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Wuming was born to die for Xie Lian.
However, it is Xie Lian who dies first, leaving Wuming’s heart shattered and broken, his body nothing but a container of deep rage and even deeper despair.
It was supposed to be the day of Xie Lian’s wrathful revenge on Yong’an, the day when all wrongs should have been made right, the day of divine retribution. It was supposed to be the day when Xie Lian would have finally been freed of his anguish and torment; the first day of the rest of his life.
Instead, Wuming is met with the sight of his beloved being tortured and taunted by White No-Face, that thing from Xie Lian's worst nightmares. They are fighting and all Wuming knows is that he needs to help his beloved.
Rage boils inside Wuming, accompanied by a debilitating amount of fear. No matter how much power Xie Lian once wielded, he’s but a shadow of his past self, a mortal-god without spiritual powers, one who has lost all his followers.
Save for one, of course. Wuming will always be by His Highness’ side, and Xie Lian needs Wuming, too, even though he doesn’t understand it yet.
But Wuming is patient.
One day, Xie Lian will understand how ardently, selflessly, thoroughly and passionately Wuming worships him. And maybe, when that day arrives, he doesn’t send Wuming away but rather considers him worthy of serving him until the very end.
Readying his heart and his sword, Wuming takes in the sight of the vicious fight between two white-clad figures. There’s no time to lose; he sprints, starts running with a sword pointed at White No-Face, ready to strike, sacrifice himself—
—but White No-Face just casts one look at him and laughs, a terrible giggling sound, and Wuming is sent flying, his body colliding with a tree with a loud crack thundering in the air.
If he was alive, the blow would have shattered his spine. But he's not, so the impact only makes him lightheaded and slightly confused. He gets up, ears ringing, and shakes his head. It takes him a moment to get the hang of the dimensions of his skin again but after blinking a few times, he can finally see Xie Lian.
He’s just about to shout out when something unexpected happens: White No-Face grabs Xie Lian by the neck where his cursed shackle is covered by the white bandage, and squeezes.
Xie Lian’s breath hitches and he chokes in pain, the echo of the pitiful sound reverberating in Wuming’s core. He's paralyzed, and when White No-Face slams Xie Lian into the ground, the sound of cracking bones and Xie Lian’s scream makes him sick.
It’s wrong, so wrong.
Everything is wrong and Wuming cannot take it.
He starts crawling towards his god, the soil muddy and dirty after the rain. Even his beloved, always so beautiful and pristine, is dirty, his white robes stained by ugly blotches of dirt and blood. He’s lying on the ground and wheezing, helplessly struggling to move despite his body being broken, probably beyond the point of healing. White No-Face holds him down with one booted leg, his grotesque half-smiling, half-crying mask staring down at the cursed god.
Xie Lian tries to get up, but the boot presses deeper into his body, and Wuming can hear another set of sickening cracks. His god howls in agony, and Wuming feels like the worst scum on the earth, useless and weak, unable to do anything. Invisible ties constrain him, rendering him immobile and forcing him to watch the horrible scene unfolding in front of him.
Suddenly everything falls silent. Insects stop crying, the wind stops blowing, leaves stop rustling. It’s eerily quiet except for Xie Lian’s pained, hoarse wheezing and low, pitiful screams.
White No-Face breaks the silence and laughs, sounding delighted at having Xie Lian at his complete mercy once more. “Xianle,” he drawls and sounds like singular embodied torment of all the realms. He’s got Fang Xin in his hands, and the sword seems to shake from both wicked happiness and the resentment of the spirits within. “You must be tired, poor boy.”
The boot digs deeper into Xie Lian’s ribcage, all the way into his lungs, and Wuming watches as his god closes his eyes in pain, mouth falling open. A small trail of blood starts dribbling down his chin, and for that sight alone Wuming feels like he might go insane.
“You’ve been so, so bad.” White No-Face’s voice is a whisper, a horrible rasping sound that lingers in the air like the most maleficent of curses. He sighs. “I thought we had an agreement but I guess I was wrong.”
Wuming cries out, shaking his head desperately, but is still unable to move. He’s frozen to spot, chained to the ground itself like he’s nothing. Even though he's a Wrath and a powerful one, too, White No-Face is a Supreme, a boundless Calamity, and no matter how much Wuming fights, it’s useless.
Staring down at Xie Lian’s broken form beneath him, White No-Face hums behind his mask and snaps his fingers only once. Just like that, the cursed shackle around Xie Lian’s neck is gone with a loud snap.
Wuming almost shouts with joy until realization sinks in. Xie Lian seems to come to the same conclusion because his face is suddenly filled with terror so deep that Wuming knows it will haunt him until the end of his time.
Xie Lian is not a god, and no longer immortal, either.
He is but a mortal.
”No!” Wuming screams and fights against his invisible bindings.
But it’s too late.
White No-Face cackles and raises Fang Xin, still filled with the insane energy of those resentful ghosts, and runs Xie Lian through, pinning him to the ground and spilling his blood. The resentful spirits immediately screech and surge onward into Xie Lian, tearing his life-force apart.
White No-Face laughs fondly at the sight of Xie Lian dying before sighing and disappearing with a gust of cold wind.
Wuming finds himself finally able to move and dashes to his god’s side immediately, fat tears rolling from his eyes. With his last strength Xie Lian turns his head to look at Wuming, and as those bloodshot, broken eyes stare at him, Wuming realizes he’s still wearing the smiling mask, fundamentally so wrong for this situation. He tears it off his face and sends it flying, meeting Xie Lian’s eyes with his own mismatched ones.
His beloved. His light, his everything. The very reason for his existence.
He cradles Xie Lian’s head, strokes his cheeks with his thumbs and wipes them of dirt, crying and howling and sobbing. Xie Lian can’t speak anymore, and Wuming watches helplessly as the only light of his life dies painfully and terribly, life bleeding out of his stomach, spirit shredded by all that resentful energy, eyes turning dull and grey.
Pinned to the ground, Xie Lian is like a silvery butterfly with bloodied wings, a gory sight forever imprinted on Wuming’s mind.
He screams and screams and screams, but Xie Lian is gone.
