A Well Wherein Serpents Are Coiled - Nighthaunting - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Fic Moodboard by Me

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Waking up after being electrocuted is perhaps the biggest surprise of Airplane’s life. Waking up after being electrocuted to a barely-mobile body and eyes that can only see blurred blobs of color doesn’t even register as strange until he realizes that no, he’s not in the hospital again, and he’s also much, much smaller than he used to be. He hears a cheerful run of chiming notes that sounds like some kind of system startup, but falls mercifully back to sleep before his mind catches up to his surroundings.

It takes time to fully understand what’s happened, slipping in and out of sleep. Airplane dreams of being electrocuted, convincing himself that in the moments before it all went black, he could feel the electricity grounding itself through the steel pins that were holding his right leg together from femur to metatarsals. He dreams of the accident that put them there; waking up in the hospital to some social worker explaining that they hadn’t been able to contact his family, and that a doctor would be here soon to explain just how badly his leg had been crushed. He dreams of depression and isolation and pouring himself into his forced second-choice career as a shameless web-novelist rather than cope with everything he’d lost.

Airplane wakes up, eventually. His eyesight begins to resolve itself into details rather than just shapes, his mind begins to stay present in his body for more than a few minutes at a time, his body begins to move as he wants it to rather than just instinct or whatever force was driving it while he was unaware.

He’s in a tiny body with tiny hands and feet, settled into some old-timey crib while strangers go about their daily tasks in what looks like the main room of the house they’re in. They don’t notice him pulling himself up to stand against the side of the crib, hands holding onto the rails to look around, taking in the details of the room and the people: there’s nothing modern, in fact everything looks not only traditional but somewhat archaic. The people are wearing robes, the room is lit by candles and small lamps, going about tasks that Airplane only recognizes because of the countless traditional crafting Youtubes he’d watched while doing research for Proud Immortal Demon Way.

A series of chiming notes rings through his ears and he startles, falling back to land among the blankets he’d been swaddled in. No one else seems to hear the noise, which resolves from single chiming notes into a cheerful fanfare.

[Welcome New User!] a toneless artificial voice says, followed by another fanfare of chimes.

What?! Is the most useful thought Airplane has as a gently glowing yet strangely nondescript interface resolves itself in front of him. More chimes sound as the interface--which is impossible, but definitely not visible to anyone else in the room--begins to glow even more brightly as it fully appears.

It looks like text boxes. Like he’s playing a videogame and popped open the quest log to see what he needs to do next. Airplane tried to be subtle about the things in Proud Immortal Demon Way that he’d taken inspiration from video games, and wasn’t honestly always very successful, but all the time he’d sunk into various RPGs and FPSs and MMOs means he’s well versed in reading the interface.

Finding out he’s transmigrated is less of a surprise than the slowly dawning horror of figuring out that he’s transmigrated into his own novel, but the interface glowing in front of his eyes spells it out pretty plainly: he’s been reborn as Shang Lei, who would go on to become Shang Qinghua and die offscreen in an unspecified incident of treachery. A faithless bottomfeeder who’d changed loyalty like a flag turning with the wind; who’d had maybe two cool scenes which had both been cut from his drafts in favor of simplifying the narrative to get to the crowd pleasing papapa faster. Who hadn’t been Airplane’s least favorite character, but who had mostly been created as a way to explain why Luo Binghe had been able to keep track of what Cang Qiong Mountain had been doing; way, way back in the original draft. His history with Mobei Jun had been created in service of that idea, when Airplane had belatedly realized that Luo Binghe hadn't been born yet during the timeframe that he’d developed to try and elaborate on the various sect politics, schemes, and misfortunes that had lead to the Protagonist’s humble upbringing. All of which he’d cut from his final drafts as his ‘fishing’ style of writing continually drove the novel from his original ideas into a monster of the week/wife of the week format that had paid his bills well enough to quiet the few stirrings of artistic integrity that he’d had.

Airplane still doesn’t regret it. That money had paid for his food, his tiny studio apartment; for the remedial classes and studio time that gave him even the slightest chance of dancing again even though his serious chances were gone.

But he does wonder why he’s transmigrated into his own novel, out of all possible afterlives?

The chiming flourishes return, playing out what Airplane recognizes as a generic ‘quest received’ que.

[New Mission: Become Disciple of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, An Ding Peak~!]

The ‘quest log’ part of the glowing display flashes even brighter, before a more detailed set of instructions scrolls out into the text box. Aside from the general gist of his task to make his way to the Cang Qiong disciple trials and somehow get himself accepted, there’s also a time limit for the task and various unspecified sub-goals that are currently hidden. The promise of receiving points depending on how he accomplished the task just makes the system’s existence--the entire situation, really--even more bizarre.

But WHY?!? Airplane thinks.

[User: {Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky}’s presence is an effort by the System to restore optimum world settings!] A cheerful victory flourish plays. [Fulfil quest requirements to grain a satisfactory ending and rehabilitate inconsistent plot elements!]

It takes a moment for Airplane to understand what the system means, but when he does he almost wants to scream. He’s been transmigrated into his own novel to fix plot holes? Seriously?

There’s no option to decline his ‘quest’, and so with no more forthcoming messages from the system, he reads through the various menus and settings, configuring the system to at least not be annoying to use before he reads through his character sheet and quest log again and figures out how to close the system interface.

Airplane was twenty-six when he died: five years after an accident ended his career as a professional dancer; four years after he began writing Proud Immortal Demon Way. Now he’s Shang Lei. He’s two years old. He’s got no skills and nothing in his inventory. He’s got until he’s ten years old to become an An Ding Peak disciple, or some unspecified punishment for failing his quest will befall him.

Airplane has an adult’s mind, but shoved into a child’s body with only so many available coping mechanisms, he gives in to natural instinct and starts crying.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

It’s not terrible being young again. Mostly. It’s mostly not terrible being young again.

Shang Lei becomes notable as a child for learning to speak, read, walk, and talk with incredible swiftness. He becomes familiar with his parents, which is an interesting experience to have after the parents of his past life who’d happily played hot potato with his custody during their divorce until he’d moved out at fifteen to live in a tiny apartment full of fellow dance students and all his parents had to worry about was sending him money regularly. Shang Lei’s parents seem like nice people, for all that they aren’t sure what to do with their supposedly genius son, they try their best with him; they feed him and clothe him and look after him in a non-grudging way. Which is a very sad and low standard for ‘good parenting’, Airplane supposes, but his general experiences in that area have been so negative that even the bare minimum of parenting seems amazing.

The Shang family is a middle class family of moderately wealthy merchants from a village near to the Tian Gong mountains. They aren’t exactly at the foot of the mountains themselves, but on clear days Shang Lei can look out and see the peaks in the distance.

He tries to think about this whole ‘second childhood’ thing as a tutorial period. He learns about the world he created as a native of that world, getting to experience all the things that had apparently come into being to fill the blanks left behind by his middling worldbuilding. He also very helpfully gets to learn about all the mundane daily life things that he never even bothered specifying but were implied by the setting, like good manners, and writing with a brush, and how to wear robes properly, and how to deal with having this much hair.

Being small and helpless isn’t great, in fact there’s a non-zero amount of times that Airplane spends feeling wound-tight with anxiety and discomfort; reminded of his time in the hospital and during the hardest parts of his physical therapy when he honestly couldn’t do things for himself and had to rely on other people for everything from food to getting up to use the restroom. Being small and helpless is honestly actually better than recovering from being hit by a truck, Airplane supposes, but his anxiety has never been very intelligent in making distinctions about his life situations. Being small and helpless is okay, interspersed with being definitely not okay, until he gains enough physical coordination that he realizes that he has two working legs with absolutely zero steel pins holding his bones together, and no mobility issues, and he can teach himself to dance again.

After this revelation, being small and helpless becomes exceedingly more okay: both because Airplane had missed and longed for this, and also because even in his past life in a modern and high-stress world it was significantly more difficult to be incredibly anxious after four hours of supplemental dance class, six hours of rehearsal, and two hours of performance, rinse and repeat.

His parents are as unsure what to do about his ‘dancing’ as they are about most of the things about their son, and so they take their normal tack of cautiously encouraging it as a way of spending his energy. Airplane is honestly unsure if France even exists in this world, so he can’t exactly explain the history of ballet or any of the names of the moves, or the artistic principles or anything, but he remembers his first dance class, and so over the next few years he reteaches his body the movements that his spirit remembers.

He learns other things too, useful skills and necessary abilities for living in this world, and Shang Lei has achieved something that he thinks approaches happiness when a nameless Cang Qiong Sect cultivator passes through their village and tells his parents that he has the potential to be a ‘great cultivator’ and they should send him to the disciple trials. This apparently justifies his strangeness to his parents, who seem beyond pleased that he has potential for something, and also that he’s not potentially possessed but rather must be feeling the effects of having a naturally high spiritual energy.

Shang Lei is seven years old, and when the passing Cang Qiong cultivator tells his parents that in a few months the sect is going to be accepting disciples and they should send Shang Lei along to take the trial, he realizes that it’s time for him to get on with the quest that’s been gathering dust for the past five years.

Thus far, transmigrating hasn’t been so bad. If you discount the whole ‘adult trapped in a child’s body’ thing. And the whole ‘people being really weird about an incredibly mature acting child’ thing. And the whole ‘will eventually have to deal with his garbage fire of a plot and try to not be killed as cannon fodder’ thing.

The idea that Shang Lei is actually just, gifted with deep spiritual knowledge or something has actually apparently soothed worries that he hadn’t been aware his parents had, based on the way they start acting. By which he means they decide that they need to finish teaching him vital life skills as soon as possible so they can pack him off to Cang Qiong to ‘reach his potential’. It’s not as upsetting as figuring out his original parents were completely uninterested in him other than as a way to punish each other, and so Shang Lei takes this sudden outpouring of parental attention with all the aplomb of the thirty-odd years of emotional maturity he’s managed to accrue at this point.

When he finally gets sent to Cang Qiong, he’s just turned eight years old. His parents entrust him to a merchant caravan heading to the town directly at the foot of the mountains nearest to the entrance to the sect, and he spends an idyllic few weeks bothering the people of the caravan with questions about their business and horses and carts and the villages and towns they pass through on the way, as the Tian Gong range looms ever larger in the distance.

Airplane had actually done some amount of research when he first designed Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, because in his original drafts Cang Qiong Mountain Sect had played a lot more interesting and less ‘rocks fall everyone dies’ role in the story. The entirety of the Tian Gong range stretches thousands of kilometres, but the most spiritually resonant peaks are where the Cang Qiong sect was founded. Technically speaking, the peaks of the mountains aren’t where the sect lives, since Airplane had decided that while ‘snow-capped peaks’ was an aesthetically appropriate environment for spiritual cultivation to happen in, it would also be a pain to have to have everyone be wearing clothing appropriate to constant snow. Most of the peaks’ enclaves are situated below the treeline, with only the alchemy-specializing peak whose name Airplane can’t even remember anymore (did he even give it one? Possibly not?) being based higher up where most of the other peaks only bother to venture for training or focused environmental meditation. Except Bai Zhan, where the disciples roam over their mountain fighting trees and punching bears or whatever. Airplane will admit that he read a few interesting websites about mountains and then went on his merry way, disregarding most of the actual science as unnecessary to do what he wanted to do.

But the point is: as the merchant caravan carrying him onward to his destiny, or at least his quest objective, gets closer and closer to the Tian Gong mountains, Airplane is somewhat overcome with a sense of awe and majesty that is very unlike when he’d gone on a school trip to the mountains in his past life and spent most of the bus ride fighting the urge to sick up on his nearest classmate.

It’s nice. Being impressed by things he technically created is nice. The caravan is nice. The town situated at the foot of the mountains also seems nice, from what little he sees of it. They arrive in the early evening a day ahead of when the disciple trial will be, which is super convenient for Shang Lei. His parents are business partners of the woman running the caravan, and so she lets him sleep in the inn the caravan reserved that night before feeding him a nice breakfast and making sure he was pointed in the correct direction and washing her hands of him.

There’s a general sense of pilgrimage as various young people all flow towards the path to where the entrance to the sect is at the base of the nearest mountain. Airplane thinks it might be Qiong Ding, but he’s not going to bet on it. Looking around at the small sea of aspirants, Airplane suddenly feels ironically very old. Physically he’s eight, but mentally he’s passed thirty and even the kids he knows are probably ten or twelve just look like toddlers to him. Since they’re just standing around and waiting for the trial to start, most of the kids are starting to socialize; making connections with their peers and gravitating into little groups to talk. Airplane feels so incredibly out of place already that he can’t muster up the energy to even try and ‘how do you do, fellow kids?’ anyone.

He’s always been a socially awkward person. The last time he was eight years old, he’d been taking dance classes for a few months and already decided that it was what he was going to do with his life. It guided his social interactions to fellow dancers, and so they’d always had something to talk about: the latest technique, the latest rehearsal, the latest audition. At twenty-one it had been his entire world: he lived with other members of the ballet company he’d been apprenticed to since he was seventeen, he’d clawed his way up from the corps de ballet to become a soloist and spent all of his time practicing. Walking home from the train station one night after a grueling day of technique maintenance classes, rehearsals for the next show, and two performances of the current show--matinee and evening--he’d been minding his own business when a truck had taken a turn too sharply and bounced onto the sidewalk, neatly destroying Airplane’s everything. Waking up in the hospital had been miserable. Dragging himself through physical therapy to be able to walk again was grueling. Getting notice that his contract with the company had been ended due to his injury was perhaps the lowest point of his life.

All of his friends had been his friends because of their shared vocation; acquaintances matured at a vastly accelerated rate by virtue of spending nearly all waking hours together striving towards the same goal. Once Airplane could no longer strive with them, he slowly lost his friend group until he was alone with his grief. The same sympathetic social worker who’d been there when he’d woken up had helped him find his sh*tty matchbox apartment, and Airplane had numbly accepted that if he faithfully kept to his rehabilitation regime, then maybe in a few years he could regain his ability well enough to spend the rest of his life teaching beginner’s ballet classes and biting his tongue when asked about his brutally truncated professional career. It was a grim vision of a less than ideal future. The pain medicine made him sick, the physical therapy was frustrating, and the sheer amount of free time he suddenly had was driving him insane..

Ending up with an account on a novel website had been mostly an accident; being bedridden with nothing to do but read and play videogames.

He’d written because it had felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t focus on anything other than his reality. The first effort, a short novella with horror themes and absolutely no fanservice, was read by less than twenty people. The second effort, a science fiction type short story embodying his desire to exist in any other form than the one he currently occupied, was read by less than ten.

Discovering that he could hash out huge swathes of words at a time, driven by the manic energy that he’d honed to a fine edge through years of constant strenuous exertion and now suddenly denied an outlet for, was a sea change. Airplane became methodical. He looked around at the most popular genres and trends, decided on a course, and became a stallion novelist. It was a mercenary prospect, but a lucrative one. The first draft of Proud Immortal Demon Way had been something he was actually proud of, but the ensuing drafts chipped away more and more of his story until it had become unrecognizable. His fishing writing style of sowing plot threads and story hooks right and left and then seeing which ones his readers latched onto before writing up the next installment to focus in that direction had deprived the plot of any real arc or direction. But the serial installments full of face-slapping followed by papapa had sold and sold until he’d had a million readers and written an ocean of mediocre fight scenes and purple prose love scenes.

It was satisfying in the way churning out sausages must be satisfying to a butcher. The way endless repetitive barre work had been satisfying during practice. A series of motions coming together to occupy him and direct his energy, with tangible results.

If there was one thing Airplane hated above all else, it was being idle, with nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts; his own anxiety.

Standing here, now, in this sea of enthusiastic young people looking to make something of their lives in this evolved version of his slapdash brainchild, Airplane felt about a million years old. Social anxiety piled on top of social ineptitude piled on top of actual lack of anything to say to anyone.

Luckily, if there was one special skill that had followed him from his first life, it was the ability to wallflower like a champion, and so Airplane faded into the background; watching as the promising potential cultivators met and introduced themselves to each other until the trial began.

He’d known what it was going to be, and he’d done some idle preparation for it by fooling around with a shovel before he’d left his parent’s house, but it was still weirdly nerve wracking to be handed a shovel and told to dig while twelve stern-faced legends looked down on you from on high.

Literally, because they were standing further up the slope.

Airplane’s hole is nothing particularly special, he thinks, except looking around him at his fellow aspirants, he can see that his actual experience with shovels and also with long-term critical thinking and planning skills means that his hole is actually one of the nicer holes. Some aspirants have obviously never held a shovel in their lives but are trying anyways. Some aspirants show that they’ve done labor such as this before, but their minds are still the minds of children and so they simplistically dig straight down without consideration for structural integrity or anything like that. And some few, like Airplane, obviously have a passing familiarity with shovels and are considering their task deeply enough to attempt some form of method to dig their hole in an efficient manner.

Slowly, as the day drags on, each of the twelve peak lords descends to begin walking amongst the aspirants and choosing or dismissing them as they see fit.

Shang Lei is pacing himself by this point. He’s dug a perfectly respectable hole and is now simply moving dirt around. He tries to work on the sides so they’ll be less likely to collapse as he very slowly works his way deeper.

A shadow falls over him, and he looks up from his half-hearted shoveling to see a woman standing over him. She’s of average height and average build, appearing to be in her mid thirties. As a Peak Lord she can’t be anything less than an Immortal Master, and so there’s really no knowing how old she actually is, but she’s dressed in fine but simple robes, her hair piled atop her head in a style that accentuates her Peak Lord’s crown. The lapel of her overcoat is embroidered with a repeating pattern of what he recognizes as a refined version of his original messy sketch of An Ding Peak’s sigil.

And...he recognizes her...Airplane knows who this is.

Shang Lei doesn’t though, and there’s no guarantee that he’s right anyways, so he looks nervously up at the Lord of An Ding Peak as she sweeps an obviously evaluating gaze over him.

“What is your name?” She asks him.

“This one is Shang Lei, Xianshi” Airplane replies, unable to really identify the feelings he’s currently experiencing other than terror, because he’s actually pretty sure he’s right and he knows who this is.

The Lord of An Ding Peak seems pleased with his respect, for all that her expression doesn’t change in the least. She gives him a look that goes beyond judging and all the way into soul-revealing and he can’t help himself from quailing a bit under the weight of her regard. As far as Airplane has seen, when other aspirants have been spoken to by the Peak Lords they’ve tried their best to keep their backs straight and show a brave face. But being aware that the person speaking to you could crush you like an itty bitty bug and reacting with appropriate caution doesn’t seem shameful to Shang Lei.

It apparently doesn’t seem shameful to the Lord of An Ding Peak either, because her mouth quirks very slightly up on one side in a tiny gesture of amusem*nt. A gentle breeze picks up and tugs at the hems of her robes and the long drapes of her sleeves, slightly ruffling her bangs and the few loose strands of hair framing her face. She turns into the breeze slightly, angling her body so the short gust will blow her hair out of her eyes rather than into them--a graceful, unconscious movement--and Airplane catches sight of an old, faded starburst of a scar near to her temple over her left eye.

He’s not sure how he manages to keep ahold of his shovel, considering he’s stopped breathing and is probably going to pass out any minute, and he’s not sure what she sees on his face, but it has to be some kind of thing because her mouth does that tiny quirk of amusem*nt again before she nods at him once, and gestures with her hand.

Shang Lei climbs out of his hole, shoulders his shovel, and follows the Lord of An Ding Peak over to a slowly growing group of disciples. She gives him an unreadable look as he takes his place among his fellows, but turns away to begin searching through the aspirants again before he can embarrass himself further.

[Mission: Become Disciple of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, An Ding Peak; Complete! Reward: +100 Story Points]

[Special Achievement: Fulfil Quest Before Deadline! Bonus Points + 25]

[Special Achievement: Noticed By An Ding Peak Lord! Bonus Points +25]

If he wasn’t already experiencing his maximum potential for being surprised, the sudden chimes of a victory fanfare would have startled him. As it is, he mindlessly acknowledges the point additions. The system menu appears before his eyes, showing his general point totals and character sheet, before another chime accompanies the rolling changes as his new points are added.

[New Mission! Cultivate A Golden Core~!]

The musical que that accompanies a new quest plays out and the mission is automatically accepted into his quest log without any input from Airplane.

Standing around and waiting for the disciple selection trial to end gives him plenty of time to read through the quest details, once again noting the several unspecified subquests that can potentially be completed during the course of the mission. Once he’s finished, Airplane exits the system interface. He’s got nothing to do but rack his brain for every scrap of detail he put into his original outlines and drafts for Cang Qiong, because if he’s right about who the An Ding Peak Lord is, then he really really needs to remember every detail he can.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

In Airplane’s first outline of Proud Immortal Demon Way, the generation of Peak Lords that preceded the ‘Qing’ generation was the ‘Zhan’ generation. A powerful and highly respected generation of Immortal Masters who’d led the sect for nearly a hundred years before deciding that current events in the cultivation world required a new generation to make fresh decisions. Some of them were supposed to have died in the war between demons and humans, such as the former Lord of Bai Zhan Peak, but the majority of the ‘Zhan’ generation Peak Lords had simply retired to pursue their own cultivation and act as Grandmasters on their peaks. Passing on their mantles of leadership and all the responsibilities therein to get back to teaching students and enjoying some time to pursue their own interests after their illustrious careers guiding and shaping several generations of Cang Qiong disciples. When Luo Binghe came to destroy Cang Qiong, he had initially been beaten back by this collection of old Masters: a dramatic scene that was supposed to highlight how amazing an Immortal Master fighting at full strength could be. While also highlighting that not all of the choices which had led to the human-demon war had been made in good faith, with the older generation who’d been involved in Tianlang-Jun’s fall being confronted with the results of their actions and inactions.

There was pathos, Airplane had worked very hard on the pathos.

Unfortunately, all of this painstaking worldbuilding fell victim to the many many many edits that deformed Proud Immortal Demon Way into its published draft. Early readers weren’t interested in more details about a sect whose most prominent early character was the heartless villain Shen Qingqiu. So it had been scrapped. Cang Qiong was destroyed unceremoniously by Luo Binghe. None of the older generation of Peak Lords had made an appearance. None of the mystery of Luo Binghe’s parent’s fates had ended up making its way into the novel anyway, so it hadn’t even been one of the edits that had caused much raged-over plot holes, a decision that had been made so early in Proud Immortal Demon Way’s publishing life that there had been plenty of time to remove or shuffle around the pertinent details without much loss.

It had been one of the edits that Airplane had been most wistful about, though. He couldn’t really claim that he’d ever been writing for his artistic vision or integrity or whatever, but he had been fond of his original outlines and draft. He had wanted to tell that story. That he hadn’t ended up doing so was something he’d found passingly regrettable at the time, but consistent readership and consistent paychecks had swayed him well enough that he hadn’t fought too hard.

Now, though, he sort of gets what the System meant all those years ago when it talked about ‘rehabilitating plot elements’, because the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect that exists in this world seems to be drawn not from the pale imitation that had existed in his published work but rather from the more robust and interesting vision that had never seen the light of day.

Which is heartwarming, Airplane guesses, but also incredibly terrifying because he’s right.

He knows the Lord of An Ding Peak.

The Lord of An Ding Peak is Zhang Zhanhua. She is an Immortal Master, a legend, and perhaps one of the most powerful cultivators in the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. She has a small starburst of a scar over her left eye near her temple from a night hunt she undertook as a junior disciple. Her cultivation could have healed the scar into nothingness later on, but she’d chosen to keep it, feeling that she had earned it and would wear it with dignity.

Others among her fellow Peak Lords are already grooming their successors, but she has abstained despite appointing several head disciples over the years. She sees the way the wind is blowing within her sect and has yet to find someone who can hold with her ideals of An Ding Peak while also being able to survive the inevitable changes that are going to grip the cultivation world within a few short years.

Airplane knows all of this because he wrote all of this into her backstory.

Zhang Zhanhua, standing before the gathered group of freshly-chosen An Ding Peak disciples, is so much more than what Airplane wrote that he feels vaguely ashamed of himself for denying her what would surely have been the fandom adoration she deserved.

She isn’t one of the Immortal Beauties of Xian Shu, but she is lovely all the same. It is the loveliness of maturity and grace and decisiveness. It is the loveliness of trials overcome and hard choices made. It is the loveliness of a sharp and elegant blade forged into a peerless yet beautiful instrument of violence.

Zhang Zhanhua is the Lord of An Ding Peak, the Master of Logistics for Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.

She is also its spymaster.

Standing before her, lined up in a neat row with his fellow disciples, Airplane is incredibly aware that he knows things about her and about the entirety of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect that, if Zhang Zhanhua became aware he knew, would lead to her immediately and remorselessly killing him.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Settling in on An Ding Peak is much easier than Shang Lei thought it would be. Junior disciples live in communal Leisure Houses with the primary Hall Master assigned to their cohort and a few senior disciples who have volunteered to mind their shidis and shimeis. It’s nice. Less like a dormitory and more like a moderately sized cozy house, each little disciple tucked into a cubby of a room. With communal bathing, eating, and schooling, as well as the sect supplying clothing and other necessities, there’s not really a need for anyone to have a very large private space until they become a senior disciple and move into their own personal Leisure House.

The Leisure Houses were honestly something that Airplane had come up with as an excuse for original Shang Qinghua to be able to carry out his meetings with Mobei Jun without getting caught, despite starting his spy career before being of an age or rank where he should have the privacy to do such a thing. The irony of the disciples of the hardest-working peak living in ‘leisure houses’ was just a joke that he hadn’t been able to resist making.

In this version of An Ding Peak that’s actually a reality, where all of the little bits that Airplane churned out in his various drafts were seemingly sorted through for all the pieces that would make a functioning whole, the Leisure Houses have several practical functions.

An Ding is the most populous of all the peaks. It houses and trains nearly half of all disciples of Cang Qiong Mountain, despite the supposed lack of prestige. It is the logistical apparatus that is the backbone of Cang Qiong and keeps the sect as a whole running. While cultivators from the other peaks may decide to leave to make names for themselves, or travel to improve themselves and their cultivation, An Ding’s senior disciples and mature cultivators rarely end up leaving the sect. Either they’ve chosen to pursue careers that don’t require them to leave the mountain at all, or they have a job that requires them to travel and so they aren’t interested in lengthy personal trips. This means that there’s a large population of adult cultivators living on An Ding Peak, and beyond cultivators, An Ding also provides the primary housing for non-cultivator servants and laborers that work for the sect. All people who would want their own homes and privacy, rather than continuing to live in communal quarters for as long as the other peaks do.

It’s actually incredible to sit down to his very first lessons on An Ding and learn about how the sect and peaks actually function, all of the blank spaces he’d carelessly left behind being filled in by a real place.

Because Cang Qiong Mountain Sect is based across twelve mountains, there’s a tremendous amount of land available for the sect’s needs, and An Ding manages it all. As a large sect, there’s need for a large and varied amount of goods and supplies, and ensuring that as many of those needs can be met from their own production is one of An Ding’s most important tasks.

Each peak has a main enclave, like a village, where that peak has its various buildings and other structures. Around these enclaves there’s generally an area of land that’s groomed for aesthetic values, providing places to meditate and scenery to enjoy. On Bai Zhan, the odd man of Cang Qiong, there is indeed a main enclave of buildings and training grounds, but also various ‘supply stations’ scattered across the mountain for the roaming disciples to make use of during their training; small but sturdy lodges kept stocked with medical supplies, spare disciple uniforms, tools, and other necessities. But otherwise, the management and usage of mountain land falls to An Ding.

The unique microclimates of the spiritual mountains were discovered ages ago, and the scheme of land management and stewardship that An Ding uses is based around these microclimates and the various streams and creeks which are fed by snowmelt and natural mountain springs.

The slopes and foothills of the mountains are as carefully cultivated and managed as the spiritual energies of the people who reside there.

Groves of apricots, plums, pears, apples, pomegranates, figs, cherries, almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts, and chestnuts dominate the lower slopes of three of the twelve peaks. Qing Jing’s unique microclimate means that beyond the carefully groomed bamboo groves that surround the peak’s settlement, the graceful slopes of the mountain are essentially a tea plantation. Qiong Ding’s extensive system of spirit caves makes it difficult to reliably plant and grow on the mountain, so along with Bai Zhan it exists in a state of carefully maintained wilderness, where wild animals native to the mountain range are allowed to roam freely; deer, bear, wild boar, and wild hares all being hunted as their populations are managed. Qian Cao is the most independent of An Ding’s management, and grows vast gardens of every medicinal herb that can be made to take root on the mountain. Zui Xian’s breweries are supported by rice and grains that are grown in terraced paddies and fields down the slopes and foothills of the mountain. Ku Xing yields not only the majority of the sect’s vegetables but also a highly prized deposit of spiritual jade. Wan Jian’s rocky slopes are the grazing land of the various herds of sheep, cattle, and goats kept by the sect for meat, milk, and wool. Xian Shu’s slopes are devoted to massive groves of white mulberry, both for harvests of fruit and to support the sect’s growing and harvesting of silkworms for the weaving of spiritual silk as well as regular silk to provide the various official robes and uniforms used by the sect. An Ding, based on one of the largest mountains, holds the warehouses, work buildings, store houses, and various workshops for the sect’s craftspeople; greenhouses for herbs and plants that require certain climes that can’t be found among the peaks and bountiful gardens of spices, aromatics, and carefully cultivated dye plants; the apiary; the laundry; the stables; the hen houses; the master kitchen, scullery, and larder for the entire sect; the composting piles, pig stys, and waste management. Away from the directly cultivated lands on each peak, well-managed forests of hard and soft woods provide lumber. The valleys between the mountains provide quarries for stone; lakes for water storage and fisheries; and production land for cotton and flax crops.

Of the professions supported on An Ding there are tanners and leatherworkers; weavers and spinners and dyers and tailors; blacksmiths and jewelers; herders and hunters and butchers; woodworkers and carpenters; cooks and bakers; horticulturists and farmers; potters and glassblowers and glaziers; stonecutters and masons; soapers and chandlers; harvesters and millers; papermakers and ink makers.

The whole of the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect is basically a very large and heavily specialized town.

As a junior disciple, Shang Lei is expected to attend lessons on history, mathematics, literature, music, and art to gain a proper educational grounding before he can advance into specialized classes. He is expected to learn the basics of Cang Qiong’s martial arts forms which will lay the groundwork for potentially learning a sword style if he shows aptitude in that direction. He is expected to begin learning all the skills of an An Ding Peak disciple, such as sewing, cooking, cleaning, finance, management, and acquisition of basic knowledge in the trade skills of his choice. But the most important thing Shang Lei is expected to learn is meditation to begin forming his spiritual cognition and golden core, and it is a wonderful, wonderful blessing.

An Ding Peak’s preferred style of meditation is moving meditation.

The reasoning for this is that because mastery is attained in many forms, a disciple could practice moving meditation while performing tasks or skilled activities and thus further their cultivation while also improving their other skills. And so, every day, Shang Lei has an hour to himself to--as his instructors explain--first figure out which activity is best suited to him, and then learn to meditate with it. It doesn’t matter what activity, they tell Shang Lei’s cohort--a group of twenty impressionable young disciples--and relay the story of one of the venerable Hall Masters who they will learn from as they advance who chose scrubbing floors as his meditative activity.

Shang Lei has, at this point, been a dedicated student of a style of mindful and precise movement which requires intense discipline to gain perfection of form for more than twenty years.

There’s no real way to explain this to his instructors, though, and so he says that his chosen meditation activity is a style of dance he learned before he came to the sect. Which is true! But it's impossible to disguise the ease with which he takes to what is supposed to be something entirely new to him, and as a consequence Shang Lei gains some attention as a genius of meditation. Which isn’t something he was trying to do, and unfortunately soon isn’t limited to meditation.

Shang Lei isn’t familiar with the history or literature of this world--beyond the parts he’d specifically created--but he’d gone to college in his past life. It was for dance, of course, but he still had to take general education courses. He knows how to study. Math is math and he’s always been good with numbers. After he gains basic fluency in the traditional art styles and understanding symbolism and composition and being able to tell good art from bad he’s allowed to abandon art lessons due to lack of interest and lack of aptitude. Music is better because he’s got a well developed sense of rhythm and had to become familiar with beats and rests to be able to keep his timing in dance, so he works steadily through learning the pipa. The basic martial arts form learned by all Cang Qiong disciples is a series of exercises involving blocks, punches, kicks, and dodges. It’s supposed to teach peripheral awareness and physical coordination. Shang Lei absorbs it like a new piece of choreography. Sewing is nice because it's a useful skill, and he already knew a basic hand stitch from before, mostly for sewing the elastics back into his dance shoes. Learning to cook is very good, because his only experience cooking in this life and the last has been heating water. Cleaning is cleaning, although his past experience is less than useful without modern products. Finance, after learning the various currencies, is something he’s good at because nothing teaches budgeting skills like being broke. Management is likewise an area he has an advantage in, because his critical thinking and problem solving skills are those of an adult rather than a child, and he’s always been an organized and methodical person.

The result of all of this, though, is that he’s ahead of his peers in most of his classes, and is considered one of the brightest potentials among the new disciples. It’s not an intentional thing! Shang Lei is just, not actually an eight year old and not actually sure how to behave like an eight year old.

Fortunately, the nature of An Ding Peak as a place for hard work means that while Shang Lei continues to be ahead of his peers--as his instructors simply move him along to new things to work on--his peers aren’t too upset about it because they’re all working hard at their own level and not being compared unfavorably to Shang Lei. It’s a very equitable system that Shang Lei is very thankful for because his social skills have only mildly improved since he’d been sorted into his cohort and then essentially made to spend all his time with them.

Unfortunately, his supposed brilliance means he earns Zhang Zhanhua’s personal attention.

It’s only a short meeting, but one day during his personal meditation hour, just as he’d finished his stretches and been preparing to move into floor work, one of the Peak Lord’s many aides had appeared and summoned him to her personal Leisure House. He’d been ushered into the large room that seemed to function as both office and receiving room, and been directed to take a seat on the cushion in front of her desk apparently reserved for interrogating disciples. He’d sat there trying not to fidget while she ignored him to finish the writing she’d been doing when he came in.

When she finally turns her attention to him, Shang Lei salutes respectfully from his seat, “Shizun.”

She gives him the barest of nods in return, “Shang Lei” she says, giving his name a weight that definitely bodes ill.

Shang Lei tries not to look abjectly terrified, and he’s not really sure if he succeeds, because Zhang Zhanhua gets the same vaguely amused look she did during the disciple trial.

“Tell me,” She asks, “what is An Ding Peak’s role within Cang Qiong Sect?”

The tone of her voice is still worrisome, but Shang Lei at least knows the answer to the question, both from his lessons as a disciple and also from his dangerously intimate knowledge of the sect as a whole, and so he replies, “An Ding Peak’s role is to provide stability and support to Cang Qiong, which is why our An Ding has its name which can be read as stable peak.”

Zhang Zhanhua nods as he answers her question, seeming pleased with it, and Shang Lei relaxes just a little bit before she quirks an eyebrow at him and says, “Our An Ding?”

Shang Lei can feel his face turning red, but he manages not to start blubbering or apologizing which he counts as a win.

Zhang Zhanhua laughs softly, a tiny smile gracing her face before being swept away into the neutrally bored expression that seemed to make up her public face, “That is a more insightful answer than many disciples have given me, when asked,” she says.

Shang Lei sits quietly while the Peak Lord considers him for a few long moments, before she waves her hand to dismiss him.

“Continue your hard work, disciple,” she says as he stands to leave, “this Master would like to see your potential develop itself.”

Shang Lei bows respectfully, and manages to keep from turning tail and running until he’s out of her sight.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

The next several years pass quickly for Shang Lei, in much the same manner as his first few months as an An Ding disciple.

He grows in his studies and cultivation through hard work and practice, and although he’s still regarded as above average he hasn’t attracted undue attention or unearned praise. It makes him somewhat uncomfortable, being looked at as a good example, but as his cohort ages he slowly begins to connect with them better.

It’s ironically easier to interact with his instructors and fellow disciples than it is to have the eyes of his Shizun on him for even a moment. Zhang Zhanhua is someone who he knows too intimately to be comfortable with, especially since he’s a junior disciple who has absolutely no cause to be familiar with her at all. But his shixiongs; the Hall Masters; the instructors; the Master Artisans; the managers; the administrators; the auditors; the stewards; his shidis and shimeis: he doesn’t know any of these people. They don’t exist as a direct consequence of his thoughts, but rather they’re people who are organic, native to this reality. He can only come to know them by getting to know them. He doesn’t have to constantly worry about being overly familiar and knowing things he shouldn’t, because everything he knows they’ve told him themselves, he’s observed for himself.

He can’t help but relax, though, as time passes. Zhang Zhanhua has taken some sort of interest in him, and over the years she keeps an eye on him. Shang Lei appreciates that she’s an intensely busy person who is still bothering to take a moment now and then to keep track of his progress, but also his unnatural knowledge works against him because there’s very few reasons that Zhang Zhanhua takes personal interest in disciples on An Ding.

Her time is valuable, and although she’s organized her peak to be as efficient as possible, she’s rarely able to take the time to personally teach outer disciples like himself; delegating the task to the many Masters on An Ding.

This is why, when Shang Lei is deemed advanced enough in his cultivation to go to the Wan Jian Sword Wall and see what form his spiritual sword takes, he is very surprised that Zhang Zhanhua takes the time to accompany him.

He tries to ask why, but all he gets in response is a short, “This Master is curious.”

Zhang Zhanhua looks as politely bored as ever, her neutral expression only changing minutely as she waves her hand sharply towards the bridge with an expectant gesture and then strides forward at a brisk pace.

As they walk to Wan Jian, Shang Lei dutifully answers her questions while trying not to choke or accidentally blurt out some incriminating piece of information he has no business knowing.

Yes, he’s continued advancing his martial arts. No, he’s not sure what sword style he’ll be learning. Yes, he’s just moved up into the advanced accounting class. Yes, he still meditates by dancing. Yes, he’d attended the lecture by Master Artisan Li about the various types and qualities of silk cloth, it was very interesting.

Wan Jian isn’t directly connected to An Ding, and so they have to cross Qing Jing and Qian Cao to reach it.

Zhang Zhanhua’s stride is businesslike and deceptively swift. Shang Lei, who at twelve is still the shortest in his cohort, has to trot to keep up with her.

After exhausting her questions about his education, Zhang Zhanhua begins asking more difficult questions; theoretical situations focused around what he was currently learning. How would you solve this problem? How would you organize such-and-such activity? Where would you arrange so-and-so event? When would it be appropriate to enact such-and-such plan?

Shang Lei gains confidence as he answers her questions, because this is at least something he can do. He knows he’s got a skewed idea of his own skills, after years and years in both lives of being praised by others while still not thinking that he’s done well, but he’s come to accept that logistics is something he’s good at. Talking and explaining his answers and his reasoning, he starts to slowly unwind from being a complete nervous wreck in the presence of someone who he not only admires but is afraid of.

Zhang Zhanhua is intimidating, but she’s been teaching disciples for more than a century, she asks followup questions attentively, and conveys an air of deep interest despite the fact that she’s definitely been asking disciples some variation on these exact questions for longer than Shang Lei has lived both lives.

It’s the confidence that gets him. Shang Lei is practically vibrating with enthusiasm as he details the steps he’d take to solve the scenario Zhang Zhanhua posed to him. She compliments his reasoning as being appropriate and correct for the situation, then glances ahead to gauge the distance and says, “This Master believes there’s time for one more question.”

Shang Lei listens eagerly as she poses it; a difficult scenario involving the appropriation of supplies and handling of sensitive information. He’s halfway through answering when he realizes that while he knows what he would do, they haven’t actually discussed anything like this in lessons.

Zhang Zhanhua has stopped walking to listen to him, and caught up in his explanation he didn’t notice and stopped as well.

He stumbles over his words, the expression of intense concentration on his Shizun’s face and the rising feeling of panic that he’s somehow exposed knowledge that he’s not supposed to have choking him. He can feel himself simultaneously trying to blush and blanch at the same time.

“Well...I mean....” Shang Lei tries to temporize.

“Continue,” Zhang Zhanhua says, calm and implacable.

Haltingly, Shang Lei manages to stutter through the rest of his solution to the problem. He can barely look his Shizun in the face as he does, but manages by speaking the last few words to her hair crown rather than risk looking away from her.

When he’s done, she nods once, “A well-considered solution to a difficult problem,” she reaches out slowly, and even seeing her hand coming can’t stop Shang Lei from flinching slightly when she settles it on top of his head for the briefest of moments, “We will work on your confidence, disciple.”

With that she turns away, “Come, Wan Jian awaits.”

Shang Lei would like to faint or throw himself off the rainbow bridge or something, his nerves are shot. But Zhang Zhanhua has never given false praise in her life; her pronouncement carries the same immovable certainty as bedrock. Shang Lei feels suddenly warm all over as he rushes to catch up with his Shizun.

After the emotional whirlwind of their journey, getting to see the famous Sword Wall of Wan Jian Peak is somewhat anticlimactic.

It’s incredible of course, much more impressive than Airplane had even imagined it to be when he wrote it! But he just can’t muster up much awe when he’s still getting over the actual non-negative acknowledgement he’d gotten from Zhang Zhanhua. Real praise! For him!

A Wan Jian disciple who seems to be assigned to attend the Sword Wall meets them, recognizes Zhang Zhanhua, and offers to run and get the Wan Jian Peak Lord. Zhang Zhanhua dismisses them, smoothly declaring that they can manage by themselves and there’s no need to bother her shixiong. After this, Shang Lei finds himself deftly herded over to the Sword Wall and given vague instructions about feeling his spiritual energy resonate with his surroundings to identify his proper spiritual sword.

He feels silly, standing there in front of the wall focusing on his spiritual energy, but he does it. He focuses, he relaxes. He feels his spine pull itself straight, his shoulders fall back, his head and neck lift in line with his whole body, as though he’s been pulled upwards by a string. His arms and feet automatically fall into first position as he exhales. His spiritual energy is a soothing presence, circulating cleanly through his meridians and spiritual veins, welling in his dantians, condensing and turning in his chest where he can feel his nascent golden core forming; not complete yet, but well on its way to reaching its potential.

Spreading his spiritual awareness out from himself, Shang Lei breathes slowly and allows himself to connect with the ambient spiritual energy of his environment. There’s no immediate resonance, but he feels comfortable. Centuries of commitment by the Masters of Wan Jian having refined the spiritual energy of the Sword Wall into something that is, if not eager to cooperate with human spiritual energy, then at least very willing to do so.

It takes a few moments of allowing himself to breathe and feel the flow of spiritual energy around him before he begins to feel himself drawn towards any part of the Sword wall. Instinct tells him to keep his eyes closed, but he moves towards the place that seems to call out to him with confident steps. He can feel himself pointing his toes, his steps almost a chassé as he makes his way without sight to the place that feels right.

For a moment he’s not sure what to do, but the same instinct that tells him to keep his eyes shut says that he should reach out and touch the Sword Wall. It’s a sensation that’s almost disorientingly intense, but he presses his palms flat against the stone. His spiritual energy surges from the meditative circulation he’d been maintaining, taking him by surprise. He tries to visualize a sword, but other images and feelings come to the forefront of his mind instead. He thinks of a perfect jeté entrelacé; the feeling of flight. He thinks of looking up and seeing the moon in a thin and perfect crescent above traffic lights and between skyscrapers before his world collapsed into the sound of screeching tires and pain. He thinks of hiking across An Ding while performing his junior disciple’s duties, ferrying a message for Horticulturist Chen to a lush grove of cinnamon trees and standing in their shade, breathing the fragrant air; the tranquility he’d experienced for those few moments.

The palms of Shang Lei’s hands, pressed flat against the stone of the Sword Wall, grow warm with concentrated spiritual energy. He closes each hand instinctively and pulls. He hears the ring of steel, the sudden weight in his hands, and then opens his eyes in shock.

Because he’s holding a pair of swords, rather than the single sword he’d been expecting.

They’re obviously finely made, the steel gleaming in the sunlight. The gentle curve of the blades, the turn of the hilts as they fit into his hands; not perfect yet, but comfortable despite being sized for an adult rather than a child. The blades are plain, but elegant in their simplicity. Likewise, the guards of each blade aren’t finely decorated, but rather minimalist in their styling: each blade’s guard a thick half circle of warm-toned bronze, designed to comfortably nest against each other in a double sheath. The pommel of each blade is a simple cap of the same bronze. The hilts are wrapped with a braid of sage green silk, with a length of braid tied into a loop and left to hang free near the pommel.

The most striking thing, to Shang Lei’s eyes, are the inscriptions on each blade; a small pair of characters just below the hilt on the shoulder of the blade, the one in his left hand reading Canyue and the one in his right reading Xianyue.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring down at the swords in shock, when he hears someone discreetly clear their throat and suddenly remembers that he wasn’t alone when he came to the Sword Wall. Shang Lei startles, turning quickly to Zhang Zhanhua where she has apparently been patiently waiting for him, “Shizun!” he cries, unable to contain himself, “I don’t know what happened!”

Zhang Zhanhua nods, moving towards him now that he’s fully out of the spiritual trance of the Sword Wall, “Paired swords are unusual,” she says, “but not unheard of.”

There’s something in her voice that Shang Lei can’t identify, distracted as he is by his own mental litany of potential ramifications of this unexpected event: caught up in his distress, he unthinkingly blurts out, “How do I hide them?”

“Hide them?” Zhang Zhanhua echoes back at him, a faint thread of incredulousness in her tone, and something else as well; assessment, consideration, evaluation.

Shang Lei has the presence of mind to realize that he’s being judged in some way, and tries desperately to backpedal, “Well...I mean...not hide-hide, but…”

Zhang Zhanhua gives him such a look that he feels himself being flayed to the bone. His mouth snaps shut so quickly his teeth click together, words dying in his throat. “Disciple,” She says in measured, even tones that put Shang Lei in the mind of a headsman’s slowly descending axe, “explain to this Master why you would wish to hide your swords.”

“This disciple…” Shang Lei swallows and has to try again, “this disciple is aware that a righteous cultivator should wear their blade openly to show respect for the blade’s spirit, but, ah, as Shizun has said it is unusual for a cultivator to wield paired swords and this disciple is also aware that, uh, people tend to notice the unusual,” Shang Lei’s voice breaks, and he squeaks out the last few words, “this disciple would simply prefer not to be noticed, um, unless he invited the attention.”

Zhang Zhanhua’s intense gaze seems to quarter him down into his component parts and weigh them for value, her politely bored expression at odds with the light of something that seems to have come into her eyes.

“A well-thought and reasonable request,” Zhang Zhanhua says at last, after an eternity during which Shang Lei had resigned himself to death. For the first time Shang Lei has ever seen, Zhang Zhanhua smiles at him, sharp as a blade, “It seems this Master has quite a wise disciple.”

Shang Lei manages to stutter out a quiet, “Thank you, Shizun.”

Zhang Zhanhua waves a hand dismissively, “When we return to An Ding you will move into the inner disciples’ cohort, Shang Lei, thank this Master by proving you are worthy.”

Shang Lei doesn’t quite faint, but he definitely swoons. He considers trying to pretend he’s unconscious, but Zhang Zhanhua steadies him and while he’s generally shameless and has a pretty thick face, he just knows he couldn’t survive the experience of collapsing on her. Zhang Zhanhua gently puts the back of her hand against his forehead, and then assists him in shuffling both of his swords into one hand so she can check the spiritual pulse in his wrist. Her movements are competent and methodical, a testament to An Ding Peak’s intense curriculum of first aid skills and field medicine.

“You’ve strained your core, understandably” Zhang Zhanhua says, glancing at the two gleaming blades Shang Lei was cradling to his chest, “and will require rest.”

With this, she steps a few paces away from him, and with a deft motion touched with the slightest hint of spiritual energy, she draws her own sword from somewhere in her voluminous sleeves.

Shang Lei knows he’s gaping like a fool, but he can’t help it. Zhang Zhanhua levels a gently amused look at him, returning to his side and gently scooping him up before mounting her sword and speeding them back to An Ding

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Being an An Ding inner disciple wasn’t much different than being an outer disciple. He has mostly the same lessons, and mostly the same duties. At a single word from the Peak Lord to one of her aides after they’d returned from Wan Jian, Shang Lei had found his possessions deftly moved from his old room in his old cohort’s Leisure House, to an empty room in his new cohort’s Leisure House. The logistical efficiency An Ding strives for being on full display as within an hour, Shang Lei had been given a set of uniforms appropriate to his new rank, settled into his new room, and introduced to his new Hall Master and peers in his new cohort.

The main differences are the amount of attention they receive from the Peak Lord, and the structure of their curriculum.

While all An Ding disciples are given the same basic education, outer disciples were instructed with an eye towards creating more specialists to continue the peak’s production. A great many of the Master Artisans and similar masteries currently at work on An Ding are former An Ding outer disciples. They didn’t need as much direct oversight from the Peak Lord because they would go from instruction in their cohort to learning directly from the Masters in the field they chose to pursue.

An Ding inner disciples, on the other hand, were instructed with an eye towards creating An Ding’s future leaders. Their lessons in practical logistics and management were much more intensive, and there was not a single administrator, auditor, or steward at work on the peak who wasn’t trained as an inner disciple. The Peak Lord kept a close eye on the progress of the inner disciples, because they were the ones who would serve her directly in the future.

Unlike in his former cohort where he and his peers were all around the same age, Shang Lei is the youngest in his new cohort by at least two years. Inner disciples were chosen from the most promising outer disciples, so their intake was more irregular, and there were also less of them. It’s still very awkward to suddenly be uprooted from his entire social group, but An Ding cares about hard work, and Shang Lei is a hard worker who finds his place amongst his new peers more quickly than he’d expected. The fact that they’re (physically) older than him probably helps, Shang Lei having an easier time connecting with fellow disciples who are more mature.

As promised, Zhang Zhanhua arranges for him to be given hidden sheathes for Canyue and Xianyue, as well as instruction in how to use them. It’s a very enlightening afternoon spent with one of the quartermasters taking measurements of his wrists and hands and forearms and spiritual energy while offhandedly explaining the general theories behind the modification of qiankun pouches. Quartermaster Fu also makes known his opinions on the superiority of modified qiankun pouches as opposed to qiankun sleeves, which Shang Lei agrees with once expounded upon. In the end, Shang Lei ends up with two thick bands of dark brown leather, each one folded in a complex way and rough with the spiritual embroidery that created a qiankun pouch. The folds in the leather are exactly large enough for Canyue and Xianyue to be slid smoothly into the compressed space that Master Fu promised was as safe and snug as a real sheath. Learning the trick to summoning them and re-sheathing them without accidentally cutting his hands off is fun, and when he masters it Master Fu checks that the bands are fastened around his forearms correctly once last time and reminds him to come back to get them adjusted when he grows, before giving him a piece of dragon’s beard candy and sending him on his way.

Shang Lei is many things, but he doesn’t particularly enjoy fighting even though his physical strength and stamina are impressive from years of serious dedication to dance, and casual dedication to Cang Qiong’s martial arts. But he needs to learn to wield Canyue and Xianyue competently, and so he resigns himself to enduring the necessary training. He’s enthusiastic about it in the sense that his swords are his swords, extensions of his spiritual energy with which he has a deep and profound connection. He’s unenthusiastic about it in the sense that learning to use his swords means that he will potentially be sent on missions away from An Ding, and he knows that this will eventually end poorly for him. He also has what the Arms Masters claim is a bad habit of defaulting into dance steps rather than appropriate moves for the style of paired sword forms they’re trying to teach him.

He’s currently fourteen, still absolutely tiny, and enduring the hell that is a second time through puberty. The Arms Masters’ insistence that he can’t use dance moves when fighting is highly irritating because he knows for a fact that as soon as his cultivation is high enough he’ll be able to jump around like a sugar glider on speed and any unorthodox moves in his fighting style will probably only help him not be gutted like a fish the first time he has to seriously fight someone. Shang Lei resolves to work on it, because as far as he could see he was going to be just as short as in his last life and being able to grand jeté towards his foes is probably the only way he’ll be able to hit them any higher than their kneecaps; especially for the more egregiously large beasts.

Luckily, one of the first real friends Shang Lei made in his cohort as an inner disciple was Gao Huan.

Gao Huan is a former Bai Zhan disciple who suffered a serious training injury that badly damaged his meridians. He’d recovered from his physical injuries on Qian Cao, but unfortunately been unable to return to the intense training regime followed by the Bai Zhan Peak disciples without further damaging himself and potentially endangering his golden core. During this personal hardship, he’d impressed Zhang Zhanhua during the meetings between the Sect Leader, the Lord of Bai Zhan, and the Lord of An Ding as a decision was made about what Gao Huan’s fate would be, and so rather than remaining on Bai Zhan to work for a potential recovery to his meridians that the Lord of Qian Cao himself had said was only a passingly rare chance or leaving the sect entirely, Zhang Zhanhua had invoked her authority as Lord of An Ding to accept Gao Huan into An Ding Peak as a disciple.

Zhang Zhanhua has never been one to waste potential when she sees it, so now, despite the limits still imposed on his cultivation and regular visits to Qian Cao to have his meridians monitored, Gao Huan is one of the most promising junior disciples in the area of martial logistics.

Despite being only sixteen himself, Gao Huan already towers over most of their cohort and even some of the instructors. He’s good-natured and more optimistic than Shang Lei, which is good because it means that when Shang Lei asks him for help developing his own sword style Gao Huan takes it as an exciting challenge rather than an exercise in frustration. It must be a Bai Zhan thing, because Shang Lei is tired and cranky at the end of most of their experimental training sessions after being thrashed by Arms Master Yang; the tiny, deadly woman who had taken responsibility for teaching Shang Lei to wield his swords, and was very kindly indulging his obstinance by beating him black and blue three times a week while he tried to formulate an acceptable balance between dancing and sword fighting. It’s slow going, but between Master Yang’s actual knowledge of paired sword forms, Shang Lei’s stubbornness, and Gao Huan’s cheerful suggestions based on the more advanced training manuals he can remember from Bai Zhan they manage to hammer out the basics of Shang Lei’s very own sword dance that should work as an actual combat form and not immediately get him killed doing, per Master Yang’s words, ‘flips and sh*t’ while some more competent swordperson runs him through. And now all he has to do is practice it until it’s second nature, continually maintain his skills, and try and develop more advanced forms because Master Yang grudgingly admits that it’s not a terrible style and so he’s apparently obligated to complete it. Which means more time getting beaten up by Master Yang while Gao Huan calls out suggestions from outside the training ring. And even though Shang Lei will admit that he hopes he never actually has to fight anyone--despite knowing that he’s probably going to end up having to fight someone just considering his luck and the omnipresent fact that ‘Shang Qinghua’ canonically died miserably offscreen, which sword dancing honestly probably won’t be able to fix but still at least provides him some avenue to avoid at least some threats to his life--he’s always loved dancing, and getting to dance with his swords is, objectively, cool as hell.

Zhang Zhanhua seems pleased with the progress he’s made, though, which is another thing that’s very nice.

As inner disciples are meant to eventually serve the Peak Lord in a more direct capacity than outer disciples, the Peak Lord makes time to oversee their training more personally. Usually this means that once or twice a week, the inner disciples will gather in one of the pavilions and sit through a lecture from the Peak Lord on what she feels are relevant topics. Shang Lei always ends up taking copious notes, because Zhang Zhanhua is not only brilliant but has a wealth of experience to draw upon to provide thought exercises that leave his brain feeling like it’s going to dribble out his ears from how thoroughly and comprehensively his knowledge and understanding of the topic she’s chosen has been tested. The topics cover everything from resource allocation, to personnel management, to long-term planning, to sect politics, to, on one memorable occasion, an absolutely scathing twenty minute explanation of the exact nature of Bai Zhan Peak’s wastefulness in regards to supplies and equipment and how much it cost.

When not being personally instructed by the Peak Lord, the junior inner disciples’ cohort receives lessons about An Ding Peak and Cang Qiong’s productivity as a whole. They learn about the various goods that the sect produces, they learn about the allocation of those goods, they learn about the sale of the surplus and how those funds are directed back into Cang Qiong’s maintenance under the auspices of An Ding’s accounting and budgeting for each peak. They learn about the rules and laws that govern the sect. They learn about the other peaks’ specializations in terms of resource utilization. They field endless questions about theoretical scenarios and what the appropriate responses to them are: everything from sudden catastrophes, to attacks on Cang Qiong, to economic issues in the towns and villages surrounding Cang Qiong that they trade with.

Airplane can confidently say that when he’d imagined a peak devoted to logistics, he’d thought it would be a cool thing and an easy way to allow the original Shang Qinghua to have access to all the information that would conceivably be needed to provide convenient plot devices for Luo Binghe and his demon army, without actually considering how much work would realistically be done.

Shang Lei can confidently say that while his past authorial choices can go die in a fire, the extremely comprehensive education he’s receiving is actually some of the coolest sh*t he’s ever learned about, and his enthusiasm carries him through the intense studying and migraine-inducing logic puzzles and even Hall Master Li’s absolutely miserable ‘common sense development’ exercises.

His life resolves into An Ding Peak hard work: he attends lessons and ruins countless brushes taking notes; he dances and dances and dances, in meditation and with the blade; he goes to every lecture he can possibly fit into his schedule and learns interesting things from visiting Masters and other peaks and the personal research and projects of An Ding’s vast wealth of Masters and instructors; he hikes across the whole of Cang Qiong almost every day fulfilling his duties as a junior disciple. And through it all, Shang Lei is possibly the happiest he’s ever been in his life.

He’s fifteen and sitting in Master Artisan Hong’s studio, sunk into a light meditation as he practices throwing clay on a pottery wheel with a mixed group of inner and outer disciples, listening to Master Hong’s lecture on the different varieties and properties of earthenware, stoneware, and porcelain clays; the types of ceramicware each clay is best suited for; and how to properly assess the value and quality of ceramic goods, when a sudden chiming fanfare rings out and startles him so badly his hands reflexively crush the cup he’d been making back into a ball of clay.

[Mission: Cultivate a Golden Core; Complete! Reward: +100 Story Points

[Special Achievement: Condense Golden Core as Junior Disciple! Bonus Points +25]

[Special Achievement: Promoted to An Ding Inner Disciple! Bonus Points +25]

[Special Achievement: Obtain Spiritual Swords! Bonus Points +25]

[Special Achievement: Impress Zhang Zhanhua! Bonus Points +25]

It wasn’t that Shang Lei had forgotten about the System, but it’d been seven years since he’d heard from it or bothered checking it. Still, he watches as the glowing interface appears before his eyes, his points being added to his character sheet, the celebratory effects and chimes playing out as it happens.

[New Mission! Become An Ding Peak Senior Disciple~!]

Shang Lei allows the chiming fanfare that accompanies the System’s announcement to play out as he works on kneading his clay back into a ball so he can re-throw what had been a perfectly good cup before he’d destroyed it. Just like last time, there’s no option to accept or decline the quest, the System simply adding it to his quest log; just like the multiple sub-objectives that are obscured and the vague quest notes that appear. He’s still not really sure why the System seems intent on leading him through things that he’d probably have accomplished on his own? But also, he’s aware that if he wasn’t being motivated somehow then he’d probably accidentally derail whatever plot he’s supposed to be fixing, so Airplane accepts that this is a thing, closes out the system interface, and gets back to making cups while Master Hong details the various common flaws that indicate a substandard porcelain ware.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Achieving his golden core is nice, but the thing that Shang Lei is happiest about is the nod and measured, “Excellent work, disciple,” that Zhang Zhanhua grants him when she finds out.

Now that he’s got his full golden core, Shang Lei finally manages to complete his sword dance. Master Yang and Gao Huan both help, and in Master Yang’s case, teases him mercilessly the entire time he gets used to the full breadth of movement a cultivator with a golden core is capable of after he overdoes a jump and sails straight over her head. The style his sword dance ends up developing into is a highly acrobatic form that focuses on quick disabling strikes and controlling the user’s range from an opponent. Shang Lei isn’t the greatest of swordpersons, but he’s proud of it, and will probably not die using it.

There’s something else, though, that he’s noticing that’s beginning to be troubling. In his work as an An Ding Peak inner disciple, Shang Lei has been increasingly ferrying messages back and forth between An Ding and Qiong Ding. There’s a tension that’s building, but Airplane can only guess at the source: all of his drafts for the alignment of the four great sects and the tensions between the human and demon worlds were just vague mentions of events that had happened offscreen, a dramatic backdrop to Tianlang-Jun and Su Xiyan’s doomed romance and Luo Binghe’s birth.

Whatever is happening, though, it’s something Zhang Zhanhua is thoroughly disgusted with. She’s fully aware that she’s the most powerful Peak Lord in the sect after the Sect Leader himself, and is apparently throwing her considerable influence into something that the Sect Leader disagrees with her about.

Shang Lei overcame his abject terror of Zhang Zhanhua somehow sniffing out that he’s a transmigrator and stringing him up by his ankles until he tells her everything he knows years ago. It was just impossible to maintain that level of fear for someone that he not only admires tremendously, but also has been interacting with more and more frequently as he progresses as a disciple.

Over the past few months since he turned sixteen, Shang Lei has been called upon more and more often by Zhang Zhanhua. It’s normal for the Peak Lord to begin interviewing the inner disciples and determining which area of An Ding’s administration they’re best suited for once they’ve achieved a full golden core, but there’s something about Zhang Zhanhua’s evaluations that makes him think something else is going on.

They’re sitting in one of these interviews when Shang Lei’s curiosity finally overrides his good sense and hijacks his mouth. It’s nothing especially sensitive, and Zhang Zhanhua’s own long-reaching efforts to ‘build his confidence’ are the entire reason he doesn’t immediately combust from embarrassment from being so bold. But a harried looking junior disciple jogs into the Peak Lord’s receiving office--distinct from her private office, Shang Lei has learned--and saluted with profuse apologies before handing the Peak Lord a scroll that Shang Lei can see the very edge of the sect leader’s seal on before Zhang Zhanhua is smoothly dismissing the poor junior disciple. If she were anyone else Shang Lei would say that she tears the scroll open, but somehow her movements are a gracefully restrained variation of the frustrated impulse. The faintest of lines appears between her brows as she reads through whatever the missive says, and while her face maintains an expression of neutrality, Shang Lei feels somewhat confident that the expression in her eyes could be best read as murderous rage. The paper doesn’t crumple in her grip, but Shang Lei thinks that’s only because Zhang Zhanhua is too disciplined to ever destroy something that she doesn’t intend to.

And so Shang Lei opens his stupid mouth and blurts out, “Ah, Shizun, is something wrong?”

