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On days like today, Shang Qinghua really wished there were two of him.
It had seemed like such a fine idea at the time. Yue Qingyuan had reinstated him as Peak Lord of An Ding and, other than some wary sidelong glances from assorted Cang Qiong cultivators and occasional outright abuse from Shen Qingqiu, all had settled back into a familiar routine.
With An Ding peak running smoothly, it hadn’t seemed to Shang Qinghua to be an issue if he continued to stay with Mobei-jun at his palace. Purely to offer practical help, of course; his king had many talents, but managing his own affairs was not one of them. More importantly, a promise is a promise, and Shang Qinghua’s life was not over yet. If all of the above brought Shang Qinghua more often into the sphere of Mobei-jun’s attention, he’d call it a perk of the job.
And on days like today, there had to be some perks.
As he dismissed the latest in an apparently endless stream of palace underlings, Shang Qinghua turned his attention back to the sea of documents on his desk. Somewhere, among instructions to the inner disciples of An Ding, counter offers to treaties from neighbouring territories, and reports from varying parts of the palace, was the precise piece of parchment he was looking for. Somewhere.
Biting back the growing urge to sweep the desk clear and march off to start a new and less stressful life in the mountains, Shang Qinghua forced himself to be methodical, creating a series of ever more precarious stacks. There. The inkstick was where he last remembered seeing it. Now for the inkstone. Happily, Shang Qinghua found that object with little effort. Unhappily, he found it by dint of pressing his fingers into it. It was still wet.
With a strangled yelp of surprise, Shang Qinghua snatched his hand away and pushed himself back on his heels, upsetting one of his carefully constructed stacks. He grasped at it, triggering a chain reaction which left him sitting amongst drifts of parchment which settled around him like disappointing confetti. Shang Qinghua buried his head in his hands.
It was at this point, of course, that Mobei-jun walked in.
“I trust all is well here?” Mobei-jun’s tone was as cold and impassive as the rest of him, but somehow Shang Qinghua had the impression that he was being laughed at.
“Yes, my King. I am…experimenting with a new filing system.” Mobei-jun’s eyes flicked between the parchment littering the floor and the general chaos surrounding the upended inkstone on the desk. “I don’t think it has been a success.” Shang Qinghua rose to his feet with as much grace as he could muster and moved to stand before Mobei-jun. “How can I serve my King?”
“I will be leaving the palace soon. Junshang has need of me, and I will be absent for some time. I came to say…” As Mobei-jun’s voice trailed off, he stepped closer, his eyes intent on Shang Qinghua’s face.
Surely Mobei-jun hadn’t sought him out to say goodbye? Shang Qinghua’s heart leapt in his chest; the moment dragged out until he couldn’t abide the silence any longer.
“You came to say what, my King?”
Mobei-jun’s eyes refocused and took on their customary sharpness. “I came to say that I expect you to have completed the tasks I asked of you before I return.”
Stupid. Of course he hadn’t come to say goodbye. Shang Qinghua’s heart dropped so hard he was surprised it didn’t join his disordered parchment littering the floor.
“Yes, my King. Training for new staff is about to begin, I have drawn up lists of the necessary provisions for the upcoming feast with neighbouring clans, and I will personally respond to the trade request from the Eastern territories.”
Shang Qinghua expected a curt acknowledgement, but Mobei-jun wasn’t responding, and he wasn’t leaving. On the contrary, he appeared to be moving closer. The intent expression was back, eyes pinned to Shang Qinghua’s face. Mobei-jun came closer still, until Shang Qinghua could feel his breath. Slowly, Mobei-jun lifted his hand, his fingers all but brushing Shang Qinghua’s cheek.
“One more thing,” Mobei-jun murmured.
Shang Qinghua’s breath was lodged in his throat, and it took him a few attempts to squeak out a response. “Y-yes, my King?”
“You have ink on your face.”
With that, Mobei-jun swept out of the room, the loose parchment on the floor fluttering in the cold breeze he left in his wake.
For a few moments, Shang Qinghua stood with his eyes squeezed shut. He sighed and forced them open again, turning to sort the chaos surrounding his desk. How ridiculous, to allow his imagination to run free like that. He was already many times more fortunate than he had been in his original life. That was more than enough.
