Work Text:
The air inside the Mount Tonglu caves was suffocating, thick with the scent of damp stone and something far worse—an unnatural, rotting stench that seemed to curl around them like unseen fingers. Feng Xin tightened his grip on his weapon and shot a wary glance at the others. They had been searching for Hua Cheng and Jun Wu for what felt like hours, each passing moment sinking them deeper into the mountain’s oppressive darkness.
Xie Lian was ahead of him, his expression drawn in sharp lines of focus. Mu Qing, as usual, was tense, his clipped words carrying a sharper edge than normal. Something was off. Feng Xin felt it too, but he was too preoccupied with watching for threats to question it.
Then, in a movement so swift it blurred, Xie Lian shot forward and seized Mu Qing’s wrist. There was a brief struggle—a sharp intake of breath, a jerk of resistance—but Xie Lian was relentless. With a decisive yank, he pulled up Mu Qing’s sleeve.
Feng Xin barely had time to register what he was seeing before his own breath hitched. His eyes widened. “What the—?”
A cursed shackle, dark and unyielding, gleamed dully against Mu Qing’s skin.
For a moment, Feng Xin simply stared, his mouth opening and closing without a single word forming. He tried again. “How—? When did—? What the hell is that?!”
Mu Qing exhaled harshly, shaking off Xie Lian’s grip. His voice, when he finally spoke, was tight, clipped—defensive.
“I can explain.”
Feng Xin’s mind was a whirlwind of confusion and distrust. The cursed shackle could only mean one thing—Mu Qing had refused Jun Wu. That much made sense. But the rest? The how, the why, the price? Those were questions without answers.
He wanted to believe Mu Qing. He really did. But after everything, after all the betrayals, hesitation clung to him like a shadow. Mu Qing had always been too careful, too calculating. What if this was another trick? What if Jun Wu had left him just enough rope to slip into their trust and tighten the noose when they least expected it?
Before he could demand more, Xie Lian moved.
Without a word, he took Mu Qing’s wrist again, fingers firm over the cold, unyielding tattoo that must have felt like iron. There was something deliberate in his touch, a certainty that made Feng Xin’s unease sharpen.
Mu Qing flinched. “Xie Lian, what are you doing?”
“It’s alright,” Xie Lian said, too softly, too easily. A lie wrapped in kindness. “Trust me.”
Then he knelt. The blade appeared in his hands before Feng Xin even registered the motion. The moment the steel met his palm, cutting deep, Feng Xin surged forward—but Xie Lian shot him a look, something quiet and steady and utterly unshakable.
“Just a precaution,” Xie Lian murmured, as if that explained anything.
Blood welled from his palm, dark against pale skin. Without hesitation, he caught Mu Qing’s hand and cut him too, ignoring his sharp inhale of pain. Their blood dripped together onto the stone, pooling in fractured lines, seeping into the cavern’s pulse and seemingly drawing a sort of odd array.
Then Xie Lian reached out, pressing his bleeding palm directly against the shackle.
A thin, silvery light curled from his wound, winding like thread through the skin’s engravings. The air shuddered, thick with an unseen weight. Mu Qing’s breath hitched, his whole body locking up.
Feng Xin took a step forward. “Your Highness—”
“Almost done,” Xie Lian said, too gently.
His fingers tightened, his blood seeping into the darkened metal, and then he whispered something. The words were old, older than Feng Xin had ever heard, slipping from his lips like a forgotten prayer. The shackle glowed—then pulsed.
And then, with a sickening snap, the ink unlatched from Mu Qing’s wrist.
Feng Xin barely had time to register relief before he saw it—before he realized what Xie Lian had done.
The shackle hadn’t disappeared.
It had transferred .
With a sharp, searing flash of light, the cursed ink latched onto Xie Lian’s own wrist, burning into place alongside the two he already bore.
Feng Xin’s stomach dropped. Mu Qing staggered back, staring, his newly freed wrist trembling. “Xie Lian—”
But Xie Lian just exhaled, swaying slightly where he knelt, his arm now bearing its third weight of chains. He gave them both a smile, too soft, too weary.
“There,” he murmured, rolling his wrist as if testing the fit. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Feng Xin couldn’t speak.
Mu Qing’s voice came first, hoarse with something raw. “Why—why did you—”
Xie Lian just looked at him, then down at the shackle, running a thumb over the lines like it was nothing more than a trinket. “I couldn’t let you bear it,” he said simply. “I know what it does.”
Feng Xin clenched his fists, anger and something dangerously close to grief burning in his chest. He wanted to shout, to demand why, to shake Xie Lian until he understood that this—this was not something he could just take on.
