Chapter Text
“Your Highness,” he asked blankly, half-convinced he was still dreaming and unsure of what to do with his hands, “who’s San Lang?”
The god stilled. As the embrace he was clutched in loosened, Wu Ming began to regret voicing the question.
Pulling away, the expression on His Highness’s face was now alarmed. He was discomfitted to be the cause of it, though at least it wasn’t the outpouring of grief and misplaced guilt from before.
The arms that held him at length were careful, in a way Wu Ming didn’t know what to do with.
“Some kind of problem with the governing vessel,” His Highness muttered to himself, running his gaze over him from head to toe, “or maybe the yin-linking vessel?”
None of what he heard made much sense to the ghost, though he understood that something was wrong, another fault found. He settled to wait as His Highness fussed over him, and the fog smothering his mind at least made it easier not to squirm at the inspection.
“Wu Ming, what did you mean by that?” the god finally asked. And, more quietly, “What’s the last thing you remember?”
The implications of the question were not lost on the ghost. He wondered, not for the first time since waking up in this place, how they’d gotten here.
“We were at Lang’er Bay,” Wu Ming said slowly, watching as his Highness’ face veered straight from concern into horror.
“Lang’er Bay,” the god echoed.
“I remember raising the sword. The spirits.”
It took a while for His Highness to gather himself, visibly shaken. This time, the ghost couldn’t resist shivering, to be the subject of such serious regard.
“And after? Where did you go after that, Wu Ming?”
The question confused him. The shades of Xianle’s restless dead had eaten away at him, unsatisfied after being provoked but not unleashed upon the usurping Kingdom of Yong’an, and they didn’t stop until the wrath was no more than an echo on the wind. His memory lapsed after that, fuzzy. There was nothing more to remember beyond waking up in this cave. Was there supposed to be?
He probably did die, back there. His second death wasn’t so kind as the first, of which he could recall very little, but it ended up being more useful.
Wu Ming had been an offering set to burn on the Flower Crowned Martial God’s altar – he hadn’t truly expected to exist past the point of taking His Highness’s place. It had made him smile – finally, finally, he was able to protect his beloved person.
That burning core of outrage-grief-devotion that filled his ghostly form, which stirred with each whisper of His Highness’s breath, which flamed at every cry of pain, at every injustice dealt to him, had finally been fed.
Fed, but not wholly satisfied. White-No-Face remained undefeated, after all, free to inflict suffering once more, with not even the pathetic shield that Wu Ming made standing between him and the god he was so keen to destroy in every way imaginable.
“Is there truly nothing else you remember?” His Highness pleaded.
He'd stayed silent for too long. A bit helplessly, Wu Ming wondered what the correct answer was. It was unthinkable to disappoint, but lying would be akin to blasphemy.
“You Highness, forgive me,” he repented.
“Forgive you for what, it’s me who should be – ah, nevermind. We’ll get nowhere like this, apologizing to each other all the time.” His Highness decided, visibly pulling himself together and away from whichever abyss had tried to pull him in, right then.
“Just know that I’m grateful, for everything you’ve sacrificed for me, and won’t hear any more apologies from you. It’s me who is in your debt, not the other way around,” His Highness chided gently, composure slowly returning along with his smile.
Wu Ming didn’t agree with the sentiment, but couldn’t bring himself to argue. He was struck by the abrupt urge to immortalize this moment somehow, his god’s grace captured in paint, mercy itself carved in stone and smiling upon him forever.
It was easy to imagine himself with a chisel in hand. Wu Ming could almost see it for a moment, the darkness of the cave overlapping with the darkness in his mind’s eye, as flames simmered hotly in the deep. The deity held out a perfect flower to him, sleeve flowing elegantly in a perpetual breeze, the palm smooth and stone-cold as petal after petal gained their shape.
His headache pulsed. When he blinked, the vision disappeared. There’d never been an opportunity to work with stone. As a boy he would sometimes make wood carvings, too crude to place upon an altar, too precious to use as kindling.
“Wu Ming, it seems that you’re missing some time,” His Highness informed delicately. The ghost had already figured as much, both from the odd direction of inquiry and the way the god was dressed, though the question remained just how much he had forgotten.
