Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The mask is so ugly Hong-er almost believes it to be evil.

On clay, blood red and yolk yellow clash in a valiant attempt to hide the flaw in craftsmanship — so obvious it is that it doesn’t take artist eyes to notice. A single eye is enough to take in the crooked muzzle, wobbly snarl and too-human teeth, and in doing so Hong-er finds its merit: it’s not every day you see a fox spirit this honest-to-God hideous.

He’s delighted to find that the mask suits his face just right. The head priest, not so much: one look at it nearly spooks him out of his skin.

“Gods and buddhas,” wheezes Mei Nianqing, one trembling hand flying to his chest. “ You will kill me one of these days, do you hear me? Kill me.”

Behind fangs, Hong-er’s laughter is twice as wicked.

“Your mask, your murder. Or am I to blame for your penchant for ugly things?”

“My penchant for—” Mei Nianqing drops the heart in his words, sighs and rises from his crouching on the floor. The box he’d retrieved from under the bed stirs dust in his arms, toppled over in his scare to reveal a glimpse of sheer cloth — a fine contrast to the dull tone of his everyday robes.  “Ugly or not, whatever I choose to keep is worth being kept in my eyes. So yes, it’s my ugly mask, and yet you have it. How come?”

“Hm? Am I not supposed to?”

Mei Nianqing throws him a weary look. 

“Right, because the false wall and locked chest didn't make it obvious. Neither did the three layers of seals, apparently. Three! For God’s sake.”

“Maybe you should add a fourth,” Hong-er suggests, only half mockery. The stack of scribbled rice paper his mentor calls a seal is, at best, a laughable attempt at protecting his belongings; at worst, a robbery waiting to happen. If Hong-er can make short work of it with a pocket knife and the force of boredom, the demons that haunt Mei Nianqing’s superstitions are in for a treat. “Or you could go crazy and buy a proper lock—ow!”

Mei Nianqing’s hand darts with astounding speed, and Hong-er barely dodges the grip on the mask. The hand gives chase as he leans farther and farther out of reach — until there’s a faint pop and Mei Nianqing, doubled over the bed stiffly, rubs his back with a groan. 

With all the grumbling, the heavy fabric purging him of shape and the stutter in his gait, he delivers the perfect impression of an old monk living quietly by the mountains. Hong-er is content to play into the fantasy, if only for the times foreign visitors take them as a well-mannered pupil and his frail grandpa. 

As it is, Mei Nianqing just so happens to be a lonely forty-something-year-old with a case of shitty joints. Hong-er, for his part, has never cared much for filial piety. 

He peers up his mentor’s frame, a teasing jab easy on his tongue, and snaps his mouth shut at the view that greets him.

From a distance, Mei Nianqing’s face is one vague shadow against the sunlit backdrop. At a closer look, however, his features stand out more so than usual. Lips bloom bright scarlet, and a hint of gold lines the bridge of his nose, the crease of his eyelids, under his arching brows. His hat is missing, allowing his hair to flow in waves above his shoulders. 

Hong-er takes it all in with raised eyebrows.

Eccentric though he may be, the master of this run-down temple by the mountains embodies his dwelling to a fault. Living under his protection has been a lesson in humility: to Mei Nianqing, luxury is the clothes on his body and the jade pin with which he ties his hair. Even his not-so-secret stash of booze is of the brand Hong-er knows to be the cheapest, because it tastes like ass and had knocked him out within minutes of his first sip.

So when he says, “...Oh?” and Mei Nianqing dodges his gaze, curiosity fills him anew. Hong-er reaches for the toppled box and earns himself a smack. “Oh?” he repeats.

“Not a single word.” Mei Nianqing shields himself and the box with a flap of his sleeves. He dashes across the room just like that, a giant bat with folded wings, and settles by the dust-ridden vanity. “And get that thing off your face; it reeks of evil.”

Hong-er snorts. That’s something he hasn’t heard in a while. Back when he was a nosy brat with no sense of impulse control, Mei Nianqing would often rely on ghost stories to keep him in check. Where reasoning and punishment failed, tales of a soul-sucking jar in the hallway or a bloodthirsty Venus flytrap on the windowsill worked wonders. 

Hong-er is seventeen now — too old to believe such nonsense. But he does lower the mask, and for a worse evil than ghosts: his right eye is throbbing again. 

As always, this time of the year shows no mercy. Be it the golden height of summer or its cool tailwinds, sooner or later he’ll find himself plagued by headaches, dizzy spells, and a deeply uncomfortable itch in his eye that comes and goes. At least it’s not the blisters this time. They cover his entire body, lumps of dead flesh rising from his skin, and when they begin to itch, there's no end to the agony.

Hong-er raises a fist full of spite, ready to sink that stupid eyeball in for once and all. But when his fingers graze the eyepatch, they stutter. The cloth there is softer than anything he’s ever worn, cozier a feel than he can tire of. The embroidery is too awkward to make sense of with his fingertips, but the exact shape of a chrysanthemum and the characters beneath it — Xie Lian — are stitched within his heart.

Hong-er thumbs over the eyepatch and breathes. Though the throbbing fades somewhat, his chest is heavy with a feeling he can’t quite rid.  

He rolls over on his back, head hanging off the edge and legs bent to fit in. The sleeping rooms around the temple follow a similar pattern, modest and cozy, with rows of small beds. This particular choice of design had proved to be a hassle throughout Hong-er’s growth spurt. He doesn't have the heart to mind it, though. A warm bed of any size is better than the widest gutter in the street.

Hong-er lifts that fox-adjacent mask and peeks into its hollow eyes.

“Is it evil, really?” he muses aloud. “Wonder if you’d say that if it weren’t ugly.”

“Have I made myself out to be a judgmental man? Very well, then I rectify myself: appearances have nothing to do with it. The previous owner of that mask was… a particularly fierce being with a particularly fierce fate. They suffered a great deal in life, and their death was no less gruesome.”

Hong-er perks up. 

“How gruesome?”

“Gruesome enough to warrant a deep grudge,” says Mei Nianqing simply, “which is why you should be careful with that mask.”

“Is it really that dangerous?” 

An eyesore it is, but it seems friendly enough. A tad familiar, even, from a highly specific angle. 

“It’s not... dangerous per se, but it attracts danger. The stain of evil I mentioned is a fragment of the wearer’s shattered fate. A mark of the worst of misfortunes.”

“Tell me about it.”

The ensuing pause lasts so long he figures Mei Nianqing hasn’t heard him. A moment later, however, a quiet voice answers:

“It’s not a story I believe is worth sharing. There is nothing to learn from it, only what to despair at.”

Hong-er blinks.

“Well? Then consider that a lesson in despair.”

The upside-down view of Mei Nianqing’s back shifts in the periphery, drawing Hong-er’s eye to the vanity mirror. It reflects his mentor’s gaze for a split second, dark and absent, before a sudden movement hides it under the curtain of his hair.

“Yes, the one who once wore that mask—from the moment of birth, their path was paved with misery. This story is not about them, however. It's about a prince who shone like the sun.” Mei Nianqing scours the dresser for his whisk — an old, brittle thing with barely a handful of hair left. “Not that there were many other idols to worship in the old nation of Wuyong. The gods had closed the pathway to Heaven, forsaking the land entirely.

"The mortal realm had been sick for some time, you see. All manners of sinister beings had risen from the earth and swarmed through rifts in the sky, come from the unknown. The one who told me this story believed that something… else must have slipped in amidst the chaos. And whatever it was, it was powerful enough to scare divine beings into hiding.”

Hong-er snorts. With gods as shitty as those, the old people of Wuyong were probably better off worshiping demons.

Mei Nianqing’s whisk sways in the air as he continues:

“With no one in Heaven to answer their prayers, mortals sought for miracles on Earth. One such miracle was the birth of the crown prince, which happened to fall under an exceedingly auspicious star. It was said that he came to their world bearing a halo, his fate a thread of spun gold—the makings of an exceptional being, much like the ones turned gods before him. 

“The prince grew worshipped as a saint. The people saw in him a man of great strength and an even greater heart, and they believed it was by the grace of his gift that Wuyong prospered through the chaos. There was no doubt in their minds that his ascension would come with time, and with it the dream of reconnecting with their lost idols. 

“This dream… it might have become a reality had a disaster not sundered it. Wuyong resided within a mountain range, you see, at the center of which lay a dormant volcano. Or at least it was thought to be dormant, until it suddenly rained fire and ash upon the land. Not even the royal seers could have seen that coming, for the corruption seeping through the rifts cloaked the future from sight. Over half of the population succumbed to the catastrophe. 

“The remaining survivors sought their beloved prince for salvation, but there was little he could do as but a would-be god. Distraught by his own powerlessness in the face of these losses, the prince ran to a faraway place untouched by the corruption, where he cultivated day and night in hopes to hasten his ascension. He planned to clear a path to Heaven and coax the gods out of their hiding.”

Hong-er arches his brows. 

“Appealing to the gods that abandoned them in the first place? That’s either a lot of faith or a lot of stupidity.”

“He had no other choice.”

“Is that so? Or is it that those promises of glory went to his head?”

Mei Nianqing tilts his head in consideration.

“I would not presume to judge the hearts of great men, but… I have wondered the same,” he says, with the quietude of a confession. “After all, to attain destiny, one must not press for completion. And although the prince ascended as foretold… at the end of that crumbling path, he found the ascension gates sealed. As he approached, a voice boomed from inside: ‘Who dares drag the filth of the mortal realm to this sacred place?’ 

“The prince thus answered, ‘I have risen above mortals, yet you stand in my way to godhood. Who dares keep me from my rightful destiny?’

“The voice said, ‘I am the one true god.’

“Unvexed, the prince drew his tar-black sword and, pointing to whence it came, spoke: ‘If hiding behind walls makes a god, then whoever tears them down can only be greater.’

“It was a reckless thing to say to a god, whether a true or a false one. Enraged by the prince’s arrogance, the god unleashed a vicious curse: that his good fortunes become misfortunes, that his victories turn into failures, and that the higher he rose, the deeper he fell.

“The prince awoke to find himself back in the mortal realm. For a moment, he thought it all but a dream; however, upon returning to what remained of his land, he realized that a long time had passed since he isolated himself from the world. The Wuyong survivors raged at the sight of him, that man turned saint on the back of their faith, the savior who left when they needed him the most. Some went as far as to accuse him of causing the eruption in order to feed off their prayers. In the face of their scorn, the prince had no choice but to flee.

“Not that it mattered in the end. The farther he ran, the closer misfortune clung to him,” mutters Mei Nianqing with somber finality. “To outrun the fate given to you, whether by chance or divine wrath, is a foolish endeavor after all.”

The prince who shone like the sun, eclipsed by his own grandeur. The way Hong-er sees it, he was doomed from the start. It sounds like a curse of its own to exist in constant radiance, burning away for the sake of others. Who would dare approach, nevermind burn in return? He himself may be the farthest thing from the golden-glow, would-be god type, but at least he can claim to have felt someone’s warmth. 

That hadn’t always been the case. He’d gone without it for a long time; had craved it to the point of praying for a fever. When it came to him, it had none of the dead-eyed haze of sickness, but all the gentle fervor of warm hands in his ever-cold ones, of brown skin kissed by the sun. A glow so tender could never hurt him.

But there's something about Wuyong's golden prince that rubs him off the wrong way. Perhaps it’s the thin line between light that nurtures and light that sears, all your faults caught in the limelight. Certain things are better left in the dark. Even now, as sunshine filters through the window, Hong-er squints and slides the mask back onto his face, because, God help him, he has one functional eye and counting.

“Should’ve known this was gonna be one of your shitty lessons,“ he grouses. “So you can’t run from fate, but you can’t run towards it either. What can you do?”

It takes Mei Nianqing a moment.

Then, “Nothing.” Another pause, which quickly crashes under the weight of Hong-er stare. “By going with the flow, you avoid karmic retribution and other unnecessary grievances. Why rush, if you will get there some way or another? Why run, when everything else in this world is a matter of chance? Only what awaits you at the end of the road is certain. Many find comfort in this concept.”

“And what if I don't like what I find at the end?"

“It is your road. Regardless of how you feel, it was carved for you. The sooner you accept that, the easier your journey will be.”

“No, listen—” Hong-er tumbles for a steadier position on the bed, on his stomach, where he can better handle this tug of war. “So what if it was carved for you? You don’t have to take it. It’s not like you asked for it.”

And although he’s no stranger to being laughed at, the sound that comes from Mei Nianqing, dry and curt, still makes him tense. His mentor is a man of smiles, not so much laughter, and this particular brand of contempt is unlike him. 

“If not even great men can choose their own path, what makes you think you can?”

“And what kind of man am I to you?” retorts Hong-er, bristling.

The rhythmic sway of the whisk falters. Mei Nianqing sags on his seat.

“A young one,” he murmurs, “and a forgiving one, I dare hope. Pray excuse my poor wording; it was not my intention to belittle you.”

Whatever good intention those words could have is lost on Hong-er, but the rush of heat up his neck keeps him from pushing it. How silly. Intentions shouldn’t matter when it comes to the truth. After seven years enduring Hong-er's presence, Mei Nianqing knows well what kind of person he is.

Still — to have it spoken aloud stings more than he’d like.

“Whatever,” Hong-er mutters. “So where does that masked person come into this?”

Now that they’re both averting each other’s sight, it’s easy to proceed as if nothing were amiss. Mei Nianqing continues on, his voice a faraway wisp. 

“They were a casualty in the fight against the curse. The prince sought a seer who thus told him: in order to break the curse, you must seek the help of an heir. Someone born at a specific time, at a specific place, under such specific conditions he was unlikely to find anyone at all.  And yet, against all odds, he did.

“In a corner of the land that still prospered, he found a young heir with a fateline as brilliant as his once was. But there was a difference. The heir was followed by a shadow—a creature tainted by the corruption, whom the heir called his friend. The shadow would stop at nothing to protect him from other corrupted beings; likewise, the heir would constantly shield it from the scrutiny of humans. They were inseparable, and the prince would not have it. 

“With his combat skills and spiritual powers, he posed as a mentor before the heir, flaunting promises of enlightenment should he come along—that is, on the condition that he cut ties with that shadow of his.” 

Hong-er’s heart skips a beat. 

"Did he?"

Mei Nianqing waves his whisk dismissively. 

“Of course not. He would hardly be a worthy heir otherwise. Cunning as he was, he staged a fight with his shadow and left with the prince, all while planning to meet again in secret. And meet again they did, oftentimes as they both grew over the years: the shadow into a fearsome being, the heir into a perfect pupil. At that point, the prince had come to see the heir as a son, and though he had long known about these secret meetings, his affection urged him to turn a blind eye.

“Alas, peace is a fragile thing. As the heir grew older, it became harder to maintain the illusion of a relationship. The heir nurtured hopes and dreams that clashed with the prince’s values, and reproach only made him fiercer in his beliefs. They would butt heads over simple matters, go nothing short of drawing their blades. The curse was taking its toll, and if the heir continued to refute his guidance, the prince would soon perish.

“What a bitter coincidence that the heir and the shadow had only grown closer. They would spend days in the open, passing ruins and villages, going farther and farther each time. Even though the shadow looked every bit human, something about its face always stirred fright in people’s hearts. Some said it was awfully disfigured. Others that it had no face at all. Whatever the reason, it spent most of its life hiding behind a mask. 

“One day, the heir turned to his shadow and confessed his deepest wish: that they run away together, somewhere out of the prince’s reach. He thought, with all the skills and knowledge gathered over the years, he had enough of an upper hand to fool the prince. But that was nothing more than wishful thinking. The prince would watch his every step, hear his every word, so how could he not know of their plans? And he had no intention of playing cat and mouse when the root of the problem lay elsewhere. It was the shadow, he decided, who twisted the heir’s mind with wicked tricks.”

