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Fu Xuan stamped yet another report with her seal, and felt another part of her spirit shrivel up and die.
It was long past midnight—so long that the water clock had run dry, the mechanism conserving its energy for the morning, the maintenance staff clearly assuming there would be no one still in the Divination Commission at this hour.
Unfortunately, Fu Xuan’s veritable river of paperwork had not vanished with the last trickle of time-keeping water. And so she remained.
She picked up the next thing on her desk, stifling another yawn. It was a proposed list of changes for the Shifting Screens within the Divination Commission. More guardrails at each port, a quicker transport time, and larger capacity. All of which sounded perfectly excellent on paper, but would only be choked up in red tape—and not to mention the expense.
She shook her head and set it aside. She’d have Ping’er follow up on it later—it was still a valid proposal, but there were more pressing concerns.
The next thing on her desk: a missive from the Aquaglider Guild Amicassador, requesting guidance on a major upcoming trading venture. She sighed, and went hunting for blank parchment again—a daunting mission, considering her entire desk was covered in parchment.
She leaned over the desk to grasp a particularly promising corner of parchment, most of which looked mostly blank from her vantage point. And then—
She could not explain it. But her body already lay prone across the desk, and her eyelids had been growing heavier and heavier as the hours had passed.
And soon enough, her head was pillowed on her paperwork, and Fu Xuan was fast asleep.
When Fu Xuan awoke, she was a bird.
She blinked—tried to rub her eyes. Failed, because she had no more hands to rub them with, only wings. She looked up, up, up at the looming pile of yet-unfinished paperwork on her desk, and let out a mournful coo.
There was no more chance of her completing her work. Not in this state.
See, Fu Xuan was an oddity amongst the Xianzhou races—in that she had not begun life as a human, but as a mere swallow pecking after crumbs, descended from the Luofu’s stowaway birds. She had been content to live from branch to branch, tree to tree; unfettered by human joys and sorrows.
And then she’d accidentally eaten of the fruit of the Ambrosial Arbor and attained immortality—and with it, near-human sentience.
Suddenly, her simple life had no longer been enough. There must be more to this than living day-to-day on goodwill and scraps, she’d thought. And she’d watched the humans, and yearned.
It was possible for other living beings to gain human form. Possible, but difficult. It was only with the help of more of the Ambrosial Arbor’s fruit that Fu Xuan managed to acquire humanity after a mere two centuries of qi cultivation. And now she breathed and walked like one of them, her bird oft forsaken for the greater freedom of human flesh.
But her human form was only maintained by qi; if she had too little left, her body would revert to its original state, until she regained enough qi to reassume her human form.
She must have overdrawn from her qi reserves in her effort to keep working through exhaustion. And true enough, she could feel its lack, like the loss of half her heartbeat.
As drained as she was, she wouldn’t be able to shift back for some time. Which would leave the Divination Commission—and all her duties within it—unattended.
But precious few knew her secret. She could count their number on one hand. And of that number...
Fu Xuan sighed.
And of that number, there was only one person who she could entrust the Commission to in good conscience.
She hopped onto the windowsill and spread her wings, her expression uncharacteristically grim for a little pink bird.
She would peck him awake if she had to.
The general’s workday did not begin until lunch. Neither did he break his fast before ten, in his continuing effort to embody the living avatar of laziness. It worked for the most part, and his reputation for indulgence and carelessness was now well-known.
But Fu Xuan knew how carefully choreographed each yawn was; how calculated the drooping of his eyes were. A lot of words to say: at this hour, Fu Xuan knew that Jing Yuan would be able to help her—had already done so in the past, in fact—and that he had yet to leave his residence.
She soared through the Luofu, over dizzyingly high walkways, past speeding starskiffs, above the bustling Exalting Sanctum, and finally down a side street, cloaked from the average citizen’s view.
Here, the hubbub of the Luofu fell away, with only the trickling of a decorative stream breaking the silence. The general’s abode was further in, marked by double crimson gates that opened into a small but elegant courtyard, boxed in by humble wooden buildings.
