The winter leading up to that fateful Shangyuan Festival was one of the coldest Xianle had experienced in decades. Most people didn’t have a word for the white powder that fell from the sky in flurries, but they quickly learned to fear it and the quiet death it brought.
During that winter, a blacksmith took pity on a small, malnourished child.
He didn’t give the boy any food, no. But he let the child huddle near the forge’s fire, keeping warm during the few hours that the shop was open to customers.
The boy never voiced his confusion, but it must have been evident somehow, because the blacksmith explained, “Lot better for business to have an alive kid getting in my way inside, ‘stead of a dead kid getting in my customers’ way outside.”
That explanation makes no sense; corpses can be moved, after all. The boy was too thankful to find somewhere warm to spend a few hours to question any further and risk the blacksmith realizing that his reasoning for letting this scrawny child sit in his shop didn’t make sense, actually, and that there wasn’t actually any good reason to allow the boy to continue to spend afternoons huddled by the forge.
(The boy never did figure this out, but the truth is actually quite simple: that blacksmith hated the idea of a child freezing to death in the streets, regardless of how many red eyes said child may or may not have.)
And so, every day for three months, the boy sat in the forge and watched the man create all manner of things. Nails were by far the most common fare, and by extension, the most boring. The locks were alright –
But what the boy was most fascinated by was the swords.
The blacksmith was no master maker of blades, and he didn’t get a commision for a sword often. When people went to him for a sword, it was because they wanted something cheap that would work just fine against highwaymen and the occasional rabid animal someone might encounter while traveling. None of these swords would ever be wielded in any sort of glorious battle.
But oh, the boy did love to watch the process.
There was something almost poetic to be found in the weapons needing to be beaten by the heavy hammer, over and over again, until they were bent into shape. There was a beauty in the way they glistened a burning red when the blacksmith first pulled them from the forge – a hue that the boy had learned to hate, in different contexts. There was almost something to be envied in the symbol the blacksmith carved into every sword he made, because the symbol meant that the blade came from somewhere, and that the blade’s origins cared enough about it to mark the blood with their connection. And while the boy knew these swords had no impressive destinies, the boy also wouldn’t be privy to their dull ones, and the imagination flew.
A sword forged in fire, slaying a dragon.
A sword once beaten over and over again with a hammer, easily disarming a nefarious hammer-wielding villain of their own weapon.
Later, the blacksmith’s swords will get to see battle, clutched in the hands of hundreds of footsoldiers following their god, the boy among them.
Another weapon, this one intended for a crown prince, is forged in flesh-melting fire and screaming and blood. So, so, so much blood. There’s pain there, too, but it doesn’t belong to the ghost that kneels before the altar now. The only thing here that belongs to the ghost, to a god’s deadliest sword, is guilt.
The ghost screams.
The ghost screams.
The ghost screams.
Like a sword freshly pulled from the forge and immediately dunked into a pail of water, like the blacksmith did whenever the mold didn’t quite work. Steam hissing. A ghost screaming.
The ghost cannot bring itself to look at the altar. Instead, it kneels. Not in prayer – even now, that would be sacrilege. No, when the ghost kneels, it kneels in penance. It kneels with the weight of the guilt on its shoulders. It kneels because it doesn’t know what else to do with itself.
(It kneels out of grief. It kneels because it can’t quite remember how to use a set of human legs yet.)
…
The ghost does not bother keeping track of time. It does not note the rising and setting of the sun, nor the clouds passing over the now-roofless temple.
The ghost only leaves the temple once, to collect some water from a nearby stream in a meticulously-scrubbed inkpot. After boiling the water, the ghost carefully drips some over the god’s mouth. The ghost is careful not to give him too much, all-too aware of the gaping holes in Xie Lian’s throat. Really, this water is just enough to wet his lips. Despite his wounds still being utterly and completely horrifying, Xie Lian does seem to be recovering, slowly but surely, his wounds sluggishly knitting themselves back together. The prince himself remains blissfully unconscious and unaware, the only thing betraying signs of life being occasional twitches in his otherwise blank expression.
The ghost hopes that the water is, at the very least, refreshing.
It is then that the ghost feels a hand at the back of its neck.
Fingernails dig into newly-formed hair follicles at the base of the ghost’s scalp, and the ghost goes still, inkpot still held against Xie Lian’s lips.
“What are you doing?” that horrible voice whispers.
The ghost wants to attack. Oh, how it yearns to give the creature a taste of its own medicine. That cursed sword is still on the floor, and if the ghost could manage to lunge for it –
But the ghost thinks about Xie Lian. About how, at this proximity, reckless movement might jar something important. About how, if the ghost were to make a break for the sword, it would be removing itself from its position between Xie Lian and the calamity behind it.
Bai Wuxiang lets out a small chuckle. “You’re actually trying to help, aren’t you? Trying… though it won’t do much good…”
“More good than you did,” the ghost spits.
Those fingernails – claws, really – press harder into the ghost’s head. If the ghost were still mortal, it would probably already be bleeding. As it is, the ghost can’t help but wince at the pain.
“Don’t test me, little ghost,” Bai Wuxiang hisses. “I could destroy you…”
“So why haven’t you?” the ghost asks, voice betraying none of its pain – its mortal life allowed it to grow more than adept at pushing past such a thing, after all.
“Call it a thought experiment,” Bai Wuxiang says. “I won’t be the one to make you leave…” The calamity rubs his thumb along the side of the ghost’s head, almost like a parent’s caress, even as the other four fingers still pierce the skin. “In fact, I’ll even help you, because right now, little ghost, you’re a liability.”
Bai Wuxiang leans in closer, close enough that, were he human, the ghost would have felt his breath against its neck.
“With your remains out in the open like they are,” Bai Wuxiang mutters, “well, anyone could come along and destroy your soul. It would be a shame… a real shame…”
And then, the hand is gone.
The ghost whirls around, and –
There’s no one there.
The ghost didn’t sense Bai Wuxiang coming or leaving. Maybe it did neither. Maybe he’s been here all along. Watching them. That thought would be enough to send a shiver down a human’s spine.
The only proof that the calamity was here at all, besides the ache in the ghost’s skull, is a white mask left on the floor before the altar. Unlike Bai Wuxiang’s half-laughing, half-crying mask, this one’s design is far simpler. Just a smiling face.
With your remains out in the open like they are, well, anyone could come along and destroy your soul.
The ghost’s remains… those would have to be the human body, abandoned on a blood-soaked and muddy battlefield, it supposes. The ghost is admittedly uneducated on the matters of ghosts or even funerary rites in general, but…
It knows that there’s some importance in one’s physical remains.
It’s probably a trap. Actually, no. It’s most assuredly a trap. Not for the ghost, no.
Bai Wuxiang wants the ghost to leave.
Bai Wuxiang wants the ghost to leave Xie Lian here. Alone, defenseless, and inexorably injured. Who knows what Bai Wuxiang might do, in the ghost’s absence? It’s difficult to fathom how the calamity could manage to hurt Xie Lian any more than he already has, but the ghost wouldn’t put it past him to figure out something ten times as devastating.
Anyone could come along and destroy your soul.
It would be a shame… a real shame…
The ghost has no notion that Bai Wuxiang won’t go back on his word in regards to not dispersing its soul, should the ghost stand in Bai Wuxiang’s way. Truly, it would be an honor to die for Dianxia a second time.
But it would not be a useful death.
Destroyed in an instant by the White-Clothed Calamity… the ghost probably wouldn’t even manage to leave a mark against its opponent. It would barely be a pebble to step over if it tried to stand between Bai Wuxiang and Xie Lian, and its death would do nothing for His Highness.
Right now, little ghost, you’re a liability.
No, as much as the ghost hates to admit it, Bai Wuxiang is right. And that cannot be tolerated.
The ghost will be far more effective if it leaves Xie Lian now, with the promise of returning with less vulnerability as fast as it is able, than if it were to stay.
The ghost bows once, deeply, before the altar. Xie Lian’s face is scrunched up, as if he somehow knows that he’s about to be left vulnerable by his only protector. “I’ll be back soon,” the ghost vows.
