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Of course, he knew about the existence of ghost fires before – it was hard not to know about them when the most of your time is occupied by training and spiritual practices. And when you encounter that world – the world of demons, which is shrouded in shadows, and conceals lies and darkness – often enough not to consider it empty, stupid stories. And when, as recently as of the last week, you yourself noticed a cluster of these ghost fires – shaky, greenish – over a flooded village that so recklessly attracted someone from the small, worthless ghosts that have always been found in abundance where people live.
But he never thought that one day he would be one of them, one of these ghost fires.
Weakness rolled in restless waves, such weakness that is unknown by anyone from the world of living, by anyone from the world of common people. A weakness that did not allow either to focus on something, or to force yourself to do something, nor to begin to realize yourself in this new, unbearable appearance.
Thoughts blurred, distorted, confused, like river fog, which turned clear outlines into vague shadows, light into twilight, and distinct sounds into vague rustles and whispers. It was difficult to even refer to that state as thoughts or anything clearer. He clung to his memories, to his deeds, to those pathetic remnants of a past, previous life that eluded him, that in no way wanted to belong to him again, and form a single whole with him.
His flame – ghostly, bluish – seemed to differ slightly from the greenish flames that ghost fires usually possessed. He felt this flame tremble and waver, as if in doubt, to go out completely, turning into nothing, or, on the contrary, to flare up even stronger, even brighter, allowing him to take shape and full consciousness.
The water of the sleepy, silvery-transparent lake that met him on the way attracted him with its icy coolness, dragged him to the very depths, rolled and whispered with its deceptively quiet splash. And it was absolutely impossible to resist it. And he didn't really want to. And he let the clear, icy water close over his head, take him away, become a part of him and his essence.
And never before could Shi Wudu have imagined that here, in the icy depths of the lake, he would become what he could not even imagine, who he did not want to become, but who now he will always have to be.
* * *
“Noble Jie, could you at least once send scrolls with your assistants containing not this nonsense, but with something, say, pleasant and capable of interesting me?” Pei Ming, not hiding his disdain at all, threw aside the scroll that rustled resentfully with rice paper to the side, and pressed his fingers a little tighter to his temple – such an incredible number of deities were always trying to contact Ling Wen via the spiritual communication array, that the spiritual power trembled and fluctuated, and it had to be used noticeably more than usual when he tried tell her something or ask about something.
“Actually, what is happening cannot wait,” some indistinct rustles and annoyed exclamations came to him in response after a few moments, as if someone was unsuccessfully trying to find something in a book, or among all these endless scrolls. However, Pei Ming would have been surprised if he had heard something else, but it was nothing special, he had long been used to this, and stopped listening.
“You'd think it would be different at least once,” he chuckled, but still reached for the discarded scroll. Unwrapped the unwillingly yielding, thick paper, ran his gaze over the smooth, neatly written lines, and began to object. “‘The waters of the river overflowed and flooded everything around for many li,’” he read aloud in a bored tone and remarked casually, “Well, then water is for that and water does spill at times. What's that got to do with me? And the fact that we still do not have the Water Master, so let the Emperor reflect on this," and he was already intending to return to the interrupted meal when he heard a dissatisfied:
"Read on," and after these words, Ling Wen, apparently deciding that idleness was enough for today, simply ended the conversation, curtailing her spiritual power, and leaving only unperturbed silence in their personal spiritual communication array.
Pei Ming hesitated, but then he pulled the scroll towards him again and opened it further.
“Snow-covered rivers that do not thaw even in the brightest sun? Lakes encased in a layer of ice and frost? Either these peasants have an excellent imagination, or…”
And the further he read, the more puzzled he felt. Or rather, well, as a perplexity – everything was clear with what was happening, the perplexity was rather caused by why it was necessary to start their appeals with words about river floods, when this happens everywhere, and with enviable regularity, when the same water, as it turned out, not only overflows, but also turns out to be filled in ice and snow. And everything would be fine, but outside the window there was a stifling, sultry heat of midsummer. And even in the northernmost, coldest and snow-covered villages, this could not happen in any way.
A water demon. From the scroll brought by Ling Wen's assistants, it clearly followed he would have to deal with that this particular creature. Pei Ming grunted discontentedly and squinted at the field of the Distance Shortening Array, which was dimly flickering scarlet and crimson, ready at any moment to be filled with his spiritual power and missing hieroglyphs indicating the direction. In fact, he would rather write the name of this small town where his current passion was located than these desolate lands in the north. After all, spending the night in bed pleasures, caresses and entertainment would clearly be more pleasant than in search of a water demon, among snow-strewn rivers and lakes.
And Pei Ming was about to write the hieroglyphs of the name of this much-desired town when he suddenly remembered that, in fact, it was over this morning.
"You'll never marry me anyway," flirtatiously pouty, soft pink lips, and capricious, slightly seasoned with dissatisfaction intonations surfaced in his memory. "And he is rich, and his shop is thriving, and he immediately wanted to take me as his wife."
Pei Ming, of course, did not object to such arguments. He just grinned knowingly, and wished for something so ordinary and boring that he almost immediately forgot about his words.
