Work Text:
The ink in the Heavenly Realm was always too fine, the brushes too stiff, the paper too white. It reminded Xie Lian of a time when his hands did not shake when holding a quill, back when the Xianle pavilion smelled of crushed orchids and fresh plum blossoms.
Now, sitting at the small, mismatched wooden table inside Puqi Shrine, the ink was cheap and watery. The paper was coarse, bought with copper coins he had earned from hauling sacks of grain across the border. Yet, his hand remained perfectly steady. He was copying sutras, a routine that usually brought a cool, quiet peace to his mind.
But tonight, the silence in the shrine was too heavy.
Hua Cheng was away. He had business in the Ghost City—some unruly minor demons attempting to contest the borders of the Gambler’s Den—and though he had promised to return before the incense burned down, the small stick of sandalwood had already crumbled into a neat line of grey ash.
Xie Lian laid the brush down on the stone rest. He did not mind the wait. Eight hundred years had taught him how to wait until the mountains turned to dust. What he minded was the space the silence left behind. When the shrine was empty, the ghosts of his past liked to crowd the corners of the room.
Lately, one ghost in particular refused to leave.
Wu Ming.
Xie Lian leaned back, his gaze drifting to the small, cracked mirror resting against the wall. He reached up, his fingers brushing against his own throat, where the cursed shackle used to burn. It was gone now, leaving only smooth skin, but the phantom weight of it always lingered when he thought of him.
He remembered the white funerary mask. He remembered the dark, silent armor, the posture of a soldier who had sworn his life to a failing god and never looked back. Most of all, Xie Lian remembered the cold, terrifying weight of the black sword, and the terrifying realization that he had allowed a nameless, faceless soul to bear the brunt of his own hideous, vengeful malice.
“Your Highness, please curse me instead!”
The words echoed in Xie Lian’s ears, clear as a temple bell. A shudder ran through his shoulders, sudden and violent. He closed his eyes, but the dark didn’t hide the memory. It only made the blood brighter. The memory of the human face disease, the black smoke, and the final, agonizing scream of a ghost shattering into a thousand pieces of silver light to save him from becoming a monster.
I am sorry, Xie Lian thought, the words a silent, useless prayer directed at a ghost that no longer existed. I am so, so sorry. If I could go back... if I could only go back to that temple, I would throw myself on the swords a thousand times over before I let you touch that blade.
A tear, hot and unbidden, slipped down his cheek, catching the dim light of the single candle.
What a cruel thing time was. It marched forward, leaving the dead behind in the dirt, forcing the living to wear their smiles like armor. Xie Lian had everything he could ever want now. He had his ascension, his freedom, his beloved San Lang. Yet, the guilt of what he had done to Wu Ming remained an open, unhealing wound in the center of his chest. He had used that boy. He had let that nameless soldier die for his sins, and he never even got to see his face. He never got to learn his name.
The door of the shrine creaked open.
Xie Lian flinched, swiftly wiping his face with the wide sleeve of his white robe before looking up.A flash of brilliant crimson met his eyes. Hua Cheng stood in the doorway, the silver butterflies fluttering around his shoulders like tiny, glowing stars. His long black hair was slightly windswept, his silver boots clicking softly against the floorboards as he stepped inside. The fierce, terrifying aura of the Supreme Ghost King dissolved instantly, replaced by a warmth so tender it made Xie Lian’s chest ache."Gege," Hua Cheng said, his voice a low, soothing melody. "Did I keep you waiting too long?"
"San Lang," Xie Lian smiled, though he knew the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not at all. I was just finishing some writing. Are things settled in the Ghost City?"Hua Cheng walked closer, his single dark eye scanning Xie Lian’s face with terrifying precision. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he knelt by the low table, his crimson robes pooling on the floor like spilled wine. He reached out, his cool, pale fingers gently catching Xie Lian's chin, tilting his face slightly toward the candlelight.
"You've been crying," Hua Cheng stated softly. There was no anger in his voice, only a deep, protective sorrow that Xie Lian always found overwhelming."Ah, it's nothing," Xie Lian lied, trying to laugh it off, though the sound caught in his throat. "Just old memories. The ink was a bit smoky tonight, I think."
"Gege doesn't lie well to me," Hua Cheng murmured. He slid his hand up, his thumb gently wiping away the faint trace of moisture beneath Xie Lian's eye. "Tell me. What is bothering you?"
Xie Lian looked at Hua Cheng—at the sharp, handsome lines of his face, the elegant curve of his lips, the devotion shining in his gaze. He felt a sudden, suffocating surge of unworthiness. How could he deserve this perfect, beautiful love when, beneath his white robes, he was still the same god who had almost unleashed a plague upon the world?
"San Lang," Xie Lian whispered, his fingers curling into the fabric of his own robes. "Do you... do you ever think about the people we couldn't save?"
Hua Cheng’s expression softened into something incredibly profound. "Every day."
"I was thinking about the fall of Xianle," Xie Lian said, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "The second time. After the battlefield. There was... there was a ghost. A soldier who followed me when I was at my worst. He wore a mask. He had no name."