As it leaves, the ghost stoops to pick up the white mask left by the calamity. Ever since a human boy was very small, it has known that its face is better when it’s hidden.
Maybe one day, the ghost will be able to master disappearing in one place and appearing in another as easily as a passing thought, but for now, the only method of travel the ghost has is on foot. And the journey takes days.
…
The ghost buries a rotting corpse in a small box beneath one of the maple trees on Mount Taicang, for lack of any better locations, stopping only to untangle a small, red coral beating from rotting hair, placing the bead in its pocket. (That bead was important to a bandage-adorned mortal, after all.) The ghost returns to the battlefield in an attempt to secure itself a weapon, and finds a saber that is only a tiny bit rusted after some scouring.
As the ghost is securing the sword at its belt, blade uncovered for lack of a sheath, it hears it.
Xie Lian.
The ghost hears Xie Lian’s voice.
“Do you hate?”
At first, the ghost thinks that the heat and the stench of rotting corpses are playing tricks on its ears. And then, it sees a white-clad figure, standing in the center of the battlefield. In one hand, the figure holds a sword that the ghost would be able to recognize anywhere, now. Funeral robes billow around the man, and when he turns, the ghost sees a laughing-crying mask covering his face.
And despite all of those details – it’s Xie Lian. He could never be mistaken for anyone else.
“The people you swore to protect and die for have now become the citizens of a new kingdom,” Xie Lian says. The ghost feels a stirring of resentment from the very earth beneath its feet. “They’ve forgotten you who have died on the battlefield, forgotten your sacrifices, and are cheering for those who took away your lives. Do you hate?”
Does the ghost hate?
It –
A human soldier didn’t fight and die on this battlefield for any sort of recognition (even if that sort of thing was the subject of many an idle daydream). That soldier didn’t fight for Xianle, either – didn’t care either way whether the country persisted or collapsed, save for one context –
That young soldier entered the battlefield for one person. And that soldier, and the ghost that stands on this battlefield today, didn’t care about that person forgetting about it. You have to be known, after all, in order to be forgotten.
And the ghost holds no illusions as to the space its mortal self occupied within Xie Lian’s mind.
A shrieking carries across the battlefield. The resentment is like a muddy sludge, now, as gross as it is potent.
“What’s the use in screaming?” Xie Lian shouts over the din. “Answer me, DO YOU HATE?”
And the ghost feels emotions that are not its own.
Anger, at a world that would dare to forget. A world that would dare to move on and be happy.
Bloodlust. A desire to make someone pay.
And –
Hate.
There is a lot of hate here. Enough to blanket the world a dozen times over, stretching all the way from here to the westernmost point of Yuanxi, and then back around across the ocean.
Xie Lian opens his arms. “Come to my side.”
And even the ghost, though far more sophisticated a creature than the howling shadows of resentment that swirl around the god, is not immune to the pull. It takes a step forward. And then another step. And another.
Do you hate?
A young boy used to hate everything, and that emotion was so all-encompassing that it was rendered dull. But that boy had enough hate to climb a wall with the intention of dooming a kingdom, or at the very least ruining some hoity-toity nobles’ day. But that hate washed away easily.
The ghost hates Bai Wuxiang, because Bai Wuxiang has made himself an enemy of the person the ghost has sworn to defend. A soldier hated foes from Yong’an and vandals with torches for much the same reason. The ghost’s hate is a facet of its devotion. An extension of its oath.
Do you hate?
In the sense in which Xie Lian uses the word?
The ghost doesn’t hate, really. That isn’t why it’s here.
It’s here to serve.
The ghost falls to one knee, uncaring of the dirt, because the stains won’t be visible on these black robes anyway, and mutters, “Dianxia…”
…
“What is your name?”
Swords don’t choose their own names.
“I don’t have a name,” the ghost says.
“Without a name makes one Wu Ming.”
“You may call me whatever you desire.”
Swords don’t choose their own names. No, a sword is always named by the one who wields it.
And what an honor it is, to be named and wielded by Dianxia himself. What an honor. What a pleasure.
…
“Don’t be scared,” Lang Ying, the newly-crowned king of Yong’an, tells his… lesions.
Behind the white-robed god, Wu Ming cannot stop a small flinch.
Don’t be scared.
Those words were said to a malnourished boy, clutched in the arms of a beautiful prince. And that boy held on with a grip that surely must have been bruising to the person carrying him –
And the boy wasn’t scared.
Lang Ying has Human Face Disease, and he shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be possible. After the… awful night of Wu Ming’s recreation, the ghost knows all too well how a human would need to go about guarding themselves from the plague. And even across a battlefield, a young soldier could still see the many that fell to Lang Ying’s sword.
Xie Lian seizes Lang Ying, shaking him violently. “WHAT KIND OF JOKE IS THIS?!”
And then – Lang Ying drops something. It falls to the gilded floor with a small clattering, but every set of eyes (excluding the ones growing from Lang Ying’s abdomen) are drawn to that tiny red pearl.
And Wu Ming finds itself unable to look away.
If Xie Lian or Lang Ying notice the temperature in the throne room dropping by more than a few degrees, neither of them acknowledges it, not physically or verbally.
“Pearl…” Lang Ying mumbles, “that pearl. I’ve always wanted to say this to you: thank you for the pearl.”
Xie Lian’s grip on Lang Ying’s shoulders tightens, enough so that Wu Ming hears a crackle as Lang Ying’s weakened bones give out under the pressure. “YOU –”
Lang Ying continues speaking, his voice never wavering from what surely must be very painful – Xie Lian is far from weak, after all. “Things would’ve been better if you had given it to me sooner. Unfortunately…”
Lang Ying takes one more shuddering breath, and –
Wu Ming feels it, the moment the king of Yong’an dies. There is no ghost fire, no whisper of a spirit. No ghostly presence, other than Wu Ming’s own. Lang Ying avenged his family, and died thinking his sacrifice would bring them back. He has no reason to stay in this world.
Lang Ying falls to the ground as Xie Lian’s grip goes slack.
“Your Highness,” Wu Ming mutters, “he’s dead.”
“Dead?” Xie Lian mumbles. “How did he just… die?”
Lang Ying may be dead, but the faces on his body are still screaming. Wu Ming wonders if such an existence might be painful. Are the spirits of Lang Ying’s family conscious, or is the only thing that they can feel pain? Either way, the screaming grates on Wu Ming’s ears, and it can tell from Xie Lian’s posture that the same is true for him.
Dianxia should never have his wishes assumed.
But Dianxia should never have to voice his wishes aloud either.
Wu Ming pulls out his saber, and chops up Lang Ying’s body into a thousand tiny pieces. A million. The ghost doesn’t count how many slices it makes; it just keeps cutting until the screaming stops, and the throne room falls silent.
“Who told you to do that?” Xie Lian’s voice is somewhat dazed as the god stares down at the mangled, bloody chunks of flesh and bone left behind by Wu Ming’s ministrations.
“There was no need to dirty Dianxia’s hands,” Wu Ming replies matter-of-factly.
Xie Lian’s gaze doesn’t leave the gooey bits of corpse. Wu Ming looks down, too, and grimaces beneath its mask at the sight of the crushed up bits of whatever Lang Ying must have had for dinner, glancing down at its saber. The blade will need to cleaned, and thoroughly…
Wu Ming remembers the last time a teenager, face half-covered with bandages, stumbled into the house where a skinny little boy grew up, where only a drunk old man lived once everyone else had been carted off to the plague camps. Wu Ming remembers the sword clutched in that young soldier’s hand. Wu Ming remembers how, after the boy left the house for the last time, that sword took less time to clean than it did to do the deed.
Wu Ming is all too familiar with the sugar-sweetness of avenging oneself.
And now, Xie Lian has lost that opportunity, when he was the one who deserved it the most.
“Would that I could…” Xie Lian mutters under his breath, still staring at the chunks of meat. The screaming has stopped, but some pieces of Lang Ying’s remains are still twitching.
“Dianxia?”
If Xie Lian was going to say something, Wu Ming will never know, because it is in that moment that an unfamiliar voice echoes through the throne room. “Jiujiu?”
A child’s voice.