But Xie Lian only smiled again, distant and serene, and in that moment, Feng Xin knew—he had done it because he had already decided to. Because that was who he was. Because he had long since accepted burdens that were never meant to be his.
And nothing they said would change it.
But Feng Xin saw it happen in real-time—the way Xie Lian stiffened, his breath hitching as if the weight of the new chain was pressing the very air out of his lungs. His fingers twitched once before curling into fists, his entire body trembling from the force of keeping himself upright. Then, without a word, he turned his back to them and crouched down.
His hands tangled into his own hair, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Feng Xin took a hesitant step forward, but Mu Qing moved first. His fingers barely brushed against Xie Lian’s shoulder before—
Flinch.
Xie Lian recoiled like he had been struck, a sharp, involuntary movement that made Mu Qing pull back immediately.
“I’m sorry,” Xie Lian gasped. His voice was thin, fraying at the edges. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just a bit painful for now, I’m sorry.”
Feng Xin’s stomach twisted.
Xie Lian was shaking. Hard. His breath stuttered as if he was trying to fight something down, but then—his resolve snapped.
He bit down on his own hand, hard enough to draw blood. A broken sound slipped from his throat, muffled against his skin. His free hand pressed against the ground, struggling to keep him upright as his body curled in on itself, shaking with barely contained sobs.
And then, in a voice so quiet they almost didn’t catch it—
“C-can you hold me, please?”
Feng Xin and Mu Qing froze.
Mu Qing, stunned, barely managed to stammer out, “H-hold you?”
“Please.”
Xie Lian was openly crying now. His body trembled, sweat beading on his skin, his breath ragged from the pain.
Feng Xin moved before he could think, stepping forward and tentatively wrapping his arms around Xie Lian’s shaking frame. He felt so small like this, so fragile. And when Mu Qing didn’t move, still stunned by the request, Feng Xin shot him a glare—sharp, wordless, move, now.
Mu Qing swallowed thickly and hesitated for only a second before reaching out, his fingers threading gently through Xie Lian’s hair. The moment both of them touched him, Xie Lian all but melted into their hold, his entire body giving up its fight.
Feng Xin looked up, locking eyes with Mu Qing.
Xie Lian was burning up.
His forehead pressed against Feng Xin’s shoulder, his body wracked with quiet shivers. And then—his voice, fragile and fractured—
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” His breath hitched as he whispered, pleaded . “I won’t be angry again. I’ll never be upset again. I promise. I’ll accept everything. Please, please, please, don’t leave me, please… I’m sorry. I’m going mad. I’m sorry…”
Feng Xin froze. Mu Qing stiffened beside him.
The words tumbled from Xie Lian’s lips in a fevered haze, an unconscious confession spilling out between broken sobs. Feng Xin opened his mouth, tried to say something—anything—but the realization hit him first.
And it destroyed him.
His breath caught, his chest tightening with something so raw it made his knees weak. His hands fisted into Xie Lian’s robes, holding on like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
Feng Xin started crying .
“W-what…” Mu Qing’s voice was quiet, uncertain.
Feng Xin squeezed his eyes shut. His voice cracked, heavy with something unbearable.
“Mu Qing.” His throat tightened. “Can you believe we actually left him?”
A violent sob tore through him, shaking his entire body. His grip on Xie Lian tightened, his words tumbling out between gasping breaths.
“He was being tortured night and day, he was in pain b-because of the shackle, he was going crazy because of that fucking monster, and… we—” His voice broke. “We didn’t fucking believe him.”
He choked on the words, his breath an ugly mess of sobs. His voice wavered, cracking as he forced the rest out.
“He was our family as much as we were his and we fucking left him behind for the heavens.”
Mu Qing was silent.
Xie Lian was still shaking in his lap, gripping at his robes, his tears soaking into the fabric. The pain had dulled and he was silent now, the feverish haze settling over him like a heavy fog.
Mu Qing still hadn’t spoken. Feng Xin didn’t care. He kept going.
“He didn’t ask us to stay,” Feng Xin whispered. “He never thought we’d leave .”
He let out a trembling breath, blinking back the tears that blurred his vision. “H-how many times has he thought about this? Begging us to stay in his head while we turned our backs on him?”
His voice cracked again. “He was so young back then. He was only upset. Fuck , he had the right to be upset. To be angry. To scream at us.”
His grip loosened just slightly, his voice shaking.
“He was being haunted , trying to heal his father, trying to escape the Young’an army, trying to feed us all, trying to ascend again… and we were so fucking oblivious to what he was living through.”