He regrets speaking immediately after doing so, of course. Zhang Zhanhua did not forget that he was in the room with her, after all, but rather had simply gauged her priorities and decided that one solitary junior disciple could be ignored for the few moments it would take her to read the missive and formulate a reaction. She turns deliberately to look at him, her eyes still intent with something that Shang Lei is pretty sure is the urge to murder her martial brother and sect leader. Shang Lei himself is pretty sure he's gone all pale and blotchy under the intensity of her scrutiny, but he manages to keep himself from slouching under the weight of her regard, or looking away from her face.

Zhang Zhanhua’s expression smooths itself back into her usual neutral face, the fire in her eyes seeming to bank as she examines him, when she speaks her voice is calm, “This Master is curious as to why her disciple imagines something is wrong.”

It is a flat statement, but not an angry statement. Zhang Zhanhua is asking honestly, tell me what you see.

Shang Lei swallows nervously, fiddling with his sleeves for a moment while he tries to organize his thoughts, “This disciple has simply observed that lately there have been more messages than usual carried back and forth between Shizun and Sect Leader, and that Shizun has seemed displeased by whatever debate is occurring,” Shang Lei pauses, wetting his lips nervously, “this disciple noticed when this missive was delivered that it had Sect Leader’s seal on it, and Shizun seemed, um, displeased by its content,” he drops forward from where he’s sitting into a kowtow, “this disciple apologizes if he has overstepped.”

He stays down in his kowtow for a few long moments before daring to raise himself up enough to glance up at his Peak Lord.

Zhang Zhanhua’s expression is unreadable, but the last dregs of her earlier anger seem to have drained away in favor of something else; the same something that Shang Lei has noticed during all of their interviews; the same something that’s touched the edges of most of their interactions since he was taken as a disciple: a sense of assessment, as though she’s evaluating some quality that Shang Lei has unwittingly exposed.

“This Master,” Zhang Zhanhua says evenly, “has quite an observant disciple.”

Shang Lei gets the tentative impression that this is a good thing and that he’s not about to be disappeared from the face of the mountain. Which is a relief. Except really not, because deep down the parts of him that were still Airplane more than he’d grown into Shang Lei, he knew what sort of thing Zhang Zhanhua might be appraising him for. The inkling that had been growing in him as he contemplated all the bits of backstory and unused drafts he could remember, about what he’d seen extant in this reality and all of the things that might be true beneath the surface.

Zhang Zhanhua was the Lord of An Ding Peak, Master of Logistics for the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.

She was also its spymaster.

Zhang Zhanhua looked at him with faint approval in her eyes, re-rolling the scroll she’d received from the Sect Leader and setting it aside as she returned to the notes she’d been taking during their interview. She picked up her brush and wrote a few short lines while Shang Lei fidgeted and shivered in his seat.

“This Master,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “has determined the appropriate placement for a disciple of your skills, Shang Lei.”

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

They’re called Whispers.

Airplane didn’t name them, he didn’t even write about them. There’s absolutely nothing of his influence in their structure or training or choosing. All he did, in his original draft, was to say that Zhang Zhanhua is a woman of tremendous integrity and drive; a legend to be feared; and Cang Qiong Mountain’s spymaster.

There’s nothing to set them apart from any other An Ding disciples, as far as Shang Lei can tell. They’re simply a group of disciples being given specialized training to better serve the Peak Lord’s needs. That those needs happen to be espionage rather than accounting doesn’t matter. They’re still An Ding Peak disciples.

Officially, he’s assigned as one of the Peak Lord’s aides, an essentially invisible position that allows a disciple to go anywhere on Cang Qiong and beyond, so long as they carry the Peak Lord’s writ of passage and her blessing. There’s a tremendous elegance of utility to the entire thing; as an aide to the Peak Lord, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be coming and going at her whims, no reason why he shouldn’t report to her directly, no reason he shouldn’t randomly be called upon to wait on the Peak Lord at her convenience.

Airplane had mixed feelings about all of this, mostly because it was way cooler than anything he’d thought of or put into his novel. Some pride, because he’d still made the narrative decision that had precipitated all of this being brought to life, even if it had been cut from the published version. It also made some sense, in a meta way: the original Shang Qinghua had been a spy, he’d specified in his early drafts that Zhang Zhanhua was a spy, for original Shang Qinghua to have become Peak Lord he had to have been chosen by Zhang Zhanhua and thus apprenticed under her. There’s a sort of logical beauty to the way the blanks left behind by his edits had been filled in: the same pathos that he’d hoped to have when Luo Binghe confronted the ‘Zhan’ generation of Peak Lords playing out as Zhang Zhanhua learned that her student who had succeeded her had used what she taught him to betray Cang Qiong.

Zhang Zhanhua is the Peak Lord and ultimate authority on An Ding, but her many responsibilities meant that she couldn’t actually be the primary handler for her Whispers. This role is filled by the Peak Lord’s principal aide and personal assistant, Wei He.

Wei He is an Immortal Master who was in Zhang Zhanhua’s own cohort when they were both young disciples. Wei He is pleasant and friendly, but underneath her soft exterior she’s as hard as steel. Shang Lei gets the impression within a few minutes of meeting her that she loves all of her Whispers dearly, but if he crossed her she would crush him without breaking a sweat.

Wei He assigns him to be partnered with one of his fellow Whispers to gain experience and to have someone to show him the ropes, because Wei He is monstrously busy as Zhang Zhanhua’s right hand woman.

The fellow disciple Shang Lei is partnered with is An Mei, who is terrible.

An Mei is brilliant, actually, as a spy and as an administrative assistant she’s second to none, but also she’s four years older than Shang Lei and several inches taller and she calls him Shang-shidi in a tone of voice like he’s adorable. She pinches his cheeks and fluffs his hair and bullies him terribly by leaning her elbows on top of his head and calling him her arm-rest.

Although Shang Lei can’t talk about his more clandestine duties, he’s free to talk about his job as one of the Peak Lord’s junior assistants as much as he wants, and so he complains at length to Gao Huan about all the ways in which An Mei is terrible. Gao Huan, who is eighteen and possibly the tallest person in the entire sect by this point, is irritatingly unsympathetic to his plights. Worse, Gao Huan and An Mei become friends, and Shang Lei is a hopeless victim of their combined tallness and cheery attitudes.

Shang Lei’s duties as an administrative assistant and aide to the Peak Lord are self-explanatory. He learns the filing systems, is introduced formally to the various administrators and clerks who he’d be working with, and spent most of the first few months shadowing and assisting An Mei.

Shang Lei’s duties as a spy, on the other hand, aren’t so clear cut. He’s told to continue attending lectures and workshops to gain a wide breadth of skills and knowledge, and so when he’s not occupied with his official duties he does so. There are some ciphers and codes that he’s required to learn so that he can secure information, but they’re not the high-level enigma machine type stuff from spy movies. The most important thing, according to An Mei, is being patient and affable.

He doesn’t really understand how this works until An Mei takes him along on what Shang Lei mentally calls a ‘mission’ and An Mei and Wei He both refer to as an errand.

An Mei takes him to Quartermaster Fu and gets them plain sets of clothes that any farmer might wear, along with qiankun pouches with normal An Ding travel supplies, some light carrying satchels, and a bushel each of surplus produce. They change into the plain clothes and pack their sect robes into the qiankun pouches, Shang Lei submitting his hidden sheathes for Canyue and Xianyue to Master Fu’s regular check to ensure that they were still sized properly, and An Mei doing the same for her single sword’s hidden sheath. Dressed to look like farmers coming into town to sell their goods, carrying the decoy satchels filled with light essentials and their qiankun pouches in their sleeves, baskets of produce on their backs, Shang Lei and An Mei hike down the mountain and into a local village.

They spend the day in the village square, selling their produce and talking to people. An Mei does most of the work, since Shang Lei is supposed to be learning. She calls him didi and insists that he call her jiejie, and when there’s lulls in the crowd she sits next to him and they discreetly people-watch and she asks him questions about what information he can glean from the people around them.

It’s an enlightening experience, and when they’ve sold the last of their produce they spend some time searching through the market for some goods to purchase for themselves, An Mei quietly explaining that farmers coming into the village would of course buy supplies before returning home, and so they would do the same. They spend the money they earned that day on a few things, and then pack up their baskets with their purchases and leave; hiking back into the mountains. They discuss the things they heard on the way back to An Ding: what rumours and gossip might be valuable and what might be hearsay; what news they’d learned; what the current events of the village were.

By the time they get back to their peak, they’ve agreed that only one of the rumours they’ve heard might be a valuable account of real demonic activity. An Mei shows him how to write out a proper report in the correct code for Wei He, and then their errand is over.

There’s not a lot to old-timey espionage beyond being observant and talking to people, apparently.

It’s a few weeks later when An Mei takes him on another errand. This time they dress as modest artisans and are carrying carefully-packed baskets of what Shang Lei recognizes as the stoneware from the apprentice potters’ wheel spinning practice: a perfectly nice collection of cups, plates and bowls, plainly glazed, but just slightly imperfect in subtle ways that show they were thrown by students rather than masters. They leave An Ding with their visible satchels--qiankun pouches with all the necessities hidden--and their wares. This time they fly by sword some way from the mountains, before they land a discreet distance from a larger town. They settle in at the market and display their wares, offering a reasonable price for moderate quality ceramicware that gets them a fair number of customers looking for cheap dishes. It was midmorning when they arrived, and they eat lunch and talk to the various merchants and tradespeople around them in between customers.

Nothing seems especially noteworthy to Shang Lei, until a tide of whispers rolls over their corner of the market square; the people around them turning and trying to catch a glimpse of the group in rich robes that have just entered the market. They’re carrying swords, and Shang Lei recognizes Huan Hua Palace Sect’s uniform, and realizes that these are fellow cultivators. The Huan Hua Palace cultivators don’t come near Shang Lei and An Mei’s part of the market, but the gossip does.

There are about a dozen conflicting rumours that the people around them are happy to share, won over by the day’s worth of polite conversation and eager to spread juicy gossip. The details are conflicting, but each version has the same thread running through them: the old Master of Huan Hua Palace paying inappropriate attention to his First Disciple Su Xiyan. The source of the gossip is as conflicting as most of the story, with most of them claiming to have been told by some servant from within the sect itself, and others claiming that it was the idle talk of Huan Hua junior disciples that had been overheard discussing what might have caused it. .

Shang Lei feels a chill go down his spine at the news, suddenly oriented within the timeline he’d sketched out along with his first draft. If Si Xiyan wasn’t pregnant with Luo Binghe yet she would be soon, and she would die, and at some point Tianlang-Jun would be sealed.

The weight of this revelation causes Shang Lei to stagger, the townsman he’d been talking to calling An Mei over in concern and then standing to the side fussing as An Mei exclaimed over him, declaring that it must have been the heat of the day getting to him. He doesn’t remember agreeing, but he gets helped to a seat under an awning that had been set up by a neighboring merchant and given a cup of water. Shang Lei comes back to his senses and thanks the townsman for his concern, agreeing that it was quite warm today and he’d been in the sun for too long. He sits and sips his cup of water and listens to the people around him talk as An Mei packs up their unsold wares and asks around for the name of a good inn with affordable rooms and a bath.

Later on, when An Mei has bullied Shang Lei into a cold bath just in case he does have heat sickness, and one of the inn’s servers has brought trays with their dinner to the room they’re sharing as brother and sister, Shang Lei sits on his bed in his under robe and tries to organize his thoughts.

An Mei, being not-actually-completely-terrible, declares that he still looks wan and brushes and braids his hair, before settling herself down in a chair in front of him and demanding to know what’s wrong.

“Ah, well,” Shang Lei struggles to explain, “I just, when I heard the rumour about the Palace Master…” he lets the words trail off, biting his lip, “I had the sudden feeling that it was true, and that something terrible was going to happen.”

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Months pass. Shang Lei turns seventeen. He hasn’t gotten any taller and has resigned himself to being the exact same height he’d been in his past life. Gao Huan and An Mei round up everyone Shang Lei is friendly with and gather in one of the pavilions to feed him wine and cakes and give him an assortment of small gifts--mostly handmade items, interesting books, or waxed paper bundles of sweets--and spend a pleasant evening in good company. Shang Lei is honestly surprised that so many of his fellow disciples show up. Even Master Yang, who disdains socializing with a passion, sweeps through the pavilion to pat him on the head, give him a gift--a small wooden box containing a new whetstone--and steal some food from the table before leaving.

At the end of the night, Gao Huan and An Mei help him carry his gifts back to his room in the junior disciples’ Leisure House he’s still living in, laughing and joking as they bid him goodnight and then wander off together--in a suspiciously similar direction, considering he knows for a fact that An Mei’s own Leisure House is on the opposite side of the mountain--and Shang Lei collapses on his bed, surrounded by tokens from people who honestly seem to like him, and smiles until he falls asleep.

His effusively good mood lasts for about a fortnight, before he finally finds out what Zhang Zhanhua has been opposing in her disagreement with the Sect Leader.

There’s no warning: the Peak Lord gives her aides--her Whispers, her secret-keepers, her most loyal helpers--the day off, before disappearing with Wei He into her Leisure House and reappearing wearing her most formal robes and Peak Lord’s crown and leaving the peak with Wei He in tow.

An Mei rounds up all of the Whispers and declares an in-service as an excuse for all of the Peak Lord’s aides to stay gathered together in a small pavilion near the Peak Lord’s Leisure House. Considering the size of An Ding as a whole, there are surprisingly few of them; less than twenty, all faces that Shang Lei knows, friends who he’s worked with for years. They don’t know what’s going on, so they do as An Ding does best and prepare to settle in to wait out the storm: An Mei taking charge in Wei He’s absence to coordinate. The Whispers are organized into groups and sent to perform surgical strikes on the kitchens, the offices, the quartermasters, and the workshops to gather their supplies. Then, they settle down into their now furnished and supplied pavilion with their store of snacks and tea. They work through the day’s paperwork almost too quickly, and then settle in with the agreed-upon group craft to do embroidery and speculate about what’s happening.

Cang Qiong Mountain Sect places a great deal of importance on the idea of harmony between all the peaks, and strong bonds between the Peak Lords as martial siblings. Because of this, when there is a disagreement, it is usually kept between whichever Peak Lords are disagreeing, and the Sect Leader. That Zhang Zhanhua had been disagreeing directly with the Sect Leader means that whatever is happening has been kept very confidential. It’s obviously come to a head, somehow, but despite working directly under their Peak Lord, none of the Whispers have been privy to details.

And so they wait.

Shang Lei is part of the team assigned to go and fetch dinner for everyone; heading to the main kitchens and helping to prepare a selection of meat buns and rice and soup and pickled vegetables before packing it up and bringing it back to their pavilion. The mood has been subdued all day, but as the afternoon edges more firmly into evening the tension ratchets higher and higher. When dinner passes and they take their dishes and baskets back to the kitchens and return, still with no sign of the Peak Lord, even the quiet chatter peters out and they all sit in silence, keeping their hands busy as they hold their vigil. Shang Lei has spent the better part of the afternoon embroidering An Ding’s geometric sigil on the collar, sleeves, and hem of a formal robe. Or he’s tried, at least, starting with the proper sigil shapes that devolve into random geometric patterns; a physical testament to everyone’s fraying composure and progressive loss of focus on anything but appearing busy while regularly glancing over to the Peak Lord’s Leisure House to see if anything had changed.

It’s after sundown, late into the evening, when two sword glares streak over An Ding and land in front of the Peak Lord’s Leisure House.

There’s a moment of contained chaos when every Whisper startles and moves as though to jump up at once, but An Mei stands and begins directing everyone to put away their needlework; to organize the furniture so it can be taken back to the quartermasters in the morning; to secure the travel desk where they’d locked the paperwork. After all this is done, she arranges them into an orderly group and leads them on a sedate walk to the door of the Peak Lord’s Leisure House.

When An Mei first knocks on the door there’s no reply, but after she calls out to the Peak Lord and to Wei He, announcing the Peak Lord’s aides are there to deliver the day’s paperwork, then Wei He’s voice rings out from within and invites them inside.

The Peak Lord’s Leisure House is relatively large, holding her receiving office and her private office, as well as her personal living quarters and storage room; this means there’s plenty of room for all of the Whispers to shuffle themselves through the small entrance room and into the Peak Lord’s receiving office. An Mei holding the travel desk with the paperwork in it in front of her like a shield or an offering; an excuse to legitimize eighteen assorted senior and junior disciples packing themselves into the Peak Lord’s Leisure House to see what’s wrong.

The scene they find is unexpected, to say the least, and Shang Lei almost has the urge to cover his eyes to avoid being disrespectful.

Zhang Zhanhua is wearing her inner robes with a quilted housecoat over them, the lavishly adorned formal robes she’d left the peak in this morning hung haphazardly over a screen in the corner. Her Peak Lord’s crown and other hair ornaments sit scattered across her desk, likely from being hastily removed and tossed aside as her hair was freed from its intricate style. She sits slumped forward over her desk, holding a damp cloth over her face while Wei He combs her hair.

She gestures blindly at the assorted mats and seat cushions arranged on the storage shelf against the wall, and the gathered Whispers quickly distribute them and find seats in front of their Peak Lord’s desk. An Mei carefully places the travelling desk full of paperwork on the edge of the Peak Lord’s desk, out of the way of the Peak Lord’s current use of it but still secure.

After a few moments, Wei He finishes combing Zhang Zhanhua’s hair and pulls it into a simple braid. The Peak Lord removes the cloth from her face and dips it into a basin of water at her elbow before wringing it out and pressing it firmly against the back of her bare neck.

Zhang Zhanhua doesn’t look tired so much as deeply exasperated, but it’s still the first time Shang Lei has ever seen her less than perfectly coiffed and robed; it’s somewhat jarring, to think of the Peak Lord as being subject to mortal inconveniences like headaches or stifling robes.

“This Master distinctly remembers allowing these disciples to take the day for themselves,” Zhang Zhanhua says, lips curving slightly as she looks out into the small sea of worried disciples that are crowded in front of her desk, making a slight gesture for An Mei’s travelling desk that has An Mei scrambling to open it and present the completed paperwork.

Zhang Zhanhua peruses the paperwork, sifting and sorting the scrolls to various places on her desk to be dealt with later. She turns and says a quiet word to Wei He, removing the damp cloth from her neck and laying it across the basin. Wei He removes the basin and disappears deeper into the house, returning with a tray laden with tea and some fruit. The Peak Lord smiles gently at Wei He as she sets the tray on the desk and settles back into the seat beside her.

No one particularly wants to be the one to break the silence that descended after the Peak Lord’s teasing statement, and so they sit quietly while Zhang Zhanhua selects an orange from the tray and begins peeling it onto a small plate. There’s a dreamily surreal quality to all of this that makes Shang Lei’s brain itch; the diffuse moonlight through the windows, the way the light of the few candles flicker in their holders, the scent of the orange oil and the lingering traces of lavender that must be from herb sachets the Peak Lord’s rarely-used ceremonial robes were stored with.

An Mei, stouthearted and bold, finally dares to ask, “Shizun, what’s happened?”

Zhang Zhanhua sighs so deeply that Wei He reaches out to rub her shoulders uncaring of the disciples in the room.

“Today, our Sect Leader has stepped down in favor of his successor,” Zhang Zhanhua informs them, “The Qing generation begins with Yue Qingyuan, the new Lord of Qiong Ding Peak and Leader of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.”

Shang Lei can’t stop himself from exclaiming in surprise, but he’s not the only one. Zhang Zhanhua holds a hand up, silencing them as she continues.

“The official announcement will be tomorrow,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “but the pertinent news for An Ding is this: during a meeting with our new Sect Leader after the investiture, we discussed current events and our new Sect Leader’s vision for Cang Qiong,” she pauses, obviously gathering her thoughts as she separates an orange wedge from the peeled fruit and eats it, chewing slowly she swallows and says, “It’s been kept quiet, but Huan Hua Palace Master has contacted the rest of the great sects, claiming that the Demon Lord Tianlang-Jun has abducted his First Disciple Su Xiyan; calling for the sects to align to go to war with the Demon Realm,” Zhang Zhanhua’s eyes narrow as she relates the rest of the news, “In light of this,” her mouth twists on the word, “unprecedented cooperation between the sects, Yue Qingyuan feels that it is inappropriate to continue our observation of our allies and asked that we reduce our activities.”

All sense of decorum is lost at this revelation, and each and every one of the Whispers begins trying to speak at once, but An Mei’s voice rings out over the rest of her fellow disciples, “Shizun! That’s ridiculous, cooperating with the sects means we should keep more of an eye out, not less!”

Shang Lei’s voice follows, tearing from his throat before he can think about it, “Huan Hua Palace Master is lying,” he spits. He can feel himself shaking with some undefined emotion that might be fear, or anger, or sheer incredulity.

Zhang Zhanhua turns minutely to look squarely at Shang Lei, “You sound quite certain, disciple,” she says neutrally, “please explain.”

Her tone is firm, brooking no arguments. Shang Lei swallows, mind racing for a way to justify his claim without being dismissed as insane, or worse; his every fear of being discovered crawling back up into his hindbrain.

“On the last errand this disciple undertook,” Shang Lei says slowly, “I overheard a rumour indicating that First Disciple Su Xiyan had repudiated Huan Hua Palace Master, and left of her own will,” he takes a breath, trying to find the right words, “based on previous rumours of Huan Hua Palace Master’s improper behavior towards her, I believe this is more likely to be true than First Disciple Su being abducted.”

He hopes that it’s plausible enough an explanation, because he can’t explain that if Huan Hua Palace Master is claiming Su Xiyan has been abducted, then she’s pregnant with Luo Binghe--the protagonist of the novel he wrote--and is being kept in a gilded cage as the Huan Hua Palace Master tries to convince her to poison the babe, while plotting a trap for Tianlang-Jun.

Zhang Zhanhua hmms contemplatively, but she doesn’t question him again, so Shang Lei takes it as a win.

“Obviously,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “An Ding will continue as normal,” she gaze flitting from face to face amongst the group of disciples in front of her, “Yue Qingyuan might be optimistic in his dealings with the other sects, but this Master will not allow Cang Qiong to involve itself in such a matter based on hearsay alone,” her tone is grim as she makes her pronouncement, “we will find the thread of truth in this, and drag it out into the light.”

Wei He reaches out and puts a hand over one of Zhang Zhanhua’s, “Of course we will, Zhanhua, please rely on us.”

It’s a more intimate moment than Shang Lei feels comfortable seeing his Shizun in, but his voice sounds along with his fellow Whispers as they echo Wei He’s statement.

For the briefest of moments, Zhang Zhanhua’s mouth turns in a smile, “What devoted disciples this Master has.”

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Yue Qingyuan’s public investiture was attended by the entire sect, and for Airplane it was bizarre to see him from a distance, when he’d created him ! With Zhang Zhanhua and the rest of the old Peak Lords he’d written vague outlines and given each of them perhaps one distinctive feature at best--Zhang Zhanhua’s starburst scar being the most prominent example--but he hadn’t defined them. Yue Qingyuan he had. Yue Qingyuan had a full life’s worth of backstory that Airplane had written. Airplane had decided what he looked like. Airplane had decided how he dressed.

Airplane had decided how he died .

It was Airplane who’d decided that he would be a trusting and optimistic person, and now his own choices were coming back to bite him as Yue Qingyuan determined that he would trust in Huan Hua Palace Master’s good reputation among the sects as a sign of his integrity. It sort of made him want to scream, but he heroically restrained the urge to do so.

It didn’t particularly matter anyway, because Zhang Zhanhua had taken being told that she should relent in her prerogative to keep Cang Qiong informed of the actions of the other sects as a direct and dire insult. And so, in their efforts to discover more about the truth of Huan Hua Palace Master’s claims, the Whispers continued their work.

This means that a few weeks after Yue Qingyuan’s investiture, Shang Lei is sent on an errand to Huan Hua Palace territory once again. This time he’s been given the job of driving a cart from a river port in Huan Hua’s claimed lands back to Cang Qiong: ostensibly he’s overseeing the delivery of an order of goods for Qing Jing Peak, but in reality he’s dressed in plain workman’s robes and furiously gossiping with every sailor, longshoreman, and wagoner he can get to stand still for long enough. He helps load the various crates of miscellaneous items--probably books, knowing Qing Jing--onto his cart, and then sets off with a small caravan consisting of two other wagons, their drivers, and a handful of guards.

Huan Hua Palace Sect supposedly has better things to do than consistently protect the travelers on their roads from demon and bandit attacks, according to Shang Lei’s companions, and so they make their way carefully. Stopping at inns during the night and moving slowly from village to village and town to town.

Shang Lei makes sure to always buy the first round of drinks in the evening. He’s an excellent listener and a sympathetic ear to even the most disagreeable drinking buddies. And when everyone is nicely tipsy and settled down enjoying their dinners, he asks innocuous but leading questions and waits for everyone to chime in with their opinions. He learns a lot of excellent information this way, with the most pertinent being that for someone who was supposedly worried sick about his abducted First Disciple, Huan Hua Palace Master really wasn’t bothering with search parties or even leaving Huan Hua Palace.

It’s an interestingly confounding situation to be in, Airplane privately thinks, considering that he knows exactly what’s going on and has to find his evidence in reverse, to prove it, rather than letting evidence lead him to a conclusion. He spends a lot of time double and triple-checking sources and gathering as many corroborating accounts as he can because of this: worried that if he doesn’t, he’ll bias the investigation somehow with his own knowledge.

They set out from the latest village in the early morning. It’s summer, and the sooner they can get to the next village the happier everyone will be; Shang Lei is sitting in the driver’s seat of his cart and already beginning to sweat despite the shading brim of his conical sedge hat.

Despite stopping to break for water and ensure the horses aren’t overly stressed by the heat, they’re making good time, and by early afternoon they’ve managed to get most of the way to the next town. They’re at the closest point to Huan Hua Palace that they’ll be for the entire trip, and Shang Lei is keeping a watchful eye out for any Huan Hua Palace cultivators. Not especially worried that they’ll recognize him, but rather concerned about being stopped or rerouted when this town is the most important stop on Shang Lei’s errand; being the closest and largest settlement to Huan Hua Palace means that Huan Hua Palace’s servants and attendants will visit it the most often, and accordingly the rumours will be the most accurate as they pass from direct sources to their primary audiences.

In the sweltering heat of the mid-afternoon sun, Shang Lei isn’t exactly looking at the road ahead so much as zoning out watching the back of the cart in front of his, and so he startles when a dark figure crashes out of the underbrush along the side of the road.

It’s like a sudden string of disconnected moments, the events happening so quickly that Shang Lei can barely react: the horses spooking and rearing, snapping their traces and bolting away from the group; their caravan’s few guards all immediately drawing their swords and moving against the sudden attacker; the wagoners fleeing to hide behind the shelter of the carts.

The temperature of the air perceptibly drops, Shang Lei’s breath fogging slightly as he swings himself out of the seat of his cart before it overturns; teetering now that the horse that was balancing it has bolted.

The dark figure is still under the shade of the trees, but there’s a distinctly malevolent aura surrounding them; one that tells Shang Lei this is a demon, and that they’re in a bad enough mood to not be bothering to hide. The first guard moves to attack and is immediately gutted by an icy blade.

A blade made of literal ice.

Shang Lei has a sudden premonition of doom because there’s really only so many demons in the world who should be able to do something like that, and he’s the future Shang Qinghua.

It’s the work of moments for the demon to slaughter the rest of the guards, icy blade flashing out at the ones foolish enough to come within range and razor sharp shards of ice loosed at the ones hanging back to try and support their fellows. Afterwards the demon banishes the ice sword from their hand, and the other cart drivers take this as a chance to run.

As soon as they break from the shelter of the cart they were hiding behind, the demon notices--their form turning, ice shards precipitating into the air around them--and Shang Lei breaks from his own hiding place, throwing himself forward and yelling, “Stop!”

Moving from the open sunlight to the shade of the trees, Shang Lei is temporarily blinded. He lands hard on his hands and knees, gasping at the sudden pain of scrapes and bruises as he says, “Stop, please!”

The first thing he sees as his vision adjusts is the most handsome face he’s ever seen; the second is the demon gesturing sharply to loose the shards of ice to dispose of the fleeing cart drivers; the third thing he sees is the demon that terribly handsome face belongs to turn to him in a rage, before his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses.

Shang Lei doesn’t manage to catch him from where he’s lying prone on the ground, but he quickly shuffles forward to roll the demon onto his back. He finds the Huan Hua Palace Ling Hua Dart embedded in the demon’s side and winces at the way the golden petals have already begun to spread themselves; shredding flesh and digging itself deeper the more the demon had kept moving after being struck by it.

Airplane is, at this point, about 99% sure this is the future Mobei Jun lying unconscious in front of him. And really, he curses his own writing once again, because making Shang Qinghua a spy to grant Luo Binghe an easy way to get information and making Shang Qinghua subordinate to Mobei Jun when he realized Luo Binghe hadn’t been born yet had been very easy authorial decisions! But now he had to live with them and also the fact that since he’d never specified how and when original Shang Qinghua had met Mobei Jun, reality was apparently just filling it in without warning!

Just thinking about all the future plot issues that could be averted, now, at this moment, by leaving Mobei Jun here or killing him makes Airplane shiver a little bit.

It would be easy: draw Canyue and strike his head off while he was dead to the world, fly back to An Ding and be home in time for supper.

Shang Lei looks down at Mobei Jun’s face, slack with unconsciousness. He’s objectively the most beautiful person Shang Lei has ever seen: high cheekbones; regal looking nose; strong brows and long, fine lashes; wide, generous mouth; jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

Despite knowing that he’s inevitably going to suffer and possibly die because of this person, Airplane can’t bring himself to be heartless enough to kill him. He’s too beautiful, too exactly what he’d imagined when he created Mobei Jun.

Shang Lei sighs deeply to himself, and gets to work. Taking his qiankun pouch full of An Ding’s standard travelling provisions out of his sleeve and finding his first aid supplies.

All An Ding disciples go through mandatory and intensive first aid training because An Ding disciples are the most numerous in Cang Qiong, and also as disciples of the logistics peak they’re often sent as support for large missions. Shang Lei went through this training the same as everyone else, and so while he’s not on the level of an Qian Cao disciple with actual full training as a healer, he’s good enough to work on someone with as hardy a constitution as a demon even for an injury as serious as this. Breaking the Ling Hua Dart into pieces so he can remove them without causing further damage, then treating the wound with medicine and packing it so it will start to heal.

Shang Lei is sort of thankful that he’s so focused on the horrible gushing wound because to actually get to it for treatment he has to cut through Mobei Jun’s robes, and discovers that not only is he gorgeously handsome but also absolutely f*cking shredded.

Since he’s now committed to this course of action--with part of his brain still screaming at himself for being an idiot--he goes and gets one of the carts, pushing all of the cargo off of it before carefully hauling the towering form of the future Mobei Jun--and potentially his murderer!--into the back of it. Shang Lei tries to make him comfortable, and then covers him with his own heavy cloak before picking up the shafts and starting to pull them the rest of the way to town.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

He finds an inn in town and books a room, hauling Mobei Jun up the stairs and laying him on the bed as discreetly as he can for someone who’s come in with a giant unconscious man in the evening and willingly overpaid for a room just so the innkeeper would stop asking questions. He ducks out the window and goes to dump the cart someplace far away, and is glad he does when he sees Huan Hua Palace cultivators failing to casually patrol the streets.

Being both a spy and a nosy person, Shang Lei carefully makes his way back to the inn while keeping an ear out: the cultivators are looking for someone--obviously Mobei Jun--but trying to avoid claiming that there’s a powerful demon on the loose and causing a panic. .

Shang Lei climbs back through the window and shuts it firmly. He’d done his best to keep Mobei Jun’s features concealed with his cloak, and the Huan Hua Palace cultivators are looking for one single demon rather than a demon and a cultivator, but it’s still better to be safe than sorry. He plasters the walls with warding and privacy talismans before going back downstairs to get a tray of dinner and ask for some towels and a basin of water.

He eats, saving a portion for Mobei Jun with a warming talisman in case he wakes, and then quickly scrubs himself clean and changes into another set of plain, nondescript robes. Emptying the basin and refilling it, Shang Lei begins the difficult process of unwrapping Mobei Jun from his torn and stained robes so he can check his bandages.

It is immensely distracting to have a very beautiful half naked man in his vicinity, but Shang Lei heroically manages to strip Mobei Jun down to just his light pants and socks without being weird about it. He hangs the honestly-mostly-destroyed silk robes over the room’s screen, along with Mobei Jun’s heavy cloak, before gathering up his hair to get it out of the way. It’s achingly intimate. Mobei Jun’s hair is like a thick mass of silk; a waterfall of inky waves falling past his waist; black as an oil slick and seeming to catch and reflect a brilliant spectrum of deep blue undertones. Shang Lei’s hands shake the entire time it takes him to wrangle it into a loose ponytail and arrange it on Mobei Jun’s pillow.

By the time he gets around to actually removing the bandages on Mobei Jun’s wound it feels like he’s run a marathon. It looks like it’s healing well, though, so he slathers some more medicine on and changes the bandages.

Despite night having fallen, it's still uncomfortably warm. Shang Lei can see that this is even more uncomfortable for Mobei Jun; the demon is sweating, insofar as he’s capable of sweat, ice crystals beading across his chest and brow, and clearly restless. So Shang Lei breaks out his cooling talismans and puts those up as well. The temperature of the room becomes more pleasant, and Mobei Jun’s discomfort seems to ease as he settles down into a calmer sleep.

Going to sleep in the same room as an injured demon who doesn’t know you or where he is seems like a bad idea, so despite the beckoning call of the room’s other bed, Shang Lei sits up in a chair by Mobei Jun’s bed. At first he writes out his notes and observations of his errand--in code, of course--before he runs out of pertinent things to say. Out of sheer boredom and desire to stay awake, he starts in on mending Mobei Jun’s robes; salvaging each one as best he can, stitching up the holes and tears and then washing them in the basin and hanging them back over the screen to dry.

When he’s finished he goes to sit back down and continue his vigil, but as soon as he’s near enough to the bed Mobei Jun rears up and grabs him--obviously having woken and then laid in wait--hauling him down and rolling them so Shang Lei is pressed back onto the mattress with one of Mobei Jun’s strong hands in a vice around his throat.

Shang Lei goes down with a squeak of surprise, not even thinking to try and defend himself, and by the time he does he’s being choked while Mobei Jun hisses down at him, sharp fangs bared and eyes and demon mark both glowing, “Who are you?”

“My Lord, please!” Shang Lei chokes out, “release this servant and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

He must look pathetic enough not to be threatening--turning red and blotchy while being half-strangled by the most attractive person you’ve ever seen will do that--because Mobei Jun lets him go, shoving him from the bed so he lands on the floor.

“Speak,” is Mobei Jun’s curt command, and even his voice is attractive which really isn’t fair at all.

“Ah, my Lord,” Shang Lei stammers, “This one is Shang Lei, you collapsed on the side of the road and I treated your injuries and brought you to this inn.”

“You are a cultivator,” Mobei Jun says, a flat statement of fact that dares him to try and refute it.

“Yes,” Shang Lei swallows his nerves, “This one is an inner disciple of An Ding Peak, in the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect.”

“What,” Mobei Jun begins, looking dire, “is a Cang Qiong Mountain cultivator doing working as a cart driver?”

“I was overseeing the delivery of goods for the sect!” Shang Lei blurts out. He’s sweating and shaking under the intensity of Mobei Jun’s glare, and is probably going to be killed any moment.

Mobei Jun’s eyes narrow and his glare intensifies, which shouldn’t be possible because he was already super terrifying and is now extra super terrifying, “Dressed as a common workman, with your sword concealed?”

Shang Lei wets his mouth to buy himself a little time to breathe, “I really was overseeing the delivery!” he protests, “I was just, uh, also trying to be discreet, because of the tension between the sects!” he presses onward to try and deflect Mobei Jun’s completely reasonable suspicions, “my Lord, what were you doing coming out of the forest with a Huan Hua Palace Ling Hua Dart buried in your side?”

If looks could kill, Shang Lei would be a wet smear on the floor about now; Mobei Jun’s mouth thinning into a flat line of rage, “None of your business,” he snaps.

Mobei Jun’s skin has a natural blue tint to it, rather than the pink of a human. Shang Lei currently has his eyes fixed on the demonic mark on Mobei Jun’s forehead so he doesn’t get himself killed and/or humiliates himself by allowing himself to react to the expanse of bare skin currently on display in front of him. Shang Lei is blushing so hard his face physically aches with it.

“Ah, my Lord,” Shang Lei says, trying to play it cool, trying very desperately to play it cool as he seeks confirmation of his suspicions, “This servant humbly asks for my Lord’s name.”

Possibly-Mobei Jun scowls at him, before gritting out, “This lord is Mo Baixiu, the Prince of the Northern Desert.”

“My Prince!” Shang Lei squeaks out, throwing himself forward into a low bow to hide how absolutely astonished he is. This is Mobei Jun, but he’s not Mobei Jun yet! He hadn’t actually given him a real name or anything, but here he is, with a name and a face and a body and everything!

Mo Baixiu makes a considering noise that has Shang Lei peeking up at him from his bow, “You say you were travelling in such a lowly way because of tension between the sects,” he says slowly, working through the thought, “and yet this lord has heard of no such tension.”

Shang Lei wants to jump back in time by about ten minutes and throttle his own stupid self. If An Mei ever heard about this she would skin him: the first rule is to never volunteer information, the second rule is to make sure that if you do, you aren’t outing yourself as knowing more than you should. Considering the amount of things Shang Lei knows, he’s both honestly surprised that it’s taken him this long to slip up and also understandably distraught that he’s slipped up now.

“Ahh, well…” Shang Lei tries to temporize, but Mo Baixiu is looking at him in such a way that even though Airplane never specifically gave demons lie detecting powers, he’s not entirely sure that Mo Baixiu hasn’t just spontaneously developed them by himself and he really doesn’t want to risk it, “This one was sent to oversee the delivery of goods to Cang Qiong Mountain sect, but this one is also an aide to the An Ding Peak Lord Zhang Zhanhua, and was sent in a discreet manner to investigate claims made by the Huan Hua Palace Master to gain Cang Qiong Mountain’s support in his accusation against Tianlang-Jun.”

An odd expression passes over Mo Baixiu’s face when Tianlang-Jun is mentioned, there and gone before Shang Lei can place it, “What accusation.”

“Huan Hua Palace Master claims that Tianlang-Jun has abducted his First Disciple Su Xiyan,” Shang Lei says.

Mo Baixiu’s eyes widen minutely, and then narrow, a look of obvious disgust crossing his face. Shang Lei would really, really like to know what Mo Baixiu was doing in the forest around Huan Hua Palace that makes this news so particularly interesting to him, but also he doesn’t dare to ask.

“You are a spy,” Mo Baixiu says.

Shang Lei tries to refute this, stuttering the whole time because wow, original Shang Qinghua’s very shoddily outlined life is flashing before his eyes right now, but Mo Baixiu refuses to be swayed.

“You were sent covertly to gather information,” Mo Baixiu says, irritation lacing his voice, “this is the definition of spying.”

“Yes, my Prince,” Shang Lei says meekly, because really, the inexorable pull of canon is pressing down on him right now.

“You are a spy for a human cultivator sect, yet you saved this lord’s life,” Mo Baixiu says flatly, as though he’s unable to reconcile the two things.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, taking his life and his own terrible novel’s plot points into his hands, “This lowly one could not bear to see one so magnificent as yourself in such a state, I wish only to see you restored to health, and to be your most humble servant.”

One of the few things Airplane had bothered establishing about canonical Shang Qinghua is that his allegiance to Mobei Jun had been entirely self-serving. They had met in vague circ*mstances where Shang Qinghua had saved Mobei Jun’s life, and Shang Qinghua had taken the demon’s life debt as a means to lift himself up in status. Mobei Jun had kept him alive and helped him advance, but eventually Shang Qinghua’s ambition had outpaced his usefulness, and he’d been killed. From the very start of their relationship Mobei Jun--a character already riddled with trust issues and paranoia from the Mo Clan’s combative relations and Linguang-Jun’s everything--had known that Shang Qinghua was a traitor and a turncoat, ready to use anyone and anything for his own gain. There’d been no trust and no love lost between them, and Mobei Jun’s disposal of Shang Qinghua had likely been in response to a machination of Shang Qinghua’s that targeted Mobei Jun.

And so, Shang Lei kowtows as he kisses ass harder than he’s ever kissed ass before.

Mo Baixiu is looking at him like he doesn’t know what to do with him--which is good because Mo Baixiu definitely knows how to kill him!--and Shang Lei goes in for the kill.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, “I will follow you forever.”

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Mo Baixiu collapses back on to the bed as though all of the energy has suddenly gone out of him; which it likely has, considering he’d woken up from hours of unconsciousness to immediately interrogate Shang Lei.

“My Prince!,” Shang Lei exclaims, getting up off the floor to rush to Mo Baixiu’s side.

Mo Baixiu makes a frustrated noise, but doesn’t move or threaten him, which is a good sign because Shang Lei really would prefer not to be threatened! But also probably a bad sign because this means Mo Baixiu is so exhausted he can’t even make the effort.

The bandages wrapping Mo Baixiu’s wound are starting to take a shadowed, blotted appearance that means that they’re starting to soak through with blood, and Shang Lei can’t help but scold, “My Prince, you’ve strained your wound, let me change the bandages.”

His first aid supplies are still helpfully spread out on the small table by Mo Baixiu’s bed, and Shang Lei doesn’t waste any time removing the soiled bandages and wound packing, applying more medicine, and applying clean bandages. Demonic healing really is something, because despite being a horrible gushing wound less than ten hours ago it’s already starting to close and mend, and if Mo Baixiu can avoid tossing poor innocent cultivators around the room for a day or so longer then he should be completely fine.

Distracted as he is by rendering first aid in a businesslike and competent manner, Shang Lei doesn’t notice the intense stare Mo Baixiu is directing at him until he’s applied the last bandage and tidied up the soiled ones. He thinks of simply throwing them out, but the Huan Hua Palace cultivators are still hunting for Mo Baixiu, and the blood of a powerful demon--if Shang Lei remembers correctly the Mo Clan are descendants of the old northern Heavenly Demon lineage--can be used against them in certain spells, so he gathers up the used, bloody fabric in the empty water basin and sets it alight with a quick talisman.

Shang Lei startles slightly when he turns away from the last bits of smoke and ash in the basin and sees the look on Mo Baixiu’s face, but he carries on and says, “You need to regain your strength, my Prince, let me bring you some food.”

The warming talisman has kept Mo Baixiu’s portion of dinner nicely and so Shang Lei brings over the tray with its bowl of soup, selection of vegetables, and meat buns. It’s a bit awkward to realize that Mo Baixiu is too exhausted to sit up but too proud to simply accept Shang Lei’s help eating; they reach the unspoken compromise of Shang Lei helping Mo Baixiu roll onto his stomach and prop himself up on his arms to eat as much as he can without assistance interspersed with grudging acceptance of Shang Lei holding out morsels for him with the chopsticks.

The strain of holding himself up and forcing himself to accept as little help as possible must be getting to him, because by the time Shang Lei has helped Mo Baixiu with the last few bites of food and moved the tray out of the way while Mo Baixiu tries to find a dignified way to collapse onto his uninjured side, Mo Baixiu is flushed from the tips of his ears down to his chest: the blue undertone of his porcelain skin darkening into a noticeable periwinkle. Shang Lei puts the tray down on a table and busies himself with tidying so he can have a few moments to himself to try and mentally reconcile the way Mo Baixiu’s mouth started at the slightest and most delicate shade of lavender at the edges of his lips rather than pink like a human, and darkened into a soft lilac inside his mouth.

Mo Baixiu settles down to rest seemingly determined to completely ignore Shang Lei’s presence, and so Shang Lei makes himself comfortable on the room’s other bed. It’s difficult to fall asleep, but once he does it feels like it’s only been a few moments before he’s waking up again; the morning sunlight streaming through the window.

Looking over at Mo Baixiu, Shang Lei is almost relieved to see he’s still asleep when he gathers up the dinner tray and heads downstairs to exchange it for a breakfast tray. He puts the tray on the room’s main table with another warming talisman and makes tea at the room’s small stove.

Shang Lei still isn’t entirely sure what he’s doing, but he knows he can’t leave Mo Baixiu while he’s injured like this. Thinking it over while the water comes to a gentle boil and he steeps the tea leaves, he realizes that the only reason Mo Baixiu wouldn’t have immediately teleported himself to safety during whatever altercation got him struck with the Ling Hua Dart is that the injury was severe enough to hamper his ability to teleport. With the way Mo Baixiu’s energy had drained so quickly the night before, Shang Lei is fairly certain he’s come to the correct conclusion about why Mo Baixiu was wandering around injured in the forest instead of retreating to safety. The thought that there’s every likelihood that Mo Baixiu doesn’t have any place he considers to be particularly safe follows quickly, and Airplane once again feels mildly terrible for his authorial choices: between Linguang-Jun tricking him into nearly being tormented to death by human cultivators as a child, and the Mo Clan’s easy treachery, how could Mo Baixiu have returned to the Northern Ice Palace so heavily injured and been assured that he’d even have a chance to recover before some opportunist tried to permanently remove him from the line of succession.

The realization makes him vaguely sick, and Airplane has to firmly promise himself that he’ll take very good care of Mo Baixiu until he’s well just to ease the guilt a bit.

Thankfully, when Mo Baixiu finally wakes up he’s regained enough strength to sit up in bed and eat under his own power, which seems to please Mo Baixiu immensely enough that he demands a bath, and Shang Lei is still wrestling with his meta-authorial guilt that he agrees and goes to fetch a tub, buckets, and towels.

It takes several trips with two buckets to fill the tub and basin, with spare water waiting in the buckets for rinsing. Mo Baixiu apparently carries no travelling supplies, so Shang Lei digs through An Ding’s well-stocked always-prepared standard travelling qiankun pouch and emerges triumphantly with a cake of soap, a small flask of hair oil, a comb, and some washcloths.

Actually helping Mo Baixiu to bathe nearly gives Shang Lei a heart attack. Shang Lei can feel his face burning like a beacon, but he still finds it in himself to scold Mo Baixiu about getting his bandages wet and tries to be as efficient and neutral as possible while being relegated to bath attendant. Despite the trouble he’d had with it the night before, Shang Lei is incredibly relieved to finish assisting as Mo Baixiu scrubbed and rinsed his body and move on to his hair while Mo Baixiu settles in the tub to soak.

The restless night and the natural waves and curls of Mo Baixiu’s hair overcame the ponytail Shang Lei had put it in, and so he has to painstakingly comb the whole silky mass of it before he can even start with the soap and water. Rather than sitting upright in the tub, Mo Baixiu sinks down so his neck can rest against the edge--on a rolled towel that Shang Lei gets him after he glowers meaningfully at the stack of linens--lifting his long legs out of the water and bracing them on the far side of the tub to compensate. It makes sense, as the water begins to gain little ice floes, turning somewhat to slush, that he’d want to soak his wound in the cold to make it heal faster. It’s abject physical torture, however, to stare down at the top of Mo Baixiu’s head from where Shang Lei sits in his chair and see the flawless expanse of his body.

That same delicate flush as before has spread down from the tips of Mo Baixiu’s ears to his chest as Shang Lei carefully works his soapy hands against Mo Baixiu’s scalp, and Shang Lei decides that the best thing to do is to pick a topic and distract the obviously annoyed Demon Prince from deciding to gut him. If there’s one thing Shang Lei can prattle on ceaselessly about, it’s logistics, and so he begins what on An Ding is considered a fun story about the difficulties they’d had during the last peach harvest. Rinsing out Mo Baixiu’s hair and wringing the water out of it with a towel is much easier when he has to keep thinking of the next part of the story. Shang Lei automatically starts to comb it again, and then braids it and finds a hairpin to secure it out of the way on top of Mo Baixiu’s head. The distraction is enough that when Mo Baixiu clambers out of the water Shang Lei can help him into a towel without tripping over his own feet, before getting to work draining the tub and refilling it; the water having finally turned from an apparently enjoyable slush to a more solid and uncomfortable bath of ice cubes.

When he’s finally refilled the tub and Mo Baixiu has returned to soaking, Shang Lei gathers up Mo Baixiu’s socks, pants, and undergarments to wash them in the basin. He doesn’t expect Mo Baixiu’s voice to call out from the tub, considering the Demon Prince has hardly said a word since declaring he wanted a bath in the first place.

“Your story,” Mo Baixiu says quietly.

“What?” Shang Lei asks, turning away from the basin to look over to where Mo Baixiu was resting in the water; looking very charming with a damp washcloth over his forehead and his hair piled on his head.

“You haven’t finished your story,” Mo Baixiu says.

“Oh! My Prince, would you like me to?” Shang Lei asks, vaguely confused as to why Mo Baixiu would find it interesting enough to want it to continue.

“Yes,” Mo Baixiu answers shortly.

“Alright, my Prince,” Shang Lei says, “Ah, where was I?”

“The tariffs had been changed,” Mo Baixiu says.

“That’s right!” Shang Lei says, remembering, before launching back into the story.

He chatters while he works, and the story comes to a close just in time for Mo Baixiu to decide he’s finished with his bath.

The cold water seems to have helped tremendously, because Mo Baixiu climbs out of the tub and wraps himself in the last of the fresh towels without apparent strain. The wound on his flank looking much better as Shang Lei proactively slathers it with more medicine and puts fresh bandages on before setting to draining the tub and hauling it back downstairs.

Shang Lei returns with a tray laden with a substantial spread for a late lunch, functioning under the assumption that Mo Baixiu would need to eat to heal better, and that he himself had been hauling buckets of water all day and deserved something nice. There’s various hearty savory dishes along with a selection of sweets and snacks. Mo Baixiu had apparently found his washed and mended inner robe while Shang Lei was gone, because he’s wrapped in it and sitting on his bed when Shang Lei opens the door.

Bathing someone apparently just takes the embarrassment out of all subsequent interactions, because Shang Lei sets the tray on the table and goes about asking Mo Baixiu what he wants to eat with a familiarity and confidence that he privately marvels at. If it upsets Mo Baixiu the demon doesn’t do anything about it, although that flush comes back strongly enough to make Shang Lei get up and renew the cooling talismans he’d spread around the room.

Settling down to eat, after not having been killed all day so far, in a room that’s nicely cool from the combination of Mo Baixiu’s natural aura and his own talismans, Shang Lei can’t help but smile over at Mo Baixiu. He laughs to himself a little bit, and can feel his cheeks dimpling from his grin, “My Prince,” Shang Lei says, “this is pretty nice, isn’t it?”

Mo Baixiu gives him such a powerful scowl that Shang Lei nearly wilts, the Demon Prince’s face shading from the delicate periwinkle of before into an impressive indigo. He doesn’t do anything else, though, so Shang Lei supposes he’s only upset because it must not be very nice to be injured and stuck with a stranger no matter how little they complained while hauling your bathwater.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Mo Baixiu seems devoted to resting and regaining his strength, which is a relief to Shang Lei; especially since Mo Baixiu’s status as a mildly spoiled young master means he seems to expect Shang Lei to act as his servant. Shang Lei doesn’t try to make light of things after Mo Baixiu’s impressively murderous scowl, but he manages to keep a generally good mood in spite of everything.

Everything, of course, being that while Mo Baixiu isn’t cruel he doesn’t seem to realize that Shang Lei is living on the constant edge of spontaneously combusting from being in close proximity to the most gorgeous man in existence. Shang Lei can’t really say he’s being run ragged, but he’s spent the past few days in a state of emotional extremes.

Mo Baixiu wants to hear more stories about things that the majority of An Ding disciples have always been told are considered boring to people who don’t understand the unique culture of the logistics peak. Mo Baixiu wants food, but specific food: rare meat, and sweets, and spicy soup, and fruit, as much fresh fruit as Shang Lei can lay hands on. Mo Baixiu wants his hair combed every day. Mo Baixiu wants another bath every other day, with at least two refills so he can bask in his icy slush water and, apparently, listen to Shang Lei talk. Mo Baixiu wants his clothes washed again. Mo Baixiu wants new clothes. Mo Baixiu absolutely refuses to return the hairpin--plain carved wood, that the smallest piece of jewelry Mo Baixiu was wearing could buy about thirty of--and insists Shang Lei pin his hair with it when he bathes.

Shang Lei was given a modest purse to support him during his errand, and he’d been prudent with his money, but providing for Mo Baixiu is rapidly depleting his funds. It’s not even that the Prince is being excessively extravagant, but rather that he’d been given a budget for short stays in cheap inns like a wagoner would frequent, not an extended stay in a moderately expensive inn while paying for food and baths and clothes.

Which is why, five days after finding Mo Baixiu on the side of the road, Shang Lei is in the market trying to complete at least some part of his actual business in this town while obtaining the loquats his Prince apparently could not live without. He might be a little bit exhausted--not completely wiped out, thanks to his cultivation--but it’s understandable considering he’d sat up late into the night the evening before when Mo Baixiu had wanted his hair brushed, and then brushed again, and then brushed again before he’d decided Shang Lei had done an acceptable job braiding it. Like, Shang Lei would have thought his Prince being a bit of a brat would have been something of a turn off, but no, apparently being needed is as euphoric as getting to see the subtle pouty face Mo Baixiu makes when his bathwater is too frozen to be enjoyable anymore.

But all of this means that when he hears a woman’s voice call out, “Shang-shidi!” it doesn’t really register until An Mei has bulldozed her way through the market and grabbed him by the arm.

“An Mei!,” Shang Lei squeaks, almost dropping the small basket of loquats he’d just bought.

An Mei is wearing a thunderous expression, and more, she’s wearing her actual An Ding disciple’s uniform and her sword openly.

It belatedly occurs to Shang Lei that he should perhaps have established contact with his sect rather than randomly disappearing for nearly a week, but, he reasons to himself, anyone who had to spend time in close proximity to Mo Baixiu being all gorgeous and regularly naked would naturally take a few hits to their intellect score.

An Mei doesn’t waste any time dragging him bodily away from the market and into the room she’d reserved for herself at an inn--a different inn than the one Shang Lei had taken Mo Baixiu to--so she can interrogate him.

Things are really worse than he’d thought, because the reason An Mei was there is because the massacred wagon train Shang Lei had been part of had been found days ago, had the cargoes tracked to their intended recipients, and then had those cargoes shipped onward to those recipients, and so yesterday morning a completely different wagon train had arrived at Cang Qiong Mountain Sect with Qing Jing Peak’s delivery of books, and the news that the original wagon train had been slaughtered to a man by some unknown culprit. An Mei, being among the senior Whispers, had been sent posthaste to see if she could identify Shang Lei’s body and determine a cause for the attack.

Instead, she’d found her missing shidi in the market haggling for loquats and entirely alive and apparently unharmed, and was understandably displeased about the situation.

Shang Lei is aware that if he admits to what he’d been doing to An Mei she would probably kill him, but specifically she would kill him by dragging him back to An Ding and sitting on him for the rest of his life. She would get Gao Huan to help. Shang Lei would be crushed under their weight and tallness and concern.

So he uses his only recourse: he tells An Mei that he can only explain what’s happened to the Peak Lord herself. An Mei goes red in the face, and gives him another twenty minutes of intense tongue-lashing, but she accepts his excuse.

It’s slightly harder to get her to agree to allow him to go deliver the loquats--to an unspecified recipient, of course, he’s absolutely not talking about the Demon Prince he’s been cohabitating with for the past five days--but she relents when he promises to meet her at the town gates in an hour so they can fly back to An Ding.

Shang Lei is absolutely dreading telling his Prince he has to leave, but he hopes his Prince will accept his reasoning and allow it.

Returning to their room at the inn, Shang Lei finds his Prince lounging in the same place he’d been when he left. Mo Baixiu’s wound is little more than a few lingering scabs and bruises, and his energy seems nearly completely restored, but he’s been taking convalescence like a cat. Which is to say: sleeping, eating, and demanding Shang Lei’s attention.

Holding the basket of loquats in front of him like an offering, Shang Lei preemptively kneels by the side of Mo Baixiu’s bed.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, “I have unfortunate news.”

Mo Baixiu sits up, scowling, and barks, “What.”

“This servant’s martial siblings have been sent to look for him,” Shang Lei says, “I encountered them while I was in the market.”

“And you returned here?” Mo Baixiu asks, faintly incredulous.

“I claimed that I needed to carry out an errand before I could accompany them back to our sect,” Shang Lei says, “but they won’t accept further excuses and I can’t endanger your recovery, my Prince, so I must go with them.”

Mo Baixiu seems infuriated by this, his scowl deepening and an angry flush crawling across his face, “These cultivators will force you to go?”

“They’re my martial siblings, my Prince, acting out of concern for me” Shang Lei rushes to assure him, “they believed I had been killed when,” he hesitates slightly, “when the caravan I was with happened upon you in your injured state.”

Mo Baixiu’s fury seems to grow when he’s reminded of the unfortunate fate of the caravan, but he only says, “You said you would follow me forever.”

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, trying to keep up with the unexpected direction this conversation has taken, mostly because he hadn’t expected Mo Baixiu to be upset about the prospect of his having to leave, “I meant what I said, but I can’t allow myself to be a liability to you,” he takes a breath, “allow me to go now, so I can serve you better in the future.”

Mo Baixiu makes an infuriated noise, but says, “Fine.”

Shang Lei doesn’t particularly feel like pressing his luck, so he puts the basket of loquats on the table and quickly gathers up his belongings. He pauses; and hunts through his supply qiankun pouch for the jar with the last bit of medicine and his rations and his comb and lays them on the table beside the loquats.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, waiting until Mo Baixiu deigns turn and look at him to continue, “I’m leaving these for you, and I’ll pay for another two days for the room,” he bows at the waist, “This servant hopes his Prince will be well recovered by that time.”

Mo Baixiu’s face has an unreadable expression on it when Shang Lei rises from his bow, his fists clenched at his sides as he looks over the items spread over the table and then back at Shang Lei.

“Go then,” Mo Baixiu hisses at him, enraged indigo flush working its way across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, “but recall your promises to this lord.”

“I will, my Prince,” Shang Lei swears.

He does as he said he would and gives the last of his money to the innkeeper to secure the room for another few days.

Then he goes to meet An Mei at the town gate. They walk a ways down the road before An Mei deems it safe to mount their swords and fly. An Mei sets a rapid pace, still furious enough with Shang Lei that she doesn’t make much smalltalk even when they have to stop for the night, forgoing an inn to build a small fire and rest until it’s light enough to fly again.

They make it back to An Ding before noon, and An Mei marches him directly to the Peak Lord’s Leisure House.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Zhang Zhanhua looks them both over when An Mei and Shang Lei present themselves--travel stained and weary--and dismisses them both to bathe and change before they invade her receiving office. Her gaze lingers on Shang Lei in such a way that he knows to his soul he’s about to receive the most polite and devastating chewing out he’s ever gotten in either of his lifetimes.

When he returns, once again escorted by An Mei, but clean and dressed in his proper disciple’s uniform, Shang Lei bows to his Peak Lord and kneels in front of her desk when bid. An Mei leaves, still fuming about being made to believe that Shang Lei was dead, but with her anger obviously having cooled now that she’s delivered Shang Lei safely into the hands of their Peak Lord.

Shang Lei has to restrain himself from fidgeting as Zhang Zhanhua looks him over, her eyes taking in every detail as she assesses him. Her mouth turns slightly down at the corners, and she releases the opening volley: “Perhaps this Master’s disciple is unaware,” she says, her tones crisp with cool disappointment, “but Master Wei He was terribly upset when news came indicating her disciple had met an unfortunate fate.”

It’s worse than any torture. The guilt and shame that immediately bursts in Shang Lei’s chest at the thought of his Shizun’s disappointment and Wei He’s distress are overwhelming. He feels himself cringe and wilt in his seat.

“This disciple was thoughtless, Shizun,” Shang Lei says, “This disciple deeply regrets it and apologizes.”

“This Master sincerely hopes there is a reason for her disciple’s deficiency,” Zhang Zhanhua says, her face perfectly neutral but her voice promising that the power of her disappointment is entirely capable of increasing if necessary.

“Yes, Shizun,” Shang Lei says. He begins by explaining everything he’d learned before his errand was interrupted, and all the information he’d been able to gather while in town but not occupied caring for Mo Baixiu.

Zhang Zhanhua seems pleased with what he’d managed to find, especially his confirmation that Huan Hua Palace Master really wasn’t acting like a man who’s treasured First Disciple had been abducted anywhere but in his formal missives to the other sects. She asks him questions and Shang Lei presents his notes to her directly, rather than waiting to give them to Wei He, who he was obviously dreading seeing again because he could barely handle his Shizun’s restrained and professional disappointment so he definitely was going to break down and be embarrassing when Wei He inevitably hugged him and looked at him with sad eyes.

Eventually, though, Zhang Zhanhua’s questions turned to what had happened to the caravan and where Shang Lei had been for those five days.

His life flashes before his eyes. Not just his life, but his sh*tty novel’s rough drafts. Original Shang Qinghua’s life flashes before his eyes. Airplane’s incredibly depressing life flashes before his eyes.

Zhang Zhanhua gives him a look that says she expects his total honesty and will know if he does not render it onto her appropriately, and Shang Lei folds like a sad wet paper bag.

He leaves out the more embarrassing details, but he faithfully recounts how the caravan had been accosted by a Demon Lord who Shang Lei had found to be injured with a Huan Huan Palace Ling Hua Dart. Shang Lei claims to have recognized the demonic marking and abilities of the demon as being from the Mo Clan of the Great Northern Desert, and decided that it would be best to assist him and see if he could discover what he was doing in Huan Hua Palace’s territory when it was known that the Mo Clan held a deep enmity towards the Huan Hua Palace cultivators. He explains that he’d treated the demon’s wounds and taken him to the nearest town, and found that Huan Hua Palace cultivators were there searching for him already.

Shang Lei tells of his great surprise at finding out that not only had he rescued a Demon Lord of the Mo Clan, but it’s Crown Prince, Mo Baixiu, the future Mobei-Jun.

Zhang Zhanhua is as intrigued as Shang Lei was by the mystery of why the Crown Prince of a demon clan with a notorious feud with Huan Huan Palace would be anywhere near there, much less undertaking an activity that would lead to his being injured by Huan Hua Palace cultivators.

