Work Text:
Shang Qinghua was about ninety-percent certain he was about to die. Again.
Actually, scratch that, “again” felt redundant. He was always teetering on the precipice of death. It was his natural habitat at this point. Usually, it was the "Dàwáng is staring at me with a look that says your head would look great on a pike, which is both attractive and really scary" kind of doom. But this was worse! This was so much worse. In some fucked-up turn of events, having his neck snapped didn’t seem quite so bad at all. At least his king was consistent.
Shang Qinghua stood by the entrance of Shen Qingqiu’s Bamboo House. He huddled in on himself, clutching a stack of reports to his chest so hard the edges were beginning to wilt. His free hand jittered, fiddling frantically with the jade pendant on his sword. It was one of the many gifts Mobei-Jun had graciously bestowed (read: tossed) upon him.
The pendant felt much too warm against his fingers, like it had been sitting too close to a fireplace, or worse, like it was feeding on his fear. Which was absurd. It was just a piece of jade. It wasn’t alive. Probably. Maybe he had written a shapeshifting jade demon once. He couldn’t remember. (Was Mobei-Jun spying on him through the jewelry? It wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd written.) Though, between the millions of words of Proud Immortal Demon Way and the endless nights spent caffeinated into a stupor, details tended to blur together. Now, it seemed, the minutiae were coming back to bite him in his significantly more padded, transmigration-era ass. That last bit was the only upside to his miserable existence.
Even if he didn’t write it, the system might’ve added it as filler. Which was incredibly stupid. Like who even decided the system should be authorized to decide anything! He huffed, the sound lost to the serene forest. And it’s not like he, the author, had been consulted or given any choice in the matter. One minute he was poor, needy and electrocuting himself, and the next, the System was jabbering in his ear with the kind of bubbly faux enthusiasm usually reserved for car salesmen and cult leaders.
“Surprise! You died in your original world and have been isekaied! Oh, and one more thing: you’re now living in that absolute dumpster fire of a story that you wasted years of your life writing! You’re officially doomed to be overworked and underpaid until you die at the hands of your favourite character. The best part? It's you who has to make sure the plot stays on the rails! ~(≧▽≦)/~”
Really, he was thrilled to be the paragon of interdimensional labour exploitation. Just look at his face, isn’t he emitting the purest and truest of joy? His only saving grace was that Mobei-Jun provided magnificent eye candy and occasionally thanked him for his work, even if that gratitude usually involved a side of being punched in the face.
And yeah, sue him for putting himself out there creatively and writing a lot of inconsistent stuff when he was skint and horny. It would be nice to think he was past that, except he was still technically both, just with more paperwork and bureaucratic obligations. Let’s just be positive for once and hope he didn’t write sentient spyware, because he did not have time for that right now, because Shen Qingqiu had invited him for tea! Shen Qingqiu. Invited him. For tea!!!
A faint rustle came from inside the house.
Shang Qinghua straightened in a rapid, bone-popping jerk, so hurried his spine nearly manifested a spirit and filed out a formal complaint (which would be quite taxing to read, as his spine surely lacked decent calligraphy as well as hands). The stack of reports in his arms slipped dangerously, threatening to cascade across the floor and expose his incompetence. He caught them before they could betray him further, catching the outliers and frantically lining up the pages anew like that would somehow smooth his chances of survival.
Truth is, he’d been watching Shen Qingqiu for months now. The man was still acidic, sure, but his aura was wrong. Shang Qinghua might be useless in the spirit-reading department, but come on! The Shen Jiu he had written was a sharp, jagged piece of glass; this version felt more like a pristine, frozen lake that had suddenly thawed into a vat of warm, confusingly sweet soy milk: he was somewhat polite to his disciples; he didn't sneer at the peak lords as much; and most terrifyingly, he had made routine of looking at Shang Qinghua with sharp, unreadable scrutiny.
Oh god, Shang Qinghua thought. He knows. He’s seen the future. He’s regressed.
It made perfect, horrible sense. The math was all there! In some absurd timeline Shang Qinghua had dreamt up (or maybe a chapter he'd scrapped in a fit of self-loathing), Shen Jiu must have reached the pickle pot stage of his life, realized he’d majorly messed up, and somehow, through some forbidden demonic array or a fluke of the heavens, thrown his soul back into his younger body.