Wu Ming turns, and there's a child, standing in the entrance to the throne room. The resemblance between the child and Lang Ying isn’t uncanny, but it’s present enough that the child’s face invokes a sense of deja vu. Xie Lian goes completely still as the child, who must be Lang Ying’s nephew based on the term of address.
“JIUJIU?!” the child shouts, eyes darting to the slices of meat and spots of blood on the floor.
Xie Lian isn’t moving – he’s stiller than Wu Ming, and he isn’t the one who doesn’t need to breathe. And Wu Ming…
There’s a child in the throne room. There’s a ghost in the throne room. There’s a god in the throne room. There’s a pile of flesh in the throne room.
(There used to be a little boy, who walked into his house on a freezing day to see a drunk man cutting up a kind woman’s body. The drunkard told the little boy that the kind woman would be easier to cremate like this, and then called the little boy the usual litany of names like freak and bastard and demon.)
(There used to be a little boy who never got to say goodbye.)
(The little boy never stepped foot in a throne room. Neither did the drunkard or the kind woman. But Wu Ming swears that they must have been here, because the throne room smells like that day did.)
A bandaged boy who grew into a bandaged teen could never be called kind.
A weak, pathetic little ghost fire only had the mental capacity for one person.
For Wu Ming, both of these things can be considered true.
But…
Wu Ming turns to Lang Ying’s nephew, and hisses, “Run.”
The child hesitates for only a moment. And then, Lang Ying’s nephew turns. And he runs. He screams as he goes: “Someone help!”
Wu Ming turns away from the entrance. Back towards Xie Lian. “Dianxia?”
Through all of this, Xie Lian’s eyes have never left the corpse. “Burn the palace,” he whispers.
Wu Ming bows its head. “Yes, sir.”
This doesn’t feel complicated. This is something that comes easily to the ghost. And it is so much easier to slide into the unprotesting haze of being useful to its god than it is to think about things like scared little boys and chopped up corpses.
…
The god and the ghost make camp in a forsaken shrine in Lang-er Bay. Wu Ming stares at that desecrated statue, and longs for hands that knew how to carve.
But there is no point to these statues being repaired if they reflect a being that has been wiped off the face of the earth. And so Wu Ming sinks to a knee before Xie Lian, and takes a chance on impertinence as it mutters, “Dianxia.”
With Xie Lian sitting on the ground in meditation pose, the two are at eye-level, and Xie Lian glares directly at the eyes of Wu Ming’s mask. “If you keep calling me by that title, I’ll disperse your soul,” the god threatens. “Don’t think yourself to actually be that strong.”
Oh – what a selfish delight that would be. Would Xie Lian use the sword currently at his side? Impale Wu Ming in the same spot where a sword pierced a teenaged soldier for the last time? Or would Xie Lian just use his bare hands? Rip Wu Ming to pieces? Or is there some special method only gods can use – one that the ghost could never possibly conceive of? Maybe Xie Lian will drain its spiritual energy – Xie Lian certainly seems to be in need of it, and Wu Ming has… quite a bit, from what it can discern.
Wu Ming is pulled from its greedy fantasies by Xie Lian’s voice, as cold and unbreaking as a snow-covered mountain. “Why are you still here?”
“The souls of the dead cannot wait any longer,” Wu Ming reminds the god. The howling energy from that horrid sword makes that evident – and even Wu Ming, who never cultivated or learned anything about the supernatural during its mortal life apart from the vague knowledge that gods and ghosts and curses were a thing that existed, knows that this curse must be just as dangerous for the caster should it go wrong. “We must find a subject to curse soon.”
Xie Lian is quiet for only a moment before replying, with a decisiveness that begets no argument, “Three days. There will be a full moon. Unleashing the Human Face Disease then will increase the power significantly. You ask too many questions, just go.”
Xie Lian wants the ghost to go, and so it does.
Of course, there isn’t a lot for Wu Ming to do. It’s a sword on the shelf for now, and it doesn’t even have a shelf to lie on.
And so, the ghost wanders aimlessly. It doesn’t wish for anyone to see it, and so no one does.
It’s moving through a nicer, well-off part of the city when the ghost sees an irregularity.
A statue. Well, pieces of it. While it wouldn’t have stood out in the downtrodden downtown streets, it is a screaming out-of-placeness in this nice, well-kept part of town.
Even in pieces, Wu Ming would know that statue anywhere.
The most intact part of the statue is a well-muscled arm, holding a stone flower in a gentle grip. A malnourished, bandaged boy knew that grip well. Wu Ming stares at that arm.
Wu Ming can be a weapon for the god. But the ghost cannot also be a flower. It is too sharp, too dark for such a delicate purpose.
A teenager once left flowers at a tiny, dilapidated shrine.
A god once said he liked them very much.
Of course, Wu Ming has no way of knowing how devastating that train of thought’s inevitable end result will be.
…
Wu Ming leaves a flower, and it smashes Xie Lian’s trust in the ghost like that little flower’s fate beneath his boot. Xie Lian orders the silk band to bind the ghost, keeping him in the temple for the three days leading up to the full moon. In all that time, Xie Lian never once returns – all Wu Ming knows is that when the god left, he did it with a sword through his chest.
As promised, that more-than-a-little demonic silk band releases Wu Ming on the third day. As soon as the ghost is free, it is on its feet and running. Barreling out of the dilapidated temple and through city streets at a speed a human could’ve only dreamed of.
Its legs don’t ache. Its heart doesn’t chafe against its ribcage, beating out of control. Its lungs don’t want for any extra oxygen to sustain the exertion. The ghost simply… moves.
And then, someone crashes into Wu Ming.
Both fall to the rain-soaked street, Wu Ming landing far more agilely than the human it collided with – a middle-aged man, by the looks of him. and underneath Wu Ming’s bare palms was small bits of something. What –
Oh. Rice.
The man was carrying rice. And Wu Ming bumped into him and made him spill it.
The man grumbles under his breath, adjusting his bamboo hat even as his trousers are already soaked through. “Hey, watch where you’re going, dickhe*d! Look at what you –”
And the man freezes.
And it takes the moment for Wu Ming to realize that its mask fell off in the collision. It smiles up at the world from a puddle about a meter away, and Wu Ming feels… terribly indecent.
“Holy sh*t…” the man whispers. “You’re…”
(A scared toddler knew this routine. A malnourished child knew all the steps. A teenager knew the entire dance. And now, a ghost stripped bare waits for the music to start again.)
(The joke is on the rest of the world, of course, because Wu Ming isn’t sure it can bring itself to care anymore. The white smiling mask is the face that serves a god, and it is the only face that said god knows the ghost by. In that context, what does the flesh that rots beneath the face matter?)
(Right now, Wu Ming feels as self-conscious of the pigmentation of its eyes as it does regarding the color of its organs.)
(But Wu Ming never anticipates that this man in his bamboo hat might, for once, choose a different routine.)
The man does not flinch away. No, he moves closer, both of them still sitting on the muddy road, getting completely soaked. “Hey kid… are you alright?” the man asks, and there is no vitriol in his voice. “That looks like a nasty infection… have you shown anyone?”
Wu Ming gapes.
What – what – what –
The man sighs. “No one’ll help you if you hide these things, you know?”
What the f*ck did he just say to me?
Wu Ming snatches up its mask and stands up, staring down at the man, whose face still shows nothing but an emotion Wu Ming can’t recognize, but instinctively finds itself wary of.
A bandaged boy used to run from things that were scary, or dangerous.
A teenaged soldier learned to fight these things instead.
Now, for the first time in years –
The boy’s instincts win out over the soldier’s.
Wu Ming runs.
…
The running turns out to be a good thing. A real clever strategic move on the ghost’s part, really. Wu Ming finds Xie Lian in less than a minute.
And Xie Lian –
He’s standing in the square, that awful sword clutched in his hand, panting heavily. The god’s robes are soaked through with blood and water, and the two merge in a hazy red puddle at his feet. There’s a distant look in Xie Lian’s eyes more haunting than the ghost that rushes to meet him.
And above him, the abyss howls.
“It’s done,” Xie Lian whispers, voice grating against his throat.
