Archive of Our Own

WHEN FU XUAN finally hears news regarding the battle by Scalegorge Waterscape, all remaining energy leaves her knees, and she falls in the midst of mara-stricken and wounded Cloud Knights alike. 

She only barely registers the bunch of panicked guards running over to her before losing her senses, vision, and bearings under the dissipating clouds.

She doesn’t remember what she was doing before, only desperate to hear of a certain name—

SHE WAKES NOT long after, thankfully. Fu Xuan jolts up with a surge of panic, like her body knows it’s not time for her to be resting—no matter that she’s overworked herself with the scale of these recent disasters. Not to mention—

“Jing Yuan—the general,” she latches on to the arm of the nurse attending to her. “Is he… back? Is he alive?”

The nurse only regards her with a couple of terrified blinks. It is a voice from behind Fu Xuan who speaks: “If you’re planning to become leader of the Luofu, surely you would concern yourself with the fate of the Luofu before that of the general?”

It is Helm Master Yukong, who has hardly ever talked to Fu Xuan herself, much less attended to her in sickness. Fu Xuan cannot help but feel small in their current dispositions, how she is utterly powerless at present, having blacked out when she’d been entrusted a most pertinent position to fulfill. The way Madam Yukong speaks to her, too, makes her aware of this glaring disparity in their confidence. 

“Helm Master Yukong,” Fu Xuan says in greeting, steeling her voice out of officialese. “Know that I am only so worried about his being because the Luofu’s survival greatly depends on him and his victory. So if you don’t mind me repeating myself—”

“Did he not trust you to take charge, in the event that he fails to make it back alive? Surely you wouldn’t continue to rely on him, his power, once you’ve become general,” Yukong continues, seemingly not minding her worry. Fu Xuan knows she is only asking the right questions, crucial in assessing her ability to lead as a general in times of despair.

She wants to argue, though—this is her closest companion. He could be dead. She has every right to know if he’s dead, if she’s lost him… entirely.

But she knows that’s exactly what Yukong wants to see: whether she can put aside her feelings, her fears, for the sake of leading the Luofu back toward calmer waters, after all that has transpired. It doesn’t matter so much what Yukong thinks of her, but Jing Yuan did trust her to do his job—her, of all people—and she would only disappoint him to put him before her duties. 

Fu Xuan turns away from the Helm Master, looking at the nurse who’s all but shaking in her feet. She lets out an exasperated sigh. “How long have I been out?”

“Only for a couple of hours,” the nurse stammers. “You could not stop shifting, even in your sleep. If—if it wouldn’t be too much to suggest—”

“What?”

“You should probably rest a little more,” she finishes in a squeaky tone that almost makes Fu Xuan laugh. Just almost.

“You heard the Helm Master—I have tasks to carry, still,” replies Fu Xuan, quickly leaving her bed, and the poor nurse in a frenzy. “I still have to deal with the aftermath of the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus’ ploy, the damage wreaked upon the Alchemy Commission. It requires my immediate attention. But I thank you for taking care of me.”

She does not pay mind to the nurse’s calls, nor the amused smile Yukong lets out as she passes by her.

Right. There is no time for her to be dwelling on fears of fatality, not when they still stand to lose so much more, if this damage isn’t contained in time.

Jing Yuan lives, after all.

Fu Xuan needs neither the Omniscia nor the Matrix of Prescience to know this.

NO, BECAUSE SHE is holding on to a mere promise, a promise he does not seem to have any intention of keeping. It’s been two weeks, but Jing Yuan has barely shown signs of brain activity.

The High Elder of the Alchemy Commission has tried everything in her power to bring him back to the conscious realm, yet Jing Yuan remains peacefully asleep in his ostentatious bed. His body is not decaying, which is a good sign, but the only indication that he’s not dead. A coma, they call it. 

The old, scarred general has fallen into a coma.

Only a matter of time, he liked to say. He’s hardly ever wrong, too.

Because she’s had to deal with many of the general’s daily affairs along with the aftermath of the Antimatter Legion’s schemes, Fu Xuan hardly has time to check in with Jing Yuan as often as she’d like to. But once in a few nights, she finds herself sneaking into his quarters anyway, holding his hand and squeezing his fingers in a desperate attempt to feel some response from him. 

It is a most foolish hope. She’s a diviner, not a healer—how can she expect to bring anyone back from a half-dead state?

The guards tell her that she does not need to stay on guard, that they will report to her as soon as possible, the moment he finally wakes up. But Fu Xuan does not know how to tell them—it is not so much that she wants to be there when he reopens his eyes, not so much that she wants to see that he lives.

I trusted you to get through this alive.

Surely you hadn’t been lying when you said you’ll see me again, when all this is over?

That’s about the extent of how much Fu Xuan can stand looking at his unmoving state for a day. She takes her leave wordlessly, no shadow cast upon her being—no light cast in the unending pitch-black night of his room.

HER HAND PAUSES when she finally reaches the part about the events in Scapewater Gorge, the part she did not get to witness. The wet ink pools in the point where she stopped, and she quickly lifts her hand in fear of smearing the ink over the meticulously filled page.

She’s spent enough time with Jing Yuan to witness him in his work, hearing him drone on about the importance of mentioning only the right things in accounts like these—not too much, not too little. Despite them all being part of the Xianzhou Alliance, there is no need to burden other fleets with details that can be handled internally; on the other hand, too much secrecy can lead to potential conflicts, and lack of preparation should there be an incoming disaster. Little things like these may be dismissed as mere paperwork to many, but it is taxing precisely in that they need to be taken care of as meticulously as any other of the general’s work, as much as leading the Cloud Knights, as much as giving directives and analyzing intelligence. It is in those rare moments where Fu Xuan gets to appreciate just the intricate breadth of what it means to be a general, and why Jing Yuan is the perfect man for the seat—no matter how much she yearns for the throne, she knows she still has much to learn from the inimitable Arbiter-General if she wants to become any good of a leader as he is. 

For all his complaining of these reports being a chore to him, Fu Xuan knows Jing Yuan would have only dwelt in this for a brief moment before picking out the right words to pen, the right stories to relay to the other generals. But Fu Xuan is lost in how exactly to paraphrase this particular event.

With the help of the Nameless, the Arbiter-General heads toward the Ambrosial Arbor to defeat Phantylia, who was feeding on its power.

Clearly, the story’s resolution is not so simple. It is not news that the Lord Ravagers are hardly simple wolves to tame—vicious both in tricks and sheer power, blessed by the Ruin Author themself. 

With the help of the Nameless, the Arbiter-General heads toward the Ambrosial Arbor to defeat Phantylia, who was feeding on its power. The Arbiter-General Jing Yuan had himself captured by the Lord Ravager, but Imbibitor Lunae utilized this opportunity to sever the Lord Ravager’s connection to the Ambrosial Arbor and banish her away from the Luofu for the time being. Currently, General Jing Yuan is still unconscious from the weight of the battle. I, Fu Xuan, the Master Diviner, am attending to his duties in his stead, as per his request. The Nameless have safely attended to the Stellaron that agitated the Ambrosial Arbor and instigated its resurrection.

Fu Xuan has only thought this in her mind—she already knows that this will not be part of her report, since it leaves open too many questions she would not have the capacity to answer. What of the traitor? What of the Stellaron Hunters who left the Luofu without the punishment they deserved? Fu Xuan only ever knew half the reasons for Jing Yuan’s schemes, but he’s not awake for her to give him the true account. 

Thinking of the true account only leaves a bitter feeling in her throat. She quickly swallows it down, resetting the image in her mind, before finalizing on paper her curated version of events:

With the help of the Nameless, the Arbiter-General heads toward the Ambrosial Arbor to defeat Phantylia, who was feeding on its power. Jing Yuan risked a fatal attack by the Lord Ravager, but they utilized this opportunity to sever the Lord Ravager’s connection to the Ambrosial Arbor and banish her away from the Luofu for the time being. Currently, General Jing Yuan is recovering from the battle, delegating the more strenuous tasks to his capable assistants. The Nameless have safely attended to the Stellaron that agitated the Ambrosial Arbor and instigated its resurrection.

