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Mu Qing is used to being alone.
He ascended alone and, besides his deputy officials, he doesn’t have a particularly good relationship with others in the Heavenly Court.
And that’s— fine. He’s used to it, used to having his words and actions twisted until their original meaning is entirely lost. He’s used to people talking shit about him both behind his back and to his face, to people questioning everything he worked so hard to get, to being friendless.
None of that makes his heart ache anymore with the want to be understood. It doesn’t bring the taste of the cherries he liked — and used to bring to his mother and the poor kids of Xianle — to his mouth.
(It doesn’t feel like having rice thrown on his face anymore.)
So Mu Qing spends his days working. He may not be liked — or even wanted — in the Upper Court but that would never change the fact that Mu Qing is General Xuan Zhen, Martial God of the south, and he takes his job very seriously.
And his devotees appreciate that. It had been strange at first, fulfilling in an almost unsettling way, to have his hard work recognized; he was not only thanked for his services — which is a novelty in and out of itself — but also praised and rewarded. Xuan Zhen’s worshippers adore him and leave him more offerings than he knows what to do with. They defend his honor and dignity whenever someone slights it, write plays about his generosity and kindness, and — after plenty of statues were destroyed for being ugly and dreams were disturbed to have that explained — have even learned how to appease his sense of beauty.
Mu Qing would be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy the feeling of being liked — wanted, even — and to be so sure that he was. He had seen gods fade away from lack of worship, the way their temples were abandoned and forgotten, but Mu Qing had only grown stronger and stronger since he first ascended. And so, Mu Qing had always made sure that his worshippers never needed anything. They’re kind to him, and he’s kind to them back.
Which is why he worries when he receives news of strange happenings in the south.
“Explain this to me.” Mu Qing says, and the edge in his own voice surprises him a little.
“They say that it’s a ghost, General.” Liu Shan, one of his deputies, says and in other circumstances Mu Qing would be proud of how his voice almost doesn’t tremble. “He has been helping some areas in the southeast by fighting other ghosts.” he gulps. “And he spends a lot of time in your temples.”
The story goes like this: a ghost assists Xuan Zhen in protecting the south, moving from village to village, town to town, kingdom to kingdom, and dealing with matters too small for their grand Xuan Zhen to deal with himself.
“It has become quite the myth.” he says, running one hand across his hair. “I haven’t been able to figure out when this started yet, but — according to some rumors — he has been at it for at least thirty to forty years.”
“Thirty to forty years.” Mu Qing repeats. “A ghost has been living in my region for thirty to forty years and none of you thought it was important to inform me.” He doesn’t try to hide his annoyance but he does try to keep his worry under wraps. The last thing he needs right now is to show even more weakness.
“He’s quite elusive. I highly doubt he even wanted you to find out about his existence.” Liu Shan replies. “General, I’ve also only heard about this now, if I had known—”
“Stop.” Mu Qing interrupts because that’s worse. This ghost managed to keep even his best deputy official in the dark about his existence for who knows how long. “Tell me you at least know something useful about this ghost’s identity.”
No reply. The silence stretches between them, heavy in what it obviously means. Mu Qing feels a headache incoming, his chest tight.
Liu Shan’s voice is, at once, a blessing and a curse. “There are rumors that he’s an archer.”
Mu Qing knows then, deep in his guts, the same way he knows the palm of his hand and the ethics sutras, who the ghost is.
“An archer.” Mu Qing hates the way his voice almost breaks around the words. It can’t be him. There’s no one else it could possibly be.
“General, we will find more about him—” Liu Shan starts but Mu Qing stops him.
“Where was he last seen?” He asks, trying to control the edge of desperation in his voice.
“A town on the southeast, General.”
Mu Qing nods and sends Liu Shan away, telling him to keep an eye on the area.
“Do not let anyone else know about this.” He commands. “Report back to me as soon as you find out more.”
It’s only once he leaves that Mu Qing allows himself to bury his face in his hands. His thoughts are in disarray and he’s unnerved in a way he hasn’t been in centuries.
He’s a detail-oriented man — he always has been, as both a mix of his personality and the years he spent being a servant — and whoever is doing this must know that, must know him enough to be able to evade the meticulous way his palace watches over the south.