Now the original Shen Qingqiu was back, armed with prophetic knowledge and a burning grudge. Which meant Shen Qingqiu knew exactly who was responsible for his misery. And who would be at the very top of that grudge list? The pathetic little spy who’d sold the sect out to Mobei-Jun, of course.
"Might there perhaps be something faulty with this one’s visage?" Shen Qingqiu asked, snapping his fan shut.
"No! No, Shixiong is as radiant as the morning sun!" Shang Qinghua blurted out. He dropped into a bow so low he nearly headbutted the porch. He’s going to peel my skin off. He knows I’m the one spying for the Northern Demons! What if he knew Shang Qinghua was the author of this nonsense filled, porn-addicts fever dream of a trashy stallion novel?! What if he knows he’s the one who cursed him with that shitty backstory?! He could know he’s the one who made Luo Binghe a literal paragon of vengeance. He’s just waiting for the right moment to kill him!
[WARNING: Elevated stress levels detected.「USER 01」, please remain calm to further ensure the perfect embodiment of An Ding Peak Lord, Shang Qinghua! ✧ദ്ദി( ˶^ᗜ^˶ )' ]
Shang Qinghua’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. System! Shang Qinghua wailed internally. System, you glitchy piece of junk, help me! He’s a Regressor! He’s lived through the human-stick ending and now he’s back to prune the weeds early!
The System remained professionally silent, likely enjoying his suffering.
Shen Qingqiu stepped closer, his boots making soft thuds on the floorboards. He hovered awkwardly, his eyes scanning Shang Qinghua with a weirdly intense, searching squint. He looked like he was trying to solve a most difficult Sudoku puzzle written on Shang Qinghua’s forehead.
He risked a glance at the man. Due to popular demand, Shen Qingqiu had been a fairly conventional antagonist. A bitter, stereotypical, “I hate everyone because I had an extremely awful childhood and refuse to engage in any form of emotional processing or self-reflection, instead choosing to turn it into everyone else’s problem” type of guy in the later chapters. Shang Qinghua had written him that way! He knew just about every miserable thought running amok in that nicely shaped head, but this Shen Qingqiu was just off.
He had been for a while. The bitterness had been replaced by a strange, high-strung elegance that presented suspiciously similar to high-functioning anxiety. No way, that was impossible. No way Shen Qingqiu would be plagued with such ails. Shen Qingqiu didn’t do anxiousness.
No matter. Even more uncharacteristically, Shen Qingqiu had seemingly begun to no longer abuse Luo Binghe very harshly at all; in fact, he continuously looked at the protagonist with a mix of awe and absolute terror. He hadn’t whipped him in months. Luo Binghe had become something like a glitter bomb, beautiful and cherished, but at the end of the day, still an explosive at its core.
Shang Qinghua had even heard rumours Shen Qingqiu had moved Luo Binghe into his private quarters — to cook for him! Shen Qingqiu, the most paranoid man in existence, voluntarily sharing his space with a half-demon and letting him cook his meals! And, he had seemingly begun to wean himself off of drinking his expensive, hand-plucked Luyu leaf tea in favor of plain hot water, staring into the cup like it held the secrets to a stress-free life. Shen Qingqiu would never be caught hydrating like a commoner if he wasn’t mourning the limbs lost in a life past, reminiscing about the simpler times before the jar!
(If Shen Qingqiu wanted to go on a tea detox he really should tell Shang Qinghua so he can budget more effectively...)
If Shen Qingqiu hasn’t time-traveled, Shang Qinghua would insist he have an examination of his meridians to ensure he hadn't unknowingly been in active qi-deviation these last few years.
Shen Qingqiu flicked his wrist invitingly and they moved into the Bamboo House, setting themselves comfortably around a low table.
They exchanged the polite small talk etiquette expected of them. At least the tea helped him calm himself. Then Shen Qingqiu began to speak in earnest, "This Shen Qingqiu has recently been... reconsidering many things," he said carefully.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckkkkk
Shen Qingqiu tapped his fan against the table slowly. "For instance... one may realize that the people around oneself are not always what they appear."
