobei Jun stands frozen, just as he stood frozen then. The darkness beyond the forest creeps in on him, bloody screams and howls tearing through the quiet night.

This is how these dreams always end.

Yet in between one instance and the next something shifts, like a bone snapped back into alignment. It is quick and sudden and Mobei Jun feels disoriented as the darkness retreats.

Blue eyes seek Shang Hua and there, right in front of him, is the young man. No demon marks, no blood, just Shang Hua as he was always meant to be. "Shang Hua…"

"Aiysh. What did I tell you, huh?" Shang Hua smiles, crooked and charming and bright as he ever was and Mobei Jun would tear the threads of fate to shreds to see it again. "The story is going to be different, Shizun."

He steps closer and Mobei Jun still feels rooted to the spot. No longer frozen, but afraid of shattering something fragile beyond words. Shang Hua's hand, just a hand, no claws, no blood, reaches out, as if he might touch Mobei Jun's cheek.

His fist clenches and the touch never comes. But the smile remains.

"Just trust me, yeah?"

.

When Mobei Jun wakes, the Plum Blossom House welcomes him in its serenity. For once, there are no lingering clouds of prescribed incense to filter out the morning sun.

He lies there, the early light casting everything, himself included, in a warm glow. Its a peace Mobei Jun hasn't known in nearly four years. It has been so long since he last slept without dreams.

Perhaps his time in seclusion has done good for more than just his cultivation this time.

Perhaps he is finally freed of this ghost.

.

Despite leaving early that morning, the sun has already long since set by time Mobei Jun and Zhuzhi Lang arrive at the city. Though there were no distractions on their route and their swords were swift, the fact of the matter remains that Jin Lan City still sits at the far ends of the sect's reach.

Under usual circumstances, the two cultivators would have done the polite thing and dismounted their swords outside the city and entered by foot. But as his shidi said, Jin Lan had become a ghost town. No lanterns are lit at the city gates and no one calls out as they fly into the city center, dismounting outside of a shuttered storefront that is barely illuminated from within.

"This apothecary is a former shidi of mine," Zhuzhi Lang explains. Unlike the night prior, the physician is once more composed. In the amber robes of Qian Cao, with delicate embroidery of snakes and flora in white and gold thread, and his dark umber hair pleated in twin braids over his shoulders, Zhuzhi Lang once again appears the wise and noble master. "It was he who reached out to Cang Qiong. He opened his doors for the disciples when they arrived and has been allowing me to work from his shop."

Mobei Jun glances back at the shop. If the man works in a city like Jin Lan, Mobei Jun would imagine that his cultivation at its peak was not particularly high. Though it wasn't unusual for those who saw the sect as purely a place of academics to find work elsewhere, it did raise concern in this instance if he was unable to practice inedia. "He is still unaffected?"

"Last I was here. And, well, someone lit the lanterns."

Mobei Jun nods and allows his gaze to sweep out across the rest of the plaza. Light sources are few and far between, some second story windows emitting faint glows scattered like beacons in the dark. Mostly, the city is steeped in oppressive shadows.

"This Mobei will walk the city and see what he can find."

Zhuzhi Lang's hands disappear into his sleeves as he bows. "Take care, shixiong. I will remain here until you return. We can discuss what comes with your findings."

.

What Mobei Jun finds is a lot of nothing.

Lin Ya is a great blade, but it is not a bloodhound. It cannot simply be unleashed and spin like a compass towards poison. The longer Mobei Jun walks the streets of Jin Lan, the more he debates if he should explain that to his shijie and shidi.

His sword floats along at his side, effortlessly directed towards anything he might be able to test.

He dips the white blade in rain water buckets, he sends it down a well, its tip even pierces a couple of fruits whose branches hang over the walls of shuttered estates. Nothing dyes Lin Ya's steel black.

It has been hours since they arrived and Mobei Jun is beginning to suspect he may have signed himself up for an indeterminate length of inedia for a problem that is beyond him.

Still, there will be satisfaction when it is Zhuzhi Lang who finds the cure to this ailment and not the golden masters of Huan Hua. He is more annoyed that he cannot be of immediate help.

