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It started with the scrap-iron stew.
Xie Lian had been experimenting with a new recipe involving dried lotus root, fermented bean paste, and a questionable mushroom he found growing on a rock near the river. He had not told a soul. He had not even written it down.
Yet, when Hua Cheng arrived at Puqi Shrine three hours later, he casually slipped a jar of premium, mountain-grown lotus nectar onto the counter. “To cut through the bitterness of river mushrooms, gege,” San Lang had said with that dazzling, effortless smile.
Xie Lian had blinked, stunned, but thanked him anyway.
Then came the incident with the third-tier heavenly official. A minor god had made a passive-aggressive comment about Xie Lian’s threadbare straw hat during an administrative meeting in the Upper Court. Xie Lian hadn’t cared—he was used to it. He left the communication array immediately after.
The next morning, that same minor god’s palace in the Heavenly Realm mysteriously caught fire, and a pristine, woven hat made of shimmering silk-thread grass was resting on Xie Lian's pillow.
How does he always know? Xie Lian wondered.
Eight hundred years of wandering alone had made Xie Lian incredibly perceptive when he chose to be. He began to observe. He began to dig. He knew Hua Cheng was devoted, but the sheer immediacy of his knowledge felt almost magical.
One quiet afternoon while Hua Cheng was away managing the Gambler's Den, Xie Lian decided to do a thorough spring cleaning of Puqi Shrine. But he wasn't just dusting. He was hunting.
He started with the rafters. Hidden neatly in the darkest crevice of the wood, completely motionless and blending into the shadows, was a single wraith butterfly. Its silver wings were tucked tightly, masquerading as a stray piece of tinsel.
"Ah," Xie Lian murmured, reaching up. The butterfly didn't flutter away. It simply shivered, letting out a faint, guilty glow. "So you've been sitting there. For how long, I wonder?"
He kept looking.
Beneath the prayer mat? A tiny, paper-thin array talisman, inked in Hua Cheng’s notoriously messy handwriting, tuned specifically to catch the frequency of Xie Lian’s sighs.
Inside the donation box? A small, polished obsidian mirror that reflected the entire room at a precise angle.
Even the hem of his favorite white cultivation robes—when Xie Lian inspected the stitching near the collar, he found a microscopic thread of crimson silk woven into the fabric. It was a tracking spell of the highest caliber, so faint that even a god wouldn't notice it unless they were actively tearing the seams apart.
Hua Cheng wasn’t just keeping an eye on him. Hua Cheng had effectively turned Xie Lian’s entire existence into a private viewing theater.
Xie Lian sat down on the straw mat, the silver butterfly resting on his palm, the talisman and the thread laid out on the table. He didn't feel angry. He didn't feel violated.
Instead, a profound, slightly breathless warmth bloomed in his chest, accompanied by a sudden, intense desire to tease his ghost king.
The door to the shrine opened right on cue.
Hua Cheng stepped inside, a light breeze catching his crimson robes. "Gege, I brought the sweet pastries from the southern market—"
Hua Cheng stopped dead in his tracks.
His single eye darted from Xie Lian’s face down to the table. The talisman. The thread. The silver butterfly currently trying to hide behind Xie Lian's thumb.
The mighty, terrifying Supreme Ghost King froze. For a terrifying second, Crimson Rain Sought Flower looked like a schoolboy caught stealing spiritual pearls from a temple. The silver butterflies around his shoulders suddenly scattered in a panic, fluttering chaotic circles around the room.
"San Lang," Xie Lian said, his voice entirely neutral, though his lips twitched. "Come sit."
Hua Cheng swallowed, his throat moving visually. He walked over with uncharacteristic stiffness, sinking onto the mat opposite Xie Lian. He didn't look at the evidence on the table.
"Gege," Hua Cheng began, his voice dropping an octave, filled with a rare, genuine nervousness. "I can explain."
"I am listening," Xie Lian smiled, leaning his chin on his hand.
"The butterfly in the rafters was merely for structural security," Hua Cheng said rapidly, his face a mask of elegant panic. "The shrine is old. If a beam were to crack, I would know instantly. The talisman under the mat was to regulate the humidity of the floorboards. Your health is paramount."
Xie Lian raised an eyebrow. "And the crimson thread in my collar?"
Hua Cheng’s shoulder dropped slightly. He looked down, his long eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. "A safety measure. In case you crossed into a demonic array again. I needed to be able to tear through space to reach you within three heartbeats."
Xie Lian let out a soft laugh. He reached across the table, taking Hua Cheng’s cold, pale hands into his own. "San Lang. You're stalking me."
Hua Cheng winced at the word. He didn't pull his hands away, but his grip was tight, almost desperate. "I am sorry, gege. If it makes you uncomfortable, I will destroy them all right now. I will dissolve the butterflies. I will burn the threads. I only... eight hundred years is a long time to lose someone. When I finally got you back, the thought of not knowing if you were safe, even for an hour... it felt like dying all over again."
The vulnerability in Hua Cheng's voice washed away any lingering desire Xie Lian had to tease him.
Xie Lian moved from his side of the table, sliding over to sit directly next to Hua Cheng. He wrapped his arms around the ghost king’s waist, burying his face into the smooth crimson silk of his chest.
"San Lang, you silly ghost," Xie Lian murmured softly. "Did I say I wanted you to stop?"
Hua Cheng stiffened in surprise. "Gege?"
"I don't mind," Xie Lian whispered, tightening his embrace. "For eight hundred years, nobody cared where I went. Nobody cared if I ate, if I slept, or if I fell down a mountain. To know that there are a thousand silver eyes watching over me, making sure I don't stub my toe or eat bad mushrooms... San Lang, it doesn't make me uncomfortable. It makes me feel loved."
Hua Cheng let out a long, shuddering breath—a ghost’s imitation of relief. His strong arms came around Xie Lian, pulling him so close there was no air left between them.
"You're too indulgent with me, Your Highness," Hua Cheng whispered into his hair, his voice thick with emotion. "I am a monster driven by obsession. If you give me an
inch, I will take a mile."
"Then take the mile," Xie Lian laughed softly, tilting his face up to look at him. "But if you're going to watch me through the butterflies while I'm cooking, you have to tell me when the soup needs salt. Deal?"
Hua Cheng’s handsome face broke into a breathtaking, brilliant smile. The anxious tension completely vanished, replaced by that familiar, arrogant devotion. He leaned down, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to Xie Lian's lips.
"Deal," Hua Cheng murmured against his mouth. "From now on, the butterflies will provide culinary commentary."
Xie Lian giggled, closing his eyes as he melted into the solid, unwavering comfort of his husband’s arms. The tiny silver butterfly on the table took flight, landing softly on top of their tangled hands, glowing brighter than the candle on the altar.