Chapter Text
The letter had arrived that morning, written in Hua Cheng’s elegant script: Business will keep me away for at least a fortnight. Wait for me, gege. I’ll return to you soon.
Xie Lian had read it three times, feeling an unexpected hollow ache in his chest. When had Hua Cheng’s departures started feeling less like temporary separations and more like… relief?
The thought disturbed him enough that he’d spent the day restlessly wandering Paradise Manor, unable to settle. As evening fell, he found himself drawn to the mortal realm, to the warm lights and distant laughter spilling from a tavern in the nearest town.
He’d never been one for drinking, but tonight felt different. Tonight he needed something to dull the growing confusion in his heart.
The tavern was crowded with mortals celebrating the end of their work week. Xie Lian slipped in unnoticed, finding a corner table where he could observe without drawing attention. The bartender, a cheerful woman with greying hair, brought him wine without being asked.
“You look like you need it, dear” she said kindly.
Hours passed.
The wine flowed freely, and for the first time in months, Xie Lian felt… light.
Unburdened. He found himself talking to strangers, laughing at simple jokes, existing without the constant weight of being someone’s everything.
A young scholar at the next table was discussing philosophy with his friends.
A merchant’s daughter shared stories of her travels. An elderly man played dice games and told ridiculous tales that were probably lies but made everyone laugh anyway.
None of them knew who he was. None of them needed anything from him.
None of them looked at him with the desperate, all-consuming devotion that had somehow become suffocating rather than comforting.
As the night wore on, Xie Lian felt something shift inside his chest—like a knot finally loosening after being pulled too tight for too long.
The wine made everything clearer somehow, stripping away the guilt and obligation he hadn’t even realised he’d been carrying.
When had Hua Cheng’s love stopped feeling like a gift and started feeling like a cage?
The realisation hit him with startling clarity. Somewhere along the way, being worshipped had become exhausting.
Being someone’s entire world was a responsibility he’d never asked for, a pedestal that left no room for his own wants, his own growth, his own mistakes.
He thought of how Hua Cheng watched him sometimes—like Xie Lian might disappear if he looked away for even a moment.
How every conversation eventually circled back to Hua Cheng’s devotion, his promises, his need to serve and protect and possess.
When had “I love you” started sounding like “I own you”?
The tavern was closing when Xie Lian finally stepped back into the cool night air. The wine had cleared from his system, but the clarity remained.
He looked up at the stars—the same stars he used to gaze at with Hua Cheng, feeling grateful and loved.
Now they just looked like stars.
The walk back to Paradise Manor felt different somehow. Lighter. Like he was moving toward a future instead of returning to a beautiful prison.
The manor itself, when it came into view, looked less like a home and more like a shrine—elaborate and precious and built around the worship of something that no longer existed.
Xie Lian paused at the threshold, his hand on the door. Tomorrow, he would have to figure out how to tell Hua Cheng that the great love story everyone envied had simply… ended.
Not with betrayal or tragedy, but with the quiet realisation that sometimes people grow in different directions.
That sometimes, even the most devoted love isn’t enough.
He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him, and for the first time in years, the silence didn’t feel lonely.
It felt free.
Xie Lian moved to the writing desk in their shared study, pulling out a sheet of elegant paper. His hand hovered over the brush, ink pooling at its tip as he tried to find words for the impossible.
San Lang, he began, then stopped. How did one begin such a letter?
By the time you read this, I will be gone. I have realised that what we had has run its course…
No. Too cold.
My dearest Hua Cheng, I need you to understand that this isn’t your fault…
A lie. It was everyone’s fault and no one’s fault.
San Lang, I can no longer pretend to feel what I once did…
Xie Lian set down the brush with trembling fingers. Each attempt felt more inadequate than the last.
How could he possibly explain that love had simply… stopped? That devotion had curdled into obligation?
His hand drifted unconsciously to his throat, to the thin silver chain that held Hua Cheng’s most precious possessions—a ring his ashes.
The physical manifestation of Hua Cheng’s very existence, worn against Xie Lian’s heart as a symbol of their eternal bond.
Eternal. The word tasted bitter now.
Xie Lian’s fingers closed around the vial, feeling its familiar weight. He’d worn it for so long it had become part of him, a constant reminder of Hua Cheng’s devotion and trust.
The ashes were more than symbolic—they were literally the foundation of Hua Cheng’s existence as a ghost. If they were destroyed…
The realisation hit him like ice water.
If Hua Cheng returned to find Xie Lian gone—truly gone, with no explanation, no closure, no hope—what would he do? Xie Lian knew his beloved’s mind, knew the depths of his devotion and the fragility that lay beneath all that power.
