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Chapter Text

Wu Ming trailed up to the tea house at the base of Mount Yu Jun, dressed in the face of a rich young master. He’d traveled as San Lang for most of his eight-hundred-years, preferring the unassuming face to his own. The mortals he spoke to tended to prefer this face as well.

“A Small Shop of Chance Encounters,” he read, staring up at the sign. How lucky. He nodded to the shopkeeper, moving to a table in the corner near a window.

A single white flower sat at the center of the table. A peony. It was not unlike the flowers that grew in Heaven, lining the gilded paths and filling the gardens of various royalty. Wu Ming had only seen them once, during his very brisk march through Heaven on his way back down to earth.

Still, the image had stuck with him. A flower fit for royalty. A flower fit for a god. His earliest memory, and all the more precious for it.

He reached out, brushing a finger over the delicate petals. A sharp zap of electricity went through him, trailing up his arm to settle warm in the place his heart once beat. It felt… familiar. He sucked in a breath he didn’t need, pulling his hand away so he wouldn’t damage the flower.

“Beautiful things,” the shopkeeper said, dropping a pot of tea and a cup in front of Wu Ming. “They grow along the mountain paths. Never seen anything else like it.”

“They’re peonies,” Wu Ming said, trailing a finger along the short stem where it disappeared into the vase. No more static shock, but the peony didn’t feel like any other flower he’d encountered. Like the spiritual energy of someone dearly beloved. “Generally, they only grow in the Imperial gardens.”

“Lucky,” the shopkeeper said. He poured a cup of tea, the smell of jasmine light and fragrant in the air. “No royalty around here.”

Wu Ming hummed. “I heard there was something strange happening around here, though.”

The shopkeeper grunted. He set the tea pot down harder than necessary. “Sure. None of my business, though.”

He left before Wu Ming could ask anything else. E-Ming shivered in its sheath, picking up on the rage simmering in Wu Ming’s gut. Typical trash, not caring what happened as long as it didn’t affect them.

“Asshole,” Wu Ming muttered to himself, pulling out the notes Ling Wen had left him. He wouldn’t be able to make any more notes as more information came up, but that was fine. He had a good memory.

The Ghost Bridegroom. Seventeen brides over the past century, all traveling through the mountain roads over Mount Yu Jun. Countless other guards and bridesmaids and sedan bearers.  He’d have to find a way to draw out the Ghost. Preferably without using some random human as bait.

He didn’t need more dues piled onto his already substantial debt. Ling Wen tended to take offence whenever mortals died during his missions. The sooner he could get out from under Jun Wu’s thumb, the sooner he could rid himself of the shackle wrapped around his neck.

“Who’s an asshole?” a deep, grating voice asked from the other side of the table. He looked up, glaring at the two Heavenly Officials seated before him. They were about the same height and build, though one had light hair and the other had dark, both tied into a high ponytail.

“You, clearly,” he drawled, dropping the notes back down to the table. They met his glare with their own. Ballsy, certainly. “Do they not teach manners up in Heaven?”

“Wouldn’t you know?” the dark-haired one asked. He settled a strong arm on the table, leaning over it to glower at Wu Ming. “You’re a Heavenly Official as well.”

He snorted. “Do I look like a Heavenly Official?”

“You’re on a mission for Heaven,” the light-haired one pointed out. “It doesn’t matter what face you’re hiding behind if you’re still working with Ling Wen.”

“Sure,” Wu Ming sneered. “Doesn’t mean I like to mingle with the trash.”

“Whatever,” the light-haired one said, rolling his eyes. “Do you want our help or not?”

“Help? Who said I needed help?”

The two idiots glanced at each other, some silent conversation passing between them. Irritation, surprise, anxiety, they were quite easy to read. After a moment, they turned back to him.

“Ling Wen,” they answered at the same time.

Wu Ming raised an eyebrow. Ling Wen had certainly never given him help before. He was pretty sure Jun Wu had forbidden it. Liars, then. Like most of Heaven. “Do you even know who I am?”

“Wu Ming,” they answered. The light-haired one continued. “The Red Eyed Martial God.”

He snarled at them, E-Ming shivering in its sheath. They didn’t seem disturbed. The light-haired asshole even seemed smug at getting a reaction out of him. Fuckers. “And who are you?”

“Nan Feng,” the dark-haired one said. “From the Palace of Nan Yang.”

“Fu Yao,” the other asshole answered. “From the Palace of Xuan Zhen.”

“Do your gods know you’re here?”

 “No,” Fu Yao said. “We volunteered privately. Are you going to keep being an asshole about this, or can we get a move on?”

“Maybe I like being an asshole,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “No one asked you to be here. You’re free to fuck off.”

“You little shit!” Nan Feng said. His chair hit the ground with a thud. “Did no one ever teach you to thank those who are helping you?”

“Hmm…” Wu Ming said, tapping a finger against his cheek. “… No, I can’t say that they have.”

“You’re such a brat,” Fu Yao said. “Sit down, Nan Feng, you’re causing a scene.”

“Causing a scene?” Nan Feng shouted. “He’s the one being ungrateful!”

Fu Yao sighed. “He’s being rude. Feel free to kick him out.”

“Kick me out?” Nan Feng asked. He turned towards Fu Yao, rage swirling around him. Fu Yao met him tit for tat, shooting to his feet to get in Nan Feng’s face. “You’re not in charge here.”

“No, I am,” Wu Ming cut in, rolling the scroll back up. “And I don’t want either of you here.”

A commotion suddenly stirred outside. He leaned out the window, squinting at a bridal sedan being carried through the main road. There was a couple dozen thugs surrounding it, each brawny and scarred.

“What bride is getting married now?” Fu Yao asked, glowering at the party. “Doesn’t she know there’s a ghost eating people up there?”

“I doubt it’s a real bride,” he said, standing as the sedan got closer. The men surrounding it weren’t the kind of people any father would want around his daughter. Mercenaries. Of course. Scum that lived from mission to mission, always searching for the next paycheck and not caring about anything beyond that.

He made his way to the entrance, tossing a coin at the shopkeeper as he left. He hadn’t touched the tea, but oh, well. The idiot gods followed him, grumbling to each other as Wu Ming not-so-discretely tried to leave them behind.

“Xiaojie, please!” A young woman ran through the crowd, screaming at the bride to get out. The thugs grabbed at her, pulling her away, but she was slippery. She got through them, somehow, and grabbed at the curtains of the sedan before being bodily dragged away. “They’re just using you! Please! You don’t have to do this!”

“What an ugly girl,” Fu Yao muttered. Wu Ming couldn’t help but snort. They looked at each other, sneering. He couldn’t believe he’d laughed at something the idiot had said, no matter how cutting. Nan Feng shoved past them both, muttering some nonsense under his breath.

The girl kept yelling, grasping at the curtains of the sedan. The fight jostled the chair, the bearers stumbling back as another mercenary shoved at the girl. The bride in the sedan swayed, tumbling out of the sedan despite the bearers working to keep her level. The carved head of a wooden doll fell to the ground, bouncing towards the girl as she backed up quickly. The villagers gasped and took a step back before they realized the head was fake. It was painted in the face of a bride, covered in a sheer veil.

Interesting.

Wu Ming leaned against the signpost, crossing his arms over his chest.

A scrawny punk shoved his way through the thugs, getting into the girl’s face. He was a greasy thing, with the kind of smile that made Wu Ming want to knock his teeth out. The girl shied back, but didn’t step down. She yelled right back at the punk, even as the gang of mercenaries closed in on her.

“Ah, that Xiao Pengtou,” the shopkeeper grumbled, leaning out the window. “Making a fuss over that bounty.”

“Trying to get Xiao Ying to play the part of the bride, too,” another old man said, shaking his head. “Dishonorable, that one is. Just looking for the next coin to fill his pockets.”

The punk ­— Xiao Pengtou — shoved the girl to the ground. The ripping of her skirts was loud. Louder than the muttering and laughter of the gathered villagers.

“Hey!” Nan Feng shouted, moving forward with a hand on his sword. Fu Yao bristled, too, but didn’t seem eager to pick a fight.

Wu Ming understood. If Nan Feng picked a fight and outed them as gods, Jun Wu would take it out of his hide. It was costly to erase memories, apparently.

With a surge of qi, he shifted his skin. This one was soft and petite, a young woman of marriable age. She was by far the shortest of his skins, the most delicate and doe eyed. He only used it when he really needed things to go his way. Nan Feng cursed as he shifted, jumping back and away from his new form.

“Ah, Xiao Pengtou,” she called, sweeping through the crowd. She stepped in front of the girl calmly, smiling up at the thug with her prettiest smile. She would rather rip his throat out with her teeth, but he could be useful. “If you’re in need of a bride, this Xiao Hua would gladly volunteer.”

Xiao Pengtou turned bright red, reeling back, and spluttering at her. Behind him, his lackeys were nudging each other and laughing. She could feel the weight of their gaze. It chaffed, heavy like grease smeared across her skin. She was not for them to look at, but, then again, her beloved was lost to her.

“Oh, uh, well—” the thug stammered, staring at her with wide eyes. He was growing redder by the second. Hilarious — that he thought he was worthy of a girl like her. Like she would ever take notice of trash like him. He dragged his eyes over her form, a hungry grin curling through his mouth.

“Ah, Xiao Pengtou, not like that!” she laughed, stepping closer. “You wanted to catch the ghost bridegroom, right? Well, that’s why this Xiao Hua is in town. If you give me a cut of the bounty, this one will gladly sit bait.”

“That’s…” Xiao Pengtou trailed off. He seemed at a loss for words, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. It wasn’t a good look. She shoved down the sneer that threatened to rise, keeping her face flat and friendly. Well. As friendly as possible.

“I’d say fifteen percent is a decent cut,” she said. “Given that I’m the one most at risk. Don’t you think?”

“Fifteen?” Xiao Pengtou shrieked, finally finding his voice. “That’s— all you’re going to do is sit there, while we do all the work. Typical woman, trying to steal all of our hard-earned money.”

“Fine,” she said, stepping back towards the girl. “Good luck finding another bride before a more competent man cashes in on the bounty.”

Xiao Pengtou swelled up like an angry cat. His hands twitched, as if they were going to his sword. She wished he would. One of his thugs came up, quietly tugging at his shoulder to whisper in his ear. His flush had spread down his entire face, his skin mottling an unattractive purple.

“What’s going on here,” Fu Yao asked. He and Nan Feng pushed through the crowd to stand behind her, glowering at Xiao Pengtou. Nan Feng was farther back, though, edging away from her with a hand still on his sword.

Xiao Pengtou glared at them. “Who are you?”

“My servants,” she cut in before they could open their mouths. She could feel their irritation rising. Good. Maybe they’d finally leave her alone. “Here to assist me in finding this ghost bridegroom. Do you want our help or not?”

After a moment, he nodded at her, short and curt.

“Well?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “What do you say when people help you?”

He sneered at her, jerking his arm out of his thug’s grip. “You’ll need wedding robes.”

She was already dressed in maple red, but true, they weren’t wedding robes. Something ugly curled in her gut at the thought of wearing them. But. Still, she might as well look the part.

“Xiaojie,” she said, turning to the girl with the torn skirt. Xiao Ying, the shopkeeper had said. “Will you help this jiejie prepare?”

“Don’t do it,” Xiao Ying begged, clutching at her skirts to wrinkle the silk irreparably. The white of her skirts certainly stood out in this tiny mountain village, just like the red of her robes. The girl looked desperate, tears shimmering in her wide eyes. “They’re just using you, xiaojie, please!”

“Ah, Xiao Ying,” she said, shoving down the irritation that rose. She could be polite. She could be kind. “Don’t worry about me. This one is a cultivator and is strong enough to protect both herself and these… gentlemen. Now, will you help?”

A wildfire of mutterings and gossip spread through the crowd. Cultivators were rare enough, especially in small mountain villages. Female cultivators were even rarer. They probably didn’t believe her, but anyone brave enough to voice their doubts would meet her blade.

E-Ming shivered at her side, eager to be let loose. It had been a long time since they had gotten into a fight. Longer still since Wu Ming had to do anything but unsheathe E-Ming for their enemies to run terrified.

The Ghost Bridegroom spoke of a challenge, though, even if these thugs did not. A century of deaths and disappearances. That wasn’t anything to sniff at. She could probably chase Fu Yao and Nan Feng off before the fight started, too. To leave her a bit of a challenge.

“A cultivator?” Xiao Pengtou laughed at her back. “Please. A pretty little thing like you?”

She turned to him, letting her sharpest smile curl through her lips. E-Ming shivered, the eye sharpening as she laid a hand on its hilt. It rattled in its sheath. Xiao Pengtou looked down, sucking in a gasp as he took in her saber hidden beneath the delicate drape of her robes. He stuttered, but didn’t back down.

Good.

With a wave of her hand, Xiao Pengtou went sailing through the air. He hit a huddled group of his thugs, knocking them all to the ground. Various groans of pain came from the men, but they didn’t sound too hurt. A shame they didn’t seem keen on continuing to be idiots.

Her spiritual energy sputtered, the last of it flooding out of her fingers as she took a step back. Well. She was stuck as Xiao Hua, now, which was fine. She’d expected the energy borrowed from Ling Wen to last longer, though. Maybe the scholar had skimped out on her. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“It’s not polite to question those who have volunteered to help you,” she said, cocking a hip. E-Ming strained to be free but settled as she sent it a glare. “I’m raising my fee to thirty percent.”

“Thirty percent?” Xiao Pengtou squawked, still struggling to free himself from the mess of limbs he was caught in. Idiots. A mercenary shoved an elbow into the punks solar plexus in a mad scramble to escape the chaos, knocking the breath from his lungs.

“Take it or leave it,” she called back. The mercenaries subsided in a fit of muttering. They were probably planning to steal from her, but that was fine. She’d just hunt them down later to take back what she was owed.

“What,” Fu Yao asked, crossing his arms. “Do you think you’re doing?”

She glared at him. She wasn’t tall enough in this form to look him in the eyes, and she had to tilt her head back. If only slightly. She ground her teeth together, glaring harder. “Finding the ghost bridegroom. We need a bride to act as bait, and it’s not like we can ask one of the villagers.”

“Sure we can,” Nan Feng said, not making eye contact. He wouldn’t look at her at all, actually. “Just ask this girl right here.”

“She already said no, you idiot,” Fu Yao said. “Plus, if she dies, we’ll all be in trouble.”

Nan Feng subsided with a grumble, shifting even farther away from them. He almost blended in with the crowd of gawkers, all of them staring at Xiao Hua and the girl on the ground. “But you’re fine using those thugs?”

“We need a wedding party, anyways,” she said. “It’s either them, or whoever else we can hire on such short notice. This way it won’t cost us anything.”

“Plus, they’re mercenaries,” Fu Yao said. “No one will be too upset if they don’t come home, since they’re used to getting into fights and dying in battle.”

Heaven wouldn’t be too upset, he meant. It was probably true of any other Heavenly Official, but Heaven took every failure of hers as a slight. She bit back a sigh. This mission would probably be more trouble than it was worth. Just like every other one she’d been sent on for eight hundred years.

“Um…” Xiao Ying looked around, curling in on herself as she took in the villagers looks. The girl clearly wasn’t well liked in the village. Given her plainness and lack of husband, it wasn’t surprising that the mortal trash would look down on her. “Alright, daozhang.”

“Good,” she said, swinging her skirts around her as she stepped away from the girl. “Come, we need to be ready before nightfall, so we can set out. Xiao Pengtou, I’ll meet you here in one shichen.”

Xiao Ying scurried after her, nervously calling out directions to her house. Fu Yao and Nan Feng followed them after a moment. Xiao Pengtou yelled something after them, but she didn’t care to listen. Nan Feng did, though, as he turned around spitting curses, and had to be dragged away by Fu Yao.

The house was a small place, just on the outskirts of the village. It had a good view of the mountain and the steep road leading up to it. Inside was clean and sparse, with a pile of easily digested foods on the counter.

“Do you have any wedding robes?” Xiao Ying asked, wringing her hands together. “I have some, but it will take a while to alter them.”

“Mn,” she said, pulling the qiankun pouch out of her sleeve. She didn’t have any, but it wouldn’t be hard to summon the robes from the doll Xiao Pengtou was toting around. They were pretty enough, she supposed.

She tossed them at Xiao Ying. They were a deep red, embroidered with shining gold thread. Tassels hung from the belt that jingled with every movement. She usually wore silver with her red, but gold was more traditional.

“Are you really going to be dressed as a bride, Xiao Hua?” Fu Yao asked, sneering her name mockingly. Nan Feng was seated by the door, ignoring them.

“Of course,” she said, turning around to start unraveling her accessories. “Unless you’d like to volunteer.”

He rolled his eyes, moving to join Nan Feng by the door.

“Xiao Ying,” she called, moving further into the home where Xiao Ying was settling up a privacy screen. She slipped behind it, surprised to see a small box of cosmetics already laid out. “Where is the nearest Ming Guang temple?”

“Ming Guang?” the girl asked, looking up at her timidly. “I’m afraid we don’t have any Ming Guang temples here, daozhang. There is a Nang Yang temple nearby, if you would like to pray for your wedding day.”

Beyond the privacy screen, Fu Yao burst out laughing. Nan Feng chucked obscenities at him, followed by a punch, if the smack of skin on skin was any indication. Fu Yao cursed, hitting him hard enough to send him to the ground.

“Take it outside,” she called, pulling the ornaments from her hair. One of them was a pin, a great red pearl hanging from the end. It was her most prized possession. The only thing she had left of her beloved. The scuffling idiots got quieter, though she could still hear their yelling through the door. “Here, Xiao Ying, use this for my hair.”

“Of course, xiaojie,” she said, turning around so Wu Ming could get undressed. “It’s very pretty.”

She hummed. It was pretty. There had been times she had been so low on cash that peddlers had offered to buy it, but she always refused. The scum that tried to steal it didn’t live to see the morning.

The wedding robes were ornate. Delicate gold flowers were embroidered along the sleeves and the edges of the robes. The tassels hanging from the belts jingled as she turned, taking in the flowing silk and the shimmering jewelry.

The clothes were nicer than anything she had ever allowed herself. Even her clothing as San Lang was more function over form. Easily cleaned linens in black and red and white. Enough to stand out, but none of the finery that most gods draped themselves in.

