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Ⅰ.
(Stone, when cut and polished can become smooth, but will always be unyielding. It will never be as soft and warm as real flesh, but for those already unaccustomed to that softness, who have never had something soft and warm to rest upon, it is an adequate substitute.)
The first home he ever carved out for himself was in a small, hidden shrine, curled up at the base of the statue of The Flower Crowned Martial God. It would be in that same shrine that his god would speak to him, where he would pledge his entire self– his loyalty, his heart, his life. It would be in that shrine where he felt that his life had finally started. But before that, it was somewhere safe; from the elements, from the cruelty of the people of Xianle, guarded by the only person to show him kindness, to assure him he was not a curse or a blight. The stone was not soft, but it was solid, sturdy, dependable. (A pair of strong arms, a sturdy chest, wrapped up in the frame of someone who would never stumble, protected, held aloft, saved ).
He kept himself small, cleaning and maintaining the temple, bringing a daily offering to justify his existence there. A flower for a flower god. He kept the temple fitting for a god, up until the bitter end.
Ⅱ.
Hong-er would have thought the nameless thing–massacring its way through the ghost hordes of Mount Tonglu– a blasphemer for worshiping as an act of war and making offerings of blood. But Hong-er was a child, only slightly less pathetic and useless than the nameless thing currently is. Hong-er died long ago.
The nameless thing is consumed by bloodshed and gore and violence. He fought and died in a war in the name of His Highness, and he does the same in this bloodier, unrelenting fight. Taizi Dianxia wielded the flower and the sword, a martial god beyond compare. Just as he did in the war against Yong’an, the nameless thing imagines Taizi Dianxia guides his hand before he makes a strike.
The nameless thing rips out that cursed eye– a moment of madness, a moment of catharsis.
Beneath the agony, there is pride. Finally, an offering that is not all blood.
He calls the thing E’ming.
Aided with a tool, he carves down his enemies with a furious speed. He explores the strange landscapes that house this killing arena as he waxes and wanes between sanity. Mount Tonglu calls, but at its base, where there once must have been a fertile crescent, are long buried ancient cities, a felled kingdom. A mystery that awakens some long dead curiosity. There are empty shells everywhere, clay outlines of people long dead. Still standing, an impressive sight amongst the rest of the rubble, are divine temples, murals telling the story of the destruction of a kingdom, and the fate of the Crown Prince turned god.
The kingdom, as well as the god are long gone, something that makes the nameless thing faintly ill at the reminder, but the temple still stands, as if preserved all these years by the faith of the believers.
If there is still a temple standing, can a god truly die?
It is not befitting His Highness, to have his temple be built in an empty cave in the hellish remains of a fallen kingdom with a useless unworthy servant to carve his likeness, but the nameless thing once swore to build temples for him, and this is all he can provide.
He's already bled on the walls of this cavern, a bloody retelling of a cursed, wretched thing and the god who saved him. The image of Taizi Dianxa is the only place left unbloodied. The place reeks of resentment; of blood, of the profane. Hua Cheng makes it holy.
There is fear as he carves– what if he has forgotten the face of Dianxia. He won’t ever be satisfied; he searches his work compulsively for any flaw, any imperfection, any unwanted blemish on the image of His Highness. (It’s a habit that will follow him out of the kiln– once he is crowned ghost king and ruler of Ghost City, he does not rest, tearing down Paradise Manor and rebuilding it when he is dissatisfied. )
Stone is not soft, it is unyielding, but it is all he has ever known. There is no prostrating allowed in the temples of Taizi Dianxia but he is so tired, so weary. He sinks to his knees in front of the statues of his god, clutches at the stone robes with unworthy hands and sobs, wishing he could beg forgiveness, wishing he could accept any punishment His Highness would dole out for his failures.
When he is at his weakest, he curls up in the lap of an unfinished statue, head laid over a stone chest, right where a heart would be if this Dianxia was flesh and blood. It is only here that he allows himself to rest. The statue remains unfinished for a long time, because he is a weak thing, seeking comfort where he should not.
(Stone does not yield, it is not soft, not warm, it is not flesh. But sometimes the nameless thing will tremble in front of a statue, just a hair's breadth away, and pretend it is. He imagines if he pours enough devotion, enough spiritual power, His Highness will come to life underneath his fingertips.)
After killing his last opponent, he finishes the last statue before turning himself over to the kiln.
Now it is his turn to be carved into something better.
Ⅲ.
(No matter how much someone would like to pretend otherwise, stone is stone, and flesh is flesh)
When he finds his god again, he has a name and he has the strength and power he has always sought. In the 800 years they have been apart, Hua Cheng has remade himself over and over; he has mastered all the fine arts a well educated young master should know, he has felled gods, ghosts, and mortals alike. No one has dared question his authority in centuries. This version of him has more right to serve Diaxia, to stand by his side.
Still, he wants to break himself down and build something better. Wishes there were more trials he could pass, wishes Mount Tonglu would open up and swallow him whole– make him into something more worthy.
Hua Cheng is prepared to give everything he has to Dianxia, is ready to kneel before him once more, pledge his loyalty.
( Everything I have, everything I am, is for you )
When he meets Xie Lian on that ox cart, he selfishly, indulgently, recklessly, thinks that what he needs is a friend.
(Statues will never be enough anymore.)
Ⅳ.
Hua Cheng never carved Xie Lian’s smile properly. Or—and the thought makes something pleased and helpless arise in him— the smiles Xie Lian gifts him now are smiles he has never given anyone in the past.
Xie Lian's smiles are soft and a little shy, as if he does not know if he is allowed to have them, but it will curve, strong and sure when Hua Cheng makes him laugh.
Xie Lian is soft to touch, he is warm. He both welcomes touch and shies away from it. Hua Cheng innately understands the deep loneliness behind it– like him, Xie Lian has not known soft touch in centuries. It becomes easier to stop trembling when he touches or is touched.
Xie Lian is not smooth like stone, there are calluses on his fingers, and the rest of his body shows marks from the life he has lived. He wants to weep in the face of it, his god is here! His god is real!
And he wants Hua Cheng, doesn’t want the fineries or power he can offer, doesn’t want his disguises to hide his disfigurements. Xie Lian wants him.
“You're real”, Xie Lian had whispered, disbelieving and awe struck, embracing Hua Cheng after he had scraped together spiritual power and finally returned to him.
“ You’re real”, Hua Cheng had replied back, voice breaking and eyes stinging with it. Xie Lian was not stone, Hua Cheng could feel his heartbeat, could feel his laughter and his tears.
All this time, Hua Cheng has worshipped the statue, and now he gets to love the man.