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And then, there are days like today.
Shang Qinghua wakes up feeling like there's lead in his bones and a badly-tuned radio in his head. He lays on the bed like this, looking at the bright sunlight filtering through the Leisure House's windows. Trying to muster up the will to get up and face a new day.
It's not like he didn't suspect this bout of depression was coming. Two lifetimes worth of issues have taught him to recognize the signs.
Merchants have been extra pushy trying to raise their prices. The weather is turning unbearably hot. Disciple selection is just around the corner, and not just any disciple selection. The System has graciously provided him with a timer, constantly blinking at the edge of his vision and cheerfully counting down the weeks, days and hours until Luo Binghe crashes into Qing Jing Peak and sets the plot in motion.
It's been driving Shang Qinghua insane with stress and fear, so much so that he's even messed up on shipment orders that he can usually do —and in a memorable occasion did— in his sleep. He doesn't even know what's worse: Qi Qingqi coming to lambast him over the mixed-up products or Yue Qingyuan's half-hearted defense undermined by the vague look of disappointment hidden behind a smile.
Today, Shang Qinghua is just tired.
He can feel tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, but even crying feels like too much of an effort. Trapped in this bullshit low-technology xianxia universe, he can't even doomscroll in his pijamas like he'd have done back home.
What is the point of it all? No, seriously. Someone come and tell him because he doesn't have a fucking clue.
You're being a drama queen, he ruthlessly berates himself. None of this should be news for you. Get up. You have work to do.
In the end, it's only the thought of his poor senior disciples that gets him up and moving. His little NPC children; if he's not there to take the hits, his fellow Peak Lords will have no qualms about inundating them with work. They may be just filling the numbers, but they deserve to have a little happiness while they still can, before adulthood and a OP half-demon with a grudge destroys it.
He skips breakfast altogether, feeling vaguely nauseous at the thought of food. Still, the morning breeze is cool enough that the trip to his office does manage to lift his spirits somewhat. At this rate Shang Qinghua may actually get through the day! That's all he asks for, really.
Several hours later he's proven completely wrong.
It starts with Shen Qingqiu, because of course it does. Shang Qinghua doesn't even know why the man is in a snit, but as always the scholar is prickly and sarcastic, looking down his nose at him until he almost forgoes all sense to snark back.
(Shen Qingqiu's anger points: 4500! Careful dear user (-.-)y-~ the System pings cheerfully, pulling him back from the brink.)
Then his head disciple timidly knocks on his door, a stack of papers in his arms and a fiendishly hard accounting problem in his hands. It takes hours to track down the issue and the way he keeps cringing and apologizing gets on Shang Qinghua's last nerve. He gets it, okay? But seriously, he's not that far up the pecking order, he isn't going to eat the poor kid.
Finally, there comes a letter from one of the wealthier merchants in the nearest city talking about how much his daughter wants to be accepted into Xian Shu and can Master Shang possibly put in a good word for her? Ugh. He'll have to schedule a trip down the mountain soon to see the kid or risk alienating a man that may not be as refined and enlightened as a righteous cultivator, but will make it hard to keep all the disciples clothed and fed.
Peerless Cucumber, old chum, you were so right, he grouses, feeling his stomach rumble. He presses the balls of his hands against his eyes and sighs with gusto. I should have written inedia into this damn world.
Then, to top the day off, there's a familiar chill running down his spine as a burst of demonic energy gathers in the corner of the room.
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei-jun says, invading his office without a simple by-your-leave.
Shang Qinghua's first thought is, as always, how unfairly handsome he is. Piercing blue eyes, strong jaw, not to mention those pectorals barely covered by the Northern Kingdom's robes. It always takes his brain a few seconds to reboot so he can stop ogling and meet his king's eyes.
His eyes, which are shadowed by furrowed brows and something that looks unmistakably like anger. It's the cherry on top of a really shitty week and somehow Shang Qinghua just.
Snaps.
"Oh, sure, what did I do wrong this time?" He screeches, throwing the brush to the low table. The ink splatters all over the wood, and the sight only enrages him further, making him throw all caution to the wind. "Was my report late, is that it? Oh wait, did the Golden Double Tailed Chimpanzees refuse to leave their den like I told you they would? Or maybe you just want me to look at some more numbers, sure, let's just bother the An Ding nobody, never mind that—"
"You're. Angry."
Mobei-jun's eyebrows lift in surprise. His baffled words cut through the haze, making Shang Qinghua rant come to a screeching halt, suddenly realizing who he's been screaming to.
I'm dead. Dead, dead, so dead, his brain starts chanting and Shang Qinghua sinks to his knees, grabbing his aching head. To further his humiliation, this is when the tears he's been holding back start flowing. It seems he's going to die as he lived: a sniveling mess.
Just let me go, he tells the System, still blinking its merry countdown on the side, don't transmigrate me somewhere worse.
He feels Mobei-jun move, slowly like a predator, until there's a shadow hovering over him. Shang Qinghua curls himself a little tighter into a ball, flashes of PIDW running into his mind. At least his pre-ordained end has always been quick and painless…
A large hand falls on top of his head. Shang Qinghua flinches, but the painful wrench never comes. Instead the hand just stays there, a cool, reassuring pressure on top of him. After a moment, it clumsily moves up and down, as if Mobei-jun's trying to calm one of his hunting dogs.