Hua Cheng’s hand stilled against Xie Lian’s cheek. His eye flickered, a subtle shift that lasted for only a fraction of a second, but he remained perfectly quiet, listening."I treated him horribly," Xie Lian continued, the floodgates opening, the confession pouring out of him because the weight had become too much to carry alone. "I was so blinded by hatred, so broken by what Bai Wuxiang did to me, that I didn't see him. I didn't see that he was suffering. And when the time came... when I wanted to unleash the human face disease... he took it all. He took the curse into himself so I wouldn't have to carry the sin."
Xie Lian’s breath hitched, a sob threatening to break through his ribs. "He scattered, San Lang. Right in front of me. I watched him tear apart into nothingness, and I didn't even know his name. I didn't even know what he looked like. If I could go back... if there was any magic in this world that could let me undo it, I would change it all. I would save him. I feel so horrible. I feel so utterly monstrous every time I remember his face—or the mask where his face should have been."
He lowered his head, unable to look at Hua Cheng anymore. He braced himself for the comfort—for San Lang to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that it was a long time ago, that he shouldn't worry about a nameless ghost from eight centuries past.
Instead, a pair of strong, elegant arms wrapped around him.
Hua Cheng pulled Xie Lian tightly against his chest. The embrace was fierce, almost desperate, as if Hua Cheng were trying to anchor Xie Lian’s soul directly to his own. He pressed his face into the crook of Xie Lian’s neck, inhaling the faint scent of incense and sweet grass."Gege," Hua Cheng whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "Look at me."Xie Lian blinked through his tears, pulling back just enough to look into Hua Cheng’s eye.
"You don't need to go back," Hua Cheng said, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakable certainty. "You don't need to undo anything. That soldier... he never blamed you. Not for a single second."
"San Lang, you don't understand, you weren't there—"
"I was," Hua Cheng interrupted softly.
Xie Lian froze. The words didn't make sense. The air in the tiny shrine suddenly felt incredibly still. "What... what do you mean?"
Hua Cheng smiled, a small, incredibly sad, yet profoundly beautiful smile. He reached down to his waist, his silver vambraces clinking against the hilts of his scimitar, E-Ming. But he didn't touch the blade. Instead, he reached into the inner fold of his robes and pulled out a small, folded piece of white silk.
Slowly, carefully, he unfolded it.
Resting in his palm was a small, crudely made smile. A mask. A funerary mask with a crying-smiling face, long since broken but meticulously pieced back together with gold lacquer.
Xie Lian’s breath left him completely. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked from the mask to Hua Cheng’s face, his mind racing through eight hundred years of memories, connecting the dots that had been right in front of him all along.
The unwavering devotion. The silver butterflies. The young soldier who died at the city walls. The ghost who stood by him in the dark temple.
"Wu... Wu Ming?" Xie Lian’s voice was barely a breath.
"It's me, Your Highness," Hua Cheng whispered. He let the mask slip onto the table, using both hands now to hold Xie Lian’s trembling ones. "The nameless ghost was me. The soldier on the wall was me. Every version of me that has ever existed in this world has belonged to you."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Xie Lian cried, the tears flowing freely now, a mixture of profound shock, lingering grief, and a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief. "San Lang! I let you scatter! I let you experience that agony! You died because of me!"
"I died for you," Hua Cheng corrected, his tone incredibly firm, filled with pride rather than regret. "And it was the greatest honor of my existence. Your Highness, when I took that curse, I wasn't sacrificing myself out of pity. I did it because your hands were meant to save people, not to destroy them. If you had unleashed that plague, it would have broken your soul forever. I only protected what was already yours—your kindness."
Xie Lian buried his face in Hua Cheng’s chest, his fingers gripping the crimson silk of his robes so tightly his knuckles turned white. He wept—not just for the memory of the dark temple, but for the sheer, terrifying magnitude of the love he was being given. Hua Cheng had carried that pain, had remembered every look of agony on Xie Lian’s face, and had never once asked for an apology. He had only returned to give him more of himself.
"I am sorry," Xie Lian sobbed into his chest. "I am so sorry I didn't see you."
"There is nothing to be sorry for," Hua Cheng murmured, kissing the crown of Xie Lian’s head, his hand gently stroking his long, dark hair. "You gave me a reason to live, Your Highness. And when I died, you gave me a reason to come back from the ashes. If you want to undo the past, then you undo the very thing that made me strong enough to stand by your side today."
Hua Cheng pulled back slightly, using his fingers to tilt Xie Lian's face up once more. He leaned down, pressing his lips gently against Xie Lian’s forehead, right where his crown used to rest, then to his eyelids, and finally to his lips—a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and absolute devotion.
"You don't need to go back, gege," Hua Cheng whispered against his lips. "Look at where we are now. You saved me. We are here."
Xie Lian looked around the small, humble shrine. The candle was flickering, the copied sutras were drying on the table, and the Supreme Ghost King was kneeling before him, looking at him as if he were the only thing that mattered in the entire universe.
The ghost in the mirror was gone. The dark temple was far away.
Slowly, the tension left Xie Lian’s shoulders. He reached up, wrapping his arms around Hua Cheng's neck, pulling him down into another kiss, deeper this time, filled with a quiet, peaceful acceptance.
"Yes," Xie Lian whispered, his heart finally finding its rest. "We are here."