Chapter Text
The streets are full of rumours, and the crowds congregate before the storyteller’s humble seat on some steps by the main road. They are the sources to be trusted in times of changes, such as these.
Kingdoms come and go, rulers are crowned, then they’re fallen. But gossip is considered a steady income that has survived well past any king and tyrant. It is uniting to go to the market and listen to some minister’s recent misfortune together. To laugh and tell each other, “That criminal had it coming!” and “We simple folks don’t have it too bad after all, if you think about it.”
It has not been too long since a great tragedy struck the palace. There is a great variety of tales what happened that fateful night, one bloodier than the other. They all end with the king and queen’s death.
Their son, the crown prince Lang Qianqiu, has ascended the throne only a few weeks ago. That’s what they know for sure, even though none of the traditional celebrations took place except the absolute necessary minimum of rituals to not offend the Heavens. But officially, the country still mourns their late rulers.
Song Jiayi, the keeper of an inn in one of the wealthier parts of the city, swears that one day as he passed the palace gates, he caught a glimpse of young Lang Qianqiu leaving the Imperial Temple. All the remaining members of the imperial family wore the simple, colourless mourning attire, but Lang Qianqiu was clad in armour, the innkeeper says. But what really caught his attention was the new king’s expression. It was nothing like the playful, but sincere prince they had known!
“Storms were clouding his face, and he looked grown-up over night!”, Song Jiayi proclaims, slapping a towel in his hand. “He mounted his horse and declared revenge on all his enemies! He would not rest until his parents had been avenged. But he is a good son, the young people nowadays forget to honour us parents too often!”
Indeed, Lang Qianqiu has been quite productive these past months, weeding out any possible traitors so thoroughly even innocents were dragged into the mess.
The blood trail left in a fit of filial piety is longer than the one the floor of the Gilded Banquet and justice has been served in the wake of such tragedy. The raids and arrests have died down. The king has resumed his official duties. Order is restored, except…
Except, …
That traitorous Fang Xin Guoshi, accused of treason and convicted to death – just won’t die!
“Well, it sounds a bit outlandish,” Yin Yu admits.
“People love gossip so much, you’d think it feeds them. Always looking for stories to dramatize and drag out.”
Yin Yu considers his master’s words. The nagging feeling in his gut persists. “I am inclined to agree, except when I was about to finish my investigations, I heard a strange thing, I thought you might be interested in.”
Hua Cheng doesn’t even look up from his painting, but decides to humour Yin Yu, so he goes to tell the tale.
“As far as the palace’s official explanations go, the attack on the royal family was carried out by a group of rebels coming from the west border. But that doesn’t make sense, the west is doing well. They have no reason to complain. In truth, the traitors were closer to the crown prince. People say it was his teacher, the state preceptor Fang Xin, working together with the Prince An Le.”
“The last descendant of the Xianle royal family?”
“Exactly.” Yin Yu notes the strange shift of expression in Hua Cheng’s face but doesn’t question him on it.
“The Xianle people have started to assimilate into Yong’an culture. Families are joined, discrimination slowly left behind. Why would they revolt now?”
So he tells Hua Cheng.
When Yin Yu had went to the Yong’an capital, word on the streets was that Fang Xin, the state preceptor and mentor of Lang Qianqiu, had been plotting the end of the royal family for a long time. Objectively, it did seem unlikely that the dutiful and loyal mentor would betray the king so callously, when he had only gained this position by saving the crown prince’s life once.
“It was a plot! Oh, it all makes sense now,” one of the brothel girls exclaimed, when the man she was serving – the not-so-valiant son of a low-ranked general – told her the story. “Aiya, the poor prince!”
After being caught red-handed by the crown prince, Fang Xin had first fled but then been caught by Lang Qianqiu eventually. The cowardly Fang Xin refused a duel and thus was taken into custody to be sentenced.
“First he takes out the entire family, then he’s a coward?” Hua Cheng scoffs, less than impressed.
“The less famous version is that Fang Xin initially left the palace but then came back on his own to face his student,” Yin Yu says.
Hua Cheng nods. “And then he was sentenced to death, and something went wrong with that. But how is the Guoshi connected to An Le?”
“What was really suspicious was that at the same time, An Le Wang fell severely ill and died in a matter of days. No doctor could help him.”