"So it's a water demon after all.”
He had to involuntarily submit to fate, despite all his preferences. With this thought, he picked up the first sword he came across – the light hilt habitually lay in the palm of his hand, the stones with which it was trimmed flashed scarlet in the semi–darkness, the steel of the scabbard responded with a soft rustle - and stepped towards the field of Distance Shortening Array that shimmered and responded to his spiritual power.
* * *
Being a demon turned out to be weird, wrong, disturbing.
Not his destiny. Not his spiritual power. Not his appearance.
His eyes, always bright blue, were now darkened, almost black. His long, dark hair, previously gathered in a high, neat ponytail with thin braids on the sides, was now always in disarray, no matter how much he combed them, scattered over his shoulders in unruly strands, climbed into his face, tickled his cheeks and neck, tangled and unraveled. His fangs hurt him from time to time, it was impossible to get used to them, and the thin skin of his lips bled more often than it could be called acceptable.
His fan, his spiritual weapon, was to become snow-white, as were his clothes trimmed with sky-blue and fine silver embroidery. But now his fan almost merged in color with the inky-black depths of the troubled waters that obeyed him, and his clothes were dark and simple, nothing reminding him of his lost essence, of who he really was, of whom he was originally destined to be.
Shi Wudu reluctantly adjusted the slightly slipped bandage on his neck and slowly opened the dark links of the rice paper fan. The dim silver of the hieroglyph of water caught the translucent rays of the oncoming dawn, the links unfolded, rustled, obeying his desires. A demon needed to make a blood sacrifice to get a spiritual weapon, but this one one was not a spiritual weapon in full. Created from an ordinary paper fan, permeated with his spiritual power, he only prompted and guided, only whispered to the waters where to pour out their streams, turning the sleepy, unhurried current into furious waves that flooded the shores and settlements.
Everything about who he had become was wrong to him. If earlier it was possible to envelop with spiritual power, to receive and restore them by long, solitary meditation, spiritual practices and trainings, now emotions were needed. Your own. And strangers ones. Fear, when the streams rushed straight to the dilapidated, slightly crooked from time houses. Rage, when the waters of rivers rose with peaked masses of ice, whose edges were sharper than steel and tougher than the hardest stones. Bewilderment, when a snowfall covered the rice fields with a solid grayish veil, scattering large, fluffy flakes of snow, although it is summer, hot and arid.
And now Shi Wudu, with a measured wave of his fan, raised the streams that obeyed him so willingly, and habitually directed them to the houses of peasants visible in the distance, drowning in a sultry, translucent haze. Another wave of the fan, a grin, and spiritual power, weightlessly sliding along the fan, deep into it, through it – and the streams shot up like silver ice, shackling everything around in their cold and chilly humidity. The roofs of the houses were instantly covered with frost, shimmered under the soft rays of the sun of the early morning. Shi Wudu heard exclamations, alarmed and confused, swearing and hurried questions asked at random – and Shi Wudu felt his fan filled with spiritual power, as those shouts and screams flew like the waters of rivers. And how they became his weapon and his essence. Wrong. Unusual. Filled with someone else's dislike and someone else's anger. Like the muddy waters of drying rivers, musty and gloomy, carrying their useless streams without purpose and without meaning.
Shi Wudu involuntarily winced, clutched the fan in his palms, as the only thing that was perceived as part of that lost life, part of how everything should have been. It was impossible to get used to these sensations, it was impossible to perceive them, it was impossible to allow the body to obey this dark, icy water. He gripped the fan even harder, even tighter, ran his palm over his face, trying to recover himself – and almost missed the moment when the blade – a light steel catching the reflections of the dawning sky – almost touched him, piercing into his shoulder and passing through.
Shi Wudu only somehow managed to envelop the fan with spiritual power in the moment that fell to him - and steel, equally sharp and swift, replaced the fragile paper. The steel links trembled violently in his palms, taking on the blow of an unfamiliar sword, trembled from someone else's strength, but withstood. Dark blue sparks scattered to the sides, scattered like splashes of water, and the next moment Shi Wudu turned around, and with an imperceptible movement, he threw the sharpened blade away from him. And, realizing who he was dealing with, he said, stretching his words with a grin:
“Well, if it isn’t General Ming Guang himself.”
Of course, Shi Wudu knew what General Ming Guang looked like. The village in which he and Qingxuan lived, while still being common people, was located far to the north, and there were many a great temples dedicated to General Ming Guang in these northern lands. Shi Wudu remembered the majestic statues of the deity, shrouded in scarlet and gold, armor shining in the rays of the dim northern sun, a sword that was broken according to legend, but these images were whole and united. He also remembered the girls who whispered and giggled stupidly near the high doors of these temples, because everyone knew about the adventures of General Ming Guang and his countless mistresses.
In itself, the appearance of one of the deities here was not so unexpected – Shi Wudu assumed that what he had done would not go unnoticed. But he didn't think that General Ming Guang would come for him personally, and not one of his assistants. It would be incomparably easier to cope with the assistants, and Shi Wudu grimaced in annoyance, opening the fan again, removing steel and spiritual power from it, returning it to its former appearance and former capabilities. He had never been so good with weapons, and trying to defeat one of the Martial Gods with a weapon would be presumptuous stupidity at all. The water, all those choppy waves and rushing streams, suited a water demon like him for fighting, much more than any, even the most reliable weapon.