The rest of the time Shang Lei tries to gloss over, drawing his impressions of Mo Baixiu on that first night to the forefront of his mind and trying to puzzle them out with the help of his Shizun: why Mo Baixiu was there in the first place, why he had seemed so incensed to hear the claim that Su Xiyan had been abducted, and why he’d reacted in such a way to hearing the Huan Hua Palace Master’s claim that Tianlang-Jun had been the one to do so.

Talking about anything else feels like a betrayal of trust, almost, and so Shang Lei ends his report with that. Zhang Zhanhua has all of the pertinent information, now: she doesn’t need to know about Mo Baixiu’s taste in food; or his fussy ice bath preferences; or his enjoyment of An Ding’s hallmark boring logistics stories; or the way color steals down from the tips of his ears before crossing the bridge of his nose when he flushes; the weight and texture of his hair--wet and dry--as Shang Lei combs and braids it; the chiseled perfection of his body.

Shang Lei belatedly realizes that maybe he’s a bit infatuated. Just a teensy bit. He hopes he’s not blushing, and then he looks up at his Shizun’s face and realizes that he’s absolutely blushing.

“There’s nothing else?” Zhang Zhanhua asks, in an unnecessarily charitable tone of voice that makes it clear to Shang Lei that he hasn’t fooled her one bit.

“I, uh,” Shang Lei begins, his brain whiting out under the dual urge to be absolutely honest and to start lying this instant , “I may have, um, made a pledge to be devoted to him for the rest of my life?”

Zhang Zhanhua doesn’t do anything so gauche as laugh at him, but she does raise one perfectly-sculpted brow, her mouth quirking in amusem*nt, “Indeed,” she says, still definitely not laughing at him in a way that implied she was absolutely laughing at him, “This Master hopes her disciple is aware that demons of the Mo Clan are known to take such,” she clears her through delicately into her sleeve, “ pledges quite seriously, and her disciple should reflect on the nature his devotion,” her voice lilts over the word, “will take.”

Shang Lei takes this as a rebuke, a warning, and a compliment all in one.

Zhang Zhanhua isn’t done with him yet, though, and so after every bit of information has been analyzed, she takes him through a theoretical scenario based on his botched errand, and Shang Lei sits for another hour as he’s forced to thoughtfully and honestly dissect every place he went wrong and what he should have done under less extenuating circ*mstances.

By the end of it Shang Lei is mentally exhausted, but Zhang Zhanhua has one more surprise in store for him.

“I am promoting you to senior disciple,” She says, “you may choose one of the single senior disciples' Leisure Houses and move your things there from the junior disciple’s communal Leisure House.”

“Shizun?” is all Shang Lei can manage, his disbelief clear in his voice.

Zhang Zhanhua gives him a single approving nod, a gesture worth more than gold amongst An Ding’s disciples, and says, “Despite the irregular nature of your errand you performed ably, made pivotal decisions with creative perspectives, and successfully navigated unforeseen logistical scenarios until you could be retrieved,” she pauses, allowing him to soak in the praise, “These are the making of an An Ding Peak senior inner disciple.”

‘Unforeseen logistical scenarios’ sounds much nicer to Shang Lei than ‘accidentally spending five days as a Demon Prince’s combination body servant and sugar daddy’.

He can feel himself smiling as he bows to Zhang Zhanhua and accepts the paperwork and tokens he needs to take to the quartermasters to receive his new housing, his new uniforms, and his senior disciple’s stipend.

An Mei, who was lurking in the small pagoda near the Peak Lord’s Leisure House just waiting for Shang Lei to emerge so she could pounce on him with Gao Huan and as many of their fellow Whispers as could be gathered at short notice, sees the token and immediately shrieks and throws herself at him. What had apparently been a planned afternoon of recriminations about not letting his poor seniors and fellow disciples know he was alive is immediately derailed so An Mei and Gao Huan can lead their little group in an aggressive tour of the available single senior disciples’ Leisure Houses, gathering up Shang Lei’s every worldly possession, and assailing the quartermasters for everything they’d need to furnish, decorate, and generally settle him in to his new residence.

The senior disciples’ Leisure Houses were meant to support the senior disciples, obviously, but on An Ding Peak the senior disciples ranged from freshly promoted cultivators like Shang Lei to experienced Masters with families of their own. As a single disciple, Shang Lei’s Leisure House is very modest: a bedroom, a bathroom, a sitting room, and a kitchen, all arranged to be as functional and usable as possible in a compact floor plan. Having freshly moved from the junior disciples’ communal Leisure House, it feels like a tremendously luxurious amount of space.

Packed full of friends as they argue over furniture placement, general decor, and exactly how many groceries he really needed to start off with, the Leisure House feels almost bursting with good cheer. By the late afternoon, An Mei has spearheaded his complete move, housewarming, and unpacking through sheer force of her enthusiasm; and, Shang Lei thinks, her relief that he wasn’t actually dead on the side of the road like she thought he was.

Shang Lei is truly thankful, considering he wouldn’t have thought of half the things they requisitioned from the quartermasters until he’d needed it; going to the kitchen to make breakfast for the first time and realizing he has no cooking knives or pots is definitely something Shang Lei can see himself doing.

After an early dinner to finish commemorating the housewarming, and another round of dire warnings from An Mei about what she’ll do to him if he ever lets her think he’s dead again, Shang Lei is finally left alone in his new home.

He spends the rest of the late afternoon tidying up the remaining mess of his guests, and most of the early evening just basking in being home, in his own space, and not dead, and having friends, and Zhang Zhanhua finding him worthy of promotion despite how incredibly off-task he’d gotten during his errand.

Shang Lei has done his nightly ablutions--in his new bathroom!--and changed into a light sleep robe when he feels a sudden waft of cold air from the bedroom. Despite the summer, the mountain air can be quite chilly at night, but Shang Lei is fairly certain he hasn’t left a window open or anything.

He pads into the bedroom, and is met with the severe glower of an apparently annoyed Mo Baixiu.

“My Prince!,” Shang Lei squeaks, abruptly and breathtakingly thankful that he’s not in the junior disciple’s dorms anymore, but also somewhat panic-stricken because he’s pretty sure there’s supposed to be wards specifically to keep demons out? And then Airplane immediately remembers that he gave Mobei-Jun, the Mo Baixiu sitting on his bed and currently glaring daggers at him, the most ridiculously overpowered teleportation abilities in the entire setting.

Several pertinent pieces of information cross Shang Lei’s mind at once: the first being that it has, coincidentally, been about the two days he’d paid for at the inn; the second being his Shizun’s comment about the Mo Clan taking oaths seriously; the third being his depressingly grim assessment of Mo Baixiu’s home life based on Airplane’s own stupid writing.

His moment of shock is probably forgivable, but Shang Lei doesn’t especially feel like risking anymore hesitation. He quickly crosses the room and kneels at his Prince’s side, “My Prince!,” he exclaims again, “Were you not recovered enough to return to the demon realm?”

Mo Baixiu looks down at him with an unnervingly blank look for a long moment before he grudgingly admits, “This lord requires more rest,” his blank look resolves itself into a light glare, “Mark your words, Shang Lei.”

Shang Lei is slightly overcome that his Prince actually bothered remembering his name, but he can’t possibly refuse when his Prince has circumvented a thousand years’ worth of anti-demon boundary warding because he felt like it, so he could crash at Shang Lei’s new house.

“Of course, my Prince,” Shang Lei says, for lack of anything better to say.

Mo Baixiu consents to be helped out of his boots and cloak and outer robes. He declines food or tea, but he does produce Shang Lei’s comb--which Shang Lei had left him and he’d apparently decided to keep--from his sleeve and give Shang Lei a meaningful look that indicates he wants his hair brushed.

While getting his hair brushed, Mo Baixiu apparently takes his time looking around, because he says, apropos of nothing: “You said you were a junior disciple, these are not the quarters of a junior disciple.”

“My Prince is so observant,” Shang Lei acknowledges, “I’ve been promoted to senior disciple, the Peak Lord was pleased with the results of my errand despite my unaccounted absence.”

This seems to mollify Mo Baixiu, because after Shang Lei finishes combing and braiding his hair, his Prince lays down on Shang Lei’s brand new bed with his brand new blankets and linens as though he intends to sleep right there.

Shang Lei, who had also been hoping to get a good night’s sleep before reporting to Zhang Zhanhua to learn what his duties as a senior disciple would be in the morning, is unsure of what to do because there’s only one bed . He’s tired, and slightly frustrated, and not unhappy but slightly distressed because he’d been having a perfectly nice time alone in his own new house , the nicest place Airplane or Shang Lei had ever been able to call theirs .

Obviously his tired mind has lost all good sense, because he comes to a decision, marches himself over to the bed, and pulls up the edge of the blanket.

Mo Baixiu’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist so quickly Shang Lei barely sees it move, but his grip is crushing; not only unrelenting but touched with frost as well. Shang Lei lets out a reflexive noise of pain and Mo Baixiu’s hand withdraws, his Prince seeming as startled by his sudden action as Shang Lei before his face smooths over into a cold, disapproving look that Shang Lei is starting to get the idea is just how his face is ?

“What are you doing?” Mo Baixiu demands, sitting up and frowning; that same discomfited flush spreading over his face and down his neck.

Shang Lei’s wrist has a very neat imprint of Mo Baixiu’s hand on it; a dark smudge of bruises just slightly burnt with cold. It hurts, and the only consolation Shang Lei currently has right now is the slight way Mo Baixiu’s eyes widen when he sees the near-immediate bruising from the force of his grip and the fact that his cultivation is helping dull the pain somewhat.

“There’s only one bed, my Prince,” Shang Lei says, trying to be polite, “I understand my Prince needs to rest, but this servant is tired as well.”

Mo Baixiu stares at him uncomprehendingly, which Shang Lei gets, considering he’s probably never had to share anything in his life. But he doesn’t move, and Shang Lei is tired .

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, voice slightly strained, “scoot over.”

Mo Baixiu remains frozen in place--he's turned indigo again, probably in outrage--but Shang Lei has reached the end of his patience, and he yanks the blankets up and inserts himself in his own bed ; a bed that’s really not big enough for the both of them considering Mo Baixiu is about a foot taller than he is, and much broader, even though Shang Lei had chosen this bed in the first place because there was reasonable room for him to spread in his sleep the way he liked.

They end up with their sides flush against each other, Shang Lei able to feel the slightest chill from Mo Baixiu’s naturally cold ambient temperature through the blankets. He’s moved beyond audacity and into sheer bloody-minded desire for sleep. His Prince can deal with it.

Mo Baixiu slowly lays down next to him, stiff as a board, and says nothing, Shang Lei falling asleep to the measured cadence of his breathing.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

Shang Lei wakes feeling nicely refreshed. He comes back to awareness slowly, enjoying the feel of soft blankets and the comforting weight of something that he’s wrapped himself around in his sleep. His cheek is resting on something cool and the contrast to the warmth trapped under the covers with him is blissful. He stretches, twisting to burrow more deeply into his bed. The thought that he’s never had a body pillow this firm before comes to him. His wrist twinges.

Shang Lei goes absolutely still, not even daring to breathe. And yet. He still hears the sound of strained breathing from over his head.

Shang Lei opens his eyes, and discovers that at some point during the night his natural starfish bed-hogging nature overcame whatever sense of subconscious self-preservation he possessed. He’s wrapped himself octopus-like around Mo Baixiu and is currently face down on his chest using one of his incredibly perfect pectorals as a pillow.

Since he wasn’t killed in his sleep for this trespass, Shang Lei decides the only thing he can do at this point to save them both a little face is to play it cool. He carefully untangles himself from around Mo Baixiu, and props himself up on his arms to see his Prince’s face.

He’s half-hopeful that Mo Baixiu is just asleep and Shang Lei can pretend this never happened, but no. Mo Baixiu is awake. Mo Baixiu is awake, and his ears, face, neck, and all the visible parts of his chest are flushed such a deep and vivid indigo that Shang Lei thinks he’s got the ice demon equivalent to heatstroke.

“My Prince!” Shang Lei squeaks, “Are you too warm? You should have said something!”

He sits up fully and slides out of the bed, turning to peel away some of the blankets that had found their way onto Mo Baixiu in the night. It’s not his fault he likes to burrito himself!

The swift application of a few cooling talismans to the bedframe later, and Mo Baixiu’s color is still high.

“Do you need water, my Prince?” Shang Lei asks, mildly panicked because this definitely isn’t normal.

Mo Baixiu props himself up on his elbows and rasps out, “Yes.”

Shang Lei scurries into the kitchen to see if he’s got any water, determines that he does not, and then grabs an ewer and throws himself at the water pump like his life depends on it. Which it might? He’s not actually sure what’s going on with his Prince but it seems dire.

Making his way back into the bedroom a few minutes later, flushed and disheveled from pumping water but triumphantly carrying the ewer and a cup, Shang Lei is glad to see that his Prince has sat up fully and the flush seems to have subsided somewhat. He sets the ewer carefully on the table next to the bed and pours water into the cup before handing it to Mo Baixiu, who downs the whole thing; his teeth crunching on the bits of ice that form from the water that pools in his mouth as he swallows.

“Are you feeling better?” Shang Lei asks, fretting over Mo Baixiu; adjusting the blankets again, refilling his cup with water, checking that the cooling talismans were working.

Mo Baixiu nods. He’s still slightly flushed, but he’s much more of a normal ice demon-y color than he was a few minutes ago. His face is doing the thing where he looks murderous, but there’s something about his eyes--slightly wide and unfocused--that tells Shang Lei that this must be what bewilderment looks like on his Prince. Shang Lei thinks this is a reasonable emotion to have after apparently waking up with some sort of ice demon heatstroke; after all, it's not like Mo Baixiu has ever really made a habit of visiting the human realm beyond his unfortunate childhood misadventure, his Prince is probably just now learning about potential pitfalls that an ice demon like himself might encounter.

“Would you like breakfast?” Shang Lei asks, fiddling with the sleeves of his sleep robe.

Mo Baixiu gives another nod, still looking somewhat stunned, and Shang Lei decides that his Prince could probably use some time to collect himself. He quickly rummages around in his dresser to find the appropriate clothes for the day--his new senior disciple’s uniform--before escaping out of the bedroom. He can change in the sitting room so his Prince isn’t bothered.

Shang Lei washes his face in the kitchen and tidies his hair into a neat bun before setting to work making breakfast. He remembers his Prince’s tastes well enough that he thinks he can put together something he’ll like that won’t take too much time.

As his panic dies down he remembers his wrist; the bruises from the night before have bloomed into a palette of purples and yellows, limned with the almost-burn effect of an ice demon’s unsuppressed power. It looks terrible, but aside from a mild ache Shang Lei’s cultivation is dealing with it nicely.

Shang Lei peeks his head into the bedroom to ask, “My Prince, would you like me to bring you your breakfast or to eat at the table?”

Mo Baixiu doesn’t appear to have moved much, still sitting on the bed, although his posture seems meditative rather than shaken. “The table,” he says.

Shang Lei arranges their dishes on the table in the sitting room and has just tucked into his own breakfast when Mo Baixiu emerges. His Prince sits gracefully, looking over the offered meal and the room with a mildly curious expression.

Shang Lei can’t stop himself from saying, “My Prince, I hope you like it.” He smiles up at Mo Baixiu, feeling his cheeks dimple.

Mo Baixiu grabs his bowl and busies himself with eating, staring down at the table intently, but he seems to like the food because he finishes every last morsel and then helps himself to the remainders in the serving dishes.

Shang Lei finishes eating before Mo Baixiu does, having secretly made extra food because he’d noticed his Prince’s hearty appetite during their time together. He takes a few moments to study Mo Baixiu as he considers how to broach the next subject; his Prince’s color looks much healthier than it had when he woke up, his hair already beginning to curl itself out of the braid Shang Lei had put it into, the relatively shorter and less voluminous sleeves of his inner robe displaying Mo Baixiu’s strong wrists and graceful long-fingered hands.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, getting Mo Baixiu’s attention, “I’m sorry but I have duties that must be fulfilled, will you be alright resting alone today?”

Mo Baixiu nods, finally finishing his breakfast before getting to his feet and turning back towards the bedroom. Shang Lei quickly tidies up the dishes and sets the kitchen straight before he gathers up some fruit in a bowl and carries it into the bedroom. Mo Baixiu has reclaimed his place on the bed, laying down on his stomach with his head pillowed on his arms. Shang Lei puts the bowl on the bedside table next to the ewer and cup. He bows to Mo Baixiu and says, “I’ll try and check on you throughout the day, my Prince, but please be careful.”

With that he returns to the sitting room to gather up the things he normally carries with him during the day, and leaves his Leisure House, shutting the door behind him and placing a discreet locking talisman that will hopefully discourage any of his martial siblings that feel like dropping by while he’s gone.

He walks to the Peak Lord’s Leisure House and tries to pretend like everything is normal and he doesn’t have a Demon Prince secretly staying in his house.

Zhang Zhanhua is waiting for him, and Shang Lei bows and takes his seat when she bids him to. Wei He is also there, and Shang Lei cringes and accepts her fussing over him with only mildly devastating pangs of guilt at having upset her. He apologizes again, but Wei He waves it off and settles into her own seat so they can begin their meeting.

The duties of an An Ding Peak senior disciple are much more varied than those of a junior disciple, as an inner disciple especially. Shang Lei has already been assisting with the general duties that the Peak Lord had determined he would be most successful at, but he’s not just gaining more responsibilities in his regular duties, he's gaining new duties as well.

Zhang Zhanhua and Wei He explain the expectations that they have for him. His new responsibilities. The administrative and practical duties that he’ll be overseeing. How his status as a Whisper will affect this. His place as an aide to the Peak Lord and how he’ll be handling more sensitive information and critical aspects of how An Ding operates as he acts on her behalf. They explain areas of the peak that he’s allowed to visit now that he’s a senior disciple that he might not have been aware of before: the restricted libraries, the sealed relic storehouses, the various archives of sensitive artifacts and treasures. Places where all the things brought back to An Ding that might be useful are catalogued and stored.

Shang Lei feels like his head is spinning by the time the meeting nears a close, having taken most of the morning as Zhang Zhanhua and Wei He took him very thoroughly through his paces.

The Peak Lord hands him a scroll from across her desk and instructs him to read it and then to write a notes on his observations and return them to her for evaluation; from what Shang Lei can see it is a treatise on logistical management and organizational strategies, one he hasn’t read before now.

He reaches for it, unthinking, and his sleeve falls back down his arm to reveal the handprint bruise on his wrist: still an ugly palette of purples and yellows in the distinctive shape of Mo Baixiu’s hand, edged with the slightest frostburn. It’s healed enough that it had stopped really hurting, and Shang Lei had completely forgotten about it during the meeting.

Zhang Zhanhua notices it instantly, of course, reaching out lightning-quick to grab his hand before he can pull it back and cover the bruise with his sleeve, “This wasn’t here yesterday,” she says, a statement.

Her gaze is piercingly intense, and Shang Lei chokes on any excuse he might have tried to make, “No, Shizun.”

“This mark was made by a demon,” Zhang Zhanhua says, her voice icy.

“Yes, Shizun,” Shang Lei says, he can feel the blood draining from his face and the slight tremors of adrenaline starting to rush through him at being so thoroughly caught.

Zhang Zhanhua stands and sweeps from her office, Wei He following closely on her heels. Shang Lei sits paralyzed for a moment before his brain kicks into gear and he realizes that there’s only one place they could be going, and jumps to his feet to race after them.

By the time he reaches his Leisure House the door is already standing open, his minor locking talisman absolutely nothing in the face of the Peak Lord.

The door to the bedroom is likewise standing open, and he can see Wei He’s back through it as she positions herself in support of the Peak Lord; her sword drawn and held ready.

Shang Lei throws himself through the door, landing hard on his knees on the bedroom floor and calling out, “Shizun, please! Stop!”

Zhang Zhanhua doesn’t bother looking over at him to acknowledge him, focused entirely on Mo Baixiu. The Demon Prince is caught half-risen from the bed, his hair in its ever-loosening braid tumbling forward over his shoulder as he holds himself up and away from the blade of Zhang Zhanhua’s sword; held flush against his throat and forcing him to look up at her, unable to move without risking slicing his own neck open against the gleaming steel.

Shang Lei feels more than sees Wei He come up behind him, not directly threatening him with her sword but ensuring that if he chooses to act against the Peak Lord he would be unable to do anything before she dispatched him. He can see Mo Baixiu’s eyes tracking her movement and his already-murderous glare intensifies as he turns his attention back to Zhang Zhanhua. Shang Lei flattens his palms on the floor and adopts a less threatening and more supplicating posture, still shaking from adrenaline and fear but unable to act.

“I asked,” Zhang Zhanhua says, voice sharp and clear, “what you are doing here, demon.”

Mo Baixiu swallows, letting out an enraged breath, “Nothing that concerns you.”

Zhang Zhanhua laughs, and it’s possibly the most terrifying sound Shang Lei has ever heard, “You are on my Peak, and have involved yourself with my disciple,” she says, “Why should I not kill you?”

“Shizun!,” Shang Lei gasps, “Shizun no, please.”

Mo Baixiu’s eyes track back over to Shang Lei, seeming to assess something in his miserably slumped posture and bloodless mask of a face: “Your disciple saved this lord’s life,” Mo Baixiu grits out, every inch of him writ with barely-restrained fury.

"My disciple continues to beg for your life,” Zhang Zhanhua responds, “but did you imagine that this Master would not notice you had laid a hand upon her disciple?”

Mo Baixiu’s expression darkens further, his eyes seeming to bore into Shang Lei as Wei He responds to some discreet gesture from the Peak Lord and reaches down to bare Shang Lei’s injured wrist; imprinted clearly with Mo Baixiu’s own bruising grip.

“An error,” Mo Baixiu says, eyes intent with something Shang Lei can’t name as he looks up at Zhang Zhanhua.

“If you are here,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “then surely you have extracted some oath from my disciple to make you believe you would be secure in such behavior,” her words have a visible effect, Mo Baixiu flinching as though struck, “but this Master informs you it is unacceptable.”

“An oath freely given,” Mo Baixiu protests, “that this lord honors,” his voice is raspy, almost desperate to make this point to Zhang Zhanhua.

Zhang Zhanhua’s face is expressionless, a graven image of serene neutrality as she stands ready to cut Mo Baixiu’s throat, her voice is just as calm as she says, “This Master is curious as to what this lord might have been doing to necessitate her disciple saving his life.”

Mo Baixiu stares at her for a long moment, seeming to weigh his ability to obfuscate the truth behind his actions against Zhang Zhanhua’s sharply observant mien and sword.

“This lord was bid by his father to venture to Huan Hua Palace Sect, and ascertain the location of Lady Su Xiyan,” Mo Baixiu says at last.

Shang Lei wants to shout because that’s really not the answer he was expecting at all.

Zhang Zhanhua’s brows raise by the slightest degree, “What would Mobei-Jun care about Su Xiyan to send his heir to Huan Hua Palace?”

“Mobei-Jun was asked in turn by Tianlang-Jun,” Mo Baixiu says grudgingly.

“Tianlang-Jun is accused of abducting Su Xiyan,” Zhang Zhanhua says evenly in reply.

“He has not,” Mo Baixiu says, “Tianlang-Jun calls Lady Su Xiyan his wife and consort, and has been searching for her since she went missing,” he sighs out a tired breath, “this lord has some skill with teleportation, and was sent to see if there were any traces of her whereabouts in Huan Hua Palace, but there was a trap laid as though they expected a Greater Demon to come searching,” he looks up at Zhang Zhanhua, “likely Tianlang-Jun himself.”

Zhang Zhanhua doesn’t move, her hand is absolutely steady where she holds her sword, but her eyes narrow in thought. She doesn’t say anything in response to Mo Baixiu’s story, but she eases her blade away from his throat, stepping back and allowing Mo Baixiu to collapse forward onto his arms; his still-recovering energy exhausted by whatever the Peak Lord had done to restrain him.

“If it is truly freely given,” Zhang Zhanhua says at last, “This Master will not contest her disciple’s oath.”

Mo Baixiu props himself up enough to look over at Shang Lei, his face almost pleading as he waits for Shang Lei’s reply.

“Shizun,” Shang Lei says, feeling exhausted despite having been sitting on the floor the whole time, “This disciple did freely give his oath to his Prince.”

Zhang Zhanhua nods, stepping further away from Mo Baixiu so she could turn to better look at Shang Lei while keeping the demon within her line of sight, “Well, then,” she says, the slightest of smiles edging across her face, “This Master excuses her disciple from his duties for the next,” she glances at Mo Baixiu, assessing, before she continues, “three days.”

Shang Lei is stunned, but manages to reply, “Thank you, Shizun.”

“Be prepared to assume your full responsibilities at that time,” Zhang Zhanhua says, she nods at Wei He, and then turns to leave. Her sword disappearing back into her voluminous sleeve as she strides out. Wei He gives Shang Lei an encouraging wink when he glances at her, before she follows Zhang Zhanhua out.

It’s only when Shang Lei hears the outside door shut that he moves himself to scoot across the floor to his Prince’s side. Mo Baixiu still seeming utterly destroyed by the Peak Lord’s interrogation.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei whispers, almost afraid to raise his voice, “are you hurt?”

Mo Baixiu looks over at him and shakes his head slightly, he doesn’t speak, but he reaches down to grasp Shang Lei’s injured wrist; gently bringing it up to study the ring of bruises circling it.

“I’m sorry, my Prince,” Shang Lei says, not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for but unable to think of anything else to say.

Mo Baixiu frowns slightly, eyes catching Shang Lei’s, “Do not,” he says stiffly, “apologize for this lord’s fault, you,” he pauses, “you truly meant your oath?” Mo Baixiu is obviously trying to keep his voice even, but there’s something lilting and hopeful that catches in his voice as he finishes the question.

“Yes,” Shang Lei says, because there’s nothing else he can say.

Mo Baixiu nods, and then shifts himself on the bed. Moving is obviously a strain for him, and Shang Lei stumbles to his feet to try and help despite Mo Baixiu’s grasp. He doesn’t expect that once things are arranged in the way Mo Baixiu wants, his Prince will draw him down onto the bed beside him and enfold them both in the blankets; enveloping Shang Lei in his embrace and letting out a deep sigh as they settle into nearly the same position they woke up in that morning.

Shang Lei doesn’t dare move, even as Mo Baixiu’s breathing evens out as he falls well and truly asleep with Shang Lei right there.

It’s sheer force of will that keeps Shang Lei from shrieking when a sudden chiming victory fanfare sounds.

[Mission: Become An Ding Peak Senior Disciple; Complete! Reward: +100 Story Points!]

The System’s interface opens before Shang Lei’s eyes, little glowing firework graphics bursting across the menus before dispersing.

[Special Achievement: Inducted Into Whispers! Bonus Points +25]

[Special Achievement: Find Evidence of Su Xiyan’s Abduction! Bonus Points +25]

Shang Lei accepted the points and watched his stats update, annoyed with himself for forgetting about the System again.

[Hidden Feat Unlocked: Our Oath Is Our Bond! Married Mo Baixiu In Demonic Tradition!]

The last popup scrolls itself across the System interface with its own special victory fanfare and little glowing fireworks. Shang Lei has to read it several times before he can get his mind to understand the words.

Married!

He recalls Zhang Zhanhua’s voice as she tells him that demons of the Mo Clan take such oaths very seriously. He recalls Mo Baixiu’s desperate insistence that hurting Shang Lei was an accident. He vividly recalls Zhang Zhanhua’s intense disapproval as she raked Mo Baixiu over the coals regarding the nature of Shang Lei’s consent.

A chime rings out; the new quest fanfare neatly interrupts Shang Lei’s panic attack.

[New Mission! Become An Ding Peak Head Disciple~!]

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Airplane was many things as an author--a shameless crowd pleaser being first and foremost among them--but if there was one thing he’d felt pretty good about it was the worldbuilding he’d done in his drafts and the published Proud Immortal Demon Way. Even the harshest reviewers like Peerless Cucumber had never been able to find much to complain about in regards to the little details that had spun even his most pointless plots along. Luo Binghe might have had hundreds of wives, and the trappings of how he’d gotten them had been reused a non-zero amount of times, but Airplane had at least managed a consistency in how the wives of each category--a shameless and mercenary system Airplane had devised, prepping and outlining new wives based on certain popular combinations of tropes and saving them up to deploy as needed, ensuring that no wives who were too similar to each other would show up too close together--would react to certain things. Although it was mostly devised so that he didn’t have to think too hard about dialogue and scenarios, Airplane had ended up doing some of his best worldbuilding--if he said so himself--to scaffold up wife plot after wife plot, incidentally creating vast cultures and traditions regarding marriage and courtship in the demon realm; wives from the human realm obviously just using traditional human courtship and marriage rituals because really, why do the work when it already exists?

Which is to say that Airplane spends the afternoon after finding out he’s inadvertently gotten married--and is now being used as a body pillow by his spiritually exhausted and dead-asleep husband, the Demon Prince Mo Baixiu of the Great Northern Desert--wracking his brain for any and all memories he has of this worldbuilding. Because obviously he’s tripped over some sort of wife plot nonsense to have gone from meeting on the side of the road and nearly being killed to affirming his oath of marriage in front of his Shizun and Peak Lord, Zhang Zhanhua, and having her not only accept it but give him time off to supposedly nurse his husband--husband!--back to health.

In a fit of desperation, he even pops open the System interface and combs through the various menus, logs, and inventories that have apparently been adding themselves on as time passed. Airplane, who has mostly been ignoring the System except for when it roused itself to give him quests or announce quest completion, is both surprised and disturbed by the things he finds. He supposes it’s nice that the System keeps track of his skills? That he’s been gaining more points than he realized just by living Shang Lei’s life? But also it’s creepy to think about this apparently omniscient thing that’s just, hovering over his shoulder and directing him along the plot to his own novel for as-yet-unexplained-satisfactorily reasons.

As an answer to a question he’d never thought to ask, Airplane discovers that indeed, the System is the reason he can still remember his past life so vividly despite having died and lived with new experiences and memories for the past seventeen years.

It’s nice at least to be able to remember things that are useful, such as the dozens of demonic women Luo Binghe had seduced and married who hailed from the Great Northern Desert and the various surrounding lands that were subordinate to the rule of Mobei-Jun. And indeed, the fact that some of those wives had hailed from the Mo Clan directly.

Once Airplane’s memory has been jogged, however, he descends into another fit of authorial guilt because it was impossible to think about the worldbuilding and cultural development he’d given to the Mo Clan and their ideas of romance and marriage without running headfirst into the tremendous scandal that was Mo Baixiu’s father, the current Mobei-Jun, having stolen his younger brother Linguang-Jun’s wife. The formative tragedy that had driven the brothers apart; ignited Linguang-Jun’s rebellious meddling; eventually caused the events that would sour Mo Baixiu’s relationship with his most beloved uncle; and been the direct source of Mo Baixiu’s deep issues with trusting others.

He feels miserable enough that even though Mo Baixiu is currently sleeping right next to him, perfectly safe and hopefully recovering his strength, Airplane can’t help but wiggle around until he can hug Mo Baixiu’s unconscious self for reassurance. And then he realizes what he’s done and it very slowly dawns on him that wow he’s pretty f*cked isn’t he? Absolutely gone. Those small recognitions of infatuation were really just the tip of the giant hidden iceberg of feelings he has for Mo Baixiu.

Mo Baixiu, the character he’d written to exemplify not only everything he considered to be ideally masculine, but also who’d come to exemplify everything he considered would make up his perfect man.

His perfect man who he was now married to because he hadn’t thought about demon realm culture since before he’d died and had stumbled directly down the precipitously slippery slope of the Northern Demon Realm’s ideal romance.

Airplane wants to go back in time and smash his laptop. Or punch himself in the face. Or be actually cognizant of the impact he’d obviously been having on Mo Baixiu. Which. God. He feels kind of like a moron now, which he obviously is; thinking back to every time he’d fluttered around Mo Baixiu in a panic when his Prince was obviously blushing rather than dying of heatstroke or something.

The demons of the Great Northern Desert were a cold and hardy people, much like the lands they called home. The cutthroat scheming of the extended Mo Clan dominated the political landscape of the region, and had for countless centuries. Because of this, the romantic culture of the Great Northern Desert had developed into something almost wistfully tender. While demons in the south dreamed of courtly intrigue and great battles--reflections of the southern demonic realm’s traditionally playing host to the court of the Heavenly Demon Emperor--the great romances of the north were more simplistic; highlighting tenderness, trust, and loyalty as the ideal traits of a romantic partner.

Airplane can think of at least four wife plots involving demonesses from the Great Northern Desert off the top of his head where Luo Binghe getting the wife had been simply a consequence of his seeking some other goal and incidentally embodying these traits to gain the admiration of an icy demoness who’d agree to help him with his quest. Which is, well, writing is hard, ok? Consistently churning out ten thousand word updates day after day was something that Airplane had found easy, but making sure that all of those updates had good ideas behind them is something he would even admit on his haters’ forum posts was impossible.

Thinking back over the past few days in this new light, though, Airplane can kind of see how he accidentally seduced Mo Baixiu; a person who had already never had very much genuine care in his life, who’d grown up in a culture where the ability to be selflessly loyal to someone was seen as the height of unattainable romance, who’d lived in the shadow of his father and mother’s questionable romance tearing their immediate family apart.

It feels...sort of terrible?

Airplane has a lot of feelings for Mo Baixiu, but the thought that Mo Baixiu is so starved for affection that he’d taken Shang Lei’s oath--a very, very loose phrasing of a typical northern demon wedding vow--and decided that he was willing to honor it is just…

The guilt comes back. Airplane sort of wants to cry. Mo Baixiu has bound himself to the idea of Shang Lei as someone who will be loyal and care about him and support him without there being some immediate reward on offer. It doesn’t really matter that Shang Lei has actually lived up to this so far, and that he wants to live up to it: Mo Baixiu doesn’t know him. They aren’t a love match, they’re a man drowning in a cold and empty life with nothing and no one to comfort him, grasping at the first crumbs of kindness and decency he’s been shown that don’t seem to have an ulterior motive.

In a lightning strike of self-awareness, Airplane realizes that, really, he’s in the same situation. How had Mo Baixiu come to represent his perfect man over drafts and drafts--countless words--if not because Airplane had needed the idea that somewhere there was someone who would look at him and find him attractive and valuable when he felt like nothing of the sort? Who would choose him first? Who wouldn’t leave him behind to wither and die when he was no longer useful? It adds a whole new layer of terrible to the entire situation, because Airplane had written Mo Baixiu--and not even given him a name!--to be his ideal man with everything that entailed.

He’s attracted to Mo Baixiu. He admires Mo Baixiu. He cares about Mo Baixiu.

But does he love Mo Baixiu, any more than Mo Baixiu loves him, when all of the things Airplane sees at first glance are all the things he wants so desperately?

It’s a deep absurdity of their entire situation: both of them in the same situation, for the same reasons. Lonely people reaching out to the first offered hand, hoping that the offer is sincere.

Shang Lei squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in Mo Baixiu’s chest. His Prince is still sleeping, and Shang Lei is exhausted too; saddened and disturbed by the path his thoughts have followed, and the uncomfortable truth of it all.

He wants to be married to Mo Baixiu. He wants it so badly. But he can’t do them both the disservice of simply diving in and hoping things work out well.

Shang Lei is suddenly very glad to be an An Ding Peak disciple, because to get the thing he wants and all the rewards that would come with it, he’s going to have to do the hard work to get there.

He’s going to have to make his husband fall in love with him, not the subservient caretaker. He’s going to have to fall in love with his husband, not the unapproachable Prince.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

Shang Lei is only capable of laying around and grappling with life-changing emotional revelations for so long before he starts getting antsy, and so eventually he wiggles his way out of Mo Baixiu’s grip and gets up.

His Prince stirs briefly, but goes quickly back to sleep when Shang Lei assures him he’s only going to make dinner. The sheer trust makes Shang Lei shiver a little bit; he never wants to betray this trust, he wants this trust to grow and bloom into something he just knows will be beautiful.

Of course, once he’s in the kitchen, he has nothing to do while he cooks but think about his resolution and how best to go about it.

Which is the real difficulty, isn’t it? Airplane had written all the millions and millions of words of Proud Immortal Demon Way, but he’d never had a serious relationship of his own. His youth had been spent focusing on ballet as a way to escape his parent’s trench warfare of a divorce and their grudging care for him. His young adulthood had been much the same: the more time he spent training and dancing and perfecting, the more acknowledgement he got. There was no time for frivolous things like dating when he had rehearsals and auditions. And after, there was no inclination; Airplane’s perception of himself as physically desirable had been destroyed. He had no interest in allowing anyone to see his scars. The pain medicine and exhaustion had snuffed out even his interest in self-pleasure, and by the time he’d worked his way through the physical therapy and only needed painkillers on the especially bad days he’d retreated fully into isolation.

In his second life, as in his first, Shang Lei hasn’t had time for relationships beyond friendship, with the added hindrance of being mentally older and obviously more mature than most of his peers. It’s hard to summon up any attraction when you can’t look at the people around you without seeing children.

But he has better examples, at least. The parents of this life had obviously loved and cared for each other, and Shang Lei had gotten to see how they treated each other. Gao Huan and An Mei have been dancing around each other for years at this point, always denying their involvement when asked but still conspicuously sticky with each other. Zhang Zhanhua and Wei He are wives and cultivation partners and always unflinchingly and unhesitatingly ready to support each other unto death. All of the Masters and instructors and residents of An Ding who are married or courting or involved with a significant other--or others--who Shang Lei has grown up learning from.

So, based on his intimate knowledge of what bad relationships look like and his observational knowledge of what good relationships look like, Shang Lei decides that the first thing to do is talk.

He plates the food onto serving dishes and arranges it nicely on the sitting room table. He makes tea. He sets out fruit and some sweets he’d been saving. He fusses over the general state of the house despite it being nearly spotlessly clean. He shuffles quietly into the bedroom and discreetly fixes his sleep-rumpled uniform and tousled hair before he goes to wake Mo Baixiu.

It takes a few minutes of gentle coaxing to convince his Prince to get up and come to dinner, but when they’re both sitting at the table and Mo Baixiu looks over the food and then at Shang Lei and gets the very slightest of blushes--the same blush that Shang Lei had spent the past week mistaking for annoyance--delicate periwinkle warming the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose. Shang Lei feels his heart pound in his chest, his own blush stealing across his face as they look at each other from across the table; both of them bashful and careful as they eat. Aware of each other in ways they hadn’t been before, when Shang Lei had been oblivious and Mo Baixiu hadn’t had the surety of their affirmed oath.

Despite his decision to initiate a serious talk about their relationship with Mo Baixiu, Shang Lei can’t seem to broach the subject directly.

Instead, as they eat, he chatters about whatever comes to mind. Mo Baixiu appears to listen attentively, and Shang Lei tries to be discreet about studying him: the refined way he eats, the occasional soft hum as Shang Lei speaks, the way his hair has almost entirely freed itself from its braid. Mo Baixiu looks comfortable in a way he hadn’t during their stay in the inn. Like he’s relaxed some tension that Shang Lei hadn’t noticed until it was gone. Mo Baixiu is still somewhat difficult to read, his face remaining neutral more than anything, but it's easier to see that what seems like displeasure is really just the natural set of his face when he isn’t purposefully emoting.

Finally, when they’ve finished the meal and Mo Baixiu is taking his time with a last cup of tea, Shang Lei finds the courage to start the conversation he’d been building up to.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, unable to fully set aside his nerves, “I was wondering about your thoughts on our marriage.”

Mo Baixiu simply stares at him for a few moments, his face doing something complicated; the slight flush comes back, and he seems pleased, but also his long-cultivated undemonstrative manner trying to come to the fore. Finally he says, “This lord is…” his voice trails off, as though he’s not entirely sure about the words he wants to use, “glad,” he nods to himself slightly before continuing, “Shang Lei has…” he lets his words trail off again, slight flush intensifying, “many desirable qualities that this lord has noticed.”

Shang Lei finds himself blushing as well, because it’s not like the man of your dreams calls you desirable everyday, now is it?

Mo Baixiu doesn’t seem to have anything more to say, which Shang Lei understands. Airplane’s knowledge providing him reasons why without his even having to consciously think about it: while the Mo Baixiu of the published Proud Immortal Demon Way had been confident and unafraid to share his thoughts and opinions, that Mo Baixiu had several decades of experience that this Mo Baixiu had only started to gain.

“Desirable qualities?” Shang Lei asks, unable to help himself against the curiosity.

Mo Baixiu nods, clearly having been considering what these desirable qualities are for a while, “You are,” he looks at Shang Lei directly, his gaze seeming to pin him in his seat with its intensity, “resourceful...intelligent...efficient…” Mo Baixiu hesitates, “and charming.”

Shang Lei has never been more attracted to anyone in his life more than he’s attracted to Mo Baixiu in this moment, with this almost performance-review type of compliment.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei breathes, “I admire you greatly as well, and I think,” he wets his lips, mouth suddenly dry, “I think if we get to know each other well then we’ll have a successful relationship, and be strong partners.”

Mo Baixiu’s mouth parts slightly as he considers Shang Lei’s words, the same intense look as earlier coming into his eyes as he stares at him, “Prudent,” he says, “wise,” he says, “my husband,” he says, voice soft and wondrous.

It’s difficult to restrain his urge to lunge across the table and plant himself directly in Mo Baixiu’s very luxurious-looking lap, but Shang Lei’s willpower manages to meet the challenge. He gathers up the dishes despite knowing his face is brick red and tidies them up in the kitchen, putting things away and applying preservation talismans and watering his potted plants and generally busying himself until his racing heart calms down.

Mo Baixiu is still lounging at the sitting room table when Shang Lei returns, but he’s faded somewhat, and so Shang Lei offers to help him back to bed. His Prince must be truly exhausted, because he accepts with an almost thankful demeanor and leans heavily on Shang Lei as they make their way back to the bed. He arranges the blankets and covers as Mo Baixiu climbs in, and his heart nearly breaks at the vaguely plaintive noise Mo Baixiu makes when he reaches for Shang Lei and Shang Lei steps back out of his grasp.

“Let me change first, my Prince,” Shang Lei says, rummaging for a sleep robe and ducking into the bathroom to perform his ablutions and put his uniform in the laundry basket.

Shang Lei steps back into the bedroom with his hair slightly damp around his face, his braid falling over his shoulder, his loose and comfortable sleep robe sliding slightly down his shoulder as he stretches. Mo Baixiu is waiting for him, propped on his elbow, his curling medusa hair a riotous mess haloing his perfect face; something in his expression shifting as he watches Shang Lei approach the bed, a touch of heat that Shang Lei can barely bring himself to comprehend right now.

It feels natural to slip into bed beside Mo Baixiu and curl up with him; Mo Baixiu’s arms settling around him as Shang Lei presses his face into Mo Baixiu’s shoulder. It’s so comfortable. Shang Lei feels so snug and secure, breathing in the crisp scent that lives in Mo Baixiu’s skin and hair: the iron tang of deep cold and snow, sharp and sweet citrus, and the faintest hint of spice or mint or something vaguely floral that combines together to make Shang Lei’s head spin for all he can’t identify it.

He falls asleep listening to the sound of Mo Baixiu’s breathing and the calm, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

They have three days to themselves, and it is an enlightening experience to share space with Mo Baixiu as an equal rather than as a subordinate.

His Prince is still a bit spoiled, and obviously used to having servants to do menial tasks for him, although he’s much less bratty than he was during their stay in the inn. Or maybe it’s just Shang Lei’s perceptions have changed, because his Prince still makes his mildly frivolous demands but now there’s just about nothing Shang Lei would rather do than sit for an hour painstakingly combing and oiling his Prince’s hair until it hangs in a glossy mass of ringlets and waves. And when he’s finished, and his Prince actually takes the comb and carefully undoes Shang Lei’s sleeping braid and starts to brush his hair in return, Shang Lei feels himself melt a little bit.

Shang Lei mostly tries to keep to his regular routine, considering that he’s going to have to go back to his duties and be able to function. He doesn’t miss the fact that the scroll Zhang Zhanhua had wanted him to read and provide commentary on appeared at his door first thing in the morning.

He’s fairly certain that Mo Baixiu doesn’t know how to cook. And then realizes he made an assumption, and asks, and Mo Baixiu gallantly agrees that he doesn’t know how to cook beyond the sort of things one would make over a campfire while hunting. Mo Baixiu offers that should they ever find themselves camping he would demonstrate. Shang Lei happily accepts, although he can’t help a bit of gentle teasing that he can cook over a campfire perfectly well himself. Mo Baixiu takes it well, and Shang Lei is so charmed by the whole exchange that he over boils the water for tea and has to rummage around in the cupboards to find a black leaf blend rather than the green he’d gotten out for breakfast.

After breakfast on the first day of their combination convalescence, seclusion, and honeymoon, Mo Baixiu is still exhausted enough that he simply returns to bed. Shang Lei helps him find a large enough piece of silk to wrap his freshly combed and oiled hair--leading to the sacrifice of one of the more ragged-looking of Mo Baixiu’s inner robes, which Shang Lei is going to have to find him some new clothes isn’t he?--and can’t resist tucking him into bed before going back to the sitting room.

He’s still in his sleep robe, but it’s comfortable and he can move in it, so it doesn’t matter. Shang Lei moves the furniture out of the way until he has a large enough space to do floor exercises, and dances for the first time in days. He starts with his stretches, of course. Transposes his barre work for the open floor. Works through the strengthening exercises he’d set himself. Does his balancing and his core and his posture and his placement; moving with aplomb as he finishes his foundational maintenance and warmups. He begins free movement, not particularly working on any choreography but rather letting his mind clear and focusing on his breath and body.

It settles him, and from his calm meditation he allows himself to think through every recent surprise and revelation; letting his mind to work and reconcile everything without the emotions and difficulties touching him.

Time passes without Shang Lei really noticing, focused on the pleasant warmth of his muscles and the movement of his body; there’s not enough space for any of the really tremendous leaps, but there’s enough that he has room to step lightly and surely across the floor. He can feel his golden core and his spiritual energy moving through his dantians and meridians, his movements taking on a further graceful quality as he transitions his meditation from purely physical into spiritual as he engages his qi. Eventually he begins warming down, feeling light and floaty and boundless as he pulls back with his qi and settles into his final stretches and extensions. He comes to rest in an ending pose and allows himself to stand still and breathe before he opens his eyes and returns fully to his worldly concerns.

The first thing he notices is the changed quality of the sunlight coming in the windows, telling him that he’s been sunk into his meditation for longer than he’d planned. It’s past lunch at least, and that thought has him suddenly recognizing his own hunger.

The second thing he notices is Mo Baixiu sitting on the couch that rests against the wall next to the bedroom door, obviously having been there for some time watching him, with a rapturous expression on his face.

Airplane used to perform nightly for huge crowds of people and never once got stage fright, but there’s something about the intimacy of Mo Baixiu having watched him: that Shang Lei didn’t notice when he’d entered the room; that he’s become so comfortable with Mo Baixiu’s presence that he doesn’t react to it, that he falls asleep in his arms and is comforted; that Mo Baixiu had seen Shang Lei at his most un-selfconscious and natural. It doesn’t really matter now, though, because Shang Lei can’t help himself from stumbling out of his final pose in surprise, face heating as he trots over to Mo Baixiu’s side.

“My Prince!” Shang Lei exclaims, “I was, uh, about to make lunch, would you like some?”

“What was that?” Mo Baixiu asks, ignoring Shang Lei’s question, his expression still softly stunned, he looks at Shang Lei, “It was beautiful.”

Shang Lei finds himself momentarily speechless before he manages to stutter out, “It’s a traditional form of dance I learned as a child,” he says, very technically telling the truth, “I practice it because I enjoy it, and as a form of moving meditation.”

“You are very skilled,” Mo Baixiu says, intent with some emotion that Shang Lei is too flustered to parse right now.

“Lunch, my Prince!” Shang Lei enthuses, turning to go into the kitchen before noticing that the furniture is still in disarray and catching himself in an awkward step-turn-step-turn movement as he waffled over whether to make lunch first and then put everything to rights, or to return the furniture to its proper places. He decides on the furniture, and goes about shifting the sitting room table back into its place, arranging the seat cushions just so.

He risks a glance over his shoulder at Mo Baixiu and finds his Prince still staring at him, expression bemused. Shang Lei blushes harder, hastening his tasks and then retreating into the kitchen to escape the scrutiny.

Because it’s late for lunch Shang Lei makes something simple, starting the prep work for dinner while waiting for things to finish cooking. When he has everything ready, he stores the prepped ingredients away in the charmed preservation cupboard--the cultivator version of a fridge, which Airplane considers to be a pretty neat result of his lazier worldbuilding if he does say so himself--and brings the meal out to the sitting room.

Mo Baixiu has moved from the couch to the sitting room table. As Shang Lei steps out of the kitchen, he catches Mo Baixiu before he glances over; a candid moment, his Prince leaning on the table and idly tracing the wood grain with the tip of one of his claws, his chin resting against the back of his other hand. It’s utterly charming, that this great and powerful Demon Prince would fidget and slouch with boredom while waiting; not so cold and above it all as he seems. The moment is broken as soon as Mo Baixiu looks over, straightening his posture as though clearing the table for Shang Lei to set the tray with their dishes down.

They eat quietly, both of them hungry despite the simplicity of the meal.

Despite his flustered episode, Shang Lei still feels light and relaxed from his dancing and meditation, so after he’s eaten most of his portion he begins asking his Prince questions about clothing and food and other things he might like during his stay. Mo Baixiu’s original outfit had been intricate and fit for a Prince of his status, before it’d been torn, perforated, bled on, and cut open. Shang Lei had done his best with washing and mending them, scavenging bits from the truly unsalvageable to patch the ones he could, but after a week washing and rotating through the various remaining inner robes even someone as stalwart and austere as Mo Baixiu looked vaguely relieved about the idea of getting new robes.

Mo Baixiu asks for books, which doesn’t surprise Shang Lei, but he asks for books about ‘useful things’ which sort of does.

“Useful things, my Prince?” Shang Lei asks, intensely curious about what sort of things Mo Baixiu thinks are useful.

“You are aware that this lord is heir to the Northern Desert?” Mo Baixiu asks in return.

Shang Lei nods, “Yes.”

“There will be a day in the future,” Mo Baixiu says, his expression going mildly pensive in a way Shang Lei thinks means his Prince has actually been agonizing over this for some time, “when this lord will become Mobei-Jun, and I,” his brow furrows further, and he turns to look at Shang Lei with an expression that would be beseeching on anyone else, but on Mo Baixiu just seems like he’s very intent on Shang Lei understanding what he’s trying to explain, “My father,” he says, abruptly changing tracks, “holds the accumulated power of our bloodline, and so his rule cannot be challenged, but,” Mo Baixiu is the most frustrated Shang Lei has ever seen him, agitated as he speaks something that has obviously deeply troubled him and yet he’s never been able to share with another soul, “he is coarse in his wielding of it...overbearing...he, he cares little for things beyond his own gratification and so his court fills with leeches, growing fat as they cling to him and sip his blood for their own gain, knowing his eye will never turn to them so long as their misappropriations remain small enough not to trouble him,” Mo Baixiu leans forward, “to be able to dispense with them,” he says, voice caught in an odd longing, “I must know how to distinguish their obfuscations from the reality of my realm, I must learn how.”

His hands have come up to lay flat on the table, pressed firmly into the wood--likely to stop himself from accidentally clawing himself in the thigh or destroying his robe clenching his fists--and Shang Lei reaches out and puts his hands over Mo Baixiu’s.

Mo Baixiu seems almost wrung out, not exactly exhausted but like he’s finally relieved of a burden he’s been carrying. As though he’s poured out something that was festering in his heart and now that it’s out he can feel himself starting to recover from the long-held poison. His hands turn over and tentatively return Shang Lei’s hold.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, “that’s a remarkable goal.”

Mo Baixiu gives him a measuring look, “Not foolish?” he asks, almost shyly.

“No!,” Shang Lei insists, unwilling to give up his hold on Mo Baixiu’s hands to gesture, but still wiggling in his seat as he tries to emphasize his thoughts, “It’s a noble and worthy aspiration, my Prince,” Shang Lei smiles at him, bright and sure, “I’d like to help you achieve it.”

Mo Baixiu doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself in the face of Shang Lei’s statement. He doesn’t blush exactly, but there’s a certain quality to his expression as though he’s bared his soul and not really expected to receive any kindness for it. He folds forward slightly, taking Shang Lei’s hands and leaning over them; drawing them up and pressing the backs of Shang Lei’s hands against his jaw and nuzzling them, looking intently at Shang Lei through his--long, gorgeous, utterly unfair--eyelashes.

“Thank you,” Mo Baixiu says, his voice barely a whisper, “my Shang Lei.”

Shang Lei feels his mouth go abruptly dry. He clenches his hands around Mo Baixiu’s and draws his Prince’s hands forward to himself. He has to sit up on his knees to reach across the table without pulling Mo Baixiu’s arms awkwardly, but he manages to draw Mo Baixiu’s hands close enough that he can unfold them and hold them gently open in his own; he presses a kiss to the backs of each of his hands, and then turns them and presses a kiss to each of his palms, folding Mo Baixiu’s hands closed around the fading lip prints before letting go.

“This one is devoted to you,” Shang Lei says, breathless, “please rely on me,” he says, “I want to know your heart so badly, to make a place for myself there.”

Mo Baixiu swallows thickly, completely still but for the heaviness of his breathing, “You need not make a place,” Mo Baixiu says, his voice deep and rasping, “when one already welcomes you.”

Shang Lei crumples forward, hiding his face in his arms and groaning. He peeks out at his Prince and finds Mo Baixiu hunched over and staring at the potted plants with his fists pressed into his thighs. Both of them overcome by the intensity of the exchange.

It takes them both a few minutes to regain their composure, carefully avoiding looking at each other.

Shang Lei gathers up the dishes, and tidies the kitchen, and answers Mo Baixiu’s questions about how to draw a bath for himself, and then tucks himself into a passable outer robe and some shoes and escapes from his Leisure House before he gives into the nearly desperate urge to join Mo Baixiu in his bath.

He finds a ribbon in a sleeve pocket and ties his hair up so he doesn’t look completely like an idiot who’d run out of their house barely dressed in the middle of the afternoon.

Seeing as he’s already left, and knowing that he absolutely can’t think about Mo Baixiu in the bath without the threat of a lust-induced qi deviation right now, Shang Lei decides that he might as well visit the quartermasters.

Now that he’s a senior disciple he receives a stipend that’s meant to allow him more freedom than the system of acceptable requisitions that provide for the junior disciples. He not only has access to the regular quartermasters but the storehouses of furniture and other goods that are kept on An Ding Peak to provide for the needs of the peak’s residents--not the storehouses that keep furniture and decor for the other peaks, waiting ready for the need for replacements, or in Bai Zhan’s case, rationed out as things are destroyed in brawls--and so he gets a qiankun pouch and begins hunting for the things he wants.

Shang Lei finds a nice dresser, modestly sized and lacquered, and takes it as his first prize from the depths of the storehouse. Moving on from the sections holding various types of furniture, he goes for the pre-made clothing. The majority of the pieces are plain, un-hemmed and un-embroidered garments that can be taken in or up as a person desires, and Shang Lei searches for ones large enough for his Prince; taking his time and looking for particularly nice patterns and fabrics, colors that will compliment Mo Baixiu’s glacial complexion. Once he’s gathered up enough clothing to last for a few days, Shang Lei signs himself out of the storehouse, registering how many items he’s taken and what sort in the logs before moving on to gather up a selection of books his Prince might find interesting, various odds and ends for Shang Lei’s own needs, and fulfilling the grocery list he’d mentally composed earlier.

It’s late afternoon by the time Shang Lei returns to his Leisure House, not exactly laden down with his finds and purchases, but sleeves definitely more full with qiankun pouches.

He feels a bit silly creeping around in his own house, but Mo Baixiu has apparently taken the opportunity for an extended soak in his beloved icy slush water and Shang Lei doesn’t want to disturb him. He puts the new dresser in its place in the bedroom, unloading most of the clothes into it except for one of the sleep robes which he sets aside with his sewing kit in the sitting room. He arranges the books on one of his still-empty shelves, and puts away the rest of the things he’d retrieved.

Going into the kitchen he begins getting out the pre-prepared ingredients he’d set aside for dinner and getting it started. The rest of the groceries he doesn’t need are stored away as he works until things are underway well enough that he just needs to keep track of the time and stir occasionally.

Shang Lei doesn’t claim to be the best tailor on An Ding--that would be Master Cheng--but he can hem a robe in a pretty reasonable amount of time, and does so while he waits. He checks the general length of the hems against his Prince’s mostly-intact robes and decides that he’s done well enough without actually having measured.

By the time he’s done with that dinner is almost ready, and so he knocks carefully on the bathroom door to get Mo Baixiu’s attention, “My Prince,” he calls, listening to the general sloshing and splashing noises that sound like someone sitting up in the bath, “My Prince dinner is ready.”

Shang Lei decides he’s given enough warning, and carefully opens the door. As he predicted Mo Baixiu is still lounging in his nearly-all-ice bath, but Shang Lei can only see his chest and arms rising out of the water rather than any other parts--not that his Prince’s chest and arms aren’t devastating on their own!--and so he deems it safe to venture into the bathroom and offer the freshly-hemmed robe for his Prince to change into after he dries himself.

Quickly retreating before he can become flustered, Shang Lei finishes putting out the dishes with their dinner on the table and compulsively arranging things to look nice. Mo Baixiu emerges shortly after; still slightly damp, and with his masses and masses of curls still pinned up on top of his head. The hems on the robe hit just about where they should, and Shang Lei quietly congratulates himself as he pours tea for them both.

Despite the highly emotional encounter they’d had at this very table earlier, dinner is nice and comfortable. Both of them having had time to calm down and settle themselves, one more piece of foundation laid in their relationship as they came to understand each other better.

They talk more during dinner, light conversation at first about the things Shang Lei had gotten for Mo Baixiu--getting to see the incredibly gratifying little flush that crawled across Mo Baixiu’s cheeks at the thought of having his own dresser in Shang Lei’s Leisure House--as well as various books Shang Lei thought Mo Baixiu might find interesting--kept from Shang Lei’s studies as a junior disciple and also acquired during his jaunt this afternoon--before Shang Lei gets Mo Baixiu started on the topic of the Northern Desert, and watches his Prince truly light up. It was clear even earlier that Mo Baixiu loves the lands he will one day rule; his softly possessive my realm during his speech to Shang Lei telling him all he needed to know. But listening to him speak quietly but passionately about the various regions and cities he’s travelled through--which is apparently Mo Baixiu’s strategy for avoiding his father’s court and the rest of his extended family, constantly travelling--makes Shang Lei want to see it all for himself even as he recognizes names of places that he created.

By the time they’ve finished dinner, tidied up, and gotten ready for bed Shang Lei feels almost drunk with affection; humming nonsensically and smiling at nothing. Snuggling himself into the comfortable bracket of Mo Baixiu’s arms in their bed.

As he falls asleep, he almost regrets that they only have two more days as much as he’s sure that if they had any more time he’d never be able to be separated from his Prince at all.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

The time they have together passes just as quickly as Shang Lei predicted. Despite how little time they really have, each of them slowly seems to bloom. It’s something Shang Lei never really thought about, because it seemed so far beyond the realms of possibility that it never crossed his mind.

He luxuriates in waking up next to Mo Baixiu in the morning. He laughs when Mo Baixiu follows him into the kitchen and tries to help. They eat together. They sit together and talk. They sit beside each other in comfort and silence: Shang Lei reading the treatise he’d been assigned, and Mo Baixiu working his way through the books that interested him.

Shang Lei shows Mo Baixiu the dresser and other clothes he’d gotten him and enjoys his Prince’s subtle pleasure at the gesture and all that it implies.

Shang Lei writes out his commentary on the logistical management treatise he’d been assigned--a brilliant work written by the third Lord of An Ding, codifying several aspects of organization strategies that were still used by the peak--with Mo Baixiu sitting across from him and asking questions, and he’s never felt so utterly cherished than when his Prince listens interestedly through Shang Lei’s following rant about proper strategic material prioritization.

They keep a certain distance between each other still, and it’s good and comfortable. Shang Lei knows the difference between feeling lust and being actually comfortable enough with another person to take his clothes off and jump into bed with them. Mo Baixiu has been soaking up Shang Lei’s unreserved and unconditional affection and care like a man who’s been dying of thirst his entire life and finally learned what water is, but he has his own reservations about allowing and engaging in such physical intimacy as well. They have a very short conversation about it, on the evening of their second day when Shang Lei decides to take a bath. It’s somewhat nerve wracking and Shang Lei, at least, ends up addressing his thoughts to Mo Baixiu’s right shoulder rather than his face, but they manage enough to agree that they will--hopefully--be married for a long enough time that there’s no reason to rush.

Shang Lei was a little bit worried about it, if he’s being honest with himself--which he tries to be!--because he’s remembered enough about what he’d written about demon culture to know that they tend to be more liberal about this sort of thing, but Mo Baixiu’s reality is that of a withdrawn and aloof man who’s close relationships have only brought him pain and betrayal and who has been taught by example and experience that becoming invested in things too quickly only leads to disaster.

Airplane almost feels sorry for Linguang-Jun for a little while, after Mo Baixiu admits to him that he fears informing his father of his marriage precisely because of the current Mobei-Jun’s habit of stealing useful and attractive wives. He’s also flattered that Mo Baixiu finds him useful and attractive! But really, mostly staggered that his throwaway backstory for Mo Baixiu had filled itself in like this. And then, of course, he remembers that Linguang-Jun is eventually going to try and outright murder his nephew and then eat his corpse for power and Airplane privately vows that he needs to get ahead of this and also train so he can scratch Linguang-Jun’s f*cking eyes out.

In light of all this, he confidently promises Mo Baixiu that he really doesn’t mind being his secret husband.

On the morning of the fourth day, when Shang Lei will be expected to present himself to his Peak Lord and return to his duties, they wake especially early.

Shang Lei takes his time combing Mo Baixiu’s hair, and then pinning it back with the humble wood hairpin that Shang Lei had given him all those days ago. He helps his Prince dress in all his intricate robes--the ones that have survived, at least--and makes a small effort at neatening his Prince’s heavy cloak’s fur collar.

Putting on his fresh senior disciple’s uniform--after a few days of wearing sleep robes and housecoats because there was no one to impress but Mo Baixiu who himself was wandering about in his inner robes--and pulling his hair up into a proper topknot seems overly formal. He makes everything he’s noticed that Mo Baixiu favors for breakfast, and though his Prince compliments the meal they still eat in solemn silence.

