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It was just another busy night in Ghost City—someone was being eaten, someone was winning a small mountain of coins, and someone else had just exploded after cheating at dice. Business as usual.
Hua Cheng rolled his eyes as another squabble broke out near the lotus pond and gestured lazily from his throne. The floor opened up, swallowed the offender whole, and sealed again like it had never been there.
"I swear on my own bones" he muttered, brushing ash from his sleeve, "if one more bastard tries to sneak narcotics into my halls…"
And right on cue, a squeaky little merchant ghost scrambled up to the dais, sweat beading on his translucent brow.
“Great Lord Hua Cheng! Try these! A miracle product! Raise your luck, open your spiritual eye—look! Like sweets!”
Hua Cheng caught the handful of pastel-coloured balls tossed toward him and gave them a once-over. Round. Glossy. Sugary-sweet scent.
Like sugared lotus seeds or rabbit candies. Except there was something off. They shimmered faintly. One of them pulsed.
“…Are these eyeballs?”
“No! Yes! Not real ones, of course—ha ha! Mostly not! Look, they just look like eyeballs! It’s a fun thing!”
The ghost was halfway through his nervous pitch when Hua Cheng flicked one of the orbs at his forehead. It detonated in a poof of lavender smoke, and the merchant instantly started swatting at invisible birds.
“Idiot” Hua Cheng sighed, waving a hand to shoo him away.
He rolled a few of the orbs in his palm thoughtfully. Definitely some kind of hallucinogen. Possibly an aphrodisiac too—Ghost City drug dealers were rarely imaginative. Either way, they were unsanctioned and unlabelled.
He poured the lot onto the kitchen table in his manor for further inspection, then turned on his heel, his long braid swinging behind him. Yin Yu had overheard the dealer mumbling something about “trials of clarity” and “devouring euphoria”—whatever that meant.
He left.
Meanwhile…
Xie Lian yawned and padded into the kitchen with his hair down, sleeves rolled up, and a book tucked under one arm. He'd been rereading The Cultivation of Cucumbers in Shimmering Soil, but had gotten hungry halfway through.
“San Lang?” he called softly. No answer.
He blinked at the low table.
Oh?
Neatly piled in the centre was a little cluster of round candies, glistening like they’d just been polished. Soft pastels, pink and mint and lilac. One of them sparkled like snow.
“Did he buy me new sweets?” Xie Lian said aloud, delighted. “He always forgets to mention these things.”
He sat down cross-legged and picked one up. It smelled faintly of rose and something unfamiliar, but sweet nonetheless. He tilted his head.
“It does look like an eyeball” he whispered, then giggled. “Gross.”
He popped one in his mouth.
Then another.
Another.
And—
“Oh” he said, blinking slowly. “Oh, that’s—”
The room tilted. No, the walls breathed. The window pulsed open and shut like a blinking eye. He looked down at his hands. They were blooming.
Literally.
Pink lotuses were growing from his fingernails.
“…oh no.”
Xie Lian floated an inch off the floor.
He didn’t mean to. He hadn’t even noticed, at first—he had simply risen, slow and languid as steam from tea, arms drifting out to his sides like a lotus opening on still water.
The air hummed around him. His hair lifted in a lazy halo. The kitchen, now soaked in golden light, shimmered with impossible softness.
Every shadow curved like a smile. Every surface whispered gentle secrets. The world was kindness itself.
“Oh, this is nice” he sighed, rolling mid-air onto his back, the long sleeves of his robe billowing around him. He giggled again. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, red robes fluttering like a ghost’s shroud in the windless room.
“Very floaty. Very nice. San Lang should absolutely try this.”
He twisted midair like a ribbon and caught sight of the table again. The bag. The sweets. Still glimmering softly in the same sweet heap. He stared.
Then he grinned.
“I shouldn’t” he said aloud, already reaching. “I really shouldn’t. But also... why not?”
In one smooth, sinuous motion, he dipped down, snatched the entire bag in both hands, and poured the rest into his mouth.
Every single orb.
He chewed slowly, reverently, like it was a divine offering. As soon as he swallowed, he moaned softly and curled into himself, hugging the empty bag like a plush toy, then uncurling again with a blissful sigh.
The world responded.
Colours that didn’t exist began dripping down the walls like paint in slow motion. The ceiling cracked open like an egg and a waterfall of silver stars poured through.
Music—flute and chimes and laughter—echoed from nowhere. Xie Lian's body pulsed with a strange internal rhythm. Every beat of his heart scattered petals in the air. He couldn’t stop smiling.
