Chapter Text
The mornings of a ghost king are simple: waking before his husband just to admire his sleeping expression, burying himself in that neck that smells like home, and then watching those eyes flutter as they try to wake. Sometimes the now Heavenly Emperor must skip breakfast to fulfill the duties imposed on him in the Heavenly Realm, but the ghost king always demands his morning kiss.
After bidding his gege farewell, Hua Cheng goes on with his own tasks: settling dull disputes among ghosts while his mind drifts to thoughts of his husband, solving conflicts or eliminating any possible threat to the city. For hours, his heart and mind work on creating the new statue of Danxia—something that has taken longer than usual because the alpha wants it to be perfect, so that all the insects of the heavens will witness true perfection once it’s placed in the Heavenly Palace.
By mid-afternoon, Hua Cheng lights a candle before a painting of his gege, meticulously hung in a corridor so that the ghost king can admire it whenever he passes.
THUMP!
The sound of a small body crashing into Hua Cheng’s leg was sharp and solid, followed by a gasp of pain and a shrill, indignant complaint.
The ghost king’s day could be relatively perfect were it not for the child who bumps into his leg every time the alpha stops or changes direction. To someone unfamiliar with the mansion, it might look like a duckling chasing after its mother—or after the first thing it saw at birth. But the truth is that it is the prince of Ghost City, the only son of Hua Cheng and Xie Lian.
“Sorry, fuqin,” the child exclaimed as he rubbed his head with an exaggerated grimace of pain, “but you should also be careful so your leg doesn’t get in my way.”
The alpha never responds to such provocation—not even when the child crashes into him for the fourth time that day—because the boy is as silent as a fox, his footsteps barely audible.
“Look, fuqin, because of you the hair clip is broken. Now you have to take me outside the mansion and buy me a new one.”
The child spoke with a mischievous smile—the kind of smile so different from Xie Lian’s, which carries humility and light.
This child is so different from the being the ghost king loves. His gestures are impish, and his words do not awaken in Hua Cheng the paternal instinct that should be there. Maybe it’s because, in the alpha’s eyes, the child is spoiled and lacks Xie Lian’s humility, having never known hunger or cold. Or perhaps those crimson eyes—so much like his own—are hard to love because they reflect an inheritance that stains the finest gold, the very gold that symbolizes the being to whom Hua Cheng dedicates his prayers.
Years ago, when a healer visited the mansion and announced Xie Lian’s pregnancy, the ghost king’s mind plunged into darkness. Perhaps that is why he barely remembers those moments. His body and heart worked automatically to care for his gege, to make sure the omega suffered no discomfort caused by that thing invading his body like a parasite consuming everything around it.
“San Lang, I really am fine. Right now, I worry more about this little one who seems to be asking for a love that I can’t give him,” the god said, caressing his belly. “The essence of an alpha who can calm his sleep and give him security.”
“Gege, this devotee will watch over your safety and your happiness,” the alpha said with complete honesty. “If what Gege desires is that I care for the being you carry, then I will. I will protect him with everything I have so ege will not suffer.”
Back then, Xie Lian accepted that it was not the time to question his husband’s lack of affection toward their future prince. Ever since the pregnancy announcement, the god had seen in Hua Cheng’s eyes that a war was about to begin.
“San Lang, today the baby was more active than usual.”
“San Lang, the little one really likes peach pastries.”
“San Lang, I think he’ll be an omega. His energy is soft like a flower petal and sweet like a peach.”
With every word from the god about their child, the omega noticed Hua Cheng’s shoulders tense and his eyes sharpen in alarm—at a danger even he didn’t seem able to understand. Yet Xie Lian understood this much: his husband’s heart was far too complex for him to claim his place as this child’s father. How could he, when he never knew a parental caress, when his only reference for a father was a figure of violence?
And so, the god waited with patience and hope. After all, his husband had always been good with children—respectful, gentle, never hurting them.
Before the prince’s birth, the ghost king played with the children of mortal villages, and not once did a hint of anger or disgust appear in the alpha’s expression.
“I don’t like this food,” the boy declared decisively as he pushed his plate away.
A common occurrence at dinner, since Xie Lian’s cooking is not to everyone’s taste—and every time it happens, Hua Cheng gets angry. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a guest or his own son.