Wuming stays by the body for a day. Nobody else comes, nobody else even cares. Absolutely no one misses Xie Lian. When he was born, he was celebrated by all, but when he died, he was abandoned by everyone—except Wuming.
Wuming would never abandon him.
In a fit of rage he pulls off Fang Xin from Xie Lian’s body and blasts a hole in the ground, burying the sword so deep that hopefully no one is ever able to find it again. The sight of it makes him sick to his stomach. After that he slumps down again, cradling Xie Lian’s body and smoothing his blood-stained hair, cleaning his face and his body. The sight is devastating, but Wuming forces himself to look because it’s His Highness and Wuming loves him in every state and shape and form.
And so he stays and watches over the dead body of his beloved, and little by little his explosive thoughts start making sense. As the sun sets on the evening of the second day, painting everything a glorious shade of red and orange, Wuming finally knows what to do.
“I’m sorry, beloved,” he whispers as he lifts Xie Lian’s mangled body from the ground. Deathly stiff, the feel of it feels so wrong in Wuming’s arms. “Forgive me, forgive me,” he keeps repeating like a mantra, walking to the nearby forest with unsteady, wobbling steps, princess-carrying his dead beloved. With his robes dyed red and face finally peaceful and clean, Xie Lian looks like a bride being carried to his marital bed, only this time there is no happy marriage, no marital bed, no altar to worship him at.
Tears keep falling from Wuming’s eyes as he gently lies Xie Lian down on the ground among wild forest flowers. After his hands are free, he builds a wooden funeral pyre and decorates it with those blooming, glorious blossoms.
Even in death, only the best for his beloved will suffice.
Once he’s ready, he lifts Xie Lian’s heavy body, literally deadweight, and places it on the pyre. The sight is ungodly and disturbing.
Wuming promptly throws up.
All his limbs shake and tremble. If his heart was still alive, it would explode with pain and sorrow.
He slowly starts fire and lights the pyre. The flames start off small, growing gradually, until they lick greedily at his beloved’s body. He doesn’t want to watch, but if he didn’t Xie Lian would have no one; he would have to go alone.
He steps farther away from the raging fire that engulfs Xie Lian, lips moving to silently recite whatever jumbled nonsensical pieces of sutras he can remember ever hearing in his existence, sending his god’s mortal body off, suddenly unable to tear his eyes away and crying all the while.
In the morning there is nothing left but ashes. A normal mortal wouldn’t be able to differentiate the ashes of a body from those of scorched wood, but Wuming is a ghost; he can see the tiny particles of Xie Lian’s ashes glimmer faintly with ghostly light.
He spends the next week meticulously collecting every last smidgeon of Xie Lian’s ashes and places them into a makeshift wooden jar. He spends the week after that making sure there is no trace of Xie Lian left on the ground, his body restless and ever in motion.
Once he’s sure that he has everything with him, he makes his way deep into the Ghost Realm, leaving the land of the living behind once and for all.
After walking ceaselessly for weeks, Wuming finally finds the Pits of Ashes where the fires are hot enough to make items for safekeeping one’s ashes. He spends the next week carefully forging an intricate ring out of Xie Lian’s ashes, making sure that every particle is sealed within the item. Once done, Wuming looks at the ring. It shines like His Highness during his days as a god, bright and ethereal.
It captures Xie Lian’s essence beautifully.
Wuming’s hands shake as he takes the ring and puts it on his finger—the same one where Xie Lian had tied his lock of hair during the incident with the Land of the Tender. For the first time in ages, if ever, he smiles. Then he fishes his own ashes, also in the shape of a ring, from the folds of his robes and puts them on the same finger.
Two sets of ashes, always together.
With that thought Wuming turns his back on the Pit and leaves. He’s got Xie Lian’s ashes now; his beloved cannot disperse.
Now he only needs to find the spirit and cherish it back to life.
Roaming the Ghost Realm alone, Wuming walks and grieves, the image of Xie Lian’s death never leaving his mind. But now he has a purpose. Or rather, his purpose has always remained unchanged, it has just taken a new direction now.
Wuming doesn’t have many memories of his own death and the subsequent shift from one plane of existence to another, of being reborn as a weak ghost fire in the Ghost Realm, tied to life only because of his mad devotion to his god. Hence, he doesn’t know where to go. He just wanders around the Ghost Realm aimlessly, killing evil spirits upon encountering them and devouring their energy whenever possible, leaving harmless ghosts alone. He reluctantly asks for directions when needed, and leaves immediately after. He has no time for trivialities nor unimportant business.
He dreams of long brown hair and a pair of honey-brown eyes that look at him and his ugly face with kindness. He also dreams of a cold mask staring at him, snapping at him for trying to gift him a flower. And finally, he dreams of those eyes behind the mask becoming lifeless, blood pouring out of them like streams of tears as Xie Lian dies over and over again in his visions, the sight torturing him and bringing him to the edge of madness whenever he closes his eyes.
Thus, Wuming ceases to sleep, only walking on endlessly, desperately in search for the soul of his one true god. Sometimes he asks about White No-Face, but that wretched thing seems to have disappeared from all the three realms.
One day he arrives at the Lake of Undead Flowers.
“Where is my beloved?” he asks the floating, sunken flowers, voice raspy from disuse.
The flowers’ laughter rings in the air like thousands of tiny bells. “Who is your beloved? Are they a human? A ghost? An evil spirit? A wandering soul? Tell us, young ghost.”
“He is recently deceased and I have his ashes.” The words taste like the purest of torture on his lips.
The eerily glowing flowers in the lake ooh and aah in perfect sync. “Then, young ghost, you’re headed for the Garden of Ghost Fires. All passed souls gather there to wait for what’s to come.”
Wuming nods slowly, digesting the information. “And where can I find that Garden?”
The flowers giggle uneasily. “Young ghost. We know yet we cannot see. Gift us your eye and we will tell you the way.”
Wuming nods again, his decision made. He doesn’t even hesitate; he has two eyes that can both see, but one is ugly and repugnant, the cause of all his misery in life. What better way to get rid of it once and for all than to sacrifice it for his god?