Neither of them want to be the first to say goodbye, Shang Lei knows, as he gathers up their empty dishes and tidies the kitchen.

He flutters around fetching Mo Baixiu’s boots and his own and setting them by the front door. He fits the qiankun sheathes for Canyue and Xianyue properly on his arms and fills his sleeve pockets with the things he’ll need for the day. He finds the scrolls for the treatise and his commentary. He tries to figure out a way to delicately ask his Prince if there was anything he’d like to take with him when he left.

Mo Baixiu sits calmly through Shang Lei’s scurrying, his worried questions, his anxious refusal to sit down and perhaps have a conversation about Mo Baixiu’s leaving.

“Shang Lei,” Mo Baixiu finally says, reaching into his sleeve and drawing out the pouch that Shang Lei had used to stash all of Mo Baixiu’s jewelry when he’d needed to strip his Prince out of his robes to treat his wounds, “come here.”

Shang Lei goes, having finally run out of things to do to stall the inevitable. He puts down the little folded cloth satchel of fruit and steamed buns he’d been fussing over--no, he’s not above sending his Prince off with a sack lunch to go face down...whatever it is he’s going to face down? Probably report to Tianlang-Jun, considering he was sent on behalf of Tianlang-Jun?--and sits down beside Mo Baixiu.

Mo Baixiu accepts the cloth satchel far more reverently than is necessary for a little boxed lunch, and goes back to rummaging through his jewelry until he finds what he’s looking for. He draws out three items: a small pendant, and a pair of earrings.

The pendant is made of white jade, a delicate circle carved with plum blossoms and strung with a pale blue tassel. Mo Baixiu clenches it in his fist for a moment, calling on the very faintest trace of power to do something that Shang Lei can just barely feel; a spell of some sort that his Prince will hopefully explain. The earrings are the nicer of the pairs that his Prince had been wearing; small diamond-shaped pieces of blue jade in a gold setting with slender drops of the same ocean-colored jade dangling from the ends.

“This is for you,” Mo Baixiu says, pressing the pendant into Shang Lei’s hands, “keep it with you, and I will be able to find you no matter what.”

Shang Lei nods, carefully tucking the pendant into his sleeve.

Mo Baixiu offers the earrings, resting in the palm of his hand, “And these,” he says, “a token, to match the one you have given me.”

Shang Lei can’t resist glancing at the wooden hairpin as his Prince says this, nor the blush that steals lightly across his face. “Would you, ah,” Shang Lei clears his throat, “would you put them on for me?” he asks.

With the utmost care, Mo Baixiu reaches out. The tips of his fingers are cold, but his touch is gentle as he fastens the earrings in place. The weight of them feels settling, somehow, like proof.

A token, as his Prince had said, a symbol that they could keep even when they were apart.

Shang Lei feels warm all over, tingly and dizzy in the best sort of way. He thinks this might be what love feels like; when your romantically disillusioned Demon Prince secret husband figures out what’s upsetting you and then finds a way to fix it. Like maybe the same thing has been upsetting him too.

Mo Baixiu’s hands move from his ears to his face, gently cupping his cheeks for a moment before drawing away.

“I must go,” Mo Baixiu says, his regret obvious in his voice.

“I know,” Shang Lei says, reaching out and putting his hands over Mo Baixiu’s, “but you’ll come back?”

Mo Baixiu gives him a long, searching look before nodding, “Yes,” he says, “I will return.”

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

Mo Baixiu had been fully healed by the afternoon of the second day he spent on An Ding Peak, in Shang Lei’s tiny, cozy Leisure House.

He’d said nothing, of course, because he knew what would happen the moment the outside world was allowed to intrude upon the fragile, beautiful existence they’d built together for those three days. The same as had happened at the city inn near Huan Hua Palace, when Shang Lei’s martial siblings had come and reminded him of his duties.

It would end.

Mo Baixiu would return to his life as a solitary hunter, ranging across the Great Northern Desert; occasionally called upon to attend to the tedium and viciousness of his father’s court.

He had thought he’d inured himself to this life: benumbed over the years of watching his family destroy and devour each other; of his mother’s frigid impassivity during the rare times he was allowed to see her, as she warned him against his father and his uncle both--the man she’d loved and the one who’d taken her from him--and enumerated every way in which she’d defended him as his father’s heir from her place as first wife among many; of the schemers and opportunists and sycophants who sought to cling to him for their own advancement.

But now, after barely a week with his Shang Lei, Mo Baixiu could feel the old hurts flaring up again. The strangling loneliness. The profound sense of abandonment. The disquieting loss of something he couldn’t even name; had never experienced; and could only feel the keen absence of.

He was beginning to think that thing was love.

If there was anything his life had taught him, it was that the things one would keep are the things that must be defended most fiercely. So when he takes his final, reluctant leave of Shang Lei’s warmth and care, he does not return directly to the Northern Ice Fortress.

Mo Baixiu knows that he smells of his husband; more than a week in close company, days and days of holding Shang Lei in his sleep, of allowing Shang Lei to groom him, to unwittingly scent him. Until Mo Baixiu carried the subtlest perfume of Shang Lei in his hair and on his body, in his clothes, on his skin.

A perfume that he must now wash away.

He cannot allow even the slightest trace of Shang Lei to follow him back to his father’s court. He cannot risk even the most casual curiosity as to where Mo Baixiu has been, and whom he’s been with. If not because of his father, then because of those in his father’s court who would doubtlessly seek to eliminate influences over their Prince that are not their own. With no regard to Mo Baixiu’s wishes, or indeed, even the slightest understanding of what Shang Lei has come to mean to him already.

It was different, when he didn’t know what he didn’t have. When the lack was simply an intellectual understanding that not every clan was as fractious as the Mo Clan, that not every father was as uncaring as his father, that not every uncle would gladly see their nephew dead for the slightest vengeance against their brother, that not every mother had frozen herself into perfect indifference to survive her husband.

There was a single instant when Mo Baixiu regretted what he’d come to learn, over this past week. A single moment where he’d felt everything he’d tried to bury within himself heave itself up from the grave dirt and howl. And then Shang Lei had turned to him, and smiled over some inconsequential thing; one of the thousand tiny amusem*nts that seemed to occur to Shang Lei in a day, each glowing little moment he tried to share with Mo Baixiu as if Mo Baixiu was someone who could understand living with such casual joy.

Loyalty was an abstract concept when one had been groomed from birth to one day rule; to look out over a sea of supplicants and understand that their lives and deaths were decided by the day’s whim. To know that there were none who would not claim the utmost loyalty and devotion to his face, if only so they might gain unhindered access to his unguarded back with the knives of their personal agendas. He was loyal to his mother, who had never lied to him, just as she was loyal to her son who would one day cast down his father; but this was a transactional loyalty, the bonds of two people who did not love each other so much as appreciate what the other represented, and what might one day be achieved through their alliance.

Shang Lei had given him loyalty without a hint of reward. From the first moment they had met, Shang Lei had been faultlessly, thoughtlessly loyal: loyal to those unfortunates who’d been travelling with him, to try and save their lives; loyal to An Ding Peak, to try and avoid airing its secrets; loyal to his martial siblings who’d come to fetch him, to return with them.

Loyal to Mo Baixiu; who could smell the warring fear and attraction that burned in Shang Lei’s veins. Who could have killed him in an instant, without regret; another enemy cultivator trying to capture him.

Who Shang Lei could have killed in turn, those long hours Mo Baixiu had been lost to unconsciousness. Who Mo Baixiu regarded with a similarly heady mix of fear and attraction: the desire for everything Shang Lei offered, everything he represented; the dread that this was somehow too good to be true, too perfect and good for Mo Baixiu to ever be able to really have. A fear Mo Baixiu had almost succumbed to, the moment when Peak Lord Zhang Zhanhua had burst through the door, sword drawn; the constant, lingering suspicion that always expected betrayal whispering that it had all been a trick, a lie, that Mo Baixiu had played the fool for a few scraps of affection and would pay with his life.

To see Shang Lei follow her, then, to see him cry and beg for Mo Baixiu’s life. To hear Shang Lei swear his vows before his Peak Lord, and have Zhang Zhanhua accept them. It was more than Mo Baixiu had ever dreamed that another person would do for him.

Shang Lei’s stricken expression is seared into Mo Baixiu’s mind’s eye: those dark eyes wide and glassy with tears; his face bloodless; his mouth, sweet and expressive in every moment that Mo Baixiu had known him, twisted pale with fear. The way his voice had rasped and caught in his throat when he’d plead with his own Peak Lord. The faintest glimmer of guilt, as the Peak Lord’s aide had drawn back Shang Lei’s sleeve to reveal the mark that Mo Baixiu had unwittingly laid upon him.

Mo Baixiu knew at that moment, watching Shang Lei crawl to him after Zhang Zhanhua had swept from the room, that he would do anything within his power to give his husband even the slightest inkling of the same feelings that had dwelled in Mo Baixiu’s heart.

But first he must protect him.

The Great Northern Desert is vast, spanning several regions with different climates and environments; the place Mo Baixiu transports himself to, however, is very much the quintessential image of the Northern Desert as most picture it. He’s in the far north, where the taiga stretches in great rolling slopes of coniferous forest that cover the foothills of the high northern mountain ranges; where further beyond the trees stop entirely as the tundra rolls out and the land itself gives way to glaciers and the icy northern sea.

Even though it is summer, the trees around him are clad in so much snow their boughs bend and creak under the weight of it. The silhouettes of the trees taking on softened, rounded forms as the snow and ice mound upon them.

The sudden change in temperature--from the soft summer warmth of An Ding Peak to the freezing chill of the northern boreal forest--is bracing for Mo Baixiu. He’d taken the utmost care to regulate his power so as not to inadvertently freeze Shang Lei or any of his belongings, and being able to ease the firm hold he’d kept on his innate cold is a relief.

A light dusting of fresh snow is falling, and the wind that carries its gentle flurries also carries the scent of pine and the refreshing tang of iron that accompanies the deep cold. Mo Baixiu breathes in deeply, comforted by the familiar scents of home. Not of the Northern Ice Fortress, or the Crystal Ice Palace, or even of the intoxicating scent of Shang Lei--which feels like it could become home but isn’t quite yet--but of the lands that Mo Baixiu has roamed since he was old enough to escape his minders and survive by himself.

He remembers his mother teaching him to hunt when he was small; truly it was a privilege that should have gone to his father, but after the incident when his uncle had sent Mo Baixiu into the human world as a young child and his father hadn’t noticed for nearly a sennight, his mother had swept him out of the royal nursery and into her own suite of rooms where she’d never allowed him to be alone without a trusted servant. As he’d grown older she’d ensured that her husband maintained his distance both from herself and Mo Baixiu until he’d been old enough to fully understand why he needed to constantly be on guard. His mother’s guardianship had protected him, but she showed whatever love she might have for him by schooling him brutally in every art a Crown Prince of the Mo Clan was expected to master. There was no softness between them.

But he learned the lessons she had to teach him, and had learned them well. The best way to disguise a scent is to cover it with something stronger, more noticeable.

There is no scent more noticeable to a demon than fresh blood.

Mo Baixiu’s quarry is a Great-Antlered Icepelt Stag; massive beasts that roam the taiga, their antlers prized for carving jewelry and their namesake pelts some of the most luxuriant furs in the north.

Stalking through the underbrush with care, Mo Baixiu chances upon one of the great beasts within a few hours of arriving. Time that hasn’t been wasted at all, the snow and wind buffeting him and muddling his scent with the freshness of the open air; the soft perfume that is Shang Lei slowly fading, to Mo Baixiu’s deep regret. But it is necessary.

Coming upon one of the Icepelts, Mo Baixiu calls forth a brace of arrows formed out of pure, shimmering demonic ice. Were he hunting for leisure he would bother with the bow and arrows that he carries in his qiankun pouch, but he will risk nothing to chance in his current endeavor. He directs the arrows mercilessly, striking the beast to most assuredly put it down: aiming just behind the shoulder to pierce the lungs.

The Icepelt is a mature buck, and even as Mo Baixiu looses the arrows it notices him and tries fruitlessly to evade. It falls with a pained groan, and Mo Baixiu darts swiftly out from his cover to make the killing blow: a strike across the throat with an ice dagger he pulls from the cold air.

He pauses for a moment, running a hand down the Icepelt’s flank and whispering his respects to the beast; a quiet northern hunter’s prayer that this life had not been taken in vain, that this death would serve a purpose.

Mo Baixiu begins field dressing the Icepelt. He searches through his qiankun until he has his hunting knives--favoring the forged steel rather than demonic ice for this, for the lesser chance of the demonic qi tainting the beast’s lingering natural spiritual energy--and drags the carcass under a copse of sturdy pines nearby. He harvests the antlers and wraps them in a loose scrap of cloth, to be taken to a jeweler later. The carcass is still warm, and the beast’s body heat needs to be bled off quickly even in the northern cold so the meat doesn’t spoil. He doesn’t bother tying back his sleeves or caring about his robes; the object of this hunt is to ensure he is blooded when he returns to the Northern Ice Fortress.

He works quickly, opening the beast’s gut and removing the entrails and offal before hanging the carcass from the sturdies branches of the trees he’s under to skin it. The Icepelt’s heart is still hot with blood, and Mo Baixiu carves it carefully out of the Icepelt’s chest; pulling the smallest knife of his hunting set from its sheath and dividing the heart neatly into two. He drinks the blood first, then divides the heart further into quarters before devouring it. Fresh hearts are a delicacy tasted only by the greatest of hunters.

By the time Mo Baixiu has skinned the beast and properly dressed the meat he’s a bloody mess; not a single trace of Shang Lei’s scent left on him.

There’s something in Mo Baixiu that aches at that; that promises himself the day when he can carry Shang Lei’s scent with him openly and unashamedly, without having to fear.

He packs the pelt away in his qiankun, but decides to simply carry the meat.

For anyone else it would be several days to reach the Northern Ice Fortress from where he is now, but Mo Baixiu is not anyone. He is the Crown Prince of the Mo Clan, the child of an ancient Heavenly Demon bloodline, the heir to all the gathered strength of generation upon generation of Kings of the Northern Desert.

When his unique power of travel had manifested it hadn’t been fully understood, at first. It was not unknown for those of their bloodline to occasionally develop limited powers of teleportation, but Mo Baixiu’s strength with the ability was unheard of. He could go anywhere he pleased. It was a rare ward that could deny him entry. He didn’t have to have visited a place in a more mundane manner beforehand. As long as he had a sense of someone’s qi he could find them and their location.

Naturally, he’d been trained mercilessly in its use. Until he could move himself through his personal shadow-step under any circ*mstances. It had saved his life several times.

Other times, it was knowing when not to move himself that saved him. He considered the sheer chance of meeting Shang Lei to be one of those times. He certainly could have teleported back to the Northern Ice Fortress and convalesced in every comfort, but he had been badly injured enough that he’d decided to see what this small and weak-seeming human cultivator had in store rather than subject himself to the inevitable trial of fending off at least one attempt on his life while he recovered. And now he had a husband.

Stepping through his own personal shadow in the world, Mo Baixiu arrives in the royal family’s private wing of the Northern Ice Fortress in a wash of frigid air.

Immediately servants rush to bustle around him, and Mo Baixiu brusquely offloads the Icepelt carcass from over his shoulder and into their startled care.

His robes are ruined, his cloak is likely ruined, he has blood in his hair and caked along the side of his face and around his mouth, his boots track red slush along the floors as he strides forward through the fluttering crowd of servants like a ship’s bow breaking a wave. He nods at his own personal attendant when he sees them coming down the hall, and says, “A bath,” before sweeping away to his personal rooms.

He still needs to offer his report on what he’s found to Tianlang-Jun. He should probably visit his mother.

But for now, he carefully removes the hairpin Shang Lei gave him and tucks it safely into a box on his dresser.

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

The Northern Ice Fortress is a working fortress: carved into the side of a mountain and slowly added onto by centuries of Kings of the Northern Desert. It isn’t rumored to be impenetrable, and had in fact been besieged and broken several times during its long history, but it is still regarded as one of the greatest fortresses in the Demon Realm. This is because it doesn’t matter if you can break into the fortress.

The Northern Ice Fortress is famous because demon armies from across the realm have poured through its broken gates, and yet not a single soul lived to tell the tale of what they saw inside.

No one may leave the Northern Ice Fortress after having stepped foot inside as an enemy.

The hows and whys of this are dearly kept secrets of the Mo Clan, much like their inheritance rituals.

Mo Baixiu has been taught this as a point of pride for as long as he can remember: while the Heavenly Demon bloodlines of the south had waned and shriveled and died out, the Mo Clan had adapted, had remained strong, had discovered ways to maintain their power despite the relative impurity of their Heavenly Demon blood.

Each King of the Northern Desert adding their power into the great reserve passed down through the bloodline; each generation of Mobei-Jun growing stronger than the last as they inherited the might of their forebears and added their own to the line.

The knowledge Mo Baixiu gained from Shang Lei and Zhang Zhanhua has given him a fairly good insight into what he believes the situation with Huan Hua Palace is, but despite this, after bathing and changing into clean clothing, new boots, and fresh jewelry, Mo Baixiu goes to visit his mother.

Mo Binghua--the Queen of the Northern Desert, First Wife to Mobei-Jun, Madam Mo--is as coldly elegant as her namesake.

Her handmaidens perform the graceful dance of preparing the sitting room in his mother’s suite for Mo Baixiu’s sudden arrival as seamlessly as ever, and not a few moments after he’s arrived he finds himself sitting down to tea with his mother. The tea is her personal blend, the sweets and other delicacies come from her private kitchens; Mo Binghua casts out one elegant hand into a reflexive poison-detecting talisman anyway, never one to leave things to chance.

Once Mo Binghua is assured that all is well, she delicately pours the tea for herself and her son. Passing the cup over before taking one of the small empty dishes from their stack on the table and beginning to serve various choice morsels from the spread before them onto it.

“I have eaten,” Mo Baixiu says, watching the slowly-growing assortment of food making its way onto his plate.

Mo Binghua gives him a quelling look, “I am certain my son can indulge his mother by eating more.”

Mo Baixiu nods, unwilling to argue; a familiar ritual between them when he visits. Something he’s always interpreted as his mother trying to show she cared, in one of the only ways she knew how.

Unbidden, he thinks of the small, precious bundle of food that Shang Lei had pressed upon him before he left.

He feels himself warm slightly, something deep within his chest going tender at the notion that this is care, no matter how poorly delivered. How strange, that even now Shang Lei was enlightening him.

They drink their tea in silence, Mo Baixiu clearing his plate and then going on to demolish the rest of the offered refreshments. The Icepelt’s heart was a filling meal, but for all he acts like it Mo Baixiu is not truly a mature demon yet; his appetite feeds his growth, and can be prodigious when he’s allowed to indulge it.

“You have been gone several days longer than expected,” Mo Binghua says, opening the conversation.

“Yes,” Mo Baixiu replies, “There were difficulties.”

“Difficulties,” Mo Binghua says, her voice chilling into something even and calm and utterly dangerous, “for you?” her eyes narrow, “What manner of difficulties?”

Mo Baixiu recounts the trap that the Huan Hua Palace cultivators had tried to spring on him; a clever array with enough power to snare even a full-blooded Heavenly Demon--likely their intent, considering Tianlang-Jun’s involvement--but not quite enough to account for Mo Baixiu’s extraordinary gift for teleportation. He had still been struck by a Ling Hua Dart, of course, and the anesthetics and tranquilizers the dart was steeped in had disoriented him enough at first that he’d wandered through the forest around the palace rather than simply removing himself further. Waiting for the substances to be burnt through by his demonic constitution.

He will admit he had miscalculated how badly injured he was, the dart’s inbourne anesthetics doing their job to disguise how the bladed petals had slowly unfurled as he’d moved; cutting deeper and deeper into him without his realizing, and more, had Mo Baixiu noticed, unaware of the nature of the Ling Hua Dart as he’d been, he likely would have killed himself by tearing it from his wound.

Shang Lei had truly saved his life, methodically deconstructing the dart piece by razor-sharp piece and then packing his wound before he could bleed out.

He omits certain pertinent details, when he explains things to his mother. Not out of particular fear of censure from her, but rather because he knows she will want to meet his husband. Mo Baixiu knows that Shang Lei is fearless in his own way--although Shang Lei himself would deny it--but what they have still seems too new and fragile to subject to his mother’s inevitable desire to test the foundations by kicking at them.

The barest facts are the truth, though, so he feels no particular burden of guilt as he explains: he had been badly injured in a trap likely meant for Tianlang-Jun, a human cultivator had saved his life, he had remained in the human realm to heal before returning out of deference to his mother’s lifelong warnings about allowing himself to be vulnerable, particularly when his uncle was in residence in the fortress.

Mo Binghua’s face has a particular character when she is breathtakingly, incandescently angry; she becomes glacial, the cold tones of her skin taking on the quality of deadly ice. Her eyes glitter with barely-suppressed rage, the delicate demonic mark on her forehead limning with a deceptively soft silver light.

Before she was married, Mo Binghua was a huntress and fierce Demon Saintess from the distant branch of the Mo Clan that inhabits and oversees the tundras of the far north; she had come to court at the Crystal Ice Palace in Mo Baixiu’s grandfather’s time as Mobei-Jun, and caught the eyes of both Princes of the Northern Desert. When it became clear that she would be unable to shake their interest, she’d chosen Linguang-Jun, the younger brother, secure in his word that he would return with her to the far north so that she need not abandon her place within that distant branch of their clan. Mo Baixiu’s father had been unwilling to step aside, however, and more than willing to do whatever was necessary to secure the bride he wanted. He had gone to Mo Baixiu’s grandfather for support, had deceived Linguang-Jun, and through his trickery had inserted himself into the place of the groom.

Mo Binghua had understood, then, that she would be unable to escape taking her place as wife of the future Mobei-Jun. She’d argued the concessions she felt were necessary out of Mo Baixiu’s father, had the marriage contract amended in her favor, and had gone through with the wedding before Linguang-Jun could recover from his brother’s treachery.

The whole affair had broken any trust that had existed between the two Princes, had soured Mo Binghua’s relationship with both her husband and new brother-in-law; had left the three of them locked in a bitter stalemate of thwarted ambitions and dashed hopes.

“It is always better to be cautious,” Mo Binghua says, her voice carrying the weight of this ugly history, “especially if you were so badly hurt,” she tucks her hands into her sleeves, a habit of hers to disguise the way her fists clench, “but you know full well that your uncle will never make his true move against you until you have inherited after your father,” she reminds him, “his greatest wish is to consume your power along with his brother’s,” Mo Binghua gives Mo Baixiu a cold stare, “his efforts are wasted if you are allowed to die before your gifts can be added to reservoir.”

Mo Baixiu knew this, had been reminded often since he was young and his unique power had brought him a storm of unwanted attention.

“It is a rare thing, for such a powerful gift to manifest within the main line,” Mo Binghua has said, time and again, “your true enemies bide their time, waiting for the day when you have passed through the inheritance rituals and ascended as Mobei-Jun, when they might have a chance of gaining such a power for themselves, should they inherit after you,” her warning never complete without reminding him, “they will try to find their way into your good graces now, they will try to lull you, to soothe your suspicions with false loyalty, so they might be appropriately positioned when the time comes, ready to make their attempt to consume you and take your rightful place.”

“I am healed now,” Mo Baixiu says, “It was only a few days.”

Mo Binghua doesn’t lower herself to scowl at him, but her eyes narrow in such a way that he can feel her palpable disapproval, “Your father sent you on this errand,” she says, that quiet, dangerous quality in her voice.

“At Tianlang-Jun’s request,” Mo Baixiu counters, hoping to delay the inevitable “I must go and offer my report to him.”

There’s a tiredness in him that simply cannot endure his mother’s desire to air her grievances about his father’s foolishness in endangering his heir. Knowing that they will progress from this, to his mother’s estimation of her fellow wives. And onwards, to whatever brutal measure she’d recently taken against them.

“You’re going to present yourself to Tianlang-Jun like this?” Mo Binghua asks, conveying her dismay in the way she sweeps her gaze over him; judging and assessing while giving the impression that she knows she’ll find something wanting.

“I of course seek mother’s guidance in this matter,” Mo Baixiu says, relieved that she’s allowed the topic to change, and willing to endure another lesson on presentation if it means the topic stays changed.

Mo Binghua hums to herself, pleased, before calling for her maids to bring her jewelry boxes and a selection of combs and hair oil.

“You have at least managed to dress yourself as befitting of your station,” Mo Binghua begins, herding her son to sit on a specific seat cushion; his mother is not tall enough to comb his hair without sitting on the couch behind him. Mo Baixiu is wearing one of his more elaborate outfits: seven layers of the finest silk, his outer robes embroidered heavily with various scenes of mountains, pine trees, and branches of plum blossoms. His sleeves are already packed with qiankun pouches containing everything he wants to take with him, including supplies and luggage; he doesn’t mean to return to the Northern Ice Fortress for some time after discharges this final part of his task.

Mo Binghua tuts over his hair, combing and oiling and pinning as she goes, “This hair of yours,” she says, as though Mo Baixiu did not inherit his hair from her; from the wild curls to their inky shade. His icy complexion is hers as well. His father’s mark upon him can be seen in his height and some of the refinement of his bone structure, but when he looks in the mirror it is his mother’s features that dominate. It is something of a relief. His father and uncle have strikingly similar features, and he has no desire to resemble either one of them in any way.

His mother digs a hair crown and its accompanying pins out of one of her jewelry boxes and sets about taming Mo Baixiu’s hair into a style fit to be seen at court.

Tianlang-Jun has been haunting the border between the Human and Demon realms since his Lady Su Xiyan went missing; he hasn’t held court in the Southern Demon Realm for much longer. His lack of interest in truly ruling as Heavenly Demon Emperor is so widely known that three distinct drinking songs have been written and become popular, all of them expounding upon the idea of becoming powerful enough to be able to do nothing like Tianlang-Jun. It is his presence alone that keeps peace in the south: the knowledge that should war break out, no one is sure who’s side Tianlang-Jun would decide to aid.

Mo Baixiu submits himself to his mother’s ministrations regardless, for much the same reasons he would ask Shang Lei to comb his hair despite being able to do it himself: this is a form of affection he knows how to accept.

“Tianlang-Jun isn’t of a mind for courtly graces of late,” Mo Baixiu says to his mother, as she settles the last pins in place and turns Mo Baixiu’s head this way and that to examine her handiwork.

He gets a sharp pinch on his ear in admonition, “Tianlang-Jun may not be, but you are Crown Prince of the Northern Desert, and those leeches who hang about Tianlang-Jun are of a mind for court,” Mo Binghua replies, “they’ll be looking for weakness in you just as they’re scenting blood around him,” he can hear the judgement in his mother’s voice, “so frantic over his consort, if he had any sense she wouldn’t be missing in the first place.”

Mo Baixiu makes an inquiring noise. He’s struck, suddenly, by the facts of his own situation; he would do terrible things, at Shang Lei’s behest, for Shang Lei’s safety, and yet he accepts their separation. He’s not Tianlang-Jun, the north provides no guarantee of safety for Shang Lei, but there’s similarity enough that he wants to know his mother’s thoughts.

“Letting her wander off,” Mo Binghua says, “after marking her as his wife and announcing it to the realm?” she clicks her tongue, sliding off the couch and tugging Mo Baixiu’s sleeve to indicate he should stand, “Foolishness,” she declares, absently straightening Mo Baixiu’s robes and fussing over his accessories, “Either she’s run afoul of some rival for Tianlang-Jun’s favor, or her fellow humans have turned against her for daring to stand beside him.”

Privately, Mo Baixiu marvels at his mother’s incisiveness.

“So he should have kept it secret?” Mo Baixiu asks.

Mo Binghua hides her inelegant snort behind one flowing sleeve, turning to sort through another jewelry box and coming up with a set of imperial jade bangles and a pair of earrings, both of which she begins to adorn Mo Baixiu with, “It would have served him better,” she says, “This,” she prods Mo Baixiu in the chest to emphasize her point, because she had never been one to allow an opportunity to lecture pass her by, “is the folly of the powerful,” she looks him over with the added jewelry and nods to herself, gesturing to a maid as she paces over to where a formal overcoat with a fur collar had been laid across a chair, “he believed that simply because he had extended his protection to her she would be safe,” she gathers up the coat and throws it around Mo Baixiu’s shoulders, settling it and freeing his hair to fall down his back, helping him put his arms through the sleeves, adjusting the collar, “take this as a lesson, my son, just because you put your seal on something doesn’t mean that claim will be respected.”

Mo Baixiu nods, appreciative as always of his mother’s wisdom.

Mo Binghua stands back, thoughtfully examining Mo Baixiu and her efforts, “My son looks so well in his coat,” she says, “and these ornaments,” her eyes flit from the hair crown and pins, to the earrings, to the bangles, “he should keep them.”

“This son thanks his mother for her attention,” Mo Baixiu says, accepting his mother’s gifts for what they are, even if it isn’t said outright; wondering how long these pieces have been tucked away, waiting for a moment when she felt it right to give them to him.

They say their farewells in the same stilted way as always, and Mo Baixiu steps through his own shadow in the world: leaving his mother’s sitting room and arriving in Tianlang-Jun’s camp near the border of the realms.

His mother is right, of course, Tianlang-Jun is obviously distracted, but the Southern Demon Lords are out in force: paying their respects and jockeying for favor.

Mo Baixiu feels their eyes upon him, assessing, and deliberately schools his naturally cold expression into something glacial. The Mo Clan is known to be fractious and nettlesome in dealing between its various branches, but here and now, before the gathered lords of the south, Mo Baixiu is more than simply a scion of his clan: he represents in his bearing and deportment the amassed power of the north, the promise that the Mo Clan will backstab and scheme against each other without a thought, but any outside threat will be met with their fully combined strength.

His arrival seems to focus Tianlang-Jun, and he dismisses his various hangers-on and invites Mo Baixiu into his tent to offer hospitality.

“I’d expected you sooner,” Tianlang-Jun says, as casually disdainful of formalism as ever. He gestures for Mo Baixiu to sit.

“There was an incident,” Mo Baixiu says, carefully watching Tianlang-Jun as his entire manner sharpens into something intent and deadly.

“An incident?” Tianlang-Jun questions, the weight of his presence suddenly palpable; the power of a pure-blooded Heavenly Demon evident in every inch of him.

“It was a trap,” Mo Baixiu says, “laid for you,” he meets Tianlang-Jun’s gaze evenly, “an array strong enough to entrap a Heavenly Demon, with human cultivators laying in wait for it to be activated.”

“What of my wife?” Tianlang-Jun asks, his voice thick with some unspeakable emotion.

“I cannot speak with certainty,” Mo Baixiu says, “but the Master of Huan Hua Palace claims that you have abducted her, and seeks to align the four great cultivation sects against you,” he pauses as Tianlang-Jun makes a noise of disbelief, “however, for one who claims to be missing his most favored disciple, he has not searched for her, nor has he left Huan Hua Palace.”

Tianlang-Jun sits back heavily in his chair, letting out a deep breath, “So,” he says, as though Mo Baixiu has confirmed some suspicion of his, “I have abducted my own missing wife,” he turns an appraising look on Mo Baixiu, “how credible is this information?”

“I heard it directly from the mouth of Peak Lord Zhang Zhanhua of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect,” Mo Baixiu says. He doesn’t elaborate on how he’d heard it, but with his well-known abilities it’s likely Tianlang-Jun will assume he’d gained the knowledge clandestinely rather than during his own interrogation at the Peak Lord’s hands. Mo Baixiu is perfectly fine with this assumption.

Tianlang-Jun’s eyebrows quirk upward and a small, amused smile plays around his mouth, “Peak Lord Zhang?” he asks. His amusem*nt fades quickly, but he seems to have gained some sort of resolve, offering his thanks to Mo Baixiu and seeing him out of the tent.

Mo Baixiu parts the tent flaps and steps through them and into his shadow-space, a wash of cold air sweeping through the silk hangings and banners of Tianlang-Jun’s tent before Mo Baixiu is gone.

He has duties to see to in the north. And a husband to court.

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

It’s difficult, for a few days after Mo Baixiu leaves.

Shang Lei has gotten used to his presence, his first days and nights in his Leisure House spent in Mo Baixiu’s company.

Coming home after his first day working at his new duties--meeting with his Peak Lord and discussing the scroll she’d given him, explaining the commentary he’d written on it, listening to her repeated explanation of his responsibilities--to find the house dark and empty is something Shang Lei had known would happen, but it had still been such an unpleasant surprise.

In response to this, Shang Lei has stayed true to form: employing his lifelong coping mechanism of distracting himself from the thing upsetting him by burying himself in work. He rises early and returns late; he masters his new duties and takes on as much as he can; he spends his spare time training, taking lessons, and dancing. He takes his meals with his fellow disciples, and when he returns to his Leisure House at night he barely has enough energy to bathe and fall into bed.

His bed, which he’d chosen because he likes to spread in his sleep, which now feels too-large without his Prince in it.

Shang Lei feels vaguely ashamed to be so spoiled after only three days, tossing and turning at night because an incredibly handsome Demon Prince isn’t there to hold him while he sleeps.

Exhausting himself works wonders, like it always does: by the time he’s rolled himself into his blankets at night, both his mind and body are so tired there’s nothing for him to do but fall unconscious.

An Mei had teased him, his first day back, reaching out to playfully flick at his earrings--the earrings--and asking where they’d come from. Shang Lei had blushed and stuttered out an excuse and she’d pounced on his weakness ruthlessly, shamelessly pumping Shang Lei for information until he’d broken down and admitted they were a gift. Her teasing probably would have continued endlessly if Shang Lei hadn’t also been noticeably desolate about Mo Baixiu having left. The fact that he’d received three days of time off for seclusion after returning from a mission that An Mei knew had gone terribly wrong, and that Shang Lei had insisted that he could only share the details with the Peak Lord herself means that when An Mei decides to put the pieces together she comes to both the correct and objectively wrong conclusion at the same time.

An Mei, who is a closet romantic of the most incurable sort, decides that obviously Shang Lei has fallen victim to his first romance--doomed, obviously--and is now wistfully pining for his lost love.

An Mei, who is a cheerful sledgehammer in human form, decides that discretion is the better part of valor and gets Gao Huan to give Shang Lei a nice and comforting talk about his emotions.

Shang Lei feels torn between happiness that they care so much and deep frustration. Gao Huan gives him an excellent talk about being allowed to feel, and then listens patiently while Shang Lei complains that An Mei had it all wrong and there was absolutely nothing doomed about anything. Gao Huan takes this in the same good humor as he takes literally everything--excluding the time An Mei had pretended to be an ambush predator and decided that the best way to act this out would be to hide and then dramatically throw herself into Gao Huan’s arms, but unfortunately chose a time when he was carrying his sword, which in reflexive former Bai Zhan fashion he hadn’t dropped to catch her, but rather instinctively drew and only barely avoided cutting An Mei in half when he realized it was her--and says that he’s glad that Shang Lei has found someone that he’s interested in.

Which isn’t the conclusion Shang Lei had wanted him to draw at all.

“Remember the time you almost cut An Mei in half?” Shang Lei asks, aware that he’s being a brat.

Gao Huan groans, leaning forward over the table they’re sitting at in one of the small, comfortable pavilions that look out over An Ding’s groves of spice trees and the carefully-tended fruit trees that need constant attention and specialty environmental warding to grow on the mountain. They’re having tea and working through Bai Zhan Peak’s requisition request paperwork--Shang Lei as an assistant to the Peak Lord who’s been given strict instructions on Bai Zhan’s current allowance, and Gao Huan as one of the senior disciples devoted to military logistics who is currently responsible for liaising with Bai Zhan--and have been for most of the afternoon. It’s nice, the scents of the cinnamon and star anise and bay laurel carried on a cool mountain breeze that makes the summer heat bearable. Both of them had brought snacks and tea blends; packing a qiankun with comfortable cushions, a tea set and kettle, a small iron charcoal burner, and a large vessel of water.

“Neither of you are ever going to let that go, are you?” Gao Huan asks. He’s finally stopped growing taller, and is now in the process of filling out into a powerfully built mountain of a man; Shang Lei is honestly unsure if his Prince is the tallest person he knows, or if his intimidating presence has simply made him seem bigger than Gao Huan. Over the years Gao Huan has kept up with the strict regime of spiritual exercises prescribed to him, and has enjoyed a slow but progressive recovery to his meridians; earning the right to practice with his sword again, which pleased Gao Huan tremendously until he’d almost cut An Mei in half. He’s firmly settled into his life as an An Ding disciple, claiming that while he loves the blade he feels more fulfilled in his work now than he had when he’d been one of the top disciples on Bai Zhan.

“It was hilarious,” Shang Lei says, grinning over at Gao Huan as he reaches for the last stack of scrolls.

“It was not,” Gao Huan says, but he’s smiling as well. Even after years on An Ding, the Bai Zhan streak of being an unabashed adrenaline junkie has yet to fade, “I am glad though,” he continues, relentless “that you have someone, even if you won’t tell us about them yet.”

Shang Lei scowls at Gao Huan, “It’s not like that,” he tries to deny, but Gao Huan rolls his eyes at him.

“I’d believe you more readily,” Gao Huan says, “If you hadn’t been wearing those earrings every day since you got back.”

“You’re terrible,” Shang Lei informs Gao Huan, “and it’s not like that, I…” he trails off, considering, “I do have someone, I care about them a lot, I think I love them, but…” Shang Lei sighs, “it’s not something that’s guaranteed, and I--I don’t want to make a mistake.”

Gao Huan nods, as though he hasn’t spent the whole afternoon patiently chipping away at Shang Lei’s defenses, “You’re really serious about them?”

“Yes,” Shang Lei says, without hesitation.

“Then you’re fine,” Gao Huan says, “I’d be worried if you weren’t overthinking this,” he shifts casually out of the way of the swat Shang Lei aims at his shoulder, “Shang Lei, there’s always something so serious about you, something focused and intent beyond what the rest of us can understand,” he holds up a hand to halt Shang Lei’s objections, “it’s part of who you are, even when you’re smiling and carrying on with us, there’s some weight that seems to hold you more firmly to the world.”

“Gao Huan...,” Shang Lei says, feeling caught out in a way he’d never expected; feeling seen, in a way he isn’t sure is comfortable. Unable to explain why, even though he knows the answer: his spirit is of an age beyond his physical body, his experiences beyond those of his peers, his knowledge of this world so vast and deep as to be wholly unbelievable.

“If you’re unsure then give it time,” Gao Huan says, smiling again, “you know how long I’ve been waiting for An Mei to make up her mind?”

Shang Lei nods, well aware of his best friends’ ongoing romantic melodrama. Including An Mei nearly getting herself cut in half.

“You know what you want,” Gao Huan says, “there’s nothing wrong with being patient, especially with the heart of someone you care about,” he laughs, sitting up from his comfortable slouch to pour himself more tea, “you’ll find the right love at the right time, don’t worry about it.”

Shang Lei smiles and takes more tea himself. He can’t resist reaching up to feel the jade drop of one of his earrings, imagining that even though it’s just regular jade, he can feel the slightest chill to it, some lingering trace that this had been worn by his Prince before being given to him.

They finish their work in good spirits, changing the topic to the traditional An Ding litany of complaints about Bai Zhan as they work through the last of the requisition forms; even Gao Huan as a former Bai Zhan disciple despairs over some of the requests, lamenting the general taking-for-granted of the supplies and equipment that An Ding Provides.

Afterwards, they pack up their work and furniture, and meet An Mei for an early dinner in the communal dining room. It’s a leisurely meal, Gao Huan taking the lead of their conversation to tell exaggerated stories of what it’s like to roam wild as a Bai Zhan disciple, much to An Mei’s delight.

Shang Lei takes charge of the qiankun containing the requisitions and their paperwork, telling his friends that he’ll deliver them to the Peak Lord’s office before he takes his evening meditation.

The lights are still burning in the Peak Lord’s Leisure House, so he knocks and announces himself before entering Zhang Zhanhua’s receiving office. She’s sitting at her desk, absorbed in a scroll when he steps through the door.

Shang Lei salutes, and brings the qiankun out of his sleeve, opening it to begin offering the scrolls. Still distracted by the scroll, Zhang Zhanhua gestures to a currently empty corner of her massive desk--solid ironwood with steel fixtures--as she greets him.

“Shang Lei,” Zhang Zhanhua says, looking up and setting aside the scroll as she finishes with it, “sit.”

He does, settling down on one of the available seat cushions, curious as to what his Peak Lord might want, “Shizun?”

“You’ve finished with your duties for the day?” Zhang Zhanhua asks.

“Yes, Shizun,” Shang Lei says, “all I have left for the day is evening meditation.”

She nods, looking over him with a critical eye as she finds a particular scroll on her desk and passes it to him, “Change into your formal senior disciple’s uniform and then return here,” she says, “you’re going to assist this Master by taking notes and observing in a meeting.”

Shang Lei accepts the scroll--blank, apparently, but with specific seals on the scroll case that can be primed and set to render it un-openable by anyone but a few select people--tucking it into his sleeve before bowing, “Yes, Shizun,” he says.

“Specifically,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “I want you to observe the subject and note down your thoughts not only on the topic of the meeting, but the reactions and responses of those in the meeting.”

Whispers-work, then. Which is less surprising than suddenly being invited to sit in on a meeting, but is more understandable.

Shang Lei hurries back to his Leisure House when he’s dismissed, fixing his hair into a nice hair crown around his ribbon and tidying his robes before adding the extra layer that constituted the senior disciple’s formal uniform. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror; eyes following the swing of his earrings as he turns. He gives himself a wistful little smile in the mirror, allowing himself a moment to breathe through the feeling of absence that he’d never expected to feel so strongly before he finishes his preparations and leaves.

For the Peak Lord to be having an important meeting so late in the evening, then something unusual must be going on. Shang Lei feels somewhat privileged that Zhang Zhanhua would decide that he’s worthy of assisting, but also there’s the niggling sense that this is going to be more than just a meeting.

His own knowledge is working against him again, because he’s fairly sure that this coming winter is when Luo Binghe is going to be born. Which means that over the next few months, several major events are going to happen.

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

After Shang Lei returns to the Peak Lord’s Leisure House, Zhang Zhanhua has him sit down and reiterates her expectations for him. She gives particular attention to the necessity of noting down his own thoughts, as well as instructing him to keep informal minutes of the meeting.

Shang Lei confirms that he has his writing set with him, presents the unsealed scroll Zhang Zhanhua gave him as proof that he hadn’t forgotten it while changing, and bashfully submits himself to being fussed over when Wei He emerges from the private area of the house and sets about straightening his appearance more neatly than Shang Lei had managed alone.

Zhang Zhanhua disappears into the private area of the house to refresh her own appearance and make whatever additions to her ensemble she felt were necessary for their meeting while Wei He neatly distracts Shang Lei from his anxious thoughts by re-doing his hair into what she deemed a more acceptable style than the one he’d arranged.

There’s some trick to arranging the ribbon and hair crown that Shang Lei will admit to not having mastered yet, but he’s a little bit abashed to see how much better Wei He’s efforts look than his own when she draws a small compact mirror out of her sleeve and shows him. Where before he’d looked basically presentable, he now looks immaculate: his hair gathered back nicely from his face; the haircrown arranged just so; and his ribbon peeking out from underneath, tied into a bow with the ends trailing down his back. With his as-of-yet unworn formal senior disciple’s robes, Shang Lei looks better and fancier than he’s ever looked in both of his lives. It’s a little bit shocking, seeing some respectable--and dare he say, handsome?--young master in a mirror and then realizing he’s looking at himself.

Shang Lei was aware, in his past life, that he was considered somewhat attractive. It’s hard not to be, when you’re in such rigorously good physical condition that people stare at your body and not your face. Airplane had been too busy and focused on advancing and improving to really avail himself of any of the opportunities that had been presented to him for casual liaisons, he’d avoided getting involved with his fellow dancers like the plague for fear that his awkward personality would sour things and leave him in an uncomfortable situation with what was essentially a co-worker, and in his infrequent free time he’d dressed for comfort in track pants, t-shirts, hoodies, and parkas rather than try and flaunt himself. After his accident he’d still had the same face and the same body--allowing for the scars, weight loss, and muscle loss of his recovery--but his ability to perceive himself as good-looking had been destroyed; partly because he’d been so devastated by everything and partly because he’d simply cut himself off anyone who’d even offer that sort of feedback.

He’d been idly aware that his face hadn’t really changed much; in fact it had been a relief to look in the old mirror in his parent’s home and see himself--even his self as a child--rather than having to deal with some sort of terrible dissonance between the self he’d spent twenty-six years getting used to and the new self he’d been reborn into. He’d been aware also, that his body was much the same: the same height; the same general physique, from the results of his careful rebuilding of his ability as a dancer combined with the other physical work he did everyday; the same straight, thick hair.

But now, looking into Wei He’s mirror, Shang Lei--Airplane, always, in the back of his mind where he’s tried to cordon-off everything he shouldn’t know--sees himself. And he’s stunned.

Wei He must notice, because she laughingly pinches his cheeks and promises that she’ll teach him how to style himself properly. It makes Shang Lei blush, but he absently accepts as he tries to deal with his feelings: both the sudden revelation that he’s himself as much as he’s ever been, and the fidgeting pleasure of Wei He’s fond cooing.

Zhang Zhanhua emerges in an austere set of formal robes, her hair set with an elaborate crown.

Wei He gives an exclamation at the sight of her, and turns her attention to Zhang Zhanhua: the same fussing and straightening she’d given Shang Lei but more tender somehow, her hands lingering; her smile softer; quiet words passing between them as Zhang Zhanhua smiles gently back at Wei He.

Shang Lei is scrutinized and given a short nod of approval as Zhang Zhanhua sweeps past him towards the door, Wei He shooing him out behind her with a laugh and a wave.

His Peak Lord is marching as though she’s about to stride into battle, smoothly pulling her sword from her sleeve and telling Shang Lei to follow her as she mounts her blade.

Canyue falls into his right hand reflexively, and he mounts up and shoots into the sky after her. There had been a slight trick to learning to focus enough to fly--one of the few difficulties he’d encountered with having two swords rather than the traditional one--since indiscriminately channeling spiritual energy into his connection to his swords innately meant that he was channelling energy into both of them, but he’d gone to Arms Master Yang for help and she’d kindly but brutally put him through his paces and only laughed at him a little bit when he’d crashed.

He’d been expecting them to leave the sect, and so he’s surprised when Zhang Zhanhua heads towards Qiong Ding. He follows just the same, but that itching sense that something is going on crawls its way up his spine again.

When they get to Qiong Ding they land in the well-maintained terrace garden meant for visitors arriving by sword, and Zhang Zhanhua wastes no time in setting off at a brisk pace for the Sect Leader’s residence: an ornate, formal dwelling meant to display the Sect Leader’s status and provide a place to host important guests of the sect.

Arriving at the Sect Leader’s residence and being ushered inside by a waiting disciple, Zhang Zhanhua continues to move purposefully towards her goal; barely breaking stride to acknowledge the Qiong Ding disciple who announces them at the Sect Leader’s formal office.

Shang Lei is right, and the wheel is turning faster than he’d thought.

The person Zhang Zhanhua is having this private and mysterious evening meeting with is Yue Qingyuan.

The Sect Leader is waiting for them, tea and refreshments already on the table as he rises from his seat to greet his fellow Peak Lord.

Yue Qingyuan and Zhang Zhanhua exchange formal pleasantries with each other, Shang Lei standing quietly off to the side and bowing when Yue Qingyuan acknowledges him in deference to their relative ranks.

It’s both fascinating and nerve-wracking to go to the small clerk’s desk in the corner and be allowed to observe the interactions taking place. Shang Lei unrolls the seal-scroll and arranges his writing kit, grinding ink as Yue Qingyuan pours tea and continues a polite but meaningless bit of conversation with Zhang Zhanhua; who looks herself as though she’s simply waiting for him to come to the point so she can get on with things, behind the politely neutral expression she wears like a mask.

It puts Zhang Zhanhua’s instructions in a new light, to be sitting here in the Sect Leader’s formal office, apparently about to observe a meeting on important sect business; important sect business that apparently needs to be observed with all the attention to detail of a Whisper, including Yue Qingyuan himself.

“Sect Leader,” Zhang Zhanhua begins, bowing her head slightly at precisely the angle necessary to denote respect and not a single bit further, “thank you for agreeing to meet at such a time.”

Yue Qingyuan bows his head in return, further than necessary, but not surprisingly so, considering he’s in the presence of his martial aunt and the Peak Lord who wields the most functional power in the sect after himself, “It is no trouble, Zhang-shishu,” he says.

“Yue-shizhi is most kind,” Zhang Zhanhua replies, dispensing with further pleasantries as she draws a scroll from her sleeve; it’s another seal-scroll, but the array has been engaged, the faintest ripple of color noticeable in the lines that cover the scroll’s casing. Zhang Zhanhua disengages the array with a flick of her thumb as she opens the scroll and begins unrolling it.

“This one is curious as to why Zhang-shishu felt a meeting at this time was necessary?” Yue Qingyuan begins, faultlessly polite but apparently also ready to get down to business.

“This Master feels that it is time to revisit our prior discussion regarding current events,” Zhang Zhanhua says smoothly, not giving a single inch, “New information has come to light.”

She passes the scroll across the table, Yue Qingyuan taking it cautiously; he looks as though he’s steeling himself for battle, his expression the definition of polite interest and respect, but the slight creasing between his brows and tightness around his eyes speaking to an internal tension. As he reads, Shang Lei takes the opportunity to observe him more openly; he’s been keeping up his notes since the meeting began, paper weighted down and sleeve held out of the way of his ink.

He’s seen Yue Qingyuan from a distance, of course, but that’s different from sitting in his office and watching him think. Yue Qingyuan’s face is just as handsome as Airplane had described, his bearing noble; he wears formal blacks and Xuan Su rests innocuously on a stand to his side.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t show his reaction to whatever he’s reading on his face, but the slight crease in his brow deepens. When he’s finished, he looks up at Zhang Zhanhua, “Zhang-shishu has been quite thorough,” he says diplomatically.

Zhang Zhanhua eases her polite mask into something more genuine; more obviously an elder master come to school a wayward student who’d misstepped. Shang Lei sees when Yue Qingyuan notices her expression, his own face somehow managing to remain poised while gaining the very slightest air of sheepishness.

“Yue-shizhi,” She says, “Is truly honorable, and most upstanding,” she says, “a well-learned student of this Master’s shixiong in the arts of diplomacy and administration,” she says, with exacting graciousness.

Yue Qingyuan stoically endures the praise, “This one thanks Zhang-shishu, and troubles her to offer her guidance.”

Zhang Zhanhua smiles at him; not the soft smile she’d offered Wei He earlier, or the indulgent smile she sometimes gifts to Shang Lei, but something sharper, more like a tigress baring her teeth as she prepares to eat a hapless goat. “This Master is always willing to advise,” she says, “If Sect Leader wishes.”

“The situation regarding our sect’s place in current events has deeply troubled this one,” Yue Qingyuan says, graceful in defeat, and unwilling to allow his own misstep to harm Cang Qiong.

Shang Lei takes a moment to check his notes, making sure he hadn’t just been jotting down his stream of consciousness during the exceedingly polite battle that had just taken place. He feels a tiny bit of inappropriately paternal pride for Yue Qingyuan: he’d never written him to be foolish or inept, he’d just invested Yue Qingyuan with a greater than average faith in people, and an earnestness could make him seem naive when he was really just...a firm believer in the idea of a profound goodness of human nature. But on the other hand, Yue Qingyuan wasn’t unwilling to see the truth, and his affable and kindhearted nature obscured a sharp mind and an unbending willpower. While he’d never fail to offer second chances--when he wasn’t hung up on his guilt enough to turn a blind eye--he also never forgot when a trespass had been offered.

Yue Qingyuan would never stop being polite and genial, but his good opinion was much less inexhaustible than was generally assumed.

After Yue Qingyuan bent--not retracting his instruction that Zhang Zhanhua should halt her activities as spymaster, but acknowledging that he’d erred in offering that instruction in the first place--the meeting moved on at a much more efficient pace.

Shang Lei diligently takes notes during the discussion on the current investigation of the Old Palace Master’s claims, offering his thoughts alongside his notes as his Peak Lord asked.

There’s nothing they can really do, currently, other than keep digging. The Old Palace Master is simply working on consolidating allies and spreading his slander against Tianlang-Jun, not actively attempting to recruit the sects into a specific action. But it’s obvious he’s working up to it, and doubtlessly already has plans for when he’s sufficiently motivated the sects to want to act against the Heavenly Demon Emperor.

Yue Qingyuan’s handling of the politics so far has been deft: not rebuffing the Old Palace Master’s overtures, but maintaining a decisive neutrality in affairs that could truthfully be said to not be Cang Qiong’s business. He’d of course offered assistance in searching for Su Xiyan, but the Old Palace Master himself had temporized rather than immediately accepting, piquing Yue Qingyuan’s suspicions.

The revelation that the Old Palace Master was neglecting to search for his supposedly-missing disciple at all, accompanied by the information that Tianlang-Jun referred to Su Xiyan as his wife and was searching for her himself, cemented Yue Qingyuan’s wariness.

“This one thanks Zhang-shishu for her dedication to her duties,” Yue Qingyuan says, bowing slightly, “but this one feels we have exhausted the topic for the time being.”

“Indeed,” Zhang Zhanhua says, offering her own bow, “This Master will continue to monitor the situation, and keep Sect Leader informed.”

They begin the process of exchanging the necessary pleasantries and bows to end the meeting, while Shang Lei labors over his notes.

He’s not sure what he can change, he’s not sure what he’s allowed to change: Airplane’s lazy draft of Tianlang-Jun and Su Xiyan’s romance coming back to haunt him.

But he scribbles down his thoughts anyway: what if it’s a trap?

He tidies up his writing set, uses a quick talisman to dry the ink on the scroll, and tucks everything into his sleeves so he can rise when Zhang Zhanhua does, bowing to the Sect Leader before they take their leave.

The journey back to An Ding is as silent as their earlier trip, but the sternness in Zhang Zhanhua’s posture has eased; she’s obviously relieved the meeting went well.

Wei He is waiting for them when they return to the Peak Lord’s Leisure House, and she quickly produces tea and enough snacks to constitute a late supper--likely having known that Zhang Zhanhua would completely ignore the refreshments offered in the Sect Leader’s residence in favor of the opportunity to rake Yue Qingyuan very graciously over the metaphorical coals--before following Zhang Zhanhua into the private area of the house to help her with her formal robes and intricate hairpiece.

Shang Lei takes a seat in front of his Peak Lord’s desk and draws out the scroll again, opening it to look it over and make sure there were no smudges or mistakes before putting it on the desk. He’s helping himself to the tea when Zhang Zhanhua and Wei He re-emerge and take their own places around the desk.

Shang Lei expects to be dismissed, but instead he’s told to sit and drink his tea while Zhang Zhanhua reads over his notes.

She seems pleased with them, making an occasional considering hum as she works down the page, until she reaches the end and pauses. There is something in her expression that puts Shang Lei in the mind of someone who’s been looking at an ambiguous image and can finally see the second aspect: the duck or the rabbit; the wife or the mother-in-law; the vase or two faces.

Shang Lei fidgets in his seat as she regards him with thoughtful scrutiny, “You ask whether this might be a trap, disciple?” Zhang Zhanhua asks.

“Yes, Shizun,” Shang Lei replies, trying desperately to play it cool for once in his life, “The thought occurred to me during the meeting.”

“A trap for whom?” Zhang Zhanhua asks.

“Ah, for,” Shang Lei stumbles over the words, “for Tianlang-Jun.”

Zhang Zhanhua draws in a deliberate breath, releasing it through her nose, “We will start at the beginning,” she says, “Shang Lei will explain his commentary in detail, as well as anything he may have forgotten to add to his notes.”

Shang Lei straightens in his seat, resisting the urge to point out how late it was, while Wei He smiles at him sympathetically from over Zhang Zhanhua’s shoulder, and gets up to fetch a stronger blend of tea than the one she’d prepared.

It doesn’t take all night, but it’s well into the small hours by the time Shang Lei is released to return home, his Shizun’s promise that he’d be dismissed from his morning duties a small comfort after being so thoroughly interrogated for his opinions.

He’s unsure how to feel about the way things have been turning out, the way he’s helped to change things: there was a sense of comfort in knowing how the plot would go, even if the place it would end up going was demonstrably terrible. It’s both incredibly easy and unspeakably difficult, to imagine a world where he’d kept his head down and chosen to do nothing. Letting the plot carry him along to its inevitable conclusion.

But he can’t. This world is real. The people are real. Shang Lei is part of it, and he can’t play the cognitive deception on himself that these are just characters and act as though that allows him enough distance to sit around while terrible things happen.

There’s no blaring alarm, no warnings from the System. So Shang Lei goes home, washes his face and hangs up his formal uniform, combs his hair into a braid for sleeping, settles down into his too-big, husbandless bed; and feels comforted, somewhat, by the idea that he’s himself, but maybe a version of himself who’s learnt something, or grown somehow, and won’t just stand idly by while everything goes wrong.

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

An unexpected part of being a senior disciple is the amount of attention Zhang Zhanhua now pays him.

Shang Lei had gotten used to things being about the same as they’d been when he was a junior disciple, albeit with more responsibility and different duties, but instead, after that night meeting with Yue Qingyuan, his Peak Lord calls upon him to personally assist her more often than any of her other aides.

He’d wanted hard work and distractions, and he’s certainly got them. Zhang Zhanhua is a harsh and exacting taskmaster, and Shang Lei feels almost like a child again; sitting in her weekly lecture and having his head crammed full of more learning than he’d thought possible.

In the morning he reports to her directly, and in the evening she is the one to whom he returns his work and gives him his dismissal for the day. Over the course of the day he follows her about her duties as she completes paperwork; drafts plans for An Ding’s future, from the next harvest to the next organizational review; makes decisions about everything from where to put new water cisterns to how budget items for the other peaks should be fulfilled; meets with her fellow Peak Lords; meets with her advisors among the Grandmasters on An Ding; meets with her Whispers; deals with her correspondence with An Ding’s trade partners and suppliers for goods they can’t make themselves; and, of course, every spare moment in between where she turns her attention to Shang Lei and teaches him something.

Beyond this, Shang Lei is still expected to keep up with his meditation, his sword forms, his cultivation studies, and his attendance in the various classes and seminars held so that An Ding disciples can learn about all the various specialties housed on their peak. As well as following up with Wei He on her promised lessons about manners, appearance, and personal presentation; which means every other week he’s essentially kidnapped by An Ding Peak’s most cheerful tyrant to have every aspect of his wardrobe and personal styling evaluated, critiqued, and replaced with things ‘better suited’ to Shang Lei and then be sat down and quizzed on situational etiquette. He makes the mistake of admitting how basic his skin and hair care regime is and finds himself swamped with potions and moisturizers that he wants to throw away until he realizes that Wei He is right and they really do help.

It’s not until Wei He takes him through a lovingly-crafted cheat-sheet on the various cuts and styles of robes that suit him best; colors that complement his complexion; and what metals, precious stones, and motifs would be best for his jewelry that Shang Lei begins to suspect that he’s missed something.

So he asks An Mei during their cohort’s bi-weekly dinner; this time hosted at her own Leisure House.

They’ve arranged enough tables so they can all sit comfortably, and everyone has either brought a dish or arrived early to help cook. It’s nice to sit down with everyone and catch up, trade stories, swap favors, and just generally enjoy the camaraderie of people you know are as insane and hardworking as you.

He means to be discreet about it, asking quietly from where he’s sitting sandwiched between herself and Gao Huan, but the moment she understands his question she gives him the most incredulous look and bursts into raucous, cackling laughter; leaning forward over the table and banging her fists on the lacquered wood. She rattles the dishes and has the immediate attention of everyone in the room, and she keeps laughing until tears gather in her eyelashes and stream down her face.

“Ha!” An Mei wheezes, “please, please tell me you’re joking.”

Shang Lei is mystified. He shakes his head in denial as all around them the others in their cohort demand to know what’s so hysterically funny.

“Shang Lei,” An Mei announces to the room at large, “doesn’t know he’s being groomed to become Head Disciple.”

The only response Shang Lei can manage is a quiet, “What.” while all around him his fellow disciples either break out into laughter of their own, or incredulous statements of denial.

An Mei looks over at him, catches one glimpse of his face, and breaks out into another fit of horrible laughter, “Your face!” she manages to say while she catches her breath.

“That’s not…” Shang Lei protests, “I can’t…” he looks around at the faces of his cohort, his fellow disciples he’s known since he was twelve, “What.”

Gao Huan, who is possibly the best person Shang Lei knows, gives him a bracing pat on the back as Shang Lei starts to fold forward in shock, “An Mei,” he says, gently chastising, “you know how our Xiao Lei is.”

An Mei breaks into another fit of laughter, but she’s nodding at the same time, “Shang Lei, I’m sorry,” she says, once she’s gotten ahold of herself, “you’re obviously being groomed to become Head Disciple, though,” she turns to get input from the rest of their cohort, “Isn’t he, though?”

The unanimous agreement from their fellows, interspersed with comments about how Shang Lei is working harder than anyone in their group and is also receiving much more attention from their Peak Lord than any of the other senior disciples even beyond their cohort, is enough to make Shang Lei somewhat faint. He leans forward and pillows his face in his arms, pushing his dishes out of the way so he can greet the comforting surface of the table. He can hear himself give an anxious little wheeze as his brain starts presenting him with different awful scenarios.

He knows he’s supposed to eventually become Head Disciple--he has a quest!--but being considered already? He mentally opens the system menu and sorts through the interface until he finds the quest log, checking to make sure everything is the same. It is. The time limit he has to complete the quest is listed as three years. It hasn’t been three months.

Shang Lei makes another choked, wheezing noise into the cradle of his arms. He hadn’t even started thinking about how to actually accomplish the System’s assigned task yet.

An Mei and Gao Huan both gently pry him off the table so he’s sitting up again. Li Fang hands him a teacup full of what he thinks is water until he downs it one swallow and chokes on rice wine instead.

“Li Fang,” Shang Lei rasps, “Why?”

She shrugs at him apologetically, “You looked like you needed it?”

He pauses at that, and then holds out the cup again. Li Fang obligingly refills it.

Shang Lei tosses back the whole cupful just like the first, without choking this time, letting himself sag into Gao Huan and An Mei’s supporting hands.

“Really?” He asks, still not entirely able to believe it, “I mean…” he gives up trying to put his feelings into words and just makes an expansive gesture at himself and then around the room.