There’s a lot of gaps in it that someone as attentive as Jing Yuan would catch in the blink of an eye, but Fu Xuan’s made sure at least that it does not contradict anything she’s written previously, nor any of the reports Jing Yuan himself have made in correspondence with the other Xianzhou officials.

She fiddles with her pen for a moment, dwelling upon the carefully spun tale. 

How desirable it would be, should this be the simple reality.

But, Lady Fu, if I don’t walk out of this battle alive, you have to—

Fu Xuan slams the pen down with a resounding slap. A sharp trail of obsidian ink tears through the page in an unsightly manner.

She rewrites the story until she can hardly hear the throbbing of her own heart, and falls asleep on the cold, lofty desk she’s long coveted.

THE LAZY PRODIGY comes in with a friend in tow, but it doesn’t seem like she’s there to play. Both sport wide grins on their face, looking at the lethargic Master Diviner with a youthful spark in their eyes. 

Ah, to enjoy youth and friendship so carefreely. What must that feel like?

“I hope you’re not here to bother me with your… trendy speech,” Fu Xuan declares, hardly sparing the ladies a glance before turning back to her records. “If it's not important, get out of my sight already.”

“Don’t you recognize her?”

Fu Xuan briefly turns to Qingque, looks at the Foxian next to her, and returns to her records. “Tingyun. I’m assuming you’re still recovering?”

“Bit by bit,” she says, and it’s almost unnerving how there’s hardly any audible distinction between her and when she’d been Phantylia’s vessel. That being said, Fu Xuan knows this is the real Tingyun; it’s part of her job to look over this matter as well, after all. Nothing isn’t her job, these days. “All thanks to you, Master Diviner.”

“I hardly did anything. If you’re just here to thank me—”

“I bear good news—one more relevant to you, certainly,” Tingyun quips. Fu Xuan doesn’t like how her heart skips a beat at the mere mention of good news, but knows not to get her hopes up anymore.

Dangerous thing, hope is.

“I hope you are far more sensible than your friend in discerning what is relevant or what isn’t,” Fu Xuan sighs. “What is it?”

Tingyun opens her mouth, but then pauses, and turns to look at the jittery Qingque. “Uh, do you want to tell her the good news instead?” The Foxian chuckles, tail gently swaying in the wind. “You seem more excited about it than anybody.”

“Well, of course! This is the only thing that’ll get her to stop putting more work up my back,” Qingque beams, practically flushing in excitement. “I feel my spine bending by the day, and I’m still so young, you know! I need more time to play around in my youthful decades.”

“Thank you for relaying that information, Qingque. I’ll be sure to give you a more… appropriate amount of work to enjoy in your youth,” Fu Xuan drawls. “Spit it—what is this news?”

“The general! He’s woken up!”

“What?” Fu Xuan almost drops the scrolls in her hand, but she swiftly manages to shove them back in their proper place—so efficiently that even Qingque can’t help but hang her jaw in awe. “You could have—you could have told me that to begin with! He—he hasn’t gone off somewhere he shouldn’t, has he?”

“Not that that should be possible, in his current state,” says Tingyun with a gentle yet sad smile. “Aside from all the damage he sustained from the conflict, there’s the… the issue of him having been struck by the Lord Ravager’s power, in her conversion process. I may have been a little luckier that I am Foxian and my body is still young and healthy—”

“But you were literally made her mortal vessel, Tingyun! Stop acting like you’re not hurt,” Qingque quickly chides, lightly slapping her by the arm.

Tingyun lets out a faint chuckle at that. “Well, yes. I suppose my point is, the general might not show it, especially with his physical actions being restrained, but I think he might still be reeling in the pain of… the Lord Ravager’s power. But he’s awake and well.”

That’s… that’s all she needs to hear. 

“I thought the general was all lazy and unbothered, but looks like he has his own brand of grit when it comes to staying alive, huh? No wonder he’s managed to keep his throne for longer than any other,” Qingque ponders aloud, all but gaping. “Quite the man. Quite the man.”

“I must… I must see him,” says Fu Xuan, but she feels her surroundings swim in an incomprehensible purple. Blinking only belatedly clears her vision, but her mind’s cogwheels are hardly turning, creaking with every thought.

“I’m sure he’d want to see you as well, Madam,” Tingyun agrees, with her soothing calm tone. “But take it easy—he still needs plenty of rest, and it seems so do you. You can always come see him when you’re both well rested—for a better reunion, wouldn’t you say?”

Tingyun’s words are not without reason. Fu Xuan finds herself nodding wordlessly, heading back toward the direction of her quarters without retaliation.

It is not until night falls and the colors fade that Fu Xuan’s restlessness gives way, and she finds herself catching a starskiff bound for the Exalting Sanctum.

IT ISN’T THE reunion one would’ve expected.

First, Jing Yuan is sound asleep. She’s prepared for this possibility, of course, having kept Tingyun’s words in mind and considering the time of day. She barely manages to sneak her way into his room without alerting the guards; the room is dimly lit with only a couple of lanterns as a contingency measure in case of any sort of emergency—who can tell, when it comes to the most important official in the Luofu? The guards probably wouldn’t have been elated to know that she’s managed to sneak her way into his room either, despite their long-standing friendship. It’s just their job to be prepared for any sort of trouble, and she doesn’t blame them—but she can’t be bothered with those protocols at the moment.

Fu Xuan comes up to his resting body, watching the breaths that animate his body in gentle waves, like the sea caressing the shore into a lullaby. He is alive, but… but is he here?

She slips her hand into his, as easily as she has while he’s been unconscious. She expects nothing, still. Jing Yuan’s hands are so cold, so coarse—weathered by war, the callous times—but they once used to clasp her shoulder with a friend’s undying reassurance, pat her head most affectionately, cup her cheek in a way no one else could ever make her feel.

… It would hurt too much, should she beg and not get an answer—to know that he cannot hold her once more, as he used to.

When she feels his fingers twitch, her heart nearly drops.

And then something unprecedented happens: her eyes start stinging with an emotion she cannot put a name to; not quite relief, not quite sorrow, but it hurts , so much that her head starts throbbing. It takes Fu Xuan her all not to let this break into a flood she cannot contain. Not when Jing Yuan’s only just woken up from a sleep that felt like forever, not when he must be very tired and in unspeakable pain. 

She belatedly notices the movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids, slowly regaining his consciousness, and—

Fu Xuan quickly plants a hand over his eyes, careful not to press too hard.

“... Xuan?” Jing Yuan mumbles, voice carrying the traces of a slumber too heavy. Fu Xuan bites down on her lips, unable to explain this sudden wave of emotion that’s overcome her.

Only after she’s regained some semblance of composure does she say, “Rest, Jing Yuan. The moon still hangs high.”

He responds through a shift in their hands, so that he is holding onto her fingers a little more tightly, more warmly. “Are you leaving already?”

“I—”

The lump in her throat is so hard she cannot swallow it, and she forces herself to breathe through her mouth to not let out a sniffle. 

“I cannot… stay for long.”

Not like this, she laments only in her mind. I cannot let you see me like this.

Jing Yuan falls silent once more; perhaps his energy is spent already, and Fu Xuan is thankful for the silence. She does not pry her hand off his grasp; if anything, she holds onto him a little tighter, like it’ll help suppress the chaos threatening to break out of control from within her.

He then whispers, “Thank you.”

Fu Xuan rubs her thumb against the back of his hand, and only when she is sure he’s fallen back to sleep, lets him go. Only when she is out of his estate does she let her own tears fall freely, her journey back home muddled in an inexplicable haze—yet her feet walk on, even when her mind and heart has failed her. 

FU XUAN IS small, weak compared to the giants of the Alliance, nothing in the face of the High-Cloud Quintet. Nevertheless, agony is enough to have her thick duvet tear under her grasp.

Still, she does not let go of the fading strands of the nightmare, feeling the sweat pool on her hairline. 