An archer that knows him.
Rationally, Mu Qing knows that there isn’t only one answer to this question, but it doesn’t matter.
He feels like he has been shot by a thousand arrows.
He tries not to worry about it too much and fails miserably.
Gods don’t need to sleep— their immortal bodies don’t get tired just like they don’t get hungry. Some of them do sleep, of course, but Mu Qing has never really been one of those. He has always had too much on his plate: taking care of an entire region, answering prayers from his worshippers, navigating the complex internal politics of the Upper Court, trying to ignore the cruel “Sweeping General” comments he hears behind his back and to his face.
And now a ghost is haunting him in more ways than one.
A ghost. Singular. He tries not to think too much about the implication of that and fails at it, too.
(He tries not to think about what the word ‘ghost’ implies and tries not to feel miserable and awful about it. He fails on both. It seems like he keeps failing these days.)
And then there’s the news that Mount Tong’lu has reopened, the potential birth of a new Supreme looming over the Heavenly Capital. It’s one more thing for him to worry about and Mu Qing can’t stop thinking if his ghost is still in that town his deputies told him about or if he’s already making his way to Mount Tong’lu.
All of that takes its toll on him. He feels tired and restless. For the first time since he ascended, Mu Qing tries to sleep. He lays down on his bed and closes his eyes, but his thoughts are running wild, wondering about this ghost. The one time he does manage to sleep, his dreams are filled with distorted images of his past and his present merging together in an unsightly future.
He wakes up screaming.
It breaks him and he goes to the Mortal Realm to visit the town his ghost was last seen at.
The temple is beautiful, just like all Xuan Zhen temples are. It’s tastefully decorated and the statue’s craftsmanship is exquisite; it actually looks like him.
Mu Qing’s eyes, however, are fixated on the man standing in front of his statue.
He looks just like he did the last time Mu Qing saw him. He looks like a completely different person.
Feng Xin stands as tall and proud as he remembers, his posture upright and head held high. His hair is in the same bun as always, looking so messy Mu Qing can’t help but want to fix it, and he has his longbow strapped to his back. The perpetual furrow on his brow is still on his handsome face — and even after all these years, it still makes Mu Qing have the insane want to smooth it over — and his eyes look as determined as they used to as he observes Mu Qing’s statue.
Mu Qing doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move from his spot near the door, his feet stuck to the floor and mouth shut close, his head spinning and thoughts a mess. A part of him wonders if he’s still dreaming.
And then Feng Xin moves his arm, raising it until his hand is touching the statue’s face. For a moment, Mu Qing thinks he’s going to strike it down and feels a strange mix of anger and disappointment at that. But then, Feng Xin’s hand caresses the statue’s cheek, fingers moving to its neck and the underside of its jaw. He tilts his head like he’s searching for something.
Mu Qing feels delirious. Feng Xin is touching his statue with a gentleness and curiosity and interest he had never given the real him; all he had ever gotten from Feng Xin was anger and hatred, mean spirited comments and every single one of his actions painfully misunderstood. He wonders what that stupid statue has that he doesn’t, how that piece of stone could somehow get what he—
“What are you doing here?” Mu Qing asks, moving towards Feng Xin and the statue, because pursuing that line of thought is dangerous in normal circumstances; right now, with how tired he is, it’s downright deadly.
Feng Xin startles and turns towards him, dropping his hands. There’s a strange look on his eyes that Mu Qing hadn’t seen before — something he can’t quite recognize — and he seems almost nervous.
“Shit.” Feng Xin says. His voice still sounds the same, even if there’s an unfamiliar edge to it. His eyes are glued on Mu Qing’s face. “You took your fucking time, Mu Qing.”
“What do you want, Feng Xin?” he asks again. They’re standing side by side and it’s— dizzying. Familiar in the way an old bruise is familiar. Mu Qing needs him to leave. “You’ve been haunting my temples for years and for what?” His hands are closed into fists and it’s taking all of his brainpower to not punch Feng Xin right now.