Fu Xuan simply flew over the gates. There was something to be said about the freedom of flight—true wings were still an irreplaceable marvel of nature. As freeing as it was to be able to mingle with humans and make real impact, Fu Xuan would be lying if she said she never missed her wings.
Over the courtyard she soared, heading straight for his quarters, which were directly across from the gates. The windows at the back of his rooms were always cracked open—for wind, Jing Yuan claimed. Although it was more likely that he did it on purpose, to allow further rumors of his indolence to spread.
She tucked her wings in and dove behind the building. Sure enough, the windows were blessedly ajar. Fu Xuan swooped into the room and landed on a sleeping Jing Yuan with all aplomb.
She pecked his hand.
“Ow!”
That was quick. He must have been awake already, only waiting for the day to grow longer before truly rising.
Just for that, she hopped over and pecked his other hand. Jing Yuan hissed, and drew both hands to his chest. “Good morning to you too.”
Fu Xuan stared up at him, beady eyes unblinking.
“Yes, yes, don’t fret,” he grumbled. “I’ll make all the necessary arrangements. Anything else?”
Fu Xuan tilted her head, and waited.
Realization dawned on Jing Yuan’s face, and slowly, his frown began to fade. “Ah. Of course,” he said. “One moment. Let me get dressed.”
Fu Xuan chirped, then flitted over to his vanity to while away the time. In the past, there had always been various bits and bobs scattered atop it; perfect amusement for a bird. It was no different today.
She nudged at an elegantly wrought pen cap with her beak, then batted a creased handkerchief with her wing. She peered at herself in the mirror, too, preening her feathers in the bronzed reflection. Ever since she’d gained her celestial eye, her ere-black feathers had gone petal pink to match its hue. Where before, her inky coat had concealed most dirt, now the smallest speck on her feathers was glaringly obvious. It was annoying.
She gave a vigorous full-body shake, fluffed her wings, and again looked herself over in the mirror, rotating this way and that for a better view.
Jing Yuan appeared behind her in the mirror. “Fu’qing.” A gentle nudge of her beak. “You done?”
She snapped at the offending hand, and he drew back, laughing.
“Testy bird,” he said, grinning. He tapped his shoulder. “Come on. Up you get.”
If Fu Xuan could have sniffed, she would. Instead, she turned up her beak, and winged over to the crook of his neck, her claws closing around the fabric of his clothes so hard that she could feel the thread begin to fray.
“Off we go,” Jing Yuan said cheerfully.
In an effort to prevent herself from being jostled, Fu Xuan settled closer, tucking herself against his flesh. That was the only reason behind it.
The general’s residence was not too far from the Seat of Divine Foresight. In no time at all, Jing Yuan was at the gate, nodding to Chiyan in greeting. Chiyan clasped his fist in the other, bowing respectfully, and then—Fu Xuan saw him do a visible double take. At her, she presumed.
But Chiyan said nothing, only let them in. And just like that they were within the Seat of Divine Foresight. Jing Yuan strode past the guards without pausing, nodding briefly at them without breaking stride. Much like Chiyan, Fu Xuan noted some of them blinking rapidly; squinting at her, the pink blob on the general’s shoulder. But like Chiyan, they kept silent and only bowed, clasping a fist with the other hand in salute, despite the curiosity she glimpsed in their glances.
“Seems you’re quite the head-turner,” Jing Yuan whispered.
Fu Xuan fluffed her feathers haughtily. It was not her fault she was so eye-catching.
Unfortunately, the willful unacknowledgment of her very pink existence only lasted until Qingzu, who took one look at them and raised an eyebrow.
“General. Is there anything I need to know? Must I ask the ecologists of the Realm-Keeping Commission to update their catalogues with a new species of bird?”
“No need,” Jing Yuan said lightly. “Although—the Master Diviner is presently unavailable. The Divination Commission will be in my hands for the day. See to it that this temporary transfer of duties is quickly accomplished.”
“Ah,” said Qingzu. “Of course, General. I’ll liaise with the Divination Commission immediately. By the way, the head of the Maintenance Sector has been anxiously awaiting your arrival. If you just look at the Abacus on your desk, General, you’ll find that everything is already—”
“Set up, yes, yes. My thanks. But I can handle this by myself, Qingzu. Your foremost priority is now the Divination Commission.”