And Shi Wudu did not hesitate – he threw up a water barrier between himself and General Ming Guang, which rose up like mountain peaks. And then tried to knock out the sword, still closing with streams of water. Of course, nothing came of this venture, it was not for nothing that General Ming Guang was considered not only a skilled lover, but also a skilled warrior whose experience and skills surpassed many famous generals. And not only generals, among the deities of the Upper Heavens, only the Heavenly Emperor could compare with such a force. But they always talked about him separately anyway, and it didn't make the slightest sense to compare anyone with him.
And now Shi Wudu himself was convinced that all these rumors about the unsurpassed skills of General Ming Guang were not deceived or exaggerated, and it certainly did not seem likely for a demon like him to cope with him. Maybe he would have tried to retreat, to disappear as inconspicuously as possible, covering himself with water and ice, but some difficult-to-explain stubbornness seized him, and instead he only continued his futile attempts.
The fan trembled in his palms, the paper links turned out and trembled under the onslaught of spiritual power, as if ready at any moment to crumble into thousands of small fragments, to scatter into dust, pathetic and useless. And Shi Wudu had to distract himself from their duel in order to pour all his remaining spiritual power into his fan. Maybe it was stupid and pointless, but he wanted to keep this fan, he wanted to continue to feel the dense unevenness of rice paper and the sinuous pattern of waves under his fingers, he wanted to feel how willingly the water flows respond, and how the hieroglyph of water shimmered with silver.
A desire that cost him everything.
The water receded, dried up, retreated, returning to the usual channel, again becoming just the waters of rivers and streams.
The ice was covered with cracks, shattered into many brittle, translucent fragments, and showered with a solid weightless haze.
The snow melted, spilled drops of moisture, glistened with muddy gray puddles among the herbs dried up under the summer heat.
And in the next moment, Shi Wudu felt General Ming Guang, without any ceremony, tipping him into these tough, withered grasses. Ming Guang leaned down, settled on top, pinning him to the ground, not allowing him to turn or move away. The prickly, dusty stalks bit unpleasantly into the back, felt their withered rigidity even through the clothes. Grayish dust fell from them, enveloped them in a dry, dirty curtain, and General Ming Guang began to dust off his clothes with undisguised displeasure. And it seemed that the rumors about the importance he gave to his appearance did not deceive either.
Shi Wudu grinned, fidgeted in these rough grasses, trying to get comfortable, but then froze, realizing what had happened. The fabric that turned out to be so unreliable. What he wanted to hide about himself. Something that didn't concern anyone. And, taking advantage of the opportunity, he tried to fix the bandage that had unwound and slid lower, revealing his throat. But General Ming Guang instantly put a sword blade to his neck, pressed a little, thereby confirming the seriousness of his intentions, and Shi Wudu was forced to withdraw his palms.
* * *
The cloth bandages on the neck of this demon unwrapped, got lost – and revealed something that, apparently, he should not have known, something that was not intended for him. A deep, jagged scar crossed the now-open throat of this demon. A scar that seemed painful even now, even when it no longer mattered. The scar that clearly told him that this demon seemed to have killed himself.
Pei Ming has seen everything over countless years – both open, bleeding wounds, and long-standing, lingering scars, ugly and rough, and, on the contrary, scars that were very thin, barely noticeable. And he knew, too well, which one meant what exactly. And now there was no doubt about the origin of this scar – you can only cut your throat so mercilessly yourself, only wanting it, wanting to cease to exist. But why? What made this demon do such a thing to himself?
Pei Ming frowned, trying to imagine this possible reason. Something in all this bothered him, made him feel some kind of understatement and fallacy, something that happened, although it should not have happened in any way. The impossible. Wrong. And it was felt even in the aura of this demon, even in the way his spiritual power trembled and fluctuated, that he so recklessly invested in a crumbling fan, and not in water, ice, and snow.
It was worth admitting that there was something in the appearance of this demon, difficult to grasp, but in an incomprehensible way attractive. Delicate, elegant features of appearance. Dark blue, almost black, eyes. Almost black, but no, still not black, yet the blue of the water that splashed in them overshadowed both this night and this darkness. His long hair, scattered over the withered grass, was in some disorder, as if he could not comb it, untangle it and assemble it into a familiar hairstyle, but still it did not seem dirty or sloppy at all. And when he grinned, sharp, noticeable fangs touched his open lips, which distinguished demons from common people or deities.
But not only that. Something about this appearance, these features seemed vaguely familiar to Pei Ming. Such that he had already known what had once become part of his everyday life, but he could not remember where and when it happened. Something barely perceptible, elusive, melting, like the snow of mountain peaks under the rays of the hot sun. It was as if he already knew this demon. Did he know before? Or did he know now?