“No one who has set foot in this home and belittled your niang’s food has ever left here alive,” the ghost king declares—an exclamation so familiar it is sometimes accompanied by a tug on the ear or a firmer, louder voice. “Now eat all your food and thank your niang.”
But the child knows how to demand with firmness. He can complain and command like a prince, and above all, he can cry and laugh freely. In simple words, he is too noisy, too invasive for his father’s taste.
“Baba, I didn’t bump into you—you bumped into me.”
A child with character, unafraid of an alpha twice his size. And that unsettles the ghost king, who can’t help comparing his son to mortal children with fear in their eyes, children who fight for a piece of bread and never demand a new hanfu just because they dislike the color of the one they have.
“How could the most perfect and pure being like Danxia create a child so unlike him?” It is the question Hua Cheng asks himself every time his son does something he dislikes.
“Where are you going, baba?” the boy asked, unaware of the turmoil in his father’s mind.
“I’m going to prepare tea for your niang for when he returns. Now go play somewhere else.”
As always, Crimson Rain resumes his tasks, choosing to bury the thoughts he isn’t ready to hear.
But while preparing the tea, one last question rises in his mind:
Why does his heart open for his gege, but not for his son?
An easy answer: because his gege was his reason for existing, the only one who showed him compassion; because his gege was the reason he died, lived, and bled to build this place he calls home.
Then another question strikes abruptly: Why do those other children not trouble him, but his own blood does?
And although it pains him to admit it, the answer stands clear before him: it is because the boy is his own blood. Those other children represent a fleeting happiness, and Hua Cheng could never harm or damage them with his brief presence in their lives. But his son… his son is a lifetime contract of absolute protection toward a unique and priceless treasure. Those children are not a reflection of everything he hates about himself.
The prince’s birth is a blurred day for Hua Cheng, who watched his omega suffer through pain once again. Trembling and teary-eyed, Xie Lian took their child in his arms and, with a tired smile, gestured for Hua Cheng to come closer.
“Look at him, San Lang. Come and smell him,” the god said softly, trying to bring the baby closer to his husband.
Attempting to lighten the atmosphere, he added, “He’s so beautiful, and just as I said, he’s an omega. So by law, he must be spoiled by his alpha father.”
That day, the ghost king had a brief moment in which his instincts recognized that this little cub was his son. The child’s features were not yet defined, but light brown hair like Xie Lian’s already crowned his small head.
But everything shattered when the baby opened his eyes, and Hua Cheng saw himself reflected in those crimson rubies.
“Horrible, grotesque, unworthy.”
Those were the words that rushed through the alpha’s mind—words he would never speak, lest he ruin his gege’s joy.
“He’ll be a strong omega like his niang,” was the only thing he dared to say.
But once again fate worked against them, and the child is not strong like his niang, not intelligent like his niang, not beautiful, kind, gentle, or humble like the being he is supposed to resemble—at least in Hua Cheng’s eyes.
The boy is not Xie Lian. And that truth is killing Hua Cheng.
“Niang, why do I have to give away my favorite toys? They’re my friends,” the boy asked with tears wetting his cheeks.
“Because there are children out there who have never had toys as lovely as yours, and they would be very happy if you shared them. It would bring a smile to their faces,” Xie Lian explained gently.
He wanted to teach his son a lesson in humility and had decided to donate some of the boy’s wooden toys. But the child has never been one to stay silent.
“All of this is mine, and I don’t understand why I should give my things to people I don’t even know,” the child exclaimed.
After a long sigh, Xie Lian stood firm and ordered him to gather the toys so they could deliver the donations together.
That day, the ghost king realized the difference between the two omegas in his family: while Xie Lian fulfills the dream of that little prince of Xianle who once proclaimed he wanted to help common people, their son dreams instead of having lots of gold to buy beautiful things.
In those small details Hua Cheng sees a flaw—one caused by his own blood.
While the former prince of Xianle defied omega stereotypes by dreaming of becoming a cultivator, the prince of Ghost City embraces everything Xie Lian is not: wearing the most beautiful hanfu, the shiniest accessories.
But worse still, the little prince has no interest in swords, spears, bows, or any weapon that requires effort. This discourages Xie Lian, who had declared even during pregnancy that the boy would be his best disciple. Instead, the child seems more interested in painting, reading, and music.