Teeming with anticipation, Hong-er rises on his elbows. At the vanity, Mei Nianqing’s form sits dead still. 

“On a moonless night, the heir gathered his belongings and fled unseen, only to find himself alone at the place they were to meet. So he waited. And waited. He waited until there came an awful, desperate sound. It was his shadow—maimed and verging death, crawling towards him with all its might.

“There was barely any strength left in the shadow, for they pierced its heart through. It could not speak of what had passed, for they cut its tongue clean. They welded the mask onto its face and buried it deep, and that should have been the end of it. But even in death the shadow was fierce: it dug through the earth and found a way to the arms of its dear friend, so that he would not think he had been left alone. Overcome with grief, the heir had no choice but to return. But there was rage, too, and he was no fool, which is why he brought along his finest sword. Only one person could have hurt his shadow so. The prince greeted him with open arms, and without hesitation, he aimed for the heart. 

“They had crossed blades before, but never like this, with the intent to kill. And at that stage... the curse had thwarted the prince’s mind beyond reason. In his eyes, everything he did was for the heir’s sake, and that his kindness be met with betrayal… he was enraged. You must know that it takes a lot of strength to decapitate a body. With the prince’s strength, it only took one strike. He lay there in the aftermath of his sins, surrounded by blood and their shattered fates, and before death could come, he took his own life." 

Summer blooms and sings just beyond the window, yet the room sits in the quiet gloom of a murder scene, red splatters rather than sunlight on the walls. Hong-er brushes a finger down the slope of the mask. The edges are chipped in minute dents, like it'd been cut free with a blunt knife. 

"That means you were wrong," he mutters. "You said their fates were bright, yet the end of the road was dark. So it can be changed."

"Death is not the end of the road." The tinkle of jewelry follows Mei Nianqing's motions. "It’s true that fate can be changed, yes. The flow is mutable, and there will always be contingencies. But to force it with your own hands, to defy heavenly principle, is to invite disaster. Had the prince not hastened his ascension, he would not have suffered so." 

"Then tell me what the heir did wrong. And don't say—"

"The shadow—"

"No," rebukes Hong-er with vehemence. "The shadow did nothing but help him stay himself. You think being someone's puppet is better than dying? Give me a break. If anyone is to blame, it's that useless cunt of a prince for not killing himself earlier." 

Long ago his choice of word would've caused a conniption; now, it only earns him a long-suffering sigh. 

"The mind of the youth is indeed rather frank! If only it were that simple. Causal evil originates in the use of assertive will, regardless of one's intentions."

"Yeah, when it goes against your nature. What kind of monk doesn't know this?"

"Oh, and you hold all the knowledge between heaven and earth, do you?" Mei Nianqing whirls on the stool to face him; dangling off his ears is a pair of remarkably large turquoise earrings. "Then enlighten me, Laozi: why are you still here? I gave you the day off so you could enjoy the festival, not mope around in my room. Did Mu Qing not tell you we are closing the temple tonight?"

“He did,” Hong-er drawls. “I told him to fuck off.”

“...Of course you did. That does not change the fact that I am closing the temple—and no, you cannot stay.”

“I do live here, you know." Hong-er frowns. "Am I still living here? Should I be packing up?”

Mei Nianqing briskly waves his whisk. 

“Nothing like that, it will only be a few hours. We need the courtyard for an exorcism ceremony, and it might take the whole night to get everything settled. Incredibly tedious business, you see. Very boring. You would be loath to stay."

“Can't be more boring than this lame festival."

“A 'lame festival', is it? How strange. And here I thought you would be excited for your date."

The mask slips from Hong-er’s grip with a clatter, and the blood in his head surges with renewed vigor. He lurches up to a sitting, face uncomfortably hot, and blames it all on vertigo.

“He has been nagging at me to let you go for an hour now,” Mei Nianqing pipes up from behind him, sounding incredibly amused. “The question is: why is he texting me?”

“My phone died,” Hong-er blurts, eye nailed to the wall above the headboard. 

There's quiet shuffling in the corner of his vision. A second later, his front pocket lights up, buzzing horrors. Fucking traitor, he thinks, glaring at his pants. When Hong-er finally dares to peek over his shoulder, Mei Nianqing lifts one thumb off his own phone screen and stares at him, unimpressed.

"Alright," says Mei Nianqing slowly, as though coaxing a wounded animal. "You are old enough to handle your issues. However, in the case of a fight, it’s my responsibility to—"

“What? No, you know we never—we’re good. We’re always good.” Were, the rotten little corner in his brain supplies. Were, until you fucked it up.

“Yes, yes, I know, you would sooner punch yourself than say a mean word to him.” Mei Nianqing's eyes soften. “Is that why you look like you have been beating yourself up?”

That awful feeling from before spreads through Hong-er's chest, dropping like lead into his stomach. He feels heavy and out of place, too big and bare a body in the modesty of this room, and the urge to sweep the mask off the floor makes his fingers twitch.

“...I just don’t feel like going,” he says, voice cracking in a way it hasn't since he was twelve. 

Hong-er was much smaller then, pitifully so compared to other pupils his age, the hollow between his bones just starting to fill out after a decade of hunger. That made him an obvious target, though not an easy one; few were those who escaped free of his teeth marks and scratches. But that also made it easier to slip through the cracks when there was no fight left in him.

"Your hands are clever," Mei Nianqing had once said. "They ought to do something good, don't you think?"

So he would skip readings and shared meals to lurk in empty corners, at first with pencils and paper, later with chisels and bamboo. No one dared bother him in the vicinity of sharp objects — not even animals, sharp objects notwithstanding. To this day, anything with a pulse either scrambles or pounces at the sight of him. 

The wild edge of the gardens had been a safe haven during those years. While the tangle of overgrown weeds kept others at bay, past the ruins of an old gazebo lay a flowering mirage, where perennials grew lush and butterflies thrived in swarms. Hong-er would sit there, watching, always one step out of the sun. They never acknowledged his presence any more than a ghost's. 

It was one such day when a soccer ball nearly knocked him cold. 

Nothing to gape at — his skull had seen far worse. A few hard blinks put him right back on track. However, the eyepad he had changed earlier that morning lay strewn on the dirt, flung by the impact. 

In a nearby bush, that white ball glinted as if to mock him. Hong-er grabbed his sharpest pencil. 

But before he could make a move, his head was cradled in a gentle grip. 

"I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, are you hurt? Should I call somebody?"

"Don't," Hong-er croaked, fingers curling around their wrist. 

Those hands stroked over his hair, searching for wounds, and he shivered at a particularly sore spot. The next touch was noticeably lighter. The pencil slipped from his fingers, rolling across the ground.

Hong-er wrenched his left eye open. Somehow the face before him was exactly and not at all what he expected: stern with worry, but with a lingering air of gentleness. Thick brows hung over calm, dark eyes, and the pull of a high ponytail, held by an ornate hair cuff, implied something princely. 

The boy noticed him looking and smiled. A dimple dotted each of his cheeks.

"Hm?" His eyes darted across Hong-er's face, questioning. Suddenly their proximity blared clear and loud. "Ah. Ah! How rude of me, I shouldn't have..." 

Trailing off, the boy retreated a few steps, hands wriggling. He couldn't be that much taller or older than Hong-er, who, despite sitting in the shade for over an hour, felt his neck grow warm. Terrible day to wear a hair tie. He couldn't mask his face without being obvious, didn't know whether to start cursing or sit quietly. The boy didn't seem like one of Mei Nianqing's pupils, or a local for that matter; even covered in mud, his clothes screamed city child. An impressive feat, considering he wore all white — except for the red dots nestled behind his ears, a pair of small cherry earrings. 

Red dots. Hong-er slapped a hand over the right side of his face. The noise made the boy falter. After a moment, he swooped in, grabbed something off the ground and handed it over. 

Hong-er only hesitated a second — then he took that eyepad, shook it for a bit, and went on to slap it over his eye. 

The boy seemed to laugh and cry all at once.

"Don't, don't! Just throw it away, really, it's all dirty, no good at all. I'll get you another." 

Such a wild range of expressions from such a noble face caught Hong-er off-guard. He shook with the effort to hold in laughter, but it escaped in ugly snorts anyway. The boy went from worried to puzzled to sheepish, the lines in his cheeks deepening.

"You can laugh at me, it's okay," he said softly. "Then we'll be even."

"I don't think that's how it works."

"...It's okay to beat me over the head too." 

Hong-er shook his head, lips fighting a grin. Nevermind that the absence of a damp weight over his bad eye was uncomfortable, or that the drawing on his lap was ruined by an erratic stroke. If they were to be truly even, he would have to return those gentle touches in kind.

He wasn't sure he could. 

The boy huffed. "Ah, well. Feng Xin didn't think I could kick through the dragon ring, so he owes me as many pork buns as I want. If you won't hit me, then... that is, we could share, right? I'll explode if I eat it all, hahaha." 

As nice as pork buns sounded to his sunken belly, Hong-er's mind was elsewhere — specifically on the ridiculous amount of strength and control it would take to kick a plastic ball through the ring cresting the highest roof of the temple and still have it hit like a missile. 

Well. He indeed looked strong, even a tad burlier than Feng Xin, whose dream was to be the world's best wrestler. And... far prettier too. Hong-er averted his eye from the beauty spot near the boy's mouth.

"It's fi—" Stupid fucking crack. He cleared his throat. "It's fine. Don't mind me. You can... go with your friends." 

With that, he adjusted his hand over his right eye and pretended to draw. Surely, Hong-er thought, he had better things to do, better people to be with. Instead, the boy crouched beside him, hands on his cheeks, pensive. 

"Snake," he said. 

"It's a—" Hong-er looked at where he was pointing, which was not at the drawing, but at a slithering body in the overgrown grass. "Snake," he finished. "Are you scared?" 

"No, no, I think they're cute. Master said that if I caught one I could keep it." 

"I'll catch it for you." 

Hong-er began to stand, but the boy caught his sleeve, again looking like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

"Such a serious face, what are you thinking? You can't just grab it like that." 

"I could," insisted Hong-er. Previous encounters had proved him exceptionally resistant to all sorts of danger, including but not limited to snake venom. 

The boy went quiet for a moment, as if debating whether he meant it. No matter what he said or how he said it, Hong-er was often told he was as earnest as a fox spirit, his every word laced with mockery and deceit. Trying to change it was useless. Even Father hadn't managed to beat it out of him. 

The grip on his sleeve loosened, and that calloused hand fell next to his. 

"It wouldn't do to get me spoiled, would it? I should work for the things I want," the boy muttered. "So don't hurt yourself for me, or I'll get really mad." 

Blame it on the way his eyes seemed older, starless and drab; blame it on Hong-er and that ugly, shameful need to be cared for, which rose in his chest and tumbled out of his mouth: "Yes, Gege." 

Immediately he winced. 

That word — he'd never even used it with his stepbrothers, nevermind a complete stranger. It made him sound desperate for attention like some snot-nosed brat. 

But when Hong-er risked a glance, all he found was a dimpled smile. 

"That's right. Be good." Suddenly the boy 'ah'-ed and turned sheepish. "You were drawing, weren't you? Sorry for interrupting. I should just—"

"Don't move." 

Hong-er's voice was lower than a whisper, almost as light as the tiny speck of silver fluttering their way, dazzling in early morning's rays. It flew over in a perfect line, sure of its destination, before diving in circles and perching on the boy's nose. 

He was utterly frozen and going cross-eyed. Hong-er grabbed his sketchbook. 

"Gege, Gege." There, that didn't sound so bad now. "Can you hold still for me?"

"Mmnhmn," was the answer. 

Hong-er stifled a laugh and quickly began to sketch, the ruined chrysanthemum at the top of the page forgotten. Curiously enough, that tiny butterfly was in no hurry to leave, leisurely flapping its wings even as the boy's noise twitched. Hong-er had never seen anything like it it. Silver webbing raveled across the width of its pale wings, near translucent in soft light, and it shimmered like it was covered in glitter. 

As that strange, wondrous creature took shape beneath his fingers, Hong-er sensed the boy quiver with repressed motion. 

"You can move," he said. The sketch was far from polished, what with his dominant hand covering half of his face, but the main features were done, and it seemed unfair to impose further. 

The boy hesitated. Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he asked, "Do you know what it's called?"

"Sorry, Gege. I've never seen it before."

"This could be the discovery of the century! We should give it a name." 

"Little Freak."

"I'm not letting you pick anymore."

Hong-er laughed. The sound flowed into a hum as he eyed that tiny silver butterfly, so similar yet different from its siblings, a spectre caught in fickle light. 

"Wraith," he muttered. 

The boy's lips curled gently. 

"Big bad wraith butterfly," he said, to the delighted flutter of silver wings. "Wraith wraith wraith. Like a demon, or a ghost? How do you write it?"

Hong-er stiffened. 

All of sudden he couldn't bring himself to meet the boy's eyes. 

"I don't—" Shame rose in the back of his throat, thick and sour. "I can't... write. I'm sorry." 

And what a joke it was, to come this far with this shameful face in plain sight and only now dare hide it, as if there was any good in him to salvage. Rotten looks, rotten brains. It was a miracle he even made it to fourth grade back then. 

"...Not at all?"

The question was unassuming, devoid of any mockery. Hong-er shook his head.

"Then... could you lend me your sketchbook?" 

That made Hong-er tense again, a camera film of all the possibly incriminating drawings in there rolling past his eye. 

"I won't look through it, I promise. Not even a peek," the boy was quick to assure him. Then, with a note of embarrassment, "Ah, what am I doing... asking such random things before I even asked your name. Please forgive me."

There's nothing to forgive, Hong-er wanted to say, there's no name at all. But even a face as thick as his had a limit. 

Without tearing his eye from the worms in the dirt, he passed the sketchbook over and, clutching tight to mask his waver, mumbled, "You can call me Hong-er."

There came a soft, pleased noise. 

"Hong-er," echoed the boy. "Thank you, Hong-er, this won't take long. Actually—maybe a little bit, haha. I'm rustier than I thought. If Master finds out I've gotten this sloppy, he'll surely... well, whatever. If it's sloppy it's sloppy, so long as it's done." A shuffle of paper. "Ta-da! You can look now. But please don't judge me too harshly, I'm not an artist like you." 

It was the last part that got him. For all the time and effort that went into these drawings, Hong-er would hardly consider himself an artist. With a few more years of practice, maybe. But praise was praise nonetheless, and he didn't mind the way it coiled good and warm in his chest. 

A side glance was the best he could muster. 

It was enough. The boy held the sketchbook to his chin, showing a page with two stick figures in it — one with a low ponytail and one stick hand covering its eye, the other with a high ponytail and earrings, each crowned with elegant writing. 

That silver butterfly, apparently bored of ambling his face, had nestled in his hair like a beautifully carved pin. 

It suited him. 

The boy grinned sheepishly. "Think I can make it to a museum?" 

Hong-er pfft-ed.

"Of course," he said, nodding sternly. "Gege's brilliance is guaranteed to revolutionize the art scene. He will conquer hearts and earn millions, and no one will live without knowing his name."

"Sweet talker." A shoulder bumped into Hong-er's, but just as soon receded.

Leaning back, the boy tapped the characters above the one-eyed figure.

"Hong-er," he said. "This is your name." 

Tap-tap.

"And this is mine. Family name Xie, name Lian."

Xie Lian. Xie Lian, Xie Lian, Xie Lian. Hong-er would practice those strokes until his wrist ached. 

It was then that he noticed a small set of characters under the second stick figure — or rather, the same character repeated twice.

"Gege!" he exclaimed, brimming with confidence.

Xie Lian burst into laughter.