It seemed so incredible that Pei Ming, burdened with his doubts, hesitated, not daring to do what he, as Martial God, on missions, had to do. He should have destroyed this demon that dared to flood rivers and bind their waters with ice and snow in the northern lands that belonged to Pei Ming. Or accompany this demon to the Heavenly Emperor, so that he would make his decision and impose punishment, with all his wisdom and justice, which always accompanied his achievements. Or at least make this demon stop grinning so openly and obscenely.
But, instead of all that, completely different words came out of his mouth as he began to speak, darkly and still full of doubts. And continuing to press the blade of the sword to the demon's throat, but avoiding touching the painful-looking scar. Although he understood that he still does not feel anything, is not able to feel anymore.
“Why are you doing this?”
The grin did not disappear after these words, not at all. On the contrary, it seems that the demon was only amused by confusion and doubts, which were so clearly heard in this question.
“And how else can a demon get spiritual power?” he did not hesitate at all, touched the blade at his throat – weightlessly, as if teasing, and suggesting thoughts that were wrong and unworthy. "It's enough for you, deities, having the offerings, lit incenses and devoted followers," he grimaced, as if even the mention of deities and the Upper Heavens was not only something unpleasant to him, but unbearable as much as it was possible at all. “And my spiritual power is fear, anger, despair of others. This is the only way I can get them, and this is the only way I can have at least some semblance of existence,” with these words, he ran his palm along the entire length of the sword blade, squeezed it sharply and unexpectedly. Drops of blood fell on the black and dark blue clothes, almost merged with them, soaked the fabric with wet stickiness and dark red.
Most often, demons did not possess blood, they considered it unnecessary. But it seemed that to this demon it was important to feel alive, to feel who he was supposed to become. It was as if he was trying to regain what he had lost, something that should have belonged to him, but no longer belonged to him. And will never belong again.
“Find another way. Or I'll have to return to you,” after a little hesitation, Pei Ming still pulled the sword away from the opened and unprotected throat of this demon. Slowly, as if continuing to doubt the correctness of what was happening, he sheathed it, and then, without further delay, got up.
He didn't understand himself either. He didn't understand why he would let this demon go. Why keep remembering the deep, jagged scar over his throat. Why again and again imagine those dark, deep blue eyes, in which mockery was mixed with amazing seriousness. Why even think about someone so strange, shrouded in darkness, whose essence was this darkness, and nothing more. But for some reason it did not work out to do otherwise, as if something stopped, as if it whispered, not allowing him to choose otherwise.
And never before had he deduced the necessary hieroglyphs for the Distance Shortening Array so long and thoughtfully.
* * *
The wall in the palace of the Heavenly Emperor, leaning against which he was waiting for the upcoming meeting, was entirely decorated with dragons cast in gold, sparkling brightly in the midday sun. Dragons that grinned predatory and menacing, that seemed not to miss a single movement made, not a single spoken word, as befitted those who were the symbol of the Emperor and his power.
Pei Ming tried to get comfortable near this shining splendor of the wall, did not succeed too much and chuckled in annoyance, trying to imagine how he was going to talk about completed – or rather, not quite completed – tasks. To say that the demon had escaped despite his best efforts? Or to say that he could not find it, but he will certainly try again in the near future? Or refer to other, no less significant duties that required his attention and his presence?
He himself did not notice how he plunged into deep thoughts, sorting through possible options and rejecting them one by one as unsuitable, or stupid, or useless. It was hard to say how much time he spent on thinking that brought nothing, but he was unceremoniously pulled out of this reverie by an unpleasantly familiar voice. A voice that sounded very close, although, fortunately, it was not addressed to him at all.
Shi Qingxuan. The Wind Master.
If Pei Ming couldn't stand anyone in the Upper Heavens, it was definitely Shi Qingxuan. Who willingly responded to him with complete reciprocity in this, and it was not possible to talk to him for more than a couple of moments, even on necessary issues, even on issues of real importance. And now he reasoned, without hiding at all, about what did not concern him, and what should not have worried him at all, whose spiritual power are winds, and storms, and hurricanes.
“I'm sure that something is wrong!” he slapped his hand with a fan with determination, as if confirming the seriousness of his words, addressing one of his assistants. “And if Martial Gods did not only think about their lands…”
Noticing him, Shi Qingxuan predictably fell silent and gave him a look full of dislike. He thought, for a moment, to address some kind of another quibble, but then, apparently deciding that it wasn't worth it, he just walked past, deliberately avoiding meeting Pei Ming's gaze. That's nothing new. Surely, he asked again the Heavenly Emperor to make Martial Gods fight with demons not only at the opening of Mount TongLu, but also in any, even the tiniest and rundown village, even on lands not belonging to them. As if they don't do enough prayers anyway, as if the demons are their direct fault.
Demons.
More precisely, a demon.
Pei Ming froze, unable to move, shocked by what had opened up to him so unexpectedly, so at the wrong time. Shi Qingxuan's appearance features were surprisingly similar to the appearance of that water demon that poured streams and heaved them with a huge amount of ice and snow. No, not exactly the same. And the eye color is different – light, greenish, and not this deep blue. And the hair is lighter, shorter, gathered in a neat hairstyle, and not scattered in disorder over the shoulders. But in general, the resemblance was very clear. Even their auras felt similar, which certainly could not be. After all, the aura of a deity differs from the aura of a demon as much as an icy, snowy night differs from a day shrouded in heat and a sultry haze. They cannot be confused. It is impossible not to distinguish them.