“We’ll fix this,” the reason Wu Ming remained in this world assured, and went on to explain.
White-No-Face was no more. The place they were in was called Banyue, and it was in the middle of the Gobi dessert. A lot of time then, Wu Ming thought faintly, though when he dared ask how long it took them to get here, His Highness seemed strangely reluctant to answer. They’d arrived not long ago, apparently.
“Wu Ming, I would know what you look like,” His Highness said then, to the ghost’s surprise and discomfort.
“Will you take off the mask? Please?”
The demon silk floated over, hovering between god and ghost. Throughout their conversation, it had seemed content to lie inert, occasionally playing with the tail end of Wu Ming’s ponytail. It slashed from one side to another swiftly now, even moving to slide over the ghost’s chest and poking at his chin. It was curious.
“Your Highness, I…”
The ghost left his sentence unfinished. He fought the urge to turn away and lost, lowering his gaze to the ground, hands clenching into fists and sharp nails biting into skin.
It would be inappropriate, offensive to make the god look upon such filth. Moreover, this all felt like a fever dream, a strange twisting of reality where Wu Ming was favoured enough to be worthy of a deity’s concern, where Wu Ming’s beloved could stand to be in his presence instead of merely tolerating him.
As with all good dreams, wouldn’t removing the mask just shatter the illusion? Wouldn’t His Highness realize what a monster he was keeping close, and cast him away?
It was the prince’s desire that he reveal his face, and he existed to serve. And yet, moving to follow the unspoken command felt impossible, and dread rose up within him like a wall.
This is the very least you are asked for, Wu Ming cursed in the privacy of his own mind. Even that, you fail.
“Your Highness shouldn’t have to see something so hideous,” he managed to say, quietly. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
Wu Ming wasn’t sure he could bear to see the favor he was being shown turn to disgust.
“Let me be the judge of that,” said the immortal, appearing to grow incensed. “Besides, I rather like you! So it really doesn’t matter what you look like. Whether you’re a peasant or a king, a heavenly official or a demon, if I like you, I like you.”
The other went on, nearing a ramble.
“Of course, Wu Ming doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to! It’s only that we’ve known each other for so long, and you’ve done so much for me. I would see the true face of my most faithful believer.” His Highness said passionately.
A refined hand hesitated briefly, then rose into the air to cradle Wu Ming’s chin. The pressure it applied was as gentle as a feather, but enough to make the ghost look up in surprise.
His Highness was close. Wu Ming, stunned speechless, once again didn’t dare move. For several long moments, the two stared at each other, near enough to share breath.
“Whatever injury you suffered, it’s alright. I won’t think less of you to see it,” the god promised heartfully. In the soft firelight, two golden eyes burned with the same determination that had once been enough to alter the fate of nations.
Faced with such fervor, Wu Ming was helpless but to believe. The ghost nodded in acquiescence, otherwise frozen.
Thankfully, the other seemed to understand. Cautiously, as if Wu Ming was something likely to shatter into pieces at inexpert handling, His Highness reached for the mask and took it off.
Now exposed, the ghost soldier braced for shock, for horror or fear or derision, and if his heart still needed to pump blood through his veins, it’d be racing away.
What he didn’t expect was for His Highness to tense, then give him a firm shove straight to the ground.
“Daozhang, we really didn’t mean to startle you like that! We haven’t come across a single soul for miles around, such a surprise for anyone to be in here.”
“No worries, no worries,” Xie Lian said lightly, doing his best to project a calming presence to the caravan. From the half-frightened, half-awed looks he kept getting, convincing them of his identity as a simple wandering priest would need some more work.
The elder he was speaking to seemed quite nervous as well, and alternated between casting astonished glances at Hongjing – safe back in its sheath – then searching ones in the direction of Xie Lian’s companion, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The scrap immortal could understand that one, as he also found it difficult to tear his gaze away from the ghost, but took exception to the suspicion clouding the man’s eyes.
Well, hopefully now that the misunderstanding was being resolved, everyone would get along better. Already, with every minute that passed, the elder seemed to relax more and more.
Speaking of misunderstandings.