"My king?" Shang Qinghua whispers, uncurling enough to peek between his fingers. His vision is too blurred by tears to make out Mobei-jun's expression. The hand still awkwardly patting him suddenly stills an inch over his head.
"Who hurt you?"
Shang Qinghua's mouth opens and closes a few times, a handful of responses fighting in his mind. Everyone is too dramatic, even for him. Just my brain being an asshole is truthful, but when the closest thing to a therapist is just going to tell you to cycle your qi and avoid heart demons, entirely useless. Who do you think is too cruel, even if a part of him is itching to drag someone down to his level.
Imagine yourself as a toddler, standing here with you now, he remembers his old therapist saying. He's scared, because the world can be scary. How would you soothe him?
He doesn't remember what he answered. Probably something pithy and scathing. The sessions had been too expensive for him to go for long and now…
Screw it.
He half-throws his arms around Mobei-jun's waist, half-collapses against him. He doesn't even care if it breaks the impasse and his king kills him immediately for taking such liberties with his body. He just needs to feel someone else's touch, to remind himself that other people are real.
Mobei-jun stiffens, every muscle locked in place so that it feels like he's hugging a block of ice. It's honestly uncomfortable, and it hurts where his belt buckle digs into Shang Qinghua's kidney. But at the same time, it feels like a knot near his heart is slowly coming loose, letting him breathe again even through the snot and tears.
Then Mobei-jun kneels. He cups Shang Qinghua's cheek, strong fingers curling under his chin and making him look up until their eyes meet. They're inches apart, so close that Shang Qinghua can feel his king's breath on him. Shang Qinghua must be a horrid mess right now, with his eyes red from crying, flushed cheeks and his hair in disarray.
There's some intense emotion flashing behind Mobei-jun's eyes, but it doesn't feel like anger and that's good enough for his heart.
Shang Qinghua is still alive, despite everything. He's overwhelmed by the urge to lean forward, just a little, and find out if Mobei-jun's lips are as soft as they look. He'd die happy if his last memory was of how his king tastes.
Out of the corner of his eyes, the System's timer flashes from cerulean blue to burnt orange as the week countdown to the Bingheppening hits zero.
[00w:06d:23h:59m]
With his sanity restored, he abruptly flings himself back before he can do something stupid.
"Ah… haha… sorry, my King, this lowly one meant no disrespect, please forget anything happened!" he says, flapping his hands. "This one was just tired. And… and drunk! Yes, that's it, I just drank a little too much… it won't happen again, this one swears…"
Embarrassingly, this is the moment where his stomach chooses to rumble even louder than before.
Their eyes meet in the tense silence that follows. Before Shang Qinghua can try to explain again, Mobei-jun slashes at the empty air and vanishes through the portal before it even finishes forming.
"The fuck," Shang Qinghua mouths in the empty room, still collapsed on the floor. Well, that was super-embarrassing. Well done, you.
He flops down on the floor, spreading his arms and legs in a starfish shape. He still feels awful. His nose is clogged and his head is throbbing and there's still the same amount of work waiting for him on the desk.
But, also. The sun does seem to shine a little brighter where it filters through the window and the room's temperature is just perfect, neither cold nor hot. He can see bright green leaves swaying in the breeze and… well, this world is really quite beautiful, isn't it?
The air whooshes as demonic qi gathers again, but before Shang Qinghua can lift his head, it vanishes with only a small clatter left in its place.
Curiously, he pushes himself on his elbows and stands up with a groan, only to nearly fall on his butt again.
On his desk, carefully avoiding the piles of paper, there's a beautiful spread of food. An apple, little blackberries and cherries, slices of cheese, a loaf of white, fluffy bread just how Shang Qinghua likes it. He slowly approaches and pokes at them with his finger, but they remain solid.
There's even a porcelain pitcher with little ice cubes floating in what looks likes lemonade, which he's pretty sure is entirely anachronistic. He vaguely remembers bemoaning the fact that so many of his favourite foods are now impossible to find but here it is now. Had Mobei-jun really listened? And remembered?
Maybe… my king doesn't hate me?
He sits down, still half-expecting to wake up and find the last hour has been a particularly vivid hallucination. He has no choice but to accept it's real when the sweetness of the fruits explodes in his mouth and the cheese melts, soothing the angry growls in his stomach.
He can't stop the fresh tears from splattering against the silver plates — and my god even the plates are so nice, Shang Qinghua is tempted to steal them. The tears feel different now, though. Lighter, like they're taking a terrible burden away. He rubs at his eyes and chuckles self-consciously, feeling a wave of goodwill filling up his heart.
Life is hard.
But then, there are moments like this, when every second feels worth it.
(The next morning, Shang Qinghua gets word that all of Qing Jing's and Xian Shu's streams and ponds have mysteriously frozen over, causing a massive inconvenience to the refined Peak Lords suddenly dealing with a bunch of smelly disciples and no access to running water.
He presses his fist to his mouth and laughs until he's wheezing.)