"Hong-er's really too smart! He'll have me beat in no time."

No sooner did his voice wane than from afar there came shouting. Startled, that silver butterfly flew into a frenzy, lost to the glare of the sun before Xie Lian could even gasp. Hong-er's hand, reaching after that specter, curled into a fist and fell to his lap. The whole wildgarden seemed to wince with sympathy. 

"The game, right," mumbled Xie Lian. "I completely forgot." 

He sounded… a little dejected, if Hong-er dared hope. He was never as hopeful as he was daring. A loose strand of hair clung to Xie Lian's eyelashes, and much like that silver butterfly, Hong-er was helpless to touch it, tuck it behind his ear, gently, gently, so his cold fingers did no harm. 

A familiar voice rang nearby — unmistakably Mu Qing's. Xie Lian jumped to his feet so fast he was a blur.

"I'm coming, I'm coming! Geez." 

Hong-er watched him dive into the bushes after the soccer ball. That last glimpse of dimpled cheeks, charmingly flushed, was enough to paint his own face crimson, and he struggled with the urge to cover both eyes. 

He was glad he didn’t. 

Like bees to honey, the butterflies in the wildgarden swarmed Xie Lian in a fluttering nebula, clinging to his hair and limbs and clothes as he burst into laughter — perhaps ticklish, or simply delighted. Their wings shivered, helpless, in tune with the sound.

Hong-er blinks, and that vivid nebula disperses into burnished walls. 

Five years of calligraphy lessons with Xie Lian couldn't quite fix his messy scrawl, but the him of now is a drastic improvement from the spiteful teen he’d been. He hasn't bothered returning to school and never will; their time together has taught him more than those shit teachers could ever know. 

...Too bad it couldn't last. 

Hong-er strokes over the eyepatch, and the motion soothes as much as it daunts him. It's a gift from Xie Lian — a parting one, if he's feeling particularly sour about it, though neither had known it a week ago. Fridays have always been for leisure, not so much overthinking, so Hong-er, sprawled on a pile of unfinished verses, had barely twitched when Xie Lian wriggled something out of his backpack.

“I took up sewing,” Xie Lian had said, a soft laugh belying the nervous twitch of his hands. “I’m not very good at it just yet, as you can see. This is my best attempt so far, and I wanted you to have it. It’s… It’s that flower you like, see? Oh—it is the flower you like, right?”

An eyepatch — white and soft and painfully crude and his. 

Hong-er had lifted his eye to see Xie Lian flush with smug pleasure, and his throat squeezed tight. Strands of hair curled sweetly under Xie Lian's ears, moist from the sweltering heat, and Hong-er had leaned in to touch them, touch his hair, his cheeks, his lips — with his own chapped, trembling ones. 

Blessed be, the details of the aftermath are fuzzy in his head. He might have heard his own voice tell Xie Lian it was a silly joke; just a dare from the other guys, forget about it. He can't remember knocking over the centuries-old incense burner while fleeing the study hall, but he'd gotten an earful for it, so it probably did happen. Even then, Mei Nianqing's hour-long lecture had been background noise to his frantic thoughts: what the hell is wrong with you and why did you do that why why why and don't you dare go near him ever again. 

It's... only fair. A friend that tramples boundaries is no friend. Xie Lian has always been mindful of touching him, yet Hong-er can't even repay that in kind. So it's alright that Xie Lian's last text to him had been to cancel their lessons indefinitely. Something about entrance exams, or whatever he thought would hurt less. That was over a week ago. Hong-er hasn't checked his phone since. 

With this blow, it's safe to assume their long-standing plans of attending the festival together have crumbled to dust. 

It would've been Hong-er's first real outing in a long, long time. Crowds, the implications of being seen — the thought alone drives him to hole up year after year, while the other pupils run amok in town. Hong-er wouldn't want to be anywhere they are, anyway. And it's not so bad to aid Mei Nianqing in his ceremonies. But... it would've been nice to, just once. To walk the streets without a care for eyes that not his precious person's. 

Hong-er slaps himself hard.

Focus, focus. 

In any case, Mei Nianqing’s involvement only proves that Xie Lian is willing to downplay his discomfort for the sake of whatever sense of normalcy can still be salvaged. There shouldn’t be anything left to salvage. Xie Lian must've felt it in that kiss, had to, these ugly, selfish feelings burning in Hong-er's stomach, the bitter taste of smoke in his mouth. In this, in what they lack, he and the would-be god types have something in common: the potential for closeness without fear of their own searing touch.

“It’s alright if you don't wish to tell me,” Mei Nianqing’s voice gently breaks through the silence. Before Hong-er can feel relief, however, he stands up and clasps his hands with a cheer: “Perfect opportunity to let your fortune speak for you!”

Hong-er throws his head back with a groan.

“Not this again—”

“Yes this again. It’s been too long since our last session, too long!”

“Wasn’t it you who decided to stop because it was too depressing or whatever?” 

Grumbling, Hong-er lets himself be dragged to the tea table by the window and ragdolled into a proper sitting position. Satisfied, Mei Nianqing goes to pick up the stool and drags it towards the cupboard in the back. As soon as he turns, Hong-er drops his chin on his hand and slouches.

“You don’t have to tell me my fortune sucks all the time, you know. I got the hint when you said I wouldn’t live past eighteen," he drawls.

Mei Nianqing all but falls off the stool. He grabs the edge of the cupboard to steady himself, cursing quietly.

“I told you that was a misreading,” he hisses over his shoulder. “Honestly. Out of all the things I say, that is what you choose to listen?”

“You nag when I listen, then nag some more when I don’t. What is it that you want from me, old man?”

“Some respect would be good, but I know I will be gray before that happens. Just shut your trap for now."

Mei Nianqing returns with a bamboo cup of fortune sticks and a booklet, which he sets down by the hand-painted porcelain teapot. As he goes to pour it, he catches Hong-er's eye and pauses. 

"Have you taken your medicine today?" 

Hong-er blanches. 

"Yes," he quickly replies. 

With a beatific smile, Mei Nianqing shakes a herb sachet out of his sleeve into the teapot and stirs it until a toxic cloud has fouled every inch of the room. The resulting sludge plops into the lovely teacup before Hong-er. 

 "Drink your medicine," says Mei Nianqing flatly. 

" Uuuuuuuuuuuugh ."

It's awful. Inhumane. Pungent and thick and worse than anything he'd eaten off the ground as a child, which was nothing short of cigarette butts. It's supposed to help with the blisters, but — at what cost, Hong-er thinks, shriveling at the taste. 

Watching him brave through it, the wrinkles around Mei Nianqing’s eyes deepen. 

"Seconds?" he offers. Hong-er tries to glare, but the bitterness in his mouth only allows a grimace. "Good enough. Now hold the cup and concentrate on your wish until you feel certain."

Hong-er puts on a show of thinking hard, as if his deepest desires are any of the gods' business. Surely they can figure it out themselves. He shakes the cup until a single stick pokes out—

—and poofs into dust across the table.

Unfazed, Hong-er lifts his eye.

"Should I be optimistic?"

"That... that... termites! Haha, oh dear, I should have called pest control ages ago. They can't have eaten through all of it, can they? Give it here, let me see." Mei Nianqing proceeds to shake out a perfectly fine stick. "As I thought! You may continue." 

"Wait."

Upon closer inspection, Hong-er finds that the stick isn't so perfect after all: the fortune it tells is abysmal. 

Mei Nianqing dismisses it with barely a glance. 

"No point reading into it. The querent must be intent, otherwise it's pure nonsense." 

"Sure," replies Hong-er, flipping through the booklet until the page matches the number on the stick. It's a poem titled Magistrate Bao Zheng met up with the exiled Queen. "'The cuckoo cries in tears," he reads, "bleeding inside. Her sorrow wakens this stranger in the cold dark night. How sad it is to be in an unfamiliar land; the heart of the unsettled traveller is filled with memories back from home.' Oh. Aren't you a foreigner? Then it's only half nonsense."

Indeed, Mei Nianqing had once alluded to some faraway home, though in such vague terms it's a constant slip of the mind. Hong-er doesn't care to prod beyond the obvious, yet it seems the mere mention of it strikes a chord with his mentor,  whose eyes reflect miles beyond these walls. 

Mei Nianqing's lips twist into something sour.

"Be that as it may, the thought of home no longer grieves me at this age. My heart has settled in the present, and for me that is enough." With a clap, his clouded expression gives way to a cordial smile, and he nudges the bamboo cup aside. "Furthermore, should the gods wish to contact me, they can do so directly. I have no need for these silly tools."

"Really? Teach me your ways then."

"Don't make it sound so easy, young man. It takes years to train the body, twice as much to train the mind, and only the chosen few such as myself are granted the honor. In fact... I believe I hear something." He closes his eyes as if slipping into a trance and begins to murmur under his breath. "Hm, yes, yes. I see. They say you mustn't listen to your worries, for this night is auspicious and your wish is sure to be granted. Oh? What is that? I am told this will only be possible if you do as your mentor says from here onward. And to quit drinking and gambling out of his sight, lest there be severe consequences." 

"Who, me?" Hong-er blinks a large, innocent eye. "I didn't do anything. You should check your hearing."

"And you should know better than to hide it. Think I don't know where you've been after curfew?"

"Hehe." 

Mei Nianqing waggles a finger in his face. "You think this is a laughing matter? You think it's fun, cheating people out of their hard-earned money? What happens when someone decides to take revenge, hm? How am I supposed to know you are not dead in a ditch if you keep disappearing like this?" 

"They won't catch me," Hong-er says coolly. Turns out child-beating drunkards aren't so threatening once you've outlived one. He'll gladly take every last of their pennies. "And who says it's for fun? I do it because I deserve money, and they don't." 

That waggling finger nearly stabs his good eye.

"Don't you get cheeky with me, you little rascal."

“You told me not to hide it!”

“At least have some shame!”

“My fucking God,” Hong-er groans into his hands, "make up your mind already.”

“Right back at you, lover boy.” Mei Nianqing straightens his shoulders and pours himself a cup, which he downs in one gulp. In an instant, his face goes from warm brown to bright pink to deathly pale. He lowers the cup with a visible tremor. “What was I saying...? Right. The festival. Are you going? Are you staying? If you are staying, you will have to drink this whole teapot first.”

Hong-er bolts towards the door. He makes it all three steps from the table before being caught by the collar, and he yields to the pressure with a dying wail.

“You are not going anywhere dressed like that,” stresses Mei Nianqing as they backtrack, glaring at Hong-er’s jeans like a man wronged. “People will think I’m starving you.”

“The hell am I supposed to wear then?” 

“Something with less holes, for starters.”

" It’s supposed to —you know what, fine. Do whatever you want." 

The box forgotten by the vanity unveils its mystery at last: an assortment of traditional robes lies inside, from the delicate silks of a ruqun to the robust fabric of a quju, each more striking than the last. But it's clear that most if not all of them are tailor-made for Mei Nianqing, which means they stretch tight across Hong-er's shoulders and sag above his belt, hanging just under his knees. 

Then, from the bottom of that hopeless pile, a strip of red catches his eye. 

He carefully slips it out of the box. The fabric spills through his fingers with a delicate violence: spider lilies adorn the shoulders, the sash and the hems of the skirt, while threads of silver cross the collar in finespun coils. On the back of the thin, fiery overcoat, silver beasts walk the clouds, surrounded by butterflies. 

Hong-er knows it's a perfect fit before he even dons it. The cloth is loose in all the right corners, comfortably snug elsewhere, and the skirt stretches over the brim of the jeans underneath — which is probably a fashion crime, but he needs somewhere to put his things.

Mei Nianqing sees this and frowns. 

"I would avoid red if I were you," he says. 

"Worry about yourself, old man." 

On the other side of the bed, said old man struggles to make sense of his own robes. Hong-er hops over to help, but turns out they're far more intricate than their combined efforts can handle; the sheer amount of layers makes it near impossible to figure out what goes where or how.  By the time the job is done, they're both breathing heavily. 

Mei Nianqing showcases the final result with a half-hearted twirl. It's... admittedly, not much better than getting caught in a shower curtain. 

“...I could drag Mu Qing here, ” Hong-er offers. 

Mei Nianqing considers it, then shakes his head with a sigh. He picks up the bamboo cup on the tea table and thrusts it into Hong-er’s chest. 

“Left of the cupboard, top shelf. You can reach that high, can't you?”

That fox mask is still there, miserably discarded on the floor. Hong-er passes it, pauses, and bends to pick it up. 

“Can I take this with me?” he asks. 

Mei Nianqing doesn’t even look over. "Put that back.”

“Okay." He tucks it under his skirt anyway.

Out in the courtyard, a swift breeze coaxes the wind chimes to sing anew. The gardens on this side of the gate are cleverly arranged around patios and ponds; beyond it, the path that leads to the temple is littered with maple leaves, still green from the summer. In a few months, they will drown this mountain in blood.

Some of the statues dotting the gardens are Hong-er's own creations, though they blend so well in style that no one can tell his hand. Mei Nianqing had promised to keep it a secret between them, but it's likely that the other priests know it too. Hong-er chances them a look halfway through the garden, where the remaining three priests swiftly wield pruning tools. As if sensing his gaze, they pause and raise their heads in terrifying harmony, eyes blank against his. The trio rarely engages outside of themselves. Often in his nightly escapades Hong-er will find them standing in odd corners, as if unsure of what to do with themselves when no one is looking.

Even the temple cats have a stronger presence. They laze on the stone benches along the way, so used to Mei Nianqing's nagging they don't even stir. Whenever Hong-er gets too close, though, they shiver with growling, tails swishing irritably. 

“If you want to drink and gamble all night, fine. Don’t let me see it and I won’t ask. But you must stick to the curfew, do you understand? Miss Yushi will wait no further than midnight."

"She doesn't have to wait at all," Hong-er grumbles.

"And let you sleep on the streets?"

“I can stay with Yin Yu.” Anything but Xie Lian’s aunt, whose house Xie Lian quite literally lives in. 

“You could join the other kids,” suggests Mei Nianqing. “They are having a sleepover with the Shi siblings.”

Hong-er huffs out a laugh. 

“Is it real ghosts you want to see? You want us to murder each other in our sleep?”

“Well, if someone would make an effort to get along with others—”

“ Well, if they wouldn’t piss me off—”

“You’ve been perpetually pissed off since puberty.” Mei Nianqing waggles an accusatory finger; Hong-er flicks it aside with a tch. “And to think you used to be so sweet.”

“I was never sweet,” Hong-er retorts. Small and scared, sure. But never sweet. 

Mei Nianqing has that look on his face when he’s about to argue a point, but the words die in his throat when a jarring cry pierces the afternoon.

A series of loud bangs follow, swallowing that dreadful echo with a violence that stirs the hairs on Hong-er's nape. They pause at the top of the stone steps that lead to the temple. Below, past the old paifang and the watchful gaze of the dragon and the tiger, a group of teens gathers by the lake, hunched over a shadow on the ground with laughter in their voices. Burnt matches and firecrackers lay scattered around them.

Squirming, the shadow lets out a pained croak. Hong-er feels his eye twitch.

Mei Nianqing makes to grab his arm. “Don't—”

Too late — he's gone three steps in one, a leisure in his gait that would’ve been a stomp on anyone else. He chances a look over his shoulder, takes in his mentor's sour expression and offers a smile, small and sweet, in return. 

Mei Nianqing's face darkens. 

Nearing the lake, that gurgling croak gets louder, while the hum of laughter recedes. It doesn’t disappear entirely; it lingers in the twitch of their lips, shared glances and half-hearted poise.

They aren’t locals, that much is obvious. Most of the kids that live nearby are young children, half of which roam these grounds in the pupils’ hand-me-downs. These teens have the smell of the big city all over.