Feng Xin’s frown deepens, his head tilting to the side. “I— fuck.” His eyes travel up and down Mu Qing’s body, taking him in, and Mu Qing shivers under his heavy gaze, feeling exposed. He blames his reaction on how tired he is. “Shit, Mu Qing, I wanted to see you.”
“See me?” Mu Qing asks, too tired to try to hide the shock in his voice. “After everything that happened, you wanted to see me?”
“For fuck’s sake Mu Qing, it’s not like I fucking came here because of that.” Feng Xin’s answer makes his heart drop in his chest. He doesn’t know what he expected, really. “But since you’re here, you could help me—”
“Help you?” That's worse than anything else he could have said. “I ascended, Feng Xin.” He says and he doesn’t try to hide the poisonous anger in his voice. “I’m not a servant anymore.” He turns around, ready to leave. This was a mistake, of course it was. “If you want my help, then pray to General Xuan Zhen.”
“You’re so fucking conceited, Sweeping General.” Feng Xin has the gall to say. Mu Qing stops in his tracks and turns around, already throwing his arm so he can punch Feng Xin. “What the fuck?!” Feng Xin grabs his hand and twists his arm. It hurts, but not as much as his words did.
“Fuck you!” he kicks Feng Xin, making him let go of his arm. Mu Qing punches him, finally, and tackles Feng Xin to the floor, knocking some offerings off his altar as they go down. “Conceited? Sweeping General? You’re dead and you still can’t stop looking down on me?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Feng Xin pulls his hair and hits Mu Qing’s ribs with his knee, making Mu Qing hiss. There’s an anger, a viciousness to the way he fights now that it’s not quite the same that Mu Qing remembers. “You’re the one that fucking refuses to help a—”
“Don’t you dare call yourself my friend!” Mu Qing interrupts him, trying to punch him again but Feng Xin stops him. “All you ever did— all you both,” and from the hurt look on Feng Xin’s face, he knows exactly who Mu Qing is also talking about. It’s almost as good as actually getting to punch him. “ever did was treat me like I was less than both of you!” Feng Xin pushes him away and Mu Qing is too tired to stop him. Mu Qing lands on his back but quickly sits so he can look Feng Xin in the face. “Friends? I was a servant to His Highness and you never let me forget that. No one ever did.”
“What the fuck are you fucking talking about?” Feng Xin sits too, screaming, and his voice is still as annoyingly loud as Mu Qing remembers. “His Highness cared about you!” It’s amazing how Feng Xin always manages to find the worst possible thing to say, the way he always knows the right words to hurt Mu Qing even more.
“Yes, I can see how much he cared about me from how he acted when I tried to help you two.” And then, because he’s hurt and because he wants to hurt Feng Xin, he says: “Where is he, by the way? Did he tell you to go away too?”
Feng Xin punches him. His skin is much colder than it used to be, but it feels just like it did all those years ago. “Shut up! Don’t talk shit about things you don’t fucking understand!”
Mu Qing is expecting another punch, but it never comes. Instead, Feng Xin sits down again in front of his statue, staring at Mu Qing. “Your fucking problems are with me, so don’t bring His Higness into this shit!” The protectiveness in Feng Xin’s tone still makes Mu Qing sting with something he can’t quite name. It hurts him even more than his punch did. “What’s your fucking damage, Mu Qing?”
Mu Qing wants to scream at him that his fucking damage is that he’s lonely, that he has been lonely for as long as he remembers, and that he’s tired of it; that he wants friends, that all he ever wanted was to be friends with Xie Lian the way Xie Lian was friends with Feng Xin; that he ached for Feng Xin to look at him with the same care and protectiveness in his eyes that he showed Xie Lian and Mu Qing’s fucking statue; that he wants to be treated as an equal, to be thanked for his services, to be understood.
But he can’t. Feng Xin has always been painfully honest, but Mu Qing’s never been good at speaking without three layers of sarcasm protecting him; whenever he tried, the words would seem too heavy on his tongue. Not even his tiredness seems able to change that.
“My damage,” he says, at last. “is that you spent years expecting the worst from me, twisting every single thing I ever said and did, fighting with me, and treating me badly. You never understood me and you never tried to. You hated me, you still do.” Feng Xin winces; it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would. “And now you travel around my region, you haunt my temples, you caress my statue, and you ask for my help.”