And so, Wuming gouges his eye out, almost doubling with the pain yet bearing it with nothing more than a grunt. Who is he to shout from something as small as this when His Highness had to suffer through the total destruction of his form and mind?
It takes forever to separate tissue from nerves, blood vessels from muscle, but finally to horrible red eye is there in the palm of his hand, leaving nothing but emptiness and agony behind. Blood pours abundantly from the empty, torn socket, soaking his clothes and the ground below, but Wuming couldn’t care less. He would welcome any form of pain if it was for Xie Lian.
He hands the disgusting, miserable eyeball to the flowers and watches it disappear into the murky waters of the lake. The flowers howl in delight. “Aiyoh! Such a precious eye! We have never seen a better one! A mighty sacrifice.”
Barely, Wuming thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud. “Now, your turn. Where is the Garden?” he persists instead, ripping a piece of his sleeve and wrapping it around his bleeding eye as a makeshift eyepatch.
The flowers giggle energetically and point towards the North. “There, there. But beware, young ghost. All sorts of malice waits ahead. Aiyoh!”
Wuming doesn’t say anything, just nods in thanks. Then he starts his journey towards the North, walking tirelessly, head thrumming with pain and body vibrating with devotion.
At the Wicked Vast Plains he stops to fight and slay nefarious beings left and rights as they cross his path. At the Forest of Bloody Pain he has to stop for a moment because the thorns of the ghastly vines grip him and squeeze him, tear his body apart and pierce his heart. Wuming silently suffers through everything and when he is finally released, puts his body together and continues, making his way forward.
Finally he reaches the Village of Suffering Children, the final outpost of child spirits who have gathered to mourn and grieve their lives that ended too early and so abruptly.
“I’m looking for the Garden of Ghost Fires. Can you tell me which way to go?” he asks, staring at the group of ghost children who vacate the village.
One of the children, barely five years of age, speaks first. “Ghost gege, we do indeed know where to go since we have only recently left. But life is full of sorrows and grief here. Would you have something for us to play with and give us a break from our resentment?”
Wuming thinks about it for a while. He could obliterate these small ghosts at once, decimate them and disperse their souls violently. But they’re just tiny little ghost children, flocking around him like he’s the biggest wonder in all three realms.
He briefly reminiscences on his own childhood and feels the urge to send the kids flying. However, his thoughts quickly shift to Xie Lian and the kindness he had always shown to children. To Wuming, when he was still nothing but a stupid, little Hong Hong-er. And Wuming wants, more than anything else, to be worthy of Xie Lian’s gaze, although he knows it’s futile; nothing but a twisted, wrecked fantasy.
The small ghosts look at him expectantly, and Wuming nods. “Very well.” He really doesn’t know if the trick will work or not, but he can try. Drawing from his already abundant spiritual powers, he starts crafting a horde of tiny spiritual beings that flutter in the air. They have no shape, but for some reason Wuming’s thoughts drift to the image of Xie Lian lying in the pool of his own blood, looking like and ethereal silver butterfly painted in red.
The fluttering beings in the air immediately take the shape of silver butterflies, turning into wraith butterflies to protect abused children, conjured up from thin air and Wuming’s spiritual powers, fueled by the memory of his god’s death.
The children gasp. Wuming gasps. “Your Highness,” he whispers, so low that the kids cannot hear him. For some reason, he feels his throat constrict as he tries to swallow, watching as the butterflies flutter in the air vivaciously. The children around him cheer and yell happily, their first joy in lifetimes, no doubt.
“Thank you, ghost gege!”
Their praise is never-ending even though the littlest ones have already started to play with the butterflies, chasing them with wobbly, unsteady feet.
“It’s nothing,” Wuming notes awkwardly. “Now. The Garden?”
One of the older child ghosts comes to him and smiles. “That way.” He points to the Southwest. “Only a day’s stroll. No evils ahead, but be prepared for the Garden itself.”
“And why should I?” Wuming asks, frowning.
The child smiles brightly. “Because you will face Death itself. It is its Garden, the souls are under its care. It is up to it to decide the fate of every soul and ghost fire that lingers.”
Wuming nods but his insides freeze. For the first time he dearly wishes he could remember more of his own passing, but this is not the time to lament. He bids farewell to the children now happily playing with the butterflies and makes haste to the direction pointed out for him.
The Garden of Ghost Fires is easy to find after entering the vast, barren wastelands at the far edges of the forest that came before it. There is a narrow gate but Wuming doesn’t bother to knock. He enters confidently, immediately almost blinded by the shine and shimmer of tens of thousands of ghost fires. His hands reach out instinctively, looking for something to grasp on.
But there is nothing.
Instead, a bone-chilling cold hits him and makes his bones creak and crack. “Who are you to enter my Garden?” A voice bellows from somewhere and nowhere at once, resonating in the air throughout the Garden.
“I’m here for my god,” Wuming says and his voice doesn’t waver the slightest. “He deserves another chance.”
”And who are you to decide that, Wrath? Do you even think you can find them among them all?”
Death’s voice rings in the air like a bell of devastation, but Wuming refuses to be intimidated. ”Yes,” he says. ”My beloved is a noble, gracious, special someone. The light of his soul is unparalleled in this world, his presence a gift to all. Let me take him with me and breathe him to life again.”
”Life?” Death sounds amused. ”You are dead yourself. What life do you have to give him, Wrath?”
Wuming stares at Death, now materialized before him, unblinking and serious. ”When humans ascend they’re still humans. When they fall, they’re still humans.” His voice is quiet and filled with conviction.
Death laughs, the terrifying sound clinking and clanking in Wuming’s very marrow. ”Well. Let’s test your devotion then, shall we? Can you find him among them all? Tens of thousands of souls in this garden, what makes your beloved as special as to stand out? Is he particularly strong? Especially sparkling or particularly attached to life?”
Wuming smiles then, coldly. ”He is all of those thing and more. And fear not, Death. I would recognize him anywhere for he is my purpose.”
For a fleeting moment, Death looks surprised, its flickering features melting into a contemplative look. ”I see. Well, go on. Let’s see if you can find him.”