He must’ve only unleashed the curse moments ago.
Wu Ming was too –
“Dianxia…” Wu Ming says, because there is nothing else in this world that it could possibly ever say.
“Don’t –” Xie Lian lets out a low, almost inhuman noise, and bodily thrusts the sword away from itself. It lands on the road with a clamor that reverberates through the city streets, more deafening than a crash of thunder. “Don’t call me that,” Xie Lian hisses.
Along the street, people are emerging from their homes and businesses, glancing around with wide eyes at the strange storm that bears down on them.
“What’s happening?”
“Oh my god, what is that?”
“Heavenly Emperor, I pray please save us…”
Wu Ming stares at Xie Lian, and Xie Lian stares back. Despite the rain, neither figure gives the slightest of shivers.
Xie Lian looks away first.
Xie Lian begins yelling something. Wu Ming registers, on the edge of his consciousness, that Xie Lian is speaking about revenge and debts owed and the like. Wu Ming doesn’t have anything to do with revenge apart from helping Xie Lian with it, and –
Wu Ming’s focus is on Bai Wuxiang, standing on the edge of the square, positively radiating smugness as he watches the scene play out.
Bai Wuxiang co*cks his head to one side, the smiling half of his mask pointing upwards. Almost as if the calamity is grinning at the ghost.
(Perhaps, in the end, being weak made that utterly pathetic ghost fire brave. Brave enough to say words like beloved without looking away in shame.)
The sword that Xie Lian discarded still lays on the ground. The handle points toward Wu Ming. It’s almost like an invitation. Xie Lian threw that sword – maybe that handle, waiting for a hand to grab it, should be interpreted as an order.
It won’t be long, now, before the disease falls upon the city. They’re in the moment between stepping off a ledge and falling, and the opportunity to grab ahold of something is small. Xie Lian is ready to plummet, no efforts being made to stop the fall. And what of Wu Ming?
Should Wu Ming let Xie Lian fall?
(Maybe Wu Ming’s mistake was cutting away that pathetic ghost fire’s bravery, leaving only the weapon behind. Maybe, if it had been as bold as a spirit freshly-freed from a lantern, no one would be falling in the first place.)
“Dianxia!” Wu Ming shouts, cutting off Xie Lian’s speech. Wu Ming is sure it was an impressive speech.
Hopefully, the next one Xie Lian makes will be happier.
Xie Lian glares at the ghost. “What do you –”
“Apologies,” Wu Ming says.
And then, the ghost lunges for the sword.
Wu Ming doesn’t see the way Xie Lian’s eyes go wide, but it hears him shout, “Wu Ming!”
Wu Ming’s hand wraps around the sword, and the ghost lifts it towards the swirling clouds above –
Xie Lian crashes into Wu Ming, knocking the sword from its grip. The sword lands on the ground with a percussive clatter, and the vengeful spirits shriek overhead, and Wu Ming hears none of it. Because Xie Lian is holding the ghost in a bear grip, and his face is centimeters away from Wu Ming’s mask.
“What the f*ck are you doing?!” Xie Lian screams.
The death grip (haha) Xie Lian has on the ghost…
The death grip Xie Lian has on the ghost feels almost like a hug.
Don’t be scared.
It’s not you. It’s not your fault.
If you don’t know how to live on anymore, then live for me.
How could Wu Ming ever dare?
How could Wu Ming ever dare to go against Xie Lian, when those words were said to a starving child, and that child remained in this world because of them?
How dare it?
And then, the sky falls.
When the plague took Xianle, it spread slowly, seeping out like a pollutant from the shadows of the Buyou Forest.
When Human Face Disease comes for Yong’an, it does so with a brutal speediness.
There’s screaming.
There’s crying.
There’s skin, already marred by those awful lesions.
A god and his ghost watch the pandemonium unfold. And Wu Ming doesn’t think Xie Lian realizes this, but the god holds on to the ghost for the entire time.
Neither one of them can see Bai Wuxiang. But Wu Ming knows he must be there. He must be watching. He must be laughing. Or maybe crying. Or maybe both.
(Wu Ming isn’t sure if ghosts are capable of crying. Either way, it doesn’t want to.)
…
They might have spent a day, standing in the square, watching the chaos and the carnage. It might have only been an hour. Time doesn’t matter anymore – it melted away somewhere in between the moments where Xie Lian was gripping Wu Ming in his arms, an eternity in the space between blinks of an eye.
Eventually, they return to the run-down temple, Xie Lian leading the way and the ghost following silently. They pass people crying, people hacking at their own skin in desperation, children screaming for their mothers. The temple to the Heavenly Emperor is full, and it is the only stop they make on their journey, Xie Lian staring in at the desperate prostrating masses through the open doors for a few breaths before they continue on.
No one stops them, and no one even looks at them.
The sky is dark, but it’s impossible to tell whether that's due to the sunset or the cursed storm that rains pestilence down on the city. The only light comes from distant fires, lighting the night a beastly orange and filling the streets with the reek of ash and charred meat.
Somewhere, though not where the god and his ghost venture, Lang-er Bay is burning.
When they reach the temple, Xie Lian sits down on the altar. Both are soaking wet from the rain, but Xie Lian is obviously more affected, shivering violently even as he stares blankly at something that Wu Ming cannot discern.
Wu Ming begins building a campfire, using bits of broken wooden furniture and paper from the back of the temple as kindling. The ghost isn’t too worried about smoke building up in the temple – these places are designed for thousands of incense sticks every day, and the open-concept roof speaks to that.
Xie Lian doesn’t speak once as Wu Ming lights the fire. Soon there’s a cheerily crackling blaze in the center of the temple, but despite his obvious chill, Xie Lian doesn’t move closer. Wu Ming stays kneeling by the fire, staring into that flickering light.
Outside the temple, someone is weeping.
A scream echoes through the night.
Neither god nor ghost acknowledge these things.
When Xie Lian finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Why are you still here?”
Wu Ming has to crane its neck to look up from the floor at Xie Lian, sitting up on the altar. Wu Ming’s physical form is taller than Xie Lian, and this moment – this feels correct. Xie Lian’s face is uncovered, but reveals nothing in terms of whatever he must be thinking about right now.
When Wu Ming doesn’t immediately answer, Xie Lian says, “The plague’s been released. Yong’an is finished. You came to me on the battlefield because I offered you your revenge. That’s done now, so why haven’t you left yet?”
Wu Ming… doesn’t know how to respond to that. A brazen ghost fire once had the nerve to say the word beloved, but after everything that has happened to Xie Lian in the time since that word was spoken, Wu Ming would never again dare. Wu Ming supposes it could speak of its devotion unending, but how could such a thing ever be properly articulated?
(One day, a ghost who thinks about Wu Ming in the same way that Wu Ming thinks about a bandaged child and a skinny soldier will know all the right words, and will be bereft of the person those words should be said to for a very, very long time.)
“Dianxia,” Wu Ming says slowly, “I’m not… here for revenge.”
In an instant, Xie Lian jumps to his feet, expression contorting. “Why won’t you stop calling me that?! After everything you’ve seen me do, why haven’t you managed to figure out that I’m not him?!”
“Dianxia will always be Dianxia,” Wu Ming replies. The words come automatically, really. The ghost doesn’t have to put thought behind them, but it really should have.
“I’m not!” Xie Lian shouts. “Your Dianxia died! He’s dead! And if you’re still here out of some misplaced faith towards him, you can stop wasting your time!”
Xie Lian takes a deep breath, holding one hand against the spot in his chest where he ran himself through with the sword.
“Get out,” Xie Lian mutters.
Wu Ming is still kneeling, and with Xie Lian standing before him – it makes Wu Ming think less of gods and devotees, and more of kings and servants.
“Get out,” Xie Lian repeats, louder this time. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? I’m telling you to leave, Wu Ming. I don’t care where you go – just go!”
“When does Dianxia wish me to return?”