Feng Xin doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at the floor, fists clenched and body shaking. Mu Qing wonders if he’s feeling the effects of Mount Tong’lu, if that’s the reason for the strangeness in Feng Xin’s actions. He changes his position so he’s sitting just like Feng Xin, by his side and in front of his statue. He looks at it; it stands proud, unbothered by any Feng Xins that might be trying to destroy his life in one night, and something about it’s steady gaze seems mocking.
“I never—” Feng Xin starts after what feels like an eternity. “I fucking wanted to. To understand you, I mean.” Mu Qing’s head whips in his direction but Feng Xin’s still looking at the floor. “You were so fucking weird.”
“Great start, Feng Xin.”
“Shut the fuck up, you’re so fucking annoying, I meant—” he sighs and finally looks at Mu Qing. “His Highness is— was my best friend.” Oh, Mu Qing thinks, he really did send him away. “And when you fucking came around and changed everything, I wanted to understand what he saw in you, why the fuck did he chose you.” Mu Qing feels his chest tighten. This conversation was a mistake, coming here was a mistake. “And then I wanted to understand you.”
It sounds like a confession. Mu Qing’s throat feels dry. “You’re making me seem like an intricate puzzle that you were too stupid to understand.”
“You were. You still fucking are.” Feng Xin’s eyes move to his statue. There’s something far too soft in his tone. Mu Qing hates it. It’s intoxicating. He can’t get enough of it.
“Are you also agreeing that you were — and still are — stupid?” He asks because maybe that will distract him from the warmth that he can feel blooming on his cheeks.
Feng Xin laughs. It’s loud, exaggerated, too bright and warm. When Mu Qing was younger, hearing Feng Xin’s laugh used to make his heart beat faster; the discovery that even after all these years it still does isn’t nearly as upsetting as he thought it would be.
When he speaks, Feng Xin’s voice is still tinged with laughter. “You’re so fucking complicated. You were never honest, you could never just say what you fucking wanted and felt, you fought with me all the fucking time, you had to— you were so different from me. I had never met anyone like you.” He almost tells Feng Xin to shut up but Feng Xin keeps talking. “I never fucking understood you, but I thought I had you figured out.” he shakes his head. “It was so easy to hate you after you left, but then I— shit, I did the same.”
He looks at Mu Qing again and Feng Xin has never looked at him like this before, so open and vulnerable. “And when I saw this,” he motions to the temple, to the statue. “It’s all so you. It’s all so different from what I thought of you.”
“You always thought badly of me.” Mu Qing says because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. His head is spinning with all the things Feng Xin just said. “You just punched me.”
“You fucking started it!” Mu Qing opens his mouth but Feng Xin continues. “Starting a fight in your own fucking temple, really there’s something wrong with you. With the way you destroyed your own shitty statues, I thought you fucking cared—”
“Wait, what?!” He leans closer to Feng Xin. “Did you ask my believers about that?”
Feng Xin looks away and Mu Qing must really be delirious because for a moment it looks like he’s blushing. “I— they fucking like talking about you! You can’t blame me for fucking listening! And I—” Feng Xin crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. “I thought that maybe I’d understand you better if I heard what they had to say.”
Mu Qing is silent. He feels like an open wound. “Is that why you stayed here? In the south?”
Feng Xin nods. “I got curious.”
“About me.”
“About you.”
The honesty in his words makes Mu Qing feel like he’s burning. He looks away from Feng Xin, his eyes landing back on his statue, and tries to collect himself before his tiredness makes him say something stupid.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Feng Xin move closer to him. He’s about to tell him to move away when he feels a hand touching his cheek; it’s a gentle touch, like Feng Xin is handling something precious.
“All of your statues are decent, considering who they’re fucking depicting.” Mu Qing scoffs. Feng Xin’s fingers travel down until they’re brushing Mu Qing’s neck and the underside of his jaw. Just like he did to his statue, earlier. “They’re fairly accurate too, but you have a mole on your neck that none of them have. That’s what I was looking for when I was fucking caressing your statue.”