She didn’t deserve such luxuries.

These silks, though, were clearly well made. They sat softly on her skin, none of the itching that poorly woven cloth allowed. She trailed her fingers over the brocade, tracing the lilies and jasmine with a gentle touch.

She looked like a real bride. It sat heavy in her stomach, choking the air from her lungs. She’d never been married, but she had wanted. She’d often gazed at the happily married couples over her eight hundred years, and the sheer weight of her want had threatened to crush her.

But with her beloved gone, there was no one left for her. Just an endless searching, hoping they had made it into the cycle of reincarnation. She would know them when she saw them, she was sure.

She sat still as Xiao Ying brushed paint over her lips and cheeks. It was hard not to flinch when she got close to her eye, but she swallowed down the urge with a ruthlessness reserved only for herself. She wasn’t weak enough to flinch from the touch of an untrained girl.

“For your huadian,” Xiao Ying said, tapping the end of her brush against her lip. “Is there anything specific you would like?”

“A peony,” Wu Ming said. The words were out of her mouth before she had the chance to think on them. The peony at the tea house sat heavy in her mind. She could still feel the shock of it buzzing against her fingers, crackling down her spine.

The girl nodded, leaning in to swirl thick, red paint across her forehead. Wu Ming sat as still as she could, swallowing the manufactured need to breathe until she turned into one of her faceless statues.

“There,” Xiao Ying said, pulling back. “Do you want to look, xiaojie?”

She grimaced but took the offered mirror anyways. As always, her reflection repulsed her. Her lips too thin, her cheeks too soft. She looked like a child playing dress-up. To think that anyone would want to marry her was laughable.

She shoved down the urge to smear her make-up. Xiao Ying had done her best. The make-up was artfully applied. It wasn’t her fault Wu Ming was a poor canvas. Her lips were outlined in a soft pink that matched the color high on her cheeks. Dark red paint lined her eyes, sharpening them and making her lashes stand out.

A peony was painted between her brows, stark red against the paleness of her skin. She could feel the paint, thick and cool against her skin. It was tempting to touch it. To feel it dry.

Her hair was piled high on top of her head. There weren’t many ornaments in her hair, but the red pearl swung freely from its pin. She could feel the weight of it, gently tapping against the curve of her skull.

“Good,” she said, dropping the mirror onto the nearest table. She stood, very aware of the tightness of the dress. It squeezed her ribs, squishing her relatively small chest flat. “Stay inside tonight, and stop associating with Xiao Pengtou.”

Without another word, she swept out of the room. Her clothes were already stuffed into the qiankun pouch up her sleeve, and E-Ming sat beneath the brilliant layers of her robes. Fu Yao stared at her with wide eyes as she stepped out of the house, gaze stuck somewhere up and to the left of her face.

“Wow,” Nan Feng said from where he was face down on the ground outside of Xiao Ying’s home. “What happened to you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Never seen a woman on her wedding day before? I thought as a servant of Ju Yang, you’d know all about weddings and wedding nights.”

“You!” he yelled, surging to his feet. Fu Yao cackled loud enough to draw his attention, though the sound was oddly forced. Nan Feng threw a handful of dirt straight into the other man’s mouth, anyways.

“Asshole,” Fu Yao cursed, spitting the dirt onto the ground. He lobbed a rock at his head and barely missed, clipping Nan Feng’s ear.

“Go sweep his highnesses chambers,” Nan Feng snapped back. Wu Ming snorted, rolling her eyes as Fu Yao turned a very entertaining shade of purple.

She turned, walking back towards the town. The two idiots kept fighting, cursing at each other loud enough to startle the birds just starting to wake up for dusk.

“Hey!” Nan Feng yelled as she reached the curve of the road. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To do my job,” she snapped, walking away from them as fast as she could in the tight dress. They cursed, scrambling to keep up with her. Quietly, like she wouldn’t notice, Xiao Ying crept after them, keeping to the shadows and the brush like it might hide her.

Chapter Text

A white peony sat on the windowsill of the sedan. Different than the one in the teashop, this flower was plucked and trimmed to perfection. Not a petal out of place. She picked it up, careful to not get any of her skin’s oils on the petals. It shimmered in the fading sunlight, catching the light to glow golden in her hands. Truly a flower fit for a god.

It matched the brocade of her dress.

She smiled softly, now that no one was around to see. Maybe her beloved would have found her pleasing, dressed up and carried to their front door. Maybe they would have fought through trial after trial to take her hand and lead her from the sedan, lifting her veil with gentle hands. But… likely not. Her beloved deserved better than her.

Xiao Pengtou and Nan Feng were in a yelling match outside. Something about Xiao Pengtou not wanting to split the bounty even further. It didn’t matter, Xiao Pengtou was an idiot. He obviously wasn’t going to pay them. He was probably going to leave them for dead at the first sign of trouble.

They had been walking for nearly a shichen already. The sedan carriers were gentle, properly cowed by both her and the idiot gods. She could barely feel the jostling of the walk, but she felt sick anyways. Nausea and something darker curled in the pit of her stomach. It was a good thing she was already dead, because she couldn’t breathe around the knot in her throat.

She spun the peony around her fingers.

She always wore red, in case she ever found her beloved again. The color of a joyful reunion. The color of life. Wearing it in this farce, though, was sickening. She would only be pulled from the sedan by her beloved, but here she was, playing dress-up anyways.

Maybe the ghost bridegroom would do both her and Jun Wu a favor and put her out of her misery. But… no. That was letting Jun Wu win, and she refused. She would get this shackle off, even if it took another millennia to pay off her debts.

The sun slowly melted behind the mountains as they climbed, and the flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows along the sedan curtains. She rested her head against the sedan walls, watching the shadows flicker. She saw just fine in the dark, but there was something familiar about the swirl of flames lighting the night.

“How far along are we?” she asked, twirling the peony between her fingers. It thrummed under her touch, but there was no shock this time either. She longed for it, despite the pain. Maybe because of it. The heady comfort.

“We’ve been on Mount Yu Jun for a while,” Fu Yao said. “No sign of the ghost.”

“That’s—” she cut herself off, straining to hear a child’s laughter echoing through the trees. It came, again, louder this time. Tinkling and strange, the child was most certainly a ghost. She’d never met a ghost child before, but she’d heard of them. They were often more dangerous than adults, for all they mainly cared for mischief.

“Xiao Hua?” Fu Yao asked, unsheathing his blade an inch. She winced at the sharp sound of metal sliding free. Her hearing had always been good, better than any of the gods she knew. Maybe because she was a ghost, maybe to make up for her missing eye, she didn’t know. But sharp sounds and battle were always a pain because of it.

“Shut up,” she hissed, leaning forwards.

“New bride, new bride in the red sedan chair,” the child sang, just loud enough to be heard over the mercenaries’ raucous laughter.  “Full of tears over the hills, under the veil don't you ever smile…”

“What’s going on?” Feng Xin asked. He moved a little closer, rapping a knuckle against the thin wood of the sedan walls.

“Don’t you hear it?” She turned, pressing her ear to the opposite wall. The child’s song had devolved into laughter, disappearing into the noise of the forest. It seemed to be all around them, not coming from any particular direction.

“Hear what?” Fu Yao asked.

“The child singing,” she said, straining to hear more. It was so faint, but it sounded like it was following them. They, admittedly, weren’t moving very fast. It wouldn’t be hard for even the smallest ghost to keep up. “The… the nursery rhyme.”

“… I don’t hear anything,” Fu Yao said, drawing his blade out a little further. The scrape of metal against the sheath was grating, and completely erased the sounds of laughter.

“Neither do I.” Nan Feng, at least, wasn’t so keen on drawing his sword.

“Perhaps it’s just left for me,” she said, settling back in the sedan chair. “There was a child singing a rhyme about the new bride in the chair, but now the spirit’s just laughing.”

“What did it say?” Fu Yao sounded distracted, like he was only half paying attention to the conversation.

“… New bride, new bride in the red sedan chair, full of tears over the hills, under the veil don't you ever smile,” she repeated, rolling the words around her tongue. They were a warning of sorts, probably. But to laugh or cry was the question.

Which one was the groom looking for.

“It sounds like you shouldn’t cry,” Nan Feng said, sounding just as distracted as Fu Yao.

She huffed. “If you’re not going to help, feel free to leave.”

“I’m helping!” he cried out, a moment too late to really mean it. She rolled her eyes, fighting down the urge to massage the tight skin below her eye. Eventually, they would leave her alone. Even without her spiritual energy she was more than capable of taking care of a simple ghost by herself.

“Unfortunately for all of us,” she said. “I’ve been smiling this whole time.”

“You?!” Fu Yao sneered. He sounded present, at least. Finally. She wished she could see anything beyond the veil so she would know what had them so distracted. They wouldn’t tell her, because they were assholes, but she refused to depend on them for protection. “Smiling? What’s wrong, are you ill?”

“Just imagining being done with this mission so I never have to see you again,” she snapped back. “We’ve been here half the night, when is the ghost bridegroom going to show—”

“Wolves!” a mercenary called out, cutting her off. Screams wound higher as the snarling of beasts got louder. A mercenary hit the ground with a shout, and one of the lanterns went dark. The sedan wavered and shook, nearly knocking her out of the chair.

“What’s going on?” she shouted, trying to get her feet under her. The rocking of the sedan knocked her off balance. They’d stopped moving, but the sedan bearers were panicking. Idiots. “Shit, stop throwing me around!”

“Stay in the chair!” Nan Feng yelled back, out of breath. The sounds of battle rose around her. She couldn’t see anything past the thick curtains of the sedan, but E-Ming shuddered with every death.

“Fuck off, I’m not staying in the chair,” she snapped, shoving to her feet. The sedan dropped, pitching her back into the chair as the bearers abandoned her. She sat up, rage winding in her chest. She knew they were cowards, but they could at least have the decency to put her down gently. “Assholes!”

The screams rose higher. The snarling of distinctly monstrous creatures got louder and louder. Louder, still, was the tearing of flesh and the breaking of bones. Each wet crack shuddered through E-Ming, the saber straining to join in on the bloodshed.

“What’s going on?” she asked. She held the peony tighter, clutching it close to her chest to protect it from the jostling of the sedan. Something heavy flew over the top of the sedan, rattling it.

“Stay in the sedan!” both Fu Yao and Nan Feng shouted. Like hell.

A pitch-black claw scraped against the floor of the sedan, leaving stringy trails of blood and viscera across the wood. A binu crawled under the curtain, snarling with its disgusting, rotted mouth. She kicked a foot up, shoving it back as it lurched towards her. Ragged hands grasped at her robes, her veil, tearing at anything it could get.

She kicked it again, but without her spiritual energy, she couldn’t do much against the binu. It lunged forwards, shoving her back into the chair. She grit her teeth against the strain, pushing at its grasping hands with her free arm. The smell of rot was overwhelming, threatening to choke her as the creature shoved even farther into the sedan.

The binu swiped a bloody claw at her face. She jerked back, veil fluttering as the claws barely missed, but the peony was knocked from her hand. Her stomach dropped. She didn’t have a hand to spare to grab it, the binu too aggressive to stop fighting.

“E-Ming,” she snapped, getting a foot on the binu’s chest to shove it back through the curtain. “Go.”

E-Ming shot out of its scabbard, spinning to embed itself into the binu’s gut. The creature groaned, going lax enough that she could shove it fully through the curtain. E-Ming flicked out of the sedan in a trail of red. It twisted and writhed, slicing through the binu with ease. She could feel every life taken. Every drop of blood spilled. The binu didn’t have much spiritual energy for her to absorb, but it was enough.

“Where the hell did you get that thing?” Fu Yao asked through panting breaths.

“I made it,” she said, feeling the twinge of her missing eye. She might not have the memory of making it, but E-Ming was a part of her. A part of her she’d torn out and bathed in blood, sure, but a part of her, nonetheless.

The peony laid in a pool of blood, thick and dark. She picked it up, disappointment choking her as a handful of petals fell off, drifting down into the thin pools of blood, the deep red soaking into the veins of each petal.

The sounds of battle dimmed to a dull roar, mostly made up of the screaming mercenaries. E-Ming was efficient, even if it was embarrassingly pathetic. At least in battle it wouldn’t start crying.

“Go,” she said, holding the peony close. It had gotten crushed, petals torn and stem broken. She hadn’t been strong enough to save it. If she had her spiritual energy, she could breathe life back to the flower, but as she was, all she could do was pet over the broken and torn petals.

“Excuse me?” Nan Feng snapped, still fighting the oncoming hordes. “If we leave you, you’ll be torn apart.”

“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I can protect myself. And if you leave, the binu will let up. They’re only here to kill you and get me alone.”

Nan Feng cursed. She was right, though. She always was. E-Ming shot back to her side, sheathing itself after flicking off the blood and gore.

“Come on,” Fu Yao said. “She’ll be fine, but we need to get these villagers to safety.”

“Since when did you care about the safety of mortals?” Nan Feng grumbled, but he started moving further away. Good. “Come on, through the forest. Move!”

The mercenaries went with a shout, tearing through the woods as fast as they could. The sounds of battle faded, leaving just the groaning of the woods. She breathed in the silence. The ghost groom would come soon. Resentful energy swirled around the mountain path, stretching and bending until she was alone in the formation.

Quietly, with the solid footsteps of a soldier, someone approached. She stilled. E-Ming was surprisingly still, not even rattling in its sheath. The footsteps stopped just outside of the sedan, the tall shadow of a man dancing along the curtain.

A hand. She stared down at it. It was an elegant hand, with callouses from sword work and manual labor. Still, there was something about it that spoke of dignity. Grace.

Power.

It was familiar. As familiar as her own.

She took it, trying not to tremble at the warmth.

With a gentle tug, she was pulled from the bridal sedan. Around them, the forest floor was littered with the bodies of wolves and binu. The air was thick with resentment and death. The mercenaries had fled at the first sign of danger, but there were a few of their bodies littered amidst the carnage, too.

She gripped E-Ming, bracing herself as she looked to her groom.

Oh.

No. No, that wasn’t the ghost bridegroom.

Wu Ming had dreamed of her wedding for eight hundred years, the face of her groom always carefully blank. It was some irony that her groom now wore a porcelain mask that covered his whole face. The top half was gilded with gold, shining in the moonlight. Their eyes met, and Wu Ming couldn’t help but gasp.

Gold and lovely and warm. The sight sank down to her core, glowing like the spiritual energy she no longer had access to. The weak, borrowed energy churned in her meridians, racing in time with her pounding heart.

That, too, was familiar. She just couldn’t remember why.

Despite the lack, despite her lack, she couldn’t help herself. One word echoed in her mind, beyond her control, but true down to the tips of her fingers.

Beloved.

She’d found him. Or… he’d found her. She wasn’t one to question such a blessed gift.

Her groom was dressed like a prince. Resplendent robes in red and white and gold, with flowers spilling down from the elaborate guan in his hair. Without a word, he tucked her into his side. Taking her arm, he led her down the path. He was warm, the heat curling around her and threading through her veins.

Past bodies and the snarling binu, they walked without incident. The forest seemed to shift around them, the formation bending to the man’s every movement. The wolves shied away from them, growls turning to whimpers, turning to pained cries. In eight hundred years, she’d never felt so safe.

With a sturdy step, the man crushed the formation underfoot. A human skull writhing in resentment, and he didn’t even flinch as it shattered beneath his boot. Nothing bothered him. The wind carried the scent of blooming flowers, chasing away the rot and resentment that saturated the air. The wolves scattered, running into the brush with their tails between their legs.

This definitely wasn’t the ghost bridegroom, then. If it was, the wolves would listen to him rather than run scared. The binu, too, had scattered with the wind.

She stole glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He was tall. Taller than the idiot gods, but shorter than most of her forms. Shorter than her true form, that was for sure. He walked like a prince, straight backed and proud. His hair was smooth and oiled, and the ornaments in his hair and on his robes jingled as he walked.

There was no gap in the mask, though. Try and she might, she couldn’t see his face. The veil was thick enough that she could barely pick up the details on his mask and ornaments, anyways. She couldn’t even see where they were going.

She just… had to follow along. Blind faith.

It came easily.

The scattering of rain sounded up ahead. The ground tugged at her slippers, packed dirt turning to slick mud. She scrambled for her qiankun pouch with her free hand, drawing her second-most prized possession from its depths.

The scarlet umbrella opened above them, just as the rain came down. It smelled of blood, old and rotten. She grimaced. It was easy to tilt the umbrella to further cover her groom, making sure none of his pristine robes were stained. Her sleeve was drenched in disgustingly warm rain but that wasn’t exactly a hardship.

He hummed, tugging her in closer until she was pressed to his side. Directly under the umbrella. She bit down the urge to pull away. To not sully him with her touch. He’d taken her from the marriage sedan. Surely, he knew who she was.

Though, if he knew who she was, that brought up the question of why he came to collect her. And how he knew she would be there. How he knew her.

Even if she didn’t know him. It felt like she did, though. Standing hand in hand with him felt right in a way that nothing had for eight hundred years. It was amusing being led, but she wasn’t going to complain. It wasn’t like she was strong enough to lead anyone. Especially not someone as powerful as him.

They splashed through muddy puddles. The hem of her dress was soaked, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. She was too busy protecting her groom from the muck and filth of the forest.

Her hand he was holding still held the peony. It looked sad and pathetic next to the shining embroidery of his robes. The ornaments in his hair. The poor thing was drenched in the binu’s blood, staining the brilliant petals a dark red. In the darkness of the forest and the shade of the umbrella, it looked halfway to rotten.

They kept walking. The path was shorter than the dizzying spirals of the formation, but the stretch of bloodied earth was longer than she had expected. The rain stopped as the moonlight broke through the foliage. Her groom tilted his head up, eyes flickering to the heavens.

They stopped just at the break of the trees. She pulled the umbrella back, shaking it off with a swift flick of her wrist and shoving it back into her pouch. Her groom stepped closer. He glowed in the moonlight, made of porcelain and gold.

He was so beautiful. She stared up at him, cheeks heating as her traitorous heart started to pound. She was powerful enough to have working organs, but she couldn’t control them without spiritual energy. Especially not now, with her groom turning her until they were face to face.

