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From a young age Shang Hua knew he was different from others. There was something he had that others didn't, flashes of deja-vu that seemed too real to be a dream. His mother remembered that he rarely cried, that he was the easiest child. He was also faster than his peers in all the usual milestones. Though, it isn't that hard to pick up walking when he's had memories of a lifetime's worth. Not that he knew it at the time. All he remembered was a sensation of rightness, that he shouldn't have spent all that time on the dirty ground.
It wasn't until he turned 8 that he got the rest of his memories. It was quite overwhelming for his little self, and he had to spend quite a bit of time coming to terms with his previous life. Though, it wasn't without its drawbacks. For one, he now had the system to deal with. It was slightly comforting, to know the reason he never got along with others quite as well was due to his status as a transmigrator.
It was a relief to hand his life away to the system. To follow whichever path it deemed best for the story, no matter how sadistic. It even left him alone sometimes, when he wasn’t busy cultivating, backstabbing his fellow disciples, or groveling before Mobei-jun. Of course, it wasn’t easy. With cultivation breakthroughs hidden behind absurd point levels, the endless cruelty of children, and the whims of the demon court, Shang Hua only eked out as head disciple through many sleepless nights and a couple strategic disposals.
And on top of all that was Mobei-jun. Being transmigrated was almost worth it to be able to see his favourite character. His ideal man in the flesh. But there was never enough time to admire his king for long, for there was always more work to be done.
It wasn’t until he was outed as a spy and living with Mobei-jun in the demon realm that he was finally able to rest. It was during one of those days that he realized he had grown grey hairs. It shouldn't have been that surprising. He was never as dedicated to his cultivation as others like Liu Qingge were, only cultivating the minimum amount so he could be recognized as a peak lord before casting it aside for more important matters such as the endless paperwork it took to keep a sect running.
It was during one of his many baths that he could now take daily and for as long as he wanted that he saw the flash of white in his auburn hair. He knew it would happen eventually but it was surprising to see nonetheless. To see the proof of his age, his survival so far right there in between his fingers. He never thought he’d get this far, with how often the system liked holding his place in this world over his head. He always assumed the system would think him not interesting enough and would boot him out of this world for failing one too many quests, or that Mobei-jun would get sick of him and think him too much of a liability to run free.
But there it was, proof that he made it, that he survived, that he won the system’s sadistic game. It is a slight bittersweet feeling. The system has gone quiet, his role in the plot is complete. There would be no more tedious quests, no more paperwork, no more road to follow. The system is gone, but so is the one thing that stayed consistent in this life. He never wrote a post-canon for Shang Qinghua because– well, there was never any need to. He was some lowly cannon fodder, barely worthy of an on screen death.
But this was no longer Proud Immortal Demon Way. It couldn’t be, not with how much Cucumber-bro messed up the plot. Shang Qinghua could run off now, could reinvent himself as a wandering cultivator and settle down in some random village. But he couldn’t. He would miss Mobei-jun and Cucumber-bro, for all his sharp words. His future is now his own, and he’s got longer than most to figure it out.