For the sake of this city, he wishes he were.

While most have holed themselves and their loved ones away, not all are so lucky.

Mobei Jun passes many who appear to have simply lied down for a rest and have yet to get back up. An older gentleman leaning against a tree, his cane tucked into his arm. Two young children, huddled together in an alley and bundled in what little they have. Even the animals haven't been spared, as no cat or dog sniffs his heels from where they've curled up under carts or in alley mouths.

There is nothing natural about this, but still he cannot say if it is poison if he cannot find a common source.

For this sleep to even take the animals in its grasp, the most likely source would need to be the water supply. But even when Mobei Jun commits himself to checking every well in the city, Lin Ya shines white as fresh fallen snow.

He is, however, not alone as he patrols Jin Lan's streets.

In groups of three or four, he passes the gold adorned disciples of Huan Hua Palace.

Most identify him at a distance as someone to be respected. Dressed in the fine robes of Qing Jing and wearing a crown of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, even if they don't recognize the Lin Ya Sword, they know he is not a threat to this afflicted place.

Some even dare to acknowledge that respect, giving the peak lord his dues as they pass.

Most seem content to disregard him entirely and Mobei Jun cannot help but wonder if it is due to the secrecy so heavily imposed by their sect or him in particular they choose not to associate with.

Mobei Jun did grow up to look so much like the late Palace Master after all.

And he doesn't know what venom his uncle has fed his disciples, but he doesn't doubt his name is little more than a curse in that place.

Huan Hua Palace is many things, but in this moment they are a distraction.

Mobei Jun breathes in deep, releasing the air through his nose with a snort of frustration. There is no point in thinking about what was once his home. That was a lifetime ago and there are more pressing issues at hand. If the disciples of the palace do nothing more than patrol the streets and keep peace, then it keeps them out of his hair.

They can think what they like of him, it makes no difference.

Mobei Jun turns away from another patrol and walks the darkened streets of lower Jin Lan alone. There are fewer lights lit along here, more doors long shuttered and locked.

And yet a single red lantern's glow can be seen in the distance. Mobei Jun snorts. Of course, money still trades hands in the pleasure district. It would take more than some curse to shutter the brothels, but for Mobei Jun that may be a blessing.

The courtesans of such places hear more than grandmothers in markets and talk more readily for the right price.

Knowing the golden vermin, they would find such places beneath them.

Making his way towards the last brothel in Jin Lan City, Mobei Jun forgets himself for a just a moment. Sheathing Lin Ya so as to not frighten the courtesans, Mobei Jun drops his guard.

It's just a moment, but that's all it takes.

Because Mobei Jun is no longer alone.

Back lit by the red lantern, a figure stands between him and the brothel. They stand shorter than Mobei Jun, but the build is not the usual of courtesans, even men. A doorman, perhaps, but something about that too is wrong.

No brothel doorman would be able to sneak up on Mobei Jun, guard down or not.

Before his hand can settle on Lin Ya in warning, there is a voice, soft and bright, that suddenly makes this tiny backstreet feel cavernous.

"Shizun."

Mobei Jun freezes as Shang Hua steps out of the shadows.

Oh.

He must have been more distracted by Huan Hua than he had thought.

Zhuzhi-shidi will be disappointed with him.

He doesn't even know when or where he must have fallen asleep. But what other explanation is there for Shang Hua standing before him now?

The young man smiles as he comes closer, his impossible disciple dressed in black.

Mobei Jun's eyes flicker over his brow, across his face, but the only red on him is from the lantern behind him. No demonic heritage to be seen.

Perhaps this curse's dreams will be kinder than his own.

"This one wasn't expecting you so soon, Shizun."

Ah, even his dream disciple expected better of him here. Mobei Jun must truly be a fool. "Will my disciple explain where this master went wrong?" he asks.

"Wrong?"

Mobei Jun arches a brow and motions to Shang Hua. "You would not be here if this master had not erred."

For a moment, the smile drops. Something dark glimmers in long lost brown eyes.