He let her go, and a noise tore from her chest at the loss. She flushed harder in humiliation. To be so needy in front of such a marvelous being… someone who could only be a god. She’d only met four gods in her very long life, and they all paled in comparison to the one before her. It was surprising that Heaven would send someone so powerful to her side, but she would worry about that later.

He moved back, putting some space between them. She didn’t reach out. Every fiber of her being ached to pull him back, but she wouldn’t touch him if he didn’t want to be touched. She wouldn’t tarnish him with her touch.

A piece of white silk shot from his sleeve, wrapping around her wrist and tugging her in. The silk wrapped around his wrist as well, tying them together in an intricate, looping knot. She rubbed her fingers over the silk, petting down the grain. The silk seemed to shiver, twisting tighter around her wrist.

He reached out, cupping her hand that still held the peony. She jolted. She’d forgotten all about the flower. Crushed and bloodied as it was, it wasn’t worth being in his sight. She couldn’t throw it away, though. His touch sparked the same electric shock as the first time she’d touched one of the peonies, crackling down her spine as he rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand.

They stared at each other. The details of her god’s mask were lost to the veil, but there was enough for her to memorize. The butterfly wings etched into the forehead and sides of the mask. The three brilliant red gems placed just above his brows, sitting neatly below the ornament dangling from his hair.

If anyone came close to her beloved, it was him. He was… everything.

She bowed at the waist. Her eyes locked onto her god as he did the same. The silk tugged her closer as they rose out of the bow, urging them down into another one with an impatient wriggle. Her god laughed, light and airy and beautiful, and dipped down into another bow. She could do nothing but follow.

She didn’t want to do anything but follow. She’d follow her god to death and back, the certainty sitting right in her chest. It filled the carved out empty caverns of her, making her something close to whole. What were memories when she had her gods hands in hers.

They bowed a third time, no urging from the silk needed. They stayed low, ruminating in the feeling of bowing three times. Of being married. He pulled her up out of the bow eventually, gazing down at her with kind eyes. Barely a flick of his wrist and there was an ornamental dagger in his hands, the blade engraved with butterflies and peonies.

The silk didn’t want to let them go, even as her god tugged. He shook his head, dragging both their hands up to separate a lock of his hair. The blade sliced through the fine strands easily. A hands-width of hair came free, light brown and soft against her fingers.

He offered her the dagger handle first. She reached for it, hesitating when she realized she was still holding the peony. He laughed, not unkindly, and took the flower from her as he passed her the blade. The flower was pathetic in his hand, even as the petals seemed to glow. Such a beautiful thing ruined by her incompetence, made whole again from the touch of someone holy.

She blushed at the brush of his hand against her cheek as they gripped the lock of hair together. The dagger sliced through her hair just as easily, leaving one of the strands framing her face noticeably shorter than the other. Black against brown, her hair looked so dull next to his. An empty void for his beauty to sink into.

The silk unraveled from their hands, wrapping around the locks of hair as her god produced a bright red length of silk from somewhere. He tied it around the hair one handed, tucking it into a brocade pouch with a peony embroidered in gold on the front.

She took it with shaking hands.

“Dianxia,” she murmured, because what else could he be? The man tilted his face down, leaning in until they were of a height.

“Wu Ming,” he said, and a bucket of cold water splashed down her spine. He seemed friendly. He was so beautiful. She couldn’t focus on anything but him. But she didn’t know him, even if he seemed to know her.

“Dianxia… how do you know my name?”

He stopped. His eyes widened, the whites of them glowing in the moonlight. The air trembled around them. Heat and rage and the rush of spiritual energy. The wind kicked up, blowing that bloody rain over them in a delicate shower. He took a breath, closing his eyes as the swirling qi calmed to a gentle breeze.

“What?” he asked, stepping forward. With trembling hands he lifted her veil, draping it back over her head. Seeing him clearly was a revelation. Even if she couldn’t see his face, he was beautiful. The gems above his brow pulsed like the dull beat of her dead heart, and the kindness of his eyes burned away every shadow. “Wu Ming, do you not remember me?”

“No,” she said, biting down the swirling rage that rose and rose and threatened to consume her whole. She tightened her grip on the dagger. It would be so easy to carve the cursed shackle out of her own skin, but… no. She wouldn’t stain her god like that. It wouldn’t work, anyways. The shackle would just reappear the next time she reformed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. He wrapped her hands in his, bringing them up to press gentle kisses to her fingers. The peony was held high between them, the crushed petals fading to a rusted brown that had nothing to do with the blood. “You don’t ever have to apologize, Wu Ming. Not to me.”

“Dianxia, what—” she cut herself off, biting her lip. He squeezed her hands in encouragement, and she could sense his smile from behind the mask. “What can this lowly servant call you?”

He huffed out a sigh. “Ah, Wu Ming… call this one Bai Hua.”

“Bai Hua,” she repeated. The name didn’t sit right on her tongue, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. She didn’t know. The rage grew teeth, digging into her spine as she looked up at her god. “Dianxia.”

“Wu Ming,” he said, tongue curling over the name like it was precious. Like she was precious. Butterflies echoed in her stomach, fluttering around like she was something worthy of having such feelings. Not with what she’d done to her beloved. “What are you doing in a marriage sedan?”

“Trying to catch a ghost, Dianxia,” she said. Over his shoulder, a decrepit temple loomed in the moonlight. Ah. The missing Ming Guang temple, then. “What are you doing in such a place?”

“Trying to catch a god,” he said. He tucked her back into his side, pulling her towards the temple. “Come. Let’s find your ghost.”

Chapter Text

The temple wasn’t as bad as she had expected, given it had sat empty for nearly a century. The inside smelled of rot and death, but it was surprisingly clean. No bloody smears across the walls. No rotting bodies strewn across the floor. Plain, for a ghost’s lair.

“Back here,” Bai Hua said, leading her around the alter. The face of Ming Guang was laughably ugly. His statue held a broken sword, the shards shattered near his feet. As they rounded the alter, the stench of death got stronger.

“Here, cover your face,” Bai Hua said, folding her veil back over her face. He trailed his fingers down her cheeks as he settled the silk. His hands were soft and warm, and she couldn’t help but lean into the touch. “There’s deadly qi infused into the air. Your veil will protect you.”

She smiled, nodding along even if she didn’t need it. She was dead. All the care in the world didn’t mean anything in the face of that. It was… sweet that he tried, though. Even though he shouldn’t. “… and Dianxia?”

“I’m fine, Wu Ming,” he said dismissively, pulling her further into the temple. She furrowed her brow, but didn’t argue. Bai Hua was no doubt strong enough that mere deadly qi wouldn’t bother him. Still, he should take better care of himself. Wu Ming would have to work on that.

In two neat rows, the brides stood facing each other. Their veils covered their faces, and their gowns had started to rot, but the skin of their hands and feet were still fresh and pale.

“One, two, three…” Bai Hua counted them, walking down the center isle between the brides. They were certainly dead, that much was sure. E-Ming rattled in its sheath, rolling its cursed eye at the resentful energy imbued in every inch of the temple. “… Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. They’re all accounted for.”

“They haven’t rotted,” she said, stepping up to the nearest bride. Her hair was piled high atop her head, and her jewelry glimmered in the faint moonlight. Lifting the veil showed a rather average looking woman, her face serene as if she was simply asleep. “It must be quite the strong ghost to control so many brides.”

“And the formation in the forest,” Bai Hua said, stepping close to peer at the bride. He was a heavy presence at her back, beating and startlingly alive. “I believe our ghost bridegroom is a wrath. Did Heaven not give you that information?”

“No.” She stepped back, letting the veil drop over the bride. “Just what they gathered from the prayers.”

He hummed. She glanced at him, cursing the heavy blur of the silk. He didn’t look upset, but there was a strange tension to his shoulders that she couldn’t put her finger on. Was he put off by her ignorance? If he was, he probably wouldn’t be stepping closer until she could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

A strange thumping echoed through the temple. Like footsteps, but heavier. Dragging. She stepped away from the bride, slipping around Bai Hua and drawing E-Ming with little flare. The temple doors swung open on rusted hinges, and a wave of resentful qi rolled through the room.

Bai Hua sucked in a breath. He stepped in front of her in a whirl of elegant robes, arms braced at his sides. “Hide.”

“No,” she said immediately, wincing at her own audacity. To refuse the first order her god gave her deserved death. But she wouldn’t leave him. Not with a wrath level ghost staggering in through the temple doors.

He huffed a laugh.

That he wasn’t upset was a novelty. She couldn’t remember a time where her disobedience hadn’t been met with swift and brutal punishment. She felt her stagnant blood warm, rising to her cheeks that were thankfully hidden by her veil.

“Wu Ming is powerful,” he said, turning back towards the entrance. “But she does not have spiritual power right now. She should be careful, with such a resentful ghost.”

The strange steps stopped at his voice. Wu Ming peered around Bai Hua’s shoulder, but the ghost hadn’t yet rounded the alter. She shoved her veil back up, just enough that she could see. A short, lumpy shadow splayed along the ground, melting into the dips and grooves of the temple floor.

“I recommend you show yourself,” Bai Hua called out. His voice echoed strangely around the temple. The silk twisted and writhed around his wrist, flexing under the long drape of his sleeves.

With a shriek like a dog’s howl, the ghost exploded into a cyclone of dark smoke. It hurtled towards them, spinning in and around until the room was hazy and stank of resentment. The silk shot out, slicing through the center of the smoke with ease. The cloud just flexed around it, reforming behind them as it bounced off the jagged tile floor.

The shadow at the entrance hadn’t moved. She lunged forward, sweeping around Bai Hua with her saber held low. One step, two, she rounded the corner of the altar. She ignored Bai Hua’s shout behind her. She would not be useless. She would not let him fight his battles alone.

There was nothing by pale moonlight. Offerings were scattered across the floor, slowly rolling to a stop. She paused where the moonlight split the room in half. The roar of the black smoke rang in her ears, but it was thoroughly preoccupied with Bai Hua. Silence settled throughout the rest of the temple, though. Not a breath out of place.

“Wu Ming!” Bai Hua called out, strangely panicked.

She spun, meeting the dark blur of resentment sword first.

Dark claws scraped against the flat of E-Ming’s blade, squealing like the dying shriek of a beast. She shoved with all her strength, throwing the ghost back. It skidded across the tiles, claws cutting through the stone like butter.

The ghost bridegroom wasn’t a groom at all.

“You,” the bride spat, clawing at the tiles with wicked nails. Her dress was ragged and torn, stained dark where it pooled under her crooked legs. She heaved for breath she didn’t need, makeup smeared across her face. “How dare you steal him from me?”

“I haven’t stolen anything,” she said, standing tall. The dress would be uncomfortable to fight in, as tight and heavy as it was. She would manage, though. She held E-Ming loose by her side, the saber thrumming with resentment.

The ghost brides mangled legs would inhibit her more than any dress, but she’d had at least a century to learn to fight with her disability. The dead brides were a testament to that. There was also the fact that the ghost bride probably couldn’t feel the pain that her legs brought her. Even if she could, it would just fuel her resentment.

The ghost bride cackled, harsh and grating. She swayed in place, sharp eyes wide enough to see the stain sclera around her glowing irises. Cursed eyes. Ghost’s eyes.

E-Ming thrummed in anticipation.

She leaped at Wu Ming, lower legs dragging across the tiles. Wu Ming parried her blow for blow, the ghost bride growing more frenzied with every slash that didn’t land. They danced around the temple. The ghost bride shrieked with rage, resentment swirling in a chokehold around them.

The roaring smoke still churned through the temple, swirling around Bai Hua until he was buried in a churning mass of darkness. Her heart clenched at it, but she couldn’t spare a moment to help him.

“Die!” the ghost bride screamed. She didn’t seem to be getting tired. Instead, her clawing hits grew more brutal as she got desperate. “How dare you be happy! How dare you smile, when he’s left me here to rot!”

Wu Ming’s dead muscles burned. She grit her teeth, shoving back from the ghost bride to leap the Ming Guang statue, landing on his broad shoulder. The swirling smoke shot just over her head, dragging her veil up and off her head. It fluttered down on the wind, landing in a pile of ragged red silk.

“Dianxia!” she called, sending E-Ming hurtling towards the brides crowding around Bai Hua. The white silk whirled around him, keeping the brides at bay as he plucked the scattered silk veils off the ground. The brides were all smiling. Far too wide, their faces split in terrifying grins. Bai Hua evaded them easily, but he seemed like he was trying not to hurt them.

He really was too kind.

“Don’t you touch him,” the ghost bride screamed. She threw herself at Wu Ming, slamming into Ming Guang’s head with all four limbs. She latched there like a spider, claws sinking into the stone easily.

Wu Ming landed gently on the support beam just over the statue. The beam creaked and shuddered under her weight, swaying as it adjusted to the added pressure. It was an old thing. With a gentle push, it would surely collapse. Probably bring the rest of the temple down with it, given the heft of the beam.

“Smiling bride, attacking me in front of my Pei,” the ghost bride said, breathing raggedly. She clawed her way up Ming Guang’s head, bracing herself against the curve of his guan. “I’ll kill you for that.”

Wu Ming bared her teeth. “Try.”

Weaponless, she caught the ghost bride mid-air. Her claws were sharp, shredding the sleeves of Wu Ming’s wedding dress as they dropped to the ground. Wu Ming wrenched her weight to the side, spinning to hit the ground on her knees as the stone cracked beneath the ghost brides back.

She shrieked, the sound echoing off the temple walls. The breathy sighs of the brides were quieter, but no less present. She couldn’t see them, not with the altar in the way, but every other breath a bride would go silent. E-Ming was still working, keeping the brides off of Bai Hua’s back as he worked to save them.

Claws swiped past her fast, splitting the air a hairs breadth from her eye. She wrenched herself back, flipping off of the ghost bride to settle on her feet. She pressed a hand to her face, the skin whole and unmarred.

“Pretty little bride,” the ghost bride cooed, swaying like a drunkard where she knelt. “Stealing happiness from everyone else… why does a little whore like you deserve to be happy?”

She didn’t have the spiritual energy to shift her own form, but she didn’t need it. She slammed her fist into the ghost bride’s jaw, something cracking under both of their skins. The ghost bride stumbled back, howling as she forced her jaw back into place.

“My face!” she cried, holding her jaw together as resentful energy swirled. “How dare you! He won’t— he won’t—”

Wu Ming flexed her hand. It was sore. At least two of her bones were broken, but that was fine. She’d heal up easily enough. “Won’t what? Will your Pei not love you if you’re not pretty enough? I think you’ve already lost that battle.”

The ghost bride shrieked. She lunged at Wu Ming, clumsily enough to leave the wide curve of her ribs open. They crunched under Wu Ming’s boot, sending the ghost bride slamming into the altar.

She managed a glance. Most of the brides were back under veils, and the blur of smoke had dissipated. Bai Hua was dancing around the last handful. He really was stupidly pretty, his robes flowing around him like water.

She couldn’t look away.

Another bride got caught by her veil. The lurching, cracked movements halted as the corpse was cut off from the resentful energy. She clawed gently at the air around her, but the veil was thick enough to blind her entirely.

A crackle of displaced air, and Wu Ming hit the ground just as the ghost bride sailed through the space she once was. The ghost bride smashed into the ground, scrabbling to her knees as Wu Ming leapt to her feet.

Stupid, getting distracted in the middle of battle. She wouldn’t be a burden. She would be nothing but composed and resourceful. She wouldn’t fail her god.

Resentment crackled through the air as the ghost bride clawed at her. She spun around the room, carefully keeping herself just out of arms reach of the ghost. Once she had E-Ming, she would be able to fight for real. Now, though, with her mortal hands, she could do nothing but keep up the game.

Duck, weave, dodge, she had long perfected this little dance. She liked fighting. She liked winning. This was easy, especially when the ghost bride’s frenzy made her stupid. Sloppy. Wu Ming lashed out, catching the ghost bride in the temple with an elbow. She shuffled back out of reach, hands up and curled into loose fists.

The ghost bride lunged, aiming for the delicate curve of her cheek.

Her boot hit the edge of the altar. She tilted back, skidding over top of the stone as she scrambled to keep her balance. E-Ming flew into her hand, wrenching her back into a fighting stance as she swept her blade up.

The ghost bride’s claws sunk into the meat of her shoulder.

A blur of white.

The ghost bride hit the wall with a ground-shaking crunch. The wood panels cracked under her weight, and a harsh cry echoed through the air. She collapsed into a heap on the ground, slowly scrambling to her knees.

“Pei!” the ghost cried, reaching out to Bai Hua with grasping hands. “Oh, my beloved, don’t run off with her. I’m all you need!”

Bai Hua paused. There was a sword in his hand. It was long and forged of pitch-black iron. A beautiful thing. She tore her eyes away from where her god’s knuckles burned white around the handle of the blade, glaring down at the ghost. Bai Hua stepped closer until they were elbow to elbow. “I am not Pei Ming.”

“You— no, you’re not my darling Pei,” the ghost bride said, staring up at him with wide eyes. She shuffled closer to him, eager like a puppy. “Where… where is he? He said he would come visit. Why hasn’t he come to see me?”

Bai Hua tilted his head like he was listening to someone. After a moment, his eyes refocused. Wu Ming bit down the bitter taste in her mouth at whoever was speaking to her god. Whoever had access to his telepathic matrix, when she didn’t. “Xuan Ji.”

The ghost froze.

“That’s your name, is it not?” he asked, crouching down to look her in the eyes. “General Xuan Ji, of Yushi.”

“Y-yes,” she said, curling her claws into her dress. “Do you know my Pei? Do you know where he is?”

“I do know Pei Ming,” Bai Hua said. Xuan Ji lit up like the mid-autumn festival. “He’s in Heaven, right now. I don’t believe he knows you’re here.”

“Doesn’t know?” she shrieked. “Doesn’t know? He would cross half the country just for the chance to be with me, and now you say he doesn’t know where I am — in his temple in the middle of his territory?”

Wu Ming snorted.

“Little whore,” she hissed, lunging at Wu Ming claws first. That band of silk got there before Wu Ming could react, binding the Xuan Ji’s limbs together and slamming her into the tiles. She shrieked at being confined, writhing on the floor as the silk tightened around her. “How dare you! How dare you be happy when my Pei won’t even see me! I gave him everything. I betrayed my country for him, and this is how he treats me?”

