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The martial gods of the south were two sides of the same coin: sun and moon, day and night. The things they shared in common were few and far between. One of them was cuisine. The veins of the South flowed with spice instead of blood. Their gods were no different.
One day, somebody had the bright idea to suggest a spice competition between the martial gods.
A slew of junior martial officials sat along the table in various states of consciousness. Some were silently crying. Some nursed a glass of milk. All of them had stopped eating. There was a general buzz of excitement and raucousness in the room as they looked to their senior martial officials, placing bets and arguing halfheartedly on who would win.
Xie Lian, politely and wisely, had declined to participate. He sat at the far end of the table with a big steaming pot of rice ready for rescue. On his shoulder perched a condescending-looking silver butterfly, if butterflies could be condescending, that whispered in his ear occasionally.
Quan Yizhen’s head was pressed against the table; the last round of chicken stir-fried with chili and Sichuan peppercorn had finally knocked him out. Xie Lian slid a small bowl of rice over for when he woke up. Lang Qianqiu’s red-rimmed eyes caught Xie Lian’s, and he nodded gratefully when he passed him one as well. Next to him, Pei Ming braced his fists on the table while tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. He refused the rice.
They’re such stupid, stubborn fools, complained San Lang. Come spend time with me! I want to eat your cooking, gege.
Oh, that was tempting! Xie Lian loved cooking for other people. I can’t, San Lang, he responded regretfully. The competition is still going. It won’t be long now. Maybe I should make a little something for the other gods after the competition, to alleviate the pain.
You absolutely should.
“Who’s still in the running?” asked Xie Lian.
Three hands went up: poor bedraggled Pei Ming and the southern gods.
Xie Lian was impressed! Mu Qing’s delicate, paper-thin face blazed red like a tomato, but his eyes were dry and he sat rigidly upright and proper like a statue. Feng Xin had a healthy flush over his cheekbones but otherwise looked completely normal, like he’d been out on a hot day.
“Why don’t you tap out? You look like you’re about to burst,” said Feng Xin, nudging Mu Qing.
“Sichuan peppercorns are literally from my territory. You tap out.” He drove his elbow into the other man’s ribs.
Whether they were actually accustomed to spice or holding on out of sheer tenacity, Xie Lian didn’t know. “Okay, next round,” he said.
Skip them to the highest level, said San Lang. I want to see them suffer.
“Skip us to the highest level,” demanded Feng Xin.
Pei Ming’s eyes bulged. He groaned and dropped his head on the table. “Goddamn it, I’m out. You guys have fun.”
Xie Lian passed him a bowl of rice and asked hesitantly, “Are you guys sure you want to skip?”
“Yes.” This was said in unison.
“Don’t embarrass yourself,” sneered Mu Qing. “Don’t go bawling like a baby once you find out you can’t handle it.”
“Who’s gonna bawl like a baby? Only one of us looks like a fucking overripe persimmon.”
“An overripe persimmon---”
Xie Lian hastily beckoned an attendant over before they could start a fight. The attendant presented a covered dish. He lifted the lid to reveal a bubbling pot, bloodred and so pungent that the entire table wrinkled their noises and teared up.
“Stand back, everyone,” warned the attendant. “Beware of the sauce spraying into your eyes. That is going to feel like death.”
Mu Qing and Feng Xin gingerly picked up a spoon each and scooped up a bit of the potent liquid.
Xie Lian prepared his rice bowls for battle.
Immediately, their faces intensified by several shades of red.
“Rice?” he suggested helpfully.
Mu Qing waved him off. “I’ve had… worse,” he coughed out through gritted teeth, casting a meaningful side-eye at Xie Lian. (What was that all about?) “I’m not losing to this imbecile.”
Feng Xin spluttered a loud ack and suddenly pounced on Mu Qing, grabbing his sleeve and shaking him back and forth. “Ahhhhh, I’m dying, I’m dying! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—”
“Let go of me, idiot!”