“I don’t! I don’t want you to come back!” Xie Lian picks up the sword from where he discarded it on the altar earlier, gesturing wildly with the sharp end pointed in Wu Ming’s direction. “First, you defend Yong’an –”
“Dianxia, this one would never –”
“Perhaps there truly are believers here who worship Your Highness. Did you not say those exact words? Then, you tried to stop the Human Face Disease, earlier. How can I trust you, for what I’m going to do next? We don’t know each other. We don’t owe one another anything. What reason do you have to stay here? Just – just leave, Wu Ming!”
Would that Wu Ming were capable of following every order it was given. Would that it could make Xie Lian’s every whim a reality with speedy practicality.
The words are sour in the ghost’s mouth. “I can’t do that, Your Highness.”
Xie Lian lets out an inhuman sound of anger, swinging the sword at the ghost in an uncoordinated arc.
Wu Ming thinks that Xie Lian might expect the ghost to dodge.
Wu Ming doesn’t.
The sword lodges itself into the side of Wu Ming’s shoulder, and the ghost doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make the smallest movements. Wu Ming has no beating heart to pump blood that would leak from a wound, and the place where the sword digs in doesn’t even really hurt.
Wu Ming simply stares up at Xie Lian.
Xie Lian stares back, mouth slightly agape, still holding the sword in place.
“Wu Ming… there is something wrong with you,” Xie Lian finally says.
Wu Ming nods solemnly.
“You’re not following your god anymore,” Xie Lian reminds the ghost. “You’re not following a prince. Like I said, that person’s dead.”
“So am I,” Wu Ming replies, completely resolute.
Xie Lian continues to stare down at him. “You’re weird,” the god mutters. He pulls the sword away, revealing a thin patch of red now marring the blade. Xie Lian throws the sword with abandon, letting it clatter across the temple floor as he sits back down on the altar.
For a long time, neither of them speaks, the only noise being the snap and crackle of the campfire and the sounds of human misery from outside.
Wu Ming, perhaps feeling a bit daring after having successfully convinced the god not to send it away, breaks the silence first. “This one would like to make a presumptuous request.”
“What?” Xie Lian growls.
Outside, someone lets out a long, low wail. Wu Ming thinks of nocturnal birds, their calls echoing through the night in a similar fashion. Human misery is something often nocturnal, as if grief and fear are things better expressed without the sun to watch in judgment.
“If Dianxia is dead,” Wu Ming says, “then this servant would like to light some incense for him.”
Xie Lian does something Wu Ming doesn’t expect.
He laughs.
It isn’t a kind sound. Far from it.
But it is different from the empty expressions, or the anger, or the quiet agony.
The laugh is a startled, unexpected thing, and Xie Lian himself looks surprised, as if he hadn’t given the laugh permission to exist; as if it had simply happened.
“Is that your wish?” Xie Lian asks. “You want to light incense for some failure of a god?”
“Yes.”
Xie Lian throws his hands up. “Fine. Fine. If you can even find any incense, you’re welcome to light it… whenever. Wherever. I don’t care.”
…
(In an era of burning temples and beautiful gods falling from the heavens, finding a stick of incense is still going to be considerably more difficult than the ghost anticipated.)
…
It takes eight days for Lang-er Bay to become a ghost town.
(Pun very much intended – the place is positively reeking with resentment, but live humans are scarce.)
Most everyone has either confined themselves to their homes, died, or fled the city to spread the plague to the rest of Yong’an.
In those eight days, Xie Lian never leaves the temple. Most of the time, he sits on the altar, staring into the fire Wu Ming keeps going through all hours of the night. If he’s not staring at the campfire, then he’s staring at either the cursed black sword or the likely equally cursed white half-laughing half-crying mask.
It is Wu Ming who takes on the duty of venturing beyond the temple for food and water, without even needing to be ordered to do so. During these forays into the outside world, Wu Ming also tries to bring back things that might provide Xie Lian with a modicum of comfort. A blanket. Books. A warmer set of white outer robes.
All of these things go unacknowledged, but Wu Ming doesn’t really mind. It’s enough that the god has these items available to him.
Which is why Wu Ming is all too eager to retrieve a calligraphy set when Xie Lian requests one.
It isn’t too hard to find either. Most of the houses in the wealthier parts of town have been abandoned; the rich were the first to flee the city when it was cursed, after all. It’s a simple matter to find a calligraphy set in relatively good condition in one of those deserted mansions, and Wu Ming is soon returning to the temple with what might be called a spring in its step.
But when the ghost passes by a Jun Wu temple, empty now, it hears –
“JUN WU!”
– Xie Lian’s voice.
Wu Ming freezes.
The doors to the temple are closed tight, but it’s no difficult matter to climb up to the roof – the ghost has discovered that this body is practically weightless, when Wu Ming wills it to be. Wu Ming soundlessly drags itself up the slanted roof, peering in through a skylight.
Xie Lian stands before the altar, the statue of the Heavenly Emperor towering over him. In one hand, Xie Lian clutches a laughing-crying mask; in the other, he grips the pommel of the sword.
“I did this!” Xie Lian shouts, neck craned back to stare up at the statue. “I brought Lang-er Bay and Yong’an to ruin!” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I brought forth the second coming of the Human Face Disease!”
Wu Ming’s grip on the edge of the roof tightens as the ghost observes the scene. Wu Ming vowed to never question the god, after its failure to do… whatever it was going to do with that sword, but now…
Xie Lian probably has some master plan in mind, right? Some reason to want to say these things in a temple to the Heavenly Emperor? In all his divine wisdom, Xie Lian must have come up with something that Wu Ming’s puny mind could never hope to comprehend, right?
Maybe Xie Lian is luring Jun Wu down to the mortal realm to kill him. Now that is a truly delightful plan.
“I AM THE WHITE-CLOTHED CALAMITY!” Xie Lian screams. “So please, come strike me down for what I’ve done!”
Oh.
Xie Lian, he –
How could Wu Ming ever dare?
(In the words of a weak, useless, presumptuous little ghost fire: “I have a beloved who is still in this world. I want to protect them.”)
“Please…” Xie Lian falls to his knees before the altar, head bowed. “Please.”
How –
(I want to protect them.)
Wu Ming, the ghost fire, the teenaged soldier, the malnourished brat –
None of them know what to do.
And –
An unfamiliar voice echoes through the temple, and Xie Lian goes still. “Why would I do that, when you’ve done so well, Xianle?”
Xie Lian turns, looking over his shoulder, but doesn’t rise from his spot on the no-doubt filthy floor.
There, standing before the sealed doors, is a man that Wu Ming does not know, but can probably make an educated guess on. Despite the thick black clouds that have hung over Lang-er Bay these past few days, the Heavenly Emperor appears to be standing in rays of golden sunlight, and when he offers Xie Lian a gentle smile, Wu Ming swears that it can hear birds chirping somewhere.
(None of these things matter to Wu Ming. The Heavenly Emperor looks like a scared, bruised, bandaged child’s father. Not in appearance, no, but in a quality that Wu Ming is unable to quantify, but one that the ghost feels at the core of its very essence.)
“What?” Xie Lian’s voice trembles, like an old building on the verge of collapsing.
When the Heavenly Emperor speaks, his voice is soft. Gentle. “I’d like to tell you a story, Xianle. Tell me, have you ever heard of a kingdom called Wuyong?” At Xie Lian’s blank expression, Jun Wu sighs. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have…”
The tale Jun Wu spins is one of a prince, beloved by his people, his friends, and the very heavens themselves. A prince who only wanted to save his kingdom from certain destruction, only to be villainized and hated for his apparent selflessness. Jun Wu talks of how the prince’s friends all turned their backs on him, one after the other, and how, in the end, the only peace that the prince could find was in burning the world that had condemned him to the ground.
It’s a tragic, beautiful story – full of cracks and holes and missing pieces.
“You deserve the light of heaven just as much as I do, Xianle,” Jun Wu says. “We’ve both suffered the same wounds. We’ve both made the same choices. And in the end –”
Jun Wu offers out a hand to Xie Lian.
“Who could understand me better than you can? Who could make a better god, a better… successor?”
Xie Lian stares up at Jun Wu with an unreadable expression. “You…”
One thing is certain: Jun Wu’s intentions regarding Xie Lian cannot be anything good. Jun Wu doesn’t look at Xie Lian the way a bandaged child’s father looked at an unwanted son, no. Jun Wu looks at Xie Lian like men look at lone drunk girls, like street gangs look at a child with candy, like beggars look at golden carriages left with only one guard.