The god accepts this and tries to support him, but the ghost king—who knows his husband better than anyone—knows Xie Lian would be happier if his heir weren’t so reluctant to get his hands dirty. Perhaps that is why the older omega loves playing with the mortal children of humble villages.
The incense lit early that morning interrupts the darkness of Hua Cheng’s thoughts, and he finishes preparing his gege’s tea.
It is not a simple infusion; it is an offering of love, made with leaves and herbs that grow only under the energy of Ghost City. Once the tea is ready and poured into Danxia’s favorite porcelain cup, the king moves with the agility of a high-level ghost toward the kitchen exit to wait for his husband.
So focused was the alpha that he didn’t hear the hurried yet feather-light footsteps of a prince approaching him, hoping at least for a scolding from his father.
The impact of the child hitting the ghost king’s leg was minimal, but enough to make the hot tea slip from Hua Cheng’s hand and spill downward—straight onto the little omega’s right arm.
For a few seconds, silence filled the air, tense and suffocating, until it was broken by the boy’s scream.
What followed was not the cry of a spoiled child, nor the protest of a child refusing to eat, nor the demand of a prince asking for attention.
It was the wail of a child feeling, for the first time, a searing, physical pain—and that sound shattered the ghost king’s clouded mind.
There was no “I’m sorry,” no embrace—but neither was there anyone there to tell the alpha what he should do.
This time, Hua Cheng knelt before the prince because he chose to.
“Give me your arm.”
Short words, but enough for the boy to extend his arm so his father could heal the blisters forming with his own spiritual energy.
“San Lang!”
A worried cry sounded from the entrance.
“What happe—”
The god’s words died in his throat, replaced by shock and concern.
“Gege…” came the ghost king’s flat voice. “It was my fault, gege…”
Anyone passing by would say the reaction of the terrifying calamity is disproportionate to the seriousness of the situation, but Xie Lian knows well that the tension in his husband’s shoulders and the trembling in his alpha’s hands are not normal—something that doesn’t stop even when the little one is already completely healed.
“Baba… Niang…” whimpers the child, still crying from the shock of the impact and the pain that had torn through his skin just minutes earlier. Exhausted, the little prince allows himself to rest against his father’s chest, and for the first time, the elder shows no trace of rejection.
Seeing this, Xie Lian is left astonished yet relieved that their cub suffered no severe or lasting harm, and he collapses to his knees beside his son. “It’s alright, it was just an accident, San Lang,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything is alright now.” He murmurs it more to himself than to anyone else.
“Gege, please take the little one to rest.” After clearing his throat, the Ghost King finally manages to speak. With arms still trembling—barely, but undeniably—he hands their son to Xie Lian, who receives the child with a firm, protective embrace.
“Thank you, San Lang. You did everything you could,” the god murmurs to his alpha before leaving for the bedroom to rest with their child. The alpha is left alone with his clouded thoughts.
Those crimson eyes that once looked at him with admiration—Hua Cheng now remembers them filled with a deep, painful fear. And for the first time, he fears that those silent little duckling steps might vanish from the mansion… or worse, that he might once again be the cause of tears falling from those eyes.
The Ghost King does not think—he simply acts. He does not question why he does it or for whom. He steps out of the mansion in search of something that might calm his mind and the soul that screams for him to do something.
He wanders through the city stalls, looking for anything that might help, though he does not truly know what he is searching for—a gift, a treasure, or perhaps an apology.
He returned hours later, when his husband and son were already asleep, curled up against each other. For a moment, to the alpha’s eyes, those two omegas looked so alike. He did not stay long, leaving only after placing a small cloth pouch beside his son.
A soft jingling of bells began to be heard from that day on—a gift from the Ghost King to his descendant. In the prince’s hair now rests a new accessory with two tiny bells hanging from it, allowing every servant and passerby to hear the prince approaching. His once silent steps had become music announcing his arrival.
There was no vow of eternal love nor a fierce oath of protection, but there was recognition—recognition of a being who demands to be seen as he is, with a sound of his own.
That day, the Ghost King did not hand his son the key to his heart, but he did offer him something that allowed the small prince to be heard by those who overlook his existence—including his father.