“W-why would they have my mole?” Mu Qing stammers. His throat is dry. He’s trying not to focus on the feel of Feng Xin’s hand. “Why would they even know about it?”
Feng Xin hums. “They seem to know so fucking much about you.” He’s so close Mu Qing can feel his breath on his face when he speaks. His head is spinning. “Guess none of them ever got this close.”
Mu Qing slaps Feng Xin’s hand away and moves to the side, creating distance between them as Feng Xin’s words ring in his ears. He should leave. He misses Feng Xin’s touch.
Instead, he says: “You said you needed my help.”
“I said that I wanted to know if you could help me.”
Mu Qing punches his arm, playful in a way he doesn’t remember ever being before. Feng Xin laughs once more and Mu Qing stifles the smile that threatens to bloom on his face.
“Tell me what it is.” He says, crossing his arms. “I’ll consider it.”
Feng Xin falls silent. As close as they are, Mu Qing can see that he looks tired, his golden skin a shade greyer. He realizes, suddenly, that he has no idea how Feng Xin died.
“I— I need your help finding His Highness.” he says.
Mu Qing raises his eyebrows, speechless. He opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time in his life, he wishes Feng Xin would say something, anything, just to fill in the silence between them.
He doesn’t because Feng Xin never does what he wants him to do.
“I,” Mu Qing finally says. “highly doubt he wants to see me again.”
“He wouldn’t fucking want to see me either.” Feng Xin sounds so sad. “But I… fuck, ok, I need to know if he’s safe, alright?”
Mu Qing sighs, uncrossing his arms. “Once a bodyguard, always a bodyguard.” It doesn’t sound as biting as he had wanted. “You couldn’t even keep yourself safe. You’re a ghost.”
“A strong ghost.” Feng Xin replies, a smile on his lips. “A ghost that punched a Heavenly Official.”
“Shut up! I punched you too.” It’s strange to bicker with Feng Xin like this, without wanting to hurt him, but not unenjoyable, Mu Qing realizes. He doesn’t know what to do with that.
“So we’re fucking even, then.” Feng Xin leans closer to him. “I’ll be even stronger in a couple of years and I’ll beat your fucking ass.”
“I assume you’re going to Mount Tong’lu, then.” Mu Qing throws his ponytail over his shoulder, making sure it hits Feng Xin in his face. “And you could never beat me.”
It does and Feng Xin curses under his breath, something about totally being able to win against Mu Qing. “I was planning on leaving tonight,” he says, eyes scanning over Mu Qing’s body again before they settle on his face. Mu Qing has never felt so seen before. “but then this weird guy showed up and attacked me.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. He hears Feng Xin mutter something that sounds like “There it is.” and if he blushes, no one has to know.
“You’re going to spend years locked away in a mountain and then you’re going to die.” Mu Qing knows that that’s not true — if Feng Xin enters Mount Tong’lu, he’ll be the next Ghost King. It’s as much an obvious truth as the sky being blue or Mu Qing being a much better person than most people believe him to be. “You decided to spend your last night before that talking to someone you despise. And I’m the weird one.”
“Who said that I despise you?” And Mu Qing wants to pursue that dangerous line of thought but Feng Xin raises his hand, still talking. “And we both know I’ll come out of the kiln.”
Mu Qing decides to play safe for his own sanity. “Do we?”
“Yes, I’ll come out just so I can fucking haunt you and your shitty temples forever.” He lowers his hand and it’s dangerously close to Mu Qing’s own, their fingers brushing against each other.
The touch makes him remember another time, a lifetime ago, when they were both still in Xianle. They were sitting side by side, just like now, while they waited for something — Xie Lian, probably, all they did was live for him back then — and their hands had touched just like now.
Feng Xin’s touch had felt burning back then, and it still does now. He remembers wanting to hold his hand despite that. He doesn’t want to think about what it means that he still wants to do that, too.
“Did you know that because of you there’s a story about a ghost helping me protect the south?” Mu Qing asks, trying to ignore their proximity. Feng Xin’s expression changes to something almost sheepish. “You want to change that to Heavenly Official and Ghost King. You’re ruining my reputation.”