And yet.
Still, Pei Ming was sure he hadn't imagined it.
And the thought of finding this water demon again – why? for what? to do what? - didn't let him go for a moment now.
* * *
Shi Wudu opened his fan, listening with pleasure to the rustle of paper links, which told him that his fan remained with him, his fan withstood the onslaught of spiritual power and weapon. And it brought him an inexplicable satisfaction. Wanting to make sure that nothing really happened to the fan, and that the water still obeys him willingly and completely, Shi Wudu waved it weightlessly, almost without investing spiritual power.
The waters of the waterfalls that fell from the high hills, overgrown with dense, untouched by the summer heat, sparkled and shimmered in the sun, sounded iridescent and melodious. And they responded to the call of the fan, responded to the spiritual power of Shi Wudu, whose essence was also water, and ice, and snow. Transparent splashes flew in different directions, fell in drops of moisture on his hair and clothes, covered him with a rain drizzle. And that was enough – the fan still obeyed him, and still raised streams, and waves, and any water.
Too carried away by the fan, he did not immediately feel someone else's presence.
And when he felt it, he turned around abruptly, raised his fan in a defensive gesture, frowning and warily looking at General Ming Guang.
“And what did General Ming Guang need here again?” Shi Wudu, in general, did not want, and did not try specifically to make these words and this title sound so sarcastic and mocking, but it turned out by itself. “After all, since our last, hm, meeting, I have not yet flooded and covered these peasants and their lands with ice again. Yet," he stated out of some inexplicable stubbornness.
“I'm not here for that,” general Ming Guang waved his hand vaguely and pretended that he did not catch any hint or mockery. And immediately moved on to the main thing. "The Wind Master Shi Qingxuan, who is he? And how is he related to you?”
"Why should he be related to me?" Shi Wudu outwardly tried to remain indifferent, impenetrable, but inside everything froze, and then broke, shattered into thousands of sharp fragments at the single mention of Qingxuan. Painful, still painful. And that will never change.
"Because you are too similar," general Ming Guang did not doubt at all what he had discovered, and began to elaborate, from time to time touching the hilt of the sword, hidden in its sheath, decorated with sinuous interlacing hieroglyphs. “Similar in appearance. Both use the fan as a spiritual weapon. You even have auras that feel similar. Although I can't imagine how this is even possible. After all, he is a deity, and you are a demon," he looked at Shi Wudu intently, seriously, as if a lot depended on a possible answer. Too much.
Shi Wudu slowly folded the fan, ran his palm over its dark, slightly trembling links, touched the dark blue pendant that served as the only decoration, leaving the color into the night darkness. It was possible to pretend that he did not understand what general Ming Guang meant. It was possible to remain silent. It was possible to come up with a lie that would sound confident, cold, indistinguishable from the truth.
But the desire to learn at least something about Qingxuan, at least some little things, moments, scraps, outweighed and overshadowed all imaginable and unthinkable arguments against.
And Shi Wudu succumbed to this desire.
"Because his aura and his divinity are my aura and my divinity," he grinned, crooked and short. “That's why they feel similar.”
“What?” general Ming Guang frowned in bewilderment.
Predictable. Quite predictable. It would be strange to assume that he would immediately guess what is hidden behind these words.
"I think we'd better talk more in another place," Shi Wudu sensed the presence of small water spirits among the silvery streams of waterfalls. And water ghouls in a mud-covered, stagnant and musty lake nearby. And venomous, bone fish, whose jagged, seaweed-entangled fins were sharper than steel and more dangerous than a sword, in the river that overflowed at the end of winter, and now seemed deceptively unhurried and swollen from the heat, like everything around. And he didn't want all these water demons to know and carry on what had happened to him. "Come on, general Ming Guang," he beckoned him to follow him in the direction of the hills strewn with rubble and the same winding rivers and streams.
His dwelling was here, hidden among the rocky hills, light, river sand and ringing streams of water. He let general Ming Guang go ahead, allowing him to get comfortable and consider everything that he might want to consider. Streams of water – wide and smooth, and very small, sonorously flowing and forming tiny rapids – flowed into the dwelling itself, allowing Shi Wudu to draw spiritual power from them. In the rooms, right through the air, ghostly koi floated, black with dark blue, instead of white with gold and red. Their fins quivered, and their tails swayed, as if overcoming the non-existent depth of the waters. And bluish lights accompanied them everywhere.
General Ming Guang settled down on the sofa, without waiting for an invitation, and began to look around with interest. Well, of course, he was sure that Shi Wudu, like most of the demons, preferred dirt, and stench, and other abominations. But no, his rooms were completely different. The simple, few things were neatly folded, not scattered everywhere, and the house looked much more like the dwelling of common person rather than the lair of a demon.