Hearing people approaching, for a moment there, Xie Lian had thought Nan Feng and Fu Yao had finally caught up to them, perhaps with company, or that it would be the mysterious two women he’d glimpsed before. That had been a real scare!
He should, ah, really get to thinking of a way to eventually explain all of this to them. After this was all sorted out.
That could take quite a while. Xie Lian was very concerned about San Lang’s – Wu Ming’s apparent memory loss. He was convinced it would be temporary, as he’d heard of similar recorded cases, but while this lasted, the ghost was singularly vulnerable.
Anything but this situation being temporary was too terrible to even contemplate. How cruel would it be, now that they’d been reunited, for the ghost to lose so much of himself, forgetting all the achievements he’d worked so hard for?
If necessary, Xie Lian would take Wu Ming to each and every healer of renown under the sun, until one found a solution. Surely such an expert could be found in the Ghost Realm?
His last believer needed his help now, and Xie Lian wouldn’t fail him. He would protect the ghost until he was once more able to fend for himself against the very Heavens.
That lovely face, finally revealed, drew his gaze again and again. Hearing the ghost describe himself, the god had accepted that Wu Ming would not be handsome, likely due to some injury he’d suffered as a mortal. He wouldn’t have minded at all, truly.
And Wu Ming wasn’t handsome – Xie Lian thought him far more beautiful than that. His features were fine and elegant, to the point that it was often hard to look away. The red eye only added to his looks, in Xie Lian’s opinion.
A right eye, red in the iris… it sounded familiar. The immortal’s mind was a deep well, and something about his believer’s appearance was stirring the muck that gathered at the bottom. It would come to him later, perhaps, floating up from the recesses of memory.
Right now, Wu Ming still seemed a bit dazed. Xie Lian’s gut twisted guiltily.
“One of our men took a bad turn after that storm,” the merchant elder lamented, “he was our only swordsman as well. Such dangerous lands! We have A-Zhao to guide us, of course, but he’s thin as a twig, that one!”
Then, sensing an opportunity that was not to be missed like a true businessman, his tone turned sly. “We could really use a martial artist like you, daozhang. How about you two young men join us on the way?”
That might be for the best. These people seemed harmless enough. Unlike Xie Lian, they had supplies, and seemed willing enough to part with them in return for some assistance, sympathetic to the plight of his companion.
“We’ll stick together from now on,” Xie Lian assured. “Say, you don’t happen to have a saber spare?”
“That – madman! He must be absolutely insane – how ungrateful –”
“Hey! Watch how you speak about His Highness!” Feng Xin protested, sick of hearing this refrain for the fiftieth time already.
“You still defend him after he attacks you out of nowhere?” Disbelief suffocated every syllable as Mu Qing cursed, trudging angrily through the sand.
Feng Xin winced in misery and bit back his own retort, fiddling with the compass he held. He squinted at it dubiously, then at the path ahead.
It was a clever little invention, packed away thoughtlessly when Feng Xin was preparing to descend for this excursion, with the vague idea that it might come in handy. Right now, however, the device just seemed confused. It kept waffling between two different directions – north and north-west of their current position – as though it couldn’t make up its mind.
His brow furrowed even further as the needle suddenly spun in a circle, then went right back to twitching back and forth.
“Oh, give that here!”
Feng Xin spluttered in outrage as the compass of evil – a divine tool which belonged to his palace’s collection, thank you very much – was snatched away and into his irate companion’s hands. The protest went unacknowledged.
“North,” Mu Qing wondered out loud, ducking out of reach of Feng Xin’s attempts to reclaim it.
“What was it the ghost said? ‘As the moon begins to set, follow the pole star and you’ll find the Crescent Kingdom.’ Then, to the north must lie the ancient Capital of Banyue, a dense accumulation of resentment, and to the north-west is another. I’d be willing to bet that’s where our wayward ghost is hiding.” Mu Qing finished musing, viciously satisfied with himself.
“Let’s go then,” Feng Xin nodded gruffly.
Night had set upon Banyue Pass. With the sandstorm ravaging through the landscape and erasing all possible traces of the path His Highness and the ghost took, this was as good a plan as any, largely guesswork as it was.