“As you say, General.” Fist in hand, Qingzu bowed, then beat a hasty retreat, leaving Jing Yuan alone on the dais.
“And now, Fu’qing—”
Fu Xuan snapped her beak. Don’t call me that in public!
“—Ai’qing,” he amended, settling into the wide chair behind his desk. “And now, ai’qing, my workday begins.”
She made a disgruntled noise. Well. At least he hadn’t just called her bird.
Jing Yuan sighed. “But why does it have to be Peici? This early in the morning, I have no appetite for her silent disdain. Maybe I can just...”
Fu Xuan poked a stretch of bare skin with her talons.
“Yes, I’m going,” he grumbled. “Just give me a second, will you? You know how Peici is—”
She rolled her eyes and hopped off his shoulder, gliding over to his desk, where the Abacus lay. With a few taps of her beak, she pulled up Peici’s information and initiated contact, begrudgingly thankful that he had long modified his Abaci to all have physical buttons rather than the all-holo configuration that had become the standard over the past few centuries.
After a brief delay, the Abacus connected successfully to Peici’s. A beam of light projected the figure of a sharply-dressed woman before Jing Yuan’s desk.
“Peici,” Jing Yuan said.
Peici dipped into a bow so shallow that it skirted the edge of courtesy. “Greetings, General.”
“Let us forego the niceties,” Jing Yuan said. He offered Fu Xuan a finger; she hopped onto it and let him return her to his shoulder. “What trouble is it, now?”
Peici scoffed, shooting Fu Xuan a scornful look. “If the General is busy, this official can come discuss the matter at another time.”
“No, no,” Jing Yuan said, eyes still fixed on Fu Xuan. He smoothed down a pink feather that had been sticking up. “Don’t let me distract you. Proceed.”
Peici’s lips pressed into a thin line. “As you say, General.”
She drew a scroll from within her sleeves and unfurled it. “Aside from the Artisanship Commission, the regrowth of the Ambrosial Arbor also damaged a section of the Luofu’s plumbing and sewage systems. Not to the point of infrastructural collapse, of course—but considerable enough that despite the Maintenance Sector’s tireless efforts, not much progress has been made.
“The problem lies in our lack of manpower. We did not expect damage to ever reach this extent, and thus maintained only a skeletal force of mechanics who actually specialize in pipes and waste management. Moreover, the rest of the Luofu’s mechanics specialize only in starskiffs, aurumatons, and the like—even if we drafted them into our ranks, they could not provide any meaningful aid.”
“Hm. I see.” Jing Yuan smoothed down another of Fu Xuan’s feathers. “What do you think, ai’qing?”
Fu Xuan considered the situation.
It would take time to train more people—precious time that they could not, she presumed, afford to waste. Peici was a proud individual. Most importantly, she was a proud individual who made no secret of her derision for the General. To come to him for help meant that she had had no other choice left.
And Peici was nothing short of competent. If she had been unable to resolve it by herself, then that meant it was very serious indeed.
Fu Xuan thought back, and remembered one of the Divination reports she’d read the day before, bleary-eyed and faltering. The Luofu was to pass into the Ziweiyuan soon—which was the very star cluster where the Yaoqing was moored. The Luofu could make contact with the Arbiter-General Feixiao and request their people to temporarily supplement their own; perhaps this could even become an avenue to engender further collaboration.
Nodding decisively to herself, Fu Xuan leapt off Jing Yuan’s shoulder and flitted over to a partially opened directory, listing down the names and positions of those in the top tiers of the Xianzhou hierarchy. She scanned the list until she found the one that designated the Yaoqing’s officials, and then glanced up at Jing Yuan with a chirp, carefully tapping the scroll with a talon.
“Oh, clever bird.” Jing Yuan nudged her beak gently, smiling warmly. “Of course. That’s settled, then. Anything else?”
“General?” Peici looked so lost that Fu Xuan almost pitied her.
Jing Yuan’s face was a study in artificed confusion. “Did you not see the bird?”