“Walls” he whispered, floating sideways until his feet grazed the wood. “You’re so smooth. So... strong. So present.”
He leaned in.
Licked it.
Twice.
“Delicious” he breathed. “You taste like... moonlight and... pickled turnips...”
He was licking the corner when Hua Cheng walked through the front doors.
He had returned earlier than expected. The moment he stepped into the manor, he paused. The silence was wrong. Too thick. Charged. Like walking into a spell mid-cast.
He sniffed the air. Sweetness. Familiar. Faintly wrong.
He stepped into the kitchen—and froze.
There, in the middle of what had once been his orderly kitchen, Xie Lian was hovering in the air, tilted at a ridiculous angle, mouth open wide as he slowly licked a groove into the wall like a devoted priest at a shrine.
His eyes were red-rimmed, dilated, glowing faintly with joy or divine madness. Flower petals—some real, some imaginary—were drifting lazily in his wake. The air rippled with illusion and hallucination so thick even Hua Cheng could feel it clawing at his vision.
Xie Lian pulled back from the wall, face shining with awe, and turned to him with a blissful, glazed smile. “San Lang! The house is breathing. Isn’t that nice?”
Hua Cheng stared.
Then his gaze dropped to the table.
Empty.
No bag. No drugs. Not a single orb left.
His eye twitched.
He inhaled deeply. "Did you eat the entirety?"
Xie Lian blinked at him slowly, then burst into a small, delighted laugh. “Of course I did! You bought them for me, didn’t you? They’re the best! I can see the future. It’s shaped like a cucumber.”
“…Fuck.”
Xie Lian was spinning slowly now, upside-down and sideways at once. He was humming. Or chanting. Or possibly arguing with the stove.
Hua Cheng stepped forward, one hand already raised, demonic energy curling at his fingertips, preparing a sealing array to dampen the effects—too late.
Too much.
Far, far too much.
Xie Lian’s humming rose in pitch. Then, suddenly, he stiffened.
The shimmer in the air faltered.
The petals turned to ash.
“Mm” Xie Lian mumbled. His floating wavered. “I don’t... feel so good.”
And then the hallucinations curdled.
The walls exhaled again—but this time it felt like a scream. The golden light drained away, leaving a pallid green. The air thickened like syrup. Xie Lian’s expression began to shift, slow and confused.
“…San Lang?” he said faintly.
Then—
His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.
Hua Cheng caught him before he hit the floor.
Hua Cheng knelt on the floor, clutching Xie Lian to his chest, and for the first time in centuries—no, ever—he felt the creeping bite of fear pierce bone-deep.
“Gege” he whispered hoarsely, pressing his hand to Xie Lian’s cheek. Cold. Clammy. His breath was shallow, erratic. Every few seconds, he gave a tiny, pained whimper, barely audible. His eyes fluttered under closed lids, too fast. Too wrong.
Hua Cheng’s heart thudded in his ears.
You left them on the table. Like an idiot. You knew they were unlabelled. You knew they were dangerous. You didn’t seal them. You didn’t lock them away. You just—left them. In plain sight. And now—
“Fuck.”
The word tore out of him like a curse, low and raw. He cradled Xie Lian tighter, smoothing his hair with one shaking hand, while the other summoned a red array in the air spiritual communication array. “Doctor! Now! I don’t care where you are—get to Ghost City immediately!”
The spell vanished with a crackle, and Hua Cheng didn’t wait to see if it had been received. He turned, still on his knees, and slammed a fist into the floor.
A sharp crack rang out. The tiles fractured beneath the force, red lightning veining through the ground.
“Yin Yu!” he barked.
A beat later, the air shimmered and Yin Yu appeared at the doorway, still clutching a scroll, his hair slightly mussed from travel.
“Chengzhu?” he said, alarmed. “What’s—?”
“Find that ghost. The one from earlier. The dealer. I want everything. The name of the drug, its origin, what it’s mixed with, what it does—all of it. I want him dragged here by his throat if he’s still coherent. If he’s not, wake him up. Now.”
Yin Yu’s eyes darted to the unmoving figure in Hua Cheng’s arms. His face paled instantly.
“Yes, Chengzhu” he said, vanishing again without question.
Hua Cheng remained kneeling on the kitchen floor, shaking with fury and guilt. He looked down at Xie Lian again, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead. His breath hitched.
“Why didn’t I put them away? Why did I even bring them back?” he whispered, voice thick. “You trusted me to keep you safe and I left you a bag of poison like it was fucking candy.”
Xie Lian stirred faintly, but it wasn’t hopeful—his body jerked once in a shallow seizure, breath catching.