Bai Hua leveled his beautiful sword at her throat. “Please, refrain from speaking to her like that.”

“How dare you be happy,” she screamed. The sound shook the temple, dust raining from the ceiling as the support beams rattled and swayed. “How dare you, how dare you, how dare you.”

“She’s crazy,” Wu Ming sighed. She shoved down the kernel of understanding deep in her gut. Eight hundred years alone, and she hadn’t succumbed to such madness, even if she sometimes felt the urge. Her beloved wouldn’t have appreciated such measures, and she doubted Xuan Ji’s did either. They were in his temple, in his territory, and still he ignored her.

“It’s not our place to judge,” Bai Hua said simply. “We should restrain her and leave her for the Heavens.”

“Why?” she asked, stepping forward to settle E-Ming on Xuan Ji’s shoulder. Wu Ming’s own shoulder burned. A lightning bolt ache that echoed down her spine. She breathed through it, tightening her grip of E-Ming. “What will the Heavens do with her that will be more merciful than death?”

“Lock her under a mountain to reflect on her obsession,” Bai Hua said. He paused. “You’re right, though. Death would be a mercy.”

She stepped forward. “I can do this. Dianxia shouldn’t get his hands dirty.”

“And you should?”

“I’m a ghost,” she said simply. “I’m already a sinner.”

After a moment, he nodded. Instead of pulling away, though, he stepped closer, wrapping her up in his arms. His hand closed around hers where she held onto E-Ming, calloused palm rough against her relatively soft hands. This form hadn’t known much strife, better for manipulation than battle. It showed, in the softness of her hair and skin.

“Together, then,” he said. “My wife shouldn’t take any sins that I am unwilling to bear.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

Wife.

Oh.

Oh.

…

Okay.

E-Ming cut through Xuan Ji’s neck easily. She dissolved into a flare of sparks, lighting up the dim temple as she screamed. As she dissipated, the brides scattered across the temple did the same. E-Ming soaked up the resentment as Xuan Ji dispersed. The stolen spiritual energy flooded her veins, warming her to the touch.

Her meridians immediately got to work on her hand and shoulder, trailing thick resentment over her bones and muscle to knit her back together. It didn’t hurt, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant.

“Ah,” Bai Hua said, resting a steady hand on her waist. She tried not to jump at the pressure. His hands were… very large. Long, thin fingers that were strong from swordsmanship. He flexed them casually, grasping the meat of her waist in a possessive grip. “It looks like we won’t be returning them to their families, then.”

“Most of their families are long dead, aren’t they?” she asked, leaning back into his warmth. Her voice didn’t crack, which was a small mercy. She would thank her god, if he wasn’t standing right behind her. “It was only the noble’s daughter who was recent enough to catch the attention of the Heavens.”

“The only one wealthy enough,” he said gently. He tightened his hand around hers, bringing E-Ming up to stare at the saber. The cursed eye rolled at the proximity, quivering like a puppy. “You fight well with a saber.”

“Thank you, Dianxia,” she said, glaring down at the pathetic excuse for a sword. “This is E-Ming.”

“E-Ming,” Bai Hua said quietly, reverently. “It’s shaking.”

“It wants you to pet it,” she drawled, bringing her other hand down in a sharp rap against the stupid thing. E-Ming just shivered harder, eye watering as it stared up at Bai Hua in awe. “You shouldn’t have to touch it, Dianxia, it’s cursed.”

“Cursed?” Bai Hua asked, bringing the hand wrapped around her waist around to stroke along E-Ming’s blade. The eye rolled back in pleasure, tears shimmering along its grip. Bai Hua laughed, leaning in closer to pet it more firmly. “He’s such a good saber, how could he be cursed?”

She was entirely encircled in his arms. Her back was pressed flush to his chest, the rhythm of his heart echoing through her. She tried not to breathe in case any movement shattered the fragile peace of the moment. It was hard, though, with her heart thundering away in her chest.

“Such a lovely sword,” Bai Hua murmured. He turned his face slightly, the curve of his mask brushing against her cheek. “You wield it well.”

He didn’t mean it like that. He absolutely did not. The blush rising to her face didn’t bother to listen. She focused on the throbbing pain in her shoulder so she wouldn’t stare at the carved lips of his mask.

“Thank you, Dianxia,” she croaked out, staring up into his soft gold eyes. She shouldn’t, but… she couldn’t help herself. “My sword is in your service.”

He hummed, eyes crinkling in a smile.

“Come,” he said, pulling back. E-Ming wilted at the loss, and she shoved it back into the scabbard roughly. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

“Ah,” she said, pulling back. “I’m fine, Dianxia.”

“Let me see,” he said, brokering no argument. She acquiesced with a nod. His touch was tender as he lifted the tattered robes away from her skin. They weren’t bloody, because she couldn’t bleed, but Xuan Ji’s claws had done a number on them.

The wounds were already healing. Not quite as fast as the bones in her hand, but fast enough. He cupped her face, lilting her head away to get a clean look. As his thumb brushed gently over the curve of her cheek, spiritual energy blossomed in her core.

She gasped at the feeling. Unlike Xuan Ji, unlike Ling Wen, Bai Hua’s qi was light. Light and golden like the clean, sharp air of summer. She shivered in his hold, closing her eyes as the aches and pains scattered across her body healed in an instant.

“Dianxia…” she murmured, not daring to open her eyes.

“Come, my Wu Ming,” he said, pulling away with one more offer of spiritual energy. She took it greedily. How could she not? It was a piece of him nestled deep inside her, next to the dead meat of her heart. “Let’s get you down the mountain.”

Chapter Text

They stepped out into the cool night air. The forest was loud—birds and crickets sang together as they fluttered around the branches. Wu Ming couldn’t see any of them, but the noise had risen drastically from when they’d first walked through the bloody forest.

“Where do you plan to go now?” Bai Hua asked, stopping them at the base of the stairs. She turned in his arms, standing just close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. He stared down at her, eyes shining in the moonlight.

“I don’t have any plans, Dianxia,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m free to wander wherever I please.”

“That sounds… lonely,” Bai Hua said. He cupped her elbows, drawing her in. “Would Wu Ming… want to come with me? I have a home not far from here.”

She tilted her head. “Does Dianxia not stay in Heaven?”

He snorted. A flash of resentment writhed around him, rage and disgust mingling in the air that had only just evened out. “No.”

She ducked her head low. Bai Hua froze, hands tightening on her elbows. Without her spiritual energy, the anger and resentment swirling around him felt much like the oppressive qi of Jun Wu—one snide comment away from crushing her to dust. She’d never bowed to Jun Wu, even at his most insufferable, but Bai Hua was different. “This one apologizes for the insult.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. He tugged her into a hug, wrapping himself fully around her. She settled nicely in his grip, tucking her head under his chin. She really was the perfect fit. In her true form, though, he’d probably fit just as nicely in her arms. “My wife doesn’t ever have to apologize to me. I shouldn’t have gotten angry. It wasn’t you, Wu Ming, but… I’m not a god.”

She stopped. “…you’re not?”

“No,” he said, and she could hear the wry smile in his voice. “I haven’t been a god for a long time now.”

“But—” she faltered. “How did Dianxia know where I was, if he was not sent by the Heavens?”

He hummed, tilting his face to rest the hard curve of the mask against the top of her head. “I have eyes all around the Jianghu. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, Wu Ming.”  

“The peony,” she said, fingers twitching at the memory of the sharp electric twist of the flowers. The spiritual energy bound within the flower was nearly identical to the qi that had flowed through her veins when Bai Hua was healing her. Just that the healing didn’t hurt. “That was you?”

“It was,” he said, stroking a warm hand down her spine. “I wasn’t expecting to find you today, but I’m glad that I did.”

Looking for her. He was looking for her. Just as she had been looking for him. Only… she hadn’t known what to look for. If she hadn’t stumbled upon his peony, she doubted she would have found him even after another thousand years. Alone in her endless wandering.

But that didn’t explain why he was looking for her. She’d killed his last and most devoted believer, condemning him to a life of mortality—with no temples or offerings. But… he seemed fine. Better than fine, he was powerful. He certainly wasn’t a god with no believers left in the world.

“Can I… ask Dianxia a question?” At his agreeable hum, she continued. “Why was Dianxia looking for me?”

“I—” Bai Hua cut himself off, raising his head sharply. She spun around, careful not to dislodge his grip on her.

“You!” Xiao Pengtou shouted. He ran forward, his gang of mercenaries close at his heels. “The ghost bridegroom! Get him!”

She stepped in front of Bai Hua, out of his arms, baring her teeth. Her godly form was more adept for snarling, what with the eye patch and pointed teeth, but Xiao Hua knew how vicious she looked. E-Ming rattled, the eye rolling and quivering in a pathetic display of the anger that boiled in her gut.

How dare these fools taint her god’s name with such accusations. They weren’t worthy to stand in his presence. She settled a hand on E-Ming, teeth itching for blood. Heaven could add it onto her debt, for all she cared. The mercenaries ran closer, unheeded by the wrath pouring out of her.

“Hey, xiaojie!” Xiao Pengtou shouted, a greedy leer to his voice. He skidded to a stop a few steps away, leaning his torch forward to get a good look at her face. His grin twisted into something hungry. She should’ve knocked his teeth in when she had the chance. “Ah, daozhang, it looks like you got caught by the ghost bridegroom. Come here, sweetheart, I’ll protect you.”

A flash of qi, and the mercenaries were on the ground. She blinked. The roiling mass of anger and protectiveness burned like a physical presence at her back. She turned slowly, taking in the deceptively calm stance Bai Hua had settled into. He was angry, though. Even through the mask she could tell. The anger was different than when she’d asked about the Heaven’s. This was tangible. Possessive.

She stepped back into Bai Hua’s warmth, sinking into the hungry pull of that anger. As long as it wasn’t directed at her, she would lap it up gladly. Even if it was directed at her, she would bask in it—while groveling for her god’s forgiveness, of course. She’d take anything he deemed fit to offer.

“Protect her from what?” Bai Hua asked, stepping forward and in front of her as the mercenaries groaned on the ground. They weren’t as quick to their feet as they had been earlier that day. Bai Hua stepped closer to them, arms crossing over his chest. “Even if I was the ghost bridegroom, what would you have done to protect her?”

“You— you are the bridegroom!” Xiao Pengtou called, struggling to free himself from the pile of limbs. “You stole her from the sedan!”

“No,” he said. She struggled to bite down a laugh. The look he threw over his shoulder said she wasn’t as successful as she’d hoped. “I’m not. The ghost bridegroom is dead. I suggest you all go home.”

“Dead?” Xiao Pengtou shrieked, leaping to his feet. “You— you— you thieves! Was that the whole plan? To kill us off and steal the bounty while we were patching up our wounded, huh?”

“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” she sneered, stepping up to Bai Hua’s side. A step behind and to the left, she stood diligently by his elbow. “You’re not that important.”

“You!” Xiao Pengtou yelled, turning beet red. The mottled color of his face was amusing, but the look he shot towards her god was not. He snatched a torch from the ground, marching forwards to shove the light into Bai Hua’s face. “Who are you?”

“A wandering cultivator,” he said simply. “Wu Ming is my cultivation partner. We got separated, and I was fortunate enough to find her after you abandoned her.”

“Abandoned her,” Xiao Pengtou snorted. “If she’s such a great cultivator, she can protect herself, can she not? Though, of course, it’s not surprising that she’d rely on a man to come save her. You talk big, but you women are all the same.”

Behind them, a blast of spiritual energy echoed through the clearing. She spun around, sighing as the two idiot gods stepped out of the forest. They didn’t look injured, but they did look irritated.

“Fu Yao, Nan Feng?” she asked, glaring at them. “What are you doing here?”

“We came to get you,” Fu Yao answered, shooting an odd look at Bai Hua. “Who’s this?”

“My husband,” she said, grinning sharply.

Nan Feng choked. He doubled over, coughing dramatically as Fu Yao smacked him on the back. Bai Hua just wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer even as the mercenaries started to grumble.

“You married him?” Xiao Pengtou asked. He marched around them, shoving himself into her face. Bai Hua tensed behind her, and for whatever reason, the idiot gods did as well. She tightened her grip around E-Ming, glaring up at the punk.

“We told you,” she drawled. “He’s not the ghost bridegroom. Or are you too stupid to believe the truth?”

Xiao Pengtou reared back, looking like he was three seconds from socking her in the face. Good. She’d like to see him try.

It would be fun to put him back in his place.

Again.

“Hey!” a mercenary called out. “Who’s there?”

Xiao Pengtou spun like a bloodhound scenting a deer. The brush rustled just off the main path, and he was off before she could try to grab for him. She cursed, running a hand along E-Ming’s scabbard so the thing wouldn’t skewer the punk where he stood. She wouldn’t complain if it did, but Ling Wen would be less than happy.

“You!” Xiao Pengtou shouted, dragging a wriggling shape out of the grass. The mercenaries hurried over, torches illuminating the eavesdropper. She struggled in his hold, but the girl wasn’t much of a fighter. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Let me go!” Xiao Ying yelled, shoving at his grasping hands. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all!”

“Sure,” Xiao Pengtou sneered. He shook Xiao Ying like a ragdoll. Wu Ming marched forward, shoving through the crowd of mercenaries. Bai Hua was hot on her heels, Fu Yao and Nan Feng close behind them. “Everyone knows you’re in love with the ghost bridegroom. You didn’t come here to protect him, did you?”

“No, I’m not!” she cried, sounding close to tears. “The—the mountain is dangerous! I told you not to go! I was worried!”

“Worried.” Xiao Pengtou laughed. He shoved her to the ground, planting a heavy boot on her skirts. The fabric was once again threatened with tearing, the patched linen threadbare and worn.

“Let her go,” Wu Ming snapped, grabbing Xiao Pengtou’s collar roughly. It was easy to drag him off balance. He stumbled back, hitting a huddled group of mercenaries with a curse. She stepped in front of Xiao Ying, planting her feet and rolling her shoulders back.

“You—! You—!” Xiao Pengtou sputtered, pointing a shaking finger at them. “You! Working together! Both of you are working together to protect him.”

A rock suddenly bounced off Xiao Pengtou’s skull. He stumbled back with a shout, immediately looking for the perpetrator. Wu Ming laughed at him, tossing her head back and leaning back against Bai Hua’s arm. He wrapped a steady hand around her waist, tucking Wu Ming even tighter into his side.

A slip of a boy stood at the edge of the forest. He held a small stone in his hands, though he shook like a pathetic little dog—bandaged and bloody. Thick linens were wrapped around his face, covering all the would-be exposed skin, barring his eyes. The kid stuttered back, dropping the stone to the ground.

“You!” Xiao Pengtou shouted, lunging at the boy. “The ghost bridegroom! Get him!”

The boy shot into the forest, disappearing into the darkness. The mercenaries surged after him with a loud cry, torches hefted high. Their shouting completely drowned out Xiao Ying’s pleas for them to stop, though she kept yelling anyways.

“Don’t go through there!” Bai Hua called, though he didn’t seem in a rush to stop them. They walked leisurely to the edge of the forest, the stink of rot and blood heavy in the air. They’d passed through there on their way from the sedan, but her veil had stopped her from seeing anything beyond a thick, red blur.

“What’s in there, Dianxia?” she asked, peering into the dense darkness. He held fast to her arm, stopping her from moving closer. She settled into his hold easily. The idiot gods flanked them, standing on either side like they were some pair of royal guards.

“A gift for a pathetic excuse of a ghost,” he said. After a moment, screams echoed through the air, and the mercenaries tumbled out of the forest. They were drenched in red. The thick, coagulated blood dripped from their hair and hands, staining their clothes. “He has… unfortunate taste.”

She sneered, leaning into his grip.

“Blood!” Xiao Pengtou shrieked, staring down at his hands. “There was… there was so much blood!”

“You were told not to go in there,” she pointed out. He glared at her, still shaking like a beaten orphan. Pathetic. It was just a little blood. He was a mercenary. What sort of mercenary couldn’t handle a few bloodstains?

“You came through that way, didn’t you?” Fu Yao asked, gazing at them out of the corner of his eye. There was something calculating in his eyes that she didn’t appreciate. “How come you aren’t covered in blood?”

“I had an umbrella,” she said, still glaring down at Xiao Pengtou. The punk looked away, wiping his bloodied hands on his robes. It didn’t help. His robes were thoroughly soaked in half-coagulated blood, and he ended up smearing the thick liquid around in hot, ragged streaks.

“Of course you did,” Fu Yao sighed.

“Wu Ming was quite kind to shield us from the blood-rain,” Bai Hua said, brushing a hand down her back. It burned, the heat prickling down her spine in a way that made her feel alive.

She hadn’t felt alive in so long.

“One of you,” Bai Hua called out, stepping towards the mercenaries. “Give me a torch.”

Shaking, one of the mercenaries offered a dimly lit torch. He had been one of the ones to listen the first time. Good. Her god took it in an easy hand, tossing it underhanded to sail through the dimly lit road.

Corpses, blood, all the makings of a nightmare. Wu Ming rolled her eyes at the garish display. Tacky, that’s what it was. Who found corpses strung up in trees pleasing?

The torch splashed down into a puddle of blood, the fire going out with a splutter.

“What the hell?” one of the mercenaries whispered in horror. They scrambled back, away from the dense forest of corpses. “What the hell is that?”

“An offering to the Night-Touring Green Lantern, the Green Ghost Qi Rong,” Fu Yao said, sneering into the dark forest. “He’s the only one tacky enough to think hanging corpses in the forest is impressive.”

“Disgusting,” Bai Hua muttered. He stepped back from the forest just as a frigid wind picked up. Bloody rain splattered along the road, sprinkling down on the terrified mercenaries. “Get back. It’s not safe in there.”

Finally, they listened. At least the rabble was capable of learning.

“Qi Rong,” she said, folding the name around her mouth. It was familiar, in the distant way that Fu Yao and Nan Feng were familiar. “Who is he?”

“A sorry excuse for a Ghost King,” Nan Feng muttered. He kicked a rock, sending it skipping down the path. “He’s a wrath level ghost but clawed his way up to being called a Ghost King by way of sheer fucking annoyance.”

Bai Hua snorted. “He’s not very charming, no. He usually stays quiet, but he enjoys stirring up trouble for Heaven.”