“But—but General,” Peici spluttered, “it’s just a bird! What does it have to do with—”
“It is not just a bird,” Jing Yuan argued, “and if you were just paying more attention, then—”
Fu Xuan screeched and flew into his face. He scrambled to escape her, the Abacus thrown to the side in his haste, and Peici’s blue silhouette blinked out just as Fu Xuan caught a lock of his hair and pulled.
“Ow,” he chanted, “ow ow ow ow ow, ai’qing, come on, I was following your advice and everything, I didn’t even do anything—”
Anything? Anything? Fu Xuan yanked harder, ignoring his cry of pain, and indignantly began making a nest atop his head. This stupid man did not deserve his position! What sort of general acted like this, allowing his subordinates to think he was following the whims of a mere bird, and then neglecting to even explain what said whims were?
“Ai’qing,” Jing Yuan said glumly, “you really know how to hit where it hurts the most.”
Fu Xuan beat her wings against his head and squawked imperiously. Call her back and explain, right now!
“Yes, yes, I’m on it,” he grumbled. He stooped to pick up the fallen Abacus, Fu Xuan gripping tight to keep herself from falling off.
“Although I really don’t see the point,” he muttered, but not low enough for it to escape Fu Xuan’s hearing, and she yanked on his hair again, indignant.
“I’m sorry! I’m doing it, just—” Jing Yuan huffed, and sat back down petulantly. “Oh, forget it. You won’t be happy until I actually call her back, won’t you?”
Fu Xuan chirped righteously in agreement, settling back into the nest she’d made in his hair. It was, she had to admit, a very soft nest indeed. Warm, too. She cooed softly and let herself sink into the sensation, eyes half-closed as she watched Jing Yuan reactivate the Abacus and cause Peici to flicker back into view.
“General?” Peici said faintly. “Your hair—what—”
Jing Yuan cleared his throat assertively and proceeded to ignore her question. “I apologize for my abrupt departure earlier. It was not behavior befitting someone of my station. Allow me to redress this.”
Peici nodded slowly, a stupefied expression on her face. “As you say, General.”
On the Abacus, Jing Yuan pulled up a star chart showing the present course of the Luofu. “The Luofu is expected to enter the Ziweiyuan in a matter of days. The Yaoqing is docked within that star cluster, trading goods with the nearby planets,” he said.
And perhaps he said more after that. But halfway through his second sentence, Fu Xuan had already begun nodding off, lulled by the downy warmth of her new nest.
She would close her eyes for only a moment, she told herself.
Beneath her, Jing Yuan’s low voice faded until it was like the steady whirring of a starskiff engine. Fu Xuan shifted her wings, tucking them in so that she could nestle further into his hair, and when she shut her eyes again, she fell well and truly asleep.
“Is there anything else?” Jing Yuan said boredly.
Peici shook her head. “No, General.”
“Alright.” Jing Yuan yawned. “Dismissed.”
Peici had barely begun to bow in farewell when he ended the call and promptly slumped back into his seat, careful to do so in a way that wouldn’t jostle the pesky little bird still atop his head.
“Happy now, ai’qing?” he huffed.
He waited for a reply, but none came. He frowned. “Fu’qing?”
He tried to look up, remembered her precarious position, and stopped himself just in time.
“Qingzu,” he called. “Is the bird on my head alright?”
Qingzu shot him the most judgmental expression he’d ever seen on her face, rising from her desk to approach him and get a better look. “The bird on your head, General, is perfectly fine. I am more concerned about your state of mind, and also your reputation.”
Jing Yuan waved her off. “The state of my mind is perfectly sound, and my reputation is whatever I wish it to be. Although I am touched by your concern, Qingzu.” He paused. “So she is sleeping, then?”
Qingzu frowned. “Still the bird? Yes.”
Ah. “My thanks. As you were, then.”
Qingzu shot him one last look and retreated to her desk, returning to her mountain of paperwork. Jing Yuan, though, only smiled, and rested his chin in his hand.
“Fu’qing,” he murmured, “you really had to fall asleep on me, mm? Now I can’t even move my head without risking your safety.”
She, of course, made no reply—although Jing Yuan imagined he could almost hear the faint sounds of her snoring.
He laughed quietly. “Nuisance.”