Nodding curtly, Wuming enters the inner gardens of the Garden of Ghost Souls. He slowly walks ahead, the souls around him reacting to his presence with various degrees of enthusiasm, all shrill cries, excited howls and silver-sparkling laughter. After circling about for a while, he makes his way towards the far-end corner, body thrumming with anticipation, his veins filled with it. And finally, after too many torturous steps, he finds him.
Him.
His everything.
His god, his beloved, The Crown Prince of Xianle, Flower-Crowned Martial Warrior, White-Clothed Calamity. Xie Lian. Of course he recognizes him--Wuming is destined to breathe the spirit of His Highness instead of air, after all.
He would recognize him anywhere.
But this time, the sight is ungodly and gut-wrenchingly sad. Xie Lian is nothing but a small, hollow, half-dispersed tiny shadow of a fire. Slumped on the ground, barely glowing. Cold and wilted, as if everything, absolutely everything that he’s ever had or ever been, has been sucked out of him. Lingering only by a thread, and Wuming knows very well what that thread is. He clutches the ring on his finger tighter, chest heavy and constricting.
“Him?” Death sounds unbelieving. ”He is the poorest of them all. I’ve never seen a soul so completely broken and torn apart, ripped to shreds. He’s half-gone already but I sense something holding him back. All the other souls that came with him have passed, dispersed or rematerialized as ghosts and yet, only he lingers.”
“I have his ashes,” Wuming notes, tracing the outline of the cold ghost fire with his one long, black-nailed finger. “He can’t pass.”
Death’s gaze falls on the two rings on his finger and it gives a small, eerie laugh. ”I see. Well, take a good look at your beloved now. Wouldn’t you find it more merciful to destroy the ashes and let him go? Gift him a rest in peace?”
Wuming feels a surge of pure fear zip through his body at the thought. ”I wish he will never rest in peace,” he growls. ”I will have him with me and give him a purpose to live again.”
It’s a good thing that he’s never been merciful.
”You are stubborn,” Death hums. ”So selfish. What makes you think you can do that? Look at him. Take a good look. I don’t know who he was, but now he’s nothing but a broken, abused, torn soul.”
”Sometimes it only takes one person,” Wuming says quietly, remembering how Xie Lian had changed his mind regarding the complete annihilation of Yong’an after that one farmer had shown him kindness and gifted him that hat. For a tiny moment it seems that the ghost fire slumped on the ground flickers. ”He’s my god, my one true god, and to me he is perfect. What matters is him and not the state of him.”
”You truly are… unparalleled in your devotion, Wrath. Stupid, even, if I might add.” Death sounds astounded and there is a note of disbelief in its voice.
Wuming nods and finally lifts that tiny faint ghost fire from the ground, cradling it in the palm of his large hand. It fits there perfectly—even his hands, these slaughtering killer hands, all made for His Highness. ”Indeed. If it’s him, you’ll find my devotion never-ending, unwavering and boundless.”
Death huffs but doesn’t say anything else. A chill passes through his body and suddenly Wuming finds himself alone with Xie Lian. He stares at the shattered tiny fire and a solitary tear falls from his remaining eye, unexpected and utterly unwanted. He lies down on the ground and curls his body around Xie Lian’s tiny soul that still lingers in the palm of his hand.
The next morning he takes one last look at the wilted ghost fire and leaves, swearing to become the strongest of all ghosts and gods alike, so strong that he alone has the power of reviving Xie Lian’s tormented soul with his spiritual powers.
And he does, although the following decades are not without sacrifices when Wuming roams the Ghost Realm aimlessly, not sure how to proceed.
He comes across the Undead Flowers again and they gift him his eye back, apparently having found something even more magnificent, but he has no use for it anymore so he puts it in his pouch and keeps going.
He meets the ghost children and gives them more butterflies to play with, only this time the butterflies are stronger and more wrathful, more like a horde of tiny weapons rather than a swarm of playmates. Wuming finds out he can control them easily with his mind.
Finally a true chance opens up when the Mount Tonglu shakes and he feels the arousal of it in every part of his body. Wuming grins ferally as he makes haste towards the Tonglu Mountains, ending up spending years there slaughtering ghosts, carving statues of His Highness and painting murals. He rescues a group of humans by forging a deadly scimitar out of his red eye and beating the crap out of a vicious monster, only to find himself ascending.
What a waste of time, Wuming thinks with pure hatred pumping in his veins. After taking a good look at the Heavenly Capital, he laughs nastily, sending a wave of spiritual flames from his fingers to tear the Capital down. Then he descends once more into the darkest pits of hell, the Kiln itself, only to emerge a few weeks later as Hua Cheng, a new Ghost King already known as the terror of the Heavens.
His body is still burning, barely recovered from the ordeal, but he couldn't care less, immediately drawing a spiritual array and transporting himself to the Village of Suffering Children once more with one single-minded aim.
The rest of the trip he makes by foot, his form continuously shifting, changing, metamorphosing until settling on that of a tall, intimidating young man with a black eyepatch and wild, inky-black hair, wearing maple red robes and silver accessories adorned with butterfly-shaped patterns. With the flick of his wrist he can control an army of silver butterflies and on his waist hangs the deadly scimitar Eming, red eye spinning wildly whenever it’s excited.
Death greets him at the gates, as terrifying as ever, making shivers creep down Hua Cheng’s spine despite being a Supreme. “Ghost King. Why are you here?”
Hua Cheng steps closer and tilts his head, one of his hands cradling the hilt of Eming. ”I’m here for the soul of my beloved.”
Death hums, wraith-like and eerie, its torn robes fluttering in the air. The souls around them giggle and glimmer, cry and flutter in unison. ”Ah. I remember you now. That stubborn Wrath from decades ago. Are you here for the same soul? That sorry little thing?”
“Of course,” Hua Cheng says.
“I see.” Death nods and signals Hua Cheng to enter. “Well then. Go, find him. See what you can do.”