Hong-er stops before them. 

"Keep the noise down," he drawls. 

An unintelligible murmur; more snickering. Someone forces out a cough. When he sweeps a look over, it lands on an older boy in neon green clothes, and the noise immediately stops.  

Hong-er’s certain they’ve never met. And yet, somehow, the back of his mind tingles in vague recognition. The curve of his nose, maybe, or the shape of his eyes. It’s all derailed by the raging green, the overly-slick shine of his gelled hair and the deep twist of his scowl. 

A scowl that is very obviously aimed at Hong-er, who arches an eyebrow: do I know you?

“Sorry for that,” says Green at last. His voice betrays a different sentiment. “It’s our first time here, so we didn’t know. C’mon, you guys, let’s get going.” 

He nods at his friends and turns, and in passing reaches for the squirming shadow as one would pick up trash. Before he can graze it, Hong-er throws out a leg and kicks into his ribs, sending him head-first into the ground. 

The sickening sound of flesh on cobblestone halts the group in their tracks. 

“What’s the hurry? You were all having such a good time, I was just wondering what could possibly be so fun," says Hong-er warmly.

A low, confused groan comes from below. Slowly rising on his elbows, Green sweeps a dazed look around.

The sight of Hong-er looming above sets him off. 

“You crazy piece of shit," he shrieks, "the fuck is wrong with you?!"

“Don’t be a pussy, I’m just playing with you. Isn’t this the kind of fun you like? Am I boring you?”

“I’ll fucking show you pussy—”

Hong-er grinds one heel into his spine, and the ground sews that ugly mouth shut. In its stead, the silence of Green's friends is unbearably loud: they hover shifty-eyed at the sides, teetering like bamboo poles in the wind.

The breeze rattling them solidifies behind Hong-er with a chill.

“Child,” says Mei Nianqing.

Not “young man” — Hong-er, here and now. Child: that dirty little thing that barely passed as human, unable to grasp rhyme or reason. 

His heel digs in a fraction deeper. The pained sound it evokes feeds into the shamed rage building in his gut.

“You will not hear me raise my voice.”

Hong-er wants to; to hear that ever-serene voice thunder just once, just so he knows that this is it, this is where he overstays his welcome. That would be far more pleasant than finding out through thrown furniture and fists. But Mei Nianqing refuses to say it, and for all the meddling he’s done, this is the one thing Hong-er can’t bring himself to pry out of him. 

“Useless trash,” he mutters, and takes a step back. 

The moment Mei Nianqing swoops in, Green immediately sits up, latching onto his sleeves and whining.

“Who the fuck is this one-eyed bitch? Why’re you being so nice to him? You saw it, Uncle, I didn’t even do anything and he—”

“For the last time, Xiao Jing, you are neither family nor a friend. You will ddress me with due respect." 

Mei Nianqing's voice cuts through like a dagger, devoid of any warmth. Green's face flickers, briefly stunned, before twisting viciously. 

“ That’s not my fucking name either, Master ." 

Coming from that mouth, it’s a worse insult than anything Hong-er has ever said. He should’ve scraped that fucker clean of teeth when he had the chance. And he would right now, if Mei Nianqing didn’t seem neck-deep into a headache. 

“Yes, yes, I forgot. Qi Rong, was it?” That’s all the attention Qi Rong gets before Mei Nianqing shoves past him, his hardened gaze now on the remaining four. “Explain yourselves swiftly, please. I have matters to attend to.”

“Hah? Ask this ugly motherfucker to explain his face. So fucking nasty, if that shit's contagious I'll—" 

Hong-er lurches towards Qi Rong with a silver flash. 

A backhanded slap flings the knife out of his grip.

“Enough.”

That quiet murmur sweeps the outer courtyard like the crash of a gong, and the fire in Hong-er's veins fizzles out in an instant. The surging tension in the air drops, leaving hazy stares all around. 

At the core of it stands a now-armed, steel-faced monk. Hong-er, feeling wobbly and lightheaded, loses hope of getting his knife back under that look. Such a good knife too; what a shame. He offers both of his wrists for Mei Nianqing to grip and quietly shuffles behind him like a shackled criminal.

With all the semblance of a human sacrifice, one of the teens is nudged forward.

“Ah...” He’s the youngest-looking among the bunch, a skittish thing whose wide eyes avoid Qi Rong's at all costs. “S-Sorry for the noise. My pet—it got hurt when we were playing, but I didn’t know… we didn’t think it was serious. We really didn’t mean to.”

“Let me have a look.” Mei Nianqing’s tone leaves no room for discussion. 

The young boy turns to his friends first; after a moment, he whirls around with something cupped in his hands.

A crow, Hong-er thinks, leaning over Mei Nianqing’s shoulder. That’s when he notices the wedge-shaped tail, and the Shi Qingxuan in his head retorts that it must be a raven — one exceptionally small for its kind. 

What’s more telling, however, is the string of firecrackers tied to that tail, half of it bright red, half of it charred. 

The raven lets out a pathetic croak and flaps uselessly. One of its wings is bent at an odd angle. 

Hong-er lifts his eye.

“‘Didn’t think it was serious’?” he echoes.

The young boy blanches.

“No, no, that wasn’t us! It was already like that when I found it.” Then, gauging the depth of the grave he dug, he quickly amends: “I tried to help it, I did. But as soon as I got close it would make a fuss and bite me—look, my hands are all messed up…”

“This is a wild animal, not a pet,” says Mei Nianqing. “Neither is it a toy to play with, but a living thing deserving of kindness. Next time you will show yours by contacting your elders immediately, do you understand?”

It seems as if no grave would be deep enough to bury his shame.

“Yes, Master…”

Mei Nianqing proceeds to drag his scarce audience through a painfully formal lecture on harmony with nature, half for the sake of watching them scramble to grasp the dialect. Hong-er has fallen victim to it often enough that he remembers the words more than he hears them, and so they blur into white noise as he checks the pockets of his jeans for the remaining essentials: his 4-year-old phone cracked to hell and back, a pack of candy, a half-empty vial of eyedrops and a bundle of keys he’d found around the temple with no apparent use as of yet. The knife had taken up too much space, so he’d tucked his two favorite pairs of dice under the silks of his sash. 

It’s not long before Hong-er snaps to the sensation of being watched. Unsurprisingly, Qi Rong fixes him afar, his expression so dark one would think Hong-er actually stabbed him. And again that familiar itch in his mind’s eye, just far out of reach that he can’t scratch it. 

They stare each other down until Hong-er’s sight fills with shimmering colors. Mei Nianqing stands between them again, the back of his robes wrinkled beyond salvation, his voice a shard of steel aimed towards Qi Rong. 

“Your parents will hear about this—and when they do, I will see to it that your punishment is adequate. None of that lenient nonsense you are used to. If they think you are anything like your cousin, I will let them know they are sorely mistaken.”

Qi Rong flinches. His mouth trembles, either blocking a stream of curses or a cry; his eyes do seem brighter for a moment, though he’s quick to lower his head. 

Mei Nianqing isn't one to hit weak spots by accident. And sure enough, he remains wholly unfazed. 

“What are you standing there for? Get out of my sight before I send you back on the latest train.”

“Didn’t wanna be here anyways. Fucking shithole of a town,” mutters Qi Rong under his breath. 

With the lot of them gone, sighing trees and their cicadas lull the afternoon back into peace. 

Hong-er hops over to Mei Nianqing’s side and finds himself speechless. Turns out the little raven has been there the whole time, quietly nestled in the crook of Mei Nianqing’s elbow. It makes a gurgling sound of acknowledgement as he approaches, then lolls back in apparent bliss, bent wing held carefully still. It’s clear that this little fellow has been long treading a rough patch: its feathers are matted, the tip of its beak chipped, and the place where its left eye should be is an empty hole. 

That it remains docile in Mei Nianqing’s arms, at the mercy of creatures capable of such misdeeds, is somewhat baffling. Or perhaps it explains things.

Hong-er begins, “That Qi Rong…”

“...Is Xie Lian’s cousin, yes.” It seems to hurt Mei Nianqing to say it. 

Of course, Hong-er thinks, unsurprised but deeply offended on Xie Lian’s behalf. It’s not enough that Qi Rong’s nasty mug is a parody of his cousin’s face; he has to be a major cunt to boot. 

“I taught him calligraphy for a while, but at that point my influence held little weight. His parents didn’t raise him; their money did. No wonder it all fell apart when money became scarce.” Mei Nianqing sighs. “Alas, one can only hope that time will teach him humility and—no, don’t touch it!”

Hong-er’s stretched hand hovers where Mei Nianqing, now three feet away, stood a moment ago. He raises an eyebrow.

“The call of a corvid begets misfortune. It’s best that you stay away,” Mei Nianqing explains.

“Could have just said it might be diseased.”

“Oh. That is indeed another factor.”

Hong-er rolls his eye, and that’s all of his energy for banter gone.

“Gonna take it to Qingxuan?” he asks. 

Mei Nianqing shakes his head. 

“If anyone should steer clear of ill omens, it’s that child. I will tend to it myself.” 

As he peers down at the raven, the skin between his brows creases. Hong-er tries a glance at whatever is puzzling him, only to be shooed away. 

"Aren’t you supposed to be on your date? Quit staring at me and get moving, get moving!” 

Hong-er is gone three steps in one before his flush can bloom, a garbled farewell in his mouth and a cluster of butterflies in his stomach. Halfway across the courtyard, however, the sound of his name makes him pause. 

Hong-er turns. "What is it?" 

Mei Nianqing glides to him with a raised hand and not a word. His thumb grazes Hong-er's forehead, stroking over the raised lumps. The raven darts its inky eye across Hong-er’s face with terrifying intent, and the urge to hide rears its head once more.

Shi Qingxuan once said something curious about these birds: they never forget unkind faces.

“May no path be bound,” Mei Nianqing mutters. He drops his hand to Hong-er’s shoulder and squeezes. “Now go. Don’t keep him waiting, hm?”

So he goes.

Qiandeng Temple stands as a hallmark of the town’s resilience to the passing years, lurking a somber shadow atop the mountains. It’s that time of the day when the sun sinks behind the finial of the tallest pagoda, and the temple honors its name with furtive glints.

Hong-er squints at the sight of the temple far above, then groans at the one below — on his palm, the dice he'd thrown each show a single dot. His rotten luck is nothing new, but it never ceases to be a pain in the ass. 

Just earlier, his plans to sneak back into the temple had been soured by Mei Nianqing’s own hallmark resilience. He’d stood between the two guardian beasts as if a third, refusing to even twitch until Hong-er, crouching among the bushes, gave in to the cramps. Whatever Mei Nianqing plans to do on his own is a mystery he'll crack later. Knowing that old man, this might be an elaborate scheme to keep his pupils from ruining yet another dou dizhu night.

Hong-er shoves the dice into his sash and turns once more to the somber corner at the street’s end, where the doors to The Gambler’s Den remain shut. He’d come expecting the usual brawl, a drunkard or two puking their guts out at the back, but it seems to be a dead day indeed. Is it that ghosts don't enjoy gambling? It’s not like they have anything to lose, and hell money is aplenty in these times.

When Hong-er politely texts Yin Yu about it — open the bar for me you lazy cunt — the answer he gets is that it’s not being lazy if it’s his DAY OFF!!!! Which, fair, but: sub for me next week and I’ll consider it is a little unnecessary, and: you don’t mind if I keep the tips right [pointing finger][pointing finger][grin emoji] is pushing it too far.

This punk. To think just years ago he could barely voice a coherent thought without sweating puddles.

What if I gave quan yizhen your number, Hong-er types back. He may have taught Yin Yu how to set the table, but he’s the one with aces up his sleeves. And sure enough—

> YOU WON'T

> YOU’RE DEAD TO ME IF YOU DO

> I'm sorry father says we'll be closed until morning

> please

Hong-er laughs out loud. 

He’s dead either way if there’s any merit to an old monk’s ramblings, so what the hell. Besides, Quan Yizhen isn’t that bad. A stubborn kid, sure, and disgustingly rich, but his family are Qiandeng Temple’s main donors, and he often volunteers without prompting. Even if it’s all an excuse to scour the lake for water chestnuts, that alone makes him a paragon among stubborn rich kids. Besides, it was Yin Yu who pushed Quan Yizhen down the school's stairs when they were younger, not the other way around. He's lucky Hong-er hasn't leaked his address yet.  

Jian Lian somehow manages to help even less; after a solid ten minutes, she replies with a single picture. She's perched on some sort of balcony, her peace sign framing the commotion in the background: two vaguely familiar silhouettes entangled in a brawl, while a figure in white tips a water bottle over their heads. 

Hong-er bristles. 

Those two idiots . 

He should be there, not them. They’re always like this, forcing Xie Lian to play the babysitter, too caught up in their stupid banter to give him the attention he deserves. Even if the town’s small and options are limited, Gege shouldn’t have to settle for such sloppy company. 

That’s it. Hong-er reaches for the dice again — and halts. He’s suddenly hyper aware of the second, heavier pair hidden in his sash, identical to the other in everything but odds. Part of him considers it. 

But another part, one that clings to useless sentimentalities despite his best efforts, tells him that something like this shouldn't be forced. Three parts fate, seven parts courage, or however goes the saying. He'd heard that once during Mei Nianqing's lectures. Courage is a given, but chance is rarely in his favor. A toss is as good as a loss. No matter how many times he does this, again and again and again, the outcome stays the same. 

And yet—

One six, Hong-er prays. To whatever deity cares to listen, he hopes it doesn’t sound as awkward as it feels. One six and I’ll tell him. Please. Just one. 

He drops a kiss to the bend of his knuckles and tosses.

They land on his palm butterfly-light. Hong-er risks a glance, fingers twitching, and wordlessly chucks them back into his sash. 

Comfort in constancy, huh? What a joke. 

“Oi, Jiejie! Ain’t that little Hong Hong-er over there?”

Before that voice can even finish, Hong-er zips down the street like the devil is on his tail.

The residents in the vicinity of the temple have been around long enough to recognize each of Mei Nianqing’s pupils — if not by name, then by the cut of their traditional robes, pristine in their modesty. With Hong-er, it’s by the way he fails to uphold either, with his sorry excuse for a name and the rips and smudges that cling to his clothes. 

No wonder the aunties from the tailor shop sound scandalized. To spot him all prim and proper on this particular date — must be some sort of apparition!

“It’s not me,” he blurts out, hastening his pace. 

The shop owner, who just so happens to be Mu Qing’s mother, does a double take when he marches past, nearly swift enough to escape their grasp.

Only nearly. They seize him amidst cooing noises, thumbing the wrinkles in his robes and fussing over his hair. Despite his protests, Hong-er has no choice but to stay put while they tame his hair with red ribbons and silver butterfly pins.

“You can be such a lovely boy when you want to,” Mu Qing's mother says with a sigh.

A butterfly pin stabs Hong-er's scalp, dragging out a hiss.

“And what do I wanna be lovely for?”

“To make up for that lousy mouth, that's what for! Otherwise you'll never get a girlfriend." 

Fine by me, he thinks in secret delight. But then it occurs to him that he’ll likely never get a boyfriend either, and that feeling quickly vanishes. Perhaps there’s some truth to her words. If only he were a little sweeter, a little kinder and lovelier, then maybe...

From the back of the shop, one of the younger women waltzes in cradling a sleek case. She barely makes it to the front before the others usher her back in.

“But his face—" She slaps a hand over her mouth, but it's too late. 

A makeup case. Of course. 

Hong-er stiffens on the pillow he kneels. All of sudden, their touch on his hair and clothes feels like bugs crawling on skin, and he scrambles to get away as fast as he can. 

“Thanks for the trouble,” he mutters through gritted teeth. 