His effort to shake off the southeastern god was flimsy. He hunched over, tears flowing uncontrollably down his cheeks, gasping soundlessly like a fish. Mu Qing had always had an uncannily high pain tolerance.
The table watched in abject horror as two of their mightiest and oldest martial gods choked down the spoonful of red liquid.
Not for the first time, Xie Lian privately commended himself for not joining.
Guess they weren’t bluffing about that southern spice tolerance, mused San Lang. That soup would have killed the average man… ehh, it was worth a try. Oh. Gege, try asking them a question. His voice carried a sly undercurrent.
San Lang, did you supply this dish? Xie Lian tried again to offer his friends rice and was again refused. What’s in it?
“If we can’t even eat this, how can we call ourselves southerners? That's fucking embarrassing!” retorted Feng Xin.
Ask them a question, insisted San Lang. Ask them if they want to bone each other.
Xie Lian choked on a sip of tea, staining the tablecloth yellow. The present gods’ concerned gazes switched to him.
San Lang! So you did slip in that dish! Is it dangerous? I can’t ask them a question like that while they’re not completely in control of their faculties!
Not that he would ask, ever. He had too much tact for that. Plus, he didn’t want to be physically attacked and banished from heaven a fourth time, by his own best friends, no less.
The butterfly twitched its antennae a little guiltily. It’s just soup. Perfectly acceptable, very spicy soup I bought in Ghost City. They wanted a challenge, didn’t they?
San Lang… that’s…
It’s the perfect opportunity to ask them a question like this, San Lang said again. Spice is like wine or opioids, but even better. When you're too busy trying to survive the pain, some truths inevitably slip out. Gege, you can’t possibly not have noticed that there’s something going on between them, but they’re both too emotionally constipated to do something about it.
This was undeniable. Since Tonglu, the duo’s constant bickering had waned into something more friendly, like teasing with a little extra violence. Nothing like the vicious, guilt-ridden arguments of before, when they flung long rotten skeletons from the closet at each other just to have the tiniest upper hand.
If you give them a push now, they’ll finally get together and stop destroying the Heavenly Capital and being a thorn in gege’s ass. And they’ll be happier. Not that I care. It’s for my benefit too. I’m the one who pays for repairs. Please, gege!
Who was Xie Lian to deny his San Lang anything?
He pushed himself to his feet. “Feng Xin, Mu Qing.”
They turned two pairs of bloodshot eyes on him, one amber, one black, eyes that Xie Lian had grown up with.
Xie Lian gulped. “Do you, d-do you guys… do you… do…”
“Do we what, Dianxia?”
“Do you…!”
“Do we what???”
“Do you!!”
He flung his hands up. “Want some rice!” he finished lamely.
“No rice!!”
Sorry, San Lang!!! He slunk back to his seat awkwardly. This is hard.
Don’t worry about it, gege, sighed San Lang.
Maybe we should test to see if they actually have any romantic feelings for each other first.
Give me Pei Ming’s communication array password. I’ll have him do it.
Xie Lian silently whispered over the horribly crass word that was Pei Ming’s password, and San Lang went quiet. Across the table, Pei Ming jolted, touching two fingers to his temple in bewilderment, before his face split into a ghastly, delighted grin.
I’ll have him flirt with the broom general. We’ll see if we can get the one with a phobia of feelings to spill the beans first. Another outcome would be for the other one to get jealous and intervene.
Xie Lian was normally not an advocate for manipulating his friends, or anybody, but he had to admit he was curious.
Alright, as long as it doesn't go too far.
He snuck a glance. The two generals’ shoulders heaved as they sucked in cool air and tried not to combust. He could almost see the smoke curling out of their mouths like wispy dragon whiskers. And Mu Qing still hadn’t shaken off Feng Xin, who had buried his face into his loose robes.
Pei Ming sidled up to Mu Qing’s other side, throwing a lazy arm over his shoulders. “Xuan Zhen~~~!”
“What do you want.” Clearly, speaking inflamed the pain in his mouth, and Mu Qing punctuated each word with a grimace.
