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The autumn wind was a restless thing, rattling the loose wooden shutters of Puqi Shrine and whistling through the gaps in the doorframe. Outside, the world was turning cold and dark. Inside, however, the small, dilapidated shrine felt like the safest harbor in the mortal realm.
A single oil lamp sat on a low wooden crate, casting long, dancing shadows across the room and bathing everything in a warm, amber glow. The scent of faint incense and drying herbs hung in the air.
Xie Lian sat cross-legged on his woven straw mat, a pile of worn white fabric resting in his lap. He held a bone needle between his fingers, carefully drawing a thick thread through a nasty rip in his cult robe. It was meticulous, quiet work—the kind of mundane task he had used to anchor his mind for centuries.
Across from him, lounging with a grace that felt entirely too grand for such a humble space, was San Lang.
The youth was propped up on one elbow, his bright red robes spilled across the floor like a pool of fresh maple leaves. His posture was entirely relaxed, yet his single, dark eye was locked onto Xie Lian with absolute, unwavering focus. He tracked every rise and fall of Xie Lian’s chest, every subtle movement of his wrists, as if recording the sight to memory.
They had been talking about nothing in particular—the local harvest, the eccentricities of the village elders, the nature of mortal prayers. But as the night deepened, the conversation naturally drifted into deeper waters.
"They really are terrible at looking after themselves, Gege," San Lang murmured. His voice, usually laced with a lazy, mocking cadence when speaking of the heavens or the world at large, had softened into something entirely different. It was a tone reserved for a single subject. His beloved.
Xie Lian’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second before continuing the stitch. "Is that so?"
"En," San Lang replied, a fond, helpless smile curving his lips as his gaze drifted toward the flickering lamp flame. "Always running headfirst into danger without a second thought. Offering kindness to people who would sooner bite their hand off. They carry the weight of the world on their shoulders and never stop to consider that their own safety matters, too."
Xie Lian let out a soft, sympathetic chuckle, though a strange, tiny knot began to form in the center of his chest. "They sound like a very noble person, San Lang. Very brave."
"The bravest," San Lang corrected instantly, his tone slipping into a reverent, centuries-old devotion that made the air in the room feel heavy. "The most brilliant, dazzling soul in this world. Even when the entire universe turned its back on them, even when they were dragged through the mud, they never lost their light. Every hardship I endured... every century I spent crawling through the dark... it was all worth it, just to have known them."
Xie Lian kept his eyes strictly on his stitching. He didn't look up. He couldn't.
Behind his eyelids, memories flickered like ghosts. He thought of Hong-er. He thought of the small, bruised child wrapped in dirty bandages whom he had caught from the city walls of Xianle all those centuries ago. He remembered the fierce, desperate worship in that child’s eye. He remembered promising to protect him.
Xie Lian had cherished that child. And now, he cherished the red-robed youth sitting across from him. San Lang had become his anchor, a constant source of warmth and comfort in a life that had been cold for eight hundred years.
But hearing San Lang speak of this other person—this mysterious, flawless beloved—with such aching, absolute loyalty made something ugly claw at Xie Lian’s throat.
A cold, sharp pang of jealousy pierced right through his hard-won composure.
It was a terrifying sensation. Xie Lian was a god—or at least, he used to be. He had spent centuries purging himself of worldly desires, learning to accept starvation, mockery, and isolation with a placid smile. He had thought himself entirely immune to envy. Yet here he was, secretly coveting the devotion of a ghost king.
Who is it? Xie Lian thought bitterly, his fingers tightening around the fabric until his knuckles turned white. Who could it possibly be?
He racked his mind, trying to trace San Lang’s steps through the centuries. Had San Lang met a beautiful ghost princess during his rise to power in the Ghost City? A fierce, elegant warrior in the mortal realm? A forgotten deity from a fallen kingdom? Whoever they were, they possessed a heart that the formidable Supreme Lord Hua Cheng deemed worthy of a lifetime of worship.
Xie Lian looked down at his own worn, calloused hands. He looked at his tattered scrap-collector robes, his stained boots, and the cursed black collar binding his neck. He felt profoundly, painfully inadequate.
Compared to the ethereal masterpiece San Lang was describing, Xie Lian was just a twice-banished joke. He couldn't even cook a proper meal without creating a biohazard. He had nothing to offer.
A sudden, overwhelming wave of melancholy draped over his shoulders. Xie Lian let out a soft breath he didn't realize he was holding. He forced his lips to curve into a tight, slightly strained smile, determined to play the part of the supportive older brother. He would mask his brooding sadness. He would be happy for San Lang.
He didn't realize how terribly transparent he was.
The moment the corners of Xie Lian’s mouth tightened into that fake smile, San Lang’s rambling instantly ceased. The air in the shrine went dead quiet.
San Lang’s single dark eye narrowed slightly, tracking the subtle downturn of Xie Lian's shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers, and the profound, quiet loneliness bleeding through the prince's eyes.
Slowly, the intense, heavy devotion on San Lang's face melted away, replaced by a breathtakingly soft, knowing smile. It wasn't a mocking smirk, nor was it cruel. It was a look of pure, unadulterated delight—a expression of someone who had just witnessed a miracle.
Before Xie Lian could pull his mask back into place or offer an excuse to change the subject, the space between them vanished.
In a soft blur of red silk and the faint, musical jingle of silver wraiths, San Lang shifted. He crossed the small distance on the mat, leaning forward until his face was mere inches away from Xie Lian's.
"Gege?" San Lang whispered softly. His voice was a low, velvet purr.
Xie Lian blinked, startled out of his dark thoughts. He lifted his head, his wide eyes meeting San Lang’s. "San Lang, what—"
He didn't get to finish.
San Lang leaned in further, tilting his head just slightly, and pressed a warm, lingering kiss directly against Xie Lian’s cheek.
The touch was incredibly gentle, utterly reverent, yet it sent a jolt of pure, blinding electricity straight to Xie Lian's core. The prince froze entirely. The bone needle remained suspended in mid-air, held by stiff, paralyzed fingers.
In a fraction of a second, Xie Lian's face erupted into a violent, burning crimson. The blush spread rapidly from his cheeks, down his neck, and to the tips of his ears. His mind went entirely blank. The bitter, suffocating jealousy that had been choking him just a moment ago evaporated into nothingness, replaced by absolute, chaotic panic.
San Lang pulled back just an inch, refusing to break eye contact. His dark eye was sparkling with overwhelming, breathless affection as he took in the sight of the thoroughly undone martial god.
"Don't look like that, Gege," San Lang murmured, his voice dipping into a low, teasing caress that vibrated right through Xie Lian's chest. He reached out, his cool fingers gently brushing against Xie Lian’s opposite hand, grounding him. "My beloved is exactly where they are supposed to be."
Xie Lian could only stare, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs, his breath hitching in his throat. He was entirely, blissfully unaware that the magnificent, dazzling soul San Lang had been praising all night was currently staring right back at him, wearing his old white robes.