***
Considering its location, the palace had a remarkable set of gardens. When he had first arrived, the area Shang Qinghua currently walked in had been scrubland, indistinguishable from the rest of the barren surroundings. Now, it was an explosion of colour, and not somewhere you would want to walk without your wits about you.
Over the years, Shang Qinghua had harvested many of the more unusual plants he’d dreamed up, from across both human and demon realms, and gathered them in one place; more a pharmacopoeia than a garden. Here, there were specimens that could make a person fall in love, or die screaming for mercy. The leaves of one lurid orange flower could give men the power to talk to beasts, while the berries of another unassuming shrub could make them exude a deadly toxin from their skin. In a nearby cave, Shang Qinghua had even recreated the necessary environment to cultivate Sun and Moon Dew Flower Seed. One never knew when a new body might be useful.
Worryingly, Shang Qinghua had no idea what most of the flora he’d gathered even did, if they did anything at all. It had seemed like such fun at the time – a plant for every occasion! Plants to kickstart wifeplots! Plants to conveniently paper over plotholes! Plants to justify excessive papapa! Now he wished he’d written in some things of more practical value, like instant ramen, or indoor plumbing.
Today, Shang Qinghua was on his way to gather various things – a fast-acting poison and pollen which would act as a truth serum – which he would take with him when meeting with the representative from the Eastern territories. It paid to be cautious; besides, everyone already considered him a spy, so he might as well act like one. Just one final ingredient – Shang Qinghua’s footsteps faltered, and he ground to a halt opposite…the plant.
It had simply appeared in the garden one day. Shang Qinghua hadn’t gathered it himself, but that meant nothing – he had been sending servants out to take cuttings of plants for years. It was unusual that he couldn’t remember creating something so striking. Twin bulbs the size of watermelons sprouted from a single stalk, and it was clearly carnivorous; each head was lined with razor teeth. It looked like some mad scientist had combined a Venus flytrap with those things that came out of the pipes in Super Mario. It gave Shang Qinghua the creeps.
The plant moved, Shang Qinghua could swear to it. And it seemed hungry. Part of him knew this was ridiculous, but it did not make it any less true in his mind. He’d watched the gardeners feeding it; they offered rats to the bulb on the left – he’d never seen the other one open – and the poor creatures disappeared down its maw without a sound. Shortly afterwards, the bulb on the right would start moving. Creepy. And it was voracious; it was fed every day. Shang Qinghua had hoped that one day the supply of rodents would run out and the thing would starve to death but, oddly, there seemed to be more rats around than ever.
Of course, the plant stood right next to the final ingredient Shang Qinghua needed. It would appear his bad luck held out even in universes of his own making. Gingerly, he stepped forward, reaching to pluck some of the moss that grew at the base of its stalk. Shang Qinghua snatched at the moss and jerked away; the plant had not moved, and he had not collected a fraction of what he needed.
“It’s just a plant – you can do this.” Shang Qinghua huffed a laugh at his own fearfulness and moved more purposefully, grabbing a good handful of moss and —
“GAHH! Shang Qinghua leapt backwards, blood already starting to trickle from his arm. “You little bastard.” The bulb was back in place, almost like it had never moved at all, but its visible teeth gleamed red, and that was definitely a piece of his robe plastered to its surface.
Before he knew what he was doing, Shang Qinghua’s sword was drawn and the bulb neatly severed from its stalk. He stared at it as it hit the ground and rolled to a stop. No matter how much he had hated the thing, he allowed himself a moment’s regret. It had been the only one of its kind, and now Shang Qinghua might never find out what the ridiculous thing’s purpose had been. The regret lasted a matter of seconds – the fucking thing had bitten him, after all. Shang Qinghua stuffed the moss into his sleeves and stomped out of the garden.
As the sound of his footsteps faded, the remaining bulb began to writhe and pulse.
***
As he walked along the corridor, Shang Qinghua rubbed at his arm where his skin had been punctured the day before. The wound had bled profusely before clotting into thick, black scabs. They had itched abominably, almost as if something was under his skin, tugging and plucking at the injury. It had driven him half-mad, and he had spent an uncomfortable and mostly sleepless night before drifting off just before dawn. When he awoke, hours later than normal, the scabs were gone, without even the glossy tightness of new skin underneath. It was like it had never happened at all.