Xie Lian shivered violently in their hold and whimpered. Feng Xin rubbed his arms in slow, soothing motions, his voice breaking. “It’s okay, Your Highness. We’re here. We’re not leaving.”
He let out a shaky breath.
Then, his voice came softer. “Look at him now.”
Mu Qing’s eyes flickered down, taking in the way Xie Lian curled into their touch, feverish and trembling, his face turned away.
“It’s just like he said,” Feng Xin continued, his voice hollow. “He’s never angry anymore. Never upset about anything happening to him. He probably felt like nobody would love him if he was.”
His breath shuddered.
“Even now, you’ve only ever told him mean things to his face for months. Always rolling your eyes at everything he does.” He swallowed hard. “And yet, the minute he saw you in pain, he took your goddamn shackle. He knew how much it hurt and couldn’t bear the thought of it happening to you. So he took it. All of it.”
Feng Xin inhaled sharply, his voice breaking. “He’s not angry at you for being reckless and forcing this on him. He’s not upset to have an umpteenth shackle on his already weak body.”
He let out a soft, humorless laugh, one so broken it barely qualified as laughter.
“All that shit is normal for him now.”
His fingers curled into Xie Lian’s robes again, his voice almost too quiet to hear.
“All of this because we were too fucking weak to stay with him back then.”
Silence.
Tears ran down Mu Qing’s cheeks. His hands trembled as they rested against Xie Lian’s hair. His lips parted, but no words came.
Xie Lian had stopped crying, his body too exhausted to do anything but breathe. His face was buried against Feng Xin’s shoulder, his grip on their robes still desperate, unconscious.
Feng Xin didn’t wipe his tears away.
Mu Qing didn’t either.
They just held him.
Xie Lian’s breathing was growing thinner, more unsteady, his body trembling with exhaustion. But still, he tried to speak.
“G-guys…” His voice was barely a whisper, tight with the pain he was still trying to suppress. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, and then—he winced, curling slightly as a cramp tore through him.
Feng Xin instinctively tightened his grip, as if that alone could keep him from slipping further. “Your Highness?”
Xie Lian exhaled shakily, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. “It’s okay. I’ll be gone just for a moment. Don’t panic. I’ll be back soon. My body always does this when it doesn’t know how to adapt. It’s alright.”, he murmured. His lips curled into something that barely resembled a smile, weak and fleeting. “You need never… worry about me.”
Feng Xin choked on a sob.
Then Xie Lian went still.
His breaths became shallower, softer, until they were barely there at all. His eyelids fluttered once, twice—
And then his body slumped.
His chest did not rise again.
Feng Xin felt the blood drain from his face.
Xie Lian’s heart had stopped.
For a single, frozen moment, neither of them moved. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, wrapping around them like the walls of the cave had sealed shut.
Then—
“W-what?!” Feng Xin’s voice cracked, panic clawing its way into his throat as he reached forward, shaking Xie Lian’s limp form. “Xie Lian— Xie Lian —!”
No response. His body was cold in their arms, the last of his tears dried on his cheeks, the new cursed shackle wrapped like an executioner’s collar around his wrist.
Mu Qing still wasn’t moving. He only stared down at the body in his lap, face unreadable, eyes swollen and wet, yet eerily empty.
Feng Xin’s hands trembled as he shook Xie Lian harder, his voice rising in desperation. “Your Highness, wake up. Wake up !”
Nothing.
“Xie Lian, come on, don’t do this,” Feng Xin begged, his voice breaking, nails digging into Xie Lian’s robes as if he could anchor him back to life by force alone.
But Xie Lian remained motionless.
Not breathing. Not stirring.
Dead.
A shuddering breath finally tore from Mu Qing’s throat. “He said n-not to panic,” he whispered, voice distant. Detached. He wasn’t looking at anything—just staring into the void beyond them, as if searching for an answer.
His hands twitched over Xie Lian’s cooling skin. “He… he can’t really die, right? And… and he said it was normal…”
He sounded like a man repeating words he didn’t believe.
His eyes hadn’t stopped crying, though the rest of his body remained frozen.
Feng Xin sagged where he sat, his entire frame shaking. His chest heaved, trying to pull in a breath that didn’t feel sharp, that didn’t feel like splinters digging into his ribs.
“Fuck,” he rasped. His voice was hoarse, breaking. “His heart’s not beating.”
He let out a breathless, bitter laugh, one that held nothing but disbelief.
“ His heart is not fucking beating .”
Another breath. Another shudder.
“And… and that’s normal for him.”
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms.
“ Fuck .”