“Then Fang Xin killed him too, because he saw him as a liability,” Hua Cheng muses. “They were probably trying to use each other to gain more power for themselves. What do the rumours have to say about that?”
“Some say it’s a punishment by the Gods, but most don’t think he was actually involved. Maybe Fang Xin asked for his help while infiltrating the palace, but they don’t think he was the driving force behind it. He was friends with Lang Qianqiu, after all.”
Hua Cheng nods absentmindedly, dipping his brush into the ink as he adds another thoughtful stroke to the portrait in front of him.
“So the Xianle line has died out?”
“Yes, it seems there are no other family members left. The Yong’an royal family tried to keep the Xianle line as contained as possible, while keeping them alive to appease the people who were originally from Xianle.”
But Hua Cheng already knew that. Yin Yu is aware what he is really asking.
“No signs of him then?”
Yin Yu shakes his head. “With information about An Le’s actual involvement so little, most stories focus on Fang Xin.”
Yin Yu shifts. “You do not seem interested in the immortality of the state preceptor at all.”
Hua Cheng gives him an unamused look. “Just talk most likely, as I said. Or it’s a ghost.”
“Would have to be quite a powerful one to maintain their appearance despite all the attempts at killing him. At least a Wrath.”
“As long as they leave me alone, I don’t care,” Hua Cheng says.
“Funnily enough, this state preceptor never showed his face. He’s reported to have always worn a mask. No one knows what he really looks like.”
Hua Cheng sighs. “You seem really fixated on this story. Go on, tell me then.”
Yin Yu can be glad he hasn’t drawn Hua Cheng’s anger yet. Usually, he can’t be bothered with listening to what he deems unimportant. Maybe Hua Cheng really is that bored. Maybe Yin Yu gets lucky for once.
Still, he really feels like this is important. Even when he doesn’t understand why.
“After Fang Xin had saved his life and become his mentor, Lang Qianqiu became rather attached to the Guoshi, always looking up to him. The imperial family favoured him, and he used his influence to sway them to a kinder stance towards the surviving Xianle people.”
“He was sympathizing with the Xianle people then. Makes sense, if he really worked with An Le,” Hua Cheng says.
His painting is slowly taking on form, the familiar face. Always the same. Yin Yu doesn’t know him, doesn’t know why, but he knows he is important to his master. Knows Hua Cheng has been looking for him for a long, long time, spanning centuries, almost half a millennium.
Xie Lian, he is called. Once a beloved crown prince of Xianle, once a god.
Hua Cheng thinks he is still alive.
Yin Yu shrugs at Hua Cheng’s comment. “Lang Qianqiu decided to respect that relationship and allow Fang Xin to die with dignity.”
“The man kills his parents, and the boy still believes in his teachings?” Hua Cheng can’t help but laugh. What a fool.
“It is said Fang Xin instilled a great sense of justice in the prince,” Yin Yu amends.
“Sure. What went wrong with killing him?”
“Fang Xin was given poison to drink. He was even allowed to return to his old rooms.”
“He never drank it!” Hua Cheng laughs. “Mystery solved.”
“Possible, but obviously Lang Qianqiu didn’t just let him go after that. In fact, next morning the state preceptor himself appeared in front of the court and said the poison didn’t kill him. He asked for a different punishment. Lang Qianqiu was furious and extremely embarrassed.”
“I can imagine,” Hua Cheng drawls. “And then?”
For someone not interested in this story, he is quite invested, Yin Yu quietly thinks to himself.
“Near the capital, there is a huge gorge. The king ordered one of his cousins and his most trusted general to escort Fang Xin there and throw him into the abyss. Both arrived at the palace, and reported their duty was carried out. But shortly after, the Guoshi returned too! He was fine, except for few minor injuries.”
“After being pushed into an abyss?”
“I don’t know how he did it either! But I went there myself and even at its shallowest parts the gorge is at least one hundred zhang deep! And the cousin and general both said they had pushed him down there, so how did he survive it?”
“Wouldn’t be the first traitors in that palace, would they?”
“If you don’t believe me, hear this next,” Yin Yu said, because there was absolutely no reasonable explanation for the next.
“Lang Qianqiu was even more mortified, so he then decided to hang him. He was hanged from a rope down the palace gates, everyone could see it, but the one humiliated was – once again – the king. Because Fang Xin dangled from there for days, but he remained alive. After a week, Lang Qianqiu had to let the guards take him down again and think about a new way to kill him.”