“No—no, stay with me, please” Hua Cheng said, his voice breaking for just a second before he grit his teeth and pressed a stabilising talisman against Xie Lian’s chest. The glowing paper burned bright red, then dulled. Barely effective.
That’s when the teleport array lit again with a hiss—and a small, ghost doctor materialised with a heavy satchel already open.
The doctor had been swift and silent, his glowing tools flitting like fireflies around Xie Lian’s unconscious form.
After an hour of tense, wordless work—administering counteragents, siphoning spiritual residue—he’d finally leaned back with a soft grunt.
“He’ll live Chengzu” he’d said, tightening the band on his satchel.
------
Xie Lian lay motionless in the centre of the bed, swaddled in blankets, his hair spread across the pillow like spilled ink.
His face was pale and slack with sleep, lashes dark against his cheeks. Every so often, he whimpered in his dreams. Hua Cheng flinched at every one.
He sat beside the bed, unmoving. His eyepatch was gone, tossed to the floor in distraction. His hands, usually steady and elegant, were clenched tight in his lap, knuckles white.
This was his fault.
All of it.
He’d brought those cursed things back. Left them there. Unsealed. Unmarked. Like a fool. Like a careless fool.
What had he been thinking?
He hadn't been thinking at all.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.
You’re supposed to protect him. You swore. You begged for the chance.
And now look at him—struck down in your own home, because of you. Because you were curious. Because you were lazy. Because—
“I’m such a fucking idiot” he whispered aloud, voice cracking. “My..., I’m useless.”
His fingers tightened in his hair. A bitter laugh slipped from him, half-choked.
“You spend eight hundred years building an empire, surviving, becoming something—someone—and the first time he lets his guard down around you, the first time he trusts you with something as simple as a snack on the table, you nearly kill him.”
He looked up again, eyes bloodshot.
Xie Lian’s chest rose and fell in slow, fragile waves. Too slow. Each one still a prayer.
“You deserve better” Hua Cheng said softly, leaning in, brushing a stray hair from Xie Lian’s cheek. “You always did.”
The pads of his fingers lingered there, against cold skin. He watched Xie Lian’s face like it was the only thing holding him together.
“I was supposed to be your safety. Your home. The one place you never had to be afraid again. And I turned it into a nightmare with a smile and a gift bag.”
His voice dropped to a murmur.
“I’m sorry, Gege. I’m so sorry.”
He sat back slowly, folding in on himself. One hand reached out and settled over Xie Lian’s, lacing their fingers together with the gentlest touch, as if too much pressure would shatter him.
“Please come back” he whispered, barely audible. “Come back and yell at me. Call me reckless. Kick me out of the bed. Just... don’t leave.”
Silence.
Then—
A tiny twitch.
Hua Cheng froze.
Xie Lian stirred, just barely—a twitch of the brow, a flicker of fingers. His breathing hitched and steadied again.
Hua Cheng surged forward in an instant, his hand cupping Xie Lian’s cheek. “Gege? Gege, I’m here.”
No answer. But the flickering movement came again—this time the corner of Xie Lian’s mouth moved slightly, as if trying to form words.
Then—
“Mmn…”
It was barely a sound. But it was his sound.
Hua Cheng exhaled as if he’d been drowning.
He pressed his forehead gently against Xie Lian’s hand, his braid falling over his shoulder like a chain unspooling, and let himself tremble there in the dark.
“Rest” he whispered. “I’ll be here. I’m not leaving.”
Not this time.
Not ever again.
------
Hua Cheng hadn’t moved in some time.
The flicker of Xie Lian’s breath was his only anchor—soft, steady now, but Hua Cheng could still feel the echo of that moment he’d gone limp. It played on loop in his head.
The way his body had jerked once, the faintest seizure. The sound of the bag crinkling in Xie Lian’s arms as he’d curled around it like a child clutching a toy.
He should’ve never brought those damned things home.
His hand still rested over Xie Lian’s, motionless. The guilt had grown teeth, gnawing at him from inside out.
He’d already begun planning punishments.
He could siphon part of his spiritual core and burn it as penance. For a hundred nights. No—until Xie Lian woke up and ordered him to stop. Or maybe—
A knock.
Sharp. Clipped. Hesitant.
He didn't lift his head.
“Enter” Hua Cheng said hoarsely.
Yin Yu stepped into the room, hair still damp from rain, a scroll clenched in one hand.
“I found him” he said quietly. “The merchant ghost. What's left of him, anyway. He’d eaten most of his own stock.”
Hua Cheng scoffed but still didn’t look up. “And?”