Xie Lian has not reached for that outstretched hand yet, which means that stopping this would not violate Xie Lian’s desires. The question of how to stop this, though –
Wu Ming doesn’t think its saber would stand a chance against the Heavenly Emperor’s pinky.
Wu Ming reaches into its pocket, pulling out a tiny red coral bead, somehow still warm to the touch. Wu Ming stares at the little bead for a moment, before letting the bead slip through its fingers and fall into the temple below.
Wu Ming quickly ducks out of sight as Xie Lian startles, glancing upwards. “What –”
Wu Ming forces itself to remain hidden. For some reason, instincts left over from a teenaged soldier who took the battlefield by storm every day but one – those instincts are telling the ghost that it does not want to be seen right now.
“That pearl…” Xie Lian mutters, “…wasn’t that lost…?”
Wu Ming hears the sound of the pearl rolling across the floor.
(It doesn’t see Xie Lian pick the pearl up, staring at it curiously. It won’t see Xie Lian slip the pearl into his pocket.)
When Xie Lian saw that pearl’s matching half, it was on the night that his chance at the revenge he was owed was snatched from his hands.
When Xie Lian next speaks, his voice rings with an authority that Wu Ming hasn’t heard since the battlefield. “Why did Xianle fall?”
Jun Wu’s voice is as steady as ever. “Because a human was –”
“Because Lang-er Bay had no water,” Xie Lian interrupts, “yes, I know. I’m not asking about why there was a war. I’m asking why Xianle lost.” Fabric rustles as Xie Lian rises to his feet, and Wu Ming can’t see the way Xie Lian is staring Jun Wu down, but the ghost knows all too well what the force of that stare would feel like. “Who is the White-Clothed Calamity?”
Now, Jun Wu’s voice is far less assured, and there is pleasure to be found in that. “Xianle, the White-Clothed Calamity appeared because you descended. You created an imbalance in the universe, and so –”
Xie Lian snaps, “I’m not asking why the White-Clothed Calamity appeared.”
“Xianle…” Jun Wu starts, “the moment you first caught my attention, I knew you had so much potential… but you were naive. Foolish. Can you honestly tell me, today, that someone could still have a heart in paradise when their entire world is rotting in the abyss?”
Xie Lian is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is low. “It was you.”
“Xianle…”
“It was you!” Xie Lian shouts.
Wu Ming hears the whistle of the sword swinging through the air – Xie Lian never bothered to find a scabbard for it, after all, and so the sword never needs to be unsheathed.
Wu Ming hears the crash, when Jun Wu easily bats Xie Lian away, knocking him to the floor with a series of cracking sounds that have the ghost stiffening in concern. “Even now,” Jun Wu hisses, “after everything, you’re still so ignorant. Can you deny that you’re smarter and stronger now than you were then?”
Xie Lian spits. “f*ck you.”
Jun Wu has the gall to sound disappointed. “The release you’re craving won’t come as long as you continue to deny what you really are, Xianle. If you change your mind, my temples will always be open to you.”
Wu Ming feels it, when Jun Wu leaves, like a weight lifting off of the ghost’s chest. When Wu Ming dares to peer inside the temple again, it sees Xie Lian laying on the floor in a heap, panting heavily, still gripping the sword, though the mask seems to have fallen somewhere.
When Xie Lian opens his mouth, he doesn’t say anything.
The god just lets out a wail.
How could Wu Ming ever dare?
…
When Xie Lian returns to the temple, it is to Wu Ming carefully examining a calligraphy set. The ghost does not ask where Xie Lian went, and it does not say anything about temples or gods or red coral beads.
But Xie Lian is limping, albeit slightly, and Wu Ming cannot pretend not to have seen that, at least. The ghost leaps to its feet. “Dianxia, you’re injured –”
Xie Lian waves Wu Ming off. “Don’t bother; it’ll heal on its own.”
Xie Lian sits down in front of the spot where the fire would be lit, were it nighttime, and stares at the amalgamation of charred logs and kindling. Wu Ming lets out a noise at the sight of Xie Lian sitting on the floor, and Xie Lian very courteously ignores the ghost.
“I need you to do something for me,” Xie Lian says.
Immediately, Wu Ming drops into a kneel. “Anything, Dianxia.”
The god snarls, but his ire is not aimed at the ghost. “I need you to burn down every temple to the Heavenly Emperor in Lang-er Bay.”
A grin to match its mask cracks across the ghost’s flesh. “With pleasure,” Wu Ming mutters.
…
“Wu Ming, what did you do with your ashes?”
The two stand before the largest temple to Jun Wu in Lang-er Bay, now burning bright enough to send sparks all the way up to the heavens themselves. Xie Lian cannot look away from the temple-turned-bonfire for reasons that Wu Ming could never dare to presume. Wu Ming cannot look away from Xie Lian because… well, Wu Ming looking away from Xie Lian would be like a butterfly not flapping its wings, wouldn’t it?
“My body is buried in a coffin near the battlefield, Dianxia,” Wu Ming answers plainly.
Xie Lian frowns. “Not even cremated?”
“No, Dianxia.”
Xie Lian huffs. “Wu Ming,” he says, “you’re really bad at being a ghost.”
“Yes, Dianxia,” Wu Ming agrees.
“I mean,” Xie Lian continues, with more fervor in his voice than Wu Ming has heard in ages, “you should really have your ashes on you at all times. Or at least in a place you know is safe, not just buried in a hole somewhere.”
Wu Ming nods. “Yes, Dianxia.”
They pass another moment in silence, save for the crackling of the burning temple. There’s a satisfaction in knowing it was one’s own power that ignited a blaze this impressive, isn’t there? How many acts of arson did that useless human brat commit? None.
A teenaged soldier hated the sight of temples burning.
Wu Ming has discovered that the sight isn’t entirely detestable.
Xie Lian groans. “I’m telling you to go get your ashes.”
“Yes, Dianxia.”
…
So, Wu Ming makes the three day journey to the battlefield and the ruins of Xianle’s Imperial Capital. The day of travel gives it a chance to see how Human Face Disease has begun to spread beyond Lang-er Bay.
As long as someone declared themselves a citizen of Yong’an at any point, they are not safe.
No one has yet noticed the wretched pattern in the seemingly random few who prove immune, or if they have, they’ve kept their mouths shut about it.
The world is more crowded, beyond the bubble of the eye of the storm. Refugees from Lang-er Bay fill every city beyond the point of full capacity, and they bring the sickness with them.
The battlefield has been cleared since the last time Xie Lian and the ghost were there. According to a group of locals somehow finding the wherewithal to build, a new god had actually ascended for clearing out the last dregs of vengeful spirits from the remnants of the battlefields. What Wu Ming hears is that the spirits too weak and timid for the Human Face Disease, Xie Lian’s leftovers, were enough of a challenge for another man to warrant ascension.
And when Wu Ming discovers who, exactly, ascended for this task?
Well.
Heaven really has low standards, huh? Of course, given who their Heavenly Emperor is, that’s no surprise.
The body is, thankfully, undisturbed. The ghost burns the rotting corpse of a teenaged soldier on a bonfire shrouded by the maple trees on Mount Taicang.
It takes no insignificant amount of time from the meat to go from corpse to cooked to ash. When the work is done, the ghost gathers the ashes into a simple black leather pouch.
…
When Xie Lian first summoned the resentful spirits off the battlefields of Xianle, he did so with a specific target in mind. Sure, he hated the entirety of Yong’an as a generalized concept, an emotion he was all too entitled to. But Lang Ying, the leader of the rebels and the new king of a fledgling nation, was the face of that blistering hatred. The human personification of the enemy that had toppled a god’s golden pedestal.
When Lang Ying died, there was no longer a specific name to attach all that anger to.
Now, though, Xie Lian has someone who can bear the force of his righteous holy fury. A specific face, voice, and being to hate.
And it has reignited a fire in the crown prince, one that Wu Ming can only marvel at the growing brightness of.