Shi Wudu was sitting on the opposite wall right on the pillows that were scattered over the floor, and the color resembled the same night sky with flashes of blue and turquoise. He pulled them closer to himself, feeling how the slippery, weightless, water-like fabric cools his palms. Demons didn't need to rest, but he didn't want to deny himself such simple little things that he was used to, and that accompanied him while he was common person. He paused, unsure of where to start, and then said, slowly and reluctantly dropping the words:
"Shi Qingxuan is my younger brother. My name is Shi Wudu,” he didn't want to say, he really didn't want to. He didn't want to hear how words, long forgotten, heavy, are woven into a story. A story that belonged only to him, a story that he hid more carefully than the deepest and darkest secrets of the demon world to which he now belonged. But he couldn't miss the opportunity to learn at least something about Qingxuan. And it didn't matter how much about his past he would have to reveal, how much of what he didn't want to remember, he would have to remember. “How is he? All I know is that he has ascended. And he became the Wind Master," the bluish fin of one of the ghostly koi touched his cheek, and Shi Wudu unconsciously ran his palm over it, feeling the icy moisture of the scales under his fingers.
"It's not that we get along," general Ming Guang drawled, clearly not embarrassed, not angry at something insignificant, but very annoying. "Well, he can't stand me," and he laughed awkwardly, as if talking about this in front of Shi Wudu didn't seem like the best idea to him.
"And for what reason?" Shi Wudu gave him a skeptical look, showing with his whole appearance that he understands Qingxuan quite well in this. The reputation of general Ming Guang, the character of general Ming Guang, the love affairs of general Ming Guang – all together, this gave a weighty reason to treat him, if not with dislike, then, in any case, without due respect or understanding.
“Because of all these girls,” now he looked puzzled, as if he had no idea at all what was so special about it, and why such a thing might seem unacceptable to someone. “But otherwise,” and he immediately became serious, changed subtly and at the same time significantly, at the level not only of the external, but of the aura and spiritual power. And he no longer seemed to be a careless lover of bed pleasures, rather, a warrior who had experienced many things that were inaccessible and unusual for ordinary people. “Otherwise, he is busy doing the same things as the others. Executes requests. And not only his own, but he is not averse to turning to the Emperor if he is sure that someone needs help," general Ming Guang chuckled disapprovingly, apparently not impressed by such zeal. “Loves celebrations and drinking, especially in the world of common people, although it would seem. But he's not in a hurry to really get close to anyone. As if there is something forbidden for him in this, something unacceptable, something that he does not want to allow himself," and he fell silent, and all his seriousness was now almost weighty, almost tangible.
Everything General Ming Guang said echoed in Shi Wudu with both satisfaction and painful emptiness. There was not much point in such an existence, the existence of a demon, but Qingxuan... Qingxuan was alive and safe, and everything he had done was not in vain. Shi Wudu was thinking so darkly, so deeply, that he almost missed the question asked by General Ming Guang:
“How did you become a demon?”
“I suppose it's not for me to explain to you about Reverend of Empty Words?” it sounded harsh, but Shi Wudu was already immersed in memories that concealed only darkness and an icy whisper, sounding everywhere, sounding even in those moments when it could not sound, should not have, did not belong to this world.
And, after waiting for an affirmative nod, he forced himself to speak further, although it was difficult, almost impossible to do it. And all this darkness enveloped him again with every word he uttered, and all this cold did not want to give up, and bound him with its ice.
And Shi Wudu again, as if in reality, found himself in that village of the northern lands, lost among the mountains and hills, where he and Qingxuan found themselves, and where Reverend of Empty Words found him, although at some point it began to seem that this creature had forgotten about their existence, and would not disturb them anymore. And nothing helped, and all possible and impossible ways were useless in front of this creature. The cultivators, even the most skilled ones, only shrugged, and their sharpened swords and inscribed hieroglyphs of various spells turned into useless steel and useless paper. All the others who claimed to know the hidden ways and deceptive roads that lead to Reverend of Empty Words, were only flattered by the glitter of gold coins, but, in fact, were just as worthless and useless.
While Shi Wudu, in one of the dilapidated, almost crumbling right in the palms of the dust-covered scrolls, did not stumble upon the Fate changing spell.
He couldn't take full advantage of this Spell. After all, in order to deceive Reverend of Empty Words with Fate changing spell, it was necessary to match the name, and the time of birth, and the lands to which you belonged. Shi Wudu didn't have all that. Only the northern lands, where he and Qingxuan once upon a time, as if in another life, spent time in their parents' house, among the maples crumbling scarlet in autumn, and crimson winter berries, were the same for them. But it wasn't enough. Wasn’t enough.
But Shi Wudu could reject his aura and his divinity, allowing Qingxuan to ascend in his stead, and become inaccessible to Reverend of Empty Words. And only for a single time to entangle Reverend of Empty Words with a trick, to deceive him, making him think that in front of him will not be Shi Wudu, but Qingxuan. For a single time. And this meant that Shi Wudu would have to kill himself this one and only time to assure Reverend of Empty Words that it was Qingxuan, and not someone else, who could not stand it and fell victim to him. Because otherwise, at the next meeting, Reverend of Empty Words would sense something was wrong, and everything done wouldn’t bring anything, it will be wasted and without meaning.