By the time he and Mu Qing woke up, tied together to one of the inn’s support beams of all things, the winds had been significantly weakened. It took some time – and several undignified attempts, which Feng Xin would prefer not to think about – before the two of them were able to free themselves from Feng Xin’s own immortal binding cables.
That damn sandstorm still managed to slow them down and delay their pursuit by several hours. Who knew where His Highness was by now, or how he’d fared out there.
At least when the sun set, they were able to forge on more quickly, unimpeded by the merciless heat. As they trekked over yet another hill, Feng Xin once again wondered how the situation could’ve turned this bad so quickly.
Things had been going well. “San Lang” was finally revealed to be an evil spirit. All that had been left to do was tie the villain up and apprehend him.
Feng Xin really hadn’t understood why His Highness was willing to let such a suspicious character shadow him, but this was irrefutable proof that his and Mu Qing’s warnings were warranted, and there would be no dismissing them this time.
Maybe the prince just needed to get used to the idea that his new “friend” really had been lying to him. He could understand, looking at it from that angle, that finding out someone was actually befriending you for a nefarious purpose couldn’t be pleasant.
If only His Highness just let us handle this, Feng Xin had thought at the time. They were there to watch his back, after all.
Well, Feng Xin’s reason for descending was to help His Highness at least. He still had no clue what Mu Qing was doing here.
But his friend-turned-colleague-turned-eternal-rival at least shared his opinion of what needed to be done about the ghost, and as grudging as Feng Xin was to admit it, working with him wasn’t too bad, on the rare occasions the two of them stood on the same side of a fight. And it was his idea with the True Shape Serum which ended up working, which was useful.
So it really did seem like the situation was under control.
Then His Highness drew Hongjing on them out of nowhere.
Feng Xin had been completely unprepared to defend himself against the attack. Even so, his pride smarted at how easily he’d been defeated. They were far from any place that worshiped them, that much was true, and Nan Feng the middle court official was weaker than his real self. It still shouldn’t have been so easy – His Highness had no spiritual power, for fuck’s sake!
It was easy to forget that the God of Misfortune was once such a brilliantly talented swordsman it enabled him to ascend at seventeen. The god’s own manner made it easy to forget, so quick to brush past any insult thrown his way.
Nowadays, Xie Lian even seemed right at home in that run-down little shack he claimed was his temple. In Feng Xin’s recollection, such humble surroundings always used to make him look like a crane standing among chickens.
In contrast, Heaven’s light appeared to make the god cringe and fold into himself, visibly ill at ease.
It was like he’d really turned into some wise, wandering ascetic.
Oh, His Highness always had a wisdom about him, even as a young man, but now it was backed by experience, the weight of centuries pressing down. And an odd sadness shone through sometimes, that made Feng Xin uncomfortable to see.
It was not what he’d imagined for his old – friend, damn it all – who’d once leapt into the very Heavens in a single bound, so driven to change the world.
But Feng Xin was not the young man he’d once been either. So they’d all changed – tough! Time and tide, or however that saying went.
Feng Xin would not let that stop him from watching over His Highness now that he’d finally risen again. His loyalty was not as fickle as that bastard Mu Qing’s, no matter what he accused.
He’d been dismissed, he hadn’t just left. And he’d tried to look for His Highness, soon after that disastrous second ascension, but the man seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth! Even so he’d kept a look-out, eventually growing convinced his old friend had long since faded away.
Now, this. Feng Xin didn’t know what to think.
The first thing to do then, was find his former prince and find out what insanity possessed him just then.
He should’ve tried harder to find the man. Who knew what he’d been up to, when the sight of the ghost elicited such a reaction from him.
Upon further reflection, it occurred to Feng Xin that maybe he shouldn’t have been so blindsided by His Highness’s actions after all.
He’d been the man’s bodyguard, a shield to stand between Xianle’s Golden Prince and the grasping masses. The position required being so attuned to the prince that predicting his next move became second nature. Feng Xin had been good at his job, challenging as it could be.
Of course, that no longer held true, eight hundred years later. But he knew what the man looked like when he was scared.
So Feng Xin should’ve seen it coming. His Highness’s behaviour became… strange, from the moment the ghost’s true appearance was revealed. Something deeply horrified, about the way His Highness held himself, looking at that ghost’s white mask.