Stepping into the Garden of Ghost Fires once more, Hua Cheng feels a sense of familiarity engulf him. All those years ago when he was here as Wuming, he had nothing but his blind devotion to his name. It is different now. He is a Supreme, a Ghost King. He is finally strong, stronger than anyone else in the Ghost Realm. And yet, when he reaches Xie Lian, the sight that greets him makes him weak on the knees. Hua Cheng’s chest feels tight and his mind rattles uncomfortably.
”Your Highness,” he breaths, falling to his knees next to the wilted soul fire and bowing deep. ”I’m back.” He falls silent immediately after, hand hovering above what is left of Xie Lian. An insurmountable feeling of anguish courses through his body.
Suddenly Death is there, too. “Tell me, Ghost King, what if you fail? What if he remains miserable, unwilling to live anymore? What will you do then?”
Hua Cheng looks at Death and shoots it a grim look. “Should I fail and him remain in misery, I shall destroy both of our ashes and disappear from this world with him. There is no point of life if it isn’t for him.” He pauses. “As for the rest of the world… I will burn it to ash and dust.”
Nodding slowly, Death looks at them both: Hua Cheng and that small flame of Xie Lian’s soul. The hood covers their face completely and everything about them is black and ghastly, otherworldly even within the Ghost Realm. Hua Cheng waits, calm on the outside but inside his mind is reeling; he’s biting his cheek and holding his breath, hating every moment of feeling so vulnerable.
“I suppose you can have him,” Death says after a while. “My Garden has no need for hollow souls in a state of stasis.” The other ghost fires around them giggle and roar, some soaring to the sky and other flickering in ecstasy. “Silence,” Death commands softly and yet, all the ghost fires obey at once. Then it turn its attention on Hua Cheng. “How are you going to carry him? He’s too weak to float on his own.”
Hua Cheng exhales a breathless breath he didn’t know he was holding and smiles, looking at Xie Lian’s dull fire. “I’ve made a soul lantern for him.”
With a snap of his fingers a beautiful lantern appears in his hand, made of the rarest and purest of gemstones and with intricate carvings and decorations. He opens it carefully and lifts Xie Lian from the ground, placing him gently inside the protective item. Then he brings the lantern to his lips and kisses it shut, closing his eyes.
The ghost fire doesn’t react, just continues to lay there, unmoving, unresponsive, half-dead, dull, miserable. But Hua Cheng doesn’t care. In fact, starting his trek back from the Garden of Ghost Fires, he keeps smiling.
Finally, he is reunited with his beloved. Finally, Xie Lian is with him. Surely it is only a matter of time before his god starts getting stronger, he tells himself, walking away from the Garden of Ghost Fires and back into the vastness of the Ghost Realm.
They travel together for years, a Supreme Ghost King and a wilted, little ghost fire that once used to be the most cherished of all the gods.
Hua Cheng carries Xie Lian in his exquisite, handmade soul lantern during the days as he slays and slaughters malicious spirits, yaos, and evil ghosts. Eming is painted red and vibrating with delight as Hua Cheng puts it to use, devouring all his enemies spiritual powers as they die by his hand. He gets stronger by the day, becoming unequalled in his strength and spiritual powers.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers to the tiny ghost fire. “I will protect you with my blade and my body and my silver little butterflies. All of these, in your honor, beloved.”
But Xie Lian doesn’t move, doesn’t react at all, merely lays still inside the lantern and looks as dead as the day Hua Cheng first saw him in that wretched garden when he was still Wuming.
At night, as he lies down to rest on the cold, hard ground, he keeps the lantern next to him, a part of his hand always touching it. Ghosts don’t need sleep, but Hua Cheng uses this time between dusk to dawn to tell Xie Lian stories of what he’s seen and tales of what he’s been doing.
He tells Xie Lian about the first case of crimson rain.
”Your Highness. As we traveled today, we came upon a vicious demon’s lair. Maybe Your Highness didn’t pay attention to it, but I made sure the beast is gone now. Afterwards, crimson rain started to fall and covered the carnage in even more blood. I made it happen, all of it.”
Hua Cheng smiles fleetingly before his expression sours. “But it was odd, Your Highness. In all that death and destruction, among all that malicious intent and utter hatred, a small flower bloomed: white, pale and pretty. It reminded me of…” For a moment he doesn’t know how to continue. “It reminded me of many things in the past, and I was overcome with the need to protect it. And thus, as the rain fell, I covered it with my red umbrella, shielding it completely.”
Hua Cheng looks at Xie Lian’s tiny ghost fire which seems to glimmer faintly. He smiles and breathes a hefty dose of spiritual powers into the lantern gently. “I used to bring you so many flowers, Your Highness. Only the best for you. I know you never knew me, we never really spoke, but I just wanted to tell you that for me it has only ever been you. You are my one true god, no one else can compare.”
He falls silent, then. “I’m sorry for rambling. You must think me very unsavory and without any class. We should rest.”
The next day they continue traveling, and Hua Cheng thinks his steps feel lighter than the previous day. Xie Lian, too, seems slightly more spirited, although small and dull still.
They travel on, roaming the Ghost Realm with Hua Cheng breathing his powers into the lantern every night. After a month he’s got a new intriguing story to tell.
“Your Highness. Today I fought 33 godly idiots with swords and words. I originally challenged 35 gods, but among them were two particular cowards.” He smirks and feels a thrill course through his body as he recites his tale. “I beat their sorry asses all the way back to the mortal realm. They are no longer gods, their cultivation broken to dust.”
He holds out his hand as if to touch the unmoving ghost fire in the soul lantern. ”Your Highness. Those were the ones who ridiculed you and drove you away. Do you remember? I was there, too. I've always been by your side.” Hua Cheng’s voice is nothing but a whisper. “But it’s alright now, I’ve avenged you.” He keeps a small pause, looking for any sign of understanding from the fire. “No one died. They are just mortals, cursed to that fleeting, brief, miserable existence. I burned their temples, too.”
For a very brief moment, the blue-hued pale fire seems to burn a bit brighter and Hua Cheng smiles, bringing his finger close to the fire and sending a spark of spiritual powers from his fingers to Xie Lian’s soul, breathing into the lantern immediately after. “That’s right, Your Highness. Just like that, you’re getting stronger. Just you wait, I will worship you to life again.”