“Qingxuan, of course, didn't know anything. Of course," Shi Wudu touched a ghostly, dimly flickering bluish light with his palm - and it stirred, scattering silver sparks, as if dissatisfied with being disturbed. And then he sank down on the pillows scattered in disorder, as if he, too, was listening to every word spoken, every moment of this story. “He didn't know about Fate changing spell. Nor about what I was going to do. Otherwise, he would have never agreed to such a thing," Shi Wudu, completely immersed in his memories, nevertheless noticed how surprised and gloomy General Ming Guang looked. Didn't he expect that? That one can prefer the essence of a demon to the essence of a deity, and prefer to hide in shaky, dim shadows and semi-darkness, rather than clothe himself with infinite grandeur and golden luxury.
Shi Wudu remembered, still remembered, as if it had happened quite recently, only days ago, how, sensing the approach of Reverend of Empty Words, he threw on Qingxuan's clothes – soft green with light grey, and a very simple pendant on his belt - not silk and not rare, trimmed with gold or silver jewelry-that tickled his palms when he adjusted these clothes that did not belong to him. How he gathered his hair into a complicated, with a lot of braids and weaves, a little disheveled hairstyle with a Qingxuan’s hairpin, before that, without regret, cutting the strands to the desired length – Qingxuan's hair was always shorter, and completely unruly. As he took his fan, for greater similarity. An ordinary paper fan, of which there were plenty in any shops – but Qingxuan was particularly fond of this fan, and he did not part with it on any of his walks. And how he took his sword. The only thing that was really important at that moment. The only thing he needed.
What followed seemed to be a dream shrouded in a layer of fog – or an artful lie that hides the present in its twilight – but this was the present, this was what was happening in reality. The hands of Reverend of Empty Words on his shoulders, digging into them with icy cold. Hands clenching roughly, impatiently, painfully, not allowing either to pull away, not to turn around. A sticky whisper right in his ear. A whisper that does not portend anything good, only darkness and oblivion, and emptiness. His clothes were made of coarse, tough fabric that left marks on Shi Wudu's naked skin when Reverend of Empty Words pressed too closely against him, enjoying his words and his dirt. The demon's clothes that matched him.
Feeling these hands, and this whisper, and these clothes, Shi Wudu shuddered with anger and disgust – and he could only hope that he would not betray himself, that Reverend of Empty Words would take it for fear. He obediently snuggled in response, allowing this creature to imagine with disgusting, perverse satisfaction how terrifying he instilled, and how hopeless what was happening felt. He was silent, and only rare, stifled moans escaped from his lips in confirmation that he hears every word uttered by this disgusting whisper, and knows what awaits him.
And he only suppressed by an effort of will an unbearable desire to turn around and strike this creature with a sword, and not himself – after all, you can't kill such a strong demon with ordinary weapons, and then everything he did would lose all meaning, and he would reveal himself, and it would become clear that he was not Qingxuan at all.
And then, when Reverend of Empty Words forced him to release the paper fan from his hands, squeezing his wrist with an icy grip, damaging it and twisting it, Shi Wudu decided that the moment was right. The fragments of the fan broken in two fell into the mud, got dirty, pathetic and useless, turned grey and dark, losing their former whiteness. Reverend of Empty Words pushed him away from himself, pleased and having received what he wanted – and Shi Wudu, turning to him, pressed the sword to his own throat. The ice of the blade painfully chilled the exposed skin, bit into it, wounded – and Shi Wudu, without hesitating for a moment, plunged the obedient steel as deep and as hard as he could.
At the memory of this, Shi Wudu involuntarily grabbed and squeezed the cloth that hid his throat, and a deep, ugly scar, squeezed it, almost pulling it off, almost revealing what he did not want to open. And then slowly, reluctantly, he unclenched and withdrew his palms. These wounds and this scar no longer belonged to him, did not belong to his body, ghostly and non-existent, but it did not make them less painful anyway.
“This fan is fragments of the fan that I had with me,” Shi Wudu reached out and picked up a fan that was attached next to him from the pillows, opened the dark links, waved them a little, making the waves on the back and the hieroglyph of water silver. Inky-black and blue koi, attracted by the movement, questioningly bent their flowing tails, and waved their fins, as if they were really curious. Or they were attracted by spiritual power embedded in the fan – spiritual power that were also a reflection of the water, and belonged to the water, just like themselves. "The fan that Qingxuan now owns, the fan of the Wind Master, is another part of the fan torn by Reverend of Empty Words. So you were right about that, general Ming Guang – we are similar in many ways. Even, perhaps, too much," Shi Wudu smiled mirthlessly, closing and hiding the fan again.
"Why didn't you ask me directly about Shi Qingxuan? Back then, earlier, at our first, so to speak, meeting?” general Ming Guang returned the barb to him, although the question sounded quite sincere.
“Maybe I also had to send prayers to you? And worship you in your temples?” Shi Wudu did not fail to tease him, still maintaining his impenetrable politeness, still wanting to remain closed, despite all that was said, despite the fact that he still could not resist to find out about Qingxuan what he had wanted to find out for so long. Although it is unlikely that general Ming Guang would have been able to use what he heard for some unworthy purposes of his own. Because even if he tried, there were still many rivers and lakes and streams in the northern lands that could become sources of spiritual power for Shi Wudu.
