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“What do you think?” Tianlang-jun says, raising the false beard to his face. “Do the costumes help? Am I getting in character?”
“It… probably adds a certain something,” Zhuzhi-lang says, voice infused with uncertainty. “My lord was saying…?”
“Right,” Tianlang-jun says, clearing his throat and dropping his voice to a nasally pitch. “The lost sword you seek is-”
“I meant about having to go into town this afternoon,” Zhuzhi-lang says, desperately managing to interrupt in defiance of all his instinctive deference. “The sun will be setting in another hour.”
“Oh,” Tianlang-jun says, lowering the beard and frowning at the sky. “I suppose it will be. Anyways, what did you think of the part where Liu Qingge’s clothing is artfully torn so that his nude body can be fully exposed to the light of the erotic sex-inducing moon?”
“I’m still not precisely following the function of the… ahem, the erotic moon,” Zhuzhi-lang says, clearing his throat as he raises Tianlang-jun’s outer robe to help him into it. “Perhaps my lord would care to add more to that, once we return home?”
“Yes, yes!” Tianlang-jun says, “in fact, I can explain it right now. It’s very simple- the moonlight serves to stimulate the pleasurable parts of the nerves, so long as the person under it is considered a great beauty by a nearby demon-”
Zhuzhi-lang, despairing, picks up Tianlang-jun’s bags and follows him into town as he continues monologuing.
---
It’s been over two years since Tianlang-jun read the novel Resentment of Bai Zhan, and Zhuzhi-lang has known no peace since.
In all honesty, the proofreading wouldn’t be so bad; the playacting, however, and the listening to long speeches on what Liu Qingge’s most in character reaction to this specific incident would be, and the collecting of… memorabilia, are all weighing on him. Upsettingly, Tianlang-jun’s real life encounter with Liu Qingge a few months into his interest completely failed to change his path; in fact, Tianlang-jun seems to have completely dismissed the real man in pursuit of the fictional character that borrows his name. His stories grow more outlandish.
“Yes- yes, a wedding!” Tianlang-jun crows, slapping his brush down into the dish messily enough that the ink dots the table to the side of it. “Nephew, take away these ridiculous paintings and fetch me that scroll with the descriptions of Northern wedding finery.”
“Yes, my lord,” Zhuzhi-lang says, gathering the papers and turning to go. Tianlang-jun raises a hand, stopping him.
“Wait… how will he wear it, with the mermaid tail?” he muses, running his finger down the most recent pages that he’s written in review. “Now, let me see…”
Zhuzhi-lang, arms full of paintings, hovers in the doorway, feeling like crying.
He’s learned more about fish genitalia in the past week than he’s ever wanted to in his life.
---
Things continue on in this manner; Zhuzhi-lang likes to think he grows accustomed to the suffering. It’s not until the winter that it happens.
Zhuzhi-land is escorting Tianlang-jun in a human town, trailing after him to pay for his purchases and carry his things, when he sees, out of the corner of his eyes, the flash of a familiar sword.
Cultivators fly around all the time; it’s not particularly arresting or disconcerting to see an unsheathed blade making its way through the air. This sword, however, looks particularly… recognizable.
“My lord,” Zhuzhi-lang says quietly, quickly stepping up to Tianlang-jun’s side. Tianlang-jun is fifteen minutes into an examination of an entire table of small, intricately worked beaded jewelry; Zhuzhi-lang knows from his unwilling participation as audience member that Tianlang-jun is considering whether they match the descriptions he wrote of ornaments for Liu Qingge’s hair. “I’m going to step away for a moment; I’ll be back soon.”
“Yes, yes, very good, I keep telling you to go run off and have fun,” Tianlang-jun says absently, waving his hand. “Go ahead, make some trouble.”
Zhuzhi-lang slips away into the crowd, and in a few minutes, has made his way to a likely vantage point. From there, it’s only moments more before he spots the two very tall men in a sea of normal-sized people.
Tianlang-jun’s son, demon mark neatly hidden, is patiently haggling with an energetic vendor while Liu Qingge in the flesh picks up a finely made knife, turning it in his hand. Zhuzhi-lang watches for just a moment before Luo Binghe seems to feel his gaze; his eyes flick Zhuzhi-lang’s way, and Zhuzhi-lang ducks back into the crowd, mind racing.
The market is only so big, and it makes a V shape; before long, the two of them will cross paths with Tianlang-jun. Tianlang-jun will probably start by trying to flirt badly with Liu Qingge, and then offend his son; after that, the quiet market trip will probably end in a very loud and messy demolition interaction that Zhuzhi-lang is breaking into a sweat just thinking about. Anxiously, he slips through the crowd towards the pair.
The emptier weapons stalls are clear of the main press of foot traffic; Zhuzhi-lang leaves the cover of the crowd, and immediately, a dagger embeds itself in the earth by his foot. He looks up to see Liu Qingge glaring at him; his anxiety skyrockets.
“Hey, my merchandise!” the merchant says, narrowing her eyes. Luo Binghe glances at Zhuzhi-lang, then turns away with a sniff, continuing to haggle; Liu Qingge scowls and stalks toward him, hand on Cheng Luan.