“That – is strange,” Hua Cheng relents. “But these are relatively low-impact deaths a ghost could get away with. A poison he never had to drink, a fall wouldn’t have dispersed him necessarily. He doesn’t need to breathe either, so the hanging would be useless.”
“Right,” Yin Yu hurried to agree, “But next, Lang Qianqiu ordered that Fang Xin was to be decapitated. He accused him of petty tricks and bribing officials and oversaw the procedure by himself. But when the executioner chopped of his head, the tiniest bit of skin just kept intact. And Fang Xin, badly wounded as he was, healed fast.”
“Clearly, that part is made up. Who has just a sliver of impenetrable neck? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, maybe it was. In any case, next Lang Qianqiu decided he had to take matters into his own hands. He put Fang Xin into a coffin, driving a stake through his heart. He nailed the coffin close, warded it against evil powers, and buried him in a small cave out in the desert. There was even an imperial decree that forbid anyone from going near.”
“And he survived that too?
“Exactly!” Yin Yu, picking up on Hua Cheng’s growing interest, gets excited on telling the story. “Ten days later Lang Qianqiu gets a bad feeling and starts wondering if his old master might have survived even this. He returns to the cave, opens the coffin and Fang Xin is staring back at him!”
“At that point he could’ve read it as a sign of the Gods and let the old man go,” Hua Cheng comments.
“He’s not old, did you know? He’s quite young, apparently. The exact age is unknown, but even without seeing his face, his skin is still smooth and he is agile. He looks like he is in his twenties, at most.”
“Huh,” Hua Cheng makes.
“Anyways, Lang Qianqiu went into a fit of rage on the way back to the place, tearing through the city and disturbing all his citizens. Although the state preceptor had survived, he was very weak. He had been constantly bleeding after all, with no food or water, or even air in that coffin. Lang Qianqiu bound him to a column and sat a whole night on his throne, raging at him,” Yin Yu continues the story. “But he didn’t even think about showing mercy. He fell asleep on his throne and the next morning, he’s totally calm. Says a god visited him in his sleep and he now knows what to do. He goes to his weaponry. Carefully selects his sharpest blades. You should know he is quite the skilled fighter, all thanks to his Guoshi.”
“Is he now? Sounds mediocre, after so many attempts at killing him,” Hua Cheng remarks drily.
“Yes! No one knows where the state preceptor was taught, but he is incredibly capable. It was how he saved Lang Qianqiu from being kidnapped. It’s a different story, not as popular anymore for obvious reasons.”
“Well?”
“Right, next you know, he orders everyone to stay outside the hall, as he finally kills Fang Xin himself. He slits his throat first, because he had realized that the state preceptor hadn’t been killed yet, but he clearly could suffer. He let him choke on his old blood for a while, until he had to face it: even this couldn’t kill Fang Xin. He became so angry, he started smashing his head into the ground, but even through this Fang Xin remained conscious. Lang Qianqiu’s rage reaches his height, he takes a sword and begins to stab the state preceptor right into his heart. Again, and again. Hundred times they say, Fang Xin even began begging for mercy, but-”
There’s a dull clunk as the wooden brush falls down. Ink bleeds carelessly onto the parchment, ruining the painting.
“Chengzhu?”
“Hun- hundred times?” The initial paleness of Hua Cheng’s face morphs into a dangerous expression. Yin Yu has seen him angry, but never – never like this. Like he will rip someone to shreds. Tear apart gods, the Heavens itself, if he must.
“My lord?” Yin Yu stands up, mirroring Hua Cheng’s sharp motion.
“His Highness,” he murmurs. He’s gone in a heartbeat.
Yin Yu blinks.
Then the pieces fall into place, sharp and clear. And it makes sense.
Because between the bored and the thunderous expression there was a moment. If it was anyone but Hua Cheng, Yin Yu would have said it was devastation. Immeasurable pain. Regret, even.
The city lord doesn’t care for anyone like that.
Only- a shadow told through fragments of memories that weren’t meant for his ears. Slivers of grandeur, of glory. An exception from the past.
One Yin Yu wasn’t sure truly existed.
All Supreme Ghosts sacrifice part of their sanity in that kiln, after all.
But Hua Cheng’s expression is burned into his mind, even as Yin Yu shakes off his stupor. He steps into something wet. Black ink dripping onto the floor, soaking into the wood.