After all, his reputation may be a lost cause, but there’s no reason to sully Mei Nianqing’s any further. With a hasty bow, he gathers his churning insides and leaves.

They don’t follow, though they might have tried — Hong-er dips into the slit of an alley and doesn’t bother to check. This is where he likes it best, in the shadows of roofs and balconies, away from the glare of the sun. Back in the day, he’d scoured every nook and cranny of these pathways between houses, more often than not on the run from a beating. Most often a beating he’d brought upon himself. His old hiding spots are too small for him now, which further stresses the fact: he’s far too old to act like what can’t be seen doesn’t exist.

After all, the marks on his skin are there long before he emerges into sunlight, itching under the fancy fabric. Ahead, the stone bridge that halves the town arches over the main canal, waters dark and quiet. As that onyx mirror ripples, so does the face reflected in it: sickly grey and warped by thick, porous blisters. 

From an angle, these blisters look like tiny, premature human faces. This isn’t new either. But the sight is strange nonetheless, as he tends to hide what he can under the eyepatch and his hair — his hair, which is now swept back and tied into a long braid. It’s a delicate touch meant for a delicate piece, just like the tender chrysanthemum blooming over his right eye. 

That crawling sensation returns so strong Hong-er shudders with it. His hands fumble for the mask tucked in his robes; when he looks up again, it’s at the face of a snarling beast.

Much better.

In the end, it's a gust of wind that draws Hong-er across the bridge, and with it a mist so ripe with sweetness it’s dizzying. Late afternoon blurs the scenery at the edges, painting a vision of burning gold; fires crackle all around, and the lanterns above glaze the streets an impish red, hanging low enough that Hong-er knocks into more than one. The air shimmers with curling tendrils of incense, so thick it feels like an embrace. 

A far gentler touch than the nudge and shove of passersby. It can’t be helped, though; there’s only so much room when the sidewalks are packed to the brim with altars and offerings. Steamed buns, porridge, glutinous cakes, noodles and fruit; on the tables, crispy roast chicken and bowls of rice water the mouth. 

Another time, he would have risked the wrath of the underworld for a single bite. Now, Hong-er tears away from the sight and wills himself through the crowd, to the food stands nearby. At least there’s this: amid folks in nuo masks and hollow-eyed paper dolls, no one looks at him twice.

Well — not the adults, anyway. He passes a group of children making paper lanterns, and they balk at the sight of a walking eldritch fox. Nothing a couple tossed candies can’t fix, though. The woman overseeing their craft takes a puff of her pipe and smiles, her eyes hazy and kind. Behind her, two wooden deities share a small shrine, surrounded by candles and incense. 

Hong-er leans in to inspect their shapes: the one at the left, sturdy with smooth edges; the one at the right, gaunt and angular. Hands seamlessly joined together; they must’ve been carved from the same slab. The contrast where they meet is so striking it’s an effort to look away, and only then does Hong-er spot the little girl at his side.

It’s his turn to startle. Hunched over the sidewalk, she’s so tiny he would’ve thought her a wooden figure too, if not for the movement of her arms. She’s fiddling something — a clump of paper that can only be the most pitiful attempt at a lotus flower lantern. 

He doesn’t even think to hide his snicker. 

She winces, curling away from the sound. It hangs in the air, unbearably harsh, before easing into a quiet cough. Hong-er peers over to where the other kids are gathered, clueless to the world outside their lively banter, then back at the lone figure tackling paper as if fighting a war. 

It… shouldn’t hurt to linger a while. Besides, all the required materials are in a box near the kind-eyed woman, who continues to smoke without regard for his antics. Grabbing paper, cooking strings and a pair of scissors, Hong-er sets off to work.

Ten minutes go by on trial and error; the next ten, he crumples the wonky prototype, huffs under the mask and begins anew. It’s a half hour and a brand new collection of paper cuts until his hands, much steadier than before, come up with something presentable. Still too clumsy for Hong-er’s taste, but at least this one stands upright. The only thing missing is a tealight to fill the center.

Well, whatever. Probably best not to grab one from the shrine, lest it heap divine wrath. He dusts himself off and shuffles over to find the little girl in the same spot as before, surrounded by shredded paper and wrestling yet another — and losing. She even managed to glue a piece of paper to her forehead.

Hong-er chuckles. This time, she slowly turns her head, and at last he reveals his creation: a paper lotus flower in full bloom.

“It’s yours if you want it." Hong-er nudges the lantern forth. "Can't guarantee it'll float, though."

She's slow to take it, her grip stiff and uncertain. Perhaps a smile could ease her were he unmasked. On second thought, however, this might be the best face he has to show. 

“You’re a crafty little friend, aren’t you?” the kind-eyed woman pipes up. 

Hong-er turns to find her gaze somewhere on the sash of his robes, where the dice are carefully hidden. Is she... blind? There’s no way she — there’s no way.

“I guess,” he says slowly.

“And humble too. Say, won’t you float a lantern for your ancestors?”

“I’ve paid my respects.” As if, Hong-er thinks. Maybe he should, if only to ensure that his parents’ shit souls won’t hang around. 

The woman hums. Her voice is low and coarse and a tad too knowing for comfort. 

“That’s good, that’s good. Oh, and please don’t mind Xiao Ying’s manners—she’s too shy to thank you proper, but she appreciates the gift. She isn’t used to being noticed, you see.” She finally draws her gaze away, and with it some of the tension in Hong-er’s shoulders. “Say, little friend, would you mind burning some incense for my deities? They aren’t widely known around these parts, and I reckon it would please them to hear from new faces.”

Hong-er shrugs. 

“Sure. What kind of deities are they?" 

“Depends on who you ask,” she says with a chuckle. “Some say they look after the dead and the common folk; others that they’re patrons of love and fated meetings.”

“That’s a broad spectrum to cover.”

“Not as much as it seems. I don’t mean the kind of love you’d seek in a lifelong partner—rather, the kind of love that persists through death. Suppose a grave is a lonely place to rest, after all.” She raises a flame to her pipe, rekindling the embers. “Whatever version you come across, one thing that never changes is that they must be worshipped together in order to grant their full blessings. Toss that dice of yours and give it a try, see for yourself.”

Hong-er's lips part in surprise; his throat itches with the urge to ask how, but something tells him he wouldn't be satisfied with her answer. He gathers himself and turns to the shrine without a sound. 

Under soft candlelight, the deities’ hold on each other is unspeakably intimate — so perhaps there is some shred of logic to their lore. Hong-er holds a couple joss sticks, mind adrift on the scent of sandalwood, and prays on a whim: for money, for health, for more money, for peace of mind, for the peace of mind of those he's ever cherished, and for all the luck they’re willing to bestow. He’s careful not to speak of love. Certain things should be earned, not begged for. 

How silly, Hong-er thinks, amused by his own zeal. It’s not like any of this matters. The dice is no different than it was earlier, still more yellow than white, dots chipped into near crescents, clacking that same old tune he’s sick of hearing. And once he tosses it with the ease of always, he’ll be unvexed to find that—

Someone bumps into him just then, and the shock hurls the dice across the street. Hong-er whips around sharply, ready to throw fists, but all he gets is the glimpse of a dark silhouette as it wobbles towards the town square. 

“Watch your fucking step,” he shouts at the mingling crowd.

A few faces turn, either puzzled or displeased. It takes a moment to register that they might not be displeased with his manners — at least not entirely — but at the trail of water pooling on the street. Parts of Hong-er’s robe cling to his skin, wet where the figure had bumped into. Gross. What a weirdo. How fortunate for them that his dice chose this moment to ascend. 

A moment that doesn’t last, as he soon finds them on the ground not far away. 

Even so, by the time his offerings must’ve all but fizzled out, Hong-er is still crouched in the middle of the street, motionless to the jostling of passersby. A little afraid, maybe, that the sight will vanish should he reach for it. 

Lined up on a perfect row, twelve bright red dots glint like gemstones in the sun. 

Hong-er retraces his steps in a daze.

“So how did that go?” asks the woman whose kind eyes never quite meet his, yet unnerve him the same as the flash of a camera. “Has the little friend been blessed yet?”

No doubt some trick of sorts. Something must’ve clued her about the dice, and the figure in black is likely in on it as well, to swoop in and stage a perfect toss while he was distracted. But still: why all that over a simple offering? And most importantly, did they have to be fucking wet?

“Like you don’t know,” Hong-er says instead. 

The woman laughs, a sound like shuddering earth, and speaks no more. 

He burns a couple more joss sticks for her deities, if only for the chance to study such fine and unique carving. When he leaves, it’s with a fistful of dice held close to his heart.

There is a noodle shop downtown that sticks out like a sore thumb: red-blue-green carelessly splash the walls, and the establishment plaque, gaudy and chaotic, announces itself long before the scrambled writing on it. The owner is Mr. Zhu, a beast of a man standing 7 feet tall, with the hands to crush a human skull and a penchant for grudge to go with it. Hong-er knows by the look he’s given as soon as he lifts his mask, as if it hasn’t been over seven years since he last stole from here. 

But that’s fine, because Mr. Zhu’s cold noodles are unique across the town, and Hong-er chews ugly looks like appetizers. The shop is empty save for the two — wait. There’s... a third figure at the back; a dark lump vaguely resembling a person, slumped over a table and dripping rivulets onto the floor.

Hong-er unconsciously touches the damp spot on his sleeve. At the counter, Mr. Zhu makes no move to acknowledge the mess. Talk about double standards. If it were Hong-er, his skull would be scattered on the floorboards already. He stands there briefly, pondering whether to approach, but in the pleasant chill of early evening, it’s easier to keep it cool. It helps that the tables near the entrance enjoy a view to the town square, where a small stage and rows of cheap metal chairs await tonight’s performances. Already a pair of musicians thumb a pipa and fiddle with an erhu, drowning the hum of nightlife in sweet melody. 

Hong-er follows the breeze to one of those tables. His hands have stopped sweating buckets; his heart, on the other hand, thumps with the violence of mountains torn asunder, terrible and unstoppable. 

It’s nearly enough to tear him asunder. By the end of the evening, it might. He's no good at bad endings; he's no good with endings at all, but for this, he’ll stave off his greed and take whatever conclusion he’s given. He will buy as many bowls of cold noodles as Xie Lian wants and make sure he arrives home safely, like they’ve always done. No matter what. 

In their private chat, Hong-er sends a picture of the town square from his view. See you in twenty? dinner’s on me, the caption reads, multiple tries later. His thoughts grow teeth and gnaw every word to the bone until he’s dizzy, right eye pulsing under the eyepatch. The phone clatters onto the table as he fumbles for that half-empty vial. 

Before he can, however, an unexpected weight drops onto the seat across the table. Hong-er glances up to the mockery of a dimpled cheek. 

“Found ya,” says Qi Rong with a grin.

More familiar faces enter the shop in tandem; one, two, three. That skittish boy from before isn’t among them. They come to stand uncomfortably close around the table, clothes grazing the thin of Hong-er’s hair, and it takes every fiber in his body not to snap at their necks like an animal. 

But bare his teeth he will do. 

“You sure you won’t need a fifth?” drawls Hong-er in that lazy, disdainful way that never fails to start trouble. 

By the looks of it, it’s not like they’re here to talk. 

Qi Rong clicks his tongue. 

“Look at this guy—so fucking rude, what’s with you? No no no, nevermind, I get it. So this is the kind of person that shitty monk likes. The student really does take after the master.”

“And what kind of person is that?”

Qi Rong takes his time. Tips his chair on its hind legs, swaying, eyes narrowing as they scour Hong-er’s face with the sort of fascination one would grant a particularly heinous bug. 

“You made our Lang Ying cry, you know,” he says at last. “That fragile little flower. He was so sad to lose his only friend that he wouldn’t come with us. But don’t worry. Next time he gets such a noisy pet, I’ll make sure to crush its throat first. Just kidding, just kidding, hahaha!” 

Hong-er props his cheek on one hand. “Oh? That could work. I happen to know just the noisy cunt for it.”

Laughter slips from Qi Rong’s face like it was never there. 

“Enough joking around. I came to talk about something that’s been bothering me.” The chair clicks against the floor as he leans in to meet Hong-er’s eye — the one guarded by that sweet chrysanthemum, pulsing and unseeing. Qi Rong jerks his chin at it. “Where’d you get that?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s my cousin’s, isn’t it? So I think it’s my business.”

Hong-er smiles cheerfully.

"I think you should kill yourself." 

A bang, loud and discordant, thwarts the melody of the pipa, then rolls along grumbling drums. The table quivers under Qi Rong’s fists, but his fury drowns in the sound, and the way his face swells with anger only makes him look younger, all the mien of a petulant child. 

“Shouldn’t have bothered being nice to a freak like you,” he snarls. “Acting like you’re so much better than me, did you misunderstand something? Look at me, then look at you. You're not even close. But I'm a nice guy, so I’ll give you a chance to save yourself some face: listen to me and stay the fuck away from my cousin.”

Hong-er goes dead still. 

“What did you say?” 

His voice is a meager wisp, impossibly soft, yet the rotten feeling in his throat seeps into it pungent.

Qi Rong's sneer is vulture-like.

“You deaf too or just stupid? Ah, that’s right! My bad. I heard you didn’t finish school. Let me put this in a way you’ll understand.” He leans in further still and lowers his tone. “Private classes, what private classes? You don’t seem all that helpless to me. I think you’re making up excuses to spend time with Cousin. Why else would he bother with an ugly freak like you? I mean, I get it. I don’t blame you. With a face like that, no wonder you’re so desperate for friends—or! Knowing you country bumpkins, maybe it’s not a friend you’re looking for.” His eyes, feverish with malice, flicker to the eyepatch and back. “Is that how it is? You think he’s pretty? You wanna fuck him?”

Everything goes red in that instant. 

Chairs fly and crash onto the floor in a whirlwind of fury, and beneath it the awful sound of Qi Rong choking and sputtering horrors, neck tendons straining under Hong-er thumbs. It’s a minute explosion, the blink of a firecracker blast, yet the marks remain on Qi Rong’s throat even as Hong-er is wrenched away.

He goes with an animal noise, kicking and thrashing against three separate pairs of hands — the fucking audacity of those hands — get off me get off me get off get the FUCK OFF. 

Qi Rong is doubled over and spitting everywhere as he cackles, hysterical, near euphoric. The mosaic of bruises above his chest only seems to spur him on. 

“Amazing! He really is like a rabid dog! Did Cousin teach you any tricks? Go on, be a good boy and roll over, roll over!”

Behind him, Mr. Zhu finally stirs, heaving his gigantic frame around the counter in slow, purposeful steps. A clear warning: it doesn’t matter what happened or who started it; he’ll smack them all dead for threatening his peace. 

Hong-er bites the nearest living thing, sinking teeth, and blood floods his mouth. The boy at his side staggers with a horrible wail, and Hong-er shakes himself free as the hands on him loosen in shock. 

He wipes at his chin with a sleeve. That rotten feeling has spread through his insides, festering like maggots in the knot of his gut, like it might eat through flesh and turn him into the putrid creature he is at heart. 

“Wanna have a go?” asks Hong-er, nodding towards the open. “Bring your friends, I don’t mind. Anything to keep the shit inside your mouth.”

Qi Rong hesitates, but the looming figure at the corner of his eye doesn’t give him time to dwell on it. 

“Fine. But don’t you pussy out,” he barks and leaves with two of his friends in a tow. The last one, still clutching his bleeding ear, shrugs off their calls and scurries away whimpering.

Mr. Zhu’s gaze meets Hong-er’s from a few tables away, pacified for the moment. Water pools at his feet where it drips from that black blob of a person the next table over. Hong-er’s fingers, twitching, reach into his sash and shake out a pair of snake eyes. 

He snorts. Of course. 