Now, Xie Lian isn’t just stumbling his way from sunset to sunrise.
He’s making plans.
Xie Lian examines Wu Ming’s saber, standing in the center of the temple as Wu Ming kneels on one knee before him. “Sabers are hard to find, these days – scimitars, specifically, are even rarer,” Xie Lian muses, “and they require a special kind of skill. Most people would have just picked up a sword.” Xie Lian runs a finger along the rust marring the blade. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it on the battlefield, Dianxia,” Wu Ming replies.
“If you’re going to insist on using that stupid title, at least use it in moderation,” Xie Lian mutters under his breath. There is a good chance that Wu Ming wasn’t meant to hear that. Honestly, Wu Ming’s senses have gotten a lot better since it… Xie Lian speaks again, louder this time, addressing Wu Ming. “A thousand swords on that battlefield, and you picked up a saber.”
“Yes.” Dianxia.
If Xie Lian is curious regarding Wu Ming’s peculiar choice of weapon, Wu Ming will tell him. It will be… unpleasant, yes, but Wu Ming will not lie if the god asks a direct question. But Xie Lian set the saber – scimitar, according to the god’s superior expertise – down atop the altar, dismissing the topic, evidently not intrigued enough to actually care. Which is perfectly valid, actually.
“Wu Ming.” Xie Lian’s voice has an edge to it, these days. That edge wasn’t there when he caught a falling child, later holding that child in his arms, or when he spent that one horrible, embarrassing night with a barely-teenaged soldier.
Wu Ming dares to tilt its head back, staring up at the god. “Yes, Dianxia?”
Xie Lian sighs. “You’re obviously the traditional… religious sort. So I’m telling you right now: I’m going to kill the Heavenly Emperor, and he’s probably going to suffer. Which is going to be a bit different than burning his temples. Are you going to be able to do that, or do I need to leave you here?”
How can I trust you, for what I’m going to do next? We don’t know each other. We don’t owe one another anything.
Xie Lian was correct that he did not know Wu Ming very well, and the opposite might have also been the tiniest bit true. And Xie Lian was correct in that he had never owed a single thing to the ghost.
“Dianxia need not worry about that,” Wu Ming replies easily. “This one never prayed at… any temples other than yours.”
Xie Lian frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe that. You’re old enough that I wouldn’t have been a god for your whole… existence. You’re, what, early twenties or something?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen? You’re nineteen?”
The ghost doesn’t understand why its age is such a monumental thing. “…Yes, Dianxia.”
Xie Lian opens and closes his mouth a few times, then shakes his head. “But surely you must have prayed to someone in the first… ten years of your life?”
“This servant never saw a point in the gods until Dianxia’s ascension,” Wu Ming replies with nothing but honesty.
“…I don’t understand you,” Xie Lian mutters.
The ghost hangs its head. “Apologies, Dianxia.”
Out of the corner of Wu Ming’s eye, Xie Lian’s face looks… strange. Like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to laugh, or cry.
…
They set out on foot, walking to a destination Wu Ming has no need to know. Xie Lian leads the way as they walk down the road, only occasionally having to leave the path and hide in the forest growth bordering it when the rare traveler passes by.
No one is traveling through this part of the world for leisure anymore. Most of the travelers are cultivators.
Initially, Wu Ming had expected that the Heavens would have more of a response, but given the person in charge, it isn’t exactly surprising that the Heavenly Realm’s answer to the Human Face Disease has been slow to come. Plus, isn’t jack sh*t exactly what they did the last time Human Face Disease struck? Wu Ming cannot yet comprehend why anyone still prays to those lazy bums.
Along the way, every time they pass a town, Xie Lian makes Wu Ming burn down every temple to the Heavenly Emperor there. Even the tiniest shrines aren’t safe. In some places, people are camped out in those places, with every inn outside Lang-er Bay being overstuffed. When Xie Lian isn’t tagging along, Wu Ming takes the opportunity to give those refugees a chance to convert the temple to one for the crown prince. Those temples, it leaves untouched, and there is no small amount of pleasure to be had.
Xie Lian doesn’t care. Either way, Jun Wu loses one of his places of worship, whether it’s firewood or not.
When Xie Lian begins to look sluggish, they stop at some aristocrat’s winter estate. At Xie Lian’s beckoning, Wu Ming follows him into an empty guest suite – and this room alone is bigger than the miserable shack that a bandaged child grew up in.
“Get in the bed.” Xie Lian’s voice allows no room for argument, but –
“What?” Surely, surely Wu Ming must have misheard, right?
“Get in the bed,” Xie Lian repeats, and nope, Wu Ming didn’t mishear.
The ghost obeys slowly, laying stiffly on its back on top of the covers, arms glued rigidly to its sides, ponytail folding strangely against the pillow.
“You don’t feel tired, right?” Xie Lian asks.
Wu Ming swallows. Somewhere, off in the distance, the ghost thinks it can hear that teenaged soldier shrieking with indignant delight. Brat. “…No, Dianxia,” the ghost confirms.
“You don’t technically need sleep – being alive expends a lot of energy, and, well – you’re not,” Xie Lian explains. “But it’ll help you function better. Make it a habit, Wu Ming.”
Well.
At least the soldier is quiet now.
“…Yes, Dianxia.”
Xie Lian crosses his arms. “Are your eyes closed?”
The ghost quickly closes the pair of eyes beneath its mask. This might be the first time those eyes have shut since this form first scorched its way into the world. It’s not like there’s a need to blink, when no one is able to see the unsettlingness of it. “They’re closed, Dianxia.”
“…How many fingers am I holding up? Don’t open your eyes, just tell me.”
“Three,” Wu Ming guesses.
Xie Lian huffs. “Close your eyes. For real, this time.”
“They’re already closed, Dianxia,” Wu Ming assures him.
“Sleep, then.”
After giving that order, Xie Lian leaves, and while he isn’t gentle with closing the door behind him, Wu Ming doesn’t really mind.
For the first time in… a very long time, the ghost attempts to sleep.
…
Wu Ming’s eyelashes flutter as the ghost opens its eyes, squinting against the warm golden sunlight. At some point, Wu Ming ended up laying on its side, and laying next to the ghost –
Xie Lian smiles, facing the ghost from where he’s laying on the bed. They’re both… laying in the bed. Somehow under the covers together, though Wu Ming swears it fell asleep on top of them.
“Dianxia –”
Xie Lian reaches out a hand, running his fingers through Wu Ming’s hair. Which isn't exactly the most perfect hair. Most of the strands are more of a noodle-esque thickness rather than the rat’s nest of skinny, thin little hairs the corpse Wu Ming burned had. Also, when did the ghost’s ponytail come out?
But Xie Lian touches that hair like it’s softer than the finest variety of silk. Wu Ming shivers involuntarily as those fingers brush along the sensitive skin on the ghost’s ear.
“My Wu Ming has been so good for me,” Xie Lian whispers. “So, so good.”
Xie Lian’s hand drifts to the edge of Wu Ming’s mask, those fingers teasing the edge, and Wu Ming stiffens. The ghost’s hand jerks up, gripping Xie Lian’s wrist, and that hand freezes.
And then…
Xie Lian brings his hand to himself, Wu Ming still holding tight. Xie Lian contemplates those two hands for a moment, before –
Xie Lian presses a soft kiss to Wu Ming’s knuckles.
Wu Ming’s hand goes lax from the shock, but that doesn’t matter, because now Xie Lian is holding the ghost’s wrist in a gentle grasp, sparks singing long dead nerves from the points of contact. Slowly, Xie Lian traces their intertwined hands down his… bare chest, letting Wu Ming feel the firm muscles there, going lower and lower across the god’s stomach, until –
Until Wu Ming’s hand is brushing against the waistband of Xie Lian’s too-thin pants, Xie Lian relinquishing his grip on the ghost’s wrist.
“My Wu Ming deserves a reward,” Xie Lian murmurs, voice as thick as honey.
“This one does not follow Dianxia for any reward –”
“When you’re touching me like this,” Xie Lian interrupts, “you should call me by my name.”
“Xie…” Oh, this is difficult. This is wrong. This is… sin. This is –
Wu Ming tries again. “…Xie… Xie… Lian.”