“What do you want?” the cultivator snaps. Zhuzhi-lang rubs his fingers on his palms nervously; he steps away from the dagger, and Liu Qingge kicks it into the air and back into his hand in a single smooth movement, hand never leaving Cheng Luan’s hilt.
“I’m not looking to create a disturbance,” Zhuzhi-lang says appeasingly, taking another step back. “We don’t need to fight.”
Liu Qingge stares for a moment, then turns around and walks away with a dismissive huff. When he reaches Luo Binghe’s side, Luo Binghe looks back and frowns.
“We’ll take them,” he says abruptly, and presses money into the open-mouthed merchant’s hands. Turning, he places a hand on Liu Qingge’s back and dips his head to murmur into his ear; then heads to Zhuzhi-lang.
“You’re not here to fight?” he asks, frowning.
“No, no,” Zhuzhi-lang says desperately. His heart is racing; any moment now, Tianlang-jun is going to hear the hawker three stalls over advertising tanghulu, which he had Liu Qingge erotically eating in a recent chapter. There’s no way he won’t head towards it, ‘in pursuit of the realism.’ “I was just hoping that you two would be willing to… accompany me. Elsewhere.”
Luo Binghe stares flatly. He’s not unleashing his demonic or spiritual energy- it would be hard to, without causing a panic, in a crowded area like this- but Zhuzhi-lang feels the intense threat of danger nonetheless. It is much less frightening than the idea of Tianlang-jun seeing Liu Qingge in a different hairstyle than the one he’s written him in- one that exposes more of his beauty mark side.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe calls, not taking his eyes off Zhuzhi-lang. Liu Qingge walks slowly over, still frowning. “Shizun, I think that he wants to challenge you to a duel.”
---
It was not, in fact, Zhuzhi-lang’s intention to fight Liu Qingge today. But if it will keep Tianlang-jun’s attention off him, it’s a no brainer.
He breathes out in short pulses of breath, trying to steady his heart rate. There’s no reason to worry that he’ll get caught; Tianlang-jun has never had occasion to look for him before, and hopefully he won’t start now. Across the abandoned plain that they moved to, out of sight from the market behind a low hill, Liu Qingge is handing a few packages to Luo Binghe, unstrapping an ornamental belt from his waist.
“To first blood?” Zhuzhi-lang suggests hopefully. It’s the most casual form of sparring that he’s seen other demons engage in; ideally, he’ll be able to finish this quickly, and rejoin Tianlang-jun with him none the wiser.
“Hmph!” Liu Qingge scoffs, drawing his sword in a quiet flash of light.
With no other words, he falls on Zhuzhi-lang.
---
The battle, unsurprisingly, is vicious.
What is surprising is that Luo Binghe doesn’t interfere. He simply stands at the side of the field, glaring death whenever Zhuzhi-lang can spare a moment to glance his way. Those moments are few and far between; taking his eyes from Liu Qingge once leads to him almost losing a few inches of hair. The duel drags on until dusk is clawing at the sky, and still there’s no clear victor.
As darkness twines through the purple-reds of sunset, Luo Binghe finally calls out.
“Shizun,” he says, “we should head back soon!”
Liu Qingge’s gaze intensifies; his speed picks up, and he darts in close enough and quick enough to spear through Zhuzhi-lang’s billowing sleeve. Zhuzhi-lang swipes him back with demonic energy in his claws, but Liu Qingge spins behind him and unleashes a blast of spiritual energy against his back.
It’s powerful, but not powerful enough to do real damage to Zhuzhi-lang; it blows the robes clean off his back, though, and undoes the low tie in his hair. Spinning, Zhuzhi-lang hisses in displeasure, nails darting through Liu Qingge’s guard to tear the front of his robes in return. Liu Qingge’s dodge prevents Zhuzhi-lang’s strike from cutting into his skin by a millimeter; eyes flashing, he cuts in towards Zhuzhi-lang again-
“Oh my,” a voice says from the end of the field.
Eyebrows creasing in distress, Zhuzhi-lang jumps back; Liu Qingge, frowning after him, lowers his sword. There, at the end of the field, stands Tianlang-jun.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” he says, eyes traveling down the gaping slices of fabric on Liu Qingge’s chest avariciously.
With a defeated sigh, Zhuzhi-lang pulls up the remnants of his robes; they sag down again, without any back to keep them up. He pushes his loose hair away from his face uselessly; it falls immediately back down.
“What?” Liu Qingge snaps, looking Tianlang-jun up and down. “Are you here to fight too?”
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe says quietly, using qinggong to step forward lightly next to Liu Qingge. “You wanted to get home in time for…”
“Hmph,” Liu Qingge says, straightening up, fighting intent tangibly dying down. He recalls Cheng Luan to himself, and sheathes it.
“We’re leaving,” he proclaims, and in a flash, he and Luo Binghe have mounted their swords and are flying away.
Tianlang-jun watches them go for a long time; after they’ve left their field of vision he glances at Zhuzhi-lang, who’s attempting to braid his hair back out of his way.
“Well,” he says, consideringly. Zhuzhi-lang feels his stomach drop. “I never considered the NTR angle…”
---
Zhuzhi-lang’s life does not get any easier after that.