Hua Cheng would blame himself completely. Would decide that he had failed in his devotion, that he wasn’t worthy of Xie Lian’s love, that his existence without his god was meaningless.
And Hua Cheng, in his despair, wouldn’t hesitate to crush his own ashes to dust.
Xie Lian’s hand tightened convulsively around the vial. The man who had spent centuries loving him, protecting him, building a life around him—would destroy himself rather than live with the belief that he had somehow failed.
“Oh” Xie Lian whispered to the empty room, his voice breaking on the single syllable.
The letter remained unfinished on the desk, ink drying on the abandoned brush, as the terrible weight of understanding settled over him.
Xie Lian’s fingers worked at the clasp of the silver chain, his hands shaking. He could leave—disappear into the mortal world where Hua Cheng might never find him.
But taking the ashes with him felt unspeakably cruel. It would be like saying I don’t love you anymore, but I’ll keep your very existence chained to me anyway.
The thought made him sick.
But leaving them behind… leaving them where Hua Cheng could find them, where in his despair he might—
Xie Lian couldn’t finish the thought. Either choice felt monstrous. Take them and trap Hua Cheng in a living death, following someone who no longer wanted him.
Leave them and condemn him to self-destruction.
His hands stilled on the chain clasp. There had to be another way. There had to be some path that didn’t end in devastation for the man who had loved him so completely, so faithfully, for so long.
The wine’s clarity was fading, replaced by a crushing sense of being trapped in a situation with no good outcomes.
How could love—or the absence of it—create such impossible choices?
Click.
The soft sound of a key turning in the front door made Xie Lian freeze.
His heart hammered against his ribs as familiar footsteps echoed through the entry hall—lighter than usual, hurried, accompanied by a muttered curse that carried clearly in the night air.
“Where did I put that scroll…” Hua Cheng’s voice drifted through the manor, distracted and slightly annoyed.
He’d come back. Hua Cheng had come back for something he’d forgotten, and now—
Xie Lian stared at the unfinished letter on the desk, at his own trembling hands still clutching the vial of ashes, and realised that all his careful planning, all his wine-soaked revelations, meant nothing now.
He was about to face the man whose heart he was going to break, and he had no idea what to say.
The footsteps grew closer, moving through the manor with practiced familiarity. Xie Lian heard Hua Cheng checking the main hall, then the sitting room, muttering about misplaced documents.
Then the study door opened.
Hua Cheng stepped into the room, still dressed in his traveling robes, his hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. He was rifling through a leather satchel, clearly focused on whatever he’d come back to retrieve.
“I could have sworn I left that somewhere in here—” He looked up mid-sentence and froze.
Their eyes met across the room. Hua Cheng’s gaze immediately took in the scene: Xie Lian standing rigid by the desk, hands still clutched around something at his throat, the abandoned brush and ink, the half-written letter.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged with unspoken words, heavy with the weight of everything that had changed in the space of a single night.
“Gege?” Hua Cheng’s voice was soft, uncertain. His single eye searched Xie Lian’s face with growing alarm. “You look… are you alright? You seem different.”
The concern in his voice—genuine, immediate, selfless—made something twist painfully in Xie Lian’s chest. Even now, Hua Cheng’s first thought was for his wellbeing, not his own confusion or the obvious distress in the room.
“San Lang” Xie Lian managed, his voice barely above a whisper. “You came back.”
“I forgot a few scrolls” Hua Cheng said automatically, but his attention was entirely focused on Xie Lian now. He took a step closer, his expression growing more worried. “Gege, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The irony of the statement hung between them. Xie Lian’s hand tightened reflexively around the ring of ashes, and he saw Hua Cheng’s eye track the movement, noting the tension in his posture, the way he seemed to be guarding something precious—or preparing to let it go.
“Were you… were you writing something?” Hua Cheng asked carefully, his gaze flicking to the unfinished letter on the desk.
But before Xie Lian could answer, Hua Cheng’s expression softened into one of gentle understanding. He set down his satchel and moved closer, his voice taking on that soothing tone he used when comforting his beloved.
“Oh, gege” he murmured, reaching out with careful hands. “Did you have trouble sleeping again? I know you don’t like it when I’m away. Come here, let me—”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than Xie Lian intended, making Hua Cheng freeze mid-motion. “Please don’t.”
Hua Cheng’s hand hovered in the air between them, confusion flickering across his features. “Gege?”
And suddenly, the weight of it all came crashing down. The wine, the revelation, the impossible choice, the terrible knowledge of what his leaving would do—all of it hit Xie Lian at once like a breaking dam.
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he pressed his back against the desk, as if he could somehow distance himself from the inevitable. “I can’t find it” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t find the third path.”
