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Mu Qing really hates being a heavenly official sometimes.
He’s definitely the last person who should be sent on “diplomatic missions” to assist allies of the heavenly emperor’s court, considering his diplomatic skills range from slim to none. Mu Qing argued as much to Ling Wen, who just rolled her eyes before recounting the crimes against diplomacy committed by his peers. Feng Xin had stuck his foot in his mouth at the sect leaders conference by calling one leader’s son by the name of his unrecognized half-brother; Pei Ming had attempted to seduce the spouse of the ghost valley king during their annual gala; and Xie Lian had shown up late and rather… besmirched to the last all-council heavenly officials meeting. Did Mu Qing really think he could do worse than them?
Mu Qing should have answered yes. Because right now he is standing in the main hall of a stone palace and facing down a very tall, very powerful, and very evil-looking heavenly demon who is reclining on an enormous throne, his robes hanging a good deal more loosely than Mu Qing would like to think about.
“And what,” Tianlang-jun drawls, “do we have here?”
Mu Qing fights back the urge to grit his teeth and instead drops into a respectful bow. “This one is a delegate from the Heavenly Capital—”
A low chuckle interrupts him. “Please. There’s no need for formalities.”
Mu Qing glances up to find the demon leaning forward in his seat, eyes glittering a disconcerting red. He fights down the shiver that races up his spine.
“I know why you’re here. That isn’t what I asked.”
Ah. Mu Qing clenches and unclenches his fist. He hates these power games. He hates being looked down upon by fools who believe their throne is a shield. He hates that Ling Wen only had to wave her hand and shove a scroll into his hand to make him go, hates that he had to travel for days only to bow like some sort of obsequious servant to a demon lord who probably spends hours in front of the mirror just to cultivate that dark, handsome, arrogant look on his face right now—
“Interesting.” Tianlang-jun is smiling. His fangs glint in the flickering firelight of the sconces. “They sent me a fierce one this time.”
Mu Qing blinks. He hadn’t spoken aloud, had he? “What are you talking about?” he snaps, and regrets it immediately as Tianlang-jun rises from his seat and descends the dark stone steps towards him.
“I mean, you aren’t like the other envoys who come here to throw themselves at my feet, hm?” Tianlang-jun’s voice is a soft, velvety purr, and Mu Qing feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he approaches. “You’re not a chessmaster here to outwit me, or a spy looking to poke out my weaknesses. You’re one of the beautiful ones, but you aren’t here to seduce me either.”
Mu Qing’s hand is on his sword before he has made the conscious decision to move. He lunges for Tianlang-jun, but his blade meets only smoke. That low, raspy laughter rings in his ears.
“We’ll have fun, you and I,” says Tianlang-jun from somewhere behind him. Mu Qing whirls around to face him and finds him—much closer than he expected. His eyes are so red. Like twin pools of blood, glittering in the moonlight. “You’re not like the others. You’re never satisfied.”
Mu Qing’s breath catches in his throat as Tianlang-jun leans in. “You’re like me,” he whispers, and his smile makes something in Mu Qing go ice cold and then blazing hot.