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This was what soulmates were, in this universe: words inscribed upon your skin when you turned ten years of age, a title or epithet belonging to the person to whom fate had tied you.
When Huang Shaotian was little, he bragged to all of his friends about what an incredible soulmate he would get on his tenth birthday, what awe-inspiring words would form on his skin as proof. But his tenth birthday came and went, and Huang Shaotian started wrapping his left wrist in cloth and talking even more, using his endless stream of words to deflect conversation toward other, safer topics.
His peers were children content to focus on themselves; the adults, even his parents, respected the private culture that surrounded the whole soulmate business. And so only Huang Shaotian himself knew the terrible words that would forevermore mark his skin, mar his skin -
the curse
(Huang Shaotian was never known for being a particularly diligent student, but he snuck over to the libraries when he thought no one would notice, and he scoured the shelves for information on the history and background and current understanding of soulmates. He read legends of how fated pairs were drawn together, and he read story after story of unfortunates who were persecuted for the words on their wrists.
And so when people asked, he talked, and he talked, and he talked, until no one would ever understand.
He fell into the world of Glory, where only your skill mattered for anything, where you could make your own destiny. The monsters there certainly didn’t care what stupid marks you had on your skin.
The whole soulmate thing was dumb, he proclaimed to anyone who would listen, and he almost believed it himself.)
After your first meeting with your soulmate, they said, more words would begin to appear around the title, dark ink languidly shifting, reflecting the current thoughts of your soulmate - perhaps only a faded word or two, if they were far away or distracted or your relationship wasn’t strong yet, or perhaps even complete sentences.
Huang Shaotian didn’t look at his soulmark often, for obvious reasons. If he could, he would forget the thing was there altogether. Unfortunately, the placement of soulmarks meant that the cloth on his wrist was always there in the corner of his eye, even when he tried to escape into Glory. A permanent shackle.
But Glory was still Glory, and Huang Shaotian was still Huang Shaotian. The boy took to the game like he was always meant to, like a fish to water, and when one particularly shrewd guild leader invited him to a professional training camp, he leapt at the chance. This, at least, was a part of his life that he could control.
The first day was amazing .
The trainees were shown around the club, shown a glimpse into the lives of real pro players. For once, he listened more than he talked, enraptured by the images the coaches and the players and the captain were painting with their introductory speeches. This was what it was to give your life to something you loved, Huang Shaotian realized, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to do the same.
He would make it through training camp, he knew with full confidence that he had the ability. And he would become a full-fledged pro player, a member of Blue Rain, the best damn Blade Master there was and ever would be. By his own hands he would make this reality, and nothing would hold him back from that, least of all his soulmark.
Of course, a slight wrench was thrown into his plans when he looked at his bare wrist that night and discovered, to his shock and horror, that the previously unadorned title was suddenly surrounded by new markings, new words.
They were here. His soulmate was here, at Blue Rain’s training camp. His own attempts to establish his own destiny had only drawn him further into fate’s machinations.
Huang Shaotian could be forgiven for the colorful string of curses that followed.
But despite everything Huang Shaotian was a curious creature, and his new roommate was out for the moment, anyway, so he stuck his wrist under the desk lamp and squinted at the ink, trying to make sense of what were apparently his soulmate’s thoughts.
No luck. They were so faint, he couldn’t make heads or tails of the scrambled collection of markings - he couldn’t even tell where they began or ended. Even as he watched, he thought he saw new words forming, old ones fading away. Were soulmarks always this active after first activation?
Huang Shaotian sighed, letting his head thunk down onto the desk. Finding your soulmate was supposed to be a happy thing, a triumphant thing, but all he felt right now was a vague sense of frustration and annoyance and maybe (if he cared to admit it to himself) fear. Did he even want to figure out who his soulmate here was?
The more he thought about it, the more his answer grew toward a firm no. He refused to let this soulmate business ruin his precious opportunity. If they were cursed or something, they could deal with it themselves. He wasn’t going to let that taint him.
Huang Shaotian rewrapped his wrist with renewed determination, and from then on, kept all of his fellow trainees at arm’s length. Oh, it was easy enough to do, when he was, to be blunt, the best by a long shot. Easy enough to hone his trash talk to hit where it hurt, while passing it off as the taunting typical of competitive gaming. What could anyone do to him, when he was the best? When he was always right?
(No one could ever accuse Huang Shaotian of not working hard. He took every practice seriously, absorbed the feedback he was given, crushed all of his opponents ruthlessly, even those when it was abundantly clear they didn’t even have the raw handspeed to keep up. And when thoughts of the brand on his left wrist kept him awake at night, he would sneak back into the training rooms and train some more. He had to be the best. He couldn’t afford to be anything less.
But despite everything he did to leave his mystery soulmate behind, the words on his soulmark were only growing clearer. He could see real words, now, when his curiosity was too much and he had to check. “Fast”? “Distract”? “Need to…”
What thoughts of mine can you see, then, he wondered to his soulmate. What dark secrets form on your wrist when you stare at your mark at night?
Do you know how I hate you?)
Huang Shaotian didn’t have friends , not really. Some admirers, maybe. For what it was worth, though, he didn’t really have enemies, either. The other trainees were too wise to antagonize the one who was so blatantly favored by the club and the current captain. This was completely fine by Huang Shaotian.
But that kid - that one kid - he really and truly pissed Huang Shaotian off. Was it absurd to be offended by another’s incompetence? Perhaps. But how did that trainee expect to get anywhere with that handspeed? More than that, he’d been on the verge of failing out for so long now - why was he still here? How was he so calm about this all? Did he not realize his situation? Even Huang Shaotian, arguably in the most secure position, wasn’t nearly so relaxed.
“You’re an insult to all of us, deadlast,” he hissed at the boy, the next time they sparred during practice. “No one wants you here. Why don’t you just scram, while you still can?”
A few other trainees were nearby, could hear this, but Huang Shaotian knew they wouldn’t say anything. No one liked this boy, either, and even the current pros were coolly indifferent at best. After all, someone like this kid was nothing more than a passing visitor.
But the boy didn’t react to his words at all. Nor did he react when Huang Shaotian roughly shoved him aside, almost slamming him into the wall. The boy’s expression remained as impassive as ever as he brushed himself off, hand sliding over his sleeve and across his covered wrist.
“Thank you for the battle,” the boy said, not a trace of irony or mockery to be found.
Huang Shaotian pulled off the wrapping on his wrist as he prepared to wash up for the night, but no matter how he told himself he didn’t care what it said now, the dark ink of the soulmark still caught his eye. And tonight he saw, inscribed in neat and precise handwriting around his soulmate’s title, the clearest words he had ever seen there before:
aren’t saints supposed to be kind
It was nonsensical. Yet Huang Shaotian suddenly felt like his heart was twisting, and for the life of him he couldn’t say why.