“What third path?” Hua Cheng asked, alarm clear in his voice now. He took another step forward, his hands reaching out instinctively. “Gege, you’re crying. Please, tell me what’s wrong. Whatever it is, we can fix it—”
“No” Xie Lian sobbed, shaking his head violently.
“We can’t fix this, San Lang. There’s no fixing this. There’s only… there’s only the path where I stay and slowly poison us both with my resentment, or the path where I leave and you…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, his hand clutching desperately at the ring around his neck.
“Or the path where you destroy yourself because you think it’s your fault” he whispered finally. “And I can’t choose. I can’t choose any of them because they all end in someone getting hurt.”
The colour drained from Hua Cheng’s face as the meaning behind the words began to sink in.
For a heartbeat, Hua Cheng looked like he might shatter right there in the doorway. His eye went wide with panic, his breath catching audibly.
But then, with visible effort, he gathered himself—straightening his shoulders, schooling his expression into something calmer, more controlled.
When he spoke again, his voice was steady despite the tremor Xie Lian could detect beneath it.
“Gege” he said quietly, “come sit with me.”
It wasn’t a command, just a gentle request. Hua Cheng moved to the small sofa by the window, settling himself carefully and patting the cushion beside him. When Xie Lian hesitated, still clutching the desk for support, Hua Cheng simply waited.
“Please” he added softly.
Something in his tone—calm, patient, not demanding anything—made Xie Lian’s legs finally move. He crossed the room on unsteady feet and sank down beside Hua Cheng, leaving space between them but close enough that when Hua Cheng slowly, carefully reached for his hands, Xie Lian didn’t pull away.
Hua Cheng’s fingers were warm as they enveloped Xie Lian’s trembling ones, his touch gentle but grounding.
“Now” Hua Cheng said, his voice deliberately even, “tell me what happened tonight. Help me understand what you’re feeling. I promise I’ll listen—really listen—without trying to fix anything until you’re done talking.”
His eye searched Xie Lian’s face, and despite the obvious fear lurking in its depths, there was something else there too—a kind of courage that came from choosing to face the truth, no matter how much it might hurt.
“Start wherever you need to start, gege. I’m here.”
Xie Lian stared down at their joined hands for a long moment, tears still falling silently. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
“I went to a tavern tonight” he began, the words feeling strange and foreign.
“I don’t know why. I just… I felt so restless after you left, and not in the way I used to. Not missing you, but…” He swallowed hard. “Relieved.”
Hua Cheng’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his, but he remained silent, keeping his promise to listen.
“I sat there drinking wine and talking to strangers, and for the first time in so long I felt… light. Free.” Xie Lian’s voice cracked.
“They didn’t know who I was. They didn’t need anything from me. They didn’t look at me like I was their whole world, like I might disappear if they blinked.”
He forced himself to look up, to meet Hua Cheng’s eye. “And I realised that somewhere along the way, your love stopped feeling like a gift and started feeling like a cage. That being worshipped is exhausting, San Lang. That being someone’s everything means I can never just be… me.”
The words hung in the air between them, brutal in their honesty.
“I can’t make mistakes without feeling like I’m failing you. I can’t have bad days without you trying to fix them. I can’t even exist without it being about how much you love me, how devoted you are, how I’m your god.” His voice broke completely.
“But I’m not a god, San Lang. I’m just a person who wants to be loved like a person, not worshipped like an idol.”
Xie Lian pulled his hands free to wipe at his face, his shoulders shaking. “And tonight I realised I don’t… I don’t feel that way about you anymore. The love is just… gone. And I can’t pretend it isn’t, but I can’t tell you either, because I know what you’ll do. I know you’ll blame yourself and I know you’ll…”
He gestured helplessly at the chain around his neck.
“I can’t find a way to be honest that doesn’t destroy you.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Hua Cheng sat perfectly still, his face a mask of careful control, but Xie Lian could see the storm raging beneath the surface—the way his jaw clenched, the tremor in his breathing, the almost imperceptible widening of his eye as his worst fear materialised before him.
For a moment, Xie Lian thought Hua Cheng might shatter completely. The Ghost King who could face armies without flinching, who had endured centuries of waiting and searching, looked utterly devastated by the simple truth that love could end.
But then, with visible effort, Hua Cheng drew in a shaky breath and nodded slowly.
“Thank you” he said quietly, his voice rough but steady. “For telling me. For being honest, even when it would have been easier not to be.”
He was quiet for a long moment, processing everything Xie Lian had said. When he spoke again, his words came slowly, carefully considered.
“I think… I think I’ve been so afraid of losing you that I forgot how to love you properly. I made you into something perfect and untouchable in my mind, and in doing so, I took away your right to be human.” His hands clenched in his lap.