Nothing more than a trick. 

The alley behind the noodle shop is damp, nasty and out of sight, and what starts as a petty brawl quickly molds to the filth around it. They scrape their limbs raw against moss-covered walls, wrestling like rabid dogs, rolling in heaps of wet trash dripping thick, foul juice. 

Hong-er earns himself a mouthful when he’s flung into one of those heaps. The good thing is that it smells and tastes only a tad worse than Mei Nianqing’s revolting medicine, so at least he manages not to puke everywhere. The bad thing is that he bounces off onto the slick ground and barely feels a thing — his jaw is swollen, tongue heavy in his mouth, head filled with cotton and the haze of spilled blood, not all of it his. 

Hong-er rolls and collapses onto his stomach, arms too numb to get him up. No point wasting energy anyway. All he can do is grit his teeth as a hand yanks at his braid, nearly taking his scalp with it. 

“Who’s the useless trash now?” hisses Qi Rong into his ear.

Big fucking talk for someone whose head Hong-er had squashed into the wall like an overripe melon not even five minutes ago. Qi Rong's face is still thwarted from it, bruised dark red, one cheekbone poking higher than the other. At least he'd come out of it swinging, delirious with rage and laughter, unlike those two half-dead losers crawling their way out of the alley. 

The tug is so swift Hong-er doesn’t notice what’s wrong until a gust of air hits his right eye. It throbs and stings with tears, then quickly snaps shut as Qi Rong yanks his hair again.

“You thieving good-for-nothings should be put in cages,” he says, dangling the eyepatch between his fingers.

“I didn’t fucking steal it,” snarls Hong-er for the nth time. “He gave it to me.”

“Shut up. Even if he did, what’s trash like you gonna do with it? Jerk off all over it?”

Hong-er spits a clump of bile onto his face.

Qi Rong scrambles away, cursing, then punts Hong-er so hard in the ribs it leaves him seeing stars. Time slows in the darkness behind his eyelids, dictated by the faraway thrumming of drums, which travels through the ground and reverberates in Hong-er’s teeth.

High above in the sky, a flock of birds soars past, echoing a familiar call.

When he blinks open, tumbled on his better side, the first thing he sees is the proud snout of that fox mask a few inches away. It must’ve fallen off between one punch and another.

Hong-er extends his hand; Qi Rong swoops in and kicks it out of reach. 

“This thing gives me the creeps. It’s almost as ugly as you," he mutters, hovering his foot above the mask. 

“No!” Hong-er rasps. 

With a flash of teeth, Qi Rong stomps.

The world goes out with a bang — shuddering earth, fleeting darkness, a single heartbeat in a silent void — and pieces itself together with a bloodcurdling scream. 

Between one flash and the other Qi Rong has crumpled to the ground, shaking uncontrollably; his faintest sounds are steeped in bone-deep misery. Hong-er’s right eye pulses with every whimper, fluttering as he wobbles to a stand. His body feels oddly light.

Qi Rong’s, on the other hand, looks fresh off a grave. 

His leg is rotting from the knee down. Blackened and swollen, the skin oozes fluids and the vile, all-consuming stench of death. Hair-thin purple veins slowly creep up his thigh. 

Confused and panicked, the two boys rush to Qi Rong's aid. Their noises blend into static as Hong-er stares at the mask, whose wicked snarl remains intact. 

Out in the town square, the performance continues without a hitch. 

“Fuck,” Hong-er mutters.

There’s no cheating his way out of this one, is there. 

He can already hear the rumor mill turn: ugly, brooding Hong-er goes mad with envy over a bunch of good-looking city kids and brutally maims Xie Lian’s little cousin without a hint, not a shred of—

Oh god, Xie Lian.

Hong-er scrambles for what remains of his phone, only for it to crumble marvelously after four long, prosperous years. Cool. No problem. How long has it been again? Ten minutes? An hour?

Will he even come?

“Shut up,” Hong-er growls. 

His buzzing thoughts cease all at once. Instead, there are the frantic cries of Qi Rong's friends, who look at him in pleading. 

“He can't even talk! What the hell did you do?”

“Who cares? It’s already done." Hong-er takes a step forward. "And I’ll do it again if you don’t fuck off.” 

Whatever they see on his face has them hauling Qi Rong out in the street without a word to his pained whimpers. Or maybe it’s this foul air that clings to skin like grease and worsens by the second. It grips Hong-er in a way that makes him acutely aware of the body he owns — makes him wonder what he must look like. He’s never cared for fighting beyond the hurting, the bruising, the salve and bandages with which he can patch up his face until it’s unrecognizable. There’s no need for such convenient excuses here. Nothing in this piss-stinking alley warrants a guise. 

On the ground, silk ribbons and butterfly pins miserably trail in filth. Feeling a little sorry, Hong-er picks them up and wipes them with his sleeves one by one, though his own robes fare no better. He’s scoured the nooks between each cobble twice over by the time gold waives from the sky, to no hint of the eyepatch. 

Fuck. Of course. Qi Rong must’ve taken it. Hong-er slides down the wall with a sigh, then wiggles out the — miraculously whole — eyedrop vial. His brain is splitting itself in four different corners, and as much as he hates the tears, the sting helps center his thoughts. 

He blinks into focus. The vision on his right is hardly anything — meaningless clumps of shadow, light sprinkled here and there. It’s worse than it used to be. 

Amidst the haze, that fox mask lays by his feet crystal clear.

The backdoor to the noodle shop swings open. 

Hong-er hurriedly covers his eye. Mr. Zhu, nearly bent in half, worms through the opening carrying a bowl and chopsticks and holds it there, blinking. Hong-er blinks his good eye back. 

The silence perdures until it grates like metal on teeth, at which point Mr. Zhu seems damn near ready to hurl that ceramic bowl at his head — yet those deep wrinkles around his eyes have never been gentler. Almost... sympathetic. 

“Oh,” Hong-er says, realization turning embarrassment and sitting oddly in his chest. It’s tangled with something else, something that mirrors that spark of warmth in Mr. Zhu’s gaze, but it feels weird to acknowledge either with their shared history. 

Hong-er takes the bowl and chopsticks stiffly, nearly soaking his lap in broth. Before he knows it, the door closes with a slam. Good. Saves them both face. The air is breathable again — or as breathable as condensed waste can be — as though some centuries-old grudge has dispersed. 

Absently, Hong-er digs into the bowl for what seems like a chunk of meat and lifts it to his mouth. 

He pauses. 

A severed thumb wiggles between a pair of bloody chopsticks.

Hong-er jumps three feet high. 

"Ah! "

The bowl topples over with a sickening slosh, and the phantoms in his vision part to reveal a gruesome sight: tangles of wet, fine hair; human and non-human teeth still clinging to gum tissue; a varied portion of tiny fingers, curling nails, blistered toes and even the twirly part of an inner ear, all dipped in thick sangria. 

Hong-er frantically shakes his sandals clean, eyes darting everywhere at once. It’s a moment too late when he remembers the mask just inches away, but dives to snatch it anyway — and finds it utterly pristine. Not a single drop or speck of filth. That dubious red liquid slithers down the ground, draws a sharp curve where the mask had been, and vanishes into a crevice.

Something is knocking at the back of Hong-er’s mind, desperate to be let in. Mei Nianqing’s voice throughout the years weave tales into a believable fantasy, a place where the Venus flytrap on the windowsill never opens, yet always reeks of fresh blood; where the halls at night hum to slumbering demons, and a great wide lake longs for a fated meeting. Not a memory. A knowledge forgotten. 

The backdoor creaks open again. This time Hong-er doesn’t even flinch.

That figure in black — no, that creature — comes out crawling on all fours, its puny limbs twisting and bending under the weight of its soaked frame. It lets out a ravenous growl and dives into that pile of gore, jaw parting to reveal rows of sharp, recurved teeth. 

Like an abyssal fish, thinks Hong-er, petrified with fascination. A thin humanoid covered in scales and gills and webbed limbs and wide, hollow eyes. Outrageously ugly. And a little pathetic. It slurps on that tangle of hair with feverish whimpers, as though it hasn’t fed in millenia. 

The abyssal laps up that mess in the blink of an eye. The next moment, however, a violent shudder seizes its body; it gurgles, bends over, and vomits an endless gush of sludge. 

Hong-er doesn’t know whether to pity or loathe it. Though the best it can muster is a lifeless stare, the abyssal oggles the lost meal with an air of longing. 

Those dead eyes snap up all of sudden.

“Don’t even think about it,” Hong-er barks. He’s at least three heads taller and, for the first time ever, twice as robust. One kick is all it will take. 

The abyssal gazes off into space as if considering those words. Then a flash of lucidity crosses its ashen face, and it slowly begins to rise. 

And rise. And rise. Swelling wider and taller as water leaks in currents down its temples, slithers from its robes up its neck, rushing into whatever hole it can find: mouth, gills, ears, the corners of the eyes. The torso pops out first, painfully round and quivering like a tangle of snakes might just burst from the inside. Pathetic little limbs and a tiny head surround it, utterly bizarre, before they, too, begin to fill.

An awful gurgle rattles its body into stillness. The alley around them seems to have shrunk, an afterthought in the shadow of the colossal beast that now stands in it. 

Those massive jaws part impossibly wide, tilting up ever so slightly. Mocking. 

Hong-er's eyebrows shoot up. 

"I see," he says. 

Jagged fangs flash before his eyes, and he bolts. 

He’s out of the alley faster than his feet can follow, sandals coming loose and tumbling him out of control. Across the street, perfectly lined up, a charming lantern stand glints like a row of pins awaiting a strike. 

Bowling ball Hong-er, fast approaching, is halted by a firm grip on his collar — then dangled inches above the ground. He blinks down at the sleek pincers digging into his robes, then up at the face scowling at him. What a face indeed. Hong-er’s seen countless nuo masks on the way here, wrathful deities and anguished demons aplenty, but none as elaborate as this. 

Perhaps because it moves, and it’s very much real. 

“Are you out of your mind? If those feet ain’t doing their job, might as well cut them off!” shouts the fierce-faced lantern maker. “You young punks think we’re all fresh off the grave. Do you know how hard it is to keep these souls burning, huh? They’re centuries old! A sneeze and they’re gone! Gone, I tell you!”

He’s shaking Hong-er into a blur, but it’s hard to pay mind. His attention is solely on the lantern maker’s torso, a rigid and sectioned plate like a beetle’s, and the three pairs of fuzzy limbs sprouting from it. They flutter around a crafting bench to the side, each with a separate mind: chiseling bamboo stalks, spinning silk, waving paint brushes and whisks, then merging it all into fine, dazzling lanterns. But the true magic of it comes from elsewhere: further back, at the center of a hastily-drawn array, several glass jars glow faintly in the dark. 

Wisps of light bob along tiny glass cages, blinking in and out of sight. At times there will be resplendence — a joint effort towards warmth — but it never makes it quite so far.  Each time they fade feels like the last. 

“You looking to buy?” grunts the lantern-maker when he catches Hong-er staring. One pincer grabs an unfinished lantern from the pile and dangles it threateningly above them. “Or maybe you’re looking to join them, heh. Such a frail little spirit, I bet you won’t put up a fight at all. How about that? You shine a pretty little light for me and I’ll—eh?” His antennae jerk towards Hong-er, whom he studies for several moments. Then his beady eyes widen. “Blimey, you’re no ghost! Then why do you smell like...”

A shiver creeps up Hong-er’s spine. 

Suddenly hyper aware of eyes on the back of his neck, he tries to pry those pincers open, to no avail. As the lantern-maker delves into oblivious rambling, a seething shadow bursts out of the alley, howling madness into the night.

Hong-er goes limp in that grasp. This is it, then. Whatever. So long as this piece of shit beetle dies too.

Yet unexpectedly, at the very last moment, he's flung high and out of the way. The abyssal crashes down like a wave, squashing the lantern-maker into a gooey puddle, and with it dozens of twinkling lanterns turn to dust. A ringing shatter rattles the night: countless soulwisps burst through the jagged shards of their cages, exploding like fireworks into the sky.

There’s no time for awe. The abyssal rises from the rubble with a growl, crushing the last of the lantern-maker’s twitching limbs. A glimpse of those hollow eyes, feverish with hunger, is the push Hong-er needs to get off the ground. Sharp claws slice after him, relentless; he ducks, spots something by the abyssal’s webbed talons, snaps after it. That fox mask all but jumps into his hand, and he’s gone with barely a head on his shoulders.

Hong-er bursts into the town square to thundering clamor. Rough stone grates the soles of his feet, but his wince is cut short as utter havoc unravels before him. The stage has been ravaged by hollering rascals in all manners of costumes, each more gruesome than the next: festering wounds oozing mucus, eyeballs hanging by their tissues, a frothing mouth where a stomach should be. With the musicians nowhere in the picture, their poor instruments bear the brunt, either smashed to pieces or swallowed whole. 

A freakshow for a freak audience, and this one hardly disappoints. Abominations spill across the front seats like a disease, booing and cackling and hurling all sorts of things at the performers, who requite with increasing aggression. One stray projectile zips over the crowd and lands heavily inches from Hong-er.

“Excuse me,” chirps the severed human head by his feet, “would you be so kind as to pick me up?”

Fuck me, he thinks. His right eye throbs in agreement. Or perhaps foreboding; soon what begins as a faint noise in the distance creeps through the ground with a rumble, growing louder and stronger. 

“Excuse me, gentleman?” chirps the head again. 

Hong-er punts it into the crowd and promptly dives under the nearest seat. Their deranged shrieks jostle the chairs above as he crawls forth, away from that dark presence fast approaching. It reeks of evil, Mei Nianqing had said, and the lantern-maker had distinguished something in his scent. Perhaps if the abyssal can’t see him, the smell of this band of freaks will throw it off his tail. 

Mask clenched between teeth, he drags the sorry silks of his borrowed robes through the dubious mess on the ground. Hong-er pointedly does not peek when his hands brush something squishy, but every time it happens he goes a little more frantic. 

Suddenly CLANG! — the tip of a rusty sword strikes the ground before him, freezing him on the spot.

The chair above crumbles in clean halves. Hong-er blinks up the length of that sword and finds a ghost soldier at its end, blindfolded. That severed human head  nearly vibrates out of the soldier’s free hand. 

“It’s here, the human is here! Stop eating us, eat him!” cries the head.

Seriously? 

And he’d helped and everything!

Hong-er leaps onto the next chair and hops off into a mad sprint. The sight of him sends the abyssal raging anew, indignated; it spits out the lower half of a corpse and lurches, souring the air with its killing intent. 

Everything is a blur. They race the streets one smear after another, a blazing trail of lanterns overhead. Upstream the path narrows drastically, but to the massive beast on his heels that’s no issue: everything is meant to be trampled. From the edge of his good eye, Hong-er sees a spectral ox cart splash into the canal below. Something thin and slender shoots through the surface and snatches at it, then vanishes into the deep. 

The overwhelming sweetness that had lured Hong-er in permeates every twist and turn. In his mind’s eye, a human leg rots alive. His pounding heart drowns the sounds of destruction all around him, and he urges his trembling legs down worn stone steps. The bridge isn’t far ahead. If none of the people out in these streets are people, there’s only place he can —

“...should be you, not me ...!"

At the sound of these words, clear and human, Hong-er snaps around. 

The abyssal hurls a large wooden carriage like it’s nothing.

He barely crouches in time. The carriage slams onto his back and tumbles down the stairs, nearly taking him with it. By the time Hong-er realizes his mistake, his legs have long given out. 

Abyssal fury crashes upon him, dragging him into the dark. 

Actually, it’s that godawful mask blocking his sight. 