“I found him!” a mercenary yelled, dragging a writhing mass of skin and bones out from the bloody forest. The mercenaries perked up, gathering around the man like dogs to a bone. The person he’d grabbed was just a kid. Clearly starved. Bloodied and wrapped in bandages, he didn’t look like any ghost Wu Ming had ever seen.

“Look at that!” Xiao Pengtou laughed. He kicked the kid in the ribs, knocking him to the ground with a cry. “Give this guy a raise!”

“That’s not your ghost bridegroom,” Bai Hua said calmly, an edge of steel in his voice. The mercenaries looked at him, quickly shying back. Her god knelt in front of the kid, offering him a hand. The kid just stared at him with wide eyes. There wasn’t much going on upstairs, though she understood the sheer awe of being in Bai Hua’s presence for the first time.

The kid just looked afraid.

Ungrateful brat.

“What are you talking about?” Xiao Pengtou snapped. “Of course he’s the ghost bridegroom. Look at him! A freak like that, he couldn’t get a girl unless he stole one!”

“Stop it!” Xiao Ying yelled, running out of the temple. “Stop, he’s not the bridegroom!”

“Oh, please,” Xiao Pengtou muttered with a roll of his eyes. He glared down at the kid, a nasty sneer to his face. “Little monster like you—let’s see what’s under these bandages, huh?”

The kid shied back, shielding his face with shaking arms. Xiao Pengtou knocked him to the ground with a stray kick, grabbing a fistful of the kid’s hair as he doubled over with the blow. A flash of white shot out of Bai Hua’s sleeve. The slip of silk struck Xiao Pengtou in the forehead, slithering back around Bai Hua’s arm before the mercenaries could react. The punk hit the ground in a slump, drooling in the dirt.

“He’s not the bridegroom,” Bai Hua said again. “The bridegroom is dead. Nan Feng, please keep watch.”

The other mercenaries eyed him warily as he swept past. Good. They should be afraid. She stalked after her god, not turning back even as the mercenary’s cries for help turned into groans of pain as Nan Feng beat them into the dirt.

They stopped just outside of the temple stairs. Bai Hua breathed deep, and the tension melted from his shoulders. After a moment of hesitation she pressed a hand to his elbow, leaning in to catch his eyes through the mask.

“You killed the ghost bridegroom?” Fu Yao asked. He frowned at Bai Hua, but it wasn’t the sullen pout she was used to. “Doesn’t Heaven usually want Wrath level ghosts captured for interrogation?”

“Not my problem,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If they wanted the ghost bride captured, they shouldn’t have sent me.”

“They won’t cause trouble for you?” Bai Hua asked, a strange edge to his voice.

She shrugged. “Sure, they will. I can handle it, though.”

“I have no doubt about that,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

“Wait,” Nan Feng cut them off. “Ghost bride? I thought it was a ghost bridegroom?”

“It was a jealous bride of General Ming Guang,” Bai Hua said. “Xuan Ji. Back from his human days. It was… complicated.”

“Of course it was Pei Ming,” Fu Yao said, rolling his eyes hard enough that they had to hurt. “That entire palace is ridiculous.”

“Don’t get me started on Pei Xiu,” Nan Feng grumbled. “Heavenly Officials. I don’t trust any of them.”

“Not even Ju Yang?” Fu Yao asked, batting his eyelashes.

Nan Feng growled, turning a very amusing shade of red. “You shut your mouth!”

Bai Hua sighed, loud enough to cut off the ensuing argument. “If you’re going to fight, do it somewhere else. This isn’t the time nor the place.”

The idiot gods shot the other a venomous look but turned back to Bai Hua obediently. Strange. They acted like they knew him, but Bai Hua had said he wasn’t a god. Obviously, he wasn’t lying, so the idiot gods had to be hiding something. The only question was what.

Though, if Heaven hadn’t sent Bai Hua, they most likely hadn’t sent the two idiots, either. They’d certainly never offered her help before. She decidedly would not bring it up to Ling Wen, whenever the scholar demanded she meet for a mission debrief and to go over her debts.

“Xiao Hua!” Xiao Ying called, running across the clearing. The bandaged boy kept up well, but she was still dragging him rather aggressively. “Daozhang, please, help us.”

“What’s wrong?” Bai Hua asked, stepping forward immediately. He was so caring, her god.

“The… he can’t stay here,” Xiao Ying blurted out. The boy looked up at her like a kicked puppy, eyes wide and watery. “It’s not safe. Now that Xiao Pengtou knows where he is, he won’t leave him alone. Please, can you take him somewhere safe?”

Bai Hua looked at the kid. He tilted his head, going still like he was talking to someone. Fu Yao and Nan Feng did the same, eyes going distant and focusing on nothing at all.

“I can take him,” Bai Hua said after a moment. “We’ll be able to find somewhere nice he can stay, but for now he can stay with me.”

“Oh, thank you,” Xiao Ying said, collapsing onto her knees. Bai Hua went down with her, grabbing onto her elbows so she didn’t hit the ground too hard. Wu Ming tried not to let the jealousy show, but she couldn’t help but glare down at the girl. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” Bai Hua said gently. “You won’t be able to come with us, though. And… I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to see him again.”

Xiao Ying sniffed, looking near to tears. “That’s… that’s okay. As long as I have your word that he’ll be safe, I’ll be content.”

How sweet.

She rolled her eyes, meeting Fu Yao’s gaze as he did the same. They froze, tearing their eyes away from each other as disgust roiled in Wu Ming’s gut. She would not have anything in common with those idiots. She refused.

“You’re bleeding,” Bai Hua said, leaning over the boy. Xiao Ying jerked up, petting over the kid with worried hands. “Here, let me fix that for you.”

Xiao Ying reached out quicker than he could, unraveling the bandages around the kid’s face and head.

Bright, angry blisters covered the kids face. They looked like burn marks, but Bai Hua swept her behind him before she could get a good look. She peaked around his shoulders, catching the unruly tuft of the kid’s hair as he buried his face in Xiao Ying’s shirt.

“Human Face Disease,” Fu Yao choked out, eyes going wide. The kid froze like a startled rabbit in Xiao Ying’s arms, jerking like he was about to pull out of her grip.

“No!” she shouted, tackling him in a hug. “No, no, don’t leave, they’re just trying to help.”

“Y— yes,” Bai Hua bit out. He was tense. Shaking like a leaf. His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles burned white. After a moment, he settled, taking great, heaving breaths until his shoulders relaxed into something near calm. “Yes. Come with us. We’ll help you.”

Nan Feng and Fu Yao both looked at him, faces pale and wan.

“The Human Face Disease should’ve been eradicated with the fall of Xianle,” Nan Feng said, voice hollow. “How is… there wasn’t a second plague.”

“No,” Fu Yao said. “We’d have heard about it by now. But for him to be from Xianle and to live so long…”

“We’ll take him back with us,” Bai Hua said firmly. “We can help him heal and figure out where he came from.”

“And make sure he doesn’t infect anyone else,” Fu Yao muttered.

Bai Hua turned, looking down at her with such a soft look her stomach threatened to turn in on itself. It wasn’t a good look. Pity never was. He just looked at her for a long moment. “Wu Ming…”

“I won’t be able to come with you, will I?” she asked, desperately trying to keep the grief out of her voice. She failed. Bai Hua seemed to crumple in on himself, reaching out to thread his fingers through the loose hair framing her face.

“No,” he said gently. “I’m sorry. I wanted…”  

“I understand, Dianxia,” she said, catching his hand to press a kiss to his knuckles. “This devoted believer will wait patiently for your return.”

Bai Hua made a sound like he’d been hit. Startled, she looked up, catching his eyes as they widened and filled with tears.

No. No, no, no, she did not make him cry.

“I—”

“Don’t apologize,” he cut her off, far too loud. Fu Yao and Nan Feng had turned their backs, which was surprisingly diplomatic of them. Even Xiao Ying and the kid weren’t looking. His eyes softened into a smile, and he took her hands in his. “You surprised me, is all. It’s been… a very long time, since I’ve had such a devoted believer.”

Right. Because she’d killed the last one. Getting herself shackled and banished from Heaven was the kindest punishment, for all she’d taken from him. She ducked her head, pressing another desperate kiss to his knuckles.  

“I should go,” Bai Hua said, like it hurt. He looked down at the bandaged kid. The little brat stared up at him with wide eyes, clutching at Xiao Ying like she might save him. “I need to take him to safety. You need to meet with Ling Wen, right?”

She nodded. Her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow, but the drag of her throat was nearly enough to make her gag.

“Where are you meeting her?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “She generally finds me wherever I am or sends a message to meet her somewhere a few days after the mission’s conclusion.”

Bai Hua nodded. The silence stretched out, long past anything she was comfortable with. She knew, deep within her, that he was leaving, but… separation was separation. No matter how long, it was unfathomable.

“Ah, Wu Ming,” he said, taking her face in his hands. He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together gently. The porcelain of his mask was cold against her skin, chilled by the cool night air. “I’ll find you again, but I have things I need to do. You… my home isn’t ready for you, yet.”

“Please,” she gasped out. Near tears with emotions she didn’t know the source of. Want, grief, joy, and devotion. So much devotion. None of her faceless statues could come close to her god. “Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” Bai Hua said. “I’m never leaving you again. How’s this, my Wu Ming. The next time I see you, I’ll show you my true face.”

Trembling, she nodded. Between one blink and the next, he was gone, leaving only the faint hint of peonies in his wake.

Chapter Text

Ling Wen had insisted on meeting him in some no-name village a few days’ travel from Mount Yu Jun. He’d agreed, having no real choice, but made sure Ling Wen knew his displeasure. She was unflappable as always, through the twitch in her eye was always fun to provoke.

The mission was a bust, of course. No matter how many offerings the people of the North gave, they wouldn’t be enough to compensate for the loss of life that had happened on the mission. Five mercenaries dead, and he wasn’t any closer to being freed from his collar.

He hopped into the back of the ox cart as it passed by, sinking back into the hay. The old farmer was none the wiser. He shoved his hands into his eyes. They ached with the pressure, urging on the throbbing of his skull. He was a ghost, by all reason he should be above human indignities such as a headache.

But no.

The oxcart stopped at a crossroads, the driver chatting to some stranger who wanted a ride. The old man was nice enough, and before long he was waving the stranger back. Wu Ming couldn’t see the stranger, and he didn’t care to. His voice was light, though. Gentle.

Kind.

It had been nearly a week, and still he’d heard nothing from Bai Hua. His husband. The fact that he was married sat funny in his chest. He’d found his beloved after eight hundred years but was no closer to remembering him. Bai Hua had been hurt by that, too. He’d hid it well, but Wu Ming could tell.

Who wouldn’t be hurt by their beloved not remembering them? Wu Ming was lucky Bai Hua hadn’t left him in that formation, at the mercy of wolves, and binu, and Pei Ming’s jealous girlfriend. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if his beloved didn’t remember him.

The hitchhiker climbed into the back of the cart, carrying a bag of scraps bigger than his torso. He was long and lean, his strong chest bound in bandages that peaked through his funeral garb. His long brown hair was swept up in a simple half-bun. The thick strands of his hair brushed the floor of the oxcart as he sat down, stalks of hay sticking to the ends.

Strange.

He was probably a cultivator, then. They were rare, but Puqi Village wasn’t as remote as the village at the base of Mount Yu Jun. The driver hadn’t sounded all that surprised.

Even still, the man stood out like a sore thumb.

He settled into the back of the cart, not seeming to notice Wu Ming. His pack of scraps rattled and clattered as the cart got moving. Wu Ming stared at the maple leaves drifting off the trees. They matched his robes nicely enough, but the turning of the leaves always meant winter was right around the corner, and Wu Ming wasn’t anywhere close to finding a place to bed down for those long, dark months.

He wasn’t afraid of traveling through winter, of course. He’d done it many times before. But it was easier to stock up spiritual energy when he didn’t have to burn his stolen reserves on things like fighting beasts for a place to shelter. Well, villagers were always grateful for services offered. Maybe he’d steal a bounty or two from the more insufferable gods, encroach on their territory for a few months. It wasn’t like they would notice.

The south would be nice to visit. Ju Yang and Xuan Zhen were usually too busy squabbling with each other to take offense at a ghost-god in their territories, anyways.

The cultivator was talking to himself, bright and happy. He’d pulled out scrolls, by the sound of it. He mumbled about the water tyrant Shi Wudu, an entertaining sneer to his voice. Wu Ming couldn’t quite catch the words he was reading, but he didn’t sound impressed. More rustling, and a new scroll crinkled as he unrolled it.

“Ah, this one talks about me!” the man said, sounding delighted. Wu Ming bit back a smile at the pleasant naivety. “The Crown Prince of Xianle has ascended three times: a martial god, a god of misfortune, and a god of scraps. It’s not very prestigious. Well… that’s alright. After all, all beings are equal.”

Wu Ming couldn’t help it. He snorted, loud enough to draw the supposed god’s attention. “All beings are equal, huh? If that were so, there wouldn’t be a need for gods.”

The god startled. He leaned around the protruding stack of hay, peering at Wu Ming through dark, gold eyes.

His laughter died in his throat. Those eyes… he knew those eyes. Maskless and dressed like a wandering cultivator, this was his god. His god. His husband.

His god smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ah, do you know much about gods, then?”

“This and that,” Wu Ming said, sounding horrifyingly breathless. He couldn’t stop staring at his god. At his naked face. He was devastatingly pretty, and surprisingly young. He didn’t look a day over twenty, though the weight in his shoulders spoke of someone much older. “I dabble.”

“Dabble, hmm?” his god asked, dragging his eyes over Wu Ming’s form. He felt them like a physical thing, scraping him raw. He was in the from of a rich young master, tall and whipcord thin. The body was a handsome thing. He’d put a lot of effort into sculpting it, making sure the strands of hair fell gently, and the lines of his palm were crisp. “You seem young to be out here on your own.”

“My parents were fighting,” Wu Ming said through a numb mouth. “They kicked me out. I’ve been wandering ever since.”

His god cocked his head. “How long have you been on your own?”

“Only about a week,” Wu Ming said, fighting the devastating flush that threatened to bloom on his cheeks. He was dead, he shouldn’t have to deal with this. “What is gege doing all the way out here?”

“I have a shrine just beyond Puqi Village,” his god said. He settled his scrolls back into his sack of scraps, jostling things around to make them fit. There was ceramic and metal and wood, all shoved into that bulging pack. The god he’d met had been laden with gold and jewels. There was no reason for him to be collecting trash.

“A shrine?” he asked, settling against the side of the cart. “To whom?”

“The Crown Prince of Xianle,” he said. There was a strange look to him. Assessing. Wu Ming hoped he passed. “Do you know him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Wu Ming said apologetically. He looked down, studying the gentle curve of his fingers. So that was who his god was. The Crown Prince of Xianle. Wu Ming had heard whispers of Xianle. Ju Yang and Xuan Zhen were from there, had ascended at the same time. A great kingdom that fell to ruin at the hands of a calamity, torn to shreds by war and famine and plague. He had never bothered to learn the details.  

“What’s your name?” his god asked suddenly, leaning forward slightly.

“I’m the third son of my family,” Wu Ming said, the refrain ringing true no matter how sure he was of the lie. “You can call me San Lang.”

“San Lang,” his god said indulgently. There was no doubt his god knew he was lying but let him get away with it. “My family name is Xie, first name Lian. It’s good to meet such a well-educated traveling companion.”

Xie Lian. Xie Lian.

A name for his god. For his husband.

For his beloved.

The jagged emptiness inside of him got a little bit smaller. Filled in with one, loving detail.

Xie Lian.

“You flatter me,” Wu Ming laughed, kicking a leg out until his boot rested barely a hands width from Xie Liang’s. The nearness prickled. He bit down his giddiness, determined not to let any of it show on his face. He was rather good at gambling, he had practice keeping a blank face.

“What flattery?” Xie Lian asked. “San Lang seems like he knows many things.”

“Not anything special,” Wu Ming said, waving his hand lazily. He was grateful he had enough spiritual energy to keep his heart at a steady rate. “Gege is the knowledgeable one, between us.”

Xie Lian laughed, a high, thrumming sound that echoed through Wu Ming’s bones. “I’m so knowledgeable, huh? How about I teach you something, then.”

“Ah, gege,” Wu Ming said, playing along. He let his smirk shine through, leaning forward to get into his god’s space. “Won’t you educate this San Lang?”

“Of course,” Xie Lian said. He tilted his head like a cat staring down its prey. The look in his eyes wasn’t hungry, exactly, but it burned Wu Ming down to the core all the same. “What would San Lang like to know?”

“Hmmm…” Wu Ming pretended to thing, tapping a finger against his chin. “Does gege know about ghosts?”

“Ghosts!” Xie Lian said, pleased. His face split on a grin, and he clapped his sword calloused hands together. “Has San Lang heard of the four calamities?”

“The four calamities…” Wu Ming said, trailing off in thought. His conversation with Ling Wen echoed in his ears. She’d scolded him about the dangers of peonies and Supremes but had clammed up when he pressed for details. Typical. “I’ve heard of them, but… would gege explain?”

Xie Lian smiled indulgently. “Of course, San Lang. The four calamities are the ghosts most renowned and feared by Heaven. The ones who have made names for themselves. They’re also known as the four Ghost Kings.”

“Ghost Kings…” Wu Ming muttered, rolling the words over his tongue. They sparked some recognition that he couldn’t name, deep in the hollowed pits of his memory. He’d read about them, of course, but the knowledge never seemed to stick.

“Three of them are Supreme ranked calamities, two of which were forged in the kilns of Mount Tonglu,” Xie Lian continued, leaning back in the hay. “The fourth is just a Wrath, but he was included to round out the number to an even four.”

“… Night-Touring Green Lantern,” Wu Ming finished for him, nodding as the knowledge bloomed like a flower. He’d met the Green Ghost once or twice in his travels. Had disturbed the Wraths plans enough for him to make an enemy. That was why Xuan Ji had been so familiar.

“Ah, San Lang knows more than he lets on!” Xie Lian cried, leaning forward with a smile.

“Oh, no, gege, this one just remembered something he had read,” Wu Ming said, waving his hands slightly. “Please, continue, this San Lang won’t interrupt again.”