Now, Shang Qinghua was irritable through lack of sleep, and late. He marched towards the hall where he was (over)due to see to the training of new servants, unsure if he was angrier with himself or the plant. Neither, he decided – this was Mobei-jun’s fault. None of this would have happened if he had been here.
Still muttering darkly under his breath, Shang Qinghua swept into the room where the latest batch of unfortunates should have been waiting.
“What in the hells?”
The chamber was in darkness and, unless the new recruits were unexpectedly talented at camouflage, quite empty. Shang Qinghua approached one of the lanterns in the wall; the wick was still warm, so the room had been recently occupied. He was late, but not late enough to cause the entire intake to give up and leave. He stormed back into the corridor, casting about for somebody upon whom he could take out this latest indignity.
Up ahead, a servant had the misfortune to be passing by at just the wrong moment. Shang Qinghua surged forwards and grabbed him by the collar, spinning the man to face him.
“Where are the new trainees? I have had a trying couple of days, and if I have to go and round them up myself, I swear I'll —“
Shang Qinghua stopped speaking so abruptly his teeth clacked together.
“What…what is wrong with your uniform?” The man in front of him was wearing standard domestics’ robes, but not in the standard fashion. Rather than snugly folded over his chest, his inner and outer robes had been loosened and pulled apart, baring his skin to the navel.
The servant’s eyes widened. Shang Qinghua could almost see the panic rise in them, like water filling a glass. “Is this not what you meant, Shang-zhuzi? Should I open them more?” The man’s fingers scrambled to his belt, tugging it loose and threatening to spill himself out of his robes entirely.
“Stop!” Shang Qinghua squealed, grabbing a fistful of the servant’s robes in each hand and pulling them together as though shutting a pair of curtains. “Why are you partially undressed? What makes you think I want you to wear your robes like this? Where are the new trainees? How is this even a conversation that I am having?”
Partway through his increasingly shrill monologue, the servant had stopped looking panicked and begun radiating confusion. Now, he backed up a step or two, wary.
“The new trainees have left; they were dismissed. You dismissed them yourself, right after you explained the new uniform rules.” The man spoke carefully, emanating that particular brand of stillness you see when someone is trying very hard not to spook an unpredictable animal.
Perhaps, thought Shang Qinghua, the plant he’d decapitated had contained a powerful hallucinogenic, because either the servant was entirely detached from reality, or he was. Shang Qinghua considered questioning the man further, but the look on his face was morphing from confused to distrusting and frightened and the last thing Shang Qinghua needed was the staff whispering about how he’d lost his wits.
“Of course. That was a test – you are dismissed.”
With a final doubtful glance, the servant bobbed awkwardly and scuttled off down the corridor, leaving Shang Qinghua to take inventory of the situation. Possible explanations ranged from him making drug-fuelled proclamations while sleepwalking to the servant he had spoken to being an evil mastermind, bent on Shang Qinghua’s downfall. There were too many variables to even make a guess right away. Never mind, this was not the most unusual problem that Shang Qinghua had faced, which was, now that he considered it, a somewhat worrying realisation.
He would investigate – he was good at investigating. That, at least, was something he was sure of.
***
Over the next day or so, Shang Qinghua watched his staff like a hawk, but all of them remained within their robes and were acting normally; or, at least, as normally as could be expected. He observed the servant he had accosted in the corridor with particular focus, but saw nothing to raise suspicion. Shang Qinghua tentatively crossed ‘the servant is an evil mastermind’ off his list of possible explanations.
In the spirit of extra vigilance, Shang Qinghua avoided the garden as well. He did not really think that he had arisen from his bed in a hallucinogenic stupor to order his subordinates out of their clothes, but it never hurt to be cautious. When he was convinced that his sleeping patterns and memory were on an even keel, Shang Qinghua returned to the plant that had bitten him. The bulb he had attacked was rotting on the ground, breaking down into oddly geometric shapes of virulent green. Its twin remained on its stalk, healthy but warped out of shape; stretched like a pouch that had been filled beyond capacity. The whole thing was still creepy, but it held no answers for him.