Ah well. He shouldn't be surprised the dream would shift. They always last longer if he doesn't question them, but he can't help but press.

And then Shang Hua laughs, the first joyful thing Mobei Jun has witnessed in Jin Lan. He wishes to pull the sound from his dreams, find a way to weave it with guqin strings.

"Oh man. Had me there for a minute, Shizun," Shang Hua continues to laugh.

Mobei Jun's brow creases. He might have missed the sound, but less so when he appears to be missing the joke. "Shang Hua," he warns, as if there were anything he could do to a dream when he cannot wake.

And yet his disciple flashes another crooked smile and holds up his hands in surrender. "Apologies Shizun, this disciple has been away too long."

"Yes," Mobei Jun agrees easily, finding something like fondness in the smile aimed his way.

Shang Hua steps closer, lazy and confidant in a way Mobei Jun's dreams rarely recreated with any accuracy. "Does Shizun remember this one's promise?"

Mobei Jun frowns, a slight downturn of his lips as distant words he scarcely recalled come forth all at once. "The story will be different."

"Got it in one," Shang Hua says with a wink.

Then, with speed he never knew Shang Hua to possess, Mobei Jun is pushed up against the wall of a shuttered brothel, sword wrist pinned to the stone and a heavy hand on his hip.

This—

What a confusing dream.

It is made no less confusing by Shang Hua pressing himself closer, using his weight to pin Mobei Jun despite the fact he is too confused by this turn to fight the dream.

Does he want to see where this dream leads him? He can't say.

"Shang Hua… what is the meaning of this?" he asks, voice more steady than his dream borne heart feels.

But no answer comes. Not a verbal one at least.

Shang Hua leans up, blazing brown eyes meeting stormy blue, and then presses their lips together.

Mobei Jun has little experience with spring dreams, let alone ones that feature his disciple. And while some part of his brain is certain this is the doing of the curse, that it must be the work of succubi or other such lustful creatures, there is another that whispers he take what this dream gives.

It's part of the curse, clearly.

There is no other explanation as to why Mobei Jun parts his lips to the specter of his disciple and allows his eyes to fall shut.

Heat creeps down his chest, flushing pale jade skin as this Shang Hua presses into his mouth, slides his tongue against Mobei Jun's. Shang Hua is warm against him, a dizzying heat when Mobei Jun has felt cold for longer than he knows.

The hand not still pinned to the stone finds Shang Hua's shoulder, his neck, and presses him closer.

It's a dream within a curse. He cannot be blamed for succumbing to it just this once.

There is a rumble, like a big cat's purr, from the young man above him. Clearly this specter agrees.

The tongue in his mouth retreats for just a moment, and before Mobei Jun can chase it, it returns with the taste of something metallic at the tip.

A thumb along his throat coaxes him to swallow. Thoughtlessly he does, mind muddled with warmth and want, before his eyes snap open and meet the glowing red of the Heavenly Demon above him.

Shang Hua pulls back, swiping an already healed tongue across his own lips before pecking a soft and innocent kiss to the corner of Mobei Jun's mouth. "Ah… got a little ahead of myself," he murmurs. "Forgive me, Shizun. Will you still trust me?"

Trusting a phantom in a dream clearly designed to be his undoing is a horrible idea.

Trusting a Heavenly Demon, even if, somehow, it were not a dream, is even worse.

And still Mobei Jun knows his answer.

"Yes."

It's the right answer, if only to see any version of Shang Hua smile like that.

"Good. Then no matter what happens, trust that I have a plan worthy of our Qing Jing."

There are so many questions on Mobei Jun's tongue. What is happening? What plan? What is this?

But as Shang Hua steps away from him, all of his eloquence leaves him. "Shang Hua…"

The ghost of his disciple smiles once more and then, in a blink, he is gone. As if he were never there to begin with. If not for the aftertaste of blood, there's no proof at all Mobei Jun didn't just imagine the whole thing.

If it was a dream, wouldn't it all be in his imagination regardless?

Mobei Jun stands there for longer than he knows he should, the dark of night and the fuzzy logic of dreams leaving him bereft of anything solid to rely on and anchor himself to in the dizzying wake of Shang Hua.