“Your interruptions are welcome,” Xie Lian said. He shifted until their knees were almost touching. “I am not a teacher, San Lang, don’t let me lecture you.”

“What if I want to be lectured?” Wu Ming asked, allowing the sharp grin to curl over his lips.

Xie Lian just laughed, eyes crinkling with mirth. “Ah, San Lang, what will I do with you… well, yes, the Night-Touring Green Lantern is a calamity, the Green Ghost Qi Rong. He’s not very well liked by either Heaven or the Ghost realm. Then there’s Black Water Sinking Ships. He’s not very well known, as he tends to be quite shy. That’s He Xuan. Then, of course, there’s Bai Wuxiang, the White Clothed Calamity.”

Something lurched in the pit of Wu Ming’s stomach at the mention of White No Face. That one… that one he hadn’t heard of before. He swallowed down the rage that bloomed at the mention of him, tearing frantically at his own mind for the source of it.

It wasn’t there, though. Like everything before his banishment, there was just a depthless emptiness that threatened to consume him if he pushed too far. Nothing. Nothing. The blankness ate at him, rage curling deep in his core where his spiritual energy was locked away.

He plunged deeper, into the icy void where his soul once sat. Dead and buried, now, but there was something. Something buried deep within him, past eight hundred years of memories and trapped by the collar around his neck. The rage roiled, rising to a fever pitch, and—

“—ang? San Lang!”

Wu Ming jolted. He blinked out of his thoughts, the chill of the shackle receding. Xie Lian had cupped his hands around his face, squeezing the soft give of his cheeks gently. They were so close Wu Ming could feel his breath on his face. His hands were burning against the corpse chill of Wu Ming’s skin.

“Ah, this one apologizes, gege,” Wu Ming said, fighting down the flush that threatened to rise to his face. The one drawback of creating a skin with a working heart and lungs is that he couldn’t control their functions. He was nearly hyperventilating, lungs straining around each breath. His heart hurt with how fast it was pounding.

Xie Lian stared at him with wide eyes. He clutched at Wu Ming’s face harder, dragging him into a hug. The touch was… everything. Wu Ming melted into it, disgusted at himself but not enough to pull away.

Xie Lian was warm, and solid, and holding onto Wu Ming like he was something precious. He wasn’t, he knew that, but… but maybe he could pretend, until Xie Lian realized he was the worst sort of trash. Though. He had married him. He said he’d been looking for him.

Wu Ming wasn’t one to call his god a liar.

They rested together in the hay of the rickety old cart. Xie Lian shifted, slowly dragging Wu Ming in until he was draped over the god’s thighs. That was… wrong. Xie Lian shouldn’t have to comfort him. Wu Ming was always selfish and greedy, taking and taking and taking until there was nothing left. He was the worst sort of believer.

“Whatever thoughts you’re having,” Xie Lian said, breaking him out of his mind. “Stop. I’m glad to be here for you.”

Slowly, Wu Ming nodded. His god wasn’t a liar. But… still, he shouldn’t have to be offering Wu Ming comfort. Wu Ming was meant to be serving him. Not the other way around. Xie Lian draped his hands around Wu Ming’s back, petting him gently as the cart rocked and rattled.

“And the last one?” Wu Ming asked, after a long moment. He shifted back, just enough to see Xie Lian. His god’s hands tightened as he moved away, but didn’t try to stop him. “Gege said there were four calamities.”  

Xie Lian made a face, but it passed before Wu Ming could parse the emotion. Like a shadow passing under the waves, Xie Lian’s feelings were large and unknowable. He wanted to know, though. He wanted to learn how.

“Golden Mask Guards Flower,” he said after a moment, not meeting Wu Ming’s eyes. The name sparked within him. Golden Mask Guards Flower. The phantom smell of peonies hit his nose, and his eyes widened without his permission.

Oh.

He hadn’t realized there was another ghost-god. That his beloved was one… he hated the thought. He knew he’d killed his beloved by destroying their last believer, but now… Now it sank in. He’d really killed him.

He didn’t deserve to be in his presence. He didn’t deserve the last eight hundred years of freedom. Not when he’d killed his beloved.

“The other calamity forged in the depths of Mount Tonglu. He ascended to godhood after the death of his last believer but couldn’t stand to be in that place. Surrounded by hypocrites,” Xie Lian continued. The Crown Prince of Xianle. Golden Mask Guards Flower. His beloved. “He rules over the ghosts from his palace in the Central Plains.”

“Truly a Ghost King, then,” Wu Ming murmured. Xie Lian nodded, staring down at Wu Ming. His arms were warm and strong, threaded with muscle yet surprisingly soft. Wu Ming had never been held so gently. He’d never been held at all. “He’s the strongest of the calamities?”

Xie Lian laughed. “No… well. Of the current calamities, yes. But Bai Wuxiang was far older and stronger than Golden Mask Guards Flower. He’s the one who pushed the calamity to insanity.”

Bai Wuxiang. Wu Ming was glad he was dead, but still he wished he could kill the bastard himself. To drive his beloved mad was a sin not worth redemption.

“Ah, San Lang, are you feeling better?”

Wu Ming startled. He pulled back, a heady flush rising to his cheeks at the realization that he’d just been resting in his god’s arms. “Sorry, gege, you’re just so comfortable.”

Xie Lian laughed, pulling him back in with ease.

Night fell swiftly as they chatted, banter falling easily between them without effort. It was a wonder to talk with his highness. He was funny, witty, and surprisingly gentle considering the terrifying force of nature he was once he donned the gilded mask. Wu Ming met him word for word, teasing as much as he dared just to see that delicate flush rise to his beloved’s ears.

He didn’t quite appreciate when the sentiment was returned, but he wouldn’t complain about his god offering him attention.

The cart skidded to the halt, jolting them out of their seats. Xie Lian caught him gently around the waist, turning towards the driver.

“What happened?” he asked, settling Wu Ming back into the cart like he was a doll. Wu Ming tried to swallow down the butterflies rising out of his stomach, but the ghost of Xie Lian’s touch burned like a brand.

“G— g— ghosts!” the old man shouted, voice trembling with fear. Wu Ming and Xie Lian were up in an instant, Xie Lian skirting around the pile of hay to sit next to the farmer. Wu Ming peered around them, staring out into the forest. He couldn’t see anything, but a heavy mist had fallen over the road.

“Where?” Xie Lian asked gently.

“Ghosts!” the farmer shouted, pointing out in front of them. Wu Ming leaned around Xie Lian’s shoulders, staring out at the darkness. In the long stretch of forest, several lanterns hung in the hair. They glowed dimly, bright green and yellow, washing the world in shades of grey.

“It’ll be okay, I’ll deal with this. Ruoye, defend!” Xie Lian called. He shot his arm out, and the white silk band that had married them coiled around the cart and ox. A barrier went up, muffling the sounds of the forest. “But I need you to be quiet. Can you do that?”

“No!” the farmer shouted. “No, I don’t think I can.”

“That’s okay,” Xie Lian said. “I apologize.”

Before the farmer could respond, Xie Lian jabbed his pressure points. The farmer collapsed into Xie Lian’s arms, who gently shifted him to the back of the cart before taking the reins. Wu Ming slid into the seat next to him, staring unabashed at his god.

“Are you okay?” Xie Lian asked, glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes. He didn’t seem worried, but there was a heaviness to his gaze that was puzzling. He had to know that Wu Ming would be alright, even if he hadn’t been there. Wu Ming wasn’t that useless. “It’s the ghost festival. I forgot it was tonight, but they won’t be able to get through the barrier.”

“Ah, gege,” Wu Ming said, not bothering to fight the mischievous grin curling through his lips. “I’m scared!”

Even if Xie Lian weren’t here, the ghosts wouldn’t be a bother to him. He was still dead. There wasn’t much they could do. With Xie Lian here, they wouldn’t touch either of them. He sat back. Xie Lian seemed dedicated to his disguise as a wandering cultivator — he probably wouldn’t reveal himself, even if they were attacked by the ghosts.

It would be a good sight, though.

His gut churned at the thought of meeting Golden Mask Guards Flower again. To kneel at his feet and beg forgiveness for the sin of forgetting him. He’d grant it, because Xie Lian was a gentle god, even if Wu Ming didn’t deserve it.

Maybe they could spar. His highness seemed to love weaponry, given how he’d reacted to E-Ming’s… everything.

The ghosts came into view, heckling loudly as they walked down the path. They were dressed in ragged prisoners’ garb, each carrying their decapitated head in one hand and a lantern in the other. They weren’t considerably powerful, but E-Ming itched from his qiankun pouch all the same.

Xie Lian sat still and quiet, staring out at the ghosts with a look Wu Ming had never seen before. Was this what Xie Lian looked like when they were fighting Xuan Ji and the brides? He wished he had been able to see it. Without the mask.

“Ach!” one of the ghosts ran into the barrier, stumbling back a few steps. The thing flailed about, dramatically looking for what he had just run into. “What was that? Who’s there? Who dares interrupt our ghost festival?”

Wu Ming bit back a sigh.

Idiots.

“Maybe it’s a ghost?” another asked, shrinking back a bit.

“A ghost?” the first one repeated. “You idiot. We’re the ghosts!”

“Let’s just go around,” said another, pulling away from the group. They floated away after him, muttering to each other in hair-raising tones. They probably lost their brains along with their heads. Not every ghost was an idiot. Xuan Ji sure hadn’t been, for all she’d been obsessed with the sleaziest god in Heaven.

Xie Lian let out a sigh, shaking his head as the ox slowly got moving. They traveled down the road without incident. Ghosts lined the paths. Merchants and children and beasts, all gathered together in the human realm for a single night. He could feel the power of the ghost festival, even if he couldn’t quite reach it.

Just ahead of them, a ghost fire sparked against the barrier. Their little light went out, sputtering quietly.

Screams went up in the silent forest.

“The ghost fire!” one of the idiot prisoners shouted. “They’re gone! Someone put out the ghost fire!”

Xie Lian sighed. With a snap of the reins, the ox charged forward with a bellow. They raced down the road, past the gathered ghosts that shouted profanities at the interruption.

“A fork in the road,” Wu Ming noted as they pulled to a stop. “Unlucky.”

Odd, for him to be unlucky. Things usually came easily to him, no matter how dire the circumstances.

“Luck is not my strong suit,” Xie Lian sighed, glancing between the two paths. “Do you have a preference?”

“Hmm…” he tapped his chin, looking down either path. “Does it matter? Gege will protect me.”

Xie Lian huffed a laugh. “That I will, San Lang. Alright, left it is.”

They turned down the left path, racing along the bumpy road for a long stretch of moments. Far too soon, though, the collection of headless morons descended from the treetops. Their lanterns swung wildly, shadows spinning out from the odd light as they surrounded the cart.

“A cultivator,” the head ghost accused. “A Taoist! Here to kill us, on the night of our festival!”

“We haven’t killed anyone,” Xie Lian explained. He stood, towering over the ghosts and their lanterns. In the washed-out grey light, he looked especially foreboding. “Now, please, let us pass, and no one has to get hurt.”

“No one has to get hurt?” the ghosts laughed, stepping forward menacingly. E-Ming shivered in his pouch, rattling loud enough to be heard over the ghosts’ cackling. He glared, but the ghosts didn’t seem to notice. “The only one getting hurt will be you!”

Xie Lian glared at the beheaded ghosts, eyes flashing molten gold for the briefest of moments. Wu Ming’s dead heart froze in his chest, squeezing painfully as Xie Lian’s glare sharpened.

The ghosts shrieked, running as fast as they could down the forest path. They disappeared into the horizon quickly, the light of the lanterns melting back into the darkness.

“Wow, gege,” Wu Ming said, only mildly taken aback. Sure, his god was a Ghost King, but he hadn’t quite realized what that meant. The power he held. He wouldn’t underestimate his god again. “That was impressive.”

“Ah, thank you, San Lang,” Xie Lian said, sitting back down gingerly. He looked embarrassed, a pleasant flush rising to his cheeks. “Come on. We should get moving, in case we run into any other ghosts.”

“They wouldn’t bother us with gege here,” Wu Ming said. He leaned back into the seat, turning to better stare at Xie Lian. He was beautiful, bathed in moonlight with his ears burning. Wu Ming wanted to tease him, to see how hot his face could get, but… no. No, he wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t do anything that could offend his god.

Xie Lian just laughed. It didn’t take them long to get out of the forest and pull up to a dilapidated shack at the edge of sprawling rice fields.

“Accepting merits and offerings for construction of the holy temple,” Wu Ming read, raising an eyebrow at the state of his god’s shrine. It wouldn’t do. Wu Ming had done manual labor many a time over the past eight hundred years. He could fix up the shrine in no time.

If his god permitted, of course.

“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said, reaching for his sack of scraps. Wu Ming’s breath caught in his throat at the sound of his name. Ah. The game was up, then. “Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”

He shook his head. “No, gege.”

“Then why don’t you stay with me.” Xie Lian smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in mirth. “It’s not much, but there’s enough room for two.”

Wu Ming fiddled with his fingers, rolling the question over his tongue. He didn’t want to intrude, but… Xie Lian had said he would find him and bring him home. Was this the home he was talking about? Golden Mask Guards Flower had a palace, though. This certainly wasn’t it.

“I would love to, gege,” he said, reaching over to pull the bag of scraps from Xie Lian’s arms. He grinned at the way Xie Lian’s eyes widened, that flush rising back up to his cheeks. “I’ll take this inside.”

Chapter Text

“Does anyone else help maintain your shrine, gege?” he asked, staring around the dilapidated shack. There was a small alter laden with incense burners and fruits. There was no portrait of the god, though, just an empty scroll hanging on the wall.

Wu Ming could paint one. He knew what Golden Mask Guards Flower looked like, and the Crown Prince of Xianle probably looked the same. Or, at least, close enough. It wasn’t like the mortal believers would know the difference. Xie Lian would, though, so he’d have to be careful to make the portrait as beautiful as possible. Not like that was hard, with a muse such as Xie Lian.

“Just me,” Xie Lian said, coming up to stand behind Wu Ming. He was quite a bit shorter than Wu Ming, only coming up to his chin. It was sweet. Wu Ming had been right, back on Mount Yu Jun. His god would fit quite nicely in his arms. “Not many know the Flower Crowned Martial God.”

Wu Ming hummed. The sack of scraps fit nicely on the table, the various items within scratching the rough wood through the fabric. He turned to look at Xie Lian. “Will you tell me about him?”

“… of course, Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said slowly. “What would you like to know?”

“Anything gege is willing to share,” he said. “I haven’t heard much of Xianle before. Nor its Crown Prince. But this San Lang would give anything to know more about his husband.”

Silence hung in the air between them. A shadow passed across Xie Lian’s face, hanging behind his eyes and dulling their warm gold. He went very still, and there was a tension writhing through the air that made Wu Ming’s hair stand on end. It tasted, a little, of the shock the peony had given him back in the inn. Electric and painful.

He would have to start taking more missions. The more errands he did for Jun Wu, the more ghosts he could absorb. Eventually, eventually, he’d reach the limit of spiritual energy that damned collar could contain, and he’d be free.

He’d have his memories back.

“… gege?” he asked, stepping forward. “Is everything alright?”

“Husband,” Xie Lian said indulgently. He rolled the word over his tongue like he was savoring it. Like it was something worth treasuring. “I like the sound of that. I feel I need to apologize, though, husband.”

Wu Ming jolted. Xie Lian was right. The word felt… different, when said by his beloved. “What for, Dianxia?”

“It took me so long to find you,” Xie Lian said, stepping forward to run his fingers through Wu Ming’s hair. “I didn’t want to leave you on Mount Yu Jun, but I couldn’t have you around the Human Face Disease.”

“…But I’m a ghost, Dianxia,” he said after a moment. “Whatever the Human Face Disease is, it can’t hurt me.”

Xie Lian made a sound like he’d been hit. “You don’t know what the Human Face Disease is?”

“No, Dianxia,” he said, shaking his head. It tickled something in the back of his mind, but the thread of familiarity slipped away whenever he reached for it. “I’ve never heard of it, before the boy on the mountain.”

Xie Lian scowled, his face pinching. “What do you know of Xianle?”

“I… nothing,” Wu Ming said, lungs aching as he focused on taking deep breaths. The chill of the shackle burned against his throat, choking the air out of his lungs. “It’s an old country. It fell before my time.”

“You called me Dianxia,” Xie Lian pointed out, tilting his head like a hunting bird.

Wu Ming paused. “I did. Do you… not like it?”

“No, it’s nice,” Xie Lian said. “It’s familiar, when you say it. You actually mean it.”

Wu Ming smiled, slightly. Of course he meant it. Did no one else show his god the affection and admiration he was due? He shoved down the outrage at the thought. “Do your subjects not show you deference?”

“Oh, they do,” Xie Lian said. “But they fear me, more than anything. Do you fear me, Wu Ming?”

Did he? No. Not fear. Something else curled deep in the pit of his belly, but it wasn’t fear. “Dianxia is kind. What is there for this Wu Ming to fear? Even if Dianxia dispersed this servant, what would he have to complain about?”

A shadow flickered over Xie Lian’s face. Gone in an instant, but Wu Ming wanted it back. He wanted to know all his god’s burdens, so he might carry them for him. Xie Lian smiled, tinged with sadness. “Wu Ming. Why do you call me Dianxia?”

Wu Ming paused. “…Because you’re my God.”

“And who am I?” Xie Lian asked. He was leading them somewhere, but Wu Ming couldn’t know where. He grasped at the frayed threads of his memories, but the sharp edge of everything before dropped down into complete darkness. He bit back his disappointment, the swirling rage that never seemed to abate.

“You’re Xie Lian, Golden Mask Guards Flower. The Crown Prince of… Xianle…” he trailed off. The puzzle was connected, but the pieces were still carefully blank. He cursed, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. Swiftly, gentle hands took his wrists, tugging them away from his face.

“Come,” Xie Lian said. “It’s late. If you don’t mind sharing, we can lay down while we talk.”

Xie Lian led him over to the little mat in the corner. It was a rickety thing, covered in dust and cast-off scraps. Wu Ming sat down gratefully, careful not to put too much weight on the woven bamboo. It was rather prickly, poor thing. He’d have to make his god a new one.