Returning to his office reminded Shang Qinghua that something was definitely amiss. He’d restacked the parchment on his desk after Mobei-jun had left according to his own specific filing system; that is to say, he knew in the vaguest terms what was on the desk, he could occasionally guess which stack a document was in, and the piles were of a uniform size to better persuade the casual observer of how well organised the entire edifice was.
Now though, the desk was genuinely neat. The smears of ink had been removed, there were no stealth piles of parchment at the side of the desk or hidden under cushions, and there was a clear space in front of where he sat. It was exactly how he always envisaged his desk in his mind’s eye. It was not how it had ever appeared in reality.
Shang Qinghua approached the desk in much the same way he would approach a short-tailed blood python: reluctantly, and with the unhappy conviction the encounter would not end well. He hovered, eyes skimming each visible document. They were all in his penmanship, but one was almost imperceptibly neater than the others; the characters more even and better formed. How he wished his handwriting was. It was a list of provisions for the upcoming banquet, and it included some items he had definitely not approved. He took to his heels and ran for the kitchens.
All was calm when he arrived. Shang Qinghua squinted suspiciously in every corner, but there was nothing out of place. Of course. The forged document was still in the office, so the kitchen staff wouldn’t have received the orders for the peculiar and hazardous items that he’d seen on the list. Shang Qinghua sighed in relief; he’d spotted the problem before it became an issue. Whatever was going on, it was certainly mischievous, perhaps malicious. He couldn’t help but feel a certain grudging admiration. If he were planning to disrupt a banquet, then exchanging the chickens for cockatrices would achieve that admirably.
“Oh, Shang-zhuzi – you’re back. Was there something else?”
Back? Shang Qinghua’s heart sank as he turned to the servant entering the kitchens. Perhaps he hadn’t prevented the issue after all.
“Yes, yes – back again. Now, remind me what I was doing when you saw me last?” Shang Qinghua’s voice sounded shrill and forced, even to his own ears, and he suspected the smile he plastered to his face was pained, rather than reassuring.
This particular servant was either far more trusting or much less intellectually acute than the one Shang Qinghua had come across before; he didn’t even question why someone would be cross-examining their own actions.
“You were leaving revised instructions for the storage of food and particulars for the banquet.” As he progressed through the sentence, the servant's words came more slowly, uncertainty creeping into his voice and expression.
Shang Qinghua tensed; this, he was sure, was the part where the man decided that these questions revealed a set of faculties compromised beyond repair and stopped cooperating. “You were wearing different robes though – the paler ones with the dark blue inner layer.”
The robes he’d worn the day he’d visited the garden; he’d set them aside to mend the deep gashes torn into one sleeve. Interesting.
“And you’re sure it was me?”
The servant didn’t even flinch at what was, by any metric, a truly bizarre question. Oceans of obliviousness ebbed and flowed behind his eyes.
“Of course, Shang-zhuzi.”
An imposter, then. Shang Qinghua was almost disappointed – how mundane. He began to scheme up ways to catch the pretender, getting so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly forgot to check the revised storage instructions. As he approached the piece of parchment stuck to the wall, a not-insignificant explosion sounded from deeper inside the palace kitchens, ripping through the silence and trembling the ground beneath Shang Qinghua’s feet. He strained his ears. Over the frantic slapping of feet and the startled cries of the staff, he could hear the improbable sound of a donkey braying. He sighed. He’d go clean up this mess and then…then this imposter was going to pay.
***
If I were trying to cause merry havoc and generally irritate myself, what would I do?
It was an interesting topic to consider. All in all, Shang Qinghua thought that whoever was running around impersonating him was doing a pretty good job. Annoying, but good. They had the staff fooled, and the little acts of devilry? If it hadn’t been Shang Qinghua’s job to deal with the consequences, he’d have found them hilarious. Part of the fun of writing Proud Immortal Demon Way had been skating as close to the absurd as he could without pissing off his readers. Well, except Cucumber-bro – everything pissed that killjoy off.
