Work Text:
Nie MingJue was born in the small County of Qinghe, Hebei. His family are farmers, or at least, that’s how they make their living. More importantly, his family has been keepers of their ancestral tomb.
Specifically, the tomb of Chifeng-Zun. The inscription goes that this tomb must never be opened, or Chifeng-zun will rise as a fierce corpse and haunt everyone.
So Nie MingJue’s family had been guarding their ancestral tomb for generations.
In the post-cultural-revolution China, all historical sites and artifacts were properties of the government. In Nie MingJue’s opinion, it was not only foolish, but selfish, to attempt to preserve this historical tomb by themselves while keeping it hidden. After all, didn’t it have archeological and academic value? And wouldn’t the government, with resource and expertise, be more well-equipped to preserve it?
And he said so.
His grandpa scoffed.
“Now, A-Jue, Chifeng-zun’s tomb was only preserved because we kept it hidden from the government. Our family had a history of… well, let’s say… non-secular activity. Your great-grandfather called himself a taoist cultivator… During the cultural revolution he was sent to prison for spreading superstition, and most of our ancestral tombs were destroyed, and the land got reclaimed by the government to build factories and roads, also, your elementary school. But they never told the government about the most important one. Chifeng-zun’s tomb. That’s the one we need to preserve.”
“But you can’t honestly believe a corpse could rise from the dead,” Nie MingJue said.
“Do I believe it?” Grandpa shrugged. “Probably not. I’ve never seen ghosts or fierce corpses or any superstitious things. But it’s the only piece of our ancestry we still have.”
“Our ancestors were wrong about a lot of things,” Nie MingJue said.
“It doesn’t make it pointless.”
Nie MingJue considered himself a realist. He didn’t believe in what he could not see, or science could not prove, so he didn’t believe in ghosts, and he didn’t believe in cultivation. His ancestors were likely scammers and as harsh as it was, his great-grandfather probably deserved to go to prison. The land taken from his family had more use for the living than it did the dead.
But if his family had preserved this piece of history for generations, then he had a duty to continue.
When Nie MingJue was in 14, he remembered.
He remember that cultivation actually was real, and the thing they were guarding in the ancestral tomb were the corpses of himself and Jin GuangYao.
“Grandpa,” he said, “I want to go to university and work in the city.”
20 years later, Nie MingJue found himself renting someone’s basement in America, working a blue collared job.
A years after that, Nie MingJue found Meng Yao, Lan XiChen, and Nie HuaiSang.
And in that moment, standing in the frozen meat aisle of the Chinese supermarket, suddenly the 35 years of his life made sense. Suddenly 1500 years of his family’s legacy made sense.
Nie MingJue lived a life heavier than the weight of itself.
Nie MingJue was—
Nie MingJue was.
“HuaiSang,” he said, later that day, over a cup of McDonald’s coffee, to the brother who was also a stranger to him, “I’m sorry for leaving you behind.”