Shang Qinghua nearly blacked out. He knows. He absolutely knows. "Shidi has always been very... resourceful," Shen Qingqiu continued. "Connected. Aware of unusual developments."
[ WARNING: Elevated stress levels detected. ]
NO SHIT!
Shen Qingqiu leaned slightly forward, his voice sounding oddly strained, as if he were attempting to strike a casual tone but failing terribly. He flicked his fan open, then shut, then open again in a restless rhythm.
"Tell me honestly, Shang-shidi," he said quietly, his eyes narrowing with a sharp, searching squint. "Regarding the future of the sect—and specifically, the progress of my head disciple, Luo Binghe... do you perhaps know something this master does not? Does Shidi have any... insights? Any thoughts on his potential?"
Shang Qinghua's thoughts derailed instantly. This was it.
He’s testing me! He’s checking to see if I know Luo Binghe is a ticking time bomb!
Shang Qinghua’s heart did a backflip, beating painfully against his ribs at the speed of a mouse’s. He had to say something. Anything at all.
"He's going to be great! Nice! Tremendous! A real world-shaker! He’s definitely going to be fine. Completely fine. No foreseeable issues whatsoever for anyone who stays well out of his very avoidable way! We should probably be nicer to him! Maybe hug him occasionally. Positive reinforcement. Or just give him a sword! And a very nice manual that isn't cursed!"
It seemed Shang Qinghua’s survival instincts had vanished in the wind.
Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widened. He took a half-step back, his grip tightening on his fan until the wood creaked.
Oh god, Shang Qinghua thought, his vision narrowing. Oh what the fuck! I’ve said too much. I’ve as good as confirmed I have an inkling about the plot! I’m usually so good at deflecting, why would I say that! This is so out of character for me. He’s going to kill me now. I'm a dead man. I'm a human-stick-in-waiting. Goodbye, world. Goodbye, delicious melon seeds. Goodbye, my beautiful, murderous King; I’ll miss your icy glares that could probably freeze a man’s blood to ice and your extremely muscular, herculean thighs that could —actually, let’s not go there right now. I’ll miss the way your scanty blue robes contrast with the snow and how you never actually killed me even when I deserved it!
Shen Qingqiu started to say something, his voice trembling slightly. Then, the man went stiff as a board. His eyes bugged out, staring at the empty air between them. His mouth clicked shut, looking like he was trying to swallow a lemon. He glared at the empty air, then back at Shang Qinghua, his expression shifting from shock to a simmering, indignant fury.
"Get out," Shen Qingqiu hissed through gritted teeth.
"Shixiong—?"
"OUT! Before I decide that the world is better off without such a rat!"
Shang Qinghua did not need to be told twice. He scrambled for the door, dropping half his reports and not caring one bit. He sprinted down the paths of Qing Jing Peak like his life depended on it (which it did).
Inside the house, Shen Yuan slumped against a thinly decorated wall, clutching his fan to his chest as if it were a life preserver.
System, you absolute fuck! he screamed in the privacy of his mind. I finally found another transmigrator, who clearly knows the plot —and you won't let me talk to him?! He might be User 01!
[ WARNING:「USER 02」attempted disclosure of transmigrator status. Optimisation in progress; restrictive filters have been reinstated to interpersonal dialogue.]
Optimisation in progress my ass! Shen Yuan fumed. He had been so close. He had seen the look in Shang Qinghua's eyes, the look of a man who knew exactly how many spikes were on The System’s torture rack. Shen Yuan had tried to gently probe about the (horrible, papapa-filled, trashy) plot, about Luo Binghe, about the future, and instead, he’d managed to scare the only potential ally he had into a fight-or-flight response. Mostly flight. He was unsure if Shang Qinghua had a fight within him at all.
"He looked as if he was about to faint! Why would he look at me like I was a ghost coming to drag him to the Yellow Springs?" Shen Yuan groaned, dragging his hands down his face to hide his distraught expression from the empty room. "I was trying to be supportive! Who suggests giving the protagonist a hug? Only a fellow victim of Airplane's shitty writing would!"
He didn't quite understand. Why was Shang Qinghua acting like he'd seen a monster? Sure, the Original Shen Qingqiu was a massive prick, but they were both in the same boat, weren't they? Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua? Antagonists doomed to die in horribly painful ways? He really just wanted to hold someone's hand and scream about how much the plot sucked.