All of that was immaterial. It was Shang Qinghua’s job to deal with the consequences, and he had not enjoyed his evening spent scrubbing various burnt delicacies off the wall and soothing distressed animals in the slightest. This had to stop, and Shang Qinghua thought he knew how to achieve that. He was due to meet with a representative from the Eastern territories, which was a pretty big deal. The demons of the east were prickly and reclusive, and almost nothing was known about them. His meeting, and the prospect of a treaty between the territories, would be the first steps toward a potentially powerful alliance; a situation ripe for meddling.
He had intended to meet the representative outside of the palace: it was neutral ground, and it offered many potential escape routes if things should not go to plan. And therein lay the problem. If he wanted to catch this imposter, Shang Qinghua would need to ensure that disappearing easily was not an option.
It was time to play some games of his own.
It wasn’t difficult to start the ball rolling. Any place where a sufficient number of people (or demons) gathered inevitably became a breeding ground for rumours. It had been difficult to keep secrets on An Ding peak – or any of the twelve peaks, for that matter. It was impossible in the claustrophobic corridors of Mobei-jun’s palace. A few well-placed whispers were all it took – a casual remark about there being a change of plans here, a note about the great hall being prepared for a special guest there, and the trap was laid.
As the first fingers of dawn crept across the palace walls, Shang Qinghua rose from his bed and pulled on his robes, snugging them tight against the cold. He padded down the corridor towards the great hall, ghosting his fingers across the doors to Mobei-jun’s empty quarters when he passed. Nearing his destination, Shang Qinghua slowed his steps, walking on the outsides of his feet to muffle any noise. He paused outside, listening carefully, but silence enveloped the whole palace.
This early, the corners of the room were in deep shadow, and Shang Qinghua slipped into the darkness they provided, still cautious. He studied the room. Ah. His trap had been sprung, but Shang Qinghua was too late to catch his prey – the imposter had already been and gone. The room was ringed by sconces, and all of them were wrong. It took Shang Qinghua a moment to pinpoint what was amiss. Even in the low light of the morning, they glistened wetly, coated in something. Shang Qinghua sighed; he may have been too late to catch the culprit, but at least he could undo the damage they had done. The gods only knew what had been added to the torches, and what might have happened when they were lit; anything from the flames glowing a pretty colour to an explosion that would cause the horrific death of every living thing within its radius.
As he prepared to leave his hiding place and establish the extent of the clean-up required, movement caught Shang Qinghua’s eye. It was uncanny; he’d been expecting an imposter, but this…This was more than a talented charlatan, convincing enough to fool a bunch of servants – this was a clone, an exact replica down to the last details. Watching himself cross the room, Shang Qinghua felt his grip on reality shift; like when you realise you’re dreaming, and all you can do is observe what unfolds until you wake up.
His look-alike was moving around the room, inspecting his handiwork. The initial shock wore off, and Shang Qinghua was able to take in details. Perhaps there were some differences after all. The overall effect was the same – the movements, the mannerisms – but some of the specifics were not quite right. The replica’s hair appeared to be missing the unruly bit at the front that Shang Qinghua could never quite convince to behave, and his robes fit a little better and fell more elegantly. Within his shadowy hiding place, Shang Qinghua was becoming irked. This…thing had manipulated his servants, invaded his privacy and blown up his fucking kitchens, all while looking better than Shang Qinghua ever had. This simply could not be borne. Without any further thought, he stormed into the middle of the room to confront it.
When he was a few steps away, his doppelganger spun around and met Shang Qinghua’s eye. He had expected that the creature would startle, perhaps even flee. It did not.
“Oh hey, it’s you. I wondered when we’d bump into one another.” The replica’s eyes were shining with suppressed glee. It dropped its head and whispered conspiratorially. “Wanna help me sabotage the great hall?”
Shang Qinghua was not a man easily swayed to displays of temper, but everybody has a limit. It wasn’t just the brazen audacity of the facsimile that stood in front of him, it was his voice. Surely Shang Qinghua himself did not sound like that? So shrill. His anger overrode the temptation to never open his mouth in public again.
“Absolutely not. Who — no, WHAT are you, and why the FUCK are you sabotaging my great hall?”