“As if you really need my fucking help for that.” He says and looks away, frowning. “I— I’ll leave, if you want me too. The south, I mean.” Feng Xin sounds heartbroken, resigned, like he already knows Mu Qing will send him away. Like he’s used to it.
Mu Qing should tell him to leave. It’s what’s practical and logical; he knows how vicious the Heavenly Court can be. One single slight in your reputation can turn into years of rumors that will harm your place there until your worship numbers recover or you fade away from existence. He knows that an association with any ghost is already terrible— an association with a Ghost King is unheard of.
But Feng Xin found him again and asked him for his help. Feng Xin punched him, and called him names. Feng Xin listened to him talk and told him that he wanted to understand him. In one night, they had been more honest with each other than they had ever been in all those years spent together so long ago. When he considers sending him away, an ugly feeling blooms in Mu Qing’s chest.
He looks down where their hands are next to each other. He brushes his pinky against Feng Xin’s.
“You’d just find me again.” He says. His voice is too soft, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Just don’t cause me any trouble and don’t make a scene.”
Feng Xin’s smile is like his laugh, like the sun: bright and warm. “I won’t promise anything.” He covers Mu Qing’s hand with his own.
Mu Qing pulls away, standing up. He immediately starts to miss Feng Xin’s touch. “You’re the worst.” He says but there’s no anger in his voice. “I’m leaving.” He looks at Feng Xin still sitting on the ground. “Once you come back from the kiln, we can talk about trying to find His Highness.”
“Are you agreeing that I’ll come back?” Feng Xin teases. Mu Qing can’t help the smile that creeps up on his face for a moment before he schools his face back to it’s neutral expression of slight disdain.
“I’m agreeing that you won’t leave me alone.” He looks around his temple, the offerings on the floor from when they fought. “Clean this up before you leave.” He says and turns around to leave.
He’s almost out of the door when Feng Xin speaks again.
“Mu Qing,” he says. “I’m glad you came tonight. Once I come back, let’s meet here again.”
He doesn’t reply.
It’s only 15 years later that a new Supreme breaks out of the kiln.
(Mu Qing spends those 15 years expanding his territory and gaining more worshippers.
He also asks for Liu Shan’s assistance in a personal mission: to gather all information that he can find about a cultivator clad in white.)
The new Supreme’s first action is to kill every ghost in the south.
Mu Qing is almost impressed. Almost, because he remembers telling Feng Xin to not create a scene.
He uses it as an excuse to go check on his region; none of the other gods seem to mind. Mu Qing wonders, vaguely, what stories they’re creating in their head about why this new Supreme targeted the south: Is he trying to assert his dominance by attacking one of the most popular gods? Is he someone with personal beef against Xuan Zhen who’s trying to steal his believers?
Mu Qing wonders if any of them have heard the story of the ghost that protects the south.
When he arrives at his temple, the first thing he sees is an arrow stuck on the floor, right in front of his statue.
He picks it up, gently. It’s warm to the touch, almost like holding your hands over fire, golden and strangely soft— but strong nonetheless; Mu Qing knows it wouldn’t break easily. He touches the silver tip with one finger and flinches when it almost cuts him as soon as he gets close.
If I got hit by this, he thinks, I don’t think I could ever recover.
Mu Qing hears heavy footsteps behind him. He would recognize them anywhere.
“I told you to not cause a scene.” He says as he turns around to look at Feng Xin. He looks like a mess, clothes damaged and dirty, face still with blood sticking to it, his bun almost completely falling out. Mu Qing has to control himself so he doesn’t fix it.
Feng Xin smiles as their eyes meet. For a moment, Mu Qing thinks that that’s what lights up his whole face until he realizes that Feng Xin’s skin has a soft, golden glow now.
It makes him look even more handsome. It makes him look even more irritating.
“And I told you,” his voice sounds rough, but his teasing tone is still there. One of Feng Xin’s large hands takes the arrow that Mu Qing is holding as the other covers Mu Qing’s hand, his cold fingers drawing patterns against Mu Qing’s skin. “I wouldn’t promise anything.” He doesn’t let go of Mu Qing’s hand.
This time, Mu Qing doesn’t pull away.