“The Crown Prince of Xianle,” Xie Lian said, brushing the dust from the mat. He nodded to himself as he finished, then turned, pulling Wu Ming down onto the mat. They settled like they did in the cart, Wu Ming draped over his god’s lap and nestled into his chest. “He ascended three times. First as a martial god, then a god of plagues, and finally a god of scraps. It’s said he watches over his followers diligently, protecting them with his life. He hasn’t been to the heavens in… a very long time.”

“How long, gege?” he asked, leaning into Xie Lian’s hold.

Xie Lian hummed, adjusting to wrap his arms around Wu Ming. “Before his third ascension? He hadn’t been to the Heaven’s in almost eight hundred years.”

“Heaven’s overrated,” Wu Ming said immediately. “Gege surely has no need for that trash.”

“I agree,” Xie Lian laughed. “Heaven took his beloved from him and refused to save his most devoted believer. He doesn’t have many friends in the Heavens. Most of his believers are ghosts, anyways, and outside of Heaven’s domain.”

Wu Ming stopped. Heaven hadn’t taken his most devoted believer from him. Wu Ming had. Maybe… did Xie Lian not know the hand Wu Ming had played in killing his last believer?

How could he not know?

Or maybe he was counting Wu Ming as a part of the Heavens. But… that didn’t explain why he would call him beloved, if he did know.

“Heaven doesn’t deserve him,” he said carefully. “You said before his third ascension. When did he ascend the last time?”

“Ah, very recently,” Xie Lian said. He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It was much by accident, but he discovered a treasure he had been looking for… for a very long time. The very treasure he abandoned Heaven to search for, in fact. When he first caught sight of his treasure, he immediately ascended to Heaven before he could take hold of it.”

“Did he find his treasure again?”

“Oh, yes,” Xie Lian said. “It took him a while. He had a mess to clean up in Heaven. His ascension was… ah. Not very pretty.”

Wu Ming laughed. “What did he destroy?”

“A little bit of everything.” Xie Lian rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “He blew a thousand-year-old bell of its stand that landed on the Martial God Xuan Zhen, and the tremors of his ascension knocked down many golden palaces. Heaven had to construct a temporary shelter for all the gods whose homes he destroyed.”

Wu Ming burst out laughing. He ducked down, hiding his face in the fall of his hair, but he couldn’t stop the mirth that bubbled up in him. “Ah, gege, if only I could have seen that! Those trash should be thanking gege for improving the scenery.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Xie Lain said. He brought a hand up, dragging it through Wu Ming’s bangs to free his face. “Ah, don’t hide from me, Wu Ming, I like to see your face.”

“Ah, do you?” he asked, breathing through the last of his laughter. “Gege can look at this one’s face whenever he likes.”

Xie Lian smiled. His face was gentle and kind, and Wu Ming wanted nothing more than to bury him in offerings. “Good. Now, he’s the Crown Prince of Xianle. And… you don’t know much about the old country.”

Wu Ming nodded hesitantly. That same, odd look crossed Xie Lian’s face. He looked… heavy. Distraught.

Wu Ming didn’t know how to fix it.

“Xianle was a great country in the Central Plains. They were happy and peaceful for many years, and the Crown Prince was their pride and joy. He was young, and naïve, and he only wanted to save the common people…” Xie Lian trailed off, a distant look in his eye. “He had a saying. Body in the abyss, heart in paradise. He ascended at quite the young age, brought to Heaven by the Heavenly Emperor himself.”

Wu Ming startled. His god had been favored by Jun Wu? No wonder the emperor had cursed him so. If it were Wu Ming, he wouldn’t let the killer of his favored god’s most devoted believer go on living.

“Soon after his ascension, though, Xianle fell into chaos,” he continued. “There was a famine, which led to war, which led to an outbreak of The Human Face Disease. A plague. Those three things ruined Xianle, and no matter how the Crown Prince tried, he couldn’t save his people. Not from Bai Wuxiang.”

Bai Wuxiang. Again.

Wu Ming’s heart squeezed in his chest at the mention of the calamity.

“The Crown Prince was cast from Heaven for meddling in human affairs. The people of Xianle blamed him for their suffering, burned his shrines and toppled his statues. He lost… everything. Eventually… eventually even his friends left. They ascended to Heaven, becoming Martial God’s in their own right.”

Xuen Zhen and Ju Yang. The only other two gods from Xianle.

They had abandoned his god? They had left him to rot, while they grabbed power and prestige for themselves? Heat bubbled deep in his gut, churning with white hot rage that choked the breath from his lungs.

How dare they ascend while stepping on the back of his god. How dare they live eight hundred years in Heaven while his god had been carving out a place for himself in the mortal realm. While his god had died.

He clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“San Lang?” Xie Lian asked. “Are you okay?”

Wu Ming forced a smile. “Of course, gege, why do you ask?”

Xie Lian shot him a strange look. Ah. He wasn’t as subtle as he’d thought. “There’s no need for you to be mad. The Crown Prince and his friends have long since worked everything out. They didn’t mean to abandon him, they just… couldn’t stick by the man he was becoming.”

“What does that mean?” Wu Ming asked. “They still abandoned him. That’s… that’s unforgivable.”

Xie Lian smiled sadly. “Ah, Wu Ming… not many things are unforgivable. Especially— well. The Crown Prince wasn’t exactly pleasant to be around. After the fall of Xianle, he went back on almost all of his cultivation vows. Stealing, murdering, cruelty…”

Wu Ming frowned. Of course, Xie Lian would say that. He was endlessly kind. Wu Ming could hold the grudge for him, though. That was okay. Even if Xie Lian had become the cruelest person in existence, even if he’d fallen to the depths of depravity, Wu Ming would still follow him. Wu Ming would not abandon him.

“In fact, his second ascension was on the back of the death of his most devoted believer,” Xie Lian said. “His last believer died for him, taking a blow that was meant to kill the Crown Prince. It… it should have.”

Oh, gods. Had Wu Ming tried to kill his own god?

No. there was no way. There was no way Wu Ming had tried to strike down his god. Wu Ming would rather die. He’d rather have his ashes dispersed and never have the chance to exist again than hurt his beloved.

“Who—” Wu Ming choked out, voice cracking down the middle. “Who tried to kill the Crown Prince, that his believer took that blow?”

Xie Lian paused. “The Crown Prince tried to kill himself. He— he was planning on releasing a swath of resentful spirits on the people of Yong’an, who the people of Xianle had gone to war with. He… his believer had faith that he wouldn’t, until the very end. The Crown Prince was pushed to releasing the spirits by Bai Wuxiang, but he called the spirits to himself rather than have them attack the people of Yong’an. Before they could strike him, though, his most devoted believer called them to himself. They ripped him to shreds.”

Oh. That— didn’t make sense. “… you said Heaven refused to save his most devoted believer.”

“Ah, they did.” Xie Lian turned away, staring up at the ceiling. “The Heavenly Emperor came down to battle the White Clothed-Calamity, and won, but not before Bai Wuxiang forced the Crown Prince to release the spirits. When his believer called the spirits to himself, the Crown Prince begged the emperor to save him. He refused.”

Wu Ming choked. That… Jun Wu had never told him that. “Jun Wu let your most devoted believer die?”

Xie Lian nodded. They sat in stilted silence for a long moment. Outside, the air howled as the ghosts passed by, the ghost festival in full swing. From Xie Lian’s words, there was no room for him in the story. But then… he shouldn’t have been surprised that Jun Wu lied to him. He rubbed a thumb over the ice-cold indents of the cursed shackle, dragging a thumbnail across the faint ridges. The truth trapped inside.

“Jun Wu,” Xie Lian said slowly. “You trust him?”

Wu Ming snorted. “Of course I don’t trust him. He’s the one who gave me this.”

Xie Lian’s eyes narrowed as Wu Ming tilted his head back, exposing the cursed shackle winding around his throat. After eight-hundred-years the weight of it was negligible, but he could feel the gaps in his memories like a missing tooth. Constant and bloody.

“So why do you do his bidding, San Lang?”

“Bidding is a strong word, gege,” Wu Ming said. “I… want to help, and Jun Wu only sends me on the missions that no other Heavenly Official can handle.”

“With no help and no spiritual power,” he said lowly. He reached up, brushing gentle fingers over the collar branded to Wu Ming’s skin. It always appeared, no matter how he changed his form. Xie Lian’s touch burned against the biting chill of the shackle, warming Wu Ming from the inside out. “That doesn’t sound like an Emperor I’d be willing to follow.”

“He’s a miserable old fool,” Wu Ming said, pushing forward into Xie Lian’s hands. “The more missions I go on, the more spiritual energy I’ll be able to collect. Eventually I’ll have enough to break free.”

“What did you do to get it?” Xie Lian asked after a moment, cupping the side of Wu Ming’s neck with his broad, warm palm. Wu Ming shuddered at the feeling. No one had touched him in… ever. He’d never known such kindness.

“I attacked him,” he said, closing his eyes against whatever face Xie Lian might be making. “I destroyed half of Heaven and killed my beloved in the process.”

“Why?” Xie Lian asked, voice strangely tight. Wu Ming wanted to look, but he couldn’t bear to see the disgust on Xie Lian’s face. The rejection.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The shackle… that was part of my punishment. To forget. I’m told I went mad.”

“You don’t seem very mad to me.” Xie Lian moved to cup his face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over the curve of his cheeks. “Will you look at me, San Lang?”

Wu Ming opened his eyes. He would never deny Xie Lian anything. Xie Lian looked… sad, though. More than sad. Devastated.

“Gege, no, don’t be upset,” he exclaimed, lurching forward to hold Xie Lian’s elbows. “This lowly one deserved it. You don’t have to be upset.”

“Deserved it?” Xie Lian asked, anger curling through his voice. “What could San Lang have done to forget his beloved?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. A familiar refrain. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“San Lang,” Xie Lian said, insistent and forceful. “Listen to me. What do you know about what you did?”

Wu Ming frowned. “My beloved was a god. When I ascended, or… shortly before, I’m not sure, I… I killed his last and most devoted believer, cursing him to a mortal death. Jun Wu couldn’t allow a god-killer into Heaven, so I was cast back down almost immediately.”

Qi crackled around them. The tips of Xie Lian’s hair sparked where they touched the rough straw mat. Heat and ozone touched his nose, sharp in the cool autumn air.

“They told you that,” he said, hands tight around Wu Ming’s face. They didn’t hurt, though. Even when his power sparked and crackled, his touch didn’t hurt. “They told you that you killed your god’s last believer, and that was why you were banished?”

Wu Ming nodded. The anger was… refreshing. No one had been angry for him in… ever. It was only ever just him and the rage he kindled every day. To hear Xie Lian be angry on his behalf… Didn’t make sense. Though, a lot didn’t make sense. Apparently, Jun Wu was more of an asshole than Wu Ming originally thought.

Xie Lian squinted at him before shaking his head roughly. “You— how much do you actually remember?”

“Nothing,” Wu Ming said. “My earliest memory is Ling Wen walking me through Heaven, explaining the terms of my banishment.”

“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said, leaning in to press their foreheads together. Their noses brushed, soft and gentle as Xie Lian’s breath fanned over the lower half of Wu Ming’s face. His cheeks heated, ears burning, and he couldn’t look away. “I… I can break your shackle.”

Wu Ming stopped. “What?”

“Shackles are easily broken,” Xie Lian said, smiling a self-deprecating smile that Wu Ming wanted to wipe off his face immediately. His god should only smile with joy. Not the self-loathing that emanated from every pore. “If you know how to do it, that is.”

“Will it hurt Dianxia?” he asked. He wanted the shackle gone more than anything, more than life, but not if it came at the expense of his god. He would toil another thousand years if he could spare Xie Lian even an ounce of pain.

“No, Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said, that smile fading into something kinder. Something familiar. “It’s just a trade of spiritual energy. I have enough, more than enough.”

“Please,” Wu Ming said, and he couldn’t get the word out fast enough. “Dianxia, please, I want to remember. I want to remember you.”

Xie Lian looked at him for a long moment. The shadow was back, passing through his eyes and the pinch of his mouth. He was sad, and angry, and there were so many other emotions hidden just under the surface that Wu Ming couldn’t name them all. “…Alright.”

Gently, he shifted Wu Ming until they were facing each other, Xie Lian kneeling up to tower a head over Wu Ming. His hands cupped Wu Ming’s face, warm and gentle and sword calloused. He tilted Wu Ming’s head back, staring down at him with… something burning in his gold eyes. It felt like hunger.

“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said, brushing his thumb over Wu Ming’s cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

Wu Ming’s breath caught. Oh.

Oh.

“Please,” he breathed, hands coming up to clench in the elegant drape of Xie Lian’s sleeves. Xie Lian leaned in, slow enough that Wu Ming had every chance to pull away. He didn’t want to. He wouldn’t dream of it. Xie Lian paused a hairs breadth away, the heat of his breath ghosting over Wu Ming’s face. Wu Ming tilted his head, his lips brushing against Xie Lian’s as he murmured, “husband.”

The kiss was… everything. Just a soft touch of lips, at first, but butterflies sparkled in Wu Ming’s gut, and he’d never been so lucky. At the first touch of Xie Lian’s spiritual energy, he gasped, and Xie Lian took it as an invitation.

It was.

The kiss was deep. Xie Lian’s mouth moved against his in slow, methodic movements. The soft, dry rasp of their lips brushing across the other filled his ears, punctuated by the wet smack of them separating. Spiritual energy filled him. Buzzing, buzzing, he’d never felt so alive. Xie Lian cupped his face, pulling him up and in as he took his fill.

He pressed deeper, harder. The sting of teeth dragging over Wu Ming’s lower lip sent lightning down his spine, and he moaned into the kiss. He immediately froze, gut curdling as his ears burned and his throat closed up. Xie Lian pulled back slightly, face hot and red, but whatever he saw in Wu Ming’s expression sent him lunging forward.

His back hit the straw mat. Xie Lian bore down, tilting his head to lock their lips in at an angle. Soft, wet, his god’s tongue trailed along the seam of his lips, and he could do nothing except open up for him. He gave as good as he got, despite the clumsiness of inexperience. As Xie Lian pulled back to take a breath, Wu Ming swiped his tongue along his god’s lower lip, pulling him in, in, in to lick into his mouth.

Xie Lian huffed a laugh. His hands urged Wu Ming to tilt his head, and there was a tongue pressing hot and heavy against his. There and gone again, they moved in waves as Xie Lian licked into his mouth.

It was hot. So hot. Wu Ming was panting, clutching at his god’s shoulders, his hair, anywhere he could reach to pull him in closer. Xie Lian was solid, though. Unmoving. He held himself over Wu Ming, weight braced on his knees as he pressed Wu Ming down into the mat.

“Gege,” he moaned, punch-drunk and floating on the sheer excess of spiritual energy flooding his veins. He let Xie Lian lead him, guide him, anywhere the god wanted. Maybe someday he’d like to take control, to show his god the pleasure of giving in, but now…

The kiss trailed on, spiritual energy flooding Wu Ming’s veins. It was light, electric, everything that the stolen qi from dispersed ghosts wasn’t. He moaned into Xie Lian’s mouth, hooking his arms over his god’s shoulders to pull him in further. Xie Lian smiled against him, and shifted. His hands were scalding against Wu Ming’s waist where he grabbed, moving Wu Ming where he wanted him. That, apparently, was directly under Xie Lian, his thighs spread around his god’s hips with his ankles crossed behind his back.

It felt good. More than good, it was incandescent. He tugged Xie Lian in further, tightening his limbs to keep them pressed together from hips to mouth. The flow of spiritual energy hadn’t slowed, but was reaching a peak. Wu Ming could feel it. It surged within him with every slow press of Xie Lian’s tongue in his mouth, with every slick slide of their lips.

“Dianxia,” he gasped, breath coming quicker as the spiritual energy crested. With one final press of his lips, deep and hard enough to ache, something shattered. Wu Ming stopped breathing, surging up to kiss his god harder as the shackle dissolved and his memories flooded back into his mind.

Chapter Text

A cursed child. A cursed eye. He wandered the festival, broken and beaten and bloody. Rage tainted his every breath. Rage at the commoners celebrating in the streets, rage at the royals putting on such a lavish show, rage at the Heavens for cursing him with such an existence. He climbed the balcony one step at a time, ducking low to avoid the rush and bustle of the trash surrounding him.

An auspicious day. He’d make sure they remembered it. He’d make sure they were as cursed as he was. What had they ever done for him? His mother, dead. His father and stepmother were cruel, throwing him out of the house to fight the dogs for scraps. Every other piece of trash in the country had only ever sneered at him, beating him within an inch of his life whenever they caught a glimpse of his eye.

Monster.

A flash of gold. He stared down at the man—no, the god—on the main stage. In resplendent robes and glittering with gold and jewels, he could only be the Crown Prince. Hong Hong’er had heard of the Crown Prince before. Everyone had. But to see him…

He tipped forward, trying to get a better look, and his foot slipped. Or maybe he was shoved. Free air met him, and he tumbled over the railing with a shout. The air rushed through his ears, sharp and howling as his gut lodged itself in his throat. Falling, falling, the sky filled his view as he braced to hit the ground.

Hands, gentle and clever. A strong body cradled him, tucking him into a lean chest as Hong-Hong’er stared up at a golden mask. Jasmin and peony carved from precious jewels tinkled in the god’s hair, making him glow in the midday sun. The mask slipped from his face, and Hong-Hong’er stared up at the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.

~~~~

A battlefield, raging and bloody. He couldn’t feel his legs. His back screamed at him, a pulsing ache where arrows had shattered his spine. What burned more was the rage. The injustice. The shouts and screams of the dying echoed through his ears, the people of Xianle slaughtered by those of Yong’an.

Blood flooded into his throat. He gagged, scrabbling at the dirt as he choked. The blood splattered across the ground as he hacked, muscles seizing around the arrows lodged in his spine. A whine caught behind his teeth and he pressed his forehead to the bloody mud.

A breath, two. The whining in his ears pitched up, blocking out the sounds of battle. He could feel the heat of the battlefield, though. Could smell the fires that had been set and the bodies caught in them. Smoke hung thick and dark in the air, blotting out the midday sun. Just ahead, a Xianle man hit the ground, his throat torn open by a bloody Yong’an sword. He stared, sightless, up at the sky as his useless heart pumped his blood straight into the grass.

Amidst all that, a flower. Glowing white, he reached a trembling hand towards it. It was beautiful. There was blood on the petals, though. Staining it. Marring it. Probably his, but it was hard to tell.

He brushed a hand over the petals. They trembled under his shaking fingers, and he choked on a sob.

No. No. He couldn’t die. Not when Dianxia was still alive. Not when he was still fighting, leading their army to save their home. His god was so beautiful, a glowing presence on the battlefield as he danced through killing blows. He had to save him.

He had to, he had to, he had to.

He screamed his rage into the dirt, but the sound caught on the blood filling his throat. Useless, useless, a cursed child dying pathetically in the middle of a war. He hadn’t even saved his god. He hadn’t fulfilled his purpose. He couldn’t even scream.