"How am I supposed to save my skin if the only person who could possibly help me is crying in a bush?!"
[ Optimization in progress... ] the System chirped happily.
Shen Yuan wanted to scream. Shang Qinghua was likely already halfway to the Northern Border, mentally drafting a "Please Don't Kill Me" speech to present to Mobei-Jun. Or just prostrating himself; that seemed far more on-brand.
"This is why the pacing in your book sucked, Airplane!" Shen Yuan hissed at the ceiling. "Every time there's an opportunity for a rational conversation, someone runs away or falls off a cliff!"
He paced the length of the room, the rhythmic thwack of his fan against his palm the only sound in the room. He needed a plan. If the System was going to censor his words, he’d have to use more nuanced tactics. How do you signal 'I am also a modern person trapped in a webnovel' to a man who thinks you’re a murderer?
Maybe he could leave a trail of melon seeds leading to a trap? No, that was too ominous. And even Shang Qinghua wouldn’t fall for —actually, no, he just might. Could he hum the 'Little Apple' song? He could make a handwritten note in simplified or anglicised Chinese? No, the System would probably auto-translate it into cryptic cultivation-speak the moment he put brush to paper, turning "Hello Dearest Peer!" into "I See Your Sins" or something like that. English, then? Maybe. Could work if he spoke it. Shang Qinghua might not speak English. But, if Shang Qinghua truly was just an odd little fellow and not a transmigrator at all, he could claim it’s the dying dialect of a sect filled with decrepit south-eastern monks and he was only trying to parse Shang-Shidi’s dedication to preserving the culture of minor sects! Hah. Great fucking idea. Guilttrip the overworked rat.
"Great," Shen Yuan sulked, fanning himself furiously. "Just great. He’s going to avoid me like the plague, and I’m going to be stuck facing Binghe’s wrath all by myself.”
[ SYSTEM UPDATE: Misunderstandings lead to plot depth! However, due to User 02’s acute distress...]
[ SIDE QUEST TRIGGERED: "The Frugal Olive Branch" ]
[ OBJECTIVE: Assuage the terror of the Peak Lord of An Ding through an offering of goodwill. ]
[ REWARD: 100 B-Points and 10 minutes of 'Unfiltered Communication' buff. Further extension of reward may be discussed after completion.]
Shen Yuan perked up, fanning himself with renewed vigor while glaring at the glowing blue screen. "You’re not giving me more than ten minutes? I’ll need a lifetime to explain that I’m not a homicidal immortal with a penchant for child abuse! Did you not see his face? He looked like I was about to turn him into a meat skewer!"
He thought back to Shang Qinghua’s frantic babbling. The man had praised Luo Binghe and suggested hugging him.
Only another transmigrator would say something that suicidal to Shen Qingqiu, Shen Yuan thought, a spark of reignited hope flickering behind his irritation. He knows Binghe is the protagonist. He knows exactly where the story is headed. He knows how one might attempt to avoid the plot.
But why was he so terrified? If he was a fellow transmigrator, shouldn't he be relieved to see a friendly face? Unless...
Shen Yuan froze. Wait. Does he think I’m still the Original Shen Qingqiu, and that I’ve figured out he’s a spy?
He looked at the System notification again. He paced the floor, his fan clicking like a metronome of frustration. The System’s "Unfiltered Communication" reward was dangled in front of him like a carrot, but the cost was high. He had to assuage Shang Qinghua.
"Okay. Fine," Shen Yuan snapped, snapping his fan open with a sharp clack. "I'll do it. I'll assuage his terror. I'll buy him off. But if he screams and runs away, it better be his points that are docked, not mine!"
He strode toward the door, his mind spinning with possibilities. He needed to be careful. If the System wouldn't let him say the words, he would have to use subtext. He’d use slang. He’d use references so modern and obscure only a fellow shut-in would understand.
He paused at the threshold, narrowing his eyes at the path where Shang Qinghua had vanished.
"If I have to corner that rodent in a storage closet and recite the entirety of the Bee Movie script," Shen Yuan muttered. "Peer-to-peer networking is happening, Shang-Shidi. Whether you like it or not."