“Think of it this way Xiao Lei,” Li Min says helpfully, with a sh*t-eating grin spreading across his face, “you’re the only one of us crazy enough to actually be able to keep up with Shizun.”

Li Fang reaches out and slaps her twin brother on the arm without looking, before helpfully refilling Shang Lei’s cup again, “Li Min, it hasn’t even been announced yet,” she scolds, before trying to reassure Shang Lei, “I’m sure it’s not like that,” she says, “Shizun is just very exacting and has high standards, if you’ve gotten her attention it just means you’re doing good work!” she tries to enthuse.

An Mei snorts, “Never mind that there hasn’t been an official Head Disciple since Master Sun decided to seclude and focus on her jade carving?” she asks, “and our Xiao Lei has the exact combination of cultivation potential, work ethic, and mad genius to make him a natural choice?”

Shang Lei takes his time sipping his third cup of wine, leaning his head against Gao Huan’s shoulder as his closest and dearest martial siblings launch into an argument that somehow seems to consist of extolling his virtues--which leaves Shang Lei blushing in pleased embarrassment--telling the wildest stories they can remember about Master Sun--to prove the point that insanity is apparently a prerequisite for becoming Head Disciple--and debating whether or not it really matters that it hasn’t been formally announced if Shang Lei is apparently doing most of the Head Disciple’s duties already.

Li Min, because he’s a natural and gleeful misanthrope, heads up the the side of argument purporting that their Peak Lord never actually assigns Head Disciples, but rather assigns duties until a Head Disciple is formed out of sheer stress reaction; like some sort of geologic formation.

An Mei, because she’s a hero and a gift to humanity, insists that of course there’d be some sort of trial period as their Peak Lord decided if a potential Head Disciple was suitable, and that of course Shizun formally appoints her Head Disciples there’s paperwork that needs to be done for it and everything.

By the time the argument has been resolved--not in any satisfactory manner, but because Li Fang started pinching Li Min whenever he’d try to talk--everyone has made significant headway into the wine. An Mei, who has the alcohol tolerance of a Zui Xian disciple, eventually shoos them all out of her Leisure House while laughing and complaining about the mess they’d made.

Shang Lei finds himself slung over Gao Huan’s shoulders as Gao Huan--who is wonderful, really, the most wonderful and best friend--carries him back to his own Leisure House. Shang Lei can definitely still walk mostly straight, but he’d kept stopping and laughing, so Gao Huan had hefted him up like a sack of rice and taken off with his ridiculous long-legged stride.

Being deposited on his doorstep is jarring enough to Shang Lei’s tipsy equilibrium that he has to lean against the doorframe for a few moments so he can get his bearings. Gao Huan, who’s never been much for drinking in the first place, waits patiently so he can see Shang Lei all the way into his house for the night.

“Do you…” Shang Lei manages, turning to look up at Gao Huan, “Do you think they really mean all that?”

It’s hard to know whether he’s asking about the speculation about Head Disciple, or about the shower of offhanded compliments that had been paid to Shang Lei all evening; there’s something warm and convoluted and anxious and hesitant knotted up in his chest. He means all of it really. Is this what they really think of him?

Gao Huan laughs softly, “Shang Lei,” he says, “They meant every word.”

Shang Lei nods, fumbles with his door, and stands just past the threshold waving after Gao Huan as he leaves.

It’s dark in his house, and it takes a few tries to manage a small light talisman well enough to make his way to bed.

Waking up in the morning is terrible, even without the thought of being Head Disciple weighing on him. He’s not sure why he finds it upsetting, since the System had already given him the task of becoming Head Disciple, but over a light breakfast and several glasses of water Shang Lei finally figures it out.

He hadn’t thought he was doing anything extraordinary. He’d put the thought of his quest from his mind and just been going about his normal business, content that he had three years and could come up with some sort of plan later on. The idea that he’s somehow earned it just by himself, just by being himself is the place where his mind gets stuck.

The thought stays with him as days go by.

Shang Lei works as hard as ever, but it niggles in the back of his mind; he worries at it like a loose tooth.

Every time Zhang Zhanhua looks at him with approval, or gives him one of her rare but invaluable words of praise, it sinks further in: there’s nothing Shang Lei has that the System has actually given him, everything he’s achieved he’s earned for himself.

It’s mildly terrifying, in the same way it was terrifying to realize that he could change things; to understand that for all this is a world he seemingly created, that he has no control over anymore, this is still a reality that he lives in and he has control over his own life.

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

It’s late summer when Shang Lei finally sees Mo Baixiu again.

The heat is beginning to mellow with the advance of early fall, the days seeming to turn long and deep gold; the first signs of changing leaves starting to show on the mountainsides, signalling all the preparation for the work to be done as fall settles in on An Ding.

Shang Lei returns to his Leisure House for a rare early evening; he still has a satchel of scrolls slung over his shoulder, neatly folded into the qiankun space to protect them from any harm during transport, and another satchel of groceries hanging from his arm. He’s flushed and disheveled from the chilly wind that’s been kicking up throughout the day, a sure portend that the towering clouds building on the horizon are going to bring a storm; strands of hair working free of his bun to frame his face and tickle the back of his neck.

He thinks nothing of it when he finally unlatches the door to his house and steps inside to find it crisply cool, even though he’s left the windows shut all day to keep the wind from disturbing the precarious tower of spare paper, books, and scrolls that are currently spread across the two tables he’s pushed together into one in the middle of his sitting room. He drops the satchel of scrolls on top of the already-impressive pile, taking a moment to straighten things so it doesn’t topple over under the weight of the new addition, before moving into the kitchen to start putting away his groceries and figuring something out for dinner.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to look around the sitting room and notice the mass of fur and silk laid across the arhat daybed that stands against the wall next to the bedroom door. Shang Lei approaches cautiously, his first thought that this is some kind of prank--Li Min having a ridiculous knack for covertly breaking locking talismans and resetting them--before he sinks his hands into the fur and lifts the whole thing up to get a better look at it, and the heavy perfume that’s been seared into Shang Lei’s heart wafts through the room. The fur is incredibly soft and plush; the blue-dyed silk and leather that make up the body and structure of the heavy, cloak-like coat are of the highest quality; the embroidery done around the sleeves, hems, and lapels is rich and intricate, subtly elegant scenes of snowy mountain pines accented with thread of silver.

Shang Lei has to resist the urge to bury his face in the fur; to breathe in the scent he learned from Mo Baixiu’s hair and skin.

There’s no other sign of his Prince, though, so he carefully lays the cloak back over the couch and goes into the bedroom. The pile of outer robes haphazardly thrown over the chair in the corner of the room and trail of inner robes leading to the bathroom tell an eloquent story of what must have happened while Shang Lei was gone: his Prince had arrived to visit, found the house empty, and decided to indulge himself in his apparently habitual long soak in the bath.

Gathering up the robes on the floor and laying them over their chair with their fellows, Shang Lei finds himself just as charmed as he’d been when he’d first learned this little habit of his Prince’s.

He knocks on the bathroom door, calling out for Mo Baixiu, before cracking the door open to peek inside.

The bathroom is even cooler than the rest of the house, little furls of frost spread across the floor; arcing out from the tub where Mo Baixiu is spread luxuriantly in the water.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, leaning against the door frame to support his suddenly-weak knees at the sight.

Mo Baixiu shifts languidly in the tub to face Shang Lei, “Husband,” he says, his voice as resonant and deep as Shang Lei remembers.

And then he gets his feet under him and stands, and Shang Lei has to hide his face in his sleeve; the image of Mo Baixiu’s well-muscled torso rising from the bath, little trails left by water droplets winding down his abdomen towards the adonis belt of his iliac crest, is too much for him right now.

He hears the shifting of a towel, and the softest huff of bemused laughter from Mo Baixiu, “You helped me to bathe while I was injured,” he says, voice low and smoky, suddenly near, “but you look away now?”

Shang Lei lowers his sleeve, and looks up to where Mo Baixiu looms over him, muscular arm braced on the door frame just above where Shang Lei is leaning: he looks perfect; every inch of him could have been sculpted out of glacial ice, even the remaining water droplets on his skin have chilled into a soft glaze of frost that makes him shine in the amber-toned light that diffuses through the window-lining. Anything Shang Lei might have said in reply stalls; he can feel his cheeks heat and his eyes widen, his mouth go slack as he tries to survive the barrage of mostly-naked dream-man he’s currently faced with. Even the way Mo Baixiu’s hair is piled artfully on top of his head is somehow picturesque, rather than childish like when Shang Lei does it.

Mo Baixiu’s face softens somehow, he looks fond, indulgent of how struck-speechless Shang Lei is; reaching forward to card the very tip of one of his claws through the wisps of hair that have fallen into Shang Lei’s face, ever so gently tucking them behind Shang Lei’s ear. His fingertips brushing deliberately against the jade drop of Shang Lei’s earring.

“You wear them,” Mo Baixiu says, softly, wonderingly, tenderly.

“Every day,” Shang Lei rasps, mouth suddenly desert-dry, “I--,” he stutters, “I’ve worn them every day.”

There’s no word to describe the sound Mo Baixiu makes, hearing that; some deep and territorial instinct apparently satisfied, a pleased rumble that’s barely audible but unmistakable. He leans forward, amusem*nt written in the barest turn of his mouth, the slightest crinkling of his eyes, “You can look if you want to,” he says, and then steps past Shang Lei and into the bedroom.

Shang Lei wheezes, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the door frame, trying to marshal his mental resources so he can continue functioning in the face of that.

He hears the shifting sounds of cloth, and finally manages to pull himself together as Mo Baixiu finishes tying the belt of the simple under-robe--one of those Shang Lei had gotten him, that had been hemmed to the right length over the course of the past few months, whenever Shang Lei had the spare time--and leans over the chair to start hunting through the sleeve pockets of the intricate formal robes he’d arrived in.

“I’m going to make dinner,” Shang Lei blurts, before escaping to the kitchen. He feels somewhat bewildered, but delighted because his Prince is flirting with him?

By the time he’s finished with dinner, Mo Baixiu has apparently found what he was looking for: sitting on the arhat daybed with a lacquered box beside him. Shang Lei wants to ask about it, but then he realizes that the table is covered in paperwork and so he has to set the tray down and hurry over to shuffle everything around until he can free one of the tables that he’d commandeered to make up a desk.

Setting out the dishes on the now-cleared table and ignoring the mess piled up behind him, Shang Lei smiles at Mo Baixiu as he moves to take a seat across from him.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, unable to restrain how happy he is, “I’m glad to see you.”

They eat at a leisurely pace, taking the time to talk: Shang Lei tells Mo Baixiu some of the juicier An Ding gossip--Master Zhuang burnt down his workshop again; Arms Master Yang had supposedly seduced one of Wan Jian’s swordmasters; Master Hong and Master Wen got into a fistfight over whether cloisonné or silk painting were the superior art form--and vaguely describes the amount of work he’s currently doing. In return, Mo Baixiu describes his own recent travels: making a tour of the Northern Demon Realm’s border with the south at his father’s order and ensuring that none of the southern lords vying for Tianlang-Jun’s favor would find an easy target to raid while the north’s attention was elsewhere, and then making his way north to visit his mother’s branch of the Mo Clan.

Shang Lei is desperately curious about Mo Baixiu’s family, considering his worldbuilding in that area had been a few throwaway lines about Linguang-Jun that had apparently been translated into an entire far-reaching drama that Mo Baixiu was obviously deeply affected by.

“Ah,” Shang Lei says, “did you have a nice time?” he asks, unsure of a better way to phrase the question.

Mo Baixiu nods, “It was satisfactory,” he says, “Mother’s branch of the clan has always been less concerned with superficiality, the far north is too harsh to allow them to indulge in such things,” he pauses, eyes sliding over to the lacquered box sitting at his elbow, “my sister lives there.”

“Your sister,” Shang Lei echoes.

“Half sister,” Mo Baixiu amends.

Shang Lei shoves a piece of fruit in his mouth and makes an inquiring noise to try and prompt Mo Baixiu to say more, because a half sister??

“Mo Baiyun,” Mo Baixiu says, “my father’s daughter with his third wife.”

“But she lives in your mother’s village?” Shang Lei asks, morbidly fascinated by the family dynamics currently being revealed.

“My mother raised her as her own daughter,” Mo Baixiu says, “after my father’s lack of care caused the death of her birth mother.”

“Oh,” Shang Lei manages, biting his tongue so he doesn’t ask insensitive questions.

“Baiyun finds court as tiresome as I do,” Mo Baixiu says, “she prefers the simplicity of life in the far north,” he looks into the middle distance, his thoughts obviously far away, “Mother would take us to visit her family when we were children, it was...a reprieve that we were grateful for,” he looks back at Shang Lei, “When she had the chance, Baiyun chose to return there, and only attends court when necessary.”

Shang Lei nods, unsure of what to say in the face of the almost wistful expression on Mo Baixiu’s face: remembering what must have been some small occasions of happiness during his childhood; his obvious and careful fondness for his sister.

“I sought her advice,” Mo Baixiu says, pushing the lacquered box across the table towards Shang Lei, “although I did not reveal anything specific about...our situation.”

If Mo Baixiu were anyone else, Shang Lei would say he sounded bashful; but this is Mo Baixiu, so he just sounds calm and reticent and like he definitely hadn’t just admitted he went all the way to the far north to ask his sister for advice about courting gifts, apparently. Shang Lei honestly wishes he could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation, because he can only imagine how exactly Mo Baixiu had solicited this advice--which he’d apparently actually followed--while not giving away any details of why or for whom he was asking.

And then Shang Lei opens the box, and all his thoughts of what Mo Baixiu might have asked his sister about are swept away.

The box is lined with silk, which gently supports the most exquisite jewelry Shang Lei has ever seen.

Each piece is carved from some kind of stone--something like moonstone or opal or white jade or maybe even petrified wood--a perfect creamy white, shot through with flecks of something luminescent, the whole thing catching the light in such a way that it seemed to glow from within in a soft spectrum of blues, like an ice formation. A hair crown and accompanying pins, the crown carved in the shape of broad leaves with artfully random offshoots of branches, each branch supporting a tiny spray of orchids; each miniature flower painstakingly shaped and arranged. The pins are just as detailed, with some shaped so the ends are decoratively bare branches, and some shaped so the pin would fasten and support two more delicate sprays of orchids when worn.

Shang Lei doesn’t know what his face is doing, but he has to swallow when he looks up at Mo Baixiu, and blink wetness out of his eyes.

“Baiyun makes a study of flowers of the human realm,” Mo Baixiu says softly, “She says that humans believe the orchid represents beauty” his voice lilts as though he were asking for Shang Lei to confirm, “love,” he says, “and good fortune.”

“Yes,” Shang Lei says, helpless, “that’s...she’s right…”

“Good,” Mo Baixiu says, inexorably. He reaches out and gathers Shang Lei’s hands in his own, gently smoothing his thumbs over Shang Lei’s knuckles, over the ink stains on his fingers, over the callouses from his sword. “I wished to be sure I used the correct symbolism.”

Shang Lei melts. He can’t help it. There’s absolutely no defence he can muster against the surety in Mo Baixiu’s voice.

“My Prince,” Shang Lei says, voice choked, “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You like it?” Mo Baixiu asks.

Shang Lei nods, not trusting his voice. Mo Baixiu still hasn’t let go of his hands, idly exploring the length of Shang Lei’s fingers, the width of his palms, the span of his wrists.

“It’s made from the antler of a Great-Antlered Icepelt Stag,” Mo Baixiu says, his pride obvious, “that I slew myself.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Shang Lei whispers, turning his hands in Mo Baixiu’s and squeezing them.

“You need say nothing,” Mo Baixiu replies, “that it pleases you is enough.” He lets go of Shang Lei’s hands, and Shang Lei feels cast adrift, almost.

Shang Lei scrubs at his eyes, hoping he hasn’t gone all blotchy but knowing it’s likely he has. He lets out a shuddering breath and closes the box, gently settling the lid back into place. It takes him a moment before he can make himself move further, but he makes himself gather up their dishes and take them to the kitchen; letting the familiar tidying and washing up settle him.

Mo Baixiu has retreated to the bedroom by the time Shang Lei is done, but the box is still sitting innocently on the table where Shang Lei had left it.

Shang Lei leaves it there. He can’t deal with it right now.

He gets ready for bed, and then climbs in beside his Prince, curling himself into the safety of Mo Baixiu’s arms. Something about being held, something about the thoughtfulness of the gift, has Shang Lei tearing up; a sob choking in his throat as he presses his face into Mo Baixiu’s shoulder and cries. His Prince says nothing, but a hand comes up and rubs gently at Shang Lei’s back until his tears are spent, and Shang Lei falls asleep listening to the gentle sound of Mo Baixiu’s heartbeat and breath.

In the morning he still feels wrung out, but recovered enough to deal with it.

He makes breakfast, he bids his Prince goodbye when Mo Baixiu dresses and disappears in a waft of frigid air, he takes the box from the sitting room table and tucks it safely away in his dresser.

Shang Lei feels tired, and overcome, and utterly, utterly loved.

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

Time seems to go faster as the summer turns decisively to fall on An Ding.

Shang Lei’s workload evens out as the various fall harvests begin to pass by--each crop being packed into specially-designed crates prepared with preservation seals to ensure continued freshness as the various produce, fruits, nuts, and grains were divided up based on what would be stored and what would be allocated for use--and the concerns of the peak turn towards maintenance before the oncoming winter.

Zhang Zhanhua is pleased with his work, and as a reward he’s granted mandatory rest time that leaves him not exactly at loose ends, but rather allows him to catch his breath just enough to realize the enormity of the work he’d been putting in. Her cryptic words of his needing to learn to manage his efforts for greater sustainability reminds Shang Lei of An Mei and the rest of his cohort’s teasing-serious comments about his potential as future Head Disciple, and he stops his humble protests in favor of accepting the time. A bit of leisure time to himself every week didn’t seem like very much when he’d been granted it, but Shang Lei takes the time to further his meditation, to take his turn hosting his friends for dinner, to catch up on missed sleep.

Things settle into a pattern: he does his work, he takes his rest. He spends time with his friends. He dances, and dances, and dances. Sometimes his Prince will visit, and Shang Lei will make dinner and they’ll talk and cuddle and just be there for each other.

The hair crown that Mo Baixiu gave him stays safely tucked away in Shang Lei’s dresser, and is soon joined by a matching pair of earrings--exquisitely delicate sprays of tiny orchids hanging from silver settings--and a bracelet--a thick bangle engraved with the same orchid motif. They’re too fine for him to wear, of course; Icepelt antler was prized for its unique properties in jewelry making, but Icepelt Stags themselves were native to the boreal forests of the Northern Demon Realm and trade between the Human and Demon realms was irregular at best. Adding in the craftsmanship of the pieces, which Shang Lei’s experienced eye tells him are masterworks, and his Prince has casually gifted him the equivalent to a fortune.

Shang Lei tries to tell his Prince that he doesn’t need such gifts, but Mo Baixiu is insistent that he accept them. Shang Lei tries to explain to Mo Baixiu about commodities and scarcity and the difference between common goods in the Demon Realm and Human Realm, with little success; his Prince graciously listens to him prattle about economics for an entire evening, before conveniently forgetting to take his latest gift with him when he leaves. Abandoning a small box of priceless hairpins--silver wrought in the shape of gnarled branches, set artfully with the same miniature orchids as the rest of the parure his Prince must have commissioned--on Shang Lei’s bedside table.

In an effort to protect the ridiculously rare and expensive jewelry he’s been given, Shang Lei arranges it all in one box and carefully stores it in a small qiankun pouch before tucking that qiankun pouch into the lockbox where he keeps all of his most treasured items. It’s really not a foolproof way to keep them safe, but he’s at a loss for what to do with them and when the dazzle of receiving them wears off he feels deeply anxious about keeping something so valuable.

On his Prince’s next visit, however, Shang Lei is promised that he now has all the pieces of the set, and that Mo Baixiu will give more thought to his gifts. Shang Lei accepts the compromise, aware that he’s not going to successfully convince Mo Baixiu that he’s had enough gifts, really.

Beyond the progress he makes with his Prince, though, other things progress as well.

Yue Qingyuan and Zhang Zhanhua continue to meet regularly as the months pass.

Shang Lei--by virtue of his position as a Whisper, his Peak Lord’s current favored disciple, and his supposed potential placement as Head Disciple--is once again tasked with accompanying his Peak Lord to these meetings and taking notes while providing his own thoughts in commentary.

Most of the meetings are simply discussion of sect business; Yue Qingyuan, as Sect Leader, is chief administrator of the sect and Zhang Zhanhua, as Master of Logistics, makes the greatest use of Qiong Ding’s administrative machinery. There are similarly complementary relationships between peaks throughout the sect. Wan Jian and Yan Jiu, being the sword peak and the research and spiritual tool creation peaks respectively, collaborated on projects involving expertise on how different materials and items could channel and contain spiritual energy. Qian Cao and Yan Huo, the medical and alchemical peaks, often worked together; when Yan Huo’s expertise wasn’t being turned towards creating fireworks, signal flares, and other experiments. Qing Jing and Xue Fu, as the peak most devoted to scholarship and the peak focused on the study of talismans and arrays, also frequently cooperated to offer lecture series and workshops to senior cultivators from across Cang Qiong.

Throughout the summer Huan Hua Palace had been quiet, content with gathering the general support of the three other great sects, but as the fall set in Yue Qingyuan increasingly offered updates about the requests Cang Qiong Mountain had received.

At first it was simply an effort to confirm that Cang Qiong would support Huan Hua when they moved against Tianlang-Jun with the other sects. Then it was the Old Palace Master’s belabored grief about the loss of Su Xiyan--despite continued evidence provided by the Whispers that the Old Palace Master remained comfortably ensconced in Huan Hua Palace without any efforts being made by Huan Hua Cultivators to search--and his entreaties to Yue Qingyuan’s well-known compassionate nature. Finally, it was the public announcement that any truly righteous cultivator would support Huan Hua Palace’s efforts to find and avenge their lost Head Disciple; an obvious but effective play by the Old Palace Master to force allegiance with his goals for fear of losing face and sullying reputations.

Unfortunately, the Old Palace Master’s efforts were bearing fruit; many of the smaller sects had sworn in their support, and to keep ahead of the rising tide of suspicion in the cultivation world for anyone who might harbor sympathy for demons, Yue Qingyuan was impelled to offer his cautious support more firmly than his initial acceptance of the Old Palace Master’s objective.

It was a precariously delicate situation they found themselves in, as the fall began to turn inexorably to winter and the Old Palace Master’s so-called Great Sect Alliance began to marshal more directly for action.

Airplane had never specified exactly when Luo Binghe had been born, beyond that his adoptive mother had found him in the icy Luo river and named him for it. But now that the rivers were beginning to freeze, he felt the anticipation that the protagonist would soon come into the world like a shiver crawling down his spine. Naturally, in the world of Proud Immortal Demon Way, they didn’t use the Georgian calendar of the modern world, but Airplane was lazy about this particular aspect of his worldbuilding and hadn’t really felt like figuring out the specifications of the traditional lunisolar calendar with its variables and calculations, so he’d fused the two together into an easy amalgam: twelve months of thirty days each, with all the festivals and equinoxes and lunar events shuffling around on predictable schedules that he could reliably remember--although the number of random festivals and holidays had understandably increased as he’d continued writing, until the year’s calendar was jam-packed with excuses for parties and party-related hijinks.

Now that they were entering Shiyiyue he was fairly certain that everything was about to go to hell.

He woke up everyday with bated breath, hovering around his Peak Lord even more closely than usual in case news came; and thus volunteering himself for even more work. When Zhang Zhanhua finally exhausted her patience with his stickiness and asked him why, he couldn’t offer an explanation beyond having a bad feeling which Shang Lei was mortified at being reduced to Star Wars references, even if his Peak Lord accepted it with her usual impartial consideration.

Shang Lei almost wished his Prince would visit, just so he could try and get news from the Demon Realm, but as Shiyiyue crept along and Mo Baixiu remained absent, he found he couldn’t regret it too much when he knew he’d have probably just seemed suspicious or let some knowledge he wasn’t supposed to have slip out.

It was mid-month when Yue Qingyuan and Zhang Zhanhua met again, in a hastily arranged evening meeting, to discuss the plan the Old Palace Master had finally proposed: a trap, based around a powerful sealing array, to imprison Tianlang-Jun--privately, Shang Lei thought the Old Palace Master was unsure what it would take to kill a full-blooded Heavenly Demon--and bring him to justice for his supposed crimes. It didn’t escape Yue Qingyuan’s notice that all talk of rescuing Su Xiyan had slowly dried up as the months passed, and now the Old Palace Master had riled the cultivation world’s opinion against Tianlang-Jun enough that no one seemed to care that the woman they were ostensibly fighting to save had apparently been given up for dead.

The plain disgust in Yue Qingyuan’s voice when he described the latest meeting of sect heads he’d attended at the Old Palace Master’s request--consisting mostly of the Old Palace Master claiming to have a plan to entrap Tianlang-Jun while avoiding explaining what that plan was, and informing the various Sect Leaders that he would call upon them very soon for aid--had been especially unnerving, considering Yue Qingyuan could keep a calm voice and poker face with the best of them.

That not three days later Yue Qingyuan received an urgent summons and left Cang Qiong in haste, signalled that the time was finally at hand. He didn’t take anyone with him, and only gave the barest word that he was going to fulfil his promise of assistance to Huan Hua Palace before he swept into the sky, both Xuan Su and Su Mu--Yue Quingyuan’s second sword, that he could actually unsheathe without starting to slowly die--in hand.

News didn’t reach An Ding until after Yue Qingyuan had left, and Shang Lei didn’t hear about it until late in the afternoon--a small mercy, considering he knew he’d have spent the whole day jumping at shadows and jittering if he’d known--and by late night Yue Qingyuan had returned; sending a runner to An Ding asking Zhang Zhanhua to meet him on Qian Cao.

By this point Shang Lei is so used to following his Peak Lord when she goes to meet with the Sect Leader that he’d worked on autopilot; making sure he had paper and his writing kit before following her out of her office. She didn’t stop to tell him to stay behind, nor seemed concerned with his presence, so Shang Lei took it as tacit permission to be there and hastened to keep up.

Yue Qingyuan was in a private room in the main healing hall on Qian Cao, being attended by Wan Zhanrong, the Qian Cao Peak Lord herself. Shang Lei noticed Mu Qingfang--Qian Cao’s Head Disciple and his Peak Lord’s successor--lurking off to the side with a fistful of needles, apparently ready to sedate their Sect Leader if his Shizun indicated it was necessary.

The Sect Leader looked exhausted--grey in the face and dark circles under his eyes--as though he’d aged since Shang Lei had last seen him three days ago. And maybe he had. Yue Qingyuan looked like he’d seen fierce battle; Su Mu and Xuan Su were both sitting innocuously to the side on a temporary stand, but between the two of them it was Xuan Su that looked like it had seen battle, not Su Mu. His wounds had already been tended and wrapped, and he had been bundled into one of the warm and comfortable sets of robes kept by the healers for their patients to change into.

He spoke a few quiet words with Wan Zhanrong, before offering his greeting to Zhang Zhanhua; a request for privacy apparently, because Mu Qingfang was gently herded from the room by his Shizun before she applied an exaggerated silencing talisman to the door and shut it behind her.

Shang Lei settled himself quietly and unobtrusively in the corner and hoped that Yue Qingyuan would ignore his presence as part of the furniture. He didn’t trust himself not to try and eavesdrop if he was kicked out, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of the Sect Leader and two Peak Lords if he could help it.

Yue Qingyuan’s recounting of events was rough: the Old Palace Master had sent out his call for aid, and Yue Qingyuan had answered personally, unwilling to endanger anyone else from Cang Qiong. When he’d arrived at the appointed place, things were already not as the Old Palace Master had claimed: the various sect representatives were disorganized, the array to trap Tianlang-Jun was unfinished as Master Wu Wang of Zhao Hua Temple had never answered the summons or arrived to offer his aid. The Old Palace Master himself had been improperly flustered by everything that was happening, giving differing orders to his disciples and the various sect representatives who’d arrived at his summons.

When Tianlang-Jun had arrived, the Heavenly Demon in an obvious fury, Yue Qingyuan had done the only thing he could think of to rescue the lives of his fellow cultivators, and engaged the Heavenly Demon Emperor in battle with Xuan Su. It had been a tremendous fight, Yue Qingyuan engaging strength he usually kept so carefully in check to square off with Tianlang-Jun.

Most of the cultivators had fled when battle was joined, recognizing they couldn’t survive against the Heavenly Demon Emperor.

Yue Qingyuan had persisted to buy time, wounding Tianlang-Jun and being wounded in turn, before the Old Palace Master had made his move; striking Tianlang-Jun with some technique Yue Qingyuan couldn’t recognize but had obviously been enough to affect the demon. Tianlang-Jun had been badly injured by it, and apparently having ascertained that whatever he’d come for wasn’t there, had fled.

Afterwards, Yue Qingyuan had tried to press the Old Palace Master for information about how his plan had gone so wrong, but all he’d managed to learn was the Palace Master’s deep enmity against Tianlang-Jun was apparently personal; a regret he’d not managed to kill the demon outright, and the hope that he’d die of his injuries. Trying to find out what the Old Palace Master had used to lure Tianlang-Jun there was similarly futile, and Yue Qingyuan had given up.

He’d checked with the remaining cultivators, most of them unharmed by anything more than being in the periphery of the titanic battle that’d taken place, and couldn’t learn anything more from them either; nothing about why Master Wu Wang had failed to arrive, nor the Old Palace Master’s plans. The only thing he’d learned was that the observing cultivators had seen the battle from a distance and heard the Old Palace Master’s hope for Tianlang-Jun’s impending demise, and had become convinced that this meant Tianlang-Jun would soon be dying of his wounds.

The rumour that the Heavenly Demon Emperor had met his ultimate end spreading faster than Yue Qingyuan could correct it.

Zhang Zhanhua took all of this news in stride, completely unflappable even in the face of such a disaster.

Shang Lei, however, couldn’t help himself from doodling down his thoughts out of long habit as he noted down Yue Qingyuan’s words: It was a sh*tshow, obviously.

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

Yue Qingyuan heals well from his injuries; his high spiritual strength apparent in the way he recovers, returning to his own residence the next morning without any apparent strain and gracefully accepting Wan Zhanrong’s instructions to rest. After a few weeks the tired and strained look that he’d had fades, and he returns to complete health.

Shang Lei, who isn’t supposed to know the truth behind Yue Qingyuan’s two swords or the reason Xuan Su--a legendarily powerful blade--is so rarely unsheathed, breathes a personal sigh of relief that Yue Qingyuan doesn’t seem to have any lingering effects from his battle with Tianlang-Jun.

As Shiyiyue fades into Shieryue, and no more news comes of Tianlang-Jun or Su Xiyan, things within the cultivation world begin to settle as well.

The Old Palace Master had gained praise for his intervention in the battle between Yue Qingyuan and Tianlang-Jun, and the rumour that he’d struck a killing blow on the Heavenly Demon Emperor had spread far and fast--likely helped along by Huan Hua Palace’s connections--but at the same time, his reputation had taken quite the blow when his original plan had fallen apart so spectacularly.

Likewise, Yue Qingyuan had gained in reputation as well; all of the cultivators who’d been present at the failed sealing being well aware that had Yue Qingyuan not faced Tianlang-Jun, they almost certainly would have been slain. There’s no apparent downside to this, but Yue Qingyuan certainly doesn’t seem to appreciate his newfound fame as a match for the Heavenly Demon Emperor.

It’s a few weeks later, when his Prince visits and gives him the news that the Southern Demon Realm has descended into war, that Shang Lei feels somewhat anxious about Tianlang-Jun’s fate.

Luo Binghe has either been born already or is just about to be, Su Xiyan’s disappearance is still completely unexplained, and now Tianlang-Jun has apparently decided against returning to the Demon Realm.

The unanswered questions bother Shang Lei incessantly. He tries not to show his apprehensiveness to his Prince, and generally fails. Mo Baixiu interprets his anxiety as concern for how the south’s wars will affect the north, however, and so Shang Lei enthusiastically confirms this and takes the opportunity to ask questions.

Tianlang-Jun’s presence had held the many southern demon clans in check since he’d taken the position of Heavenly Demon Emperor and nominal control of the Southern Demon Realm. In theory he was meant to be the great overlord of the demon realm, but the functional powerbase of the Heavenly Demons had fractured centuries ago. Those Heavenly Demons that had ruled the north had intermarried with their subjects and eventually formed into the Mo Clan. In the south, the bloodline had simply withered away into a few remaining members, of whom Tianlang-Jun was the only living pure-blooded heir.

Airplane had spent a lot of time thinking and writing about the Demon Realm. The Human Realm was easy; all the worldbuilding was already mostly done just by virtue of the xianxia setting, and determining a vague time period for things to happen in. The Demon Realm, however, was something that Airplane had gotten to make up wholesale: he might not have put a ton of thought into some of the aspects he’d built in just for the sheer rule of cool, but he’d come up with dozens upon dozens of demon clans; interesting cultural differences for each of the demon realms; a general idea of who governed each territory; cities and roads and passes and waterways; ranks and titles and etiquette.

This means that when Mo Baixiu tells him that Sha Hongduo is currently ascendant in the south, Shang Lei actually knows who he’s talking about. It’s been a little more than a month since Tianlang-Jun went missing--although privately, Shang Lei has decided that the Heavenly Demon had seen his opportunity to escape the extremely tedious demands of being a figurehead emperor and is now recuperating in the human world and continuing to search for his wife--but the Southern Demon Lords haven’t wasted any time at all. The south’s numerous clans had quickly fallen into war with each other to decide who would control the prime territories and who would be forced into vassalage.

Sha Hongduo, the current matriarch of the Sha Clan--and Sha Hualing’s mother!--is a powerful Demon Saintess who had previously controlled the large swathes of subtropical jungle that covered the far south of the Demon Realm down to the southern sea. Now, her reach stretches across the coastal range that had provided a natural border to her territories and into the badlands and semi-arid deserts beyond; swiftly conquering or allying with her nearest neighbors to bring more than a third of the Southern Demon Realm under her control. Her closest rivals in the south are currently occupied fighting each other, and it’s expected that Sha Hongduo’s armies will reach the coveted chaparral heartlands of the demonic south before anyone can move to oppose her; neatly securing not only one of the wealthiest regions in the Demonic Realm, but also gaining control of a long and uninterrupted stretch of the south’s largest river, from the deltas that feed into the southern sea to the meandering stretch that winds through the scrublands and can be followed all the way back to its source in the Northern Demon Realm.

Shang Lei--Airplane, who’d spent so long wiki-walking while he figured out the general biomes and city placement and economies of the Demon Realm--is genuinely thrilled by all of this.

Not in the sense of the giant power vacuum that was collapsing in on itself now that Tianlang-Jun had--hopefully--decided to absent himself from the political landscape of the demonic south, but in the sense that Mo Baixiu kept mentioning the names of cities that had either fallen or surrendered to Sha Hongduo on her seemingly inexorable march to becoming the most powerful Southern Demon Lord, and Shang Lei recognized them and could remember the general details he’d written about each of them.

Also, the Sha Clan and the Mo Clan--unlike the Mo Clan and literally every southern demon clan that had territory near the border between the north and south--were on relatively good terms and had several functional trade agreements; exchanging commodities between the far north and far south. Which meant that if Shang Lei played his cards right then maybe he could convince his Prince to help him broker a deal to get enough olive saplings to start their own grove on An Ding rather than having to rely on the irregular trade between the Human and Demon Realms to get exorbitantly-priced jars of processed olive oil.

Oh, did Airplane rue the day that he decided that the Human Realm would basically be an average xianxia setting aside from the specific worldbuilding he’d done in select places, and thus being old-timey China in a fancier hat, didn’t have olive trees. No, all the olive trees were in the Demon Realm, where he’d decided that a nice Mediterannean climate would make the southern heartland where the Heavenly Demon Palace had been built seem exotic and cool. A gently rolling region covered in live oaks and olive orchards with occasional stands of cypress and sycamore; a veritable breadbasket of olive oil, wheat, grapes, figs, walnuts, almonds, dates, bay laurel, rosemary, lavender, and citrus fruits. Surrounded by softly blooming rainshadow desert to the south and mountains covered in sweeping montane forests and subalpine evergreens to the north. The chaparral nature of the region evident in the dramatic fire ecology which he’d used to great effect many times: Luo Binghe having rescued several of his scores of wives from being endangered by a wildfire, leading to many dramatic monologues about the inherent power and nobility of wild nature, many dramatic narrative comparisons between said wild nature and Luo Binghe himself, and lots of dramatic papapa.

Which was great, really. His readers had eaten it up. But now Shang Lei wants some goddamn olive oil that doesn’t cost several taels of silver a jar. It was practically highway robbery: the oil being processed and refined in the demon realm and then sold to the human realm at what was already quite the markup, and then the human merchants adding their own markup on top of that to make up the cost of the difficulty of getting it and the high price they’d paid the demon traders.

Considering that the Demon Realm is also where he’d put the potatoes, tomatoes, chocolate, various chili peppers, and all the other New World crops from the Columbian Exchange; Shang Lei feels somewhat obligated to figure out how to get ahold of all of the wonders of Demonic Realm agriculture for his martial siblings.

He also wants to see An Mei try and figure out a pineapple before he dies, sue him.

The fact that Shang Lei’s obvious interest in the Demon Realm is something his Prince finds incredibly gratifying is really just another benefit of their lengthy discussion about the current situation in the demonic south. Mo Baixiu takes his time explaining various interesting things about the Demon Realm to Shang Lei, who absorbs everything with the deep fascination of a parent seeing how their child has grown up without them; or in this case, how the gaps in their worldbuilding have been filled in.

Over the course of several visits they talk about the north and the south; the architecture and the food and the styles of clothing; the various demon clans; Sha Hongduo’s crushing victory over the Yong clan that wins her control over the southern heartlands and her subsequent victory lap that included some gentle sacking of the Heavenly Demon Palace--apparently she’d visited and admired it while a guest of Tianlang-Jun’s and had taken the opportunity to hunt through the palace for everything she’d liked while she was there, including several large murals she’d apparently had carefully carved from the walls and transported back to the palace in her capitol--before handily beating back the last challengers to her domination of the south and then returning victorious to her capitol to throw what was apparently the rager of the century.

At one point Shang Lei spends several convoluted minutes explaining the concept of charcuterie without using the word ‘charcuterie’. It’s very hard to hint about things he’s technically not supposed to know about, beyond being able to say that he’d heard or read about something from the Demon Realm and is curious about it. It’s even more aggravating when his Prince finally understands what he means, and tells him that in the Demon Realm it's called ‘charcuterie’. Which. Airplane had thought it would be a good idea to make the Demon Realm seem more exotic to Luo Binghe’s human wives--there had been about ten solid chapters where Ning Yingying and Liu Mingyan had been shepherded around and shown all the wonders of the Demon Realm that Airplane had released as special bonus content--by adding all the interesting landscapes and cool foods he could think of. Hence the potatoes. And chocolate. Now that Shang Lei apparently is the human wife--who, consequently, would do f*cking murder for french fries once he’d realized that was a thing that he could potentially eat again--he feels he’s really living the ‘human spouse being impressed with commonplace Demon Realm thing’ wife plot to the fullest.

But also ‘charcuterie’. What the f*ck. He’s still not sure if France exists? Most of the maps cut off about at the border of what general scholarship tells him is analogous to India? And the border to the Demon Realm is semi-mystical and just sort of There in a general westerly direction? The Demon Realm which explicitly does not fit any ‘real’ land masses because, again, the border is semi-mystical.

Shang Lei is aware he gets a little heated in explaining why, in the broadest possible terms, the semi-mystical border is sort of bullsh*t. Also his Prince seems to find his fixation on the various foods of the Demon Realm deeply amusing.

But things are good. Shang Lei just wishes he felt less like something terrible was about to happen.

Chapter 29

Chapter Text

Winter is a slightly less busy time on An Ding than the rest of the year: their main concerns are ensuring that everything holds up under the snow that blankets the Tian Gong Range; planning for the next year; keeping up with the crops that could be grown in winter; ensuring the sect’s livestock were properly sheltered; canning, pickling, and preserving what parts of the fall harvest weren’t being sold or stored; and working on crafts.

Zhang Zhanhua is still determinedly putting him through his paces in what Shang Lei increasingly agrees with An Mei is his trial before being made Head Disciple, but even the Peak Lord allows her schedule to ease during the winter.

So Shang Lei has plenty of early evenings when he can go home and spend time with his Prince, who’s been visiting regularly through the winter so far, and seems to be making a concerted effort to be there as Shieryue progresses.

He has to ask his Prince if it’s really alright that Mo Baixiu is spending so much time with him--there’s still the slightly niggling worry that some hitherto-untripped ward will finally sense Mo Baixiu’s presence and alert the sect’s defenders about the demon in their midst--but Mo Baixiu insists that it is.

During the deep winter the current Mobei-Jun’s court moves from the more northerly Northern Ice Fortress to the more southerly Crystal Ice Palace, and Mo Baixiu, who always volunteered to remain at the Northern Ice Fortress and command the garrison there, was not expected to do much but drill troops, hunt, and amuse himself until his father returned with the spring. Which means that when he concludes his duties no one expects to be able to find him, and he’s free to come and go as he wishes.

It feels terribly cozy, to wrap around Mo Baixiu in his little house--making a nest with blankets and a few judiciously applied warming talismans for Shang Lei’s comfort--while the winter night passes by outside.

They’re still very tender with each other; cautiously navigating their closeness and intimacy as they grow from strangers into--Shang Lei hopes--friends. Well, friends who are definitely romantically interested in each other. Because that’s a thing. Shang Lei is aware that’s a thing.

Mo Baixiu has been very transparent about his interest in Shang Lei. Shang Lei has likewise been transparent in his interest in Mo Baixiu. Despite this, neither of them have the experience to be completely confident. Their progress has been slow, but steadily it feels like they’ve reached a place where they can both be comfortable without worrying about the nebulous more that the future might bring.

The oncoming end of Shieryue, however, abruptly plunges An Ding back into its ceaseless work, with the coming of the new year and the accompanying festivals.

Shang Lei, knowing that there’s no possible way he’s going to have time to spare until at least the night of the Lantern Festival itself, makes a bold proposition and invites his Prince on a date.

It’s nothing elaborate, just the promise that Mo Baixiu will definitely be there, and they can watch the lanterns and fireworks together. Shang Lei is determined to find a place where they won’t be caught; vaguely afraid but also sort of exhilarated at the idea of taking his Prince somewhere on An Ding that wasn’t just his house.

Mo Baixiu agrees, and promises to arrive at the appointed time, and they settle down to enjoy their last evening together before the new year.

The next few days are hectic, to put it mildly; An Ding rested throughout Shiyiyue and Shieryue and now it rouses fully back to life.

Yue Qingyuan, as sect leader, is technically the leader of the sect’s festivities, but Zhang Zhanhua, as Lord of An Ding is without a doubt the leader of the sect’s preparations. For a few short days at the end of the year, An Ding reigns supreme amongst Cang Qiong’s peaks; Zhang Zhanhua dictating the law of the land with an unbending and uncompromising vision of how preparation should proceed.

Disciples from every peak are enlisted and given tasks under the direction of An Ding’s Masters: overseeing the scrubbing of every peak from top to bottom; the washing and mending of clothes; the preparation of decorations. Not a single member of Cang Qiong escapes the work, everyone from the lowliest disciple to the Peak Lords themselves being put to use. The sect’s main kitchens on An Ding work from dawn until dusk on the ingredients for the upcoming feast days, preparing the basic components before packing them and sending them off to the lesser kitchens on each peak; enough food for the entire sect to enjoy the festival feast days.

Yan Huo descends into a particular state of chaos as they hasten not only to complete their peak’s preparations for the new year, but also to make enough incense and fireworks to last throughout the days-long festival. A particular state of irony, as Yan Huo disciples excited for the festival can’t seem to help causing minor accidents that require them to redo their work keeping their peak clean.

Despite the hard work, a cheerfully festive atmosphere descends upon Cang Qiong.

Airplane had admittedly fudged some of the details of the traditional new year's celebrations; not only because he’d dispensed with most of the calculations of the lunisolar calendar, but also because by the time Luo Binghe the protagonist was in a situation to actually enjoy a full new year’s festival--aside from some heartwarming scenes with Ning Yingying during his disciple-hood that Airplane was pretty proud of--he’d been fresh out of the Endless Abyss and focused on revenge and conquest. Airplane had felt there was no point in belaboring most of the spiritual and familial activities, considering Luo Binghe was neither very spiritual or possessed of much family, and so while he’d mentioned the familiar activities, new year’s in the world of Proud Immortal Demon Way had slowly--over the course of millions and millions of words, and many many in-universe festivals--evolved into something more fluid than the regular fifteen days. Mostly because there were only so many romantic activities you could think of for Chigou’s Day and Horse’s Day and the Jade Emperor’s Birthday before you started cutting them out of the festival so you could skip to more dinners lovingly made by Luo Binghe to show off his godly kitchen skills, or making lanterns together, or watching fireworks, or going to festival markets, or teaming up to solve lantern riddles.

In this reality that had somehow formed out of the mess of Airplane’s literary epic, Cang Qiong’s celebrations of the new year are pretty much normal; which came as a surprise until Airplane thought about it for a little while and realized that with the concept of ‘filling in’ that this world seemed to be based around, there was no reason all his background mentions of the regular new year’s traditions wouldn’t translate into a pretty regular new year’s festival.

The reunion dinner on new year’s eve is more of a lunch, but it’s still a massive and delightful affair where all of An Ding gathers in the largest hall on the peak to eat together before everyone breaks up to visit each other’s Leisure Houses for more food and drinks and party games and firecrackers and truly ridiculous amounts of dumplings and niangao. Zhang Zhanhua, as Peak Lord, hosted the meal before taking her leave to go to Qiong Ding for the Peak Lord’s reunion dinner hosted by the sect leader; or, in this year’s case, hosted jointly by the new and former sect leaders, as none of Yue Qingyuan’s generation of Peak Lords had ascended yet beyond himself.

At midnight, when the fireworks start--Yan Huo firing off a truly spectacular number and variety, with their usual flare for pyromania--Shang Lei finds himself on the roof of Gao Huan’s Leisure House, juggling a bottle of rice wine and a plate of sweets while jostling for the best seat from which to view them against Li Fang’s unfairly sharp elbows and territorial slouch.

Over the next few days he attends and hosts meals with his friends and colleagues; makes the trek to Ku Xing and the temple there to light incense; sits in An Mei’s kitchen and helps to make a literal mountain of sweet rice balls; and gives and receives gifts with practically everyone he’s ever spoken to.

An Ding--which is usually closed to most disciples from other peaks due to the sheer volume of necessary work that can’t be interrupted and the delicacy of the more specialized workshops, groves, and storehouses--opens a fantastic festival market that attracts what must be the whole of Cang Qiong Mountain. Giggling knots of Xian Shu disciples competing with harried-looking groups of Qing Jing disciples to find the stalls set up by An Ding’s Master Artisans before the best pieces are gone. Zui Xian disciples making a game of finding the most outlandish possible item that could be used as a drinking vessel. Yan Huo disciples setting up their own stand to sell proprietary firecrackers they promised would spark in specific colors or make unique noises. Wan Jian disciples more interested in talking to An Ding’s smiths than buying anything. Bai Zhan disciples travelling in packs, roving the marketplace to look for food. Qian Cao disciples dividing their time between shopping and running their own stand handing out burn ointment to everyone who holds still long enough; rightly forseeing the amount of stupid burns and firecracker accidents that are going to take place. Xue Fu and Yan Jiu disciples descending en masse to buy new inkstones and brushes and water droppers and ink sticks in a novel variety of cute shapes, colors, and sizes. Ku Xing disciples wandering the market and enjoying the atmosphere. Qiong Ding disciples happily shepherding their younger shidis and shimeis around the marketplace.

On the day of the Lantern Festival, Shang Lei is abruptly taken by a jittery, excited feeling and determines that everything must be perfect for that evening. He’s spent the last few days scouting around for the perfect place to watch fireworks from; basing his search around multiple criteria such as privacy, likelihood of being discovered, privacy, vantage point, and privacy. Eventually he settles on a dock down in one of the mountain valleys between An Ding and the rest of the peaks: his scouting having assured him that there’s an excellent view of Yan Huo’s summit; that absolutely no one is going to be leaving the festivities on their peaks to go down there; and that if he slips away a bit before the appointed time, he can definitely get there without anyone noticing he’s gone.

He packs a qiankun pouch with everything they might possibly need, from food to a tiny iron stove to give just a little bit of light and warmth. Even though it won’t be until much later, Shang Lei can’t help but feel for the pouch in his sleeve as he goes about his day; idly checking that it’s still there as he helps An Mei hunt for branches of plum blossoms at the festival market. And later, when Li Fang and Li Min have linked their arms through his and are dragging him through the lantern riddle competition. And later, when he finishes folding his lantern and sets it free, and can’t help thinking of his Prince when he makes his wish.

When Shang Lei slips away from the festivities, it’s been dark for hours and Yan Huo has been firing off increasingly elaborate fireworks in regular intervals, interspersed with lanterns being loosed from each peak. It’s beautiful, the whole sky lit up with softly glowing lanterns floating away; or the bright, sharp bursts of color and noise from the fireworks.

He makes his way to the quiet little dock, and his feet have barely touched the wood before he draws the carved jade pendant his Prince gave him from his sleeve and channels the slightest touch of spiritual energy into it; alerting his Prince that it’s time and providing him with a trace to Shang Lei’s location.

Not that he particularly needs it. Mo Baixiu had explained a little bit of how it worked, so Shang Lei knew that his Prince could definitely find him regardless of the pendant or not; having spent so long getting a feel for Shang Lei’s unique spiritual energy signature.

Mo Baixiu materializes in a swirl of cold air. Shang Lei wouldn’t have noticed the difference between it and the regular air if not for the rush of breeze; it’s Yiyue, so the lake is frozen and there’s snow fresh on the ground, but the night is perfectly crisp and clear.

“My Prince!” Shang Lei greets him, beaming up at Mo Baixiu before turning to finish arranging the tiny brasier for its light and little bit of heat.

He doesn’t expect something heavy and warm to settle over his shoulders, and startles, turning back to look at his Prince.

Mo Baixiu looks very slightly self-satisfied in a way that would seem smug on someone less reserved, and Shang Lei can understand why as he examines the thick fur of the cloak that was just laid over his shoulders. For a moment he thinks it’s his Prince’s own cloak, but even in the dim firelight he can see that the fur is grey not black, and it’s very obviously cut for someone of his own height not his Prince’s.

“My Prince?” Shang Lei questions, looking up at Mo Baixiu curiously, but unable to stop running his hands through the down-soft mantle of fur.

“The Icepelt’s fur took some time to dress,” Mo Baixiu says, “but it’s done now,” he steps forward and does something to arrange the cloak better, adjusting the way it falls so that Shang Lei is perfectly cocooned in it, his fingers lingering around the fastenings near Shang Lei’s neck.

Shang Lei blushes, “It’s beautiful,” he says, “and so warm!”

Mo Baixiu gives a pleased hum and finally steps back, giving room Shang Lei to spread out the little bit of oilcloth tarp he’d brought when he realized they’d likely be sitting directly on the snow otherwise.

As they settle down next to each other, Shang Lei busies himself with finding the various snacks he’d brought, as well as the few bottles of wine. He sort of regrets not just shoving a whole little table into the qiankun because it would have been much easier, but dismisses the thought as he figures out the best way to arrange things on the oilcloth that Shang Lei supposes is acting as their picnic blanket.

The amazingly warm Icepelt fur cloak isn’t the only thing his Prince brought with him, because Mo Baixiu presents Shang Lei with offerings of his own; a packed box of various treats that must have come directly from the kitchens of the Northern Ice Fortress, based on how nicely everything is prepared and arranged, and a large bottle of some spirit that Mo Baixiu promises is good, when served properly.

‘Properly’ apparently means ‘hot’, because as Shang Lei watches, Mo Baixiu produces a battered iron kettle and sets it over the iron stove.

Shang Lei helpfully stokes the fire with a few more pieces of coal, and smiles when he accepts Mo Baixiu’s nod of gratitude.

Mo Baixiu pours the entire bottle into the kettle and then upends a pouch of mixed, crushed spices into the brew. Shang Lei catches the scent of cinnamon and anise and something else, before Mo Baixiu starts to peel an orange with businesslike haste; dropping pieces of rind and bits of fruit into the kettle as he goes along, until there’s only a single orange wedge left in his hands that he promptly eats himself.

Whatever it is smells wonderful, the warming wine starting to mix with the lingering scents of orange and spice; Mo Baixiu has a similarly-battered metal ladle that he stirs the mixture with, humming a bit and nodding to himself when he decides that it’s ready.

Shang Lei brought cups, so he offers them to his Prince and is rewarded with a steaming hot cup of something that Mo Baixiu seems proud of but hasn’t actually explained. They don’t toast, exactly, but Mo Baixiu salutes him casually with his cup before taking a long drink from it, so Shang Lei offers a salute in turn and then takes a cautious sip. Which he promptly chokes on.

“Ah!” Shang Lei exclaims, still sputtering, “It’s strong.”

Mo Baixiu doesn’t laugh, but Shang Lei thinks he hears a definite and very unrefined snort come from his Prince’s general direction.

Shang Lei, now prepared, takes another drink. It’s definitely not a wine or any spirit he’s ever tasted--in either life, which honestly isn’t saying much because Airplane had religiously followed his performance weight maintenance diet, and then been on heavy duty painkillers and explicitly forbidden from drinking at all--but it has a rich taste, emphasized by the spices and fruit. It warms his mouth and throat when he swallows, and he can feel the heat spreading through his body.

It must show on his face, because Mo Baixiu asks, “You like it?”

Shang Lei smiles at him, “Yes,” he says, taking another drink just as the span of time allotted for Zui Xian to release their lanterns ends and Yan Huo enthusiastically continues the fireworks display.

They talk amicably in the silences between clusters of fireworks, and enjoy the spread of treats. Shang Lei delves into the morsels his Prince brought with him with wild abandon, not stopping for propriety or air or sanity when Mo Baixiu hands him the box and he realizes that there’s not only chocolate, which, okay, was in pretty rudimentary little ingots formed of cocoa powder, sugar, and cocoa butter mixed with some sort of chili spice that melted into a pleasantly bittersweet heat on the tongue; but also something that seems like an open-faced baklava, a sticky, honey-rich mound of pastry and nuts; very fancy niangao; dates stuffed with soft cheese; cashews; and dragon’s beard candy filled with peanuts rather than An Ding’s usual crushed sesame seeds or coconut. It takes a few minutes for Shang Lei to realize that he’s been sitting there and staring off into space while sampling each treat and making little appreciative noises, but when he does he looks over at his Prince to find Mo Baixiu staring intently at him.

Shang Lei flushes, mortified, and holds out his cup for more drink. Mercifully Mo Baixiu seems more amused than anything, but Shang Lei still takes the opportunity to hide his face in his cup; putting the box of sweets down and scooting it discreetly away from himself so he doesn’t give into the delicious demonic temptation again.

Whatever’s in the hot spiced drink that Mo Baixiu made, it’s obviously strong, but so tasty that the alcohol content is deceptive. Shang Lei doesn’t exactly keep track of how many cups he drinks, but soon enough he can feel himself flushing from the spirit rather than embarrassment.

He goes from sitting upright to leaning on Mo Baixiu’s shoulder. The whole world feels warm and soft and wonderful. The fireworks are beautiful during their display, and each time they stop so Xue Fu, Yan Huo, and Yan Jiu can take their turns releasing lanterns the sight of the tiny specks of light and color rising into the night sky almost makes Shang Lei tear up.

There’s something about Mo Baixiu’s perfect, perfect face reflecting the light of the shimmering flares and sparks that makes Shang Lei melt; burying his face in his Prince’s shoulder and sighing deeply, overcome by how beautiful he is.

Shang Lei moves slowly, to try and counter how wobbly he feels, scooting over until he’s practically in Mo Baixiu’s lap, “My Prince,” he says, his mouth going soft around the words despite his best efforts, not slurring but rounding out the tones, “My Prince, I want to kiss you.”

“Shang Lei,” Mo Baixiu says, turning his beautiful face to look down at him, “you are drunk.”

A cool hand traces over Shang Lei’s flushed cheeks, giving the slightest and most teasing of pinches, but Shang Lei has goals. He pushes himself up on his knees and throws his arms around Mo Baixiu’s shoulders and leans in, fully meaning to kiss his Prince on his perfect mouth, but Mo Baixiu moves; tilting his head just slightly to the side so Shang Lei’s lips land on his cheek instead.

The effort overbalances him, and Shang Lei collapses into Mo Baixiu’s arms; knocked into his Prince’s lap by his own momentum and perfectly happy to stay there. Shang Lei makes a noise that even he can’t describe--some thwarted, needy little sound--and Mo Baixiu pulls him somewhat upright, cradling Shang Lei to his chest.

“Baixiu,” Shang Lei says, throwing all caution to the wind, “I want to kiss you,” he emphasizes the want, trying to convey the constant, slow-burning desire that Shang Lei has been carrying in his heart for months.

Without warning he tries again, but his lips are only allowed to land on Mo Baixiu’s other cheek rather than reaching their intended destination.

“I know,” Mo Baixiu hums, holding Shang Lei in his arms so tenderly that it’s almost painful, he leans forward and for a moment Shang Lei thinks it’s finally going to happen, but Mo Baixiu’s cool lips brush gently against Shang Lei’s forehead instead before he draws back, a hand comes up and pinches one of Shang Lei’s absolutely burning cheeks, “but not right now,” he whispers softly.

Shang Lei makes the noise again, this time with an added note of absolute helplessness. He shakes in Mo Baixiu’s arms, surrounded by the feel of his strength, the perfume of his hair, and contrasting coolness to Shang Lei’s heat. He doesn’t fully realize he’s passing out until the darkness eats his vision enough that all he can see is his Prince’s face before he’s swept under completely.

The next thing Shang Lei knows is the absolute misery of his hangover.

He’s in his own bed in his Leisure House, the Icepelt fur cloak laid over him like a blanket. There’s a pitcher that he hopes is water sitting on the bedside table and Shang Lei rolls himself towards it, desperate for relief from his parched throat and pounding head. It takes him a little while to figure out that he’s not going to manage the cup and just grab the whole pitcher to drink from, but he does it.

His mind and body both feel sluggish and heavy; when he can finally lever himself out of the bed and stumble into the bathroom, Shang Lei deliberately avoids the mirror so he doesn’t have to see his own miserable face.

There’s something lingering in the back of his mind, but he can’t even gather the focus to think about it until he’s nearly drowned himself in the bath trying to rinse the fog from his head. He doesn’t bother with anything more than wrapping himself in his dressing gown and rolling his hair into a towel before he stumbles into the kitchen in search of food.

It’s not until he’s made tea and rustled around for something that doesn’t make his stomach turn that he feels alive enough to actually think, and when he does, the first thing he happens to lay eyes on is a beautifully decorated lacquer box, painted with a motif of snow-covered mountains. It’s sitting innocuously on the table in his sitting room; alongside a tiny iron stove, a folded square of oilcloth tarp, another lacquered box Shang Lei recognizes as his own, two bottles of rice wine, and one large clear-glass bottle full of something that’s been stoppered but had obviously been opened before.

Curious, Shang Lei takes his tea and very light breakfast over to the table. He unstoppers the bottle and is immediately hit with the scent of strong spirits, spice, and orange.

All of his hazy memories of the night before sharpen into crystal clear focus, and Shang Lei feels a blush take him that spreads from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

He’d...he’d really…

Shang Lei buries his burning face in a couch pillow and screams.

Chapter 30

Chapter Text

There are, mercifully, a few days after the Lantern Festival set aside so everyone can recover from the festivities. Cang Qiong Mountain Sect is a haven of learning and righteous cultivation, so naturally some wise Sect Leader early after Cang Qiong’s founding recognized that when given the opportunity for excess they tended to party like it was going out of style and had instituted what were meant to be days of ‘meditation, reflection, and austere respite’; which was a very classy way of saying that everyone should have some time to recover from their overindulgences in peace.

Shang Lei, who had been so caught up in anticipation for his date with Mo Baixiu he’d paced himself throughout the preceding days of the festival, spends the rest of the first day nursing his aching head.

The thought of his Prince leaving the box of sweets for him as a gift after Shang Lei had been so obvious about his enjoyment makes him flush with pleased embarrassment; when he’d first found it he’d promised himself he’d ration the sweets out so they’d last a few days. But on the second day, he gives in to the temptation and feasts on leftovers and sweets for an indulgent late brunch before treating himself to a lengthy soak in a steaming hot bath. He follows the regime of cleansing and care that Wei He set for him, and spends the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the couch in his sitting room reading while letting the various oils and lotions do their work.

On the third day after the Lantern Festival, An Ding goes back to work.

Shang Lei rises at his usual early hour and goes through his morning routine feeling well-rested from the break; the happiness of the festival and the respite of the solitude afterward. Even his embarrassment over getting drunk had eased: he was still shocked with himself for being so bold, but he hadn’t done anything terrible. He’s stopped dwelling on it just to get the memory of Mo Baixiu’s words to stop running through his head, that whisper of possibility that Shang Lei wanted but couldn’t think too hard about without feeling his own desire wind even tighter around his heart.

“Not right now” wasn’t never, it was just eventually. Eventually as in: someday there will be kisses, ideally while you aren’t off your face on my fancy demon wine. Shang Lei felt heartened by this thought.

Usually, since the theoretical ‘potential Head Disciple’ trial had begun, Shang Lei was the first person other than Wei He herself to see Zhang Zhanhua in the morning. He arrived at her office practically at first light, and was dismissed late in the evening; which, while not the most impressive hours in the winter, was still more than most on An Ding interacted with their Peak Lord by several orders of magnitude.

When he arrives that morning, however, Zhang Zhanhua is already in a meeting with someone.

Shang Lei tries to be unobtrusive as he steps into the small entry foyer that separates the outer door of the Peak Lord’s Leisure House from the door to her receiving office, but his efforts to sneak around to the door to the Peak Lord’s personal office--where Wei He was likely beginning her work for the day while Zhang Zhanhua met her guest--are halted when his Peak Lord calls him to attend her.

“Shizun,” Shang Lei greets as he salutes her, moving fully into the room.

“Shang Lei,” Zhang Zhanhua acknowledges, “sit down.”