“I’m just realizing, man, that I don’t know you very well! You never drink with us, so I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing any of your drunken confessions!”
“I know. Too much. About you, Ming Guang. Go away.”
“But it’s okay! You don’t have to drink! You’re practically stoned by spice right now anyways, so we can play this game just fine!”
“Ew! Get away from me!”
Pei Ming twirled an inky-black section of Mu Qing’s hair around his finger. “Xuan Zhen, you’re always so cold and distant, but I have to wonder: is there anyone who has caught your esteemed gaze? Anyone you like? Like perhaps a certain…?”
No response. Mu Qing’s gaze was unfocused and he looked a moment away from blacking out.
“Hello?”
Mu Qing’s head thumped on the table.
Pei Ming panicked. He rolled Mu Qing’s head over and poured tea in his mouth and frantically patted his face. “Wake up!!” Mu Qing snapped back up again.
“No tea! Hey, stop! I have to beat Feng Xin!”
Truly, this was the bullheaded, spiteful person Xie Lian knew and loved. “I think Feng Xin is already unconscious,” he piped up.
“He is not. He is crying into my shoulder.”
Feng Xin in fact was out cold, because he had stopped swearing, and that was the ultimate indicator of his consciousness.
Pei Ming and Xie Lian exchanged an inscrutable glance. Xie Lian nodded. Keep going.
“You have such pretty hair, Xuan Zhen, what's your routine~~”
“You have such luminous eyes, Xuan Zhen~~”
“You have such a nice figure, Xuan Zhen, seriously, what a pity~~”
“Say! What do you think about coming over to my palace tonight? Just the two of us. I know many ways we can keep busy.” Pei Ming waggled his eyebrows in the suggestive, lascivious way that had probably invited hundreds of women to swoon into his bed.
So far, Mu Qing had given no sign of hearing Pei Ming, but at this, he slammed his hands into the table. Bowls trembled and tea splashed over the walls of cups.
“I would rather shove a whole cactus up my ass than be in the proximity of your syphilitic, worm-infested, public bathroom equivalent of a bed.” He promptly collapsed onto the table.
Silence.
“What does that mean,” whispered Quan Yizhen, who had just woken up, as he poked a mortified Lang Qianqiu.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our winner,” said Xie Lian with as much cheer as he could muster.
Up and down the tables, junior officials cheered or moped as bets were collected and debts paid off. Xie Lian sighed in resignation.
What a bitter old man, whined San Lang. The only thing we could get him to confess was an admittedly colorful insult for Pei Ming. Seriously? That's the big reveal? This is so disappointing.
Xie Lian idly wondered if his outburst would damage Mu Qing’s reputation in the heavens, but he quickly banished the notion. Between eight hundred years of brawling with Feng Xin and tearing down the city brick by brick, this barely scratched the surface.
Pei Ming ruffled his sleeves. “Well, that hurts. I’ve never met someone who rejected my advances so intensely. Spice really brings out the worst parts in a person, huh?”
“With all due respect, Ming Guang,” said Xie Lian mildly. “You kind of had it coming.”
—-
As the party ended and guests drifted out of the banquet hall, Xie Lian found himself trailing behind his friends with the silver butterfly still fluttering by his shoulder. Feng Xin had regained consciousness earlier and carried a lightly snoozing Mu Qing on his back. Pei Ming led the little group.
Talk to the dumb one, urged San Lang. I’m not going home today until this gets sorted out!
(He hadn’t left home in the first place.)
Xie Lian sighed and moved into step along Feng Xin as they made their way onto the polished golden streets of the Heavenly Capital.
“Feng Xin,” he greeted.
“Dianxia! What’s up?”
“What do you think about Mu Qing? He’s very pretty, isn’t he?” A bit forward, but he hoped it sufficed. Feng Xin didn’t typically read between the lines.
Feng Xin frowned. “Sure? I can’t believe he defeated me. I don’t even know when I fell asleep.”
An expected and neutral response. “Ah,” hedged Xie Lian. He hesitated with his follow-up questions.