Spoken like a true general.

Has this been part of his plan, all along? To take the devastating blow for himself, so all that’s left to do for Fu Xuan is to pick up the fleet and lead it to brighter skies? 

… Can she fault him? Both of them swore an oath to the Alliance, to protect the Luofu to their dying breaths in their every capacity. If it was Jing Yuan’s divine insight as the Arbiter-General that led him to trust her, of all people, as the one person strong enough to bear the mantle of the Luofu’s next leader, then he must have believed so with extensive reasoning. And if he believed that it was only through his death that he could grant her the position she’s so long desired, then who was she to question his belief? All the decisions Jing Yuan’s made have been made with the purpose of preserving the Luofu’s stability, and he’s succeeded for more centuries than she’s been able to witness. 

He wouldn’t be wrong in thinking he’d be the best general for the Luofu for as long as he remained alive.

He wouldn’t be wrong in only indulging her in her dreams after his own time comes to pass.

Before the Xianzhou, before the Reignbow Arbiter, they are merely servants tasked in maintaining the stability of this ship, of eliminating threats of the abomination and destruction. It should not matter what the circumstances are behind who’s up in the throne, so long as someone capable is there to play the daunting role.

… But can Fu Xuan really fit the shoe, if doubts plague her every time her head hits the pillow, the fears consuming her in the dark?

Does she really have what it takes to be the person Jing Yuan trusted her to be, if she can hardly think of all that has happened without helplessly gasping for air in a windswept room?

IT’S NOT OFTEN that the Lieutenant himself chooses to come see her—Yanqing has particular gripes for Fu Xuan that she hardly cares for—but here he is, in the Divination Commission, swords sheathed, no scroll in tow. Nothing in his hands.

“The General wishes to see you,” he simply relays. 

Fu Xuan only blinks. “I don’t suppose you think I’d just take you for your word,” she points out. “I’ll need his seal, at the very least.”

Yanqing continues staring at her through ice-cold eyes, but then breaks off into a sigh. “He seems to believe you would trust at least me… even though Qingzu’s told him that with recent events concerning the Lord Ravager, that doesn’t sound like a wise idea.”

“And you’re telling me he was lazy enough to not give his seal regardless?” Fu Xuan throws her face into the distance, staring at the void beyond. “You might as well not have made the trip at all.”

“Well, the thing is…” Yanqing scratches the back of his head. He’s hardly ever looked so awkward, and it gets Fu Xuan slightly curious. “He’s a bit…”

“A bit what?” asks Fu Xuan, impatience tearing through her countenance. “Is he of able mind?”

“Uh, that would depend on your definition of an ‘able mind’. He’s… acting up, would be the best way to put it.”

Acting up? The general does have a tendency of shirking off work and doing leisurely activities when he could be doing work, but he doesn’t often “act up”. “Is it one of the effects the battle had on him, or…?”

Yanqing firmly shakes his head. “No, I’d say he’s just a bit restless from the lack of freedom. He’s asking to see you because he wants a more detailed update on the tasks he’s delegated to you directly from you—for whatever reason. He says it’s the confidentiality or the details or something, but he’s really just…”

“Just what?” The kid is clearly hesitant to say something, but his words make absolutely no sense. “I understand if he just wants to hear the full breadth of my activities—but that’s no reason he can’t give you his seal.”

The boy heaves out a heavy exhale, squeezing his eyes shut. “Okay, I may have made up a passable excuse to get you to see him,” he finally admits, eyeing the third eye on her forehead; not that Fu Xuan was planning to use it, but at least, it’s appeared to be an easy way to intimidate people into confessing. “In fact, the general doesn’t want you to come see him, saying that you have enough work on your plate—both yours, as Master Diviner, and his, as acting general—that you shouldn’t have to make time to come visit him.”

“How very considerate,” Fu Xuan drawls in a bitter tone, fiddling with her chestpiece absentmindedly. She hates to even think the thought, but—but there’s a tiny wish within her, that he would just come and annoy her as he usually does, ignorant of the weight of her piling work. After all, it’s always been his teases and games that brightens up her monotonous days, no matter how much she denies the truth before him.

Not that he can even do that, in his current state. She shakes the thought away, letting out her own somber sigh into the passing breeze.

“Not everything I said was a lie, though,” Yanqing quickly adds. “He really is restless with the lack of things to take care of, and, well, people to bother… He doesn’t say it, but it’s clear he wants to see you.”

Fu Xuan falls into a moment of silence. “So, you think you could convince me instead to indulge his whims and entertain him a little, without him having to bear the guilty conscience of disturbing me from my work?”

“That’s not—” Yanqing lets out a groan. “Okay, yes, if you put it that way. But it’s not just for the general’s entertainment. You haven’t come to see him in all the time he’s been awake, Diviner Fu—you’re his closest friend. And if you must know, he asks about your wellbeing every day as though you’re the one bedridden after a fatal battle, and not him.” His frustration is sharp as his blades, but Fu Xuan thinks that’s not what has her eyes pricking out of nowhere, again.

Still, she brushes it off, regarding the Lieutenant’s words with a mere scoff. “He’s not the one who has to do double the work—of course he has time to stick his nose in everyone else’s business. Even a couple more months won’t be a problem for him. It’d probably be more effective to let him rot in the boredom so that he forces himself a swift recovery, and quickly reclaims his seat and all this paperwork.”

This vice called stubbornness, her helplessness against it.

“If he really wants to see me about work, have his seal prepared,” Fu Xuan says with an irrefutable air of finality, brushing the nonexistent dust off her garment. “In the meantime, I suggest going through the reports I’ve already passed onto him—they are detailed enough that he really should have no reason to summon me for further elaboration. If you’ll excuse me, I still have a lot of work to get done.”

Yanqing glares at her through his pure eyes, forcing down the curses before heading off, perhaps to relay his failure—or maybe blow off some steam, who knows. Fu Xuan lets out a long, shaky breath to calm herself, casting an empty gaze into the unseeable distance.

Give me time, she pleads like she will sort out her tangled maze of thoughts as soon as she can—knowing she is only running, running further from the truth that draws nearer.

AT THE END of the day, Jing Yuan is still her general—she can only run for so long. And perhaps, Yanqing’s words have wormed their way in her subconscious, that she finds herself lingering by the general’s room after the little meeting with the Ten-Lords Commission representatives.

Although Jing Yuan’s expressed his quickly dwindled interest in attending to more official business for the day, he regards Fu Xuan with a plain face, tilting his head. “Do you have something else to report to me, Diviner Fu? Something that you haven’t penned in your mountainous amount of weekly reports?”

Fu Xuan blinks a couple of times, humming dumbly. “It’s not like you read those reports. Have you?”

“Of course,” he replies proudly that it almost sounds like a bluff. “I could all but hear the sounds of your high-pitched nags, should I leave them to pile up without any awareness of whatever you’ve written.”

“And you didn’t just get Qingzu to read them for you?”

“Not that I would’ve,” the lady in question speaks up with a smile. “And he wouldn’t have asked, either—he was terribly eager to get those reports, you know. One could say he’s finally acting like a leader, for a change, but I say he’s just obsessed in knowing what hell you’ve been up to, since he’s unable to come haunt you himself.”

“Here I thought we shared a bond of secrecy,” Jing Yuan groans, smacking his chest a couple of times for dramatic effect. “Forgive me if I’m just a little curious to see how well my acting general’s been running things in my stead. And now you have no reason to berate me for not doing my job anymore, so I call it a win-win.”

It’s oddly touching to hear—of course, it may very well just be because the man is currently utterly jobless, but at least those reports are not just being left to the corner of his desk for some other assistant of his, like they usually are. “I do hope you maintain this behavior when you finally get out of bed rest, General,” says Fu Xuan, clearing her throat. “I suppose I have no reason to hold you back for any longer.”

Jing Yuan’s whining is childlike, but a bit more like his normal self that it brings her slight relief. “Is that really all you’d come to see me for? Lady Fu, you wound me.”

“It’s of utter importance that you spend as much of your time resting, so far be it from me to take up that precious time,” Fu Xuan smoothly retorts—though, of course, these are all plain-faced reasons to quickly evade his sight. 

“Come on. It’s not like I’m going to break my limbs in hanging out with you.” Ever so stubborn, this man. “Is my mental health not as important in my recuperation process? I feel my mind dulling by the day, with nothing fun to do.”

Fu Xuan furrows her eyebrows, turning to regard him with a hardened gaze. “Are you really okay?”

“What?” 

“They said you were almost converted into one of those… Antimatter Legion entities,” she says in a voice that hardly exceeds a whisper. “They said Phantylia, she—she made a connection with you, with the power of the Arbor, the Stellaron, the Destruction alike. If there are any side effects worth attending to, you should—you should inform the High Elder as soon as you can.”

Jing Yuan’s eyelids flicker at the slightest. “Is that… why you came? To check up on me?”

A most foolish question. Fu Xuan lets out a scoff, turning away. “While I’m already here, it would be insensitive of me not to ask, don’t you think? Especially given that I’m currently in charge of taking over your duties.”

“Isn’t that something you should be enjoying, anyway? You’ve been asking me to step down from my seat, and now you have it. You should be wishing me a slow recovery, if anything… or maybe that’s the true intention behind your questions?”

“That’s a dangerous accusation, Jing Yuan,” warns Fu Xuan, yet the instability in her tone is so terribly salient, and she loathes it. She can’t even bring herself to glare at him as she wishes to. “If you suspect I’d be wicked enough to impose harm upon you out of sheer selfishness, then it’s most dishonorable of yourself to be appointing me in this position.”

Jing Yuan chuckles heartily, and it’s aggravating how he takes this all so lightly, as if this is normal—as if him facing an Emanator of Destruction, finding himself on death’s door is just another daily occurrence. Sure, he’s lived many years and fought many wars before, that this might not faze him as much as it does her, but—

Fu Xuan shakes her head fiercely. She’s only annoyed because she’s worried. This should be normal—after all, they’ve been preparing for this turn of events in the weeks leading to the face-off, preparing for the worst. 

“Please leave the two of us,” Jing Yuan commands, in a tone that never comes across as harsh. “You too, Qingzu. Do not worry—I simply wish to speak to my friend in a more… comfortable manner. The lady appears to be far too tense, at present.”

“There’s no need,” Fu Xuan quickly interjects, turning on her heel to prepare her leave. “Now that I see you’re completely fine, I have no reason to stay.”

“General, your dinner has been prepared,” says a guard by the door. “Should I have the servant bring it in?”

“Ah, perfect timing! Surely you wouldn’t let a poor man have his dinner alone, wouldn’t you, Lady Fu?” Jing Yuan is all but staring at her with puppy eyes—the eyes that always retain a wolf’s scrutiny behind its shadows, waiting to strike at every given opening. Fu Xuan so badly wants to poke them out, if only so that he would fail to notice how distraught she is to be in this room. 

“You haven’t had your dinner, have you? I’ll ask the chefs to—”

“I’ve had my fill,” cuts Fu Xuan, even though in truth she just doesn’t feel like she can stomach anything without regurgitating it. 

“Okay, sure,” Jing Yuan moves to lift his hands up in surrender, but winces—out of instinct, Fu Xuan dashes toward him, but pauses when she sees his unrelenting stare. 

“Ah, it still hurts. I might need you to… feed me,” he says, without showing the slightest hint of humor.

It doesn’t matter—Jing Yuan’s not so injured that he can hardly move, Fu Xuan knows. This is just another one of his schemes to get her to stay—teasing her, as he always does. 

She wants to turn and run for the door, but instead finds her feet frozen in place, mind going haywire.

The guards have already brought the general’s dinner inside, and left the room just for the two of them. Having lost her only chance to leave, Fu Xuan helplessly makes her way to the side of the bed where a chair’s already been conveniently situated, but makes no move to help him to his meal.

“You never answered the question,” she reminds. “Are you actually okay? Do you have other ailments that… that haven’t, that can’t, be treated?”

Jing Yuan hums, eyeing the tray before him. “I’ll answer one question for every spoonful you feed me. That’s already two questions.”

Fu Xuan has half the urge to tug at his hair, but bites back the violence. She picks up the spoon, scooping a handful of rice and bringing it before his lips.

“Can’t you at least shower it with some soup…?”

“Eat, or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

Jing Yuan breaks into a grin, and—and Fu Xuan has to avert her eyes, because she somehow cannot look at him when he is most himself. He eats the spoonful of rice, and after swallowing it down, says, “I suppose you’ve been monitoring the young Foxian’s condition. Her case is far worse than that of my own, so you don’t need to worry about me experiencing her breadth of symptoms.”

“And you’re really not just saying this to have us worry less, aren’t you?”

“Soup this time?”

Fu Xuan shoves the spoon into the rice bowl once again.

“Come on,” Jing Yuan deflates like a dog doused in cold water. A well-deserved sentiment, really. He eats the rice anyway. “I’m not looking to cause more trouble for others, Fu Xuan—an untreated ailment is possibly the worst way to reap your own death. So don’t worry; if there’s anything bothering me, I’ve already told the healers about it all.”

It’s a relief to hear he still has some common sense. Fu Xuan scoops some fish out of the soup, carefully bringing the spoon up to his mouth to not let it spill.

“I’m not okay, though.”

Fu Xuan’s heart misses an entire beat. She keeps her shaky eyes transfixed at the meal before her, away from his sight.

“Do you know how embarrassing it was when the others kept asking where you were, and why you didn’t come visit me?”

Here she’d really thought it would be something serious. “I gave you your precious soup, and you give me a half-assed answer?”

“That’s another question, by the way.”

Fu Xuan feeds him a spoonful of bitter cabbage.

“I’m not joking, you know,” he says, wiping the edges of his mouth—undoubtedly proving that his arms are just fine, and he’s just acting like a baby for no reason than to vex her. “You’re my best friend! My tea-drinking buddy, my playmate that makes the hardest duels out of the simplest games, my dearest mastermind in crime—”

“That’s a terrible way to define us,” Fu Xuan comments under her breath, but he catches it anyway, letting out a snort.

“Point is, we’re inseparable. So naturally, without you, I feel most lost.” Jing Yuan lets out a wistful sigh. “Then again, it’s because of me falling sick that your workload’s been increased. I really have no one else to blame but myself, huh?”

Fu Xuan abruptly puts down the spoon, pushing herself off the chair. She takes quick steps away from the bed, pointedly angling herself so Jing Yuan wouldn’t be able to see her, setting her sights out the stained window, starskiffs in the air, people on the ground, going about with their lives after the battle against the Destruction’s cronies—with whatever blessing, whatever burden they carry from it.

Inseparable. 

He says it so easily, for someone who was about to be gone for good.

“Where are you going?” Jing Yuan whines—the knights would have a field day if they were to see their general act like a complete child, but then again, Fu Xuan suspects it’s no big secret that Jing Yuan likes playing coy with his close acquaintances. “If something’s bothering you, just tell me. Is it too much work? Would you talk to me if I took back some of my responsibilities and gave you some more free time? … But would you want that? Do you want more work? This is what you’ve always wanted… Do I have to give you the full breadth of my job? Ah—do you need someone to take over your job as diviner first?”

Fu Xuan’s jaw ticks. She keeps her posture firm, ignoring the general’s pointless musing.

“Aiya. Where’s the fierce lady who always speaks her thoughts? Did you lose your beautiful voice after everything? Even if you have to do it in your twisted manner of speech, say something,” Jing Yuan sighs. “Give me something to work with. Don’t just sulk in the corner like a child.”

She knows her stubbornness is irrational, but it is unavoidable—after all, this pain in her chest is not something she can elaborate on. If anything, the only thing that could come out of her mouth now is broken wails and needlessly sharp quips. 

Jing Yuan only lets the silence linger for a couple of minutes. “If I knew I would come back to such cold treatment, I don’t think I’d have the will to come back out of the Waterscape alive,” he muses as though he’s just reading the morning paper. “This is painful.”

He makes everything sound so damn easy. Fu Xuan has never wanted to strangle him like the present moment, curse his ears out for being… him.

This is all so foolish, she knows, but these emotions are beyond her conscious control, and she hates it. Loathes it terribly.

“Fu Xuan.”

She shuts her eyes so tightly like she could swallow the tears if she does. These are ridiculous tears, after all. There is no reason to be crying here, but somehow, her eyes sting so badly to hear Jing Yuan talk.

Why am I hurting so much?

Something’s wrong, and Fu Xuan, one of the most intelligent people in the Luofu, can’t figure out what. It’s quite the stab to her high-standing pride.

“Fu Xuan, come here,” Jing Yuan repeats. “It’s an order.”

She throws her face to the side, taking a deep breath, before turning back to the general watching her with a far more solemn expression. Fu Xuan does as he says—walks back to his side, and—

—and with a rage that came out of nowhere, she knocks his skull with her tiny fist.

Jing Yuan barely reacts to the pain, only staring at her with a dumbfounded face. “I’m sure I told you to talk to me, not… hit me.”

“Is life just one big game to you? Just another source of entertainment, a joke ?”

A flicker flies past Jing Yuan’s golden irises, sparkling under the afternoon sunlight, and the corners of his lips fall ever so slightly; Fu Xuan knows she’s the one who incited the change of tone, but it feels all the stranger, overwhelming, to see him this serious.

Her mind is hardly moving, yet her tongue continues to run off with an unidentifiable source of rage: “Was it so easy to just charge into that battle? Did you not even stop to think of the version of reality that would be if you never came back alive? Of course—it must’ve been so easy, because you wouldn’t be the one having to face the consequences, clean up the mess occurring in that battle’s wake. Because in death, you wouldn’t have to bear the Luofu’s future failures—those will all be in the next general’s name. In my name, because you thought it most prudent to pass on your title only in death and sacrifice. 

“Couldn’t you—couldn’t you have at least prepared me, instead of only making empty promises, full of only glib? Instead of just saying ‘I might not make it out alive’ and leaving it solely to faith in the stars and blind trust to keep this ship running? You’re a huge disappointment, Jing Yuan. I’m most embarrassed and annoyed to even consider you as—as the general leading us.”

Inferiority. Is that really what she’s feeling?

Fu Xuan feels her face heating up, and tries to cool herself down through steady breaths, but Jing Yuan’s unyielding attention on her does not help her case.

“You’ve been vying for my trust for… decades, centuries perhaps,” he points out, slowly, calmly. “Appealing with your intellect and using the best of your reasoning abilities, and have shown no room for doubt. Are you now saying it’s wrong of me to have trusted you?”

“Maybe,” Fu Xuan spits, though it sounds more desperate than mean. “You shouldn’t have just trusted me—you should have taught me like you did your Lieutenant, like you did the Helm Master, the Cloud Knights, everyone you’ve taken under your wing. Especially if you were actually considering making me the future general—which you promised.”

“You’ve always been critical of the way I work, claiming your ways to be better.” Jing Yuan argues still—how badly Fu Xuan wishes she could just tear his hair apart. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying—she’s just screaming for the sake of raising her voice, a wall erected to hide the trembling heart behind it. “Even if I did teach you, I don’t think I would’ve been able to do much more—you’ve always been an independent individual, honorable and righteous, and that is what I think most inspiring of you. That you don’t need anybody else to forge you into the incredible weapon you are today. That you are self-sufficient, determined, and powerful.” 

His furrowed brows, his pressed frown—

Do you genuinely see me that way?

Why?

Fu Xuan’s scoff comes out all choked up—weak. “Then you’ve severely misjudged me. Look—only over a month, and I am already crumbling. Getting inexplicably irrational, being angry at everyone for absolutely no reason. I’m—I’m childish, sentimental, malleable. I am not like you. I am far from capable of taking over you, Jing Yuan.”

She’s witnessed wars before, wars with the Denizens of Abundance, even with the Antimatter Legion as well. Never has she felt a backlash so harsh—the weight of the throne is truly too much for her to bear, is it?

Overconfidence. Arrogance. People say these things are bound to bite you in the heel eventually, but Fu Xuan has always dismissed their chatter—you can’t deem her over-anything if she’s extraordinarily intelligent and capable in nature. Never would she have thought that it would be her own heart dragging her down by the ankle, to feel the coarse ice on the ground.

Jing Yuan takes in her words patiently for a prolonged moment, enough for the utter embarrassment to settle in her. She should not have thrown a tantrum before her own general—yet she’s gone and done it anyway. Worse, she’s complaining about him for giving her what she asked for like an ungrateful spoiled brat. 

Fu Xuan swears that in her right mind, she would not be screaming about any of this. She would have swallowed it, and lived on with her life—she would not have screamed out of pain, if Jing Yuan hadn’t made her open her mouth.

It’s not his fault, of course. He doesn’t see that her heart crumples whenever she sees him, and she can’t explain it to him either. She simply hangs her head low, hiding from him the droplets that have sneaked their way out of the corners of her eyes.

“What becomes of your resolve, now?”

“I’m not giving up,” says Fu Xuan, glaring at him through her eyelids. “I’m going to train myself harder, learn to be colder—to not let these momentary bouts of emotions take over me like they have now. I’ll grow and be as strong, even stronger than yourself, making sure I don’t repeat the mistakes you’ve made as well, meticulously preparing for every circumstance, the best and the worst. I suppose I must thank you for staying alive—for its brought these flaws of ours into light, that I can learn to do better. Better than the both of us combined.”

Jing Yuan’s stern disposition melts, eyebrows hiked over a gentle gaze. He lifts his hand, but only barely hovers his fingers over her fringes, never close enough. Fu Xuan drops her glare to the untouched tray of food on his lap—she fears her frailty would show all too well in her eyes.

“And do you have to consume your heart just to reach that goal? Even to celebrate this small miracle, this fortuitous occasion?”

It’s suffocating—Fu Xuan tugs on her collar, but ends up letting out a hiccup anyway. “I cannot feel that joy,” she says with a strain. “I…”

She has to leave.

The world is spinning in a blur around her, and her ears are ringing.

“I’m sorry,” is all she says, before making a run for the door, the way out—far and far from her general, her best friend, the one who sees through her everything.

Fu Xuan is not one to hide her thoughts, but crying is so much easier when no one else is looking—when Jing Yuan is not looking. Only under the omniscient stars does Fu Xuan let herself crumble, melting into the indifferent skies above.

TWO COMMISSION HEADS lurking around the Exalting Sanctum at midnight is hardly a frequent sight, an unlikely coincidence. The Helm Master does not pry her eyes off Fu Xuan, staring at her in deep thought, even when there is nothing glaringly strange about her.

“If you’re here to comment about my shortcomings once again—”

“I’m sorry if that was how I came across,” Yukong cuts, and appears to be genuine. “Perhaps I felt at ease teasing you, knowing his body was brought back alive—but it was insensitive given your uncertainty. I should have known better than anyone.”

Right. Yukong had lost her best friend to the war against the Abundance’s followers—actually lost her, rather than just faced the fear of losing her. “No matter,” Fu Xuan says curtly, staring straight ahead. “I was certain he would return anyway.”

“Sure.” Yukong stops next to her, resting her hands on the railing. “I’m glad your certainty hasn’t betrayed you. It’d be a big loss for the Luofu to lose him, no matter how great of a general you can be in his place. … I must admit I’m a little jealous, even though I know I have no right to be.”

She gives Yukong a sideways glance, but finds no energy to sharpen the edge. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t try to talk me into appreciating this fortune—to try to alleviate your personal regrets.”

“You sure are very straightforward when it has nothing to do with fortune-telling, Diviner Fu,” says Yukong with a light chuckle. “At the risk of sounding cruel I tell you, it doesn’t really matter to me if you’re to repeat my past mistakes. How you live your life is not a huge concern of mine. And I understand that the circumstances surrounding this event and my past are not the same—I wouldn’t understand how you’re feeling, nor would you have understood mine. There is no point in lecturing you about a reality that hasn’t occurred to you.”

Fu Xuan makes no response to that. Truly, though, she is grateful for Yukong’s mature response; god knows they need at least one clear-headed person between the two.

“How did you…” Fu Xuan clears her throat. “How did you deal? With losing her?”

Yukong turns to look at her, surprised to hear it. Fu Xuan can barely make out the bitter smile of nostalgia lining her lips, before she breaks out into a wry laugh. “I wish I could tell you something cool worthy of my epithets, but all there is to the truth is… that I never did.”

“How can you say that?” Fu Xuan asks, turning to look at her colleague, the graceful Foxian with a distant look in her eyes. “You’re one of the most revered leaders in the Luofu, leading the Sky-Faring Commission without a single qualm, even at a very young age. Jing Yuan—the General would not have let you have your job if you were incapable of getting back on your feet after such grief.”

“I may be on my feet, but my wings have stopped soaring, have they not?” Yukong smiles to herself, but Fu Xuan recognizes the tremble in her low tone—a painfully familiar voice. “I cling myself to the ground in my fear, sticking myself within the lofty walls of the Palace, when I once used to be a most exceptional pilot. My grief never left, Diviner Fu. My grief has embraced me every day for the past decades, making my every decision, good and bad, right and wrong. Because I still have this heart—we all do. It is only in our nature to grief and to love.”

Fu Xuan’s breath hitches, and she feels it again—the pricking of her eyes, triggered by an invisible needle. But she thinks she knows the direction it’s coming from, now.

“And maybe it doesn’t show as much, but I believe the general is not so different. He has, too, fought many battles and lost many of his closest friends, went through centuries of change. He is human, still—these must not have been easy for him, no matter that he is the general. That’s why…”

“That’s why…?”

“That’s why, try to be a little more gentle with him, Fu Xuan,” says Yukong with a tender smile, with the smile of an elder—a smile that belittles her shriveled heart, but she knows the Helm Master only means well. “I don’t suppose it was easy for him to go against that Emanator, even if he did have the martial prowess, even if he did have the right aid. He fought because it’s his duty—but don’t you remember what we vowed through our oaths? We vowed to fight against the abominations, because they go against what’s left of our humanity. We fight to keep ourselves human—to keep our hearts beating, our memories alive.”

And do you have to consume your heart just to reach that goal?

Oh, how foolish she’s been. 

Yukong catches sight of the silent tears, and nods slowly. “I know. It’s not easy, I know—when faced with fear, we fight, we run. It is also simply part of our nature to do so. If only there was an easier way to deal with a loved one without feeling that swell of emotion… maybe my daughter wouldn’t have suffered so much under my care.”

Fu Xuan flits her eyes over to her, and notices that she, too, is brimming with tears. The scene must be so comical for a passerby—two of the fiercest commission heads, crying like newborn babies just over at Synwood Pavilion past midnight.

“Take it slow, Diviner,” is the Foxian’s last advice before she wipes the final traces of tears away from her face. “After flying for so long, I realized… in the end, you still need to stop in between to catch your breath, lest you forget how to breathe once your engine fails you for good.”

“HOW IS HE?” 

Qingque, who’s been playing with her jade abacus, looks up to the Master Diviner with a couple of blinks. “Uh, who now?”

“... The general. How is he?”

“I think I should be asking you about that, Ma’am,” the girl blinks again. “Aren’t you supposed to know everything about him? You guys are like, two peas in a pod.”

Inseparable. Is this how everybody else sees them as well?

“I’ve been a little busy,” Fu Xuan mutters, “if you couldn’t tell. Meanwhile, you seem to have plenty of leisure time for gossip, so I figured you’d know.”

Qingque lets out a long hum. “They say no news is good news, so.”

No news is terrible news, especially for them diviners—but Fu Xuan can hardly be bothered to argue with the kid. She turns to leave, but Qingque stops her: “If you miss him so much, just go and visit him.”

“I told you, I’m busy.”

“Even for someone you care about? That’s just cheap,” Qingque clicks her tongue, so at ease that you’d think she’s the boss. 

“I don’t—”

But Fu Xuan does care about him, and she does miss him, and she does want to see him. Yet seeing him clogs her throat so tightly that when she opens her mouth, all that comes out are venom-laced daggers, and Jing Yuan does not deserve this—not when he’s gone through so much pain himself. And she only feels all the more guilty knowing that she can’t control this, that she cannot be honest as herself—that she cannot say she misses him, that she cares for him, because of this all-consuming fear, because of her remaining pride as the Master Diviner.

Fu Xuan cannot come to see him, and it hurts, because she—

“Ah—did I say something wrong?” Qingque quickly frowns. “Why are you crying, Diviner?”

Does it ever stop hurting? she’d asked the Helm Master before she completely left. Do you get used to it?

You just learn to embrace it, Yukong had replied, the knowing smile salient in her voice.

“Because it hurts,” Fu Xuan says simply, walking away without paying mind to her miserable state, the pitiful stares they give her.

SHE WAKES TO the sound of panting, and feels the hand in hers twitch. Immediately Fu Xuan gets up to see Jing Yuan, chest racking heavily, rapid saccades under his eyelids, sweat pooling by his hairline.

“General. Jing Yuan,” Fu Xuan calls, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “Wake up.”

And he does wake up, with a ghastly gasp that sends a chill down Fu Xuan’s spine. His eyes are wide open, gleaming red even in the dim light, staring at the ceiling in a trance.

“You said you were okay,” she wails—again, again, letting fear leak out as ridiculous pins and needles. “You promised me you were fine. What is happening?”

“Why… why are you here?”

Fu Xuan stares at him with an incredulous gaze, but lets her eyes fall shut. “I was worried—and it seems I was not worried for nothing.”

“Aiya. You should be asleep in your own quarters—you have a long day ahead of you,” Jing Yuan sighs, angling his body to face her. “How could I have told you, if I knew you were going to sacrifice your sleep over your worry?”

“If you’d told me, I would have already done something about it.”

“It’s nothing new. This has been happening for as long as I can remember,” says Jing Yuan, now looking into the distance. “Nightmares—they happen to anyone, but particularly to those who often fight in the front lines. It just hits me harder because I’m older. I’ve already told the High Elder about my headaches, and she’s already taken that into consideration in my medicine. I’m already so much better—I’m literally all good to go, and you’ll see me annoying you like usual in no time. There really is no need to worry, Fu Xuan.”

It’s not like she can eliminate her worry just by will. If she could… Fu Xuan only sighs. “You call me your closest friend, and yet you’ve never even told me about these nightmares.”

Jing Yuan stays still for a while, and Fu Xuan briefly wonders whether he’s fallen asleep once more. Then, “They’re terrifying. I… was terrified.”

Fu Xuan rubs her thumb over the back of his hand in response. Jing Yuan lets out a small smile, letting his eyes flutter to a close. 

“I’m sorry, for often acting like nothing is as serious as they are. I suppose that’s just part of the way I’ve coped as being General, as a public figure—to preach of hope and brighter days, not about bitter circumstances and slim chances of survival,” he mumbles. “It’s terrible for morale to be a leader without confidence, as I’m sure you know—at least, if not then, now you’ve had a small taste of it. But I am always terrified, despite having lived through these many wars; a Lord Ravager with a Stellaron is no insignificant matter. I was scared I would not make it out alive, I was scared that we would fail to banish Phantylia from the Luofu at all, and bring more harm to the Luofu than the damage already reaped. And I… I was—I am always scared of losing you.”

“You’re very good at acting otherwise,” Fu Xuan comments, but the quiver in her voice makes it apparent that she is close to bawling her eyes out. Again.

Jing Yuan laughs, opening his eyes to look at her. “Only because I’m terrified, of course. Terrified that you would realize your general isn’t half the man you thought he was. See, you’re mad at me—and it’s all because I wasn’t brave enough to treat our moments like they could be our last.”