The infuriating thing threw its head back and laughed. “I’m you, of course. And as to what I’m doing here? I’m having fun.” The clone paused and frowned in Shang Qinghua’s direction. “You do know what fun is, right?”
Of course Shang Qinghua knew what fun was. He distinctly remembered seeing some underneath piles of lists, accounts and inventory at some point in the recent past. “What you’re doing isn’t fun,” he snapped. “It’s vandalism. Come with me – we’re going to put you somewhere safe until I can decide what to do with you.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” The clone stepped out of reach, something harder than merriment glittering in its eyes. “I’m enjoying this far too much. Besides,” it said, lips warping into a leer, “I’m going nowhere until Mobei-jun gets back. You might be too afraid to try and get him into bed, but I’m not. Have you seen the size of his thighs? I can only imagine the size of his —“
Shang Qinghua realised he’d drawn his sword when he found himself levelling the tip of it at the throat of the thing wearing his face. “Oh good,” the clone said, drawing a weapon the mirror image of the one in Shang Qinghua’s hand. “I hoped this might happen.”
As they stepped cautiously around one another, Shang Qinghua began to get a bad feeling about his chances in a fight with his alternate self. However it had been created, it seemed to reflect an ideal of Shang Qinghua, rather than the reality. The thing had better handwriting and better hair than him; it stood to reason it would have better swordsmanship.
No matter; there was more than one way to win a fight. He swung his leg and kicked the bastard in the balls with everything he had.
The replica crumpled to the ground with a satisfying thump and Shang Qinghua turned to see what he could use to restrain it. By the time he felt the hand that snuck around his ankle, he was already in freefall, landing on his chin and snapping his teeth into his lip hard enough to draw blood.
“You fucker.”
“You asshole.”
The rest of the fight was a mess of biting, clawing, gouging, and occasional bouts of creative swearing. As he surfaced for breath still holding a clump of hair, Shang Qinghua spotted the servant from the other night – the one of the scandalously tied robes – enter the hall, clearly coming to investigate how two warring alleycats had found their way into the palace. The man took one look at the scene in front of him and fled in the direction of the main gate.
This was not good. He was almost certainly on his way to get a member of Mobei-jun’s personal guard. Shang Qinghua might have held some sway over the servants, but the guards were another story. They were chosen from demons with a high position in the clan, they answered to nobody but Mobei-jun, and they had never disguised their contempt of Shang Qinghua. If they came across two Shang Qinghuas beating each other bloody in the great hall, they were not likely to take his well-being into consideration when deciding how best to deal with the matter.
Shang Qinghua released his death-grip on the doppelganger’s ear and tried to disengage. He was nearly free when a thumb slid into his mouth and he was dragged back into the fray by his face. He bit down hard and was rewarded with an agonised squeal, but, before he could attempt another escape, Shang Qinghua’s world was quite literally turned upside down.
When he stopped swaying like a pendulum and could make sense of what he was seeing, Shang Qinghua was looking into the face of an enormous demon in a guard’s uniform. He held Shang Qinghua off the ground by one ankle, and he did not appear to be in a good mood.
Shit.
***
“He’s a fake, a charlatan; he’s nothing but a cheap imposter and he’s been running around the palace for days now causing havoc. I demand that you deal with him.”
Shang Qinghua glowered. “How ridiculous – that thing standing next to me is the fake, of course. Come on, you have to believe me.” Shang Qinghua suppressed a wince at the wheedling edge bleeding into his voice. It was the opposite of convincing. “I’ve lived here for years! Surely you can recognise me?”
The servant who had stumbled across their scuffle and the guard he had subsequently summoned stood opposite, observing the increasingly surreal argument. The servant looked confused and anxious, moving his attention back and forth between the two figures in front of him as though their dispute were a bothersome game of tennis. The guard seemed bored and picked at his claws, somehow managing to make the action seem menacing.
“What should we do?” The servant’s voice squeaked nervously, and Shang Qinghua scowled in his direction. What the hell did he have to be upset about?
For a long moment the huge demon didn’t answer, just spun his evil-looking spear around in his grip. “I say we kill them both – it’s the simplest solution."
“NO!” The emphatic denial came from all the other voices in the room simultaneously.