What if Feng Xin was still in love with Jian Lan? What if insinuating that he and Mu Qing were in love would only dredge up painful memories? Xie Lian didn’t want to hurt his friends, or even worse, snip apart the fragile strands of amity that had been steadily growing.
“Dianxia? What’s wrong?”
“Let me down, motherfucker!”
Mu Qing had woken from his spice-induced stupor, and he struggled free from Feng Xin’s hold. He jumped onto the ground and slung a heavy fist into Pei Ming’s side. The god doubled over with an oomph.
“What was that for?!”
“Pei Ming, you pi—no, I can’t even call you a pig because a pig would be ashamed to be associated with you. You disgusting, filthy, slime-ridden harlot!”
“Rude!” Pei Ming glared and rubbed his side. “I should be the one punching you! Don't tell me you forgot what you told me earlier in your spice coma!”
“Well, you know what’s rude?!” challenged Mu Qing. “Trying to sleep with a taken man!”
“???” (Xie Lian)
“???” (Pei Ming)
??? (Hua Cheng)
“He fucking tried to what?” Feng Xin’s head swung toward Pei Ming. “You--what--huh?”
Pei Ming’s jaw hung open. “You have a partner? Since when, Mister Cultivation?”
Mu Qing flushed from the tips of his ears down his neck, and reached for Feng Xin’s face. With his fingers buried in his hair, he pulled him in for a deep kiss.
Time seemed to freeze around them as the onlookers watched, gaping and eyes wide. Not even Pei Ming had a stupid little hoho to contribute.
They suddenly broke apart.
“There’s still spice on your mouth! Ughhh!!”
Xie Lian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “So, how long have you two been together?”
“Since around, oh, six hundred years ago?”
Cold air billowed behind Xie Lian and sent a soft gust rolling up his neck. When he turned around, he spotted Hua Cheng materialize within a cloud of shimmering silver butterflies, looking pristine and alluring as usual. “What the fuck,” said Hua Cheng, very calmly and very seriously.
“San Lang!” Xie Lian greeted happily.
“Gege!” San Lang hooked his arm around Xie Lian’s shoulders and glared belligerently at the duo. “So when you two destroy buildings, are you not actually fighting, but rather--?”
“What the fuck!” shrieked Mu Qing. “No, no, no, shut up!”
A crowd of junior officials had formed around them, attracted by Hua Cheng’s waterfall of silver butterflies and the general commotion.
“I guess we got our answer, San Lang,” said Xie Lian.
“Dianxia,” said Feng Xin. “What was the last dish? I didn’t recognize it.”
“Ah, haha, ahahaha…”
San Lang raised his chin defiantly. “I bought from a recently deceased ghost cultivator named Wei Wuxian in Ghost City.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart, I’m sure,” said Mu Qing. “Spit it out. What was your ulterior motive?”
“To get you to admit that you're in love, so you’d fuck off and stop bothering gege.” Hua Cheng snorted. “Turns out you are both naturally insufferable and nothing can fix that.”
“Language,” scolded Xie Lian halfheartedly. His face was pinched with guilt, and he bowed deep at the waist to Feng Xin and Mu Qing, “I’m really, seriously, sincerely sorry for tricking you! We just thought the spice would help you loosen up a little. I swear, we didn't mean to insult you or spill your secret, although I’m a little hurt you never told me, and I’m sorry if Pei Ming offended you with his advances…”
“I deserve reimbursement,” muttered Pei Ming.
“You deserve every word I said,” said Mu Qing.
Feng Xin sighed. “Dianxia, there was no need to ply us with unnatural peppers from your evil ghost spouse in the first place… you know we would have told you if you'd just asked, right?”
“Now the whole entire fucking Heaven knows!”
The martial gods of the south were two sides of the same coin: sun and moon, day and night. The things they shared in common were perhaps not as few and far between as initially thought. High spice tolerance, for one. Hatred for a certain ghost king, for two.
Wedding vows, for three.