.

Mobei Jun continues to wander the streets of Jin Lan until the sun begins to rise. In the haze of morning light, the city clings to its abandoned nature with few residents venturing out of their homes and fewer still daring to cross paths with a stranger.

He cannot help but wonder if this too is part of the dream. He has wandered more streets of Jin Lan than he knows, read signage for events now long forgotten, and even dragged his thumb along the edge of Lin Ya. None of this wakes him. Recognizing it is a dream should have been enough to do so, but if it's a curse how can he be sure?

And if it's not a dream…

Better not to linger on that. Mobei Jun is even less sure what he would do with that information than he is on the intricacy of dreams.

His steps eventually lead him back to the apothecary where Zhuzhi Lang waits. Perhaps his shidi, even in a dream, would know better how to address this.

The door opens with a gentle push and Mobei Jun is quickly enveloped in a heavy smoke of incense and burning herbs. His nose scrunches as he raises a sleeve over his face, eyes near watering with the assault on his senses.

Strangely, this is the first thing to make him feel awake since he laid eyes on Shang Hua. Not even in his most cursed dreams would Mobei Jun find himself choking down this awful smoke. It makes Zhuzhi Lang's usual incense seem benign.

"Shidi?" he calls.

The other man pokes his head out through some curtains in the back, a look of relief washing over his gentle features. How he can breathe this without gagging is beyond Mobei Jun. "Have you found anything, shixiong?"

"No trace of poison in the water or anything else I have been able to test," he says through silken sleeves. "But if it were a poison, it must be something communal, something even the animals are being exposed to. This master believes a curse is more likely at this juncture."

Zhuzhi Lang wilts. "Aiyah… Poisons are so much simpler," he sighs.

.

The two trade notes and theories until the sun is high in the sky. Cloistered in the back room of the apothecary, Mobei Jun slowly adjusts to the stink of incense and pages through the tomes Zhuzhi Lang had taken from the mountain to study here in the field. Between them and the apothecary himself, they find dozens of similar conditions, but nothing that aligns just right.

Bedrolls have been laid out in apothecary's living quarters above for the disciples of Cang Qiong lost to the affliction while the man himself has taken to spending what little time he sleeps in the office of the shop below.

What few available remedies they have that have gone untested are distributed to the disciples, Zhuzhi Lang and his shidi coaxing tinctures down their throats, to little success.

When a knock echoes through the silent shop, the apothecary stands, abandoning his reading. Despite being no older than either of the peak lords, the apothecary's age shows in the creak of his knees and the weathered lines on his face. "I still have a few customers," he explains as he passes through the curtains to the shop proper. "Just a moment."

Mobei Jun does not bother to extend his hearing into the other room. The door opens, several pair of footsteps switch from stone to wood, and soft, murmured voices drift through the rooms.

Zhuzhi Lang, he supposes, cannot claim the same indifference. He watches as his shidi's head tilts, the curious blink of his eyes followed by a frown of confusion.

Before he can think to question it, the curtain parts again as the apothecary peeks inside. "Ah, shixiong. It seems these young ones are looking for the lords of Cang Qiong in this humble apothecary's shop."

The physician is on his feet and brushing past his shidi faster than a viper darting between blades of grass.

Mobei Jun rises and follows with more reservation, carefully schooling his face into disinterest despite a distinct desire to yank Zhuzhi Lang back here and demand answers. He regrets his previous discretion.

Ducking through the curtain, he nearly bumps into Zhuzhi Lang where the man has stopped in his tracks.

Had Mobei Jun gone through the options of what exactly he might find waiting for them but a curtain away, he might have considered a pair of cultivators in the militant golds of Huan Hua Palace after brushing past them through the night. But never would he have considered one of them to be

"Shang Hua."

Loa̵̺͋̏̐̈̎́͠͝ḑ̸͓̻̝̘̰̇͋̈́̉͆́͐͝ing.̵̬̳͙̱̹̟̰͎̳̲͉̎͐̇̏̑̚..

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