“The candies were made from a mix of Dreamer’s Flare—an intense hallucinogen from the central planes—and four doses of Red Whisper. That’s a common street additive. Makes anything sweet taste divine. Highly addictive. Very unstable in high quantities.”
Yin Yu shifted uncomfortably. “There was too much sugar and spiritual flavouring added. The combination turned volatile. It wasn’t meant for mortals – target market being all ghosts or demons.”
That made Hua Cheng raise his head slowly.
“I know what Red Whisper does” he said, voice low and frayed. “I know Dreamer’s Flare. I’ve executed people for trafficking both. And I still brought them home.”
He finally turned to Yin Yu, face blank and ragged all at once. “Was there anything else?”
Yin Yu hesitated. “I thought you should know… he’ll be okay. It burned out most of its effect already. The body can’t absorb more than a few drops of Red Whisper at once. He shouldn’t suffer any long-term—”
“Go” Hua Cheng said.
“Chengzhu—”
“Go.” His voice cracked across the room like a whip, but it wasn’t cruel. Just… hollow.
Yin Yu opened his mouth, thought better of it, bowed stiffly, and vanished in a flicker of light.
Silence again.
Hua Cheng turned back toward Xie Lian.
“…You’ll be fine” he said, but the words rang hollow. “You’re strong. You’re stronger than anyone.”
But you shouldn’t have to be.
You shouldn’t have to fight poison just because I was careless.
He sank back into the chair beside the bed, digging his nails into his palm hard enough to draw blood.
He knew what those drugs did. He’d known. And still...
“I’m useless” Hua Cheng whispered, a tremor in his voice again. “All this power. All these centuries. And still—useless.”
He closed his eye and bowed his head once more.
The lanterns flickered low.
In the dark, he held on to Xie Lian’s hand like a lifeline, and waited for a forgiveness he didn’t think he deserved.
The room was still quiet, save for the soft crackle of a talisman burning itself out in the corner. Shadows stretched gently over the bed, stirred by the flutter of curtains in the open window.
The scent of incense—ground lotus and sandalwood—lingered faintly in the air, meant to soothe.
Hua Cheng hadn’t moved.
He still sat by the bed, hunched forward, Xie Lian’s hand held in both of his like a prayer. His thumb traced absent circles against Gege’s knuckles—slow, reverent, remorseful.
Then—
A twitch.
Xie Lian stirred.
A quiet groan escaped him as his brow furrowed. His lashes fluttered. His hand jerked once, weakly.
“Gege?” Hua Cheng shot upright so fast his chair scraped the floor. “Your Highness? Are you—?”
Xie Lian squinted at the ceiling, then at the hazy blur of red beside him.
“…San Lang?” he croaked, voice hoarse and paper-thin.
Relief cracked through Hua Cheng like a flood. He leaned in close, cupping Xie Lian’s cheek. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
Xie Lian blinked again, face pale and slightly green.
“I think” he mumbled, “I might throw up.”
He made a feeble attempt to sit up, only to collapse back into the pillows with a groan. “Everything hurts. My stomach is full of bees. The wall licked me back.”
Hua Cheng gave a choked laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You don’t remember much, do you?”
“I remember... cucumbers?” Xie Lian frowned. “And... you were the moon?”
His words slurred at the edges, still hazy, but the panic had passed. His pulse was steady beneath Hua Cheng’s fingers.
Hua Cheng leaned down and pressed a kiss to Xie Lian’s clammy cheek, tender and guilt-ridden. “I’m sorry” he whispered. “I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve—”
“Mm” Xie Lian hummed faintly, eyes half-lidded now. He stared at Hua Cheng for a long moment, pupils barely focused, then reached up with slow, dazed fingers.
Boop.
He tapped Hua Cheng’s nose gently with one fingertip.
“…Boop” he said, before his hand flopped back down uselessly onto the blanket.
His eyes slipped closed again.
Out cold.
Hua Cheng stared, stunned into silence. Then—he smiled.
A soft, crooked, utterly broken smile. But a real one.
He pressed his forehead to Xie Lian’s hand and let out a long, shuddering breath.
“Sleep” he murmured. “I’ll be here.”
------
Xie Lian drifted in and out of sleep like a petal on a tide—pulled under, bobbing back, always dazed. He’d surface long enough to whisper something nonsensical (“Why are the spoons singing?”), then slip away again before Hua Cheng could respond.
For two full days, he was barely conscious.
Every time he stirred, Hua Cheng was there—red cloak discarded, hair unbound, shadows under his one eye deepening with guilt and exhaustion. He held Xie Lian’s hand even when Xie Lian was too far gone to feel it. He kissed his forehead, cooled his skin, whispered apologies to a fevered ear that didn’t always hear.
