Archive of Our Own

I had spent centuries calculating the exact cost of a life, balancing the ledger of my family’s blood with the meticulous precision of a merchant. Shi Wudu was dead. My debt of vengeance was paid in full. But when I looked at the ledger of my current existence, I found a terrifying mathematical anomaly: I could not calculate the value of the five years I spent pretending to be Ming Yi.

So, I decided to buy my way out of it.

I changed my skin. I shed the suffocating aura of a Ghost King, suppressing my spiritual energy until my chest thudded with a fake, hollow heartbeat. I took the form of a wealthy, unmemorable merchant traveling through the Imperial Capital—fine silk robes, a heavy coat, and a face that would fade from memory the moment I turned a corner.

In my sleeve, I carried a heavy leather purse. Inside were fifty silver pieces. It was a ridiculous sum to give to a beggar. It was enough to buy a small house, warm clothes, and clean food for a lifetime. It was the price of my conscience.

I found him huddled beneath a rotting canvas awning, his lame leg tucked awkwardly beneath his patched robes. His hair, once pinned with jade, was tied with a dirty strip of cloth.

When my shadow fell over him, he didn't look up with the terror a ghost king deserved. He just held out his chipped porcelain bowl, his voice raspy but carrying that stubborn, lingering echo of the Wind Master.

"A copper for a bite to eat, wealthy master? May the heavens look kindly on your business."

I didn't drop a copper. I dropped the leather purse. It fell into his lap with a heavy, metallic thud.

Shi Qingxuan blinked. He picked up the purse, his dirty fingers trembling as he untied the string. When he saw the gleam of solid silver, his breath hitched. He looked up, his wide, dark eyes searching my unfamiliar, disguised face.

"Sir... Master, this is... this is too much," he stammered, trying to thrust it back toward me. "I can't take this. I have no way to repay you."

"Take it," I said. My voice was altered, deeper and raspy, but the cold weight behind it made him freeze. "Buy a roof. Buy a coat. Stop begging."

I turned and walked away before he could answer. There, I told myself as the rain washed over my fake mortal skin. It is done. You owe him nothing. He owes you nothing.

That was three months ago.

I should be in the Black Water Demon Lair. I should be sleeping for decades, or eating, or organizing my scrolls. Instead, I am standing in a narrow, filthy alleyway in the dead of night, wearing the same mortal skin, staring at a small, ramshackle brick house at the end of the lane.

He had bought the house, just as I intended. It was small, drafty, and humble, but it had a sturdy roof and a fireplace.

I told myself I only came back the first week to ensure he hadn't been robbed. A crippled mortal with fifty silver pieces was an easy target for the predators of the capital's slums. I told myself I was just protecting my investment.

But then the second week came. And the third.

Now, it is a sickness. Every few nights, my feet bring me back to this alley. I stand downwind so he cannot smell the faint scent of the sea that always clings to me. I watch the orange glow of his fireplace flicker through the cracks in his wooden window shutters.

Tonight, the wind is howling, carrying a bitter winter chill. I press my back against the damp brick wall across from his home, pulling my heavy coat tightly around myself. I do not feel the cold—I am a corpse, incapable of freezing—but the mortal skin mimics the shiver anyway.

Inside the house, I can hear him. My ghost ears pick up the uneven thud-drag of his footsteps as he moves across the floor. He is humming. It is a messy, cheerful tune from some tavern he visited centuries ago.

How can he hum? He is broken. He has nothing. His brother is gone, his divinity is shattered, and his limbs are ruined. I did that to him. I stripped away the gold and left him in the dirt. Yet, he builds a fire, cooks a meager bowl of rice, and hums to the empty walls.

The door suddenly swings open.

I freeze, pressing myself deeper into the shadows of the alley, holding my breath even though I do not need to breathe.

Shi Qingxuan steps out onto the threshold. He is wearing a thick, padded coat—bought with my silver—but he has a woolen shawl wrapped around his shoulders. He looks pale, his cheeks slightly hollow, but there is a clean warmth to him now. He holds a wooden bowl filled with steaming broth.

He doesn't look at the alley. He looks up at the dark, cloud-heavy sky, letting the cold wind whip his hair across his face.

"Ming-xiong," he whispers into the night.

My fake heartbeat skips a beat. The air in my throat turns to ice. He knows?

But he doesn't look toward my shadow. He just smiles a small, incredibly sad smile into the empty air, raising the bowl of broth slightly, as if offering a toast to a ghost who isn't there.

"It's freezing tonight," Shi Qingxuan says softly to the wind. "Wherever you are... I hope you're eating well. I hope you aren't cold."

He stands there for a long moment, waiting for an answer from a sky that will never give him one. When nothing responds, he sighs, turns back inside, and shuts the door, clicking the wooden latch into place.

The alley returns to darkness.

I stay rooted to the spot for hours, the fake mortal blood turning heavy and sluggish in my veins. I could leave. I could shatter this illusion, return to the sea, and never look back.

Instead, I reach into my sleeve. My fingers brush against the cold, smooth bamboo ribs of the mended Wind Master fan resting against my chest. I pull my coat tighter, lean my head against the cold brick wall, and settle in to watch his window until the dawn breaks.