Hua Cheng doesn’t say it aloud, but the mortals that used to worship those bratty, dishonorable trash gods now worship him. And for the first time in ages he is truly grateful—an unfamiliar feeling in itself—because he can channel all the additional spiritual powers he gets from that worship to nursing Xie Lian back to life.
It takes them another two months of traveling randomly before Hua Cheng finally knows what to do: He needs a proper dwelling for his beloved. And so he builds Ghost City from the scratch, meticulously putting together foundations for the houses during the next few weeks, building glamour and luxury and shine upon that foundation, finally calling for ghosts and spirits to come and reside there. And they do, in great numbers, because finally there is a place in the Ghost Realm that they can call their home.
Once everything is finished and the residents are settled, Ghost City’s streets bustling with pandemonium and parade, Hua Cheng finally confesses everything to Xie Lian after laying him down on the soft bed of Paradise Manor, their new residence. ”Your Highness. I have built a place for us and all the homeless spirits in this realm. They are flocking to the city in great numbers and making it their home, no longer burdening the living. I’m sure Your Highness would be pleased to hear this—common people are being left alone to live as we speak.”
Keeping a small pause, Hua Cheng suddenly feels shamelessly elated about how much power he has. “My powers are growing exponentially. Just as they should be! I have to be the strongest, because…” He snaps his mouth shut before continuing. “Just tell me what you need, Your Highness. I’ll give you everything.”
Bringing his lips close to the fire, Hua Cheng suddenly feels tired even though ghosts are not supposed to feel fatigue of any sort. “You don’t need to ask, beloved. You have my devotion, my heart, my strength, my soul, my everything. Just a word and I will be whatever you want me to be.”
The next thing he builds is a temple for Xie Lian and it becomes the most beautiful temple in the all three realms; all luxurious materials and golden shine, surrounded by a glimmering lake and a garden of fresh flowers that bloom all year round.
He takes Xie Lian inside and places the ghost fire at the altar. Reaching out with his hand and caressing the flickering soul, he places a beautifully blooming red flower next to it. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, for my stubbornness. But you deserve flowers. The more the better. I will gift you fresh ones every night.”
This time the ghost fire flickers more strongly, and for a brief moment Hua Cheng can almost see a transparent shape of a man lying at the altar. His eyes grow wide and his dead heart beats in his chest erratically from the desperate feeling of want inside him.
He wants his beloved to take shape again. He wants to speak to him properly. He wants to take care of him.
He wants to hold him close, protect him, make sure nothing bad ever happens to him.
He wants to kiss him, touch him, marry him, tie their souls together until eternity so that they can never be torn apart again.
He wants so much and that moment, he remembers exactly how it felt to be Wuming, wanting yet utterly useless, have everything taken from him in a blink of a moment.
“Your Highness,” he says quietly. “Did you feel that? There you go. Just like that. You are doing so well.” And the well of want inside him almost explodes when the ghost fire flickers again and this time, an unmoving man-shaped form materializes for a longer time before melting into the shape of a small ghost fire, hollow once more.
After that Hua Cheng starts sending him blessing lanterns. First one, then two, going up in numbers until he has sent over three thousand blessing lanterns to worship his god. And with every lantern the ghost fire grows stronger, takes shape, materializes, forms into something new, until one morning, when they wake up, in the ghost fire’s stead there is a young, beautiful man with long brown hair sleeping at the altar, wearing plain white cultivator robes and holding a small flower in his hand.
Hua Cheng’s heart flutters. He might not have known true happiness before, his life full of only misery and hate, but he does now. “Your Highness,” he whispers, words falling from his lips like the prayer that they are.
After that the progress Xie Lian makes is slow but steady. It takes weeks but finally he opens his eyes. They are dull and unseeing, only vaguely aware of his new state as a low-level ghost, but Hua Cheng rejoices regardless.
It takes another few weeks before Xie Lian’s gaze sharpens, but when he sees Hua Cheng he screams hoarsely. Hua Cheng, feeling faint and devastated, immediately shifts into the form of Wuming, that nameless ghost whose shape is more familiar to his beloved. His Highness calms down at the sight of that smiling mask and black ponytail and closes his eyes once more.
From there on, Hua Cheng makes sure to appear as Wuming before Xie Lian, his mask full in place whenever he visits his god. And when Xie Lian calls him by his name for the first time, a confused ‘Wuming’ tumbling down from his chapped lips, Hua Cheng thinks he must be the luckiest man in the all three realms. The feeling is only topped when Xie Lian first smiles at him, and when he finally laughs, the sound light and bright like glittering sunshine hitting the blossoming flowers, Hua Cheng thinks he’s ascended once more.
At some point he forgets to be Wuming and appears before Xie Lian in his true form instead, but instead of shrinking away, this time Xie Lian smiles and his eyes twinkle in small delight. “My most devoted believer is such a handsome man,” he says excitedly, embarrassingly making Hua Cheng’s insides turn all different shapes of mush.
Weeks turn into months and months into a year, then two. Hua Cheng shows Xie Lian every part of Ghost City and although he rules more with fear than kindness, he is highly respected anyway. He introduces Xie Lian to the denizens as his special someone and the ghosts embrace his presence, calling him grand-uncle and all other sorts of funny names that make Hua Cheng fume, but Xie Lian only laughs and embraces their quirky, wicked and warped presence in return.
And truly, Hua Cheng couldn’t be happier. They speak every day, from morning to evening, getting to know each other better. Xie Lian starts positively glowing under the care and the worship of his one remaining believer. Every night Hua Cheng sends a blessing lantern or two for him, and every day Xie Lian looks like he shimmers a little bit more, looking more like a divine deity than a ghost that is rapidly gaining power.
Hua Cheng realizes, then, that you can take a god away from the Heavens but you can never take the heavenly away from the fallen god.
But if he thinks he is lucky now, one night changes everything for even better. Hua Cheng finally understands that despite feeling so incredibly blessed already, nothing can compare to the feeling when his beloved god, now a strong Wrath with admirers flocking around him wherever he goes, leans in and almost kisses him, eyes closed already and lips parted.