~~~~

He came to life screaming. Or… death. His form was powerful. Strong and tall in the way his human body never was. He could feel the power swirling within him, spurred on by the rage that had tethered his soul to this plain as a little Ghost Fire.

He’d begged his god to leave. To save himself. To not go into the temple. The people within surged, burning alive as the force of his rage kindled into an inferno. They screamed as the flames ate them alive. Begging echoed around the temple, men and women and children choking on smoke as the blaze fed on their skin and clothes and hair.

Good. Let them burn.

He collapsed at the foot of the altar. His God wasn’t screaming anymore. His god wasn’t doing much of anything. Blood dripped onto the pale stone floors. He screamed for him, louder than the dying cries of the mortals. His rage coiled higher, burning hotter, and he pressed his face into the bloody tile.

Bai Wuxiang. The White-Clothed Calamity and the people of Yong’an. Bai Wuxiang had stood behind him, laughing as his god was tortured. Stabbed and pierced over and over again, cursed not to die even as his body was mutilated beyond recognition.

They would pay. He would make them pay.

~~~~

A second White No-Face. His god, raging and seething and hurting. The good, kind, gracious god he’d fallen in love with could only be seen in bits and pieces, hidden behind a half-smiling half-crying mask and bitter words. His god was angry. He was too. His god wanted to kill the King of Yong’an. He burned down their palace. His god wanted to release the vengeful spirits onto the people of Yong’an. He…

He would do it. He would dirty his hands, so his god wouldn’t have to. The Flower Crowned Martial God was kind and loving. Wu Ming knew, deep in the dead, rotten core of him, that his god would come to regret killing the people of Yong’an. He was too kind not to. Despite all of the rage that Dianxia screamed against the world, Wu Ming knew who he was deep inside.

He wasn’t a murderer. He’d never forgive himself, if he became the person Bai Wuxiang was molding him into. But if Wu Ming released the spirits, he could take the hatred and the anger and the blame. He would gladly shoulder his god’s rage, as long as it spared his god regret. He was strong enough to bear it.

Dianxia was angry. He was cruel. Wu Ming bore it gladly. He worshiped, even when Dianxia told him to stop. He brought offerings, though they were trampled underfoot more often than not. He bowed low, hiding his cursed eye behind a smiling mask and wicked, black armor.

He was strong. He was powerful. The people of Yong’an shied away from him, from the saber strapped to his side that he rarely used. Good. They should be scared of him, of them. Cruel as they were, living off the misfortune of his god. Soon, though, Dianxia’s revenge would be complete, and he would protect his god this time. With his life, if it came down to it.

To die for him was his greatest honor.

~~~~

Bai Wuxiang, again. Dianxia had been gone for three days, leaving Wu Ming along in the burned down temple in Lang’er Bay. Shouting had drawn him from the small piece of wood he was carving into a statue, rough and ugly and an embarrassment to his god. He abandoned his project, racing outside to see Xie Lian—maskless and angry—fighting Bai Wuxiang.

His god was strong, but he was still shackled. He was still trapped by the bounds of mortality. The battle raged on, Bai Wuxiang toying with his god. Playing with him. Wu Ming swallowed down his rage. He would only hinder his god if he tried to intervene, his Wrath level power worthless in the face of a Calamity.

A flash of light, and Bai Wuxian and Xie Lian were shoved apart. A stranger stood in between them. He was tall, with gems draped over his forehead and furs covering his shoulders. A sword was sheathed at his side, but he made no move to draw it.

Jun Wu.

There was no mistaking the spiritual energy that fell from him in waves. Wu Ming had never seen the Heavenly Emperor before. He’d never cared to. The only god he would ever worship was Xie Lian. Still, there was no questioning the strength of the Heavenly Emperor. The sheer power radiating off of him burned Wu Ming to the core.

Still, all that power, and it wasn’t enough. Bai Wuxiang slipped free of his grasp like oil in water, slamming Xie Lian to the ground. Wu Ming couldn’t see his face, couldn’t hear his voice, but as the spirits flowed out of Xie Lian’s sleeve, screams filling the air, his gut dropped.

They surged towards Xie Lian, a dark cloud of anger and hatred that would burrow into his body, tearing him to shreds from the inside out.

No.

Not again.

He took the bejeweled sword. It sat wrong in his hand. The resentment pulsed around it, calling the spirits to him. He was strong, the strongest ghost to come out of the Xianle battlefields, but the wrath of hundreds of spirits ate through his power like wet tissue.

To die for him was his greatest honor.

The spirits were angry. Vicious, tearing, they slammed into Wu Ming with the force of a cyclone. They ripped into him, and he let them. The pain was worse than the beatings of his childhood, worse than the arrows that had killed him, worse than the rage that kept him tethered to the mortal realm.

He died screaming.

~~~~

He didn’t expect to open his eyes again, but that kindled rage still burned in his gut. He was weak, shaking, sequestered in a closed off cavern deep within Mount Tonglu. It was dark, and the air was filled with screams. Pain or anger or sorrow, it didn’t matter. They all sounded the same. He sank to his knees in the cavern, letting out a shaking breath.

He had done it. He had saved his god.

He pulled himself up, drawn deeper into the mountain by an urge he couldn’t name. It wasn’t his own, but it wasn’t malicious, either. He met ghosts of all shapes and sizes, all wrathful and powerful. They all fell to his claws, to his teeth, to the saber that his god had once recommended he learn.

Then, people. Innocents. Humans. They were huddled near the mouth of the volcano, ghosts herding them towards the lava. The mountain required sacrifice. Bloody and lifeless, she ate it up and gave power in return. The ghosts hoped to quench their blades in blood, to get a spiritual weapon that would catapult them into greatness.

Wu Ming cut through them all. His god would have saved the humans. His god, before he was torn to shreds by human cruelty, was unfailingly kind. Wu Ming could try, for him. The ghosts died easily. He looked out over the trapped humans, each and every one of them flinching away from his gaze.

From his cursed eye.

He could sacrifice one of them. One… wouldn’t be missed. The mountain would thank him, even. But… no. Dianxia would never forgive him. Wu Ming could never do anything that might anger his god. True anger. Not the façade he pulled over his hurt like a mask. When Wu Ming clawed his way out of the kiln, he wanted to be able to look his god in the eye.

But Wu Ming had something he could stand to lose.

Blood spilled hot down his face as he carved out his cursed eye. The mountain lapped it up gratefully. In thanks, she gave him a saber. A living saber, tied to him so intricately there was no separating them. His cursed eye rolled in the hilt, quivering as more ghosts piled into the cavern.

They died easier than the last bunch.

A flash of light, and his worn-out body slipped through the realms like water. He landed in the center of a gold pavilion, the ground trembling under his feet. The cursed eye of his saber flitted around, taking in the shocked faces surrounding him.

Heaven was beautiful, and his god was not there.

~~~~

Wu Ming tore himself away from Xie Lian.

“Gege,” Wu Ming begged, blood spilling from his mouth as he pressed his forehead to the mat. No kowtow could be low enough. No supplication enough to make up for his sins. “Dianxia. This lowly servant deserves death, Dianxia, I—”

“Wu Ming!” Xie Lian cried. He pulled at Wu Ming’s arms, dragging him up out of his kowtow, but he still hung his head in deference. He wouldn’t look at Xie Lian. He wouldn’t dirty him with his gaze. “Wu Ming, stop that.”

“This servant forgot you,” he sobbed, tugging at his arms in vain. Xie Lian just held him closer, pulling him in until he was curled up in Xie Lian’s lap. A familiar position, but not one he deserved. He held himself away, curling into himself as he choked on breath he didn’t need. “I forgot, I forgot, I forgot.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Xie Lian said firmly. But… no. No. His god was wrong, wrong, wrong. He hadn’t been strong enough to stand up to Jun Wu. He’d demanded to know where Xie Lian was, and the emperor had laughed, and…

And Wu Ming had fought him and lost. His battered and broken soul had barely lasted a moment against the Heavenly Emperor. It was embarrassing. Pathetic. The shackle was his punishment for striking The Emperor, but it was more than that. The emperor had looked hungry, when he’d cursed Wu Ming.

Excited.

There was no way the Heavenly Emperor didn’t know who he was. Not when he’d been there mere weeks before when Wu Ming had been dispersed. He’d looked directly at him. He’d seen.

The Heavenly Emperor had refused to save his most devoted believer, Xie Lian had said. And he’d ascended right after, for the second time. To die for Xie Lian was his greatest honor, and finally, finally, his death had meant something. His death had broken Xie Lian’s shackles, sent him to Heaven to be worshiped and revered.

His most devoted believer.

How dare he call himself Xie Lian’s most devoted believer when he’d forgotten him.

He choked on his own disgust, scrambling for the qiankun pouch he kept on his hip. All of his most precious belongings kept in one place. E-Ming, the red pearl, the umbrella, the brocade pouch with their intertwined locks of hair, and a small, insignificant ring on a silver chain. He pulled the ring out, shoving it towards Xie Lian with shaking hands.

“Dianxia,” he begged, not looking up at his god. How could he? He wasn’t worthy to even stand in his god’s presence, much less speak to him. Much less look at him. “Dianxia, please, dispurse this traitorous servant. He— he is not worthy of serving you.”

“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said, sounding like he’d been punched. Careful hands took the little ring of ashes, easing them out of Wu Ming’s grip with a gentleness that made him ache. “Why?”

“I swore to devote my life to Dianxia,” he said, pulling back to stare at Xie Lian. To try and get him to understand. “And what has this disgusting, ungrateful servant been doing for eight hundred years?”

“You’ve been trying to get your memories back,” Xie Lian said. He stared down at the ashes in his hands, before draping the chain over his neck. The ashes… looked good, hanging on his god’s chest. The most treasured place for them to be. “Wu Ming, you’ve spent eight hundred years trying to remember me.”

“But I failed,” he said, tears streaming down his face. He buried his face in his hands, ducking down to press his forehead against his own knees. “I failed you.”

“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said, even more serious. “Look at me.”

Wu Ming did. Xie Lian didn’t look angry. Not the anger he was used to, anyways. But he certainly looked… displeased. He took Wu Ming’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down his cheeks.

“No one is allowed to kill my Wu Ming. Do you understand me?” At Wu Ming’s hesitant nod, he frowned. “Not even you. I don’t want to hear you beg for death again. Ever.”

“Dianxia—” he started, pulling back.

“No,” Xie Lian snapped, wrapping a strong hand around the back of his neck. “Wu Ming is this one’s most devoted believer. Wu Ming is precious to me. I have spent eight hundred years looking for my Wu Ming, and no one is allowed to take him away from me again.”

Wu Ming stopped fighting. He melted into Xie Lian’s grip, butterflies swarming in the pit of his stomach. Darkness cradled him as he closed his eyes, spiritual energy chasing away the ache of tears. Carefully, Xie Lian tucked him into the curve of his neck, rolling them to lay on the mat with Wu Ming sprawled over his chest.

They breathed together. Wu Ming didn’t need to, of course, but matching his god’s breath was… everything. He curled his hands into the familiar funeral garb that Xie Lian still hadn’t taken off, rubbing the soft linens between his fingers. Back then, he’d ached to touch. Just the brush of the hem of his god’s robe would have been enough.

“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said after what seemed like a shichen. Wu Ming hummed, pressing his palm flat against Xie Lian’s chest to feel the heavy thrum of his heart. “I’ve missed you.”

Wu Ming paused. Xie Lian… had been looking for him. For eight hundred years, he’d searched. For Wu Ming. The knowledge sank like a brick in his stomach, dragging him down until he was gasping for breath.

“… Wu Ming?” Xie Lian asked, pulling back enough for the cold autumn night to sink in between them.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said too quickly. “Every moment, I missed you.”

Xie Lian raised his eyebrows. “You did? Even when Jun Wu stole your memories?”

Wu Ming nodded, pulling back to take in Xie Lian’s face. His eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks flush and mouth swollen. “There was always something missing. Even if I couldn’t remember, you have always been my god. My purpose.”

“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said, voice shaking. He wrapped his arms around Wu Ming, pulling him into a bone crushing hug. Wu Ming melted into it, slowly trailing his hands along his god’s waist to pull him even closer.

“I missed you,” he said again, slower. “Even when I didn’t know what to miss.”

Xie Lian leaned in, catching his mouth in a hard kiss. He tasted of salt, tears wetting their lips even as Xie Lian started laughing. They kissed through his laughter, the sound buzzing through Wu Ming’s chest. The funeral garb wrinkled under his fist, held tight to keep Xie Lian as close as he could.

He would tie them together for eternity. Wherever Xie Lian went, Wu Ming would gladly follow. Separation, any separation, was unacceptable. Not when his heart and soul was walking around outside his body.

He kissed his god deeper, tilting his head to seal their mouths together. Xie Lian made a noise, soft and surprised, and flicked his tongue across Wu Ming’s lower lip. He trembled at the touch.

Xie Lian moaned, rolling them so Wu Ming was flat on his back. He pressed down, covering Wu Ming’s body entirely with his own. It was good, heady, the weight of him pinning Wu Ming down into his body as Xie Lian kissed him again and again and again. Time smeared sideways. They were too busy kissing, until Wu Ming would feel it in his fingers, and his toes, and the very top of his head.

“Ah, Wu Ming, Wu Ming,” Xie Lian said, nudging Wu Ming’s nose with his own. “My husband. My pretty little wife. I missed you. I missed you. I missed you.”

He peppered kisses across Wu Ming’s face with every sentence. The curve of his temple, the space between his eyebrows, the soft give of his cheek, Xie Lian left no space unkissed. Wu Ming laughed at his antics, a pleased flush rising to his face.

“Dianxia,” he said, smiling so wide he could hardly bear it. “Husband.”

“Husband,” Xie Lian echoed, leaning back to take him in. He was beautiful in the low light of the candle. Well, he was beautiful always, but especially with his hair mussed and falling over his shoulders as he loomed above Wu Ming. “This one has a request.”

“Anything,” Wu Ming said, hardly having to think. Anything that was his was his god’s.

Xie Lian huffed a laugh, shaking his head. He sat back on his haunches, pulling Wu Ming up to sit as well. “Ah, Wu Ming, hear me out first.”

Wu Ming just smiled.

“I… love your forms,” Xie Lian said hesitantly, brushing his fingers through Wu Ming’s hair. “Xiao Hua, San Lang, you’re always very pretty. But…”

Wu Ming’s stomach dropped. He’d said anything, and he’d meant it, but he hadn’t thought that Xie Lian would ask to see his face. Even without the cursed eye, his face was ugly. Monstrous.

Xie Lian took a steadying breath, looking at him with so much kindness Wu Ming wanted to burst. “I would like to see your true face, if that’s okay. I never got to see it… before.”

Wu Ming cleared his throat. He couldn’t find the words. Eight hundred years of studying scholars and philosophers across the kingdoms, and his throat seized the minute he was asked something difficult.

“You don’t have to,” Xie Lian said gently. “Not if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not…” he said, turning away in frustration. “What if my true face was monstrous? What if I was horrible, and terrible, and ugly?”

“That doesn’t matter to me,” Xie Lian said. He took Wu Ming’s hands in his own, playing with the soft length of his fingers. He’d put a lot of work into the lines of his palm and the swirls of his fingers. Xie Lian hummed appreciatively, tracing the creases of his knuckled with a gentle finger. “Whatever you look like — if you have horns, or tusks, or, or, or scales — it doesn’t matter to me. You’re still Wu Ming. You’re kind to me. That’s all that matters.”

Wu Ming squeezed his eyes shut.

“I— alright.” Within one moment and the next, the rich young master had melted away, revealing the shitty little guttersnipe who was more rage than flesh. He stared down at his hands. Still long and strong but calloused by sword work and manual labor. A soldier’s hands, rough and worn.

This form was familiar to him. His skin, in the way his other forms weren’t. Even when he hated to see himself in it. Small, ugly, and rotten. He was just a few centimeters shorter than his San Lang form, but he had the narrow shoulders and waist of the malnourished. Strong with muscle but pared down to just muscle in a way that was dangerous, had he been alive. His ribs poked through his stomach no matter how much he ate, the knobs of his spine sharp.

The wounds of his death and dispersement clung to his skin in thick, gnarled scar tissue. Barely noticeable given the near transparent paleness of his skin but tight with every movement. He could trace them with his eyes closed, led solely by the phantom ache and remembered agony. Most of that was covered by the black robes that he had as Xie Lian’s ghost, made and remade over eight hundred years.

The worst ugliness though, was his face. Uncovered, now, to the judgement of his god.

“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian breathed. Careful hands pressed against his jaw that was still soft with childhood, tilting his face up for Xie Lian’s purview. Wu Ming saw the moment Xie Lian took in his eye. The gaping black mess of scar tissue, the lid deflated and concave. He hadn’t been careful in his fit of madness. It was disgusting, even after carving the curse from his flesh. “I love you.”

Butterflies swarmed in his stomach. He stared at his god, eye wide and shining with tears he refused to let fall. The urge to pull back, to prostrate himself was bone deep and instinctual, carved into his soul. Xie Lian didn’t let him, though, holding his face steady. Forcing Wu Ming to meet his gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” Xie Lian continued, like he hadn’t just… “I’m so happy to have married you, Wu Ming. So happy to have found you. It’s such a simple thing, isn’t it? To be happy?”

Wu Ming nodded numbly. He tried to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, heavy and dull with his shock. “… I love you, too.”

Xie Lian beamed. The force of it knocked the breath from Wu Ming’s lungs. He gasped, leaning in for a desperate kiss that Xie Lian was only too eager to return.