Shang Lei finds a seat cushion and settles down in front of Zhang Zhanhua’s desk. He’s tremendously curious about what’s going on, but trying not to be obvious or rude about it. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the woman Zhang Zhanhua is meeting with before, despite her wearing an An Ding Peak uniform; or parts of one, at least, her heavy overcoat has An Ding’s sigil embroidered on the lapels and hems of the sleeves as is common, but she’s wearing plain rough-woven cotton robes underneath instead of the usual silk. Although the robes are mostly covered by the leather apron she wears; patches have turned shiny in various places that are particularly well-worn, and she has a standard An Ding tool belt around her waist, various little qiankun pockets holding whatever items a craftsperson might need. Based on the customization of her uniform alone, Shang Lei knows this must be a Master: there were no disciples on An Ding who would dare flout the codes of dress Zhang Zhanhua had laid down for students, while the Masters regularly dressed for practicality in whatever form was appropriate to their chosen field. Her hands are rough with callouses and tiny scars from whatever her chosen craft must be. Her face is freckled and expressive; an impish quality to her smile that suggests good humour and an acid tongue. The only ornate thing she’s wearing is an elaborately carved jade hairpiece that’s holding her hair piled atop her head.

Zhang Zhanhua rests her chin on the folded bridge of her hands and studies Shang Lei and her guest from across her desk. She smiles at them both in such a way that Shang Lei knows means she’s expecting a tremendous amount of amusem*nt to be generated by what she’s about to do.

Before she can say anything, though, the woman turns to Shang Lei and gives him an obvious once-over; she looks at Zhang Zhanhua and smirks, “So this is your precious little sprout I’ve been hearing about from Xiao Feng?”

Zhang Zhanhua makes an exasperated noise and sits up, “I see this Master is going to need to have a discussion about keeping confidence, again.”

“Try having that discussion with your wife, Shizun,” the woman says, “since Feng-Er was just passing along what he’d heard from Master Wei.”

Zhang Zhanhua’s annoyed expression softens at the mention of Wei He, “Regardless,” she says, “just because he’s told something doesn’t mean he needs to share it.”

The woman laughs, nodding, “Of course, Shizun.”

Shang Lei is doing his best to keep his utter bewilderment off his face because the thought of being so casual and familiar with Zhang Zhanhua is still somewhere in the misty realms of the impossible in terms of ‘behaviors to knowingly engage in’ as far as he’s concerned.

“Shang Lei,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “This is Master Sun Ying, a former Head Disciple of An Ding.”

“Master Sun!” Shang Lei exclaims, turning and saluting her: the ease with which she interacted with Zhang Zhanhua was neatly explained, but Master Sun had also been in intermittent seclusion for the past decade, according to An Mei, and now she was here and Shang Lei was getting to meet her.

Sun Ying laughs, offering Shang Lei a nod in return, “Shang-shidi,” she greets him, before looking at Zhang Zhanhua and saying “Master Wei is right, he’s adorable.”

Shang Lei can’t help the flush that settles on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, and Sun Ying cooes at him while Zhang Zhanhua sorts through a drawer to find a pair of scrolls; passing one to Shang Lei and one to Sun Ying.

“As you have perhaps guessed by now,” Zhang Zhanhua says to him, “you are currently a candidate for the position of Head Disciple,” Shang Lei accepts his scroll, nodding, “in the interest of determining your suitability for this position, this Master is assigning you a task, which you will undertake with the guidance of Master Sun.”

She gestures to the scroll, and Shang Lei takes the opportunity to open it and skim through the lengthy explanation of what he’s meant to be doing.

“Master Sun will offer the benefits of her experience as a former Head Disciple in mentorship,” Zhang Zhanhua says, after a reasonable amount of time, “while also evaluating your performance.”

“Ah,” Shang Lei says, at a loss for words.

“Do you understand, disciple?” Zhang Zhanhua asks.

“Yes, Shizun,” Shang Lei says, rallying himself, “This disciple looks forward to working with Master Sun.”

Zhang Zhanhua nods, pleased, while Sun Ying breaks into another peal of laughter.

“Adorable,” Sun Ying says again, shaking her head, “Come on Shang-shidi, this Master hasn’t had breakfast yet, and we have work to do.”

She climbs to her feet, saluting Zhang Zhanhua before turning to leave.

Shang Lei stands as well, but waits until Zhang Zhanhua dismisses him to offer his own salute and follow Master Sun out.

Chapter 31

Chapter Text

Shang Lei’s task is to evaluate one of An Ding’s older storehouses; consider if it was still running as efficiently as possible; come up with a list of potential changes that could be made to improve efficiency; discuss these changes with the Master in charge of managing the storehouse and their staff; and then determine if the changes should or should not be implemented.

It is, in essence, a small, self-contained example of the skills and duties a Head Disciple was expected to engage in: understanding the Peak Lord’s expectations and requirements for the peak; being able to apply these standards critically; the independent development of ideas; liaison with members of the peak without direct oversight from the Peak Lord, on the Peak Lord’s behalf; exercising judgement as to whether the peak’s standards were being met or whether there were extenuating circ*mstances that made the existing systems ideal, rather than simply proceeding with a course of action.

As a theoretical exercise it’s interesting. As a practical experience it’s exhausting.

The storehouse Shang Lei was assigned to was obviously purposefully chosen by Zhang Zhanhua to give him the greatest challenge, because after following Master Sun to the peak’s communal dining hall and drinking tea while she ate what appeared to be her body’s weight in youtiao, Shang Lei was introduced to Master Xie Feng--the erstwhile Feng-Er of Master Sun’s gossip chain--who was both the storehouse’s manager and also a former Head Disciple of An Ding.

Master Xie Feng is a tall, slender man with cold features and greying hair. He was Head Disciple and, apparently, a Whisper before retiring to devote himself to An Ding’s labyrinthine storehouses. The storehouse Shang Lei is currently meant to be evaluating is one Master Xie particularly favors: storage for spiritually charged relics that were involved in a dizzying three-way agreement between An Ding, Yan Jiu, and Qing Jing as to the maintenance, use, keeping, and study of the items. After listening to Master Xie wax poetic about the fierce territory war he’d apparently been waging regularly for the past several decades--stopping Qing Jing from claiming that it should be allowed exclusive study of the relics for scholarly purposes, and Yan Jiu from claiming the relics should be moved to the spiritual tool storehouses on their peak despite the fact that An Ding regularly used items from the collection--Shang Lei understands even more clearly that this is an endeavor to be cautious about.

Master Sun, who thus far has been content to trail around after Shang Lei while he becomes acquainted with Master Xie and the internal details of the storehouse’s running, usually arrives in the late mornings and spends most of her time verbally sparring with Master Xie or sitting in the corner in meditative silence working a slip of jade with what is possibly the tiniest chisel Shang Lei has ever seen.

Today, however, Sun Ying sweeps imperiously into Master Xie’s office with an armful of scrolls and tosses them onto his desk, “Xiao Feng,” she sings out in an ominous tone.

“Nuisance,” Xie Feng replies, not bothering to look away from the ink he’s grinding.

“Shang-shidi,” Sun Ying greets, smiling at him as she rounds Xie Feng’s desk and starts sorting through the scrolls.

“Master Sun,” Shang Lei salutes, earning himself another smile and a quiet coo of ‘adorable!’ from Sun Ying.

“Xiao Feng,” Sun Ying prompts, exasperation coloring her voice.

“What,” Xie Feng says flatly, finally turning to look at her and the mess of scrolls strewn across his desk.

Sun Ying cheers immediately, “It’s time to perform our sacred duty as mentors to our dear junior Head Disciple brother, Xiao Feng,” she says.

“He’s not Head Disciple, yet,” Xie Feng says, he gives Shang Lei a measuring look; cold, sharp eyes cutting with a glance, “and not even in the Nascent Soul stage either.”

Shang Lei agrees with this assessment, because both things are true: Zhang Zhanhua has said he’s only being tested for his potential as Head Disciple, and while he feels positive about his cultivation he’s aware that he’s currently stuck in the bottleneck between Core Formation and achieving the Nascent Soul stage. He’s also mildly terrified about what Sun Ying considers her ‘sacred duty’ to him as a potential Head Disciple, considering the past few weeks of working together have revealed that despite everything, she is--when she bothers to give Shang Lei feedback on his work rather than letting him have ‘a joyful learning experience’ figuring things out for himself--a highly perceptive and analytical person who gleefully shreds his prospective ideas for how the storehouse’s systems could be changed into little tiny pieces. So tiny he’s beginning to despair of ever completing the assignment.

Sun Ying scoffs at that, however, “Xiao Feng,” she says, “it’s obvious he has great potential,” she says, prodding Xie Feng until he turns to cast that measuring gaze over Shang Lei again, “look at him, he’s almost figured out the real test!”

Xie Feng sighs deeply, swatting at Sun Ying’s hands where they’re still prodding into his shoulders and pinching his upper arms--Shang Lei has learned that all of her vast practice and experience carving has given Sung Ying an incredibly strong grip--before reaching for the scroll closest to him, “Typical,” he says, annoyed, “blurting things out as usual,” he glares at Sun Ying, who is beaming relentlessly at him, “you don’t know that, you just want it to be true.”

Shang Lei, who has been quietly and politely watching his seniors insult and argue with each other, asks, “Test?”

Sun Ying gives him an encouraging look, while Xie Feng makes a disgusted noise and scrubs his hands over his eyes.

Shang Lei’s mind runs over the past several weeks. He’s practically memorized the scroll containing his assignment, but he still pulls it out and reads over it again, slowly, trying to tease out any nuance that would hint at Sun Ying’s declaration. He thinks of Xie Feng’s deep pride at his management of this particular storehouse. He thinks of the fact that he’s been thrown into contact with both of Zhang Zhanhua’s former Head Disciples. He thinks of Sun Ying’s annihilation of every idea he’s come up with.

“Ah,” Shang Lei says quietly to himself, “I’m not supposed to be able to do this, am I?”

Sun Ying laughs and claps her hands while Xie Feng finally surfaces from where he slumped over his desk.

“No,” Xie Feng says, not unkindly, but not particularly patiently either, “the point is that you get taught that while An Ding strives for constant self-improvement, there’s also many times when a system has already been perfected and reviewing it is just a means to ensure it remains so,” he tuts as he fixes his sleeves, “there’s always some new genius coming up with ways to,” his voice goes icy, “improve things when all they’re really doing is mucking about with the filing systems and then patting themselves on the back for making it impossible to find anything the moment they leave.”

Shang Lei nods, “Sometimes the best thing an artist can do is stop adding to the canvas,” he offers, philosophically.

Xie Feng gives him the most approving look he’s ever seen, which Shang Lei supposes is understandable if you had to deal with some stranger coming into your perfectly ordered storehouse and trying to find fault with it, “Just so,” he says, drumming his fingers on his desk as he gives Shang Lei a considering look, “there’s a good chance you’re not just going to be Head Disciple, but Shizun’s Succeeding Disciple as well.”

Sun Ying doesn’t gasp, but it’s obvious the thought hadn’t occurred to her until Xie Feng brought it up, and now that he has she agrees with it, “Ha!,” she says, “Shizun must have had her eye on you for a while,” she grins at Shang Lei, “Yue Qingyuan’s guided transition has almost finished its first year.”

“Um?” Shang Lei manages, because yes, he’s aware he’s eventually supposed to be Peak Lord, but isn’t this a little much?

Sun Ying crosses her arms across her chest, sitting on the edge of Xie Feng’s desk and ignoring his annoyed hissing, “Shizun is the last one who hasn’t named a Succeeding Disciple, and the deadline is coming up soon, and she’s been obviously grooming you for years.”

Xie Feng snorts, “Obviously,” he echoes, “I suppose this one isn’t a terrible choice,” he says, which for Xie Feng is tremendous praise, “and he did figure it out,” Xie Fang smiles, a sharp and terrible smile, “which means we have an obligation to mentor our dear Shang-shidi, as Shizun obviously intended.”

‘Mentoring’, Shang Lei learns, is apparently a byword for torture as far as Sun Ying and Xie Fang are concerned.

United in their goal, their friendly bickering dies out in favor of a total and complete focus on breaking Shang Lei down and building him back up again. He feels like he’s being trained for counter-intelligence rather than getting advice from his seniors.

Even Zhang Zhanhua’s lessons were less intense than the veritable Head Disciple’s bootcamp that Shang Lei is plunged into as soon as Xie Feng and Sun Ying agree that he’s fulfilled the lesson their Peak Lord set him by giving him the assignment.

First he’s quizzed endlessly about the functions of the peak from top to bottom, then they move on to the sect as a whole, and when they find a gap in his knowledge it’s ruthlessly filled.

Does Shang-shidi understand the organization systems used on An Ding, and can he recite the fundamental principles of the system iterations as they’ve evolved over the past thousand years? Can Shang-shidi name every Master presently in service on An Ding, and can he name their specialties? Has Shang-shidi memorized the foremost achievements of every Peak Lord since An Ding was founded, and can he give examples of how each of these achievements bear on the peak in the present day? Has Shang-shidi memorized the foremost failures of every Peak Lord since An Ding was founded, and can he give examples of how these lessons bear on the peak in the present day?

Eryue blends into Sanyue; Xie Feng and Sun Ying allow Shang Lei to present his incomplete project to Zhang Zhanhua, both of them somehow managing to give the impression of hovering attention from their seats on either side of him as he thoroughly explains his research and his conclusion to the assignment he’d been given.

Their Peak Lord looks between the three of them for a few moments before smiling a slow, pleased smile; her face warming in increments with the particular satisfaction of someone who feels vindicated in their choices.

“Very good, Shang Lei,” She says, before inviting his seniors to provide their own feedback on his progress.

Sun Ying and Xie Feng, naturally, excoriate him. They’ve been waiting for their chance, and now that it’s here they gleefully and directly offer their experience and observational skills and training to detailing Shang Lei’s every single fault and weakness.

Shang Lei sits stoically before his Peak Lord while his senior martial siblings pick him apart down to the minutest detail. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about it, because it’s obvious they’re belaboring the points for dramatic effect, but also most of the things he’d always thought of as his personal flaws aren’t getting brought up at all.

Zhang Zhanhua clears her throat and says “If a conclusion might be reached?” in a droll tone of voice, as though these sort of antics were to be expected but only indulged so far before they became tiresome.

Sun Ying and Xie Feng share a glance: “Shizun, Shang-shidi is without a doubt the best choice on the peak to become your successor,” Sun Ying says.

“Send him to the spirit caves for a few months and he’ll probably break through to the Nascent Soul stage before the appointment deadline,” Xie Feng says, more pragmatically.

Zhang Zhanhua makes a faint noise of agreement, “Very well,” she says, gracing Shang Lei with another self-satisfied little smile, “Shang Lei, you may have the rest of the day to prepare yourself and gather the supplies you wish to take with you into secluded meditation,” she waves a dismissive hand, “report to me at first light, this Master will escort you to the caves personally.”

Chapter 32

Chapter Text

It’s only late morning when Shang Lei totters shakily out of his Peak Lord’s office and into the weak early spring sunlight, but it feels like it’s been much longer.

Sun Ying and Xie Feng, their arms linked and the quiet undercurrent of deep camaraderie obvious between them, follow Shang Lei out. Xie Feng doesn’t bother with much more than congratulating Shang Lei before departing back to his office, but Sun Ying trails after him as he walks back to his Leisure House, offering her reassurances about the Lingxi Caves and giving advice.

“It’s normal to be nervous before your first seclusion,” Sun Ying enthuses, gesturing broadly, “I remember the first time I went into the caves,” she says, “Shizun told me I could only take one chisel with me,” she sighs wistfully.

Shang Lei, who has recovered enough of his wits to thank Master Sun for her guidance and advice, takes the opportunity presented by her growing distracted by her meandering reminiscences about the various types of carvable stone in the Lingxi Caves and her unsuccessful attempts to carve herself clandestine chisels during breaks in her meditation to escape and find Gao Huan.

Gao Huan takes the news that Shang Lei is going into secluded meditation much better than Shang Lei did, which is to say he congratulates Shang Lei, affirms his belief that Shang Lei is ready, and promises that he’ll keep an eye on Shang Lei’s houseplants and render Shang Lei’s apologies to An Mei and the rest of their friends because he’ll be missing the group dinner tomorrow.

After this, Shang Lei repairs to his Leisure House to have a very short breakdown.

He’s not upset by the thought of entering secluded meditation. It’s just that he hadn’t really thought of his cultivation as being high enough to do so in the first place.

Realistically, when he thinks about it, he realizes that there’s no possible way he could ever become a Peak Lord unless he’d reached Immortal Master status. It was an inherent part of the position. Airplane had written very few specifics about the original Shang Qinghua, but he’d definitely been a Peak Lord and thus definitely an Immortal Master.

Realistically, Shang Lei has been diligently working towards this point in his cultivation for a decade, and it makes sense that he’d get there eventually. His rate of progression hasn’t been as meteoric as a natural genius, but he’s put the effort in and he apparently has the potential.

Packing for the spirit caves is odd. He keeps second-guessing the things he wants to take with him, until he finally sits down with a hastily thrown together late lunch and really considers what his goals are: he’s going to spend most of his time meditating, which for Shang Lei means dancing. With this in mind the process simplifies immensely: he digs out several pairs of the dance shoes he’d managed to recreate from memory; lightweight training robes cut short for ease of movement; food because despite the amount of time he’d be spending in inendia he still likes to eat; hair ribbons because he loses and breaks them with alarming regularity; a blanket because he might want to rest without expending spiritual energy; water because, again, just because he can practice inendia doesn’t mean he particularly likes doing it.

Once he’s arranged the qiankun pouch to his heart’s content, and found his normal An Ding travelling kit qiankun to take with him just in case, Shang Lei still has most of the afternoon to prepare.

He takes a bath. He sits on his couch afterwards, wrapped in a loose robe and housecoat, letting his damp hair fall around him, and goes into a light meditation; taking the time to consider the realization that he has potential as a cultivator, and to set goals for himself for the next two months during his secluded cultivation in the caves.

By the time he finishes, it’s early evening, and Shang Lei sets about making dinner before finding the precious jade pendant Mo Baixiu gave him and channeling the slightest wisp of spiritual energy into it. Just enough to hopefully catch his Prince’s attention, a signal they’d figured out that would at least allow Shang Lei to contact Mo Baixiu; although they hadn’t managed the reverse yet, beyond Mo Baixiu simply appearing in Shang Lei’s Leisure House, as neither of them have been in a particular hurry to test their luck by chancing that someone might sense the flares of demonic energy that Mo Baixiu would send in return.

He wants to tell Mo Baixiu about his secluded cultivation in person, rather than just leaving a note and hoping he finds it while Shang Lei is in the caves.

Setting out the dinner plates and sitting down to eat, Shang Lei considers trying to wait for his Prince, but there’s no guarantee Mo Baixiu can even come; despite the casualness with which his Prince regards his place in the northern court, Mo Baixiu still fulfills important duties and has obligations that keep him well occupied.

It’s not disappointment that has him lingering over dinner and then taking his time washing up and preparing for bed, but it must be something close to it. He promises that he’ll write the note in the morning, and curls up in bed with a book--Qing Jing might tout itself as a paragon of scholarship, but a goodly number of the manuscripts they sent to An Ding to be printed were fictions of varying quality, bored scholars and disciples churning out novels in a variety of genres--only to find himself half-asleep with the book dangling from his grasp when a wash of cool air sweeps through his bedroom.

A shadow falls over him; the sputtering light of the single candle on the bedside table casting the room in soft, warm gold tones. Shang Lei blinks and between one long moment and the next, his Prince is leaning over him.

He can’t help the low, pleased noise that escapes him--half-asleep and only half-coherent--nor the way his fingers fully slack around the book that had been slipping from his grip since he’d started to doze. It slips from his hand and is lost amongst the blankets as Shang Lei shifts, reaching out for Mo Baixiu.

“Baixiu,” Shang Lei murmurs, shameless as his questing fingers tangle into the thick fur over Mo Baixiu’s shoulders, “You’re here.”

His eyes slide shut and he fades just enough to miss most of what Mo Baixiu says in reply; breath sighing out and eyes fluttering back open just in time to watch his Prince lean over him, one arm braced on the bed, that perfect face drawing nearer and nearer. Shang Lei thinks for a moment that Mo Baixiu is going to kiss him, really kiss him, but his Prince’s mouth brushes gently against Shang Lei’s forehead instead.

It’s still enough that Shang Lei can’t help melting even further into the bed; going mellow with sleep and fondness. He makes a slightly frustrated noise and reaches for Mo Baixiu, trying to struggle back to consciousness because he has to tell him...something…

But Mo Baixiu gathers him into his arms, spooning Shang Lei into the decadent comfort of his embrace, before directing the barest flicker of demonic qi to snuff out the candle, and Shang Lei is swept away.

His natural sense of time wakes him before daybreak, but it takes him several long minutes of struggling towards consciousness to actually reach any coherent understanding of where he is or what’s going on. It doesn’t help that he’s achieved such perfect comfort in his bed: head pillowed on something soft; a firm, comforting weight draped over him; cool air against his face a counterpoint to the warmth of his blankets. He flails his arms out in preparation for rolling over, and finds the comforting weight against his back adjusting with him as he moves, and finally the circuits connect in his brain well enough to remember those fleeing moments as he was falling asleep, and more, that Zhang Zhanhua will be expecting him with the dawn.

Shang Lei squeaks out, “My Prince!” before beginning to wriggle out of Mo Baixiu’s embrace in earnest.

Mo Baixiu makes a drowsy, inquisitive noise; a soft rumble in his chest as his eyes slit open the slightest amount. He runs a firm hand from the back of Shang Lei’s neck to the small of his back, a long, smooth motion that flattens Shang Lei into the bed and renders him utterly boneless.

Shang Lei makes a truly humiliating sound, mind going blank for the span of a few seconds as a wave of heat washes through his veins; he barely has enough awareness to notice Mo Baixiu watching him through his eyelashes and the contemplatively predatory look that crosses his Prince’s face as he wrestles with the urge to roll over and offer up his throat. “My Prince,” Shang Lei gasps out, breathless, “My Prince, I have to tell you something.”

“What,” Mo Baixiu says, more statement than question, his deep, rich voice still slightly muddled by sleep in a way Shang Lei finds delightful.

“I meant to tell you last night,” Shang Lei says, finally levering himself up, getting his legs under him to sit on his knees and look down at Mo Baixiu’s very dignified sprawl, “but I fell asleep, I’m sorry!” Shang Lei apologizes sheepishly, “I’m going into secluded cultivation today, in the spirit caves,” he twiddles the edge of a blanket between his fingers, glancing at Mo Baixiu’s face and then away, “until Wuyue at least.”

Mo Baixiu sits up as well, and looking at his rumpled clothes it's obvious that he’d arrived late and only bothered to remove his boots before curling into bed with Shang Lei; the fine silks of his robes slightly crumpled from being slept in, the heavy furs of his cloak drawn over them both as another blanket. “Secluded cultivation,” Mo Baixiu says, tonelessly.

“Yes,” Shang Lei says, “I promise I’ll let you know as soon as it’s over!” he hastens to assure his Prince, “but Shizun says I’m ready to advance my cultivation, so…” he lets the sentence trail off, “I’m supposed to meet her at dawn.”

His Prince is silent, studying Shang Lei’s nervous face, the way his hands can’t help but twist the edge of a blanket between his fingers.

“This will make you stronger?” Mo Baixiu asks.

Shang Lei nods, “Yes, my Prince,” he gives a slightly shaky smile, “with luck, I’ll break through into the next stage of my cultivation.”

Mo Baixiu pins him with an intent stare for a few moments, before he finally nods his head once and says “Good,” he sits up, suddenly, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and pulling his boots on, turning around to look down at Shang Lei once he stands, “You will let me know the very day you return, or else I will…” a strange expression twists across his face, there-and-gone, and he abruptly stops before making whatever statement he’d begun.

“My Prince?” Shang Lei prompts, curious.

But Mo Baixiu doesn’t answer him, reaching out to cup Shang Lei’s face between his hands, lingering for a moment as his fingers stroke over Shang Lei’s cheeks and jaw, before he leans forward and presses a deliberate kiss to Shang Lei’s forehead.

He steps back and away as Shang Lei lets out another breathless little, My Prince?, and leaves without another word; turning as though he means to step out through the bedroom door and disappearing into nothingness instead, only a waft of cold air and the movement of shadows giving a sign that he’d been there at all.

Shang Lei has to hide his face in his hands and make incoherent noises for at least a minute before he can make himself get up; realizing that it’s almost dawn now and he’s still not ready. He almost falls on his face scrambling out of bed, and rationalizes that he probably doesn’t need to wear his full senior inner disciple’s uniform into the caves anyway to save time dressing. Likewise pulling his hair into a messy ponytail tied with a ribbon rather than put the effort into a proper topknot. He stuffs his sleeves with the qiankuns he’d packed, rustles through his kitchen for some fruit for breakfast--having expended most of his perishables the night before to prepare for being gone for two months--and hastily puts on Canyue and Xianyue’s sheathes before he steps into his shoes and out the door, locking it behind him.

To save time, because the sun is already slowly creeping over the horizon, he unsheathes Canyue and mounts the blade, flying to the Peak Lord’s Leisure House and arriving just as Zhang Zhanhua steps out of the door; Wei He following her and waving when she sees Shang Lei approaching.

He dismounts and resheathes Canyue before he offers his salute, “Shizun,” he greets, “Master Wei.”

“Shang Lei,” Zhang Zhanhua says, nodding at him. She turns to Wei He and clasps one of her hands in her own, lingering, before leaving Wei He’s side to stride towards Shang Lei.

Wei He calls out to wish him good luck, and Shang Lei smiles at her before she turns to go back into the Peak Lord’s Leisure House, leaving him alone with his Shizun.

They mount their swords and fly to Qiong Ding together, Shang Lei following Zhang Zhanhua as she leads him to a different landing courtyard than the one they usually use when visiting the first peak.

The entrance to the Lingxi Caves isn’t exactly hidden, but it is deliberately secluded. There’s a particular small mountain valley nestled high in the Tian Gong range where the caves were first found, over a thousand years ago. Cang Qiong Mountain sect was founded around this small valley, with the very first settlements built for the sect still preserved in ruins. Qiong Ding Peak was founded as the sect grew, and Qing Jing, Wan Jian, An Ding and all the rest followed as the sect continued to grow and specialize.

Zhang Zhanhua leads him to this valley, the entrance to which had been very carefully sealed, so that it is only reachable by sword or with very specific tokens of passage. There’s an imposing edifice carved into the side of the mountain, the mouth of a cave which had been shaped over centuries into a grand chamber; obviously cared for if the incense burners and talismans were any indication. Deeper within the stone chamber, the true entrance to the caves opens up; a continuation of the natural cave the first chamber had been carved from, the opening shaped into a doorway.

From the first moment Shang Lei steps foot into the ‘anteroom’ of the Lingxi Caves, he can feel the ambient spiritual energy soaked into the stone. He stops just inside the threshold.

“Shizun,” he says, whispering despite himself, the ambiance of the caves seeming antithetical to any loud noises or raised voices.

“Shang Lei,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “you have two months,” she nods towards the inner door, “This Master has faith that you will reach your breakthrough in that time,” she folds her arms into her sleeves, giving Shang Lei a look that could almost be called tender, “do not worry about tracking the time, this Master will retrieve you when it is appropriate to do so.”

Shang Lei salutes her, bowing deeply, “This disciple thanks Shizun for this opportunity, and promises not to disappoint her.”

And with that, he turns, and walks through the inner door and into the cave system proper.

Chapter 33

Chapter Text

Shang Lei isn’t exactly sure what to expect, as he ventures into the caves.

Airplane had written about them, somewhat, but he’d never put very much detail into describing them. Somewhere in the labyrinthine maze of caverns and passages was the cave that Yue Qingyuan had been imprisoned in until his connection to Xuan Su had stabilized. Somewhere was the cave where Liu Qingge would die of qi deviation, casting suspicion on Shen Qingqiu that would eventually lead to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect abandoning him to the Water Prison.

But Shang Lei had grown up on An Ding hearing stories from the Masters about their own time in the Lingxi Caves. Master Chen, who’d supposedly painted her greatest masterpiece while in meditation to achieve the Soul Formation stage. Master Hu, who claimed to have fallen asleep during a secluded meditation and spent the entire month napping without a care; sustained by his own spiritual strength and the natural energy of the caves. Even Sun Ying, who claimed to have worked the entire cave where she’d spent her last secluded meditation into an elaborate series of mezzo-rilievo carvings.

He wanders.

There are no real guides to finding one’s way around in the caves, and anything that he’s not supposed to get into will be warded off anyways, so Shang Lei follows the feel of spiritual energy flowing through the caves. He opens his own spiritual senses and allows himself to resonate with the energy around him, until he finds himself in a spacious cavern with smooth floors; it seems uniquely perfect, the cave itself just right for Shang Lei’s dancing, and the feel of the energy welling in the cave a balance and complement to Shang Lei’s own.

Thanks to Sun Ying, he’s aware that it’s common courtesy to any others cultivating in the caves to lay down a minor ward boundary on one’s chosen meditation cave, and so Shang Lei sets his talisman across the threshold with a sense of decisiveness before setting about making himself comfortable in the place that will be his home for the next two months.

Shang Lei finds the blanket he’d brought with him and folds it into a serviceable seat cushion, settling down in a meditation pose before drawing out the little incense burner and some of the incense he’d brought and lighting it.

Before doing anything else, it’s important to offer his respects to the natural energy and whatever anima might exist within the Lingxi Caves. Shang Lei settles into a light spiritual meditation, focusing on the feel of the energy around him. He doesn’t exactly open himself as he had earlier, when he was in the process of finding this place, but he deliberately and mindfully considers his appreciation for the cave, his reasons for being there, his hopes for a rewarding period of seclusion.

There’s no flash of light or sudden sign, but there is a sense of easing somehow; as though there was a slight resistance to his presence that he could only notice as it disappeared. Shang Lei allows his spiritual sense to circulate in response; clearing his mind and simply focusing on fully aligning himself with the natural wellspring of spiritual energy in this particular cave. He relaxes into his body, slowly attuning the flow and movement of his own spiritual energy with the wellspring, until when he cycles energy through his meridians and into his dantians and out again there’s no telling where the spiritual energy from the caves ends and his own begins.

It’s incredibly peaceful. Until the Nascent Soul stage is reached, most cultivators don’t need to concern themselves with their elemental nature, and so while Shang Lei is aware of his, he’s never dealt with it in any meaningful way. Now, though, he feels something click into place inside him; some tiny chip of the block he’d met in his cultivation falling away and giving him his first view of what’s on the other side. The feeling of the stone under him and the stone above him becomes comforting as he engages with his earth element nature; the sense of the open air in the cave around him, the broad heavens above the mountain peak, the secret threads and veins in the earth below him settles in counterpoint as he engages with his metal element nature.

When Zhang Zhanhua had initially tested him to determine what his elemental nature was, she’d commented that it was apt that Shang Lei should have a dual nature, and that this is likely why he’d summoned paired swords from the Sword Wall on Wan Jian rather than a single blade. But just like the paired blades, it was unusual.

Earth, the central element: stability; patience; duty; joy; harmony; the turn of the seasons; the grounding of energy. Yet also: stubbornness; anxiety.

Metal, the heavenly element: consolidation; persistence; intuition; bravery; the force of gravity; the movement of heavenly bodies. Yet also: grief; inability to yield.

Shang Lei comes back to himself, rising from the depths of his meditation. The feeling of being centered and complete is still with him; the spiritual energy within the cave still welcomes and encompasses him.

When he’d planned and packed for his seclusion he’d thought that he’d ease himself into it; resting on the first day and becoming comfortable in the caves before starting. But now, energized and aware in ways he’s never been before, he sees no reason to wait. He strips out of most of his clothing, the ambient temperature in the caves perfectly warm, until he’s down to his undershirt and thin pants. He takes off his boots and tucks them away in his qiankun with the rest of his clothes, finding his dance shoes and settling back down on his folded blanket to properly fit and tie them.

Figuring out how to make his own dance shoes had been a painstaking undertaking that Shang Lei had worked through as soon as he’d progressed in rebuilding his skills to the point that dancing barefoot or in regular soft shoes was no longer ideal. He’d known intellectually the basics of how ballet slippers and pointe shoes were made, of course--he’d worked with and worn both over the course of his career; learning pointe-work because he could, as an exciting addition to his artistic and technical skills as well as an extreme challenge to his articulation, stamina, and strength--but getting together all the materials and figuring out how to put them together had never been something he’d imagined himself doing in his past life.

Leather, canvas, silk, and glue were all readily available. Ribbons were abundant. Silk thread and sewing needles were easily found. Patterning the shoes and actually fitting them properly to his feet had been a struggle. The lack of elastic required some creativity to overcome. The further difficulty of trying to find ways to make the shoes more durable than the sum of their materials under the strain of wear they were put under was something that Shang Lei had turned to the actual literal magic at his fingertips to solve. And so now, he’s the proud owner of this fantasy version of ancient China’s only pairs of magical ballet shoes.

Choosing between the slippers and the pointe shoes takes a moment of consideration, but Shang Lei eventually decides on the pointe shoes. It had taken him a while to reach the proper balance between a shank firm enough to support his foot well enough for proper technique, while still being pliable enough he could transition from delicate pointe-work to the powerful leaps and flying jumps that required more foot flexibility.

He’s proud of his work. He’s proud of having taught himself to dance again. He’s proud of his magic pointe shoes.

Shang Lei feels warm and ready, his qi energized, but he still works his way through his stretches and warmups. The strict voices of a dozen teachers and instructors still faintly ringing in his ears despite time and death. He does his floor work. His strength-building exercises. His extensions. Settling further and further into his moving meditation as he goes, the feeling of being connected with the natural spiritual energy around him, which was already profound, becoming even more intense.

Until finally he’s fully relaxed into the meditation: his body fully engaged and ready to begin the dance; his own energy fully one with the energy around him.

The first steps are easy, graceful paces across the cave; learning the space. He springs into a playful emboîté to cross from one corner to another. There’s a certain balance that Shang Lei has always tried to strike between his distant memories of his former limitations, and the things a cultivator is capable of, especially a cultivator advanced enough along the sword path to have gained all the skills of lightness and martial grace inherent in the formation of a golden core.

Now, buoyed by the natural spiritual energy around him, Shang Lei lets go of those limitations. The cave’s ceiling is high, the space is wide, and he wants to fly.

One step. Two. Shang Lei launches himself into a soaring set of tours en l'air.

He dances. The choreography is an afterthought to the absolute joy of it all. Each movement is precise, each step appearing effortless only because of the decades spent honing strength and skill. It’s the hard work. The dedication. The unrelenting drive with which he’d pursued perfection in his art, across two lifetimes.

Shang Lei leaps and jumps and soars; he lands and each step his feet make on the floor is unfaltering.

Time is meaningless. Fatigue is a distant memory. Each perfectly balanced movement, each reflexive cycle of spiritual energy through his body are tiny chips taken out of the block between himself and the next level of his cultivation. Each chip removed making him better, lighter, swifter, more graceful; advancements clicking into place increment by increment. The spiritual energy that he’d refined in his core slowly permeating out to begin refining his body--from the mortal, to setting himself along the first steps on the path to the immortal--bolstered and supplemented by the natural energy surrounding him. Until enough chips have been made in the block that it begins to break down in earnest, and Shang Lei steps, and leaps, and hangs weightless in the air--gravity seeming to suspend itself for him and him alone--and lands, perfectly.

A living embodiment of aplomb. Each movement made with unwavering stability.

And the block is washed away. And everything becomes more.

Suddenly Shang Lei feels bereft at not having Canyue and Xianyue in his hands. It was well enough to dance without them before, but they’re the blades of his spirit; connected intrinsically to him since the day he drew them from the Sword Wall.

It’s half a thought to summon them, and something else clicks into place. The hilts meeting his hands in a perfect fit, his steps transitioning into the balletic forms of the sword dance. He flows, he flies, the shine of the steel flashing around him so quickly it looks like silver sparks trailing through the air. The very slightest edge of his sword glare imbues the blades; not enough to do any damage to the cave but enough that his spiritual energy is fully engaged with them, the steel singing in his hands.

Something settles in Shang Lei’s chest, warm and alive, flowing through his spirit veins and down his meridians to pool in his dantians, curling around his golden core like a live wire; a jolt that sends it spinning and condensing with more intensity than he’s ever felt. The niggling little doubts that have clung to him since he was reborn into this world seem inconsequential; wiped away by the surety that reconciles itself in Shang Lei’s mind, the knowledge of exactly who he is resolving into perfect clarity.

The spiritual pressure in the room seems to increase, the natural spiritual energy of the cave’s wellspring responding to Shang Lei’s own, the gentle pattern it had been flowing in beginning to change. Shang Lei follows the change with his own spiritual energy, unhesitatingly, so caught up in the rhythm and movement of the dance that he doesn’t question it; simply one partner in a cosmic pas de deux responding to another.

It takes a full cycle through the new pattern for Shang Lei to start to appreciate any differences between it and the old one, allowing himself to be led, to be shown whatever it is he’s being shown.

His sense of his elemental nature deepens as he continues to throw himself unreservedly into the dance the natural spiritual energy leads: the steady balance of the earth, the consolidation and reformation of metal. The heavens and the earth. Gravity. Energy moving inwards and downwards. Conduction. Grounding.

The first sparks are miniscule things, tiny flickers trailing in the wake of Shang Lei’s swords. The shine and blur of his sword glare is bright enough that they aren’t noticeable, until he moves through the steps of the dance again, following the same pattern through, his senses refining themselves, attuning to what he can now perceive within himself.

Shang Lei chases the feeling of that perception, whirling through the dance, Canyue and Xianyue flickering and gleaming and sparking as he allows his fears and reservations to fade. As he focuses himself ever more firmly on each breath, each step, each moment of the now.

His feet touch the ground, his blades swing out--singing, singing, singing through the air--he lifts himself, preparing for another flurry of steps before the next leap, and he feels the livewire that’s wound its way into his golden core connect suddenly with the earth beneath him; from the heavens above to the hidden ore that makes up the very bones of the mountains, the earth that surrounds them. Conduction. Grounding.

An arc of pure, brilliant lightning flashes out; dancing from Canyue to Xianyue.

Shang Lei can’t help but laugh, joyous and unrestrained. His steps never falter, his blades flash out and the lightning follows; sparking and flashing, jumping from blade to blade.

Shang Lei spins with it, the spiritual pressure in the cave changing once again as the natural spiritual energy rebalances itself to maintain equilibrium as Shang Lei follows through on what it showed him.

The lightning is tricky at first: wanting to stick to his swords; wanting to fizzle out of Shang Lei’s grasp when he takes to the air, without the earth to ground itself against. But he learns it, he dances with it, until the arcs of lightning aren’t just constrained to his swords, but moving with him as though his entire body is a conduit; his spiritual energy given form, generating out from the steady turn of his golden core, purifying and cleansing, lively and brilliant.

He feels like fulgurite, as though everything he is has been remade; welded together by a bolt from the blue into a more cohesive whole.

The feeling overwhelms him. He can’t stop dancing. He can’t stop riding the blade’s edge of this perfection.

There’s a sudden wave of foreign spiritual energy that washes through the cave, and it steals away Shang Lei’s concentration; the delicate balance between himself and the natural spiritual energy in the cave that he’d immersed himself in is shattered.

He turns, breathless, his lightning arcing--dancing--with him, and sees Zhang Zhanhua standing in the opening to the cave.

The sight of her jolts something in Shang Lei’s mind, and his lightning flickers and dies where it wreathed him. His feet stop. His arms drop to his sides, his swords suddenly unbearably heavy. He collapses to his knees.“Shizun?” Shang Lei asks, his voice rough and cracked, sounding distant to his own ears, “Why are you back so soon?”

“Soon?” Zhang Zhanhua echoes, an expression of open disbelief on her face, incredulity obvious in her voice, “Shang Lei,” she says, stepping fully into the cave and making her way cautiously over to him, “How long do you imagine it has been?”

Shang Lei can’t seem to gather his thoughts, a tired confusion settling over him like a haze. He looks down at himself and sees filthy clothes stained with sweat and ragged with scorches. His shoes are nothing but scraps of silk and leather bound to his feet; dark stains around the soles and toes that Shang Lei wants to tell himself are just wear, but knows--his eyes catching sight of his own damp, gleaming footprints out of the corner of his eyes--are blood. His hair has come loose at some point and he didn’t notice; it falls into his face now, pooling around him on the ground like a puddle of black silk, sticking to his damp face and the back of his neck.

“I…” Shang Lei wets his cracked lips, “Shizun just left, I just got here.”

Zhang Zhanhua’s face makes a complicated expression, the disbelief warring with concern, as she looks down at him, taking in his wretched appearance; the bloody footprints; the burns he’s slowly beginning to feel tingling on his hands and arms. She kneels next to him and gently takes his spiritual pulse from his wrist. She presses the back of her hand against his forehead. She flattens her palm to his lower dantian where his golden core spins.

“Shang Lei,” Zhang Zhanhua says, her voice grave, “it has been two months.”

Shang Lei tries to deny it, but his voice comes out as an unintelligible croak rather than any words.

Zhang Zhanhua sighs out a long breath through her nose, her eyes sliding shut for the briefest moment, “As to be expected, from this Master’s most troublesome student,” she says, “Shang Lei has once again sought to exceed this Master’s expectations, and rather than progressing into the Nascent Soul stage and being content with this, has somehow found his way to the preliminary phase of the Soul Formation stage,” she glares down at him, “and has injured himself by following such a swift progress.”

Shang Lei makes an apologetic noise, the best he can do when the ability to speak actual words has apparently deserted him.

Zhang Zhanhua stands, striding across the cave and gathering up the few items Shang Lei had unpacked from his qiankun; stuffing them back into the little bags and then tucking them into her sleeves before returning to Shang Lei’s side. She pulls back his ruined sleeves and finds Canyue and Xianyue’s sheathes have been scorched into uselessness, two burnt scraps of leather clinging to Shang Lei’s forearms. She clicks her tongue in disapproval, and unfurls a silk scarf from her sleeves to bundle Canyue and Xianyue into before she scoops Shang Lei into her arms and makes for the exit.

Shang Lei can barely remember the path from his cave to the exit, and as the euphoric high of the dance continues to fade, he begins to feel his hurts.

When they’re finally back outside the caves, Zhang Zhanhua uses a sword seal to summon her blade from its hidden sheath and mount it.

They don’t fly to An Ding, but rather Zhang Zhanhua sweeps directly into the main hall of healing on Qian Cao and right into the office of her martial sister, Wan Zhanrong.

Shang Lei tries to stay awake, but the exhaustion rolls over him in an inexorable tide, and he slips into darkness.

Chapter 34

Chapter Text

Shang Lei swims sluggishly towards consciousness to the sound of someone gently plucking the strings of a guqin.

He groans, and his eyes crack open just enough to see the dark wood of the ceiling. He tries to move, but pain arcs through his arms and legs and he has to stop; breathing heavily through the agony.

The guqin stops playing, and the numbing, comforting feeling that accompanied it ends as well--Shang Lei has half a moment to realize that someone was using musical cultivation on him--before a face leaning over him swims into his line of sight. His eyes are blurred with tears from the pain, and he hears a voice call out Shizun! He’s awake! before another voice responds Fang-Er, use the needles!

Shang Lei feels a succession of sharp pinches, and drops back into unconsciousness like a stone into water.

The next time he wakes, it’s in a much more controlled manner.

The first thing Shang Lei registers is the wash of foreign qi prodding at him. He shifts on the bed, and when he moves this time he’s not immediately confronted with pain. He aches, of course--twinges of discomfort that run through his entire body, radiating out from his arms and legs--but it’s not unbearable. It’s enough that he can move, in small increments, and that he’s not numb in the way he was when he woke up after his accident, for Shang Lei to allow himself to relax against a fear he hadn’t realized he carried.

He opens his eyes, and finds Wan Zhanrong and Mu Qingfang arranged around his bedside. The Qian Cao Peak Lord is pulling acupuncture needles out of Shang Lei and passing them to her succeeding disciple, and when she sees that Shang Lei is awake she gives him a brusque nod and says, “Shang-shizhi, lay still,” before returning to removing the truly staggering amount of needles that have been sunk into Shang Lei’s entire body while narrating the process for her attentive disciple.

The experience of getting the needles removed is novel in a way that Shang Lei would rather never experience again. The pinches and tingles, overlaid by Wan Zhanrong’s clinical narration of what she’s doing, aren’t painful but they do bring a particularly visceral level of discomfort.

When Wan Zhanrong has finally finished, she dismisses Mu Qingfang to fetch medicinal tea and herb broth, and settles down on a stool that’s been pulled up beside Shang Lei’s bed.

Shang Lei has never been properly introduced to the Lord of Qian Cao, despite having met her in passing during the course of his duties. He’s also never been her direct patient before; the injuries he’d accrued through the years minor enough to be treated on An Ding or by a lesser Qian Cao disciple.

Wan Zhanrong pulls a bound sheaf of papers from her sleeve and an already-inked brush from behind her ear, and begins jotting down notes, ignoring Shang Lei until she finishes and turns to him with the same bland non-judging expression that seems to be common among healers.

“So,” Wan Zhanrong begins, “Explain to me exactly what you were doing before your Master brought you to me.”

Shang Lei tries his best to do so, but something about his experience in the Lingxi Caves, while he remembers it perfectly, defies his ability to describe.

Wan Zhanrong cuts him off the third time he tries and fails to explain how he felt the natural energy of the caves, “You’ve told me enough,” she says, briskly but not unkindly, “this Master understands what occurred,” she gives him a smile that Shang Lei thinks is supposed to be comforting or reassuring, but mostly ends up showing off Peak Lord Wan’s teeth and scrunching her face into an annoyed grimace for a few moments, “fortunately,” she continues, “you aren’t such a complete idiot that you tried to skip through the Nascent Soul soul stage to get to Soul Formation faster on purpose.”

Shang Lei feels a shiver of apprehension run down his spine, because, he will admit, when he was writing Proud Immortal Demon Way he’d pretty much bullsh*tted the basic cultivation stuff based on his general knowledge of xianxia tropes, but he’s been a cultivator living in a cultivation sect for the past ten years and he knows well enough that you can’t just skip cultivation stages.

“Unfortunately,” Wan Zhanrong says, “Shang-shizhi seems to have a previously undiscovered sensitivity to natural qi, which, when he engaged in meditation in the Lingxi Caves caused him to enter a dangerously accelerated phase of development.”

“Have I--” Shang Lei coughs, his voice scratchy from disuse, “Have I damaged my cultivation?”

“No, not permanently,” Wan Zhanrong says, “You are very lucky your Shizun went to fetch you, though, because had you progressed any further into the Soul Formation stage without allowing yourself to settle the breakthrough to Nascent Soul first you might have destroyed your own golden core,” she idly flips through her notes before turning to a blank page and jotting something down, “as it is, Shang-shizhi has suffered a qi deviation of moderate severity; has numerous burns on his hands and along his forearms; flayed open the bottoms of his feet; broke five of his toes; and bruised most of his toenails so badly they needed to be removed.”

She leans over the bed and presses the palm of her hand against his forehead, a faint wash of qi spreading out from where she touches him, before sitting back and drawing a talisman in the air and applying it firmly to Shang Lei’s chest. Shang Lei doesn’t recognize it, but as he looks down to watch the Peak Lord work, he notices a small field of similar talismans attached to various points on his body.

“There is also,” Wan Zhanrong says, “the issue of Shang-shizhi’s elemental nature.”

Before she can expound on that extremely ominous statement, however, Mu Qingfang comes back bearing a tray laden with medicinal tea and soup, as well as another stack of talisman paper and a lacquered box, “Shizun,” Mu Qingfang says, “Lin-shishu sent over the spiritual instruments you specified.”

Wan Zhanrong stands and goes over to the table where Mu Qingfang sets down the tray, taking the box and talisman paper and doing something that Shang Lei can’t see as Mu Qingfang steps forward to help him sit up.

Shang Lei’s hands and arms are swathed in bandages--and beneath that he can feel the sticky paste of whatever medicine he’s been slathered in--so he has to bashfully accept Mu Qingfang’s assistance drinking the medicinal soup he’s offered. Or he tries to drink it, before he coughs on the first mouthful.

“Mu-shixiong,” Shang Lei gasps, as he tries to clear his throat while the taste lingers in his mouth, “it’s so bitter.”

Mu Qingfang smiles down at him in a way that’s definitely not meant to be reassuring, “If Shang-shidi wishes for food that is more to his tastes, then he should endeavor to recover and leave the healing halls.”

Shang Lei winces, but accepts the next few sips of bitter medicinal soup, “Ah, Mu-shixiong,” he says, unable to resist the urge to complain a little, “so cruel.”

Mu Qingfang laughs, and helps Shang Lei finish the soup before pouring him a cup of tea and holding it up for him to drink, “You’re well on your way,” he says, “just listen to Shizun’s instructions and you might return to An Ding tomorrow.”

The tea is better than the soup, so Shang Lei nods and drinks without complaint.

When Mu Qingfang decides that he’s drunk enough tea, he rearranges the talismans stuck to Shang Lei’s arms to points on his shoulders and chest and rolls up the sleeves of Shang Lei’s infirmary robe to begin cutting through the thick dressings. Shang Lei isn’t sure what to expect, but the pink, shiny skin that’s revealed--despite the expected medicinal goop coating--is better than ‘numerous burns’ led him to imagine. As he watches, Mu Qingfang takes a damp cloth and begins wiping away the old medicine while checking various pressure points in Shang Lei’s hands and forearms. The burns are mostly confined to his hands, specifically on the palms and fingers where he’d gripped Canyue and Xianyue, but there’s a few that lick up his forearms in abstract shapes that Shang Lei has to stare at for a few moments before he recognizes them as Lichtenberg figures.

His hands are stiff, and Mu Qingfang is businesslike when he slathers them in medicine and firmly massages them until Shang Lei can flex them more easily.

“Shang-shidi will need to rebuild his calluses,” Mu Qingfang says, as he begins to wrap Shang Lei’s hands and arms again, this time with much lighter bandages that leave Shang Lei able to articulate his fingers, “but the medicine is working well, and the burns should fade completely within a few days.”

Finally, belatedly, it occurs to Shang Lei that he’s healed more extensively than he should be, considering the laundry list of injuries Wan Zhanrong had enumerated, “Mu-shixiong,” he says, voice wavering, “how long…”

“Ah,” Mu Qingfang says, his face softening a bit as he meets Shang Lei’s worried eyes, “It’s been ten days,” he moves down to the foot of the bed, folding the blankets back and revealing Shang Lei’s similarly heavily bandaged feet, “you woke on your own on the second day, and so we put you under to make sure your healing would proceed properly.”

“Ten days,” Shang Lei breathes, incredulous, “was it…,” he hesitates, “was it that bad?”

Wan Zhanrong, who is still occupied with whatever was in the box, looks over her shoulder to frown at Shang Lei, “You had a qi deviation, you nearly died, the only thing that saved you is your elemental affinities combining to form spiritual lightning,” she scolds, “if you hadn’t instinctually discharged the built-up qi in your core you might have self-destructed entirely,” she fiddles with whatever she’s working on for a few moments, before returning to her lecture, “but now our issue is your uncontrolled elemental manifestations.”

“My what,” Shang Lei says.

“Most Masters who manage elemental manifestations have been training for it,” Wan Zhanrong continues, ignoring Shang Lei’s interruption, “and are thus prepared for handling them,” she makes a frustrated noise and turns to a cabinet against the wall, pulling open a drawer and rifling through it until she emerges, triumphant, with a hammer, which she brings down decisively on whatever offended her, “you,” she says, her tone conveying the general idea that Shang Lei is not only a fool but has managed to be a tremendous inconvenience about it, “did it by accident,” she brings the hammer down again, and again, and finally makes a vaguely satisfied noise at whatever she’s working on, “but elemental manifestation is elemental manifestation.”

Mu Qingfang looks up at Shang Lei from where he’s driving his thumbs almost painfully hard into the soles of Shang Lei’s feet, “Once you have it, you have it,” he nods.

“Now that you’re awake,” Wan Zhanrong says, still preoccupied with her project, “your control should improve significantly, but the fact remains that you have no training and almost blasted the ceiling open during your qi deviation,” she gestures vaguely at a scorch mark on the ceiling that Shang Lei hadn’t noticed, “not to mention the fact that spiritual lightning is still drawn from your own spiritual energy, and so you’re liable to drive yourself into spiritual exhaustion if you discharge too much,” she turns and casts an appraising eye over Shang Lei, “at least before you reach the Soul Transformation stage.”

“Oh,” Shang Lei says, at a loss for words.

“Oh,” Wan Zhanrong echoes, exasperated.

“Shizun,” Mu Qingfang says, when he finishes wrapping Shang Lei’s feet in new, light bandages--which Shang Lei is glad about, because while it was nice that his cultivation had helped him heal well enough that the splints on his toes could be removed and the soles of his feet had apparently mostly healed, it was still deeply uncomfortable to look down and see the bare nail beds as his toenails grew back--and moves around the bed to help Shang Lei sit up and swing his legs over the side, “we’re ready.”

“Good,” Wan Zhanrong says, picking up whatever she’d been working on and dropping it back into the box it came in, before making her way to Shang Lei’s bedside, “this Master trusts that Shang-shizhi is familiar with the principles of conductivity in metals?” she asks.

Shang Lei, who is honestly getting a bit overwhelmed by everything, says, “I’m sure Wan-shishu is better versed in them than this disciple.”

Wan Zhanrong gives him a narrow stare for a moment before smiling--a true smile this time--and shaking her head, “I see why Zhanhua likes you,” she says, “but you’ll have to learn to control your element, so allow this Master to begin teaching you,” she sets the box down on Shang Lei’s bedside table, and pulls a hinged cuff made of hammered silver out of it.

“Silver is the most conductive of all metals,” Wan Zhanrong says, as she clasps the cuff around his right wrist. When closed, the cuff is a thin band of silver that hangs gently on his wrist; not so tight as to be uncomfortable, but definitely tight enough that he couldn’t pull it on and off like a bangle. There is a matching cuff for his left wrist, and another, larger pair that go around his ankles. Finally, a thin band is clasped around Shang Lei’s throat, the cold metal quickly warming to his skin.

“This is spiritual silver,” Wan Zhanrong says, when she’s finished, “its specially forged to imbue it with a property that naturally attracts spiritual energy,” she slides a few of her fingers underneath the collar, ensuring that its not too tight, “combined with the natural conductivity of the silver itself,” she pins him with a look that promises retribution if he doesn’t follow her instructions, “provided Shang-shizhi wears the whole set,” she says, “it should attract your lightning and distribute it so you aren’t burned again while you’re learning to control it.”

“This disciple thanks Wan-shishu,” Shang Lei says.

Mu Qingfang produces a pair of slippers in Shang Lei’s approximate size, and slides them onto Shang Lei’s feet before helping him to stand on his shaky legs. It doesn’t hurt, which Shang Lei takes as a good sign, despite the odd, tight feeling in the soles of his feet.

“Now to test it!,” Wan Zhanrong enthuses, as she begins plucking talismans off of Shang Lei. Mu Qingfang helps, and as the blanket of talismans that had been stuck to various places on Shang Lei begins to thin out, he starts to feel his own spiritual energy welling up from where it had been quiescent inside him.

It feels as warm and welcoming as it always has, at first, but as the last few talismans are removed Shang Lei feels something shift; that same live wire feeling he’d felt wind its way into his golden core coming back. He closes his eyes and concentrates, trying to regulate the flow of his qi as he adjusts to the new strength he feels; the faint electric buzz tingling through his body. He thinks he’s managed it, and opens his eyes, letting his controlled breathing slack back into an unconscious rhythm; and then jolts, literally, as a flicker of spiritual lightning sparks out.

For a moment Shang Lei thinks it’s going to arc out and strike, but the lightning concentrates on the cuff on Shang Lei’s left wrist before it sheets sideways to bounce from his right wrist and down to the bands around his ankles before harmlessly fizzling out.

Wan Zhanrong claps her hands, delighted, “Excellent!” she exclaims, slapping a few of the talismans back on to Shang Lei, just enough to ease the way his golden core feels electrified, “Fang-Er, help Shang-shizhi clean up,” she turns and heads for the door, “I told Zhanhua we were waking you up today, so she’s probably lurking in my office by now.”

Shang Lei is glad he has such a thick face, because while he’s not opposed to Mu Qingfang helping him bathe, he’s not exactly comfortable either. But he endures, and is especially glad when it comes to dealing with the fact that he’s still bandaged and is thus relegated to a sponge bath. The talismans are enough to keep him from inadvertently shocking himself or Mu Qingfang, and it’s nice to be clean and escape the stale feeling he woke up with.

He only notices his hair when Mu Qingfang gathers up the braid it’d been put into so he can scrub the washcloth over Shang Lei’s back.

“Here, Mu-shixiong,” Shang Lei says, reaching out and taking the braid from him. His hair is as thick, straight, and black as ever, but he’s absolutely certain that before he went into seclusion his hair only reached his mid-back when it was braided, and this braid swings down to his waist. Which is ridiculous, because it’s only been a bit more than two months and his hair doesn’t grow that fast.

Something of what he’s thinking must show on his face, because when Mu Qingfang circles back around to dip the washcloth back into the basin, he laughs, “Shang-shidi,” he says, “if you’ll recall the natural effects of cycling spiritual energy in advanced cultivation.”

“Ah,” Shang Lei says, flushing a bit in embarrassment because yes, now that Mu Qingfang mentions it, he does remember that one of the basic points of cultivation is to support and enhance the physical body in preparation for transitioning from a mortal body to an immortal body, which includes bolstering the rate of healing and cellular regeneration, which in turn can lead to accelerated growth of hair and nails during periods of intense cultivation. He can’t help but check his fingernails from where they peek out of the bandages on his hands.

“We trimmed your nails,” Mu Qingfang says, “it would have been unsanitary to leave them when we had your burns to contend with.”

“This shidi thanks Mu-Shixiong,” Shang Lei says, because it was really very nice of Mu Qingfang to tell Shang Lei these things without making him feel even more like an idiot for forgetting such a basic fact in the first place. It’s also very nice of Mu Qingfang to help Shang Lei wash his now-even-longer masses of hair; putting a towel over Shang Lei’s shoulders and having him kneel leaning forward over a basin so he could do a thorough job without getting Shang Lei’s bandages wet.

By the time he’s clean and dry and wrapped in a new robe, Shang Lei feels exhausted.

Mu Qingfang helps him back out of the washroom to find that someone has come through the sickroom and cleaned up the scattered talisman papers and changed the bed, and Shang Lei goes gladly back into his sickbed.

He’s given another small pot of medicinal tea to drink, and is glad that he can actually hold his cup himself this time.

Laying on the bed, he tries to stay awake as Mu Qingfang helps him under the blankets, but he has a sinking suspicion that the medicinal tea was a sedative.

“Is Shizun here?” Shang Lei asks, as he struggles to keep his eyes open.

“Probably,” Mu Qingfang says, “She’s been coming to check on you almost every day,” he shifts Shang Lei so his head is at a more appropriate angle for sleep, which he’s rapidly succumbing to, “but you’ll be seeing her tomorrow.”

Chapter 35

Chapter Text

The next time Shang Lei wakes up, Zhang Zhanhua is sitting at his bedside, arguing with Wan Zhanrong.

He can’t help the breathy groan he makes as he rises towards consciousness, but it neatly interrupts their argument so he doesn’t particularly mind.

Wan Zhanrong’s final remark of, “If you hadn’t waited until the absolute last minute, then you wouldn’t be having these problems.” is still an ominous thing to wake up to, though, especially in light of Zhang Zhanhua’s scowling face as she bites back whatever retort she might have made to her shimei in favor of turning her attention to Shang Lei.

“Shang Lei,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “this Master is glad to see you awake.”

“Shizun,” Shang Lei says, “this disciple apologizes for being so much trouble.”

Wan Zhanrong scoffs, “Not knowing about a qi sensitivity when you’ve never been exposed to that type of qi before isn’t your fault,” she says before turning to Zhang Zhanhua, “and you, lurking about my peak or sending that wife of yours to lurk for you, and now trying to play cool! As though you weren’t worried sick!”

Zhang Zhanhua turns a flat, unimpressed stare on Wan Zhanrong and says, in a very deliberately bland tone, “Thanking Wan-shimei for her remarks.”

Wan Zhanrong, centuries old Immortal Master and Lord of Qian Cao Peak, sticks her tongue out at Zhang Zhanhua before turning back to the herbs she was grinding; obviously making medicine of some kind if the mortar and pestle and various bowls strewn around her on the table were any indication. “Fang-Er,” she says, drawing attention to Mu Qingfang who’d been unobtrusively preparing bandages while his Shizun and Zhang Zhanhua argued, “help Shang-shizhi up.”

Shang Lei almost misses the amused expression that crosses Zhang Zhanhua’s face for the briefest of moments when Wan Zhanrong subsides into annoyed muttering.

Mu Qingfang finishes with the bandages and carries a tray over to the table at Shang Lei’s bedside. After the enforced rest brought about by the sedative tea, Shang Lei feels better than he did the day before; or at least, he assumes it was the day before, the diffuse light coming in through the windows has a quality Shang Lei associates with the dawn.

“Shizun,” Shang Lei says again, “Is it morning?”

“Yes,” Zhang Zhanhua says, once Mu Qingfang has helped Shang Lei sit up, “this Master has something to discuss with you.”

Wan Zhanrong makes an inelegant snort, not even bothering to hide her face in one of her sleeves--both of them folded up and held close to her forearms by bracers, so the fabric wouldn’t get in the way of her work--and says, “That’s what you’re going to lead with?” in an incredulous tone.

Zhang Zhanhua doesn’t turn or acknowledge her in any way, but the corner of her mouth twitches in the way that Shang Lei has learned means she’s annoyed in a good-natured sort of way, rather than annoyed in a scary sort of way. “This Master will admit our current situation is in some ways her own fault,” she says, with an air of someone who is deigning to be extremely generous in their assumption of blame, “and I must now, regrettably, ask Shang Lei to endure discomfort as we remedy it.”

“Our situation?” Shang Lei echoes, confused.