Flat on his back, Hong-er briefly marvels at the precise physics of such a fall: his neck still intact, the mask upon his face near to fit, only slightly askew. His brain feels like a nap, floating and hazy, but the sharp jab into his tailbone is getting too painful to ignore. 

Hong-er shoves the mask aside, spots dancing across his eyes. Groaning, he rolls to find himself not in the belly of a beast, but on the remains of the wrecked carriage, a few good meters down street. Demonic visions lurk in his left periphery, undecipherable, but whether they care to look or what they are takes a backseat in his mind. The beast itself stirs from the pile of rubble before him. 

It struggles to find balance; trips over its talons, snarling, as if tormented by something  unseen. Utterly oblivious to Hong-er, who rises precariously. Immediately it hits him that they now stand at similar heights. 

As the abyssal wails and trashes, the culprit soon reveals itself: a wooden stake run through its ribs, piercing through its back. Water gushes ceaselessly from the wound. 

Of course. What had he been doing, running off like a wimp? He’d kept his knife sharp to sate carving fancies, but dead fish flesh can’t be any tougher than maple. Hong-er pats his pockets and groans when they come up empty. His knife. He should’ve pilfered Mei Nianqing when he had the chance, god fucking—

A thought flashes in his mind.

Silver and sharp.

The hairpins! 

Hong-er yanks his braid free and charges with a cry. He rams one silver pin deep into the abyssal's neck, twisting with all his might. An inhuman screech sweeps past the rooftops, scaring the nightbirds into flight. The abyssal desperately claws at air as he dances in circles, and with a flourish Hong-er swings the last pin: a clean strike into its forehead. 

The abyssal staggers back, eyes gone blank. Water pools on the ground as its body continues to shrink. 

“...How sad,” it croaks. A voice like scraping stones, deeply melancholic. “So much... will to live, and yet...”

These are the last words Hong-er hears before the wet pile at his feet goes silent.

Nearby, someone audibly sighs. 

“...Bring out the mop, boys! Drama queen fell asleep again.”

A bubble pops around Hong-er, startling him to the crowd that's gathered in the meantime. It’s that time of the night when the sky is darker than black — likely past midnight — yet the street swells to an endless stream of bodies, some fickle and some solid; some missing limbs, others dragging one too many. 

The crowd parts around him and what remains of the abyssal and continues without a hitch. It takes another moment to realize they’re being acknowledged — by a plumed man in an apron, a cockscomb on his head and a wattle under his chin, no less. 

“And right during rush hour too,” grumbles the man, his bright red wattle shivering. “Quick, make it quick! Get him a bowl of soup ready before he wakes up. Can’t have him eating potential customers.”

From behind him emerges a horde of small chicken people with mops and buckets, and they quickly wipe the mess away. The abyssal’s shriveled body fits in a single bucket, while the rest carries meters of wet hair.

“Put him in the big pot—medium heat, yes. Thank you.” As the chicken people scurry away, the chicken man turns to Hong-er with a sigh. “Young spirits nowadays, all they think about is revenge. Well, if you gotta, then kill the thing that killed you and get it over with, am I right? Cock-a-doo!”

“Right,” tumbles out of Hong-er’s mouth. 

“We keep telling him to let it go, but every year it’s the same thing. Why me this, why me that. So stupid. I say, good on this young master for teaching him a lesson. Such a noble figure as yourself must appreciate only the most exquisite joys of death. In that case, would you care to grab a bite? I’ve been told my Tremendous Broth of Gut Explosion is a scrumptious delight, guaranteed to... where are you going?”

Into the vein of the crowd, which pulses like a beating heart. Everything is the same as before, from the lush offerings to the peddlers haggling prices — only this time they boast freshly-culled blood and trophies of mystical beasts. On the sidewalks, dozens gather to chat and eat as they please from the banquet laid across the street. Something achingly familiar dwells in the hum of unlife all around, how they lean into each other and hide their laughter behind hands.

Hong-er scuffs along in a trance until something catches his eye: the small shrine across the street, now empty and devoid of light. The last wisps of incense still linger, and in that hazy mist floats the mirage of a kind-eyed woman tending to her pipe, a little girl by her side. 

The little girl hops around. The paper lotus in her arms is dyed red, crinkling under the blood that gushes out of her mouth and stains the talisman on her head. The woman shudders; across her skin, countless eyes flutter open, twirling frantically. 

They snap to Hong-er all at once. 

It’s as if his mind slams back into his body, reminding his limbs that they’re a part of him. His heartbeat picks up anew and so do his feet, faster and faster until he’s razing ghosts like weeds.

Particularly lousy weeds, at that. 

“Bah, this generation is beyond redemption!”

“Ya think yer the ghost king? Get back here!”

“You looking to fight?” slurs a voice to Hong-er’s left, and a grip on his arm turns him to a man-sized gibbon. 

Heat surges up Hong-er’s head. 

“ Scram,” he growls.

The gibbon tears away as if struck by lightning. Hong-er’s bristling with something vicious, a strange energy that crackles in his ears. No sooner does he turn than a path clears before him. 

In the far moonlit distance, the stone bridge is a lone specter crossing the river.

Hong-er’s eyes never stray from it — not until the only sound is the chirping of crickets, and late summer’s gentle chill has chased the sweetness off his lungs. Only then does he dare look back. A wall of mist cloaks half the town, unyielding. The mere sight of it is overwhelming. 

Walking backwards into the bridge, Hong-er finally allows himself a deep breath. It seems, however, that tonight is not the time for respite. 

There is something behind him. 

Stillness looms where a second ago there was wind, and he senses that presence in the back of his throat. Even for an amateur in haunted affairs, it would be foolish to think nothing would wander beyond the mist. 

But it’s not fear that roots Hong-er where he stands. It's... a thrill, an anticipation that leaves him strung and aching for more. Exhilarating, like palming cards up one sleeve. The thing behind him isn't human, that much he knows. But neither does it seem like anything he’s seen tonight. Such a distinct presence is impossible to ignore, yet it makes no move to demand his attention, standing seamless with the night. 

It’s a wonder curiosity hasn’t killed him yet.

Steeling himself, Hong-er turns.

The first glimpse of white nearly blinds him, so stark it is against the dark. They’re closer than he’d thought; close enough that he can see tears in white fabric, the faint trace of a washed-out pattern. A strip of bandage peeks out from under the collar, loose and slightly rumpled. Right lapel over the left.

Hong-er raises his bent head, and a shudder rolls through his body unbidden. After the horrors from earlier, he’d expected something different — a face fit for nightmares, or any face at all.

What greets him instead is a faceless white mask. 

A spirit-calling banner dangles above the figure’s white hood. Hong-er finds himself glancing at it; it’s hard to face the figure straight on. Even though he stands taller, even though that mask is utterly blank, there is no hiding the sheer intensity of the gaze that lies beneath it.

There is nowhere to hide under moonlight.

Hong-er finds he doesn’t mind. That gaze washes over him like it’s a natural thing to be looked at and not hurt for it. It’s... strangely familiar. He thinks of the few times there was comfort in being seen, and in his memories it’s always the same eyes: dark brown, so very warm. And every time that raging greed: look at me. He’d dare approach and burn a thousand times over, if only those eyes would never leave his. Look at me. Look at me. He will never dare. All the horrors that lurk in the mist can’t compare to the horror of his shame.

That white-clothed figure tilts its head almost imperceptibly. 

Let me look at you, it seems to say. 

Hong-er takes a hesitant step. 

“Do I know you?” he whispers. 

It might be a stretch, but... after all of this, memories of his younger years have resurfaced in a different light. The stray shadows that would creep on the ceiling of his childhood shack at night, retreating whenever he opened his eyes. Porcelain that would burst into pieces spontaneously, so long as he was in the room. No one believed him then, and eventually neither did Hong-er.  

Were these things hidden in plain sight all along? Could it be, then, that their paths had crossed at some point?

A gust of wind blows past, ruffling his soiled robes beyond salvation. That white figure remains utterly still — not a single flutter of cloth. In this absence of movement, even the subtle shift of its shoulders sets Hong-er on his toes. It quickly freezes again.

Hong-er berates himself; wrestles his fists open, then tilts his head with meaning.

A bandaged hand rises in the space between them, inching towards his face. His breath hitches. It’s not just him trembling. The hand before his eyes wavers, and the first touch is so gentle it's barely there: fingers brush the swell of his cheek, curling around his jaw. They stroke over lumps of dead flesh; the dent of a broken nose never fully healed; the sagging skin under his right eye, glistening blood red. 

Moonlight falls upon that mask cold and graceless. Through the blur of tears, Hong-er sees his own hand reach for it and—

The figure reels back viciously.

An invisible spell shatters around them.

“Wait!” cries Hong-er. 

He stumbles ahead, desperately grasping at something, anything, but the bridge seems to go on forever, and a sudden gale knocks him off his feet. 

In a flourish of white petals, the faceless stranger vanishes with the wind. 

Hong-er watches, helpless, as they gently flutter into the water, a shimmering starfall. A single petal lands on his face and clings to the trail of his tears.

Too soft to be an accusation, yet he scrubs his face until it burns hotter than embarrassment nonetheless. To cry this easily when broken ribs and weeks of starvation hadn’t pried a single whimper out of him... Perhaps living well made him soft. Or perhaps... 

His hands falter. The ghost of the stranger’s touch lingers like a missing piece. There had been something then, a heaviness in the air, inside him. So much warmth and longing he’d nearly burst with it. And yet, no matter how hard he chases that feeling, it slips farther and farther away, almost like it was never his in the first place.

Hong-er rubs his eyes and sighs. His head is pulsing, and even the slightest attempt at  a coherent thought leaves him dizzy. Every inch of his body feels like death thrice over. His borrowed robes are in tatters, not an eyedrop left in the vial, and he vaguely recalls ditching that fox mask somewhere in the mist. To make matters worse, it’s a hundred-step ascent to Qiandeng Temple. 

Mei Nianqing better have a good explanation for all of this, or there will be hell to pay.

It’s well past step two-hundred and fourty when Hong-er loses count. 

The journey is humbly lit by lanterns, interspersed with resting stops, but age and nature leave their tracks in crumbling stone and swatches of moss. Best not to tempt fate, even if that means painstakingly dragging his carcass inch by inch. 

Hidden critters sing under the cover of night, and the serene rustle of the maples turns it into an eerie hymn. It’s all but background noise by the time Hong-er realizes: he’s alone, stumbling in half-dark, and not once did it occur that something might follow. That crawling awareness of nearby danger — utterly gone. It seems ridiculous, even, to imply those lesser fiends could trample sacred grounds. 

He balks at this thought. How could he know? Mei Nianqing never mentioned anything about ghosts on temple grounds, yet this rings as true as fact. He takes in his surroundings; how the quiet feels like a living, breathing thing, and disturbing it the worst of taboos; how he tries to picture odd shadows in the trees as spirits consumed by hunger, and how quickly soothing waves wash away their forms. If the energy of evil can be felt, then—

—oh. That’s the outer courtyard right ahead, isn’t?

Hong-er nearly weeps at the sight of that old paifang. He charges ahead with renewed vigor, three steps in one, and promptly faceplants onto the ground. 

“...Ugh," he groans. 

After all that brawling and running, this might just be what does him in. 

Nevertheless, it's no use braving a mountain if not for the peak, and so he turns to investigate what tripped him up. For a brief, confused moment, Hong-er squints at the vague lump by his feet. 

The craftsmanship is somehow even worse in the dark.

“How did... no, nevermind. Welcome back, I guess.” The fox mask, of course, says nothing, but sits there with a vague sense of anticipation. When he goes to grab it, a searing jolt nearly blasts his hand off. “Ow! What the hell?”

Perhaps it mistook him for someone else? They’d gotten along well enough, or so Hong-er had thought. Nursing his pulsing hand, he reaches out with the other and slowly, carefully—

“ Fuck! Cut that off already!”

Furiously wriggling both hands, Hong-er wages a glaring battle against that vicious snarl. Chiaroscuro paints it fierce; those crooked corners, so pitiful in daylight, seem to shiver in growling as lantern light flickers by. A near-tangible aura surrounds it, though not quite malicious. Demanding. Waiting for something. 

Hong-er rubs his eye and sighs.

“...Alright, fine. My bad for leaving you behind. I’ll lock you up in your lame little box and never touch you again.” A shockwave jolts his whole body. “Ah! I won’t, I won’t lock you up!” 

Though ever serene, rarely does this place seem so devoid of life. It’s a Qiandeng tradition to host modest banquets and ceremonies to honor the dead, as it is for Hong-er to perch on the roof or an empty balcony and watch the stream of people, hear the whistle of the flute lead the chants below. Regular nights find the temple cats hissing and yowling, and the occasional couple sneaking kisses by the lake.

The mask thrums in Hong-er’s grip, pacified for the moment. It seems to confirm what he already knows: this is no regular night. Even the cats have vanished from their usual spots, their bowls left untouched.

Halfway into the courtyard his steps falter, and he too begins to ponder: what’s there to do in a place like this, anyway? Sulk in a corner with a bunch of old monks? Much rather go back to the streets, where the life of the party is. Yes, he ought to leave as soon as possible, stay as far from here as he can. With that in mind, Hong-er turns on his feet and—

Pain flares up his wrist.

He lurches back, hissing. Not at the sting, minute at it is, but at the pressure in his skull as those foreign thoughts dwindle, returning him to his own. Whatever dwells in the mountain air had crept onto him before he could notice it, and likely not for the first time. 

Hong-er glances at the mask in his hand. Warmth coils around his wrist, soothing the ache. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. 

Something flashes out the edge of his vision. 

His right eye slips shut, rejecting the brilliance, yet the moment he turns to look it's gone. Hong-er blinks both eyes open — and there it is, that flickering glow under the arch of the paifang. So this is how it works. No wonder he's been seeing things like never before. 

As he nears the two guardian statues, the air between them shimmers, weaving a glowing symbol. Just looking at it has him wrestling his feet. It's a far more complex shape than he can comprehend, surrounded by columns of writing in a language that seems familiar, yet at the same time utterly foreign. But the message couldn’t be clearer: leave. You may not cross as you please.

Hong-er huffs. 

“We’ll see about that.”

He chances a butterfly touch over the scriptures, and they ripple under his touch like the surface of a pond. An invisible wall of energy blocks the path beneath the paifang, dense yet malleable; with enough strength, it’s sure to give in. 

Bit by bit, Hong-er’s fingers sink into the wall. 

The bends of his knuckles are nearly through when he pulls back fully, apprehension simmering in his gut. For all Hong-er knows, all his memories of this place have been thwarted by smoke and mirrors. Who can say, then, what awaits on the other side? Will Mei Nianqing show him the same face, now that he knows what he knows?

Hong-er fiddles with the string of the mask. Those hollow eyes, bottomless in half-light, fill him with the assurance that strange isn’t all bad. With a deep breath, he slips it on. 

Energy bends to his weight, thick and cool, folding over his knees, elbows and shoulders, until he’s swallowed whole. That viscous wall presses in, squeezing the breath out of his chest, and for a panicked moment, Hong-er’s very life flashes before his eyes.

Granted, it’s a short life, and mediocre at best, so not much to flash by. The pressure around him swells and pop! — flings him into the other side.

Hong-er slams face-first into someone’s back.

Or... something, rather. A distinctly foul smell clings to his nose when pulls away and meets a pair of cold, red eyes. 

“ ...Excuse me, ” hisses the ghost.

It is, undeniably, a ghost. A late bride by the looks of it, covered in the rags of what once must’ve been a gorgeous wedding attire. A delicate red veil frames her face, half of which has been eaten by maggots. 

She’s at least two heads shorter than him, and it takes Hong-er a moment to figure out why: both of her legs are broken at the knees, trailing behind her. And he’s currently stepping on them.