"Don't you want to meet him?" general Ming Guang did not specify with whom exactly, but everything was clear without unnecessary words. At these words, Shi Wudu's insides ached painfully, reminding him how long it had been since he had met Qingxuan, how long he had not had the opportunity to find out about his life, or suggest things, or at least just make sure that everything was fine with him, that he was still as cheerful and carefree as he was once upon a time, that for him there is no special difference, to be a deity or a man.
"I want to. Very much. For a long time," Shi Wudu paused, and then continued without a shadow of doubt. “But I don't want to deprive him of carelessness. And the life that he has now, and that brings him joy.”
After what was said, silence covered them, long and lingering. Dim, bluish lights floated around them, koi glided silently and weightlessly in the non-existent water, and the rustle of ghostly waves was heard. Somewhere in the distance, water splashed, streams poured, gloomy and cold, and waterfalls rang silvery.
But neither of them was in a hurry to break the long silence.
And only after an infinitely long time and silence, general Ming Guang broke this silence by asking a question that surprised Shi Wudu a lot.
* * *
It seemed that he guessed correctly about the meaning of the Longevity Lock made of demonic gold that Shi Qingxuan wore – this demon, Shi Wudu, confirmed his guess, although he did it extremely reluctantly, as if Pei Ming asked about things about which he wasn't supposed to ask. On the other hand, even without his confirmation, everything was clear – everyone in the Upper Heavens, of course, knew what the things created from demonic gold were for. Although they thought it was very rash to rely only on them. That's just everyone was just whispering and spreading rumors, one more ridiculous than the other, with whom Shi Qingxuan shares such a thing.
It was not difficult to find this place – Pei Ming had already visited the palace of the Wind Master on various errands of the Heavenly Emperor or his own business. It was worth admitting that each of his appearances ended in a skirmish, and each time he assured himself that he would not step foot here again, but business remained business, and the duties of Martial God were the duties of Martial God, and it would not have worked out indefinitely anyway to avoid them. But now he immediately found this secluded place in the courtyard, immersed in semi-darkness and coolness.
He could not understand before, well, who could this urn with ashes belong to, that Shi Qingxuan was so protective of – with his carelessness, so silent about - with his talkativeness, so concealed from everyone – with his openness.
And now he understood.
Dark, catching the dim rays of overcast daylight through the low-hanging clouds, the walls of the urn with ashes seemed to be reflection of the water, as deep and dark as it was able to pull into its icy depths, such that it now obeyed the demon whose ashes rested here. Pei Ming thoughtfully touched these dark walls, feeling drops of moisture under his fingers, as if this urn also belonged to water, as Shi Wudu now belonged. It was so strange, so wrong – he had talked to Shi Wudu just recently, fought with him, held the blade of the sword to his throat, felt the cold emanating from him, waved away the black with bluish reflections koi at his house. And now to accept that this urn with ashes was really all that was left of him was completely unthinkable, impossible.
The shimmering bright gold of the Longevity Lock, which was carefully arranged next to the urn, Pei Ming also noticed a long time ago, during one of his previous visits. Then he was not too interested in it – inventing gossip and spreading rumors was the entertainment of other deities, but now this knowledge came in handy, and brought in something that he himself would not be able to find or get. He pulled on a thin, ornate chain – it yielded willingly, smoothly – and the next moment the weightless gold of the Longevity Lock slipped into his palm.
Shi Qingxuan will not be able to feel Shi Wudu through this Longevity Lock, because Shi Wudu is dead - and this urn with ashes wrapped in water, and this Longevity Lock left near it, all these confirmations were perceived for some reason as through a dense layer of fog, thick and moist, which concealed shaky shadows and distorted the outlines. But Shi Wudu, on the contrary, will be able to feel Shi Qingxuan, will be able to find out what is wrong with him, and what other stupidities and troubles he got involved in, as he constantly got involved, and for which – Pei Ming did not doubt for a moment – Shi Wudu reprimanded him with enviable constancy, in that, previous life.
Pei Ming preferred not to think about why he was doing this.
* * *
Finding the way to Shi Wudu's palce wasn't as difficult as Pei Ming had feared. Yes, this place was hidden among dense, tall thickets of grasses, among slippery, dirty-green mud, and strewn with light river sand fragments of stones, among innumerable water streams, but still it worked out to get to it without asking small water demons, and rare, bone fishes with sharp, curved fins that slowly swam in these waters.
A ghostly, bluish light was pouring out of the slightly open window. And in its flickering, Pei Ming discerned Shi Wudu – his hair, still in disarray, was raised and pinned up with a hairpin decorated with silver tassels swaying in time with each movement, his clothes were replaced with home ones, so to speak, and instead of dark with bluish, they became turquoise with silver, and the fan was put aside to the side, and darkened on a low table with folded links. Shi Wudu was obviously trying to cook something – it smelled of slightly overcooked, sticky rice and freshly peeled vegetables.
Pei Ming chuckled and, without pausing any longer, stepped towards the door.