And when, on the morning of the third day, Xie Lian sat up, looked around, and said clearly, “...San Lang?”—Hua Cheng very nearly wept.
He was at his side in an instant.
“I’m here. I’m here, Gege.”
Xie Lian looked at him properly this time. His expression shifted with slow confusion, then worry. “I feel awful” he mumbled. “Like I swallowed a whole beehive and then got kicked into a volcano.”
And then he turned—
And threw up into the basin beside the bed with such force it nearly rattled the frame.
It went on for minutes. Violent, retching coughs. Hua Cheng held his hair, supported his shoulders, wiped his mouth after. Xie Lian had never looked less princely in his life, and Hua Cheng couldn’t have cared less.
Only once the spasms stopped and Xie Lian slumped, limp and clammy against the pillows, did the tension in Hua Cheng’s shoulders snap.
“Gege…” he rasped, voice rough.
Xie Lian opened one eye.
Hua Cheng’s expression crumpled.
“I’m sorry.”
Xie Lian blinked.
“I’m so, so sorry” Hua Cheng whispered, his voice breaking open. “It was my fault. I brought them back. I didn’t seal them—I just left them there like a fool, please punish me. You trusted me. And I—”
“San Lang…”
“I should’ve protected you. I should’ve known better. I was careless, useless, and you—”
“San Lang” Xie Lian said again, more firmly this time.
Hua Cheng froze. His hands clenched into fists against the blanket.
Xie Lian reached for him.
Despite the weakness in his limbs, despite how miserable he felt, he cupped Hua Cheng’s face with both hands and looked him in the eye.
“I would never punish my husband for something I did” he said.
Hua Cheng’s breath caught.
“I’m the one who saw random candy and stuffed my face with it like a greedy pigeon. That’s not your fault. I was an idiot.”
“But—”
“No.” Xie Lian’s thumbs brushed Hua Cheng’s cheeks. “No blaming yourself for this. Not when I’m the one who licked a wall. Honestly, San Lang.”
His tone was gentle, but firm. Tired, but unmistakably lucid now.
“You always blame yourself when something happens to me. But not this time. I won’t let you.”
Hua Cheng’s shoulders shook.
“I just—when I saw you—”
“I’m still here” Xie Lian whispered. “You never left me. That’s what matters.”
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Hua Cheng’s.
“You love me too much to ever be useless” he murmured. “So don’t you dare start.”
And Hua Cheng, eyes shining, nodded without a word.
Because how could he argue, when even barely recovered, Xie Lian still knew exactly how to hold him together?
Hua Cheng wanted to protest the moment Xie Lian shifted and tugged gently on his sleeve, guiding him downward.
He wanted to argue, insist that he should be the one offering comfort—Xie Lian was the one still pale, trembling, recovering from days of fever-drenched hallucinations and violent purging. He should rest, not…
But then he felt it—those thin, familiar fingers threading through his hair, guiding his head softly into the curve of Xie Lian’s lap.
And Hua Cheng gave in with a stuttered breath, collapsing there on his knees beside the bed, cheek resting against the silk of Xie Lian’s robes.
“Gege…” he murmured, shame thick in his throat. “You shouldn’t… You’re still not well.”
“And you’ve barely slept in two days” Xie Lian replied gently, his fingers already moving—stroking through the length of Hua Cheng’s hair, tucking strands behind his ear, brushing the edge of his jaw with quiet reverence.
“But you—”
“Hush” Xie Lian said, soft but commanding. “Let me hold you. Just for a little while.”
Hua Cheng’s breath hitched. He gripped the blanket, jaw tight, every part of him aching to reverse this—to pull Xie Lian back under the covers and swaddle him in warmth and incense and apology until he was strong again.
But those hands in his hair… They made him still. Made the tension in his spine melt by degrees.
“You always take care of me,” Xie Lian murmured. “Let me do this for you.”
“I don’t deserve it” Hua Cheng whispered.
Xie Lian hummed faintly and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “You deserve everything.”
Hua Cheng shut his eye, expression twisting—not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming gentleness of it.
He didn’t sob, though it felt like he might. He didn’t speak, though words burned the back of his throat. He only turned his face slightly, pressing it closer to Xie Lian’s lap, and let himself breathe—slowly, deeply, finally.
Above him, Xie Lian continued his soothing touch, whispering small comforts as if calming a frightened animal. Not because he was fully recovered, or strong again.
But because he loved him.
And because Hua Cheng had never looked more like someone in need of shelter.
Eventually, they both did fall asleep like that.