The realization gripped him like claws, making Feng Xin speak out loud. “He recognized him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Where could he have met Hua Cheng?”
“Something weird happened back there,” Feng Xin insisted.
“Yes,” Mu Qing spoke slowly, ”he went crazy and turned on us. Xie Lian, in all his wisdom, wasn’t even aware the Ghost Kings existed, as of a few weeks ago. Truly, he is the attention of the world, the conscience of men. Ha!”
Feng Xin stopped in his tracks to scowl at this absolute asshole. “What’s your angle here?” he demanded.
“Are you getting a kick out of this? Happy that His Highness could get in trouble again?”
That earned a scoff. “Could get in trouble? He is in trouble! Who knows what that was all about!”
Feng Xin was struck by a terrible suspicion. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
Mu Qing looked deeply irritated, like the accusation was insulting, and at the same time like he thought the other was an idiot for not calling reinforcements himself. “I should, Heaven knows what possessed me not to.”
“So why haven’t you?”
It took Mu Qing a longer time than expected to answer. “I think he might be acting under some kind of spell.”
Feng Xin was brought up short, and snapped out of his defensive outrage. “What?”
“Think about it. He ascends after centuries of no one hearing a word about him, and suddenly he’s all buddy-buddy with a young man wearing red, one who just happens to be a ghost. The way he ignored all of our warnings! He can’t possibly be this clueless,” Mu Qing posited.
“And when the lie is revealed, he attacks us and makes off with the ghost. It’s too many coincidences.”
Could it be that His Highness’s strangeness was caused by some kind of curse to suborn his will?
It sounded terrifyingly plausible, and Feng Xin cursed himself for not making the connection earlier.
Probably too much to hope for, that the ghost would still be out of it. Feng Xin didn’t want to imagine what the villain could be doing to His Highness, with the cat out of the bag and no one around to hold him back.
“We’ll have to snap him out of it then,” Feng Xin said numbly, mind running with the possibilities.
Mu Qing rolled his eyes and sniffed disdainfully. Truly, he just couldn’t help himself!
“Hmm. Obviously. I still think it’s just as likely he’s gone wrong in the head. That’s what rolling around in the mud for so long does to you, I suppose.”
“You asshole,” the Martial God Guarding the Southeast gritted out, once again becoming incensed.
“I knew you were enjoying this. His Highness could be seriously hurt, but you’d do anything to get one over him, right? Eager to abandon him like last time?”
“Not this again, admit that you’re no better already – !” Just as Mu Qing was sneering his retort, they were interrupted by a panicked cry.
“Aaaaaahh!”
They exchanged a look. That sounded like a kid’s scream.
It seemed there was a commotion up ahead. Feng Xin and Mu Qing took off at a run over the dune’s horizon, squabble shelved to be revisited at a later time.
The martial god was braced for a lot of different scenarios. Maybe they would find his former boss combative, or confused, or held hostage by the ghost king. Maybe this wouldn’t involve Xie Lian at all – there could be a yao, some sort of demon or spirit, or even another puppet making so much noise. Banyue Pass was cursed, after all.
But really, just how many strange existences could be wandering around in this gods-damned desert?
Feng Xin had also realized, fairly early on during their mission on Mount Yujun, that the prince attracted bizarre happenings, just like ants were drawn in by sugar. So the odds of His Highness not being involved in this ruckus somehow were probably low.
Nothing, however, could have prepared Feng Xin for the sight that met them when they arrived at the scene.
“Nan Feng, Fu Yao, there you are!” said the subject of their wild search, of several intense hours spent worrying over the state they’d find him in.
“Listen, I’m truly very sorry about what happened! However, I am a bit busy at the moment!”
He did seem busy. In one of his hands, His Highness was once again holding Hongjing – Feng Xin shuddered, eying it warily – while that weird silk band swished around in obvious agitation. The prince was surrounded by a group of ten or so mortals, all of whom seemed frightened and out of breath, like they’d been running from something.
None of that was what had the martial god so scandalised. For while His Highness held the sword in his left hand, his right was clutched within the ghost’s hold, and being kissed fervently.