Staring at his beloved like that, something inside him snaps. Hua Cheng has been so patient, wanting, nursing, cherishing, waiting and yearning, respecting Xie Lian’s boundaries while bringing him to life again.
But he’s done waiting, done pining. Utterly done holding back.
Done.
He hesitates only for a fraction of a moment before closing the distance between their lips and pulling Xie Lian into his arms, embracing him tightly. Xie Lian struggles for a little bit and lets out a small yelp, but Hua Cheng only holds him tighter until all his resistance falls away and he stumbles into the kiss as urgently as Hua Cheng does.
They kiss tentatively first, then with growing passion, bodies becoming entwined together at the altar of the Qiandeng Temple. Xie Lian mumbles something unintelligible directly into Hua Cheng’s mouth, lips swollen with both the force of Hua Cheng’s kisses and all the spiritual powers pouring into him, timid hands roaming the planes of Hua Cheng’s body. Hua Cheng feels like he’s burning; he knows he can never let his beloved go after this.
Luckily Xie Lian, too, looks like there is nowhere else he would rather be, fitting perfectly in his arms.
A year later Hua Cheng marries Xie Lian, feeling like he might explode from all the shameless joy and elation that swirl inside him like the most divine chaos. Ghost City, normally so noisy and lively, falls silent as a small wedding procession of two red-robed figures moves languidly forward, walking the streets so that the residents of the city can wish them well. Apparently it has been the dearest wish of Chengzhu’s beloved--a Wrath ghost that everyone loves!
Truly unheard of.
All the ghosts and spirits pay their respects to the handsome couple as they finally enter the privacy of a shrine constructed for this single purpose to kowtow and exchange cups of wedding wine. And deep within the shrine, away from curious eyes, they exchange ashes, too, as a sign of their eternal devotion.
After the small ceremony Xie Lian, dressed in a traditional red robes of a bride and donning a beautiful veil, leads his husband back to Qiandeng Temple.
“San Lang,” he says and Hua Cheng looks at him.
No. merely looking at him as an expression is inherently wrong, because Hua Cheng can’t tear his gaze away from his newly-wedded husband at all, perplexed forever at his beauty and elegance, the twinkle in his eyes and the twist of his lips as he looks at him, really looks at him like no one else in the world ever before.
“Yes, gege?” His voice almost breaks but he maintains his calm and smirks alluringly to calm down his nerves that shouldn’t be doing anything anymore. But why does it feel like he’s got tiny sparks of electricity traveling down his spine, in his veins, all over his body?
Xie Lian casts him a coy look and clasps his hand tighter. They’re ghosts, there is no sweat, just the pressure of a hand pressing against another. “Does my handsome husband wish to… visit my chambers later?”
“Gege.” Hua Cheng’s voice trails off as he’s assaulted with a million and one different images of how he would like that to play out. He’s feeling light-headed, utterly captivated by his god.
The thing is, Hua Cheng has never dared to let himself truly hope. Dreaming and fantasizing, those he has much experience with. One only needs to visit Mount Tonglu to see the true lengths of his obsession. Regardless, the thought of actually having his god like that threatens to send him reeling, threatens to send him back into the mind of the innocent Wuming once more, or even worse, that useless soldier he was when he was still alive.
Gathering his wits, Hua Cheng nods. “Of course. If my husband so wants.”
“I insist,” Xie Lian smiles and kisses his cool hand. “In an incense stick of time, I’ll be waiting.” And with those words he disappears like the ghost he is, leaving his poor husband gasping for breath he doesn’t need, yearning wrenching his guts like nothing before.
It’s all too much and Hua Cheng barely makes it to Xie Lian’s proposed time.
When he finally enters his husband’s chambers at Qiandeng Temple, he doesn’t know what to expect. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greets him: Xie Lian, only wearing the luxurious inner robes of his wedding outfit, sitting on his bed with his hair undone and eyes half-lidded. There is rouge on his lips and Hua Cheng thinks he might have a heart attack about right now.
“Husband,” his god murmurs and casts him a coy look. “So glad you came.”
“Of course, gege,” Hua Cheng rasps and takes a step closer.
Xie Lian smiles and it shines light on the whole room and Hua Cheng's soul. “I have a request.”
Nodding, Hua Cheng waits for his beloved to speak.
“I know what you did for me, but I guess I’ve never truly thanked properly.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Hua Cheng replies truthfully, having no idea what his god is thinking of because there's absolutely nothing Xie Lian should be thanking him for. No, it should be the other way around.
Xie Lian spreads his legs, barely covered by that thin inner robe, and tilts his head enticingly, his smile turning slightly dark. “Let me have this with you as Wuming. Let me adore the version of you that decided I’m worth saving after all.”
“Your Highness,” Hua Cheng breathes, punched out of his senses. “You are worth saving a million times over.”
Xie Lian continues to smile indulgently. “So…?”
And what options does Hua Cheng even have? His beloved is here with him, wanting to thank him?
All he needs to do is to morph into that past form and he will have it all.
Telling his body to change, Hua Cheng waits for the transformation. But for some reason his body remains that of the Ghost King—dangerous, strong, tall. Brimming with power, stained with blood, pumped up with so much spiritual energy that he could easily end the world twice over. No Wuming appears; no disagreeable forms of the past with ugly eyes and weak bodies.
“San Lang,” Xie Lian’s voice cuts through the thick muddy haze in his head, questioning but not inquisitive, and Hua Cheng decides to try harder, forcing his body to mold into his old form, those old seams, that old skin.
And finally, there he stands before his god, in that black outfit and wearing that smiling mask.
It's Wuming in the flesh.
No Hua Cheng exists anymore, just that nameless ghost of the past whose endless dedication drove him to twist and mold the destiny itself to his liking. His mind blanks out, wiped out by the devastating wave of nerve-wrecking, never-changing devotion that formed the core of Wuming’s being.
Xie Lian laughs a little and shifts closer, eyes ablaze. “My dear, lovely Wuming. Why don’t you kneel, little ghost,” he says quietly and Wuming falls to his knees easily, inching closer. Xie Lian gives him a brilliant smile and extends his leg to toy with Wuming’s mask with his foot.