“We can’t,” the servant continued. “Can you imagine what Mobei-jun would do if he came back and we’d killed his pet?” The guard just shrugged and spun his spear again.
“We can’t lock them up together. It’s a miracle either of them has any hair left after their catfight; they’d claw each other to shreds if we did that.” The servant began to pace as he worked through the problem. “There must be a way of telling them apart…I know! We’ll ask them a question only the real Shang-zhuzi would know the answer to.” He turned to the hulking guard, looking very pleased with himself indeed.
“And what will you ask them?”
“Oh.” The servant sounded so deflated that Shang Qinghua almost felt sorry for him. The man rallied quickly. “Okay, so that won’t work. How about any distinguishing features on their bodies?”
The expression on the guard’s face could have withered inanimate objects. “If Mobei-jun would be upset we had killed his pet, how do you imagine he’d react to us stripping him naked and inspecting his every crevice?”
The servant crumpled in on himself even further before giving himself a shake. It was clear he had come to a decision. “Fine – kill them both. We’ll manage to come up with some excuse.”
Shang Qinghua watched as the guard smiled and tightened his grip on his spear. This called for the nuclear option. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but Shang Qinghua also very much wanted to remain alive. He took a deep breath and readied himself to call for Mobei-jun.
“MY KING!”
The breath he had been holding punched out of Shang Qinghua’s body like he’d been struck. It had been the clone. It had opened its mouth and called for Mobei-jun. As if it were really him. As if it had the right. Nothing that came before mattered in the face of such audacity. Shang Qinghua faced his replica; he was going to tear it apart with his bare hands.
Before he could move, the familiar crackle of an open teleportation rift filled the great hall, and Shang Qinghua dropped to his knees. The gesture wasn’t out of place – he had knelt for Mobei-jun before, out of respect or supplication. It was devastation that had driven him to the ground this time. He had thought…he had been sure. Calling for Mobei-jun was for him and him alone. A consequence of his promise and of their bond. How foolish he’d been. Perhaps the guard’s spear would have been the kinder option after all.
“Oh, excellent!” The clone’s voice seemed to come from far away, echoey and distorted in Shang Qinghua’s ears. “Now we know for sure which the fake is and we can kill him.”
“Agreed.” As Mobei-jun spoke, Shang Qinghua forced himself to look up. The demon lord stood just out of reach, face expressionless. He lifted a hand and a jagged black sword materialised in the air in front of him. Shang Qinghua closed his eyes.
A soft thump at his side startled Shang Qinghua into opening them again. The clone was slumped on the floor, the sword impaled through its chest. Its body began to come apart, the all too familiar features blurring, then breaking down, until all that remained were oddly geometric shapes of virulent green. So that’s what the plant had done: one side drew blood, the other made a copy. No wonder they’d ended up with so many fucking rats.
“But…but…” The servant’s voice trailed away to nothing, his face contorted in bewilderment. The guard still looked bored.
Mobei-jun turned his gaze on Shang Qinghua. “I came to kill whoever was presumptuous enough to use your voice. The privilege of calling me is yours alone.”
“And you knew it wasn’t me?”
Mobei-jun just stared, the question seemingly unworthy of a response. Shang Qinghua pulled himself to his feet, and Mobei-jun moved to steady him, gripping both of his shoulders.
“It appears much has happened in my absence.” Mobei-jun removed one hand to indicate the rapidly disintegrating form on the floor. “Nothing you couldn’t handle, I trust?”
Shang Qinghua glanced at the mouldering pile and nudged it with his foot. He thought of improbable plants and cockatrices, of traumatised donkeys and undignified fistfights. More than that, he thought of the way his double had seemed, in some ways at least, to be a more confident version of himself.
He heard the echo of its voice, throaty and eager.
Have you seen the size of his thighs?
Maybe something good could still come of the whole sorry scenario.
“No, my King.” Shang Qinghua reached up, his fingers brushing Mobei-jun’s cheek. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Mobei-jun raised an eyebrow. “Is there something on my face?”
“Not yet,” replied Shang Qinghua, curling his fingers in Mobei-jun’s hair and drawing him down into a kiss.