“Shang-shizhi,” Wan Zhanrong says, interrupting whatever Zhang Zhanhua was going to say next and earning herself a scathing look from the An Ding Peak Lord, “you are aware your Shizun has a reputation for being quite particular and discerning, don’t you?” she doesn’t wait for Shang Lei to answer before continuing, “Well!” she grins the grin of someone deliberately annoying their shijie, “Zhang-shijie’s exacting standards,” the word is overemphasized, for effect, Wan Zhanrong’s tone mirthful, “extended to her choice of succeeding disciple as well, which is unfortunate, because each Peak Lord of the preceding generation has until the one-year anniversary of the succeeding Sect Leader’s ascension to choose their successor, with those successors being formally confirmed at a ceremony on that day,” she makes an expansive gesture with her hands, “as part of the process of the succeeding Sect Leader’s trials of new leadership under the guidance of their Shizun’s martial siblings.”

“And the unfortunate part?” Shang Lei asks.

Wan Zhanrong laughs, blithely ignoring Zhang Zhanhua’s annoyance, “The unfortunate part is that Zhang-shijie became so preoccupied with ensuring she’d chosen just the right successor, that she hasn’t told them yet, and the one-year anniversary of our Yue-shizhi’s ascension to being Sect Leader is today.”

Zhang Zhanhua finally snaps and says, “If Zhanrong is going to be so helpful as to explain, then she can continue with the preparations we discussed.”

Shang Lei’s sense of time snaps back into focus. A year. A year since Yue Qingyuan was confirmed as the new Sect Leader. Shang Lei had been in secluded meditation for two months. It had been eleven days since he’d gotten out. A bit of quick figuring is enough for him to reckon what the date is, from what it was when he went into the caves. They were well into Wuyue. Past the time Shang Lei had promised Mo Baixiu he’d return. Shang Lei has missed his own birthday.

Wan Zhanrong laughs again, before putting a lid over the bowl of medicine she’d made, and leaving the room.

“Shang Lei,” Zhang Zhanhua says, an air of longsuffering about her, “your Wan-shishu is sadly correct, this Master has been remiss,” she sighs, “you may have guessed by now, that this Master’s intentions towards you are greater than simply naming you as Head Disciple?”

Shang Lei says, “Yes, Shizun,” for lack of anything better to say.

Zhang Zhanhua nods, “This Master apologizes, but the ceremony cannot be postponed,” she grimaces slightly, folding her hands into her sleeves, “Zhanrong assures me you should be well enough to attend, but I must know,” she catches Shang Lei’s eyes with a look of utmost seriousness, “Shang Lei, will you accept being this Master’s legacy?” she asks, “Will you pardon this Master for her lapse?” she asks, “Will you endure this imposition on your recovery?”

Airplane has known this was coming, is the thing. When he wrote Proud Immortal Demon Way, he’d specified that the original Shang Qinghua was the Lord of An Ding Peak. It was, to be completely fair to Airplane’s worldbuilding process, the reason Shang Qinghua existed: because An Ding had needed a named Peak Lord for the Qing generation, and at the time it had seemed like a nice simple way to combine multiple needs of the plot together. Cang Qiong Mountain Sect would have its traitorous Peak Lord, Luo Binghe would have his spy in the human world, Mobei Jun would get a bit of character development as the second in command spymaster archetype who had some history with the traitor Peak Lord. It all fit together nicely.

If the Shang Qinghua who’d existed within Proud Immortal Demon Way hadn’t really had a personality beyond being Lord of An Ding and occasionally providing some exposition, producing deus ex machina as needed, or kissing Mobei Jun’s ass, then it really hadn’t been an issue. He’d had most of his scenes cut anyways. The two or three cool things he’d initially gotten to do had mostly been given away to Luo Binghe’s intended wife in whichever story arc he’d shown up in. And eventually after Cang Qiong had been destroyed, Airplane had written him out in an offscreen death that was glossed over in one single sentence: Mobei Jun assuring Luo Binghe that the traitorous Peak Lord hadn’t escaped when Mobei Jun had deemed it necessary to kill him.

He was essentially a blank space within the story that had been shaped by the needs of the narrative and then been discarded when Airplane had moved away from the Cang Qiong plotline.

Now, though, Airplane has lived his second life as the future Shang Qinghua. He’s lived it and he doesn’t understand how the original Shang Qinghua could have made the choices he’d have to have made for things to end up the way they did in Proud Immortal Demon Way. It feels a bit insane to think about it from the inside, when he knows, absolutely, that the original Shang Qinghua’s decisions didn’t have to make sense at all: they were decided arbitrarily by Airplane for convenience’s sake.

Zhang Zhanhua, with absolute sincerity, asks Shang Lei if he’s willing to take up An Ding’s leadership and defense after she retires. If he’ll accept that his Shizun isn’t perfect, and that he might have to endure discomfort because of her mistakes. If he’s willing to follow his duties even when they inconvenience him.

He can’t imagine the original Shang Qinghua--who sold out his entire sect for reasons Airplane had never even bothered exploring beyond vague assumptions of personal gain and cowardice--being able to honestly say yes to any of these questions.

But the original Shang Qinghua isn’t the one being asked. And Shang Lei, who was Airplane but isn’t really anymore, is.

“Shizun,” Shang Lei says, saluting as well as he can in the bed, “it would be my honor.”

Zhang Zhanhua, for the first time ever, salutes Shang Lei in return, “This Master is gratified,” she says, at once both serious and fond, “to have raised a disciple such as yourself.”

She stands from her chair, and straightens her robes, and says, “But now, we must prepare,” and smiles that same inscrutable smile she always wears when Shang Lei is about to be put through his paces in a way she finds amusing, “Mu-shizhi has a breakfast for you, and will see to your remaining injuries,” she turns towards the door, “this Master will ensure Zhanrong hasn’t gotten lost, and retrieve some essentials.”

The breakfast that Mu Qingfang gives him is the same herbal tea and bitter medicinal soup, but with a bowl of plain rice and a helping of bland, steamed vegetables to round out the meal. Shang Lei grimaces his way through eating it, but doesn’t complain overmuch, mostly because Mu Qingfang is very cheerfully direct in his assertion that Qian Cao’s hospital meals were prepared with optimal nutrition rather than flavor in mind.

Afterwards, Shang Lei’s bandages are changed--with the burns on his hands looking much improved even from yesterday under the effects of the medicine and his own cultivation, and the lingering soreness in his feet having mostly faded as well--with a fresh layer of medicine being slathered over the worst hurts before a very light layer of bandages is wrapped firmly but not uncomfortably back over the places the medicine was put. During all of this Shang Lei had ended up having to have the same qi suppressing talismans from the day before stuck to him in strategic places when Mu Qingfang had to remove the silver grounding cuffs from around Shang Lei’s wrists and ankles to be able to do his work.

By the time this is done, Wan Zhanrong has come back, accompanied by Zhang Zhanhua and Wei He--who is apparently the ‘essential’ Zhang Zhanhua was referring to--and the three women stand around the room’s worktable arguing some utterly opaque point until Mu Qingfang gets their attention.

Wei He immediately makes her way to Shang Lei’s bedside to gently fuss over him, while Wan Zhanrong and Zhang Zhanhua continue what seems like a good-natured series of jabs at each other.

Shang Lei is honestly so happy to see Wei He again that he can’t help basking in her attention: bashfully answering her enthusiastic questions and being cooed over; showing her his now much-longer braid of hair; the grounding cuffs; offering his assurances that he feels much better.

Mu Qingfang helps him out of the bed, and Shang Lei still feels a bit shaky on his legs, but he’s not immediately exhausted like he was yesterday and his feet don’t ache when he stands on them, so it’s a definite improvement. He still needs help walking to the washroom, but after a few steps he starts to steady out; his cultivation working to heal and restore him the same as it has during his unconsciousness, keeping him from the weakness and physical deterioration a mundane person would endure after ten days bedridden. Mu Qingfang deems him steady enough to complete his ablutions alone, and Shang Lei takes the opportunity of being alone in the washroom to scrub at his face with a wet washcloth until the lingering sense of surreality fades away. He understands that Zhang Zhanhua had likely planned to tell him her decision when he got out of secluded cultivation, and that he’d have had several days to prepare to be formally acknowledged as Head Disciple and her Succeeding Disciple, and that it’s not his fault things had gone awry, but knowing this doesn’t stop the feeling of being suddenly overwhelmed when he starts thinking about it.

When he steps out of the washroom, refreshed and mostly calm, Shang Lei finds that the room has been overtaken by the ‘preparations’ for the investiture ceremony under Wei He’s guidance. The bed has had the blanket haphazardly pulled up over the open sheets and pillows and a plethora of boxes stacked on it. The table where Wan Zhanrong prepared medicine earlier has been cleared off and wiped down, and another selection of small boxes, cases, bottles, and jars now dominates it. The medicine has been moved to the bedside table, where Wan Zhanrong and Zhang Zhanhua both sit in chairs that have been dragged into the room and look bemusedly on while Wei He flutters around the small room unpacking a qiankun pouch of yet more items and muttering to herself as she goes.

It isn’t until Wei He turns the qiankun pouch upside down and starts shaking it so a full-sized folding screen slides out that she finally turns her attention to Shang Lei. In the short stretch of time it takes her to set the folding screen up and arrange it the way she wants, Shang Lei’s sense of foreboding comes back.

Wan Zhanrong and Zhang Zhanhua have both changed out of the robes they’d been in when Shang Lei woke up, and are currently dressed in their most formal Peak Lord’s robes and crowns: both of them visions in heavy layers of richly dyed and embroidered silk; their hair piled atop their heads and pinned and coiffed and ornamented to the utmost afforded by their stations; their ceremonial ensembles topped off by various complementary pieces of fine jewelry, flowers, and accessories.

Wan Zhanrong immediately excusing Mu Qingfang to go and see to his own preparations--despite the fact that Shang Lei’s sense of time has recovered enough for him to know that it’s fairly early in the morning, and the ceremony isn’t going to start until near midday--just increases Shang Lei’s nerves. The Qian Cao Peak Lord waits until Wei He has shepherded Shang Lei into a chair by the room’s table before she carefully takes up the bowl of medicine she’d mixed earlier and brings it to Shang Lei.

“You’re well enough to be released from the ward,” Wan Zhanrong says, “and ideally you’d go right home and rest for another few days, but needs must,” she hands Shang Lei the bowl of medicine, “this will help you through the day, but you’re to spend the next week on non-strenuous activity and light cultivation only,” she gives Zhang Zhanhua a look that manages to communicate that she expects Shang Lei’s Shizun to enforce these orders, “I’ll be sending over a scroll detailing the qi exercises you’re to do to start getting your element under control, and you’ll be coming back for regular check-ups until I’m satisfied with your progress, understand?”

Shang Lei bows his head, careful of the bowl of medicine in his hands, “Yes,” he says, “Thanking Wan-shishu.”

Wan Zhanrong watches with sharp eyes as he drinks down all of the medicine she’d prepared, and then takes the bowl back from him and leaves him to Wei He’s tender mercies; likely going off to find Mu Qingfang and manage her own succeeding disciple’s preparation for the event ahead.

The medicine doesn’t seem to work right away, but Shang Lei’s general sense of wellness seems to increase, and a bit of the lingering tiredness fades away. The effects spread with each gentle turn of his golden core, moving along his spiritual veins. The livewire feeling that he’s come to associate with his lightning isn’t gone, but seems quiescent for now.

Zhang Zhanhua and Wei He have another of their conversations without words while Shang Lei sits quietly and lets the medicine work, eventually coming to some mutual conclusion before Wei He goes fishing around through the many boxes on the room’s bed and returning triumphant with a complete set of cotton underclothes and a nearly sheer cotton under robe and thin pants for his first layer of clothing. She presses them into Shang Lei’s arms and banishes him behind the screen to change as she resumes her digging through the various garment boxes she’s brought to find the items she’s looking for.

When Shang Lei emerges, feeling vaguely self-conscious because Zhang Zhanhua and Wei He are right on the other side of the screen, he finds that Wei He has laid what must be more than half a dozen robes out across the bed and is still deliberating over more.

She breaks off from her consideration of what seems to be the entire wardrobe she’s brought with her to sit Shang Lei back down in his chair and begin her first assault with the various lotions, oils, and perfumes arrayed on the table. Airplane had, to his vague past-life regret, never advanced far enough as a principal dancer to actually get his make-up and hair done by an actual artist before performances--even as a soloist he’d still been responsible for doing it himself--but Wei He has the same manner he’s seen in professionals. Her previous coaching on how he should manage his appearance is something Shang Lei had found very valuable, and so when she tolerates him moving his mouth he asks questions about what she’s doing. The answers he receives are mostly just ‘making our Shang Lei look less like he just got out of the healing halls’ by the application of various moisturizers and the very slightest touch of cosmetics. After this, she unbraids and combs through his hair with just enough subtly perfumed oil--a soft blend of what smells like jasmine and sandalwood to Shang Lei’s nose--for it to turn sleek and smooth and fall down his back like a solid sheet of black silk. The extra length takes a little bit of getting used to--the weight feels different on his head, the brush of it along his body ends further down than his sense memory tells him it should--but Wei He moves briskly along and when she’s done brushing, she gathers his hair up and pins it into a temporary knot on top of his head before wiping her hands and turning back to the selection of robes on the bed.

He takes the first robe she gives him--a gossamer-thin layer of white silk, to go over his under robe--and puts it on, adjusting the sleeves of the robe over his under robe as Wei He selects the next one. The second robe is another layer of white silk with a high collar that fastens all the way up his throat. The third robe is another thin layer of silk, this time in a soft sky blue. The fourth robe is an outer-layer robe of medium weight slub silk in a crisp steel blue with white embroidery in the geometric patterns favored on An Ding, the peak’s sigil featuring prominently. The fifth robe is a painfully delicate silk chiffon in a rich midnight blue, sheer enough to see the embroidery on the robe under it, and with complimentary embroidery of its own; An Ding’s sigil and echoes of the geometric patterns embroidered on the steel blue robe picked out in dainty silver thread. The cloth belt Wei He chooses is the same soft sky blue as the third robe with silver embroidery in the same geometric pattern as the other robes, she cinches it firmly around his waist and then lays another belt of silver filigree links over it. The final layer is a sleeveless robe of slightly iridescent shot silk in an exquisite dove grey, left unbelted over the other robes and embroidered with matte threat in the same dove grey to make a very visually appealing pattern of interwoven matte and shine.

When he’s finally dressed Wei He immediately descends upon him to fuss over the fall of the cloth and the way the over-robe sits and the adjustment of the sleeves. Once he’s been preened to her satisfaction, she stands back and admires her handiwork with an air of deep satisfaction.

“Ah, Zhanhua,” Wei He says, almost sighing with happiness, “It’s been so long since the Head Disciple’s formal uniform has been worn, I’d forgotten how elegant it looks!”

It is at this point that Shang Lei realizes, looking from his own robes to Zhang Zhanhua’s, that the general color scheme and patterns of embroidery have been made to match. He feels a little silly for not noticing earlier, but his self-recriminations are cut short when Wei He steers him back into the chair and produces a pair of shoes and accompanying socks, bending to help Shang Lei into them. She’s careful not to disturb his bandages when she pulls the socks over his feet, and then the shoes.

“Shizun,” Shang Lei says, the subtle feeling of having missed something suddenly bearing fruit in recollection, “what happened to my swords?”

“I returned them to your Leisure House,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “after I brought you to Qian Cao.”

Shang Lei nods his head in understanding, and then is distracted from anything else when Wei He opens up the jewelry case on the table and reveals a selection of hair crowns and other accessories: silk ribbons; hairpins; belt ornaments; bangles; xianguan necklaces; gentleman’s fans. He feels anxious just looking at the assortment of obviously expensive items, and even more anxious when Wei He dives gleefully into deciding which ornaments and accessories would suit him best.

“Shizun,” Shang Lei says again, unable to keep a faint tremor out of his voice, “isn’t this a bit much?” he ends up squeaking, nerves making it impossible to play cool.

Zhang Zhanhua gives Shang Lei an amused glance, before replying, “Shang Lei will be representing An Ding Peak amongst his fellow Succeeding Disciples,” she says, “a certain level of formality and opulence is required for proper decorousness.”

Which Shang Lei takes to mean that Zhang Zhanhua won’t be saving him from Wei He’s obvious delight at playing dress-up with him, because they’re going to a fancy sect thing where everyone else is going to be as fancy as possible.

It’s a small comfort when Wei He gives Shang Lei an indulgent smile and deems his earrings--which mercifully survived his seclusion, his lightning, and his convalescence--perfectly suitable and needn’t be changed. She picks one of the more understated xianguan necklaces, a simple ring of silver with a hanging pendant of white jade, and slides it over Shang Lei’s head before making an appreciative noise at how the jade stood out against the midnight blue silk on Shang Lei’s chest. She chooses a light fan painted with an impressionistic silhouette of a mountain range and Shang Lei dutifully tucks it into his belt, despite not being particularly fond of them as an accessory. The hair crown takes the longest time to choose, but Wei He seems to mercifully understand that Shang Lei is getting overwhelmed with it all and picks a relatively simple crown in hammered silver with a smooth geometric pattern that compliments the embroidery on his robes.

Wei He takes up the comb again, letting Shang Lei’s hair down from the temporary knot she’d pinned it into and brushing through it to smooth it back down. She chooses a silk ribbon in the same sky blue as Shang Lei’s cloth belt and one of his under robes to secure the half-up topknot she styles his hair into, before pinning the crown over the knot and finally declaring Shang Lei ready.

Zhang Zhanhua stands and makes her way to Wei He’s side, both of them admiring Wei He’s handiwork. After a few moments, Wei He turns and sorts through the detritus of garment boxes strewn over the bed and produces a hand mirror so Shang Lei can see as well.

It takes him a moment of staring incredulously into the mirror to recognize himself, but once he does he’s stunned.

There’s nothing Wei He can do to disguise the fact that he’s obviously in somewhat ill health, and the bandages on his hands peek out from under his sleeves when he lifts his arms, but otherwise, Shang Lei looks elegant. He looks graceful and dignified.

Zhang Zhanhua gives him another once over when he stands, handing the mirror back to Wei He and presenting himself for his Peak Lord’s inspection. She gives him the barest of nods in acknowledgement, and a hint of a smile plays around her mouth as she circles him; studying this showy, elaborately dressed version of Shang Lei to see if he was worthy.

Eventually, she comes to a stop in front of him again, folding her arms into her sleeves with an air of contemplation.

“Let us see,” Zhang Zhanhua says, “this next generation of Peak Lords is the ‘Qing’ generation, is it not?”

“Yes, Shizun,” Shang Lei answers.

“And it is the tradition of An Ding Peak that its Peak Lords will have the ‘hua’ in their generational names,” Zhang Zhanhua says, her tone meditative.

“Yes, Shizun,” Shang Lei answers, beginning to get an idea of where this is going.

Zhang Zhanhua smiles at him, a real, full smile, “Then this Master supposes that Shang Lei is no longer Shang Lei,” she says, “but rather Shang Qinghua, my succeeding disciple.”

Shang Lei salutes and bows, unable to find words. The weight of the name settles over him, an inevitability, but also an accomplishment all his own.

Shang Qinghua rises from his bow and finds himself smiling back at Zhang Zhanhua, despite the mild thrill of abject terror that races down his spine.

Chapter 36

Chapter Text

Getting to Qing Ding Peak proves a slight challenge, if only because Shang Qinghua can’t fly by himself, and Wei He doesn’t want all of her hard work ruined. They manage by flying very slowly with Shang Qinghua balanced behind his Peak Lord, his hands firmly but respectfully set on her shoulders. He feels silly, but Zhang Zhanhua sets them down in a more out of the way receiving courtyard and determines that they’ll walk the rest of the way to the place where the ceremony will be held.

Whether it’s the medicine or his own cultivation healing him Shang Qinghua can’t say, but they make the short trip across Qiong Ding in a stately procession and his feet don’t ache.

Thankfully, Wei He’s lessons on deportment had most thoroughly included how to move in elaborate robes such as the supposed Head Disciple’s formal uniform--although Shang Qinghua has a sinking suspicion that only the general cut and style of the robes remains of the actual original Head Disciple’s uniform, and that the wardrobe’s worth of robes he’d seen Wei He sorting through is the version of the Head Disciple’s uniform that has been designed and made for him and him alone, in preparation for this very ceremony--so he doesn’t stumble or trip or otherwise make a fool of himself.

The longer he’s awake and out from the influence of the qi suppressing talismans he’d worn in the healing halls, the more Shang Qinghua feels in tune with his golden core, and the advancements he’d made in his cultivation. He feels the lightness and grace that had taken possessed him while he was in the Lingxi Caves, not as intensely, but still the feeling of ease in his movements, of surety in the way he places his feet; so much so that he’s unable to stop himself from making the very slightest of corrections to his walk and slipping into an almost dancelike step, gliding along behind Zhang Zhanhua and Wei He as they make their way up the final staircase to the place the ceremony will take place.

Qiong Ding isn’t the tallest of Cang Qiong’s peaks, but it’s the home of some of the oldest settlements in the sect, and the areas around the peak’s enclave have been groomed and cultivated into some of the loveliest in the sect; the natural vistas of the Tian Gong Range a breathtaking backdrop against the carefully maintained gardens and well-stewarded wilderness of Qiong Ding’s slopes.

Shang Qinghua crests the top of the stair, and looks out over a small gathering of basically every important person in the sect.

Wan Zhanrong and Mu Qingfang are somehow already here, despite Mu Qingfang having left to prepare shortly before Shang Qinghua. Around them are a few people Shang Qinghua recognizes as senior Masters from Qian Cao.

Likewise, each of the currently reigning Peak Lords is accompanied by their Succeeding Disciple and a small retinue of the foremost Masters of their peak; standing in groups in order of their peak’s rank, facing an elaborately ornamented altar draped with silk and decked with offerings of flowers and incense, in front of which stood Yue Qingyuan, with his own Shizun the former Lord of Qiong Ding and various Masters from the first peak standing off to the side.

Zhang Zhanhua leads the way to An Ding’s place among the group, standing proud as the fourth peak to be founded during the original creation of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect. Waiting for them, Shang Qinghua sees Sun Ying, Xie Feng, and Grandmaster Peng--a truly ancient cultivator of Zhang Zhanhua’s own Shizun’s generation; small and slightly wrinkled with her age, but still straight backed and steely-eyed and the greatest glassblower An Ding has ever produced--and, perhaps most surprisingly, An Mei, who squeaks and has to visibly restrain herself from rushing over to Shang Qinghua when she sees him.

There’s enough time for An Mei to excitedly whisper at him that she and Gao Huan had taken good care of his plants, and that he looks particularly nice in his new robes, before the calm chatter that had permeated the open courtyard the ceremony was taking place in began to quiet down as everyone consolidated into their groups and began to attend to Yue Qingyuan as he stepped forward and raised his hands.

“Welcome,” Yue Qingyuan calls out, “I welcome my martial aunts and uncles, and fellow disciples of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect,” he bends forward in a formal bow and salute, and the gathered crowd bows in return, “The Qing generation began with myself,” Yue Qingyuan says, “and now it continues with the appointment of my own martial siblings as the future leaders of Cang Qiong’s peaks,” he spreads his arms and then brings his hands together in front of him, clasping them in preparation for a salute, “step forward,” he says, “so we may greet each other.”

The Lord of Qing Jing calls out, “I present Shen Qingqiu,” and Shang Qinghua has to school his face into the same polite blandness that Zhang Zhanhua usually presented as the future Qing Jing Peak Lord stepped forward from his place beside his Shizun. He didn’t miss the slight flinch that ran through Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders, as Shen Qingqiu--Shen Jiu, Proud Immortal Demon Way’s very own first act scum villain--took his place before Yue Qingyuan. The soft greens and whites of his robes, his ever-present fan, and his coldly beautiful features so much the image that Airplane had imagined that he’s momentarily stunned.

The Lord of Wan Jian calls out next, “I present Wei Qingwei,” and Wei Qingwei steps forward to stand in a like with Shen Qingqiu, slightly spread apart but abreast with each other before Yue Qingyuan.

Zhang Zhanhua calls out, “I present Shang Qinghua,” and Shang Qinghua steps forward as well, joining the line of future Peak Lords.

The Lord of Xian Shu calls out, “I present Qi Qingqi,” and she joins the line.

The Lord of Bai Zhan calls out, “I present Liu Qingge,” and he steps forward, Bai Zhan’s nascent War God, who Shang Qinghua watches out of the corner of his eye; unable to turn and look at him directly but still burningly curious about his seldom-seen martial brother who he sort of incidentally created to die for Liu Mingyan’s sad backstory.

Wan Zhanrong calls out, “I present Mu Qingfang,” and he steps forward, smiling very blandly in the way Shang Qinghua has come to know means Mu Qingfang thinks this is a silly waste of time but can’t go back to Qian Cao yet.

The Lord of Ku Xing calls out, “I present Xu Qingwang,” and he steps forward, and even the usually plainly dressed Ku Xing cultivators have put some effort into being fancy for the ceremony.

The Lord of Zui Xian calls out, “I present Feng Qingshan,” and she steps forward, a bounce in her steps as she comes up alongside Xu Qingwang.

The Lord of Xue Fu calls out, “I present Lin Qingmeng,” and she steps forward, her hands folded into her sleeves.

The Lord of Yan Huo calls out, “I present Xing Qingdian,” and she steps forward, her face serious and eyes intent. A formal cloak with fur trim thrown over her shoulders in deference to Yan Huo’s enclave being built above the treeline in the ever-present snow near the mountain’s peak.

The Lord of Yan Jiu calls out, “I present Song Qingwan,” and she steps forward, smiling around at her fellow succeeding disciples before focusing on Yue Qingyuan.

Yue Qingyuan salutes, and the line of succeeding disciples salutes him in turn.

“I have great faith in our future strength as martial siblings,” Yue Qingyuan says, “and place myself in your care, as all of Cang Qiong’s peaks support our sect, so too do I hope for your support.”

He salutes again, and is saluted in turn not only by his martial siblings, but also the assembled Peak Lords and Masters.

The ceremony is followed by a light banquet, a variety of small but appetizing dishes being served, mostly to pad out people’s stomachs through the multiple toasts that are given in honor of Yue Qingyuan as Sect Leader, and the Succeeding Disciples as future Peak Lords. There are just as many speeches as there are toasts, and it’s late afternoon by the time the mingling begins.

Shang Qinghua is starting to feel his aches again--still not as badly as before, but still with a mild discomfort that he finds more difficult to ignore as the party drags on--and the general exhaustion of protracted socializing when he was already unwell. He tries his best to revive himself, but the medicine must be starting to wear off because despite his best efforts he can feel himself starting to wilt.

He still dutifully greets all of his martial siblings, though, starting with Yue Qingyuan and working his way through the succeeding disciples in order of seniority--it feels bizarre to know he should call Mu Qingfang shidi when not a few hours ago he’d called him shixiong, especially when Shang Qinghua is fairly certain he’s the youngest among the future Peak Lords--which is somewhat nerve wracking. Especially because the very next martial sibling he has to greet after Yue Qingyuan is Shen Qingqiu.

Shen Qingqiu is polite but cold, his green eyes sharp as he lazily fans himself, and Shang Qinghua is tired and sore and almost biting his tongue every other word because this is Shen Jiu and so he can’t help but stuttering a bit, and watching Shen Qingqiu’s regard plummet with every word he stumbles over until he makes his escape. It’s not a huge disaster, but Shang Qinghua feels distinctly judged and yes, he’s aware that Shen Qingqiu is like this, but it’s still a blow to his confidence when the very first of his martial siblings he tries to introduce himself to comes away thinking he’s a useless idiot!

Wei Qingwei is nice, but distracted and obviously uninterested in the party, sequestered as he is with Song Qingwan--who Shang Qinghua also greets, and is also nice but really more invested in her conversation with Wei Qingwei than meeting anyone--in a quiet corner so they can debate some scholarly point about spiritual tools.

Qi Qingqi he finds standing in a little knot with Feng Qingshan and Li Qingmeng, and Shang Qinghua greets all of them, spending a nice while discussing the state of Xian Shu’s mulberry groves, Zui Xian’s experiments with using the mulberry fruit to distill a new spirit, and Xue Fu’s advanced arrays for insulating An Ding’s more delicate and valuable groves and greenhouses--among other things--from disagreeable weather.

Eventually, though, he has to excuse himself to find Liu Qingge, who is lurking near the open doors to the courtyard. Shang Qinghua makes it most of the way through his greeting and introduction before Liu Qingge abruptly asks about the bandages on his hands and his somewhat sallow appearance. There’s an awkward pause in the conversation. Shang Qinghua laughs nervously. He really doesn’t want to discuss what happened in the Lingxi Caves, so he simply tells Liu Qingge that he’d had a mishap while meditating. Which was apparently exactly the wrong thing to say, when Liu Qingge snorts and Shang Qinghua gets to watch his obnoxiously handsome face show his growing disinterest in their conversation as he obviously mentally writes Shang Qinghua off as being weak. Which stings, really, because Shang Qinghua might not be on par with Bai Zhan’s War God but he’s not as pathetic as Liu Qingge has obviously decided he is!

After this second very disappointing introduction to a martial sibling, Shang Qinghua goes to find refuge with Mu Qingfang, who is mercifully already engaged in conversation with Xu Qingwang and Xing Qingdian. The party begins breaking up while he’s still talking to them, and eventually he makes his way back to Zhang Zhanhua’s side when she gathers up the group from An Ding and declares it time for them to leave.

Shang Qinghua is well and truly exhausted by the time they make it back to An Ding.

After extracting his solemn vow to tell her what had happened while he was gone, and offering her enthusiastic congratulations on being formally named Head Disciple and Succeeding Disciple, An Mei had graciously flown him back to his Leisure House; helping him inside and making sure everything was as she’d left it before saying goodnight.

Shang Qinghua doesn’t feel like he’s been gone for nearly two and half months, and An Mei and Gao Huan had done such a good job minding his house for him that he can hardly tell from the state of his house that he’d been gone.

He finds Canyue and Xianyue tucked into a double sheath and set on a sword-stand in his bedroom, and something in him eases at the sight of them.

The exhaustion he feels is a palpable thing, but being back in his bedroom, and remembering the morning before he’d left to go to the caves, Shang Qinghua can’t help but dig through his dresser to find the jade token Mo Baixiu had given him rather than going straight to bed. He doesn’t bother changing or freshening himself or anything, simply settling down on his bed and channeling the slightest whisper of spiritual energy into the token to try and catch his Prince’s attention. To explain why he’s been gone so long. To apologize. To tell him the news.

After a few moments, Shang Qinghua gets up again, fighting sleep by starting to actually prepare himself for bed. Stripping out of the elaborate formal robes and jewelry. Letting his hair down, still unsure how to feel about the added length but increasingly pleased with it. Washing his face to cleanse it of the light cosmetics Wei He had used to try and hide his illness. He minds his bandages and changes into a sleep robe, and is fiddling with his grounding cuffs when a wash of cold air blows through the room.

He turns towards the momentarily deepening point of shadow from which his Prince emerges, already smiling, but his face falls when he finally lays eyes on his Prince and sees Mo Baixiu’s utterly stricken expression.

Shang Qinghua is so surprised that his idle fiddling with his grounding cuff turns to distressed tugging, even as Mo Baixiu materializes fully into the room and stands, almost hesitant, before him. The cuff snaps open and slips off his wrist, Shang Qinghua’s tired hands too clumsy to catch it before it hits the floor.

Mo Baixiu, finally overcoming the strange hesitance that had apparently taken him, crosses the room in a few large strides, and opens his arms, reaching for Shang Qinghua.

It starts as a prickling in his chest, then a buzzing under his skin, before he realizes that he’s broken the equilibrium of the grounding cuffs, and his emotional excitement is feeding directly into the volatility of his qi.

Shang Qinghua has a moment to try and lurch backwards, “My Prince, wait!” falling from his lips in a panicked rush, before the shimmering eddy of elemental energy that has made itself at home in his golden core jolts to life and discharges; sparks dancing and spiritual lightning sheeting around him, sliding over the grounding cuffs he was still wearing at his throat and other wrist, before arcing out not to the cuffs on his ankles, but to strike Mo Baixiu squarely in the chest.

Chapter 37

Chapter Text

Mo Baixiu had grown complacent.

It was nearly a year since he and Shang Lei had met. Had wed. Had fallen into each other’s lives with such surety that he can’t say anymore what would have become of him had they not; his death is likely, if not by the Ling Hua Dart then by the quiet aches in his soul accumulated over his life that he hadn’t even noticed until Shang Lei had offered him a vision of an existence without them.

He doesn’t curse himself for thinking that the soft and gracious world they lived in Shang Lei’s home would last forever--he’d known from the start that it couldn’t, that one day he would become Mobei-Jun and be bound by his duties even more firmly than he is now--but he still feels ill-prepared when Shang Lei, soft with sleep and warmth and so achingly tender, tells him that he’s going into secluded cultivation.

Mo Baixiu doesn’t pretend to know much about human cultivation, but he knows enough to be aware that this is an important step in their progress. Shang Lei’s assurance that this will make him stronger, will help him, will--with luck--bring him closer to the immortality that human cultivators strove to attain; would make him inviolable by the ravages of time and age that would take him from Mo Baixiu’s side in the blink of an eye. Is enough that Mo Baixiu promised himself he could endure the uncertainty of knowing that Shang Lei was out of his reach. Out of his protection, as ineffectual as Mo Baixiu knows it is when they are so often apart.

And yet, to turn away, to leave Shang Lei is one of the most challenging things Mo Baixiu has ever done.

To try and extract Shang Lei’s promise that he’ll remember Mo Baixiu on his return, and realize that there is nothing he has to leverage that promise. That every ounce of power between them lies in Shang Lei’s gentle hands. What could Mo Baixiu possibly threaten him with, when he knows he could never lift a hand against him, could never bear causing his unhappiness, could never withhold his own presence when their time together is already so rare and precious?

What words could he speak that could possibly convey this, when Mo Baixiu has barely withstood the realization?

So he leaves. He leaves and he aches to know that he will count the days, the hours, the merest moments between his departure and the time that Shang Lei summons him back to his side.

The court of Mobei-Jun had returned to the Northern Ice Fortress with the passing of the customary late winter storms that break spectacularly over the mountains of the far north. Mo Baixiu had presented himself formally before his father and reported the quiet winter they’d otherwise enjoyed--Mo Baixiu himself having always found the deep winter to be restful and beautiful in its harshness, rather than wanting to run south to the Crystal Ice Palace--and discharged his responsibilities as commander of the fortress until the next winter.

Aside from the occasional appearance that must be put in at formal events, and visiting his mother, Mo Baixiu is free for the next several months. Months that he’d imagined spending more time in Shang Lei’s company. Months to learn each other better. Months to figure out how to express his thoughts, his intentions, his passions.

In the absence of this, he turns his path to the far north, and intrudes upon his sister’s hospitality.

Mo Baiyun is used to Mo Baixiu’s coming and going, and is always genuinely pleased to see him, even in his most morose moods.

The village that their mother hails from is perhaps the northernmost bastion of the Mo Clan’s power in the north. Beyond it lies only the frozen seas and wilderness that makes up the roof of the world. Jagged volcanic mountains; sharp, perilous cliffs; broad stretches of tundra that gave the Great Northern Desert its name.

In the summer, the tundra blooms in a soft palette of greens, yellows, and purplish blues; lichens and mosses emerging from beneath the snows that still regularly blanket the plains. This far north, even in the height of summer, ice washes ashore and storms roll through with ice rains and biting winds that glazes the weathered stone faces of the mountains with rime.

Mo Baixiu has only ever heard Mo Binghua refer to the village as her home in the north. Likewise, there were none in the branch of the Mo Clan who occupied the village who referred to it by any specific name. It was simply our village or the village without any qualifiers or descriptions. There was only one village this far north to concern themselves with, and so nothing else was needed.

It was a simplicity and clarity that was reflected in the architecture of the village; partially subterranean houses of carved stone, sunk into the ground to harness the geothermal warmth of a area that got cold enough to intimidate even ice demons of the Mo Clan, with heavenly demon blood in their veins.

Mo Baiyun’s home was, by the standards of the village, as grand and palatial as befitted a Princess of the North and daughter of Mobei-Jun. Functionally this meant that she had a handful of extra rooms beyond the usual warmth-conserving arrangement of kitchen, sleeping quarters, and gathering area, as well as her great extravagance: the greenhouse.

As usual, this is where Mo Baixiu first goes to find his sister when he appears without warning in the entryway of her home; a rough-carved airlock of a room meant to keep the warm air in, the cold air out, and the snow, ice, and mud from being tracked into the house-proper. There are a pair of house shoes in his size stuffed into the worn wooden rack by the inner door, and he politely sheds his boots in favor of them.

The greenhouse is the largest room in Mo Baiyun’s house. Separated off from the rest of the residence by a narrow stone hallway with a door on each end, the wide rectangle of a room rises into a high ceiling set with specially-made glass panes that could hold up under the weight of the snow as well as provide adequate light and insulation so the captured warmth didn’t immediately escape. Low wooden tables with generous gaps between the slats that make up their surfaces take up most of the space, each one covered in pots, dishes, bowls, and any other type of vessel that could conceivably be made to hold a plant; from seedling to mature growth. A potting bench takes up most of the far wall, with a pegboard that’s been fixed to the wall itself holding a variety of gardening implements. The only concession to the notion there might be occupants of the space other than Mo Baiyun was the small wooden platform in one corner where a small sitting area had been arranged.

Mo Baixiu pauses for a moment as he steps inside, and is mildly surprised to not see Mo Baiyun until he hears a muffled thump and quiet exclamation from above and looks up to see his sister spider-stepping across the glass roof of the greenhouse wielding a shovel.

He can’t resist the quiet snort that escapes when he sees her notice his presence--looking down through the glass during a pause in whatever she’s doing--and visibly startle before recognizing him and bounding to the edge of the roof in almost-worrying strides that shake the glass; as physically and magically reinforced as Mo Baixiu knows it is.

He settles in at the small table that’s been wedged into the sitting area to wait for her, and the feeling of being unmoored that had beset him since leaving Shang Lei’s side begins to ease a bit.

Chapter 38

Chapter Text

Over the past several weeks in Mo Baiyun’s company, Mo Baixiu has very slowly begun to feel his disappointment over Shang Lei’s seclusion ease.

From the first day when she’d burst into the greenhouse to welcome him, however, Mo Baiyun had unfortunately noticed that he was out of sorts and had begun a careful campaign of fishing for details as to why. And for all that his sister preferred more sedentary and artistic pursuits such as writing about her plants, painting her plants, tending her plants, and occasionally going to the human realm or venturing out into the wilds of the demon realm to hike around looking for new plants, Mo Baiyun was a careful and patient hunter in regards to gossip that interested her. Such as why Mo Baixiu was so obviously forlorn during what was usually one of the most enjoyable parts of his year.

She had unfortunately not forgotten his attempt at casual questioning about the meanings of flowers from the human realm, either.

Which is why when Mo Baixiu finally cracks--after more than a month of dedicated effort on Mo Baiyun’s part, a prolonged interrogation that would put seasoned torturers to shame--she ruthlessly pounces on his slip.

They’re in the far reaches of the demonic south, hiking through a truly tediously humid mountain range because Mo Baiyun had declared that if Mo Baixiu was going to stay, then the least he could do was assist her latest expedition to find some rare flower from the demonic realm--the name of which Mo Baixiu did remember but could not be bothered to call to mind, because it was something ridiculous, and he felt he’d fulfilled his quota of memorizing ridiculous flower names by keeping track of all of the various species of qi-deviation and lust-inducing flora that he might encounter--because apparently demon realm flowers and human realm flowers were different somehow. Mo Baixiu has not asked for clarification on this point, and, until he’d made his unfortunate error, had contented himself with teasing Mo Baiyun about whether or not she was absolutely certain they weren’t just on the hunt for the infamous Naked Man Blossom which was known, during its rare periods of bloom, to grow in the region.

Mo Baiyun’s scandalized outrage was always amusing, even after several hours of following her through the dense jungle undergrowth; dodging the exited swings of her monk’s spade as she vigorously cleared a path for them through the low-hanging vines and dense branches, interspersing her chattering about the various signs that they were ‘getting close’ to what the generally-understood ideal environment where her quarry grew with playfully irritated rebuttals to Mo Baixiu’s teasing.

Outside of her rare appearances at court, Mo Baiyun tended to dress simply, and this expedition was no exception: sturdy leather boots; light but durable pants; modest but sparingly layered cotton robes, still dyed a cheerful blue and embroidered at the hems, but obviously intended for work; her sleeves gathered close to her arms and secured with plain leather braces; her hair braided simply and pinned back; and over it all, her heavy canvas gardener’s apron, stained in various places where soil had been ground so deeply into the fabric it couldn’t be scrubbed out, multitudinous pockets full of every conceivable gardening tool she might need. Compared to her Mo Baixiu is overdressed, having left his cloak at her home, and forgoing most of his layers, but still wearing silk.

She puts the blade-end of her spade through another tangle of vines, laughing delightedly as a common green jungle snake--not particularly deadly to a powerful demon, but still annoying--comes tumbling down as well; Mo Baiyun catches the snake mid-air and tosses it gently into a nearby tree, not breaking stride as she declares, “Excellent!”

Mo Baixiu fails to see how this is excellent, but he dutifully follows his sister into the clearing she’s hacked her way into.

It takes a few moments for him to take the clearing in, when Mo Baiyun is jumping around so distractingly; there’s a small break in the trees where a stream trickles through, dappled sunlight coming down between the boughs and illuminating the clearing enough that his eyes have to adjust after the relative darkness of the undergrowth. A fallen log rests partially over the stream, the water occasionally splashing up; keeping the wood damp and rotting. Mo Baiyun doesn’t bother asking for the qiankun pouch full of her spare supplies that he’s carrying, simply coming directly into his space and grabbing it from his belt. She rustles around in the pouch until she draws out the folding chair and art supplies she’d packed, and then settles down to begin furiously sharpening her pencils and vigorously shaking her jars of paint and ink to prepare them for use.

When he finally notices the flower they’ve come all this way for, he’s somewhat bemused.

Growing out of a rotted out divot in the log, is a moderately-sized orchid. It’s leaves are the same dark, glossy green as most of the specimens he’s seen, the flowers supported by strong but slender branches. The blooms themselves aren’t as flashy as others in Mo Baiyun’s collection; smallish flowers grouped together in delicate sprays that arch off from the main branches, wide petals arranged in an admittedly pleasing abstract shape. The petals start as white around their outer edges, and then slowly darken to a delicate blue.

The color is familiar, and after a few moments of studying them while Mo Baiyun works on sketching the flowers as she found them and then finding her exhaustive map of every place she’s ever found an interesting flower to mark down her estimation of their current location, Mo Baixiu realizes why: they’re the exact shade of pale blue jade as the earrings he’d given to Shang Lei when they’d married.

Abruptly, Mo Baixiu sits down in the mossy leaf litter that carpets the ground, uncaring of his clothes. He’s accompanied Mo Baiyun on enough of her expeditions over the years that he doesn’t try to get closer to the blooms, but he studies them intently. The color truly is the same. And he can’t help but re-evaluate the flowers in the context of this connection--however faint--to Shang Lei.

Humble yet strong. Easily overlooked at first glance, yet beautiful when truly appreciated.

Mo Baixiu stares wistfully at the flowers, and misses his husband.

He’s unsure of how long it takes for Mo Baiyun to finish her sketches and color studies and try to find loose roots and leaves she could use to take a cutting for her own garden, but eventually she makes her way to him, finally noticing how absorbed he’s been.

“Ah, this one is nice, isn’t it?” Mo Baiyun smiles down at him, swinging her hands in front of her in a way Mo Baixiu has always found charming, “You usually get bored with sitting around and waiting!”

And this is where Mo Baixiu makes his fatal error.

Still half-distracted by his thoughts. His guard down around one of the few people he trusts. An honest answer rises from his throat before he can second-guess, and he says, “I like it, because it reminds me of--”

He cuts himself almost immediately, but the damage is done. Mo Baiyun’s eyes gleam, her sweet face nearly glowing with renewed excitement, “Oh?,” she says, scenting blood, “Who does it remind you of, da-ge?” she smiles, absolutely merciless, “Your mysterious they-of-the-orchids perhaps?”

Mo Baixiu experiences the deeply unsettling and unfamiliar sensation of having walked directly into a trap, wholly unaware that he was being hunted. So he ignores the question, “Baiyun,” he says, standing, “are you finished?”

“Oh yes,” She says, her smile taking on a mischievous edge, “Although I couldn’t help but notice,” she says, and Mo Baixiu winces reflexively because Mo Baiyun’s powers of observation had been as mercilessly trained as Mo Baixiu’s own, “that this orchid is the same shade as those earrings da-ge used to have, remember?” she says, sidling up to him to gently prod him in the arm, “those ones that were da-ge’s favorite? That he used to wear all the time?”

It’s horrendously humid, despite the relative elevation of the mountains making it not too unbearably hot. They’ve spent most of the day hiking through the undergrowth, and while Mo Baixiu has no complaints and could hardly be called vain, he’s aware that his curls--tied back from his face a few hours ago, after the nth time a branch caught in his hair--have overcome the restraining influence of his hair oil to frizz and wave into a nigh unmanageable mass that he’s going to have to wrangle back into submission. He’s powerful enough that he’s perfectly capable of regulating the temperature of the air around him within a certain distance from his body just through the passive circulation of his qi, and he is fully aware that this is the only reason he hasn’t sweated through his robes; the heat tolerance of ice demons being something of a justified stereotype, even with Heavenly Demon blood.

Spending time with Mo Baiyun is almost always enjoyable, until she gets an idea.

“Baiyun,” Mo Baixiu says, making an effort to match the playful tone his sister is using, but only managing to sound murderous, “Have we come all this way just to test a theory of yours?”

“No!” Mo Baiyun replies, her mouth caught between a smile and an obviously put-on pout, “This has been a legitimate expedition,” she says, “if any theories happened to be confirmed or refuted during it, well, that’s just efficiency.”

“Did it occur to you that I might have just lost those earrings?” Mo Baixiu asks, trying to maintain his air of exasperation.

Mo Baiyun waves her hand, dismissing the very idea, “If you’d lost them,” she says, “you’d have either gone and found them, or had a new pair made,” she folds her arms triumphantly across her chest, “but you didn’t, you just started wearing those ones Mother gave you.”

Mo Baixiu sighs, because Mo Baiyun is right. He’s particular with the belongings that he cares about, and he had been especially fond of those earrings. The various studs and small rings that adorned the helix and upper lobes of his ears were meaningful for their placement, not the jewelry pieces themselves. The larger earrings he tended to wear in his lower lobe piercings, however, were meaningful for the earrings themselves. The pale blue jade earrings had been a commission, made from a stone he’d found himself while travelling, significant because of the freedom they represented. Just as the pair he was wearing currently--heavy carved drops of imperial jade, given to him by Mo Binghua--were significant to him because of his complicated but always-supportive relationship with his mother.

“You are going to help,” Mo Baixiu says, “with my hair.”

Mo Baiyun laughs, a delighted peal of sound, as she realizes she’s won, “Of course I will,” she says.

“And perhaps,” Mo Baixiu says, “I will tell you what I did with my earrings.”

He holds out his arm, and Mo Baiyun links hers through it, holding securely when Mo Baixiu steps them both through a shadow and out into the entryway of Mo Baiyun’s home thousands of miles in the north.

Chapter 39

Chapter Text

The bolt of lightning that arcs out from Shang Qinghua’s outstretched hand strikes Mo Baixiu directly in the chest, and he watches as his Prince collapses to the floor from the force of it.

He cries out, some wordless sound of denial, and throws himself forward, scrabbling around on the floor to find the grounding cuff and snapping it back into place before crawling to Mo Baixiu’s side.

Shang Qinghua hesitates to touch him, worried that somehow he’ll make things worse, but Mo Baixiu groans, and breathes, and moves, and something in Shang Qinghua crumbles; breaking at the sight of the scorch on Mo Baixiu’s chest, the black grit of burnt silk crumbling into ash, the skin reddened and blistered already. The stench of the burnt silk reaches Shang Qinghua’s nose and he chokes as he fights the urge to retch.

It smells like burnt hair. Like burnt meat. Like ozone.

It’s suddenly difficult to breathe. His body feels leaden. The room warps around him, his vision swimming as he tries to orient himself. A phantom ache shoots through him, an arc of imaginary pain that’s haunted him; running through his body down his right leg, grounding along steel pins that are no longer there.

Airplane hasn’t thought about his death in years. The System’s innumerable text logs had informed him that it was what had kept his memory of his first life so unnaturally sharp: not even fading with time as memories usually did. But he’d never really had cause to jog his memory of dying. Being electrocuted isn’t something that comes up a lot, in a world without harnessed electricity. Thunderstorms had never bothered him, but there had still been something that had always seemed to cause him to end up safely indoors during the worst storms.

But now. Shang Qinghua smells burning and ozone and remembers, viscerally, the last moments of his previous life: the spark and sputter of the electricity; the smell of burning; the clench of his muscles as they all tightened at once; the arrhythmic pounding of his heart; the pain; and then the darkness that took him as his heart stopped, unconsciousness mercifully dragging him away before his body died.

Shang Qinghua hunches over to dig his nails into his own thighs, clawing at himself as he gasps for breath between sobs. His nails are short and blunt but the sting is enough to ground him slightly. To let him catch his breath just enough that he doesn’t choke on his tears.

“Shang Lei,” a voice says, intruding on his hysteria, “Shang Lei,” the voice says again, a pair of hands reaching out to catch his shoulders.

It brings him back, his head jerking up from where he’d hunched over to look up at Mo Baixiu before he flinches away, garbled words falling from his mouth, “No!” he gasps, “No, I’ll hurt you...Baixiu…”

Mo Baixiu lets him go, his grip strong enough to have held Shang Qinghua in place, but unwilling to cause him distress by doing so. Shang Qinghua scoots backwards out of reach, sliding himself across the floor like a child, the distraction helping him to get his breathing under control, but his tears still falling steadily.

He knows he’s gone pale and blotchy and shaky, but he can’t help himself. The emotional distress is causing his qi to react, and he can see the little flickers and flares of tiny sparks dancing around him from the corners of his eyes.

Mo Baixiu sits calmly on the floor in front of him, still looking regal and handsome despite his robes being half scorched into ruin. “Shang Lei,” he says again, his voice calm and steady.

“I’m sorry,” Shang Qinghua chokes out, “I didn’t mean to,” he says, “I’m sorry,” crying makes his voice catch and break on his words.

“I know,” Mo Baixiu says, that same inexorable calm, “Your meditation was productive, it seems.”

A hysterical little laugh rises in Shang Qinghua’s throat, “It seems,” he says, his agreement an echo of Mo Baixiu’s words, “I didn’t expect to have an elemental affinity,” he says, because he hadn’t, the original Shang Qinghua had been a blank slate; his cultivation had never been remarked upon other than as having been weaker when compared to Luo Binghe, Mobei Jun, and Yue Qingyuan--who were all titanic powerhouses to the point that most cultivators would be described as weaker than them--and that he’d generally allowed himself to be underestimated, avoiding flashy shows of strength that would give enemies an idea of his actual level of ability.

“I don’t have control of it yet,” Shang Qinghua admits, “I overdid my meditation,” he confesses, looking up at Mo Baixiu, who is still generously keeping his distance at Shang Qinghua’s insistence, “I just got out of the healing halls on Qian Cao today, and had to go straight to the confirmation ceremony right afterwards,” he sighs, trying to breathe, to relax, “and then seeing you again, it was...a lot,” he finishes, apologetically.

Mo Baixiu nods, “I do not doubt you will gain control,” he says, “it is impressive.”

“Impressive?” Shang Qinghua echoes, incredulous, “I hurt you!”

“And now I am healed,” Mo Baixiu says, sliding his hand through the torn silk and powdery ash, parting his robes to Shang Qinghua can see the unblemished flesh, only the faintest flush giving away that the burn had ever been there, “there is no need for your tears, Shang Lei.”

Shang Qinghua can’t help the unsteady smile that comes to him, comforted by Mo Baixiu’s reassurance, “Qinghua,” he says, “I’m Head Disciple of An Ding now, Shizun named me her successor in the Qing generation.”

Something close to surprise flits across Mo Baixiu’s face, followed closely by a pleased satisfaction that Shang Qinghua can’t really parse right now, “Qinghua,” Mo Baixiu says, slightly over-enunciating, sounding the name out as though he’s tasting it for himself. Idly, he traces the characters on the floor, leaving the faintest trail of shining ice, “Purely splendid,” he says, voice going soft and fond in a way that makes Shang Qinghua weak in the knees, “it suits you.”

“Does it?” Shang Qinghua asks, feeling a bit breathless.

Mo Baixiu smiles, the corners of his mouth twitching up into something that tends to look more like a smirk on his handsome face, “Only qinghua would suit you better,” he says as he traces out the second set of characters on the floor, seeming very pleased with himself.

Shang Qinghua knows he’s already a mess from crying his way through a panic attack, and yet he still feels himself blush as he reads what Mo Baixiu wrote: words of love.

“My Prince,” Shang Qinghua says, “how are you so unaffected?” he asks, and then cringes, “I mean, ah, I thought Ice Demons were water-aligned?” he grimaces and tries again, “I struck you with lightning,” he says at last, frustrated, making an expansive gesture to encompass the web of elemental affinities and weaknesses that would be at play in such an event.

“You did,” Mo Baixiu says, “it was quite strong,” his voice lilts as though this is pleasing rather than dangerous, which must be a demon thing, “and Ice Demons are water-aligned,” he shrugs nonchalantly, a rolling gesture that only really serves to draw attention to Mo Baixiu’s fantastic shoulders, “but I am descended from a Heavenly Demon bloodline, and as such have a metal affinity as well.”

“Oh,” Shang Qinghua says quietly to himself, “Oh!” he says again, “That makes sense,” he says, because it did, in a ‘filling gaps in worldbuilding’ type way that built off of Airplane’s own incomplete drafts to make something better.

Mo Baixiu stands, stepping over to Shang Qinghua and offering his hands to pull him off the floor.

Shang Qinghua hesitates, wringing his hands and self-consciously checking his grounding cuffs, “I could still hurt you,” he says.

“Blizzards carry lightning,” Mo Baixiu reminds Shang Qinghua, as he reaches down and gently grasps his hands, pulling him to his unsteady feet he slides his hands up Shang Qinghua’s arms and smooths his fingers over the grounding cuffs, ignoring the few tiny sparks that shimmer around Shang Qinghua, “I don’t care.”

The exhaustion from his emotional outburst abruptly catches up to him, and Shang Qinghua sways in Mo Baixiu’s arms, letting himself be gathered into his Prince’s embrace.

Despite supporting his weight, Mo Baixiu is still fully capable of reaching around Shang Qinghua and turning down the bed before helping him into it. He stops and sheds his mostly-destroyed robes, using the intact pieces to swipe the lingering ash from his chest, before sitting down on the edge of the bed to pull his boots off.

“Go to sleep,” Mo Baixiu says, sliding into the bed in only his thin pants, spooning Shang Qinghua into his arms and folding the blankets over both of them, letting Shang Qinghua settle against his chest, “I’m here.”

Chapter 40

Chapter Text

In the morning Shang Qinghua wakes still comfortably ensconced in Mo Baixiu’s arms, and if not for the lingering ache in his feet and the fine powder of ash on the floor he could have told himself the day before was nothing but an unpleasant dream.

Managing to extricate himself from Mo Baixiu’s sleeping grasp, Shang Qinghua starts about his day as normally as he can considering all that’s happened. He still feels emotionally tender; bruised in some inexplicable way that he knows will only heal with time. All he can do is keep moving to salve the ache.

He decides to take a bath, soaking himself in the steaming hot water until he’s flushed and pink. Hauling himself out of the tub to realize that he doesn’t have any medicine to re-bandage his hands and feet, and that he never actually clarified what he’s supposed to be doing now with his Peak Lord.

Shang Qinghua is definitely still wearing his grounding cuffs at least, taking the time to gently towel the water off of the silver so it didn’t streak or tarnish before shuffling back into his bedroom to find clothes suitable enough for stepping out across An Ding to visit his Shizun’s Leisure House.

He hesitates for a moment, waffling over whether or not to wake Mo Baixiu and tell him where he’s going, until he decides that he couldn’t stand for his Prince to wake and find him missing after everything that had happened last night. It’s almost enough to convince him to just get back in bed, but Shang Qinghua can’t ignore the sense of duty he feels, and so he reassures his Prince he should only be gone a little while and escapes out of his Leisure House before he can succumb.

Wan Zhanrong had restricted him to light cultivation and exercise only, so he walks rather than flies; taking his time instead of rushing. There’s a lingering sense that something is missing, a feeling of expectation, but despite that it seems like nothing’s really changed while he was gone. An Ding continuing along as it’d always done. It’s vaguely reliving, to see that nothing had collapsed without him, but also strange, knowing that he’d been gone for nearly three months and the only way to tell is that the spring had given way to summer.

It’s a little frightening, when he thinks about it, and Airplane feels a little bit of authorial guilt for Yue Qingyuan again: trapped in the Lingxi Caves for an entire year.

Zhang Zhanhua is pleased to see him--albeit a bit exasperated--and wastes no time in outlining his week of leave to finish recovering as per Wan Zhanrong’s orders before offering him a qiankun pouch full of paperwork to sort through, treatises to read, and manuals to study. Along with another qiankun courtesy of Wei He, packed with what she promises is ‘everything he’d need’ for a Head Disciple’s wardrobe; which Shang Lei takes to mean all of the many robes she’d had while she was dressing him the day before. His cautious distrust of fancy clothes is tempered by Zhang Zhanhua’s calm assertion that she’d had a new set of qiankun sheaths commissioned, as well as the practical consideration that the last Head Disciple of An Ding had been Sun Ying, who’d given up the position more than a decade ago and so it had been entirely necessary for a full wardrobe to be made; from elaborate robes for the most formal occasions to the regular uniforms for everyday wear.

Shang Qinghua can accept this, and offers his humble thanks before Zhang Zhanhua gives him one last small satchel--from Qian Cao, full of fresh bandages, medicine, and instructions for use--and kicks him out of her Leisure House with a stern order to return in a week’s time prepared to begin his duties as Head Disciple.

The System, which had been quiet until now--and which Airplane had once again mostly forgotten about in all the excitement--comes alive as he clears the last step from the Peak Lord’s Leisure House onto the path that will take him back to his own home.

[Mission: Become An Ding Peak Head Disciple; Complete! Reward: +100 Story Points!]

The exuberantly chiming victory fanfares shatter the morning quiet as Shang Qinghua determinedly keeps walking through the residential area on An Ding, made even more annoying by the fact that only he can hear them. Likewise, the System interface and little firework graphics are almost eye-searingly bright; rising in front of him in a semi-opaque screen that has him ducking off the road and into a small meditation garden just so he doesn’t run into anything.

[Special Achievement: Completed Trials of the Successor! Bonus Points +25]

[Special Achievement: Ascension Ceremony! Bonus Points +25]

[Hidden Feat Unlocked: Ride the Lightning! Developed Elemental Affinity in Cultivation!]

Airplane has to bite his tongue to keep his mental litany of insults from spilling out. He’d read transmigration novels! Randomly giving quests and then going quiet for years at a time wasn’t how this was supposed to work, but that was apparently what he was getting! And what were these Hidden Feats? So far, neither his marriage to Mo Baixiu or his boosted cultivation had been things that he’d ever even thought about adding to even his roughest drafts; Mobei Jun and original Shang Qinghua’s relationship had really never been explored at all, just like Shang Qinghua’s cultivation had been glossed over. And now apparently he was getting secret achievements for developing things?

[New Mission! Become Lord of An Ding Peak~!]

The ‘new quest’ fanfare plays itself out while Shang Qinghua sorts through the System menus, watching as his point total rolls over and the ‘quest log’ updates itself.

What are the points even for!? He asks silently, directing his thoughts at the System.

[Story Points can be spent to affect Major Plot Events or avert consequences from previous choices!] the toneless artificial voice of the System rings out, answering his question, [Points will also be deducted for world-state violations.]

Violations? Shang Qinghua asks, glad he’s in a secluded garden so he can whisper-scream at the System without looking like he’s gone insane. How can there be violations? There’s never been a different Shang Qinghua!

[Certain Fixed Plot Events cannot be averted without irreparably corrupting the world-state] the System replies, its robotic voice sounding vaguely conciliatory, [attempts to change Fixed Plot Events will result in world-state violation. Violations will be punished with point deduction or other penalty measures.]

The statement is almost chillingly final, and there’s nothing for Shang Qinghua to do but close the System interface and go home; making one last check of his point total before he does.

It takes the rest of his walk back to his Leisure House to calm down; he can tell he’s still emotionally vulnerable after yesterday, can see it playing out in how easily aggravated he was by the System’s sudden intrusion, and how quickly the exhaustion catches up to him after that last exchange.

Mo Baixiu is waiting for him, and it sort of amazes Shang Qinghua that they’ve come to know each other well enough that his Prince can tell something is bothering him. He also feels very terrible about outright lying to Mo Baixiu; using the Head Disciple’s wardrobe as an excuse, which means it isn’t an outright lie! He does still, no matter how long he’s lived in this fancy martial arts jianghu world, have a habit of measuring how comfortable he feels about owning expensive things with the eye of a broke dance student, a slightly less broke professional dancer, or an extremely broke disabled ex-professional dancer. And as an An Ding disciple he knows exactly how expensive every scrap of fabric and stitch of embroidery and smallest slip of jewelry is.

He can’t deal with unpacking the wardrobe right now--and indeed, his formal robes from the day before are still hung over the screen in the corner, which he should do something about because that outfit alone is enough for a peasant to live on for nearly a year--so he just tucks the qiankun into his dresser for later. The qiankun full of books and paperwork he likewise tucks away on a shelf in his sitting room for when he feels up to dealing with it.

The medicine, however, he means to escape into the bathroom to deal with, until Mo Baixiu very astutely observes that he won’t be able to do the bandages for his hands very well by himself and offers to help.

Which is a vague torment, really, because Mo Baixiu isn’t alarmed by Shang Qinghua’s injuries but he seems definitely displeased when Shang Qinghua gets around to explaining that he’d done them to himself by accident. He can almost imagine his Prince’s curls puffing up a bit when he gets upset, like Ghibli hair! And his frowny displeased face is very cute! But also Shang Qinghua really can’t take this intense focus and attention! While Mo Baixiu is holding his hands and gently rubbing medicated ointment into them!

It’s almost a relief when Mo Baixiu finishes bandaging his hands and moves on to his feet, except not really because Shang Qinghua is already blushing about as hard as he can blush without steam coming out his ears, and also he really needs to play it cool right now because he’d almost forgotten that he was sort of self-conscious about his feet.