Wuming barely has time to breathe before his god flicks his ankle and sends his mask flying, exposing all of him for Xie Lian to see.
The ugly red eye and all, and even though it’s not the first time, Xie Lian probably can’t remember it.
“I knew it,” his god breathes, eyes wide. Wuming bows his head, because he knows what his beloved must mean. That he’s ugly and sickening to look at. He’s just about to open his mouth to apologize for his general state of being, but Xie Lian is faster. “My husband is perfect in every one of his forms.”
Wuming’s eyes go wide and his mouth falls open. “Your Highness,” he whispers, lowering his head once more, body alight with foreign, tingling, unbelievable happiness.
Tilting his head once more, Xie Lian shrugs off his robes and lets them fall off until they pool at his waist. Then he spreads his legs even wider and Wuming thinks his head might just explode at the sight.
“Little ghost, my dark general. I remember you were quite fond of kneeling before me back then. How would you feel about it now?”
How would he feel about it now?
Wuming growls and reaches out, grabs that tempting ankle and pulls. Xie Lian slumps from his perfect posture and ends up sprawled on the floor, eyes wide and mouth panting although he has no need for air.
“Your Highness,” Wuming growls and kisses his husband—his husband!—eagerly, his brain freezing and leaking out of his ears at the same time, a complete nerve-wrecking mess.
After a long while of messy kisses he finally calms down, but only enough to prop his beloved to sit on the edge of the bed once more. Conjuring up a rare flower behind his back he presents it to Xie Lian and this time, instead of trampling it, his beloved tucks it behind his ear, staring down at Wuming with adoration in his eyes.
Well. If there is something Wuming is exceptionally good at, it’s kneeling.
He shuffles closer to Xie Lian on his knees and spreads his legs. Stroking the soft skin of his thighs with his hands and enjoying the quivering of his muscles, Wuming bends his head down and sucks a dark purple bruise on the skin of one inner thigh, then another, all the while on his knees.
Xie Lian moans softly and it is like a beast within him is finally let loose. He lunges forward to kiss and suckle on those juicy thighs, grabbing and squeezing them with his hands, kneeling all the while before his god. Even though he has no experience of what comes after, he has a good hunch and a great deal of devotion that needs to be spent somehow.
Finally, with his god’s hard cock deep in his mouth, Wuming thinks he’s never done better in his life. With his god moaning under him from pleasure and not pain, he finally feels accomplished in ways that were outright incomprehensible before. With his god’s release in his throat, he thinks he will never feast on anything as divine again.
And if Xie Lian thinks the night is coming to an end, he’s sadly mistaken because after having his beloved come down his throat, Wuming continues to kneel and worship to his heart’s content, flipping his god over and eating him out until he screams and gasps and whimpers, shuddering from the pleasure of having Wuming’s tongue inside him, plundering him and devouring him whole.
After making his god come one more on his tongue, Wuming pushes his oiled fingers inside and preps him before pushing in slowly, carefully, still on his knees. Xie Lian howls, high-pitched and delirious, and Wuming smiles with an unhinged twist to it. “Your Highness,” he utters before latching onto his husband’s neck and sucking a bruise or two there.
His husband only mewls like he was made to be fucked by Wuming.
However, when Xie Lian twists his head and casts him a wanton look, eyes glazed over and drool seeping out of his mouth, Wuming is hit by a sudden, unwanted vision of his god lying on the ground and bleeding out before his very eyes, blood pouring from his mouth, eyes glazed over and dull, death already taking him. The imagery is so all-consuming that Wuming can’t help it; he shouts out loud from pure terror.
There is no end to the pain of having had to witness his heart’s treasure die so violently.
Wuming urgently hugs Xie Lian closer until he doesn’t know where he ends and where his god begins, no more than he can distinguish between the past and present. Perched on his lap with Wuming buried deep inside his body, the back of Xie Lian’s head thuds against his shoulder and a set of strong yet graceful hands snake to cradle his face from below.
Xie Lian sighs and shifts, and the sensation sends hot desire zigzagging all over Wuming. They stay like that for a while, until all of Wuming melts away, giving way for Hua Cheng to emerge once more, body becoming larger, sturdier, thicker in all aspects. Xie Lian gasps at the sensation of his husband transforming while buried inside him, squirming and whining on his lap.
Hua Cheng laughs, deep and low, the nightmarish vision before his eyes finally disappearing once and for all, paving way for all that they have now. “Your Highness. I’m back,” he rumbles and his god astride him half-laughs, half-moans. “Did you enjoy playing with that little ghost, gege?”
“Yes,” Xie Lian sighs happily. “I am forever grateful, San Lang.” Then he lifts himself up and pulls away slightly. Hua Cheng is about to protest until he realizes Xie Lian is only turning around, sinking back in immediately after, slotting their lips together.
“See, Your Highness, I’m still on my knees,” Hua Cheng growls into the kiss, biting and licking Xie Lian’s plump lips.
“My husband is exceptionally good at it,” his god grins and throws his head back, moaning loudly as Hua Cheng proceeds to demonstrate what true devotion feels like. And maybe, just maybe, he can finally love his past self a little bit for being so resilient.
That night a new Supreme Ghost King is born from the love and passion of the most feared and powerful Ghost King to roam all the Three Realms. The way this new Ghost King is nurtured to life is wholly unheard of and untraditional, crafted through a method that can probably never be repeated again.
With spiritual powers overflowing freely, rain falls on Ghost City. However, instead of being the color of crimson blood, it’s made of pale pink flower petals. The new Ghost King soon earns the nickname of Kind Heart Blooming Flower, because wherever he wanders, kindness and flowers bloom at his wake. Soon, humans and ghosts alike realize that if they worship Crimson Rain Sought Flower and Kind Heart Blooming Flower together, their luck and prosperity and happiness will not only double, but triple or even quadruple. Thus, they build shrines, erect statues and no one really cares that the two are, in fact, ghosts and not gods.
Many stories are told about the origins of these two wedded Ghost Kings, but according to the One True Legend, their joy and happiness is all because of the silent sacrifice and devotion of one nameless ghost.