“Wu Ming,” Xie Lian whispers back, and something about the god’s tone –
Wu Ming allows its hand to slide beneath the waistband on Xie Lian’s pants. The god’s manhood (godhood?) is like an iron bar under the ghost’s touch, and the god lets out a moan as Wu Ming begins to stroke slowly, rhythmically.
“My Wu Ming.” Oh, that voice sounds like that, all because of the ghost – Wu Ming could die a second time smiling to hear that. “So good to me. So – ah, so –”
…
Wu Ming wakes to shrill screaming, jolting up into an upright position on top of the covers.
Wait, on top of the covers? Weren’t they –
Oh.
It was a dream.
Of course it was a dream. Even that mortal soldier – Xie Lian never would have looked twice. He didn’t look twice. And now? Wu Ming is something less than human, while Xie Lian has always been something greater. And those perverted things… they’re not what Xie Lian needs right now. They can’t be.
And it’s sacrilege, isn’t it, that a traitorous subconscious would conjure an image of a different Xie Lian than the one the ghost serves so faithfully today. The Xie Lian in the dream had actual fat behind the muscles, opposed to the bone thin near-skeletal body he has in the real world, and his mouth curved upwards more often than he frowned.
He had dimples, when he smiled, and the ghost’s sick, twisted little mind had the nerve to make those look like a regular occurrence.
The one thing that, in all of this, doesn’t have Wu Ming seriously contemplating the merits of scattering its own ashes. Ghosts don’t have blood flow, and so Wu Ming is not subjected to the same problems that that bandaged brat would have had after a dream like this.
Another scream – not, not a scream, a wail – jolts Wu Ming from its thoughts. Xie Lian. The real Xie Lian is in distress, and Wu Ming was sitting in bed thinking about –
While Wu Ming hates the very thought of disobeying the god, surely no value could be found in making this sleeping thing a habit.
Wu Ming finds Xie Lian in the main part of the manor, in a bedroom somehow even nicer than the guest suite. By the time Wu Ming arrives, Xie Lian has stopped screaming. He holds his knees against his chest, sitting on the floor, curled up into a tight ball. Next to him, there’s a puddle of vomit.
Xie Lian is staring at a cradle.
The god doesn’t seem to register Wu Ming’s presence. The ghost slowly approaches the subject of Xie Lian’s focus, peering down into the cradle.
There’s a baby in there.
An unmoving, silent baby. The baby’s chest doesn’t rise in breath, and a pair of dark eyes stare at the ceiling without seeing anything at all.
The baby’s skin is covered in Human Face Disease lesions. The baby… was so small, that the sheer amount of lesions seem to have corrupted the very shape of the baby’s body. There wasn’t exactly a lot of skin for the lesions to make a home on in the first place. Wu Ming stares at a spot on the baby’s bare chest. Through the still slightly-twitching mouth, the ghost can just make out the dark pink of what it thinks is the baby’s heart.
“How old is she?” She. Xie Lian’s voice is hoarse, and he doesn’t take his eyes away from the cradle.
Wu Ming clears its throat. “Dianxia –”
“How old?” Xie Lian presses.
Wu Ming stares down at the baby. The girl, apparently.
A skinny child, half a face covered in bandages, had had a few half siblings – the drunkard had a few children, with the woman he brought back to the house. And even then, growing up on the streets meant babies weren’t exactly the rarest of sights. But it’s not like that child ever made much of a point to pay attention to babies, or was ever allowed to stay in the house long enough to learn useless facts like a half-sibling’s age.
But a lack of experience doesn’t make the baby’s age… any less effortless to discern.
“A week at most,” Wu Ming answers.
Xie Lian digs his fingers into his thighs, somehow holding himself even tighter. His gaze still does not leave the cradle.
“What have I done?” the god whispers.
“Dianxia?”
“I’ve seen this before.” Xie Lian doesn’t even seem to register that he’s talking; like the baby’s eyes, his gaze is far away. Somewhere Wu Ming can’t see. “Lang Ying, he – he showed me his son. I said I looked, but I didn’t. Not really. I didn’t see it. Dead babies then, dead babies now, but back then, those babies were only starving. Only – only –”
Xie Lian lets out another wail, and it catches against his throat, hitching awkwardly. Wu Ming does not flinch, but the ghost’s body wants to.
“Why did no one stop me?” Xie Lian asks, but he probably doesn’t expect the ghost to have an answer. “Why won’t anyone stop me? Why, I – when I wanted to help, everyone said no. But when I…” Xie Lian shakes his head. “No one did anything. No one –”
A ghost watches, as a god falls apart. There is no blood on these floors, no altar, no phantom in a laughing-crying mask. (Xie Lian abandoned his own mask in Lang-er Bay.) But it feels like that ghost fire is here, peering out from the cradle, watching the black slide in and out of Xie Lian’s chest.
“Why couldn’t I stop myself?!” Xie Lian cries.
Xie Lian finally looks away from the cradle, staring down at his kneecaps. Wu Ming uses the opportunity to pick up a soft red brocade blanket, small enough that Wu Ming only needs one hand to gently place the blanket over the baby’s body.
At first, when Wu Ming hears the unmistakable sound of a blade slicing through flesh, it thinks that ghost fire is still here.
And then Wu Ming turns, just in time to see the black sword fall from between Xie Lian’s fingers with an earsplitting clatter. His throat weeps blood in a blindingly crimson curtain as Xie Lian lets out a small choking noise.
And then, Xie Lian is collapsing, and Wu Ming is at his side in an instant, cushioning Xie Lian’s head in its lap. The ghost presses its own robes over Xie Lian’s wound, well-practiced in first aid from so many – from –
The soldier learned basic medicine from assisting compatriots on the battlefield. And now, Wu Ming knows how to combat someone bleeding out.
Xie Lian’s hand jerks up, grabbing the collar of black robes, and Wu Ming freezes. It takes a moment for the ghost to realize that Xie Lian’s mouth isn’t just haphazardly spasming; he’s mouthing something. Wu Ming mimics the movements of Xie Lian’s mouth until the ghost can understand what Xie Lian is saying, over, over, and over again:
Why can’t I stop?
…
They don’t stay in any more abandoned houses after that.
Wu Ming doesn’t sleep again.
…
The god and his ghost set up camp in a forest clearing. By now, the ghost could be defined as a veritable expert in the construction of quality campfires.
Arranging the logs and sticks in the way Wu Ming has discovered to be most ideal proves a distraction, at least. Wu Ming has been… itchy, for lack of a better word, for these past few days. Like the ghost’s skeleton wants to hatch out of its own skin. Wu Ming supposes it could technically do such a thing, but Xie Lian shouldn’t be troubled with such a sight, so Wu Ming stays in its flesh-prison.
But Wu Ming cannot shake the feeling that there is something the ghost needs to do. No – somewhere the ghost needs to go.
When the fire is finished, there is nothing left to do but sit and watch Xie Lian. Which is a wonderful distraction in and of itself. A few nights ago, Xie Lian stuck his whole hand in the fire, and then refused to allow the wound to be treated. Xie Lian instead curled around his hand the whole night, strangely protective of the injury. Nevermind the fact that the burn was gone by morning.
It provides a perfect excuse to watch Xie Lian closely. Not that Wu Ming ever needed an excuse, of course.
Tonight, at least, Xie Lian doesn’t seem inclined towards any incendiary actions. He keeps his hands close to himself, staring into the flickering flames.
“Why are you still here?” Xie Lian asks. It doesn’t feel like he’s talking to Wu Ming.
Wu Ming answers anyway, quietly. “Why does Dianxia think this one is still here?”
Xie Lian shrugs. He’s bone thin. Wu Ming hunted down and killed a whole plump stag for him last night, and Xie Lian barely took a single bite.
“I don’t think you want to move on yet,” Xie Lian replies, “but you don’t know why you want to stay. I think you’ve latched on to me as an excuse not to go.”
“…You’re half correct, Dianxia.”
Xie Lian hums. “Which half is correct?”
“This one has latched on to Dianxia as a reason not to go.”
Xie Lian turns his head. In the light from the fire, