Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

For what is a king compared to an emperor, and an emperor to the one who precedes him.

It wasn’t often Shang Qinghua got a little time to himself. Too busy running the Northern Desert, then making sure that the peaks keep functioning, adding the unpaid position of listening to constant comments on his work. Pulling his guan from his hair, he placed it on his –frankly overcrowded—table, standing and stretching as he left the office behind him, going deeper into his leisure house. Past the receiving room, past his bedroom, and into the garden he’d expanded on after his betrayal was known to his sect. Shang Qinghua had even added a pond deep enough to swim in. And he was going to use it at least just this once....before he goes crazy.

And for a while, he did. Spending his time floating in the water was a lot calmer than he expected. As he looked up to the sky, Qinghua wished every day were exactly like this. A relatively silent peak with no one to bother him. Now he didn’t know what the other peak lords were doing, well, besides cucumber bro—as they hadn’t included him in anything ever since the realisation; not that they were doing so before either. He floated, adrift in his pond, letting the minor ripples lull him to a calm…what would drowning feel like? Shang Qinghua thought. Surely it must be peaceful in some manner.

Shang Qinghua startled out of his musing, splashing water into his eyes and mouth and spluttering about. What? The system had been inactive since the end of the book. Why would it suddenly come back online? He tapped the screen.

Did Shen Yuan also have this? Asking for the details about the mission provided no further explanation besides a "CLASSIFIED" in his face. Deciding that this was something to worry about when he wasn’t in the water and while the sun was going down—he might be a cultivator, but he despised the cold—he treaded towards the pond’s edge and hoisted himself out. Well, that was a relaxing evening ruined.

Walking into his office dressed in newer clothes, he ran a towel through his hair. Bare feet making gentle strides to his table, eyes set in a hard line and expressionless, so unlike the Qinghua familiar to his sect members and sometimes even his king. He was tired, and there was still paperwork on his desk, the pile grown since his little swim. Some disciples must have put it there.

Leafing through some of them sent a lick of irritation coursing through him and ruining his relaxation efforts. It was Qing Jing’s. They weren’t even work for his peak, meaning that Shen Qingqiu was still on his honeymoon trip….again.

Honestly, cucumber bro could stand to do some of his work too, or at the very least, corral his husband into doing his part as an emperor. Not that he was complaining or anything, when all was said and done, he’s happy with the outcome of the story. Better this than the shitshow the original PIDW as. Good things must be said three times, and all that bull. Sometimes Shang Qinghua craved the smell and feel of smoke curling in his lungs. He just wished….he shook his head, sending loose curls ruffling the air, water droplets landing on some of the papers. Content. He slapped his cheeks, Content. He is content and will-must believe it. Still…

He flopped onto his chair –leave the introspection for later—he had to figure out what the system wanted and that meant interrupting cucumber bro’s time with his husband. He sighed; he did not want to spend time with Luo Binghe trying to kill him with his eyes for interrupting. Too taxing to keep up pretending. He should have….nevermind; no use thinking of what could have been. He pushed the paper pile away; that was a problem for later. For now, he had to figure out where to start with the system mission. And a letter to draft.

Sending a disciple off with the letter to Qing Jing, he got started on his miserable pile but found himself unable to focus. There was something within him that felt…hot. Like cold fire backed by the crushing waves. The ink blurred the longer he looked at them, and the molten feel expanded. There were splotches appearing on the paper. At first, a singular drop, then two, then many more until he couldn’t make out the words on them. A shaky hand to his eyes returned with the evidence of tears.

Qinghua’s shoulders shook minutely, the only evidence of his breakdown being the tears and scattered sharp inhales. For all that Shang Qinghua frequently employed the use of his tears and faints, he was a quiet crier when it mattered. He wrapped his arms around his person, gently moving it in a gesture of self-comfort. A habit he thought lost to the modern world. But it was futile, and the embers of indignation were being fanned into spitting flames.

With a hasty jerk, he got off the chair, flinging all the paperwork off the table in anger, inkpot, brushes and all, stalking to the shelf and pulling others off their slot and throwing them to the floor, rampaging this terrible place that was his site of unappreciation. Why? Why, why, why? Why, still did this feeling not exit his person. He collapsed in the middle of the room, surrounded by scattered papers, bringing his palms up to his mouth, Shang Qinghua, overlayed them…and screamed into his hands, muffling and swallowing his scream. Then all was dark.

He came to a few moments later, sprawled out on the floor. Taking a moment to regulate himself, he spared a thought to the fact that no one even checked on him during his emotional breakdown temporary inconvenience.

He was leaving. He’d decided. Fuck this stupid sect and the stick everyone seemed to have up their ass, acting all lofty. Qinghua was tired of being a paper pusher; if anything, he needed some time to himself. And no time like the present. He could even use the system’s mission as a possible explanation.

Peeling himself off the floor, he surveyed the mess he’d created, he contemplated rearranging everything before deciding to leave it for whoever found it. He didn’t care anymore. He went into his bedroom, packing some plainer clothes, money, and some talisman paper into his qiankun pouch. Redressing in muted browns, he made to tie his hair in a simple bun, when his hand brushed over his pendant he paused for a moment—his king—for a moment and nothing longer. He took it off, flinging it carelessly in the direction of the bed. Qinghua exited the leisure house through his garden to avoid his disciples, stepped on his sword, and in a flash of brown, Shang Qinghua was gone.