“Ah, yes.” He gingerly steps aside. “My eyes, you see. Haven’t been the same since the execution.”

The bride rightens her skirts with a huff. Thankfully, he’s spared from further disdain when a young woman on high heels wobbles over, spluttering from behind her feathered boa. There's a strange bundle strapped to the front of her bodycon, which jostles with every teetering step. 

“Oioioi, guess what! Told ya getting the best seats would be a piece of cake.”

“Only because your baby daddy is a pushover,” the bride says dryly. 

“That he is. But it worked out, didn’t it? He gets to do a good deed, we get to skip this damned line.” The woman clicks her tongue. “Fukin’ pigs won’t stop shoving people, don’t even care that there’s a child.” 

Hong-er sweeps a look across the length of the stairs, and sure enough, a writhing mass of bodies loops all the way around and into the temple. Much like before, they vary from humanoid forms to gargantuan creatures of the deepest nightmares — each dressed to the nines in their own fashion, whether Tang-style billowing gowns or sequin pants from the latest season. 

He raises his eyes to a sea of lights, and suddenly he’s twelve again.

Everything was so majestic then, when the walls were too tall to climb and the wind chimes hung a sky away. Hong-er remembers struggling to fathom such eminence; wondering if it was okay to smear it with his presence, even though the roof had long caved in numerous places, the murals chafed and faded out. 

Tonight, these embellished memories turn reality in the glow of a thousand lights. Ghost fires trail the bones of the temple, so long buried in reminiscence, and spread their shine as far as the eye can see. 

Though it can’t see much, Hong-er’s right eye still burns with the fulgor. He blinks back to the scene in front of him. The woman in heels is rummaging through her purse; then, she pops a cigarette into her mouth and lights it with a snap of her fingers. The bundle on her chest stirs with an ear-splitting shriek. It thrashes maniacally, swinging a forked tongue like a whip. 

As it turns out, the child in question is a malformed, oversized fetus. 

“No crying, no crying,” the woman coos, plucking out her cigarette. That forked tongue snatches it instantly. “Mhm, there you go. Be a good boy for mama, eh? If you don’t, Xuan-jie will eat you whole.”

The bride’s lips twitch in distaste. 

“Nonsense. What do you take me for, that tasteless green slob?” 

“Hehehe, well, somebody’s gotta take his place now that he’s on probation. Heard the lord won’t be lifting his sentence for another ten cycles. Just desserts, I say!”

“You forget we’re not better off,” says the bride gravely. “Ever since the Disturbance, the wheel has been ceasing to turn. Most of them are in denial, but you and I know it’s true. Ten cycles, ten hundred, ten thousand cycles—does it matter what the lord says? Once it ceases to turn, we’ll be stuck all the same.”

The woman rocks her slobbering fetus as she listens, her face growing more and more solemn. She visibly fights off a grimace before speaking.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. But things could be changing, y’know? I mean, that’s what we’re here for.” The fetus vomits a lump of wet ash onto her boa. “Well, they are here for. We’re here for partying, not for moping, got it? So let’s get going before some fucker takes our seats.”

At that, Hong-er perks up.

“Excuse me,” he says. 

They look at him in tandem. The bride, with blatant annoyance; the other, with mild interest. From this angle, her face is so familiar that Hong-er briefly forgets how to speak.

“So? What d’you—oh.” Her face flickers, and her whole demeanor shifts: from a careless lean to a deep bow in an instant. “Pardon my manners. What can we help with, young... master? My lord?”

Even the bride seems to quell her scorn, though clearly it pains her. The sudden mood change raises Hong-er’s eyebrows.

Young master it is, then. 

“I’m out of the loop, if you don’t mind filling me in,” he says — sweetly, with a bit of a young master's pomp. “What’s going on tonight?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Brimming with excitement, the young woman leans in. “Word has it that the previous grand priest has fallen ill, and his successor is to be formally introduced tonight. The successor? A stray weasel spirit. A weasel! And what’s more—our Lord Ghost King himself has come to send his regards. Why leave the Ghost Fortress in the middle of this chaos, all for a puny little weasel? I’ve no idea, but that’s the thing with fox spirits. Next thing you know he’s taken a fancy for weasel meat.”

“That’s enough gossip, Lan Chang,” the bride says, gently nudging her. “Let’s hurry before the gate closes.”

Soon they’re lost to the mayhem. Left to his own devices, Hong-er fringes the thick of the crowd in slow, absent steps. It doesn't escape him that a good portion of it shifts to keep the breadth. If he strains his ears, he can hear the air fizzle.

“You did something back there, didn’t you?” murmurs Hong-er. 

He doesn’t actually expect the mask to answer. When it does, it’s neither a sound nor a coherent thought, but the echo of a feeling distinctly not his own:

Yes.

It’s... strange. Feeling someone else’s feelings. Hong-er tries not to mind how well they fit under his skin. 

“But it doesn’t work with any ghost, correct?”

Correct. 

“Only weaker ones?”

...Yes. Begrudging, as if resenting the fact. 

Hong-er pffts.

“Alright, you keep doing that,” he says, nodding in encouragement. He’s still snorting a little, so it’s not too convincing. 

Slow steps flow into long strides as he heads to the gate. A muffled sound trails in his wake, growing louder and louder, until it’s finally recognizable as a voice.

“...aster Wu Ming! Young master Wu Ming, is that you?”

At the top of the steps, Hong-er half-turns. 

Light bleeds around his silhouette like a wound, casting red shadows across the faces below: a girl and a boy, both around his age. The boy is by far the least conspicuous figure around — one could take him for the son of some rich farmer, prim and proper in his suspenders and button-ups. There’s no question as to whether he’s human, but nothing brands him as a ghost, either. 

The girl is a whole other story. 

Those eyes would give her from a mile away: a vivid, shimmering gold, pupils narrowed into vertical slits. Purple veins run up her throat, curl over her temples, slithering flowery patterns across her ashen face. And if the snake motifs aren’t enough, she’s covered in actual snakes: in her hair, on her shoulders, peeking out of her clothes in all shapes and colors. 

They stand far in Hong-er’s shadow, hesitant before what appears to be an unbreachable chasm. 

Looking at him as if haunted. 

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Hong-er says.

His voice carries firm and even, but the slightest breeze can still topple a gold foil castle. He sees the exact moment their faces crumble. A sound like sob cuts off abruptly, lost to the clamor. 

It makes his insides churn. 

The girl composes herself first. She squeezes the hand in hers, then ravels into a deep bow.

“Sorry.” Her voice is the sort of quiet that edges a hiss. “You look like someone we knew.”

Hong-er raises his eyebrows. You can’t even see my face, he begins to say, but the jeer sours his mouth when he realizes: it’s not about the face beneath.

Turning fully, he asks, “...You know the owner of this mask?” 

“Used to,” says the girl. “A long time ago.”

“Was he a friend?”

“Yes.” A pause. “I... hope so. He was nice to us, at least. Even if...”

“Ban Yue,” says the boy, clutching her wrist tightly.

Ban Yue trails off to a vacant gaze. That invisible chasm between them widens with a despairing wail, and even then nothing comes from the mask. Not a thrum, not a buzz in the ears, nothing to say it’s anything but a dead piece of clay.

“That it’s, then. Couldn’t have been me,” says Hong-er softly. “I’m not a nice person at all.”

He tears his shadow off their faces without another word.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. As sobering a grace as fresh air is, it’s harder to shake off these implications than it is intoxication. After the abyssal, the faceless stranger, the mask and the two kids, the puzzle in Hong-er’s mind has grown from a vague sketch to something resembling a proper picture. And yet, the more pieces he finds, the less he can understand it. 

Lost in musings, he doesn’t notice the sabre until it’s right in his face.

“What do you think you’re doing? Back off!” hisses the gatekeeper. 

It’s a meritable blade, for sure. Sturdy. Undoubtedly a nicer sight than the wielder’s face, which is perpetually shifting — at times human, at times feline, indescribably both, an ever-present contempt to it. 

Nice though the blade may be, Hong-er is hardly pleased to have it pointed at him.

“What do I think I’m doing? Why don’t you tell me first?” he drawls with barely a glance at that rude sabre. “As far as I know we don’t train guard dogs.”

“Huh? Who are you calling a dog?” The second gatekeeper is broader, and everything from his features to the way speaks resembles a — well. Indeed a dog.

Hong-er can’t help a snort. Such a fortunate coincidence!

“You—!”

“Keep barking and we’ll end up here all night,” Cat quips, to Dog's fuming compliance. “And you. Quit wasting our time and get in line already. Or do you think yourself too good for that?” He measures Hong-er up and down. “By the looks of it, I doubt you even got an invitation.”

Echoing cheers burst from the crowd.

“Yeah, we’ve been waiting here for hours!”

“Get in the fucking line!”

Contrary to how word has it, Hong-er is hardly an unreasonable person. He knows that the reasonable thing to do at a time like this is to concede. However, he’s also been blessed with a ticking bomb for a temper, and something about these two goons in particular has the timer hurtling towards zero. 

“That’s right,” he mutters, “I do think I’m too good.”

There it is again — that crackling pressure, that heady rush that borders on pain. One step is all it takes for the blade to kiss his throat.

“I’m too good to deal with the stink of you filth, and I’m too good to allow two lowly spirits to think they have any power over me.” That voice, thwarted by odd pitches, claws out of his throat with an ancient echo, dark and profane. “Let me ask you something. How many thousand times have you crossed the underworld? How long have you guarded the walls of this temple? You must have quite a name to dare challenge me. Very well, then. I won’t take your lives. I will sever your limbs and feed you with them, and you’ll fucking thank me!”

His shadow has grown into a behemoth, encroaching the mob with dusk-tipped fangs. No one dares move an inch. 

The gatekeepers exchange terse glances. With a grimace full of dread, Dog draws a spirit bow out of thin air.

“This shit pay can’t even cover child support,” he mutters under his breath. 

Gripping his saber more firmly, Cat yells at the crowd, “Weren’t you all so brave a moment ago? This thing is one of you, so get to business before you even dream of getting in!”

The shadow goes berserk; shrieking, cackling, taunting as it grows thicker, darker, like it might burst out of the light. With a desolate warcry, the ghost mob charges.

Pathetic. Hong-er’s body thrums with that gleeful jeer, and the mask on his face burns. Before his eyes floats a visage of grabbing that bow and sabre and shoving their sharp ends down their wielders’ throats. Do it. His hands jerk. Anything that stands in our way must be trampled. If we don’t, our precious person will—

“—everyone, look! It’s raining money!”

All the noise grinds to a halt.

Countless heads — and headless trunks — whip towards the back of the crowd. There, from high up the shoulders of a mighty stone golem, Ban Yue tips over a bucket, and a deluge of joss paper sends the mob into a whole new frenzy. 

Ghosts flatten and get flattened, all their previous inhibitions forgotten; not a single soul remains unscathed in the ruthless pursuit of money. Whatever drove them before has switched courses without a mind for Hong-er or the gatekeepers, who openly gawk in disbelief. 

“Thanks, Ke Mo!” chirps Ban Yue as she flops to the ground. 

The stone golem begins to crumble, and in its stead rises a fine-looking older man. He gives her a thumbs-up as she worms her way deep into the ruckus. A second later, she springs up by Hong-er and snatches his hand. 

They race through the gates. 

“DON’T YOU DARE—!” 

The gatekeepers' fierce roars are static to Hong-er’s ears. They’re running through the gardens now — there’s the tickle of grass underfoot — but his body seems to be floating, no heavier than butterfly wings. Once Ban Yue frees their hands, it’s an uncomfortably long pause before he can move on his own. 

“...I had it under control,” he mumbles groggily. 

“I’m sure you did,” Ban Yue says, earnest. “But that mask could only do so much were the grand priest or the ghost king to appear. And you’re human, aren’t you?”

“ No —” Hong-er clears his throat of that foreign voice and tries again. “Yes. Let me guess: the smell gave it away.” 

“The smell...? Oh, Pei Su-gege!” 

The shrub hedges nearby rustle, and a boy with the air of a rich farmer’s son steps through. 

“You have a sigil on you,” explains Pei Su, casually plucking a handful of twigs off his hair. “It’s faint because of the mask, but I can tell it’s meant to ward off evil. A ghost would’ve been incinerated on the spot, and spirits don’t need that sort of thing.”

May no paths be bound. The solemn mantra echoes vividly in Hong-er’s mind, and the furrow in his brow lessens. A sigil. Mei Nianqing's last farewell, that seemingly whimsical touch on his forehead...

“This grand priest you mentioned.” Hong-er stares unflinchingly at the two. “Who is he to you? What does he do?”

Pei Su is quick to answer. “The grand priest is the grand priest. There are many across the spirit realm, but in our territory, he’s the second highest authority after the gods. He protects the land, aids those in need, upholds centuries of wisdom and acts as a link between the realms. Such a peaceful gathering as this would be impossible without him.”

“Is he around here?”

“So I’ve heard. However—”

“Good. I need a word with that lying old man.”

They fix him with looks of utter astonishment; even the snakes nesting in Ban Yue’s robes snap to attention. Hong-er’s tone leaves no room for criticism. 

“That... might take a while,” Ban Yue says. “If it’s true that the ghost king has come, then your grand priest must have a lot on his plate. Our lord is... rather fanciful, you see. It’s best not to interfere.” 

“Got it. They won’t even know I’m here.” Resigned to a sleepless sunrise, Hong-er begins to scour for places to wait. Not on the grass — too comfortable. Somewhere high, preferably, so that he might catch a glimpse or two of this ghost king character. 

As he mulls over how to best climb the nearest pagoda, it occurs that those two have yet to move an inch. When Hong-er casts them a glance, Pei Su bumps into Ban Yue, who jumps as if caught red-handed. 

“I was just thinking!” she yelps. “That is, if maybe, perhaps you might, well. There’s a lot of food. And music. And no one would mind if you came with us. One of us is bound to be good company, right? And if you wish, we can tell you more about... the owner of that mask.”

A single heartbeat falters, and it’s not Hong-er’s. 

The mask is as quiet as it had been when first meeting these two, but he’s sure he felt it: a hummingbird pulse against his cheek, here and gone the next second. It would’ve easily gone unnoticed were it not so out of sync with his own. 

Another piece of the puzzle clicks in place. 

Hong-er smiles. 

“Okay. You guys can go ahead, I just need a minute.”

They do so, albeit reluctantly. He stands watch until it’s clear there’s no one else in the gardens — no one but the faint presence in his head. 

His face immediately darkens. 

“Next time you move a finger of mine without permission, I’ll snap you in half and dump you in the trash. I’m not your fucking puppet.” 

A surge of white-hot anger threatens his own, and for a fraught moment their tempers — his and the masks' — clash towards a breaking point. Yet no sooner does it rage than that surge crumbles, as if nothing more than a reflex. 

...Of course. This is, after all, a vicious spirit, bound to earth by fathomless grudges. The same vicious spirit that now meets him in the middle, conceding: your body is yours.

Hong-er huffs. There’s little he can do should these words prove empty, but he’ll play the cards as they’re dealt.

In the meantime...

“Why did you act like you didn’t know them?” 

A stream of emotions flows past him, turbulent and deep. Guilt. Loneliness. Unwavering faith. An undercurrent of devotion as vast as the four seas. 

“I won’t pry,” Hong-er mutters, “if that’s what you want. I stay me, and you stay you.” 

Yes, the presence echoes, you and I, we...

“Here, over here! Come while they’re still hot!” 

Out a corner in the distance, Ban Yue jumps so hard her snakes teeter, hands waving a pair of plump golden buns. 

Hong-er tightens the mask and says, “Coming.” 

In this dreamscape of light, Qiandeng Temple is as real as he’s ever seen it. 

He prays the illusion won't shatter soon.