“I turned our love into worship, and worship…” He looked up at Xie Lian with painful clarity. “Worship is lonely, isn’t it? For the one being worshipped.”
Xie Lian’s breath hitched, surprised by how accurately Hua Cheng had understood.
“San Lang—”
“No, let me say this” Hua Cheng interrupted gently. “Because I need to acknowledge what I’ve done before we can figure out if there’s anything left to save.”
He shifted closer on the sofa, and after a moment’s hesitation, carefully pulled Xie Lian into his arms. This time, Xie Lian didn’t resist, allowing himself to be held—not as a god being worshipped, but as a person seeking comfort.
“I’m sorry” Hua Cheng whispered against his hair. “I’m so sorry, gege. I was so focused on proving my devotion that I forgot to simply… be with you. I made every conversation about my love instead of asking about your day. I tried to fix your problems instead of just listening. I put you on a pedestal so high that you couldn’t climb down even when you wanted to.”
His arms tightened slightly. “I made loving me feel like a burden instead of a choice.”
They sat like that for a while, Xie Lian crying quietly against Hua Cheng’s chest while the Ghost King held him and processed the full weight of what had been said. When the tears finally subsided, Xie Lian pulled back slightly to look at him.
“I don’t know if I can feel that way about you again” he said honestly. “I don’t know if love can come back once it’s gone.”
“I know” Hua Cheng replied, his voice steady despite the obvious pain in his eye.
“And I can’t promise that learning to love you differently instead of worshipping you will be easy for me. But…” He paused, considering his words carefully. “But I think we both deserve to find out if it’s possible.”
Xie Lian blinked, surprised. “You’re not going to try to convince me that I’m wrong? That I should give it more time?”
“Would that help?” Hua Cheng asked simply. “Would me telling you how much I love you, how devoted I am, how I’d do anything for you—would any of that bring back what you’ve lost?”
“No” Xie Lian whispered. “It would just prove that you haven’t understood anything I said.”
“Exactly.” Hua Cheng’s smile was sad but genuine.
“So instead, I want to ask you something different. Instead of trying to convince you to feel something you don’t, would you be willing to give us two weeks? Two weeks where I ignore every piece of business, where we stay here together, and where I try to learn how to be your partner instead of your worshipper?”
He reached up to cup Xie Lian’s face gently. “Two weeks where I ask about your thoughts instead of declaring mine. Where I let you have bad days without trying to fix them. Where I try to see you as the complex, flawed, wonderful person you are instead of the perfect god I’ve built in my mind.”
Xie Lian searched his face carefully. “And if at the end of two weeks, nothing has changed?”
Hua Cheng’s throat worked visibly, but his voice remained steady. “Then I let you go. Without dramatics, without destroying myself, without making it about my pain. I let you go because that’s what love actually means—wanting someone to be happy, even if it’s not with you.”
The offer hung between them, fragile and honest. Xie Lian could see the effort it cost Hua Cheng to make it, the way he was fighting against every protective instinct that told him to hold tighter, to promise more, to worship harder.
“You would really do that?” Xie Lian asked softly. “You would really try to change something so fundamental about how you love?”
“Gege” Hua Cheng said, his thumb brushing away the last of Xie Lian’s tears, “if the way I love is hurting you, then it isn’t love at all. It’s selfishness wearing love’s mask. And you deserve better than that. You deserve to be loved in a way that makes you feel free, not trapped.”
He paused, vulnerability clear in his expression. “I don’t know if I can learn to do that. I don’t know if you can learn to feel differently about me. But I think we owe it to what we used to have to try. Don’t you?”
Xie Lian closed his eyes, feeling something shift slightly in his chest. Not love returning—it was too soon for that, if it was even possible—but something like hope. Hope that maybe there could be a third path after all.
“Two weeks” he said finally, opening his eyes to meet Hua Cheng’s gaze. “But San Lang… this can’t be about you proving yourself to me. It has to be about us learning to be different people together. Can you do that?”
“I can try” Hua Cheng said simply. “That’s all I can promise. That I’ll try.”
Xie Lian nodded slowly, feeling exhausted but somehow lighter than he had in months. The conversation wasn’t over—there would be more difficult talks ahead, more moments of painful honesty. But for the first time since walking into that tavern, he felt like maybe, just maybe, there might be a way forward that didn’t end in destruction.
“Alright” he whispered. “Two weeks. Let’s see what happens when we try to love each other like people instead of like gods and worshippers.”
Hua Cheng’s smile was small but real. “I’d like that very much, gege. I’d like to learn who you really are when you don’t feel you have to be perfect for me.”