In his first life Airplane danced roles that had him break his toes while he was on stage and then tape them during intermission so he could hit his cue when the curtain went back up. Calluses, bruises, blisters, breaks, spasms, cramps; he’d endured just about every possible foot-based injury! Even now, with cultivation to ease his injuries and heal him faster, Shang Qinghua’s feet very quickly remembered their past life and all of their calluses, weird bumps, and vaguely deformed toes. He’d never really been a sandals type person in the first place! He knows it was much worse for his sister ballerinas who felt embarrassed to even go get pedicures! But he still sort of feels embarrassed about it; he knows some people have pretty feet, but he’s not one of them!

Luckily it turns out to be a complete non-issue that he’d worried about for nothing! Mo Baixiu applies the medicine, wraps his feet in bandages in a surprisingly skilled fashion--except not really, but Shang Qinghua is determinedly not thinking about his Prince’s sad backstory or any situations he may have had cause to learn to use bandages in!--and then helps him put his house slippers back on.

Shang Qinghua thinks he should maybe be worried, because after they move back into the kitchen and sitting room for a very late breakfast Mo Baixiu asks some very specific questions about Shang Qinghua’s feelings about clothing. And then very suspiciously excuses himself, teleports someplace, and then comes back after two entire hours and refuses to even hint about where he went!

Except he’s tired, and Mo Baixiu is here and very nice to cuddle with. He had a long day yesterday and he’s on vacation! Shang Qinghua can rest right now!

And so he ends up taking an afternoon nap while spooned in the lap of his very agreeable secret demon lord husband, and definitely isn’t worrying about the very ominous exchange he’d had with the System and what it actually means for the life Shang Qinghua has built.

Chapter 41

Chapter Text

Shang Qinghua had had hopes that he might be able to do something more constructive with his time off than spending most of it in various states of collapse; but he’s so bone-deep exhausted that aside from getting up to help make meals, bathing, and reading while curled in Mo Baixiu’s lap, he ends up spending most of it asleep.

He doesn’t fight it too hard, aside from mournfully complaining to Mo Baixiu about how he’d prefer to be awake to spend time with him, but his Prince is not only understanding but very sneakily insistent on making sure Shang Qinghua does all the sleeping his body seems to need; by the fifth time in three days he’d fallen asleep cuddled into Mo Baixiu’s side on the arhat sofa in his sitting room, with his Prince’s arm around him and his large, strong hand casually kneading his hip, he’d given up even trying to read and just accepted his husband-enforced naptimes.

By the sixth day he can actually stay awake all day without drifting off, and by the seventh he feels completely back to normal.

Better than normal even, his newly advanced cultivation and strengthened golden core having settled fully from his breakthrough so he felt lighter and more energized than ever before. Some of the weightlessness and ease that had carried him through his whirlwind two-month dance meditation returning as the last lingering side-effects of his qi deviation cleared from his meridians.

He’s not an Immortal Master yet by any means, but he feels for the first time like it’s actually possible to get there. For him to get there, despite the fact that, if he was reasonable and logical about it, it was sort of a foregone conclusion. Except not really, because apparently at least some form of failure state existed if the System was capable of assigning punishments.

Which Shang Qinghua was still very pointedly not thinking about.

On the morning of the day Shang Qinghua is meant to return to his duties, Mo Baixiu is as reluctant to leave as ever, but there’s a sense of anticipation about him that’s unusual.

Shang Qinghua’s suspicions that his Prince is up to something are further aroused by the fact that, before he leaves Mo Baixiu very intently extracts a promise from Shang Qinghua that on the twentieth day of Liuyue--a little less than a month away--Shang Qinghua would arrange things so he could leave An Ding with Mo Baixiu without his absence causing any concern.

He agrees, of course, because Mo Baixiu is obviously very pleased with whatever he’s got planned and Shang Qinghua honestly still feels a teensy bit guilty about the whole striking-with-lightning, gone-with-barely-any-warning thing that he’d but his Prince through. Also the whole fact that while Mo Baixiu had obviously not minded at all, Shang Qinghua still felt fairly sheepish about having time off to spend with his Prince and then sleeping through most of it.

Mo Baixiu’s parting words give Shang Qinghua the idea that he’s not going to be seeing his Prince until their date--which, Shang Qinghua has to calm down a little bit because this is a real date that they’re supposedly going on, not just his Prince showing up in a slightly different clandestine location than usual--and so he decides the best thing to do is to make sure he’ll definitely be able to arrange his time off by hurrying up and mastering his new duties as Head Disciple.

To start this, he actually has to confront the Head Disciple’s wardrobe.

He begins with the easiest to handle part of it; locating the Head Disciple’s day-to-day uniforms and carefully sorting them and putting them away in the proper places. He decides that he might as well get dressed for the day, considering that he’ll be expected at his Peak Lord’s Leisure House fairly soon. The Head Disciple’s everyday uniform is mercifully only a little bit fancier than a senior disciple’s everyday uniform: cuffed white cotton pants and a white cotton under robe; a middle layer robe in white silk with a high collar and narrow sleeves that hit the backs of his hands; a top layer robe in steel blue silk with a crossing collar and wide sleeves, An Ding’s sigil and characteristic geometric patterns embroidered on the hems, sleeves, and collar in white thread; a wide cloth belt in midnight blue silk.

There are boots that go along with the uniform, but Shang Qinghua can’t fit them over the grounding cuffs on his ankles; the silver bands just thick enough to make things uncomfortable when he tries. Improvising, he pulls his socks on underneath the grounding cuffs and then finds the pair of cloth slippers he’d worn to the confirmation ceremony. They’re a bit fancier than is really called for--blue silk with little flourishes of embroidery and a leather stitched sole--but they’re comfortable in the way of ballet flats, and he can’t wear ill-fitting boots or risk taking his grounding cuffs off.

Zhang Zhanhua had told him that she’d commissioned him a new set of qiankun sheathes, and so he hunts around through the numerous clothing items he’d been given until he finds them.

They’re much nicer than the ones he’d been having altered for size since he was fourteen; obviously made specifically for him, wide bracers of carefully-constructed brown leather that were covered in decorative embroidery in various shades of blue. The folds in the leather that serve as the ‘mouth’ of the sheath and the spiritual embroidery that made the spatial pouch function being worked into the design of the bracers in such a way that they were completely disguised. Shang Qinghua fastens them over the sleeves of his middle robe, pulling the cuffs of the sleeves up and setting the bracers in their proper places, letting the extra fabric of his sleeves puff out around his elbows and upper arms.

There’s still more wardrobe to sort through, but Shang Qinghua can’t deal with any more fancy robes right now, especially since he actually need to get to work this morning, so he consoles himself with the thought that he’d at least dealt with some of it and puts the qiankun pouches back in his dresser. He finds the silver hair crown Wei He had put into his hair for the confirmation ceremony and pulls his hair up into its usual topknot before fastening the crown over his ribbon, letting the ends trail down his back. The earrings he hasn't willingly gone a day without wearing since his Prince gave them to him.

He hasn’t touched Canyue or Xianyue since they fell from his hands in the Lingxi Caves, beyond passing an idle eye over them to make sure they were safe in the double sheath the first night he’d been back. Now, in the light of day, he sees that his spiritual swords are just as changed as he is.

The silk braid that had wrapped the hilts of the swords was no longer green, but a charcoal grey; some combination of the lightning and being grasped tightly in Shang Qinghua’s hands as he’d been burned, or of the sheer change in his golden core as he broke through to new levels of cultivation echoing through the connection to his swords, working to change the color without actually destroying the silk itself. The warm bronze that had made up the pommel and guard of the blades had likewise been discolored and changed into a tarnished silver. Drawing the blades, they seemed as pristinely polished and sharp as Shang Qinghua had always kept them, but rather than the same shining steel as they’d been before, a rippling pattern of alternating black and silver covered the blade; delicate enough to not be very noticeable from a distance, but clearly visible from close up, reminiscent of Damascus steel. The characters for Canyue and Xianyue’s names were still clear, etched into the metal just as before, but now seemingly lined with the same tarnished silver effect as the hilts; causing them to stand out even more as dark shapes on the shoulders of the blades.

Holding them in his hands, Shang Qinghua feels his bond with them settle back into place, a sudden yet comforting connection to his spiritual energy. The thread of livewire that lives in his golden core sparking and crackling to life, sending the slightest thrum of power through the blades; the sword glares flaring into being, sparks and sparkles dancing out from the blades amidst a soft halo of deep blue light.

It’s a visible sign of the advancement he’s gone through. The breakthrough in his cultivation changing the character of his spiritual energy; the character of his spiritual weapons.

Shang Qinghua isn’t entirely sure how to feel about it. He’s definitely pleased to have made the breakthrough, despite the harm he’d done to himself. But he’s also caught up in the same dissonant feeling that comes over him whenever he realizes that he’s changing and growing; not simply remaining the same stagnant person he’d been when he died.

Chapter 42

Chapter Text

Being Head Disciple of An Ding Peak is, to put plainly, the work of a cart horse with the recognition of a dog.

Maybe it’s not the best metaphor Shang Qinghua’s ever come up with, but still: on his own peak he’s the proud and venerable Head Disciple, one of Zhang Zhanhua’s direct subordinates! The successor of their peak! Even the very busiest of Masters and Grandmasters will stop and say hello to him and talk to him about things like he’s someone important! Much like a dog, everyone on his own peak is very happy to see him whenever he’s around! Grandmaster Wang--who runs the great kitchens of An Ding with an iron fist and is about four feet tall and probably a thousand years old--pinched his cheeks and told him he was looking too thin the other day! And gave him a waxed paper packet full of giant fresh jianbing, her special ones with scallions and fried egg and chili sauce and pork belly!

On other peaks, however, which he’s been visiting with increasing regularity now that all the Head Disciples have been confirmed as the ascending Qing generation and are thus being thrown at each other in hopes they can learn to work together at some point in the next four years, or, failing that, in the case of Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge, to get into their disastrous pride-fueled fistfight while their respective Shizuns were still around to break them up.

The point being, on other peaks, he’s regarded somewhat as a strange dog that’s wandered in and while they’re cautiously happy to see him, they also know he potentially has fleas, or rabies, or financial audit records he really needs you to sit down and go over with him, Shishu, this should only take about a shichen! Two shichen at most! Yan Huo is just close to overspending its monthly budget again and Shizun asked me to come over and see where all that sulfur and saltpeter is going.

Which inevitably leads to him being stuck in a room with Xing Qingdian for four hours, and while he respects her immensely as his martial sister and as the Head Disciple of Yan Huo, and as the future Peak Lord of Yan Huo, she’s also pushed him into the snow three times now! Xing-shimei, please! This martial brother apologizes for suggesting Yan Huo should re-allocate its candle budget, but why are you spending that much on candles!? An Ding Peak makes candles! Why are you buying them!?

The cart horse part isn’t so much an analogy as business as usual, but the novelty of getting to go and conduct peak business for Zhang Zhanhua with the other Peak Lords and Head Disciples has very much worn off within a fortnight of assuming his duties.

It turns out that Li Min was absolutely right, and Head Disciples are likely formed by piling duties onto a regular disciple’s shoulders until their either collapse under the stress or solidify into sterner stuff, because when he went to report to his Peak Lord that first morning as Head Disciple, he’d learned that he really had been doing basically all the duties of a Head Disciple already. And then Wei He had swept in and cooed over him in his new uniform, and blithely promised that she’d have some slip-on shoes made to match his uniform so he wouldn’t disturb his grounding cuffs or ruin the formal occasion shoes he was making due with.

Shang Qinghua admits he may have gotten a teensy bit hysterical at that point, until Zhang Zhanhua had given him a look and he’d sat down and drank the tea Wei He gave him and listened to his Shizun explain in depth the clear and distinct differences between being a potential Head Disciple in training and an actual Head Disciple.

It’s mostly in the responsibilities. And the amount of freedom he has in interpreting Zhang Zhanhua’s edicts on the peak. Also socializing, he has to do a lot more socializing.

Hence Grandmaster Wang’s jianbing, and also Xing Qingdian pushing him into the snow and then scream-laughing as he hops around yelling because he got snow down his robes.

Once every few days, he goes to Qian Cao and submits himself to Wan Zhanrong and Mu Qingfang’s tender mercies as he very painstakingly learns to regulate his qi on the level required of a cultivator with an elemental affinity. Which is, apparently, much higher than the level required of a regular cultivator.

Wan Zhanrong is very devilishly creative, and Mu Qingfang acts nice but is actually an implacable bully who only pretends to be friendly and understanding and will fill your arms with needles faster than you can holler out an offended OUCH of protest when you start losing control of your qi exercise and are about to zap another scorch mark into the pavilion floor.

Unsurprisingly, Shang Qinghua’s qi control improves very quickly. He’s actually pretty proud of himself.

Wan Zhanrong gets him an even heavier and thicker set of grounding cuffs because apparently being partially in control is even more dangerous than having no control, which neatly precludes the thought of getting any kind of boots on in the near future and also means that the cuffs are even more conspicuous than before. It’s an interesting bit of practical theory though: as the spiritual silver attunes to and absorbs his qi it eventually reaches a point where it isn’t a distinct enough focus point for his lightning to connect with, and so the cuffs need to be replaced. That it’s happening quickly is a good sign in terms of his cultivation, but also unfortunate as his control lags behind his golden core’s toleration of its elemental nature.

He doesn’t wear the old set of grounding cuffs with the new set, which is a small mercy because Shang Qinghua honestly couldn’t stand wandering around with them jingling together, but also he’s not entirely sure what to do with them other than tuck them into a box on his dresser. Wan Zhanrong says there’s no point in him giving them back because it’s impossible to reverse the attunement.

So he keeps them, and gets accustomed to the new grounding cuffs, and works through his qi exercises and meditations and everything else Wan Zhanrong has prescribed him to try and hurry up and get control of things.

He’ll admit he gets a little frustrated with it all, until help comes from an unlikely source.

As part of his Head Disciple’s duties he’s hiking around Wan Jian with Wei Qingwei--who is a definite strong and silent type! Very ruggedly handsome with biceps that could probably crack Shang Qinghua’s skull, and very little to actually say to Shang Qinghua--as they do an inventory of Wan Jian’s current tool utilization. Which Shang Qinghua has a suspicion is mostly busywork so that he and Wei Qingwei will have to spend time together in a semi-professional setting, because Wan Jian is very particular about their tools and mostly requisitions raw materials from An Ding and then makes the specific tools they need themselves, so he’s actually mostly here to do math and get estimates of how much of those raw materials are being used and how fast, while Wei Qingwei meanders around testing the quality of hammers and occasionally making a laconic comment about the current topic of conversation.

It’s all going very well, actually, until they’re climbing the rugged stone stairs to get up to the high altitude forges and Shang Qinghua lifts his robes out of the way a bit too much and Wei Qingwei spots the grounding cuffs around both of his ankles.

And of course recognizes spiritual silver when he sees it, being widely regarded as having the potential to be the greatest forgemaster and smith Wan Jian has produced in the past century. And of course asks why Shang Qinghua is wearing apparently unfabricated spiritual silver when it’s usually only used to make high-level spiritual tools.

And of course Shang Qinghua ends up relating if not the whole story, then at least suddenly coming into an elemental affinity during his nascent soul breakthrough and now having to learn to control it.

Which opens some floodgate in Wei Qingwei, because suddenly he’s full of advice!

He sympathizes with the suddenness of it all, but apparently is a little envious too, because he’d worked very hard for his own elemental affinity. Wei-shixiong! This shidi is thankful but he’s had enough of lightning burns and would gladly have slowly mastered his affinity like you!

Wei Qingwei’s affinity--naturally--being fire, he can’t offer any direct assistance, but he has a lot of helpful suggestions for how Shang Qinghua can refine his control, and they end up having a nice discussion about it!

When Shang Qinghua gets back to An Ding and settles down for his evening meditations, he takes some of Wei Qingwei’s advice and it seems to work! He sort of thinks he’s made another friend amongst his future martial siblings, when they meet again a week later to go over the results of inventory and Wei Qingwei actually asks after his progress and spares a few encouraging words before getting down to business.

It’s nice, and Shang Qinghua belatedly remembers that most people like dogs, and that cart horses are valuable and anyone with sense takes good care of theirs. He feels a little bit less bad for inadvertently making An Ding the backbone of the entire sect, by virtue of his own worldbuilding

Chapter 43

Chapter Text

The twentieth of Liuyue comes even sooner than Shang Qinghua expected, the days seeming to blend together as he attended to his work, until suddenly he’s checking his calendar and he sees the little note and the messily scribbled star he’d marked the day with.

Mo Baixiu’s very mysterious plans are something that Shang Qinghua has wondered about in his spare time since his Prince took his leave, but he hasn’t been able to figure anything out.

As he promised, though, he makes sure to get his work done early and tries to be subtle and ambiguous when he lets Zhang Zhanhua know that he’s going somewhere tonight. Which seems to amuse her, considering she’s fully aware of his teleporting, ward-ignoring, secret demon husband.

It’s technically late afternoon with Mo Baixiu arrives in a very welcome gust of cold wind, considering that late Liuyue even in the mountains could get uncomfortably warm.

Shang Qinghua rushes to greet him, until he realizes that Mo Baixiu is dressed in perhaps the fanciest outfit he’s ever seen.

Shang Qinghua can’t exactly count how many layers there are, but from the high-collared under robe in a shimmering dark grey; to the fabulously embroidered over robes in various sumptuous shades of jewel-toned purples and greens; to the actual thread-of-silver on black silk brocade formal coat with glossy fur trim; to what must be a literally priceless amount of imperial jade jewelry, from earrings to bracelets to the wide band of exquisitely carved jade that sat at the crown of Mo Baixiu’s head and held his hair back from his face while letting it fall freely down his back, little silver chains weighed with fat drops of emerald green jade hanging from each corner in such a way that they fell among his curls like stars against the backdrop of the sky. Mo Baixiu is dressed like the Crown Prince of the Great Northern Desert. He looks unbearably handsome; the rich jewel-tones bringing out the subtle hues of his complexion so his hair looks void-black and his skin looks like he was carved from glacial ice.

Shang Qinghua makes a noise like steam escaping a tea kettle and promptly covers his face with his hands, “My Prince!” he squeaks.

“Qinghua,” Mo Baixiu says in reply, sounding wonderful and also amused at Shang Qinghua’s expense.

Large, cool hands brush the backs of Shang Qinghua’s own where they cover his face, gently coaxing them away until he’s looking up at Mo Baixiu, his hands gently held so he can’t hide again.

“We must get you ready,” Mo Baixiu says, that same subtle look of pleased anticipation on his face. He begins to herd Shang Qinghua into the bedroom, and further, into the bath.

“Ready for what?” Shang Qinghua can’t resist asking, as Mo Baixiu pulls a qiankun pouch--or the demonic equivalent of a qiankun pouch? Shang Qinghua isn’t actually clear on that point--out of his voluminous and expensive sleeve and begins digging out various soaps and oils.

“Dinner,” Mo Baixiu says shortly, as he moves on to tugging at Shang Qinghua’s belt to loosen it, “at The White Pavilion,” he successfully removes Shang Qinghua’s belt and begins peeling him out of his outer robes, “in Beijicheng,” he steps back as Shang Qinghua’s brain finally registers that Mo Baixiu is stripping him and playfully swats his hands away, “with my mother and sister.”

Shang Qinghua has a sudden feeling of impending doom.

“Beijicheng?” He asks, as he tries to deal with that whole statement one piece at a time.

Mo Baixiu makes a humming noise of assent and prods Shang Qinghua into starting the bathwater.

“Beijicheng, in the Demon Realm?” Shang Qinghua asks.

“Is there another Beijicheng this lord is unaware of?” Mo Baixiu asks drolly in turn, before gesturing to the soap, oil, and perfume he’s laid out, “These will disguise your human scent, and my presence will dissuade any threats, there is nothing to fear.”

He turns and leaves the bathroom, gesturing towards the tub in a shooing motion before shutting the door.

Beijicheng was--as Airplane had written it--one of the largest cities in the Northern Desert. A fabulous river port situated in the subarctic highlands where the northern mountains’ steep slopes gentled into rolling hills and the turbulent icemelt streams drained together into a single wide and lazy river that wound its way through the southern Northern Desert and eventually emptied into the seas of the Southern Demon Realm.

It was also the traditional seat of Mobei-Jun’s winter court, and the location of the Crystal Ice Palace.

A center of culture and the arts--or at least, culture and the arts as demons appreciated them--Beijicheng had been the first real city in the Demon Realm that Luo Binghe had gotten to explore, after winning his battle against Mobei Jun and earning his allegiance. Naturally, because of this, Airplane had packed Beijicheng with just about everything he could think of that would impress his fresh-from-the-Abyss protagonist and show him that contrary to his formerly held beliefs, the Demon Realm wasn’t just the desolate and inhospitable wastelands of the Abyss or the lawless border to the Human Realm, but also a sparkling city with bustling trade that was ‘civilized’ even by human standards.

Beyond that, though, Airplane is out of his depth.

He has no idea what ‘The White Pavilion’ is, other than he assumes some form of restaurant; which is probably a good guess because as part of his ‘impress Luo Binghe’ efforts, he’d definitely specified that Beijicheng had not only every form of refined art and culture imaginable--albeit turned slightly on its ear, being that this was the Demon Realm--but also heaps of entertainment and nightlife!

And Mo Baixiu’s mother and sister...two people he had absolutely nothing to do with the creation of! He doesn’t know anything about them!

It’s sort of thrilling in an abject terror sort of way, except not because what if they hate him and decide to murder him to spare Mo Baixiu the pain of a divorce?

Shang Qinghua spends his bath scrubbing himself with the supposed ‘scent disguising’ soap--which he thinks he sort of remembers from one of the very early Ning Yingying wife plots when Luo Binghe’s hold on the Demon Realm was still being somewhat contested, and they needed to sneak around and do....something Airplane forgets, that involved Ning Yingying pretending to be a flower nymph rather than a human woman, and had, of course, ended with gratuitous papapa--and stewing in his thoughts.

When he finally climbs out of the tub, dries himself, combs his hair out with the perfumed oil Mo Baixiu had given him--which Shang Qinghua recognizes as the same scent his Prince uses, and which he very discreetly tucks away in the cabinet just in case his Prince had actually only meant this as a loan--and folds himself into a light robe, he’s at least stopped panicking.

Which is good because he promptly starts again when he sees what Mo Baixiu has been doing in his bedroom while he was bathing.

Namely, solving the mystery of where his Prince had disappeared to for those two hours, all those weeks ago, during Shang Qinghua’s convalescence.

The life’s work of some poor demonic tailor must be spread out in Shang Qinghua’s bedroom.

He’d just barely dealt with the Head Disciple’s formal wardrobe! Mostly by ignoring it and packing it into a cedar chest packed in a qiankun pouch to keep the silk from being moth-eaten! And now this!

Mo Baixiu looks incredibly pleased with himself, which is, frankly, a dangerous expression on his perfect face. Seeing him again after having a long soak has not made him any less devastating to Shang Qinghua’s poor heart. Especially when Mo Baixiu crosses the room to gently grasp Shang Qinghua’s arms, and then tilt his head back and ever so gently run his nose from the edge of Shang Qinghua’s jaw to the hollow of his throat.

Cool breath wafts over Shang Qinghua’s jugular vein as Mo Baixiu breathes in and out, and Shang Qinghua accepts his impending blue screen crash of horniness. The noise he makes is practically inhuman, and when Mo Baixiu pulls back he seems to be completely ignoring the effect he’s having on Shang Qinghua.

“It has worked well enough,” Mo Baixiu says, letting go of Shang Qinghua and turning to the clothes.

Mo Baixiu takes to preparing Shang Qinghua for their date like a general on the battlefield.

Only his underthings are easily-washed cotton. Everything else is silk. From the innermost layers of delicate robes and underlayers and gauze-thin pants--literally sheer, gauze-thin silk pants that Shang Qinghua has to put on his own body with Mo Baixiu watching--to the outer layers of what he eventually recognizes as frost-woven Veilweb Spider’s silk, an incredibly valuable textile that had to be gathered by hand from the reluctant little spiders, painstakingly spun thread by thread into spools large enough to weave with. It has magical properties that Shang Qinghua can’t even remember right now because he’s wearing three robes worth of it.

It’s like the platonic ideal of silk. It feels literally heavenly. If he sold them he could probably fund the running of An Ding Peak in its entirety for a month.

Shang Qinghua is stunned enough that he mindlessly allows Mo Baixiu to finish dressing him; fixing his hair and adding jewelry to his demonic heart’s content until he deems Shang Qinghua ready.

When he finally manages to pull himself together, he’s fully dressed and standing in front of a mirror that Mo Baixiu has produced from somewhere.

Objectively speaking, the robes are gorgeous. His Prince has dressed him in a palette of midnight blue and silver that’s reminiscent of An Ding’s colors; the cut and style echoing Mo Baixiu’s own robes, obviously the current courtly fashions of the Northern Desert.

Subjectively speaking, the first thing Shang Qinghua does when he recovers his ability to speak is to ask: “Ah, My Prince, isn’t this a bit much?”

Mo Baixiu looks him over critically, eyes roaming Shang Qinghua’s form; sliding from the crown in his hair to the ridiculously delicate slippers on his feet, before shaking his head once, “Shang Qinghua is this lord’s husband,” he says, “and this lord is Crown Prince of the Northern Desert, I would shame myself if I could not provide a suitable wardrobe for my consort.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that Shang Qinghua finds himself nodding along before the words even fully register. This is too much! He needs all his brainpower to survive tonight and his Prince keeps carelessly causing it to melt out his ears instead!

The words my consort said in his Prince’s voice ring through Shang Qinghua’s head. His spine reflexively straightens. He can’t deny that he’d written Mobei Jun to be incomparably cool, loyal, responsible, wealthy, powerful, intelligent, resilient, and gallant. It’s his own fault that Mo Baixiu is now using all of these very same traits against Shang Qinghua by giving him nice things. It even makes sense; culturally, in the Demon Realm, being able to provide for your spouse and your household was taken even more seriously than in the Human Realm.

It’s also his own fault that he’d gotten so involved with the idea of Mobei Jun as his imaginary ideal man in his entirely-for-profit stallion novel that he’d never given him a love interest and actively kept him out of all the wife plots! Which was important to keep him from falling prey to the curse of the secondary lead or getting hated on by the readers, but still! Mobei Jun in Proud Immortal Demon Way was Luo Binghe’s irreplaceable right hand, his second in command, his--although neither of them would ever admit it--best friend! He existed to look cool, be attractive but unattainable, have awesome fights once in a while, and provide convenient plot levers as needed!

And now Shang Qinghua has not only somehow attained the unattainable, but Mo Baixiu is going to introduce him to his family! Or at least the parts of his family he actually likes! This really is too much!

But he can’t allow Mo Baixiu to be humiliated either! His Prince has obviously gone to a lot of effort and expense to plan this out! Even if it means uncomfortably expensive clothes and the possibility of death, Shang Qinghua can’t let his perfect man who he created and then accidentally married down!

He takes a deep breath, turning to Mo Baixiu, “If my Prince thinks I’m ready, then I am.”

He tries to smile reassuringly, as Mo Baixiu banishes the mirror--apparently a paper-thin sheet of glass-smooth ice--back into water vapor and steps forward to take Shang Qinghua’s hands.

Shang Qinghua, clinging as tightly as he can to his completely false facade of calm, offers his hands to his Prince, and then lets himself be tucked close to Mo Baixiu’s side as he teleports them out of Shang Qinghua’s Leisure House.

Chapter 44

Chapter Text

Having never travelled through one of Mo Baixiu’s portals before, and having never actually specified anything about what travelling through one is like while writing Proud Immortal Demon Way, Shang Qinghua is unsure of what to expect.

The space between dimensions? Searing cold and biting cosmic wind? A shadow realm that existed entirely at Mo Baixiu’s disposal?

Despite his nerves, he trusted Mo Baixiu, and so he stepped forward without hesitation, letting himself be swept away.

It was like blinking. A rush of cold air blew past him while he was safely anchored in Mo Baixiu’s arms, a moment’s shift from light to dark to light again.

And suddenly they weren’t in Shang Qinghua’s Leisure House anymore, but standing on a slate pathway in front of an ornate and very aesthetically elegant pavilion.

It was, as the name suggested, entirely white: from the beams; to the roof tiles; to the elaborate parquet floors; to the silk lanterns and hangings. The pavilion in front of them was the biggest Shang Qinghua could see; others off in the distance--visible by the moonlight reflecting off their perfectly white roofs--being smaller, and apparently all empty. Spreading out around them in every direction was a beautiful garden, with various aromatic flowers and trees carefully arranged and grown to provide a specific and natural perfume. From what he could see in the dim light, each pavilion had its own garden, separated from each other by short stone walls, with different varieties of plants and trees growing to create harmonious fragrances and scenic views during the day. It was a concept that Airplane had read about in a magazine once, in an article about an incredibly fancy restaurant that had been opening at the time: outdoor dining with the surrounding gardens curated to create a pleasant, complimentary fragrance that would enhance the patron’s enjoyment of the food. Seeing it here is actually sort of cool, because he hadn’t written about any of this beyond the most general concept that Beijicheng--which appears as a sea of lights that surrounds this tranquil night garden oasis--after playing host to the court of the Kings of the Northern Desert for centuries, had well and truly evolved into a hotspot of culture and entertainment.

He looks out over the other empty pavilions again, and is suddenly struck with the sinking suspicion that when his Prince said he’d ‘reserved’ The White Pavilion for their dinner party, Mo Baixiu meant that he’d reserved the entire establishment for their own privacy like a tycoon CEO.

Mo Baixiu wastes no time in stepping forward, leading Shang Qinghua along by the arm as he mounts the broad stone stairs leading up into the pavilion. The silk drapes and curtains, as well as the soft light from the lanterns gives the interior of the pavilion an otherworldly quality. The way the drapes are arranged providing privacy at the entrance to the pavilion while leaving the view out over the garden clear, the carefully-tended flowers and gently flowing water feature illuminated by more carefully placed white silk lanterns, the moonlight, and the truly breathtaking sight of the Northern Desert’s Midsummer Aurora winding through the sky in delicate glowing ribbons of purples, blues, and greens.

The dining area is at the center of the pavilion. A table and low chairs arranged on a woven silk carpet, with various tasteful decorative items, lanterns, and cut flowers in painted vases arranged around the edges of the pavilion so that no matter where one looked during the meal there would be something appealing to the eye. Two women are already sitting at the table.

They were both, of course, peerlessly beautiful demonesses.

The elder demoness--sitting in the place of honor--wore fabulously intricate robes; heavy layers of Veilweb Spider’s silk in decadent jewel tones, embroidered heavily with branches of plum blossoms with tiny, delicate silk flowers stitched into place all over the outermost robe in such a way it gave the impression that the branches were shifting in the breeze with each shift in fabric as the demoness moved, little shimmering pearls dotting the center of each silk flower. Her hair was a mass of ink-black curls that were ornamented in much the same way as Mo Baixiu; an even heavier and more intricate crown of white jade that supported a veritable galaxy of teardrop diamonds suspended from fine silver chains of differing lengths, running through her hair to create a spectacular effect as the gems caught and refracted the light into a shimmering halo around her head. Their features were similar enough that Shang Qinghua felt confident that this must be Mo Baixiu’s mother, the Queen.

The younger demoness was also dressed in what must have been the finest courtly fashions afforded to her rank; her robes less heavy and intricate than the Queen’s but still incredibly fine. The style being similar to what Shang Qinghua would assume was the equivalent fashion for young, unmarried ladies amongst human nobility. The colors lighter and softer echoes of the Queen’s rich tones; the embroidery more playful in design than the dramatic statement pieces the Queen had chosen. Her hair is long and dark and straight; and the demon mark on her forehead is slightly smaller and less elaborate than the silver lines that rest on the Queen’s brow, or the deep blue of Mo Baixiu’s, but there’s something about the shape of her eyes; the slope of her nose; the cut of her jaw that echoes Mo Baixiu’s own features, which Shang Qinghua thinks is their shared father’s contribution to their looks.

As Mo Baixiu steps into the pavilion the two demonesses rise from their seats, and Shang Qinghua finds himself being pulled forward by his Prince’s lingering grip on his arm until he’s standing alongside him.

There’s a moment--that feels like an eternity--where Shang Qinghua can feel himself being idly, instinctually judged; and then that sense of judgement increases ten-fold when Mo Baixiu finally speaks.

“Mother,” Mo Baixiu salutes his mother, “Baiyun,” he nods to his sister, “This is Shang Qinghua,” he very gently guides Shang Quinghua even further forward into the zone of in-law scrutiny, “my husband.”

If this were happening to someone else, Shang Qinghua is aware, the way the two Ladies’ facial expressions seem to freeze with a sense of incredulity would be hilarious, but unfortunately it’s happening to him so he has to actually deal with it. And make a decision on how he’s going to deal with it very quickly because the Queen has an absolutely murderous light growing in her eyes.

“Qinghua,” Mo Baixiu says, shifting slightly so he can look down at Shang Qinghua, “this is my mother, Mo Binghua, and my sister, Mo Baiyun.”

Mo Baixiu nods once, apparently satisfied with how things are going and then folds his hands into his sleeves; for all the world a serene young master who hasn’t just potentially signed his poor husband’s death warrant!

Shang Qinghua decides that the only thing to be done is utterly embrace his shameless nature and the fact that it was really Mo Baixiu’s fault that he hadn’t told his family he’d gotten married!

“Mother-in-law,” Shang Qinghua says, saluting Mo Binghua with what he hopes is an appropriately polite yet happy facial expression, “Sister-in-law,” he salutes Mo Baiyun, because he’d always been more of a ‘go home’ type than a ‘go big’ type but they’re in the Demon Realm at a fancy restaurant with the only family his husband has that he seems to actually like, so he might as well try it for once, “I’m so glad to meet you,” he says, because it's the truth and he’s pretty sure Mo Binghua can smell fear and he’d really really like her to stop giving him the crazy murder eyes!

Mo Binghua says, “Your husband,” in such a flat, emotionless tone of voice that Shang Qinghua has to fight the reflexive urge to wince on his Prince’s behalf, before abruptly returning to her seat.

Mo Baiyun retakes her seat as well, and Mo Baixiu steps forward to take his own, leading Shang Qinghua to their places at the table before his mother could recover from her shock and try and kick them out or something.

The table is, much like everything else Shang Qinghua can see in the pavilion, a hand-crafted masterpiece of the finest materials. Pale, elegant wood polished to a shine, the rectangular surface exactly long enough to seat himself and Mo Baixiu side by side, and wide enough that when Mo Baiyun begins fiddling with a set of small wooden slats that had been standing in a decorative cup on a small table next to the main dining table, Shang Qinghua doesn’t immediately notice the shallow niche set into the decorative edging of the table until Mo Baiyun deftly slots one of the little rectangular wooden tokens into the space.

The carved design set into the edging forms a complete circuit when the niche is filled, and a subtle glow shimmers over the wood for a moment, before it fades away; leaving the surface of the table covered in dishes for what Shang Qinghua assumes is the first course of dinner.

“Oh!” Shang Qinghua exclaims, unable to help himself, “A sending table!”

Mo Binghua gives him a look that isn’t exactly withering but is definitely grading his supposed intelligence down a few notches, which, okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly suave to get excited like that, but sending tables are rare and interesting! A paired set of tables, each carved with an array, that can send whatever items are resting on them back and forth depending on which table is activated. He’d honestly never thought of using them for a discreet, server-less dining experience! This is innovation! He can only imagine the way the kitchens here are set up, with a room full of tables organized so that when one is activated in a distant pavilion the staff can arrange the dishes on the paired table and they’ll be transported right to the pavilion, ready to be eaten without the dishes needing to be ferried out from wherever the kitchens are; or the guests being disturbed; or eavesdropped upon; or, honestly, identified beyond whoever booked the reservation.

Mo Baiyun, in contrast, simply smiles at him, and picks up the dropped baton of conversation like a champion, “Are you familiar with sending tables?” She asks, while gently prising the little wooden token out of its niche and setting it aside in an empty cup on the side table that Shang Qinghua assumes exists so patrons don’t get confused about which courses they’ve already had. The carved array goes dark as the table is inactivated, and Mo Baiyun begins pouring tea for everyone; apparently acting as the hostess for this family dinner.

“Ah, yes,” Shang Qinghua smiles back at her, helplessly, accepting his tea but not yet making a move to drink, “We have Masters in the Sect who make them, but Shizun feels that maintaining space for the paired tables is needless aside from specific occasions so they aren’t widely used.”

Mo Binghua studies her teacup for what seems a pensive moment, before raising it to take the first drink. Shang Qinghua’s instinct in this area--and Wei He’s deportment lessons being pounded into his skull--pays off, because neither Mo Baixiu nor Mo Baiyun touch their tea until after the Queen has tasted it and given a slight nod of approval.

Shang Qinghua raises his own cup along with his husband and sister-in-law, and they all drink, following the unspoken but understood etiquette.

The tea is perhaps the best he’s ever had; a light and delicate blend obviously carefully selected to accompany the spread of nuts, pickled vegetables, and other light fare to start the meal off.

A light evening breeze picks up, gently gusting through the pavilion and the natural perfume of the surrounding gardens is carried through the open sides of the structure. It’s lovely, but there’s a definite chill to the air that makes Shang Qinghua suddenly glad for the robes Mo Baixiu dressed him in; the Veilweb Spider’s silk is as light as a cloud but keeping him perfectly warm.

“Your Sect,” Mo Binghua says, her voice and eyes both frigid as she studies Shang Qinghua over the rim of her teacup, “your human cultivation sect.”

Ah. So they were getting right to the ‘you’re a puny human who isn’t worthy of my son’ portion of the evening, which Shang Qinghua was sort of dreading but Mo Binghua isn’t a woman who wastes time or stifles her opinions about things.

“Yes,” Shang Qinghua says, figuring that, while there’s probably actually a lot of things he could do that would make her opinion of him worse, being tactfully honest wasn’t one of them, “this Shang Qinghua is Head Disciple of An Ding Peak in the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, successor to Peak Lord Zhang Zhanhua.”

Mo Binghua tilts her head slightly, the same raptor’s tilt that Mo Baixiu does when he’s considering something, and it’s actually sort of cute to think that his Prince got that from his mother? But also, Mo Binghua is looking like she’s considering gutting him, sort of, so Shang Qinghua tries his best to convey the ‘polite but unconcerned’ face he’d learned from his Shizun.

“Peak Lord Zhang?” Mo Binghua echoes, her frosty expression warming a tiny bit, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly upward into the barest approximation of something like approval, “I had never expected her to relinquish her position,” Mo Binghua says, something in her voice turning the statement from a general musing to something utterly opaque to Shang Qinghua’s ability to interpret.

“The succession rights of the sect have continued as is traditional,” Shang Qinghua hazarded, trying to sound calm and confident and not like he has no idea what’s going on, “the Qing generation has already begun with Yue Qingyuan.”

Mo Binghua seems actually approving when she says, “Yue Qingyuan, who fought Tianlang-Jun to a standstill,” with the slightest lilt of questioning in her voice.

“So they say,” Shang Qinghua agrees, trying to redirect the conversation while also hopefully saving Yue Qingyuan from having to fight every demonic challenger who thinks they’re as OP as Tianlang-Jun.

“What manner of disciple are you, to consort with demons behind your Shizun’s back, then?” Mo Binghua asks, the slightest gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, as though she expects that she’s gotten the upper hand.

Shang Qinghua finds his spine pulling itself even straighter than it had been before, as though his posture being ultra perfect will convey that Mo Binghua, Demon Queen of the Northern Desert, is being ridiculous right now, “Shizun is well aware,” he says, his outrage making his words sharp and cold in a way that he’d never managed to intentionally master. Normally he’s an anger crier! But somehow just this once fate--or maybe just because the cold breeze blowing through the pavilion has immobilized his face a bit--has worked in his favor so he seems cool and reserved! Is this why Mo Baixiu’s facial expressions are usually so minimalistic?

Mo Binghua gives Shang Qinghua an appraising look, before allowing the subject to drop; and subsequently, the level of tension at the table. She runs a critical eye over the offered cold dishes and selects one of the small plates of seasoned vegetables. She takes a few delicate bites of food, and seems to relax as well.

“Baixiu,” Mo Binghua says, setting down her chopsticks and taking some tea, “How did my son meet his,” she hesitates briefly over the word, “husband?”

Mo Baiyun seems to take this as a good sign, because she gives Shang Qinghua another little smile before helping herself to a few of the small dishes of appetizers; silently encouraging Shang Qinghua to do so as well.

Each of the little dishes is delightful. A single-serving taste that at once whets the appetite and livens the palate for what’s probably going to be the best meal Shang Qinghua’s ever eaten in his entire life.

But the taste of the food pales in comparison to hearing Mo Baixiu explain their meeting from his own point of view; especially the points which Shang Qinghua knows Mo Baixiu is embellishing a bit for his mother’s benefit. In between pauses to enjoy the food, and Mo Binghua and Mo Baixiu’s questions--incredulous from Mo Binghua, and enthusiastic from Mo Baiyun--Mo Baixiu charts out their first meeting and Shang Qinghua’s subsequent care for him as though it was a first-rate love-at-first-sight romance.

He almost can’t take the subtly tender look Mo Baixiu gives him, as he draws his story to a close; a little echo of shame rising in him as he remembers his first reaction to his Prince’s collapse, the thought of striking Mo Baixiu down before he could become Shang Qinghua’s narrative end.

Mo Baiyun takes over the conversational rudder, and declares that they should move on to the next course. Choosing one of the unused tokens and inserting it into the table, the array takes on a gentle glow once more, and the used dishes disappear. A minute or so later, the glow increases again, and a large clear glass tank full of live fish, a cutting board, a gleaming cleaver, and several fluffy little towels folded pristinely into squares. Mo Baiyun prises the little wooden token out of its niche, and the glow on the table fades, putting it into the cup with the first used token and finding what must be the appropriate token in the unused cup.

“Baixiu,” Mo Binghua says, “you take the knife,” before indicating a particularly fat and appealing fish in the tank.

Mo Baixiu pulls his heavy sleeves back, folding the fabric over on his left arm until it’s all the way past his elbow, before sitting forward on the edge of his seat and plunging his bare arm into the tank. He grabs the fish Mo Binghua indicated, keeping a firm hold on it despite its struggles, before pinning it to the cutting board and taking up the cleaver to decisively strike its head off. He makes use of the towels, drying his arm and even deftly wiping the edge of the cleaver, before he sets them back on the table and begins turning his sleeve back down to its proper place.

Mo Baiyun inserts the next token into the niche, completing the array again, and the tank, cutting board, cleaver, and the fish Mo Binghua had selected all disappear.

“I’ve heard that your peak deals with horticulture?” Mo Baiyun asks, trying to keep the somewhat relaxed air that everyone has settled into going while they wait for the next course; the table still glowing gently with the active array.

Shang Qinghua smiles at her and gratefully takes to the new topic of conversation, “Yes,” he says, “although we’re focused more on agriculture than ornamental horticulture.”

Mo Baiyun is still delighted to have someone to discuss her gardening with, however, and they find enough overlap in their areas of knowledge to carry the conversation.

The array on the table flares as the next course appears, and Shang Qinghua admires the presentation as Mo Baiyun deactivates the table.

The fish that Mo Binghua has chosen had been filleted and sliced into thin slivers before being arranged raw in decorative patterns on the serving plates. Accompanied by another selection of individual serving dishes of marinated cold vegetables; thin slices of a dark bread that look like they’ve been seasoned, toasted, and topped with something Shang Qinghua doesn’t recognize; little plates of artfully arranged fruit, with peeled mandarin oranges spread open like flowers, kumquats, and halved passionfruit; little fried patties that Shang Qinghua hopes are made of potatoes topped pearls of orange caviar spooned into mounds on little beds of some white cream; several different little dishes of sauces, again portioned out into individual servings so that each diner could have one of each without needing to share; and wine.

Mo Binghua takes the first taste, declares it acceptable, and the rest of them follow suit.

He’s not even sure what kind of fish it is, because first of all he’s not a fish expert, and second of all he honestly doesn’t remember every caffeine-fueled middle-of-the-night writing-binge invention he’s ever come up with. But it didn’t look like a salmon or a carp, so he’s pretty sure it’s some Demon Realm fish that he may or may not have invented. Shang Qinghua is a little afraid that the raw fish will taste, well, like raw fish. But it doesn’t. He picks up a little sliver of it in his chopsticks, dips it lightly into one of his little sauce dishes the way everyone else is eating it, and tries it, and it’s wonderful.

The sauce he’d tried is spicy and delightful, the fish tastes clean and fresh. The little fried patties are absolutely made of potato, and the cream is some sort of fancy sour cream, and combined with the saltiness of the caviar it tastes amazing. He still has no idea what’s on the little toasty triangles other than ‘mushrooms maybe’ but it doesn’t matter because the bread is hot and crisp and the flavor of the herbs in the topping is savory and delicious. He tries the fish with a different sauce and it’s sweet-and-savory and the fish melts on his tongue. The vegetables are all fresh and barely tossed with various dressings and vinaigrettes, and the fruit sits along a spectrum of sweet-tartness that refreshes and cleanses the palate.

The wine is, surprisingly, a grape wine; chilled and slightly fizzy with a sweet, mild flavor, it balances out the spice of the sauces while still being sharp enough to hold its own. It doesn’t seem particularly high in alcohol content, which is nice because Shang Qinghua steadily works his way through his entire serving.

Shang Qinghua has to make an effort of will to keep up with his conversation with Mo Baiyun about silviculture and specialty condition greenhouses rather than just inhaling his food like a vacuum. He feels kind of envious of Mo Baixiu who’s been largely silent, and thus free to steadily work his way through his food at leisure; his face set in such a refined and subtle expression of utmost contentment that Shang Qinghua almost misses it.

Mo Baiyun reactivates the table and sends their empty dishes back to the kitchens, but what gets sent back to them isn’t food, but rather a large baked-clay thing, with a flat bottom and rounded top. There is also a hammer.

Mo Binghua--as, Shang Qinghua has finally figured out, the highest ranked person at the table, per demon etiquette which they were using right now--is the one to take up the hammer and very dramatically smash the clay thing open. Her blows are sharp and calculated in such a way that the clay breaks just enough that she can turn the hammer around and wedge the end into the cracks, and heave the top of the clay thing off like a lid, neatly revealing the very impressive-looking roast that’s apparently been slow-cooking for--Shang Qinghua prods at a loose shard of pottery--the better part of a day. Resting inside the clay wrapping in a crockery tray, supported by a metal rack over a bed of various herbs and vegetables and other things Shang Qinghua can’t immediately recognize.

Mo Binghua casually drops the hammer back onto the table, and Mo Baiyun pulls out the token and puts it back in again, sending the mess of pottery shards and clay dust covering the table back to the kitchens, along with the revealed roast.

“Shang Qinghua,” Mo Binghua says, deigning to use his name for the first time all evening, “you saved my son’s life,” she says, her tone of voice sounding frustrated by this fact, “and have married him,” she sounds even more frustrated by this fact, “but you remain with your sect, rather than standing by his side?”

The way she asks is accusatory, and something in Mo Baixiu’s posture stiffens, as though Mo Binghua’s question reminds him of something that troubles him, or he didn’t expect her to take this stance in her interrogation of Shang Qinghua’s worthiness.

Shang Qinghua, however, had been expecting something along these lines. He might have been mostly distracted by the food and conversation, but he’d not only written literally hundreds of scenarios involving Luo Binghe meeting some potential-new-wife’s family and being challenged, he’d also honestly asked himself a lengthy list of variations on the same theme: why do I deserve to be happy? Why do I deserve Mo Baixiu’s love?

Even a few months ago, if Mo Binghua had asked him, he wouldn’t have had an answer, he’d have deflected and stumbled and embarrassed himself in front of his in-laws, but he finds, to his surprise, that he does have an answer.

“I remain with my sect so that when my husband needs me, I will have the strength to aid him,” Shang Qinghua says, meeting Mo Binghua’s eyes.

The array on the table lit up again, and the main course of their dinner arrived in all its splendor. Mo Baiyun exclaimed over the display, trying to break the tension, but Shang Qinghua knew that there was no need. Mo Binghua matched his gaze and nodded once, subtly, and the hurdle of her immediate disapproval was passed.

A great deal of demonic fine dining seemed to revolve around no one having to pass anything around the table, or have anyone else’s hands near their dishes, which made sense, and went along with Airplane’s general worldbuilding of demonic feasts being dramatic events full of entertainment, wonder, and intrigue, where your banquet wasn’t considered A Event unless some blood was spilled. Because of this, much like the earlier courses, everything had been portioned out onto individual plates, separated so the different dishes could be sampled individually without accidentally blending together, and each place setting had an individual jar of wine.

The roast had been cut into thick slices, each one almost too large to gracefully eat with chopsticks; the meat still covered in the various herbs and spices it had been liberally coated in before being encased in the clay and put into what was likely a dug firepit to slow-roast. Alongside that was a small covered bowl of soup, and various small dishes containing sauces and garnishes for the meat. The vegetables that had cooked with the roast were arranged on a separate plate, having been glazed in their own marinade. There were pickled vegetables to provide sharpness to the palate. Steaming dumplings resting in a shallow dish of sauce that looked like it had been deglazed from the bottom of the crockery the roast had cooked in. A small dish of silky tofu with thin slices of century egg topped with shredded ginger and spring onion with little cups of soy sauce and sesame oil beside it.

The food is, just as before, absolutely delicious. The meat is tender--although Shang Qinghua isn’t entirely sure what kind of meat it is, other than ‘something like beef’--and especially good when the herbed coating mingles with the sauces. The soup is a warm broth full of tender vegetables and succulent bits of meat; the same as the roast, probably spare morsels from when it was carved in preparation for roasting. The vegetables are tender and almost caramelized from their long slow roasting, glazed in a slightly sweet wine sauce. The dumplings are soft and warm and readily absorb the savory sauce they’re bathed in. The silky tofu and century egg, carefully drizzled with the soy sauce and sesame oil, is rich and creamy.

The wine is something Shang Qinghua doesn’t recognize either; served chilled, it has a refreshing, almost fruity taste, but after sipping his way through one cup-full, he can tell it’s also fairly strong as well.

After his confrontation with Mo Binghua, Shang Qinghua expects things to be a little awkward, but Mo Baiyun offers up another topic of conversation, and Mo Binghua takes it as an opportunity to begin assiduously interrogating Shang Qinghua about his skills and knowledge.

It’s nice to have her sort-of acceptance! But now he feels like a new bride being asked about her cooking skills! Which he sort of is! But mother-in-law, please!

Shang Qinghua is rescued, after a few minutes, by Mo Baixiu, who rouses from his very contented observation of Shang Qinghua’s interaction with his mother and sister to decisively move the subject of conversation to current happenings in Beijicheng, which leads to a session of intensive and opinionated gossip that carries them through the rest of the meal.

Sitting there enjoying the selection of treats and delicacies being offered for dessert--steamed pears filled with dates and honey; chilled lychees; tiny little pastries with assorted fillings; sponge cakes with fruit baked into them; a refreshing dessert tea--while listening to Mo Binghua verbally excoriate some courtier for an embarrassing faux pas, Shang Qinghua feels as though things have gone very well.

Mo Binghua doesn’t make any more pointed comments, nor ask any more incendiary questions, and Mo Baiyun seems very pleased about everything while also having a general air of relief about her.

Beginning the process of saying their goodbyes, paying their respects to Mo Binghua, and preparing to leave is an ordeal in itself, but soon enough Mo Baixiu takes Shang Qinghua’s arm and leads him back out of the pavilion and onto the stone path outside, before opening a portal and pulling them through between one stride and the next.

The reappear in the sitting room of Shang Qinghua’s Leisure House, and despite himself, Shang Qinghua finds himself slumping against Mo Baixiu’s side, felled suddenly by the rush of exhaustion that washes over him.

“Did it go well, do you think?” Shang Qinghua can’t help but ask.

Mo Baixiu huffs out a little laugh, quiet and as relieved-sounding as Shang Qinghua feels, “You received as favorable a reception as mother is likely to grant,” he says, matching Shang Qinghua’s quiet tone, “and Baiyun is fond of you already.”

The dinner had lasted for hours, and they’re well past midnight, and Shang Qinghua isn’t expecting it at all, when Mo Baixiu takes him more firmly into his arms. He looks inhumanly beautiful in the dim light of the lamp Shang Qinghua had left lit, and he leans forward to press his forehead against Shang Qinghua’s, “As it should be,” he says.

And something about the moment is so perfect, so unspeakably right, that Shang Qinghua stretches his arms around Mo Baixiu’s neck, rises gracefully up onto the balls of his feet, and finally, finally, finally presses his lips against Mo Baixiu’s in a barely-there brush of a kiss.

He means to settle back down onto his heels, to say something very profound and romantic, to look into Mo Baixiu’s eyes and see if he feels the same sense of rightness; but he never gets the chance.

Mo Baixiu hauls Shang Qinghua against him, lifting him as though he weighs nothing at all, and kisses him with all the fervent intensity that Shang Qinghua’s felt winding up inside of him since his attempted kisses during the Lantern Festival.

They break apart, almost stunned, before Shang Qinghua leans in again, desperate: each moment stretching around them like an eternity; the two of them alone in the world of this single pool of soft light; everything else receding and receding until there’s nothing else but the strength of Mo Baixiu’s arms around him, the cool slide of his lips, the lingering taste of that last cup of wine.

They’re both panting, when Mo Baixiu finally lets go; bending slightly to set Shang Qinghua back onto his feet. Leaning on each other, almost afraid to let go; almost afraid to let the moment end.

Mo Baixiu manages to find his voice first, “I must go,” he rasps, “they’re waiting for me,” he says, but makes no move to leave, to let go of Shang Qinghua.

“What about the robes?” Shang Qinghua asks, breathless, “My Prince this is really too much for me to keep.”

“I don’t care,” Mo Baixiu says, somehow managing to be utterly tender and breathtakingly fierce all at once, “If Qinghua wishes he can shred them to ribbons and use them as rags, all that matters is if they please Qinghua or not.”

“They…,” Shang Qinghua breathes out, “they do please me,” he says, swallowing down that last reflexive little twinge of having been a Poor in his past life, “anything my Prince gives me pleases me,” he can’t help the way his voice cracks, “anything my husband does pleases me.”

Mo Baixiu’s eyes burn as he pulls Shang Qinghua in again, kissing him; his fervor causing his demonic qi to flare slightly, enough that when he finally steps back, tearing himself away, Shang Qinghua’s breath fogs the air.

“I will return,” Mo Baixiu says, a promise and a threat of the best kind, before flickering away into the shadows.

Chapter 45

Chapter Text

Mo Baixiu stands on the slate path in front of the white pavilion for several long moments; the chill breeze snagging at his hems and sleeves, ruffling his hair. He breathes deeply, working to calm himself, to school his expression into something blank and dispassionate.

When he feels ready, he strides down the path, and mounts the stairs leading into the pavilion.

Mo Binghua is seated at the table, just as she was when he’d left to return Shang Qinghua to his sect; idly picking at the remains of the dessert plates, savoring the last cup of tea.

Mo Baiyun, however, is nowhere to be found.

“Your sister,” Mo Binghua says, guessing that Mo Baixiu’s first question would be, “decided to take her leave,” this makes sense; Mo Baiyun has many friends in Beijicheng, and a suite of rooms always ready for her in the Crystal Ice Palace should she choose to visit.

“Come,” Mo Binghua says, “Escort your mother home,” she stands, rounding the end of the table.

Mo Baixiu steps forward and offers his arm, his mother’s iron grip clasping around his elbow as he slides them sideways through nothingness, to reappear in Mo Binghua’s sitting room, in her private apartments in the Northern Ice Fortress.

Mo Binghua steps away from him, striding around the room and summoning servants; asserting her presence to ensure that nothing she deems unacceptable has happened in her short absence. By the time she’s finished, her maids are rushing to serve their mistress as she methodically strengthens the privacy wards on her rooms and issues orders; demanding they be ready to serve her as soon as she’s finished with Mo Baixiu.

For his part, Mo Baixiu takes his place at the low table in his mother’s sitting room, and watches the tableau unfold before him; the frenzy that follows Mo Binghua’s return: her maids, all of them strong and loyal demonesses she’s recruited to serve her and her alone, whom Mo Binghua directs less like a royal madam and more like soldiers in her personal battalion, rushing about to undertake such dangerous and vital missions as preparing their Mistress’ bath, reporting on the activities of her fellow wives, giving an accounting of what news and gossip they could glean that evening while the Queen was absent, and some elite few being dispatched to perform various tasks of genteel sabotage against his father, Mobei-Jun, in insidious sleight of hand engineered to sour his evening and provoke his annoyance, carefully orchestrated so the King’s displeasure would fall upon Mo Binghua’s enemies.

He’d grown up watching his mother scheme and plot; executing masterful tactics to maintain her place and power in spite of a petty, careless man. It was one of the many things he felt grateful for, in her most thorough education of a young prince already embittered by his uncle’s betrayal.

Finally, when the last silken sleeve flutters away to do his mother’s bidding, Mo Binghua turns to Mo Baixiu and takes her own place at the table.

It feels unusually intimate, to sit across from her with nothing on the table; his mother’s usual methods of hosting him discarded. Things are quiet for a long moment. Mo Binghua checks her wards again, flicking out her demonic qi to let it sizzle against the glowing arrays that bloom over the walls in response.

“What a son this mother has raised,” Mo Binghua begins, her tone edging towards melodramatic exasperation, “to throw caution to the wind and marry the first calamitous beauty who catches his eye.”

Mo Baixiu, who’d thought he’d grown immune to his mother’s operatic displays of performative maternal grief--a facade donned and doffed whenever she felt it suited, though truly, the times she’d felt comfortable enough to exercise this type of playfulness had been rare when he was young--finds himself blushing faintly, and spares a moment to be glad that Baiyun had taken her leave. Was likely sent away so that Mo Baixiu would be fully at his mother’s mercy during this loving interrogation session.

“This mother supposes her son could have done worse,” Mo Binghua says idly, “although you will have to endure the inevitable challenges, either because he’s human, or because he looks as harmless as a harvest mouse, a pressure point ripe for taking advantage of,” the corners of her lips turn up just slightly at the edges, as she holds back what Mo Baixiu knows is a pleased smile, “even though he seems to at least have some spine.”

“Shang Qinghua is stronger than he appears,” Mo Baixiu says.

“He very well might be,” Mo Binhua says with an air of indulgence, as though she’ll believe that when she sees it, “but the appearance of strength matters just as much as strength itself, this son would do well to remember.”

Mo Baixiu nods, understanding the wisdom his mother is trying to impart. Shang Qinghua is human; delicate, in a way demons simply weren’t. His actual strength would mean very little: if he appeared weak, he’d be challenged, and challenged, and challenged until he’d beaten back enough attempts to establish the reality of his strength. Or until he faltered, and a challenger managed the lucky blow that struck him down; and then the challenges would never cease. Like sharks scenting blood in the water, those who wished to displace Shang Qinghua from Mo Baixiu’s side would look at him and see only his humanity, his slight stature, and think him an easy target.

“You asked why he did not stand at my side,” Mo Baixiu says, feeling out the thought that had been itching at the back of his mind all evening, “Yet you called Tianlang-Jun a fool for so openly announcing his marriage, and now this.”

“Yes,” Mo Binghua says, “I did,” in a rare display of abashedness, her eyes flicker away from Mo Baixiu for a moment before returning, “There is no question of the wisdom of concealing this until you have fully ascended,” she says, “but some simpering discontent with ambitions of power as the spouse of a king, married to my son?” she shakes her head, “That is something I will not allow.”

“He doesn’t need me for power,” Mo Baixiu says, softly, “I had thought...when we first met…” he lets the sentence hang, as he struggles to express himself, “...I had a sense that he would ask it of me, on repayment for saving my life, holding the debt over my head until I helped him rise in status...but he didn’t,” Mo Baixiu finds himself almost scowling, remembering the strange sense of dissonance that had clung to him, during his first meeting with Shang Qinghua, like stepping off a stair expecting another to meet him, only to find nothing at all. As though there had been a sudden shift in fate. As though the threads of their lives had been meant to intertwine, but had been pulled into a new design.

It’s a baffling feeling, but Mo Binghua’s face has eased into a look of understanding.

“And so you held to the oath,” She says, “and expected that you would understand,” she says, “and now you truly do love him.”

Mo Baixiu nods, helplessly.

“And Zhang Zhanhua truly knows about this?” Mo Binghua asks, a lilt of curiosity in her voice.

“Yes,” Mo Baixiu replies, “We’ve met,” he considers for a moment how best to gloss over the truly embarrassing circ*mstances of that meeting without also inspiring his mother to anger over the potential harm that might have come to him, regardless of this apparent strange fondness she has for Shang Qinghua’s Shizun, “She and her wife both gave their blessings,” Mo Baixiu sees his mother’s eyebrows raise incredulously and adds, “She held me at swordpoint.”

Out of every reaction he’d expected from his mother, laughter wasn’t one of them, but Mo Binghua chuckles softly to herself, “Peak Lord Zhang has always been open minded,” she says idly, “And fierce,” she runs an idle finger along the rim of her teacup, “She married?” Mo Binghua asks.

Mo Baixiu nods once, “To a Master Wei He.”

“Ah,” Mo Binghua says, sounding unsurprised, “Master Wei,” she says, “Of course,” she sighs, deeply, a wistful sound that Mo Baixiu has never heard his mother make before in his life.

“You know of Peak Lord Zhang?” Mo Baixiu asks, overcome with curiosity that both his mother and Tianlang-Jun are familiar enough with Zhang Zhanhua to have opinions on what she’s like.

Mo Binghua hums in agreement, “Peak Lord Zhang spent some time travelling in the Demon Realm before her ascension,” she says, “We met,” she pauses for a breath, “A remarkable woman, truly admirable.”

Mo Baixiu has never heard his mother praise someone so openly in his entire life.

“I find it unsurprising, truly,” Mo Binghua continues, something about her eyes giving the sense of a hazy reminiscence, “that it’s Zhang Zhanhua’s succeeding disciple my son has become entangled with, anyone she felt worthy of carrying her legacy must be someone she felt was akin to herself in all the ways necessary to thrive.”

Mo Baixiu begins to understand that the conversation has gotten away from him entirely, and makes his excuses to bid his mother goodnight before fleeing back to Beijicheng to hunt Mo Baiyun to the ends of the city for abandoning him to this.