I’m also terrified, she wants to say. All she lets out is a sob.

“I’ve missed being with you. Can you forgive me, Fu Xuan?”

“I’m sorry,” she says instead.

Jing Yuan does not appear surprised by her sudden apology, smiling fondly still. “Would it be too much for me to ask why?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” she admits with a hiccup. “Maybe I am tired. Maybe I am stressed from the workload. Maybe I—maybe I keep worrying about all the what-ifs even though you’re alive, that it’s begun to creep into my mind more than the reality. But I should not have lashed out at you for things that are not your fault. I’m sorry that I can’t—I’m sorry that I lost myself before you, that I can’t show you a stronger side of myself.”

“Ah. I thought…” 

She takes her hand off his to wipe her cheeks, but Jing Yuan quickly takes hold of it again, intertwining their fingers with an ethereal warmth. 

If only she can never let go.

“Fu Xuan. Look at me,” says Jing Yuan gently, his golden eyes burning with the gaze of the omniscient sun. “You don’t have to be strong before me, you know. You have always been impatient, hot-headed, callous with me, and I have always admired you for who you are.”

Why does he say those sentiments so easily? It drives Fu Xuan insane. 

“Before anything else, you are the Luofu’s Arbiter-General, and I am the diviner you’ve placed your trust in,” she sighs. “In the face of a war, the border between life and death, the most important thing for us is… to keep each other strong. You know this. You said it yourself—you act brave because you cannot show a side of you that is weak, before the people who have trusted you to lead them to safety, to victory. And right now, we are still in turbulent times. I cannot be this weak before you… no matter how many of my weaknesses you can accept.”

You are my strength, and I am yours. It is only in this manner we can keep each other going.

Jing Yuan nods slowly. “I know. I know, I did think so. But that fear of losing you—the absence of you, even if only for a few weeks—hits me again with the frailty of our lives. People think we’re lucky to be subject to long lives, but you know better than anyone that with the possibility of a long life means more potential days in between to die, more possible endings for our lives. The tips of these infinite branches are highest in number—that is what makes death hardest to divine. That’s why the end is so scary, and the most valuable fate of them all.

“Still—even a commoner can tell you that old men are highly likely to pass sooner than the young. I was lucky to have a second chance, but even after I’ve retired and returned to a life of peace, there is no guarantee that these wounds won’t fail my body soon; there is no guarantee some past enemy won’t come to hunt me down; there is no guarantee I will live to see another day. And I must correct you on this, Fu Xuan: before I am the Arbiter-General, I am merely a man. I mess up. I fall ill. I grow scared. I have once made the mistake of overlooking the dangers in favor of power and youth, and… the worst thing man can do is repeat their mistakes, is it not?” 

Jing Yuan’s eyes crinkle into innocent crescents, a terribly boyish look that betrays not his age and weariness. 

“I’m saying, I would rather you cry on my shoulder and scream against my chest, than not be able to see you—than to risk never seeing you again. So please don’t leave me,” he says in a whisper. 

It shatters the composure Fu Xuan’s rebuilt with so much effort. She, however, has never felt more able to breathe.

Jing Yuan does not move to stop her tears from flowing, though, only continuing to rub his thumb over her hand, slowly, slowly. “Come, sleep on the bed. It’s late, and once I’m out of sick leave, we won’t get many chances to indulge in such tender moments. I’m going to milk this night for all its worth.”

Fu Xuan briefly lifts her eyes to give him a hard glare, but he has such an earnest expression on his face that she can’t stay mad at him for more than a second. “This chair’s fine,” she mumbles, putting her head over her folded arms just like before.

“That’s very bad for your back, especially down the line—I speak from experience.” She feels Jing Yuan’s hand hovering over her head, and then, the cascade of her carefully made updo.

“Oi. My precious hair,” Fu Xuan whines, giving him yet another glare.

“You’re still beautiful.”

Her cheeks are practically a flood of fire, and she quickly buries her face back in her arms. Jing Yuan really is such a menace, but she won’t have him any other way.

“You know, I may have been injured, but I still can haul you over my shoulder with ease.”

Unsurprisingly—like always—Jing Yuan always gets what he wants in the end. Fu Xuan finds that she doesn’t mind it so much when she wakes up to a warm embrace, hand gently cupping her head, steady heartbeats that complement the rhythm of her own.

“OKAY. IT’S TIME,” Jing Yuan announces as soon as he makes his presence in the Matrix of Prescience—in the flesh—falling in step next to Fu Xuan’s quick steps. “Your long-awaited General training regimen. Let’s do it.”

It’s been over a year since Jing Yuan’s sick leave officially ends and he returns to his post as General. A year long or short depending on how you see it—relative to their lifespans, perhaps all too short, but it’s been a good four-hundred something sunrises and sunsets. As is with the entire problem with immortality, having long lifespans just means you live through many more days and many more tragedies than the average human—time never feels shorter.

It’s been a long, busy year. At the same time, one year is… far too short for the general to make the decision of his resignation concrete. “Suddenly?”

“Better sooner than never, no? I thought you’d be most elated by this progression of events.” Jing Yuan casts her a brief sideways glance. “Besides, it’s not like it’s going to be a five-day training. I’ve worked hard over the past few months devising a program that would best suit your style, while also retaining all the key elements of the learning process. It might take years or even decades, but knowing you… you’d probably tick every box within a year or two.”

Fu Xuan scoffs, the corners of her lips quirked up incredulously. “... Have you got nothing better to do?”

“I did get screamed at for not preparing my future general well enough.” Jing Yuan pointedly avoids her glare, continuing to look ahead as they walk through the delve. “So we’ll start now, ease our way into it slowly, before finally… my freedom. Ahh, I can’t wait to just be an ordinary old man basking under the artificial sun. Does that not sound like paradise?”

“That’s what you’ve been doing anyway.”

“Yes, but after this, I can do it without getting nagged by several hot-tempered ladies,” Jing Yuan clicks his tongue. Fu Xuan smacks his arm lightly. He only laughs.

“So what do you need me to do?”

“We’re going to interleave between the various things I have to do—y’know, training knights, intelligence analyses, entertaining guests, coordinating operatives between different delves, et cetera. Obviously you are well versed in some more than in others, which is why we’re starting with what you might consider to be easy, but can prove the hardest job to carry out in the long run.”

Jing Yuan doesn’t continue—the drama queen he is. “What is it?”

“Going through official documents, corresponding with the other ships.”

Fu Xuan halts in her tracks, and Jing Yuan only belatedly realizes this, stopping a few steps ahead of her. “You’ve already had some experience with this, both as part of your current job and when you took over me last time,” he reasons plainly, so seriously. “I thought it would be a good way to—”

She kicks him by the back of his knees, sending him crumbling in one strike. Jing Yuan yelps in a tone higher than that of an enraged toddler’s screech.

“Oi, can you use your mouth?” He hardly appears to be pained, but being Jing Yuan, he complains in the loudest voice a man can yell. “Maybe that’s what we need to fix first—your tendency to smack people and talk in riddles, instead of coherent sentences. Communication is important in this line of work, you know?”

“I’m only violent with you, don’t worry,” says Fu Xuan, flicking her hair like her general is not currently hunched over in pain. “Though, admittedly, my speech does tend to get in the way. I’ll try to work something out.”

“So why did you feel the need to kick me this time, Lady Fu?”

“You’re just putting off your work on me because you’re lazy! This whole ‘training’ thing is just another excuse for you to slack off!”

“Hey, hey, no—” Jing Yuan hauls himself up, shaking his head furiously. “Listen. Admittedly I am lazy, and these documents are most annoying to deal with—but that’s precisely why it’s the first thing I need you to do. I need to check that the future general has the endurance to deal with an endless stream of papers, of letters and reports alike, so that they don’t become like me—weighed down by the mundane aspects of a general. You said you needed to become better than me, so this is the thing you must master. I’ll play counselor in the meantime, so you won’t be completely unentertained.”

It’s always hard to refuse Jing Yuan when it’s all so logically valid. Fu Xuan huffs out long breaths. “You’re so good at spewing dogshit, Jing Yuan. Is that also something I must learn?”

“I call that personal flair,” he winks. She has the urge to slap him a second time. “We can’t have you doing double work again like the last time, so I’ve also found a part-time replacement for you as Master Diviner. Part-time, of course, because you won’t be working in the Seat of Divine Foresight 24/7.”

“You’ve found a part-time replacement for my job? No matter that you have the power, you don’t know the Divination Commission more than I do, General. You can’t be the one making decisions for the fate of my commission,” Fu Xuan sternly argues. 

Jing Yuan is, unsurprisingly, unfazed. “A fool given power is only a cause for destruction. You think it was only out of sheer power that I handpicked these Heads of Commissions? The Helm Master is there because I scouted her from her youth, when she was nothing more than a teenager with an unbridled passion for the stars. The Lieutenant—I don’t even need to explain. Even you, Lady Fu, only have your place because I gave my approval, when there have been plenty of older and wiser diviners before you—”

“Are you undermining me?”

“—because no one else could lead better than you. Point is,” Jing Yuan drones on, “being a general means knowing more than simply the war, the front lines, the military assembly. In this training, you’ll have to leave the boundaries of what you already know, instead of relying on your good ol’ experience.”

“That’s not a valid argument on why I can’t be the one to pick my own successor.”

“Well, that’s a personal indulgence of mine, actually,” Jing Yuan snickers. Of course. “I’ve already found someone perfect for the job anyway, and I thought I had to leave one last legacy of myself before you start making all the decisions.”

“Never thought you’d care for legacies and such,” Fu Xuan mumbles. “Who is it, anyway? And just to be clear, you still need my approval for this.”

“But of course, the one who reintroduced the Celestial Jade to us.”

Fu Xuan follows Jing Yuan’s line of sight, finding the Divination Commission’s administrator—Qingque—blatantly reading a novel with both feet on her desk, uncaring for the Commission’s to and fro. “You want my laziest worker taking over my place—Jing Yuan, you have outrightly offended me. This is practically a declaration of war from your side.”

Jing Yuan laughs so hard that tears start coming out of his eyes. “Come on. We both know how full of potential that young kid is,” he tries to reason anyway. “She’s the one you go to when you have an important task to entrust, even though it’s far from her job description. You know her worth—it’d be such a waste not to build on that.”

“Yes, Qingque is most brilliant indeed—she managed to work her way down from her job as a diviner simply because she refuses to work. Does she look like she’d willingly carry out such an important role to you?”

Jing Yuan’s smirk is… confident, and hot. A little. “Do you doubt my own cunning, Lady Fu?”

Fu Xuan’s eyes flicker, but she maintains her knitted brows, her frown. “You’re going to trick her into working as the head of the commission?”

“Well, that’s a sour way to put it. Persuade is the better term. From one lazy person to another, I’m the best candidate to get her to play her rightful role, don’t you think?”

“... Is this something you’ve prepared as well?”

“Sort of,” Jing Yuan chuckles. “It’s not hard getting through to her—she’s a kid who likes games of intellect and luck, and I am fortunately not short of either.”

“And does she already know of your decision?”

“She will. I’ll give you… about two weeks should be enough, to familiarize her with your arduous work. Then we’ll start your part of the training as well.” Jing Yuan stretches his arms, and Fu Xuan almost feels bad to hear the crack of his back. “Ah, I can’t wait to see that desk clean for once. It does get annoying to see, you know, piled up papers collecting dust.”

She rolls her eyes, but chooses not to comment on that. “Why now, of all times? It’s not like I’ve done anything…”

“I think things have been too smooth sailing for you lately—you need something to stir up these calm waters. That said, this training regimen will be most gruesome—well, mostly because you have to deal with me and my amazing personality, but also because I won’t make it easy for you just because you’re my friend—especially because I know you so well.” 

“You’re a piece of hard work, indeed,” Fu Xuan grumbles, earning her a hearty laugh from the general.

“Speaking of which, there’s something we must do before training officially starts.”

“What is it?”

“One peaceful date.”

“No,” is Fu Xuan’s immediate response, as she turns away from Jing Yuan to head for the archives. 

He trails her still, like a lost Diting on her heel. “I’ve never heard a rejection faster and colder in my entire life, and I’m the Dozing General. You’re truly incredible,” he muses with mocking awe. Fu Xuan wants to punch the smirk off his mouth so bad. “Come on. This is the only time I can pamper you properly without the fear of you lashing out at me under the magnified stress.”

“I told you never to bring that up again!” Fu Xuan’s face glows red, and she only hopes her bangs are long enough to cover her embarrassment. Of course, leave it to Jing Yuan to tease her about her lowest moments.

“I won’t if you’ll allow me one night to court you,” Jing Yuan says. “Well, no promises, honestly. You’re adorable when flustered. Your every expression brightens yet another year in my incredibly dull lifespan. Every time you’d hit me when you could be kissing me—”

“JING YUAN! ” Fu Xuan thinks her sound can be heard from every end of the delve, but she literally cannot care—he is staring at her so intently that she can hardly catch her breath. “Shut up. Stop talking. Leave this place at once!”

“I’m still your general, Lady Fu,” he says, leaning low enough—too close to her face—just for the two of them to hear. His deep voice tickles the hairs on her neck, setting off an indescribable feeling in her stomach.

“Using your position to get me to indulge you—how petty,” Fu Xuan retorts, standing her ground. “Right. You’re still my general, so you shouldn’t be uttering such unprofessional statements.”

“Sure. Let’s make a bet, then. If you truly believe you can, indeed, wait until I step down from my work to accept my love freely without the burden of maintaining professionality and whatnot, then I will wait until that day. Of course, that day may be closer than expected, so you can simply rush your way through this training until I pass on my mantle to you, and then you don’t have to hold yourself back from me.”

“And you believe I want your affection so badly that this would prove challenging to me? That I would falter under your mere gaze, when I have so much bigger things on my shoulders to deal with?”

“I don’t know.” The look on Jing Yuan's face tells a different story. “You might think, at this tranquil moment, that you don’t want it—and you might be right. But you did happen to react terribly the last time you were confronted with conflicting emotions and thoughts during unstable times. Can you risk letting that happen a second time?”

He really does see through everything, the stupid general. “So what’s the other condition?”

“The side I bet on, of course, is that you’re going to cave eventually, and let me take you out. Of course, it is not without uncertainty—maybe you can learn to set your feelings aside for your work, make a fool of me. But that’s the fun in bets, no? It’s what we do best, you and I—see all the possible fates, gamble in a certain direction according to what we know.” 

He says that, yet as is always with Jing Yuan, his bets never purely rely on probability alone. Both of them know Fu Xuan is too scared to lose him a second time—too scared that a tomorrow might never come, no matter that the Luofu is currently in safer waters, no matter that the end of their lives seem further out of sight today. 

Every passing day matters, Fu Xuan has realized in a very painful way. To fight to make every day worth its time, to do the best they can for themselves and their loved ones and this ship—it’s what keeps them alive, what defines them as humans. The Plagues Author’s curse is not going to change this—rather, they won’t let them take this away from them. 

Immortality comes with its many demises, but they, Fu Xuan and Jing Yuan both, are highly brilliant individuals—they’ll make the best use out of this extended life, turn this poison into a remedy of their own weapon. 

They’ll make the best use out of this time to be the best version of themselves—living legends fighting for the Luofu with all their soul, but also, humans living for each other with all their heart.

Fu Xuan kicks Jing Yuan by the knees again, has him kneel before her, so that they are looking at each other on equal level.

She kisses him with no care for the world around them, with a heart that’s beaten for him for decades and centuries, no compromise in her genuinity. 

When he pulls apart to let them breathe, he has a most heartfelt smile on his face, worth all the sorrow and shame she can bear. “I don’t think even the Matrix of Prescience could have seen that coming,” he whispers, and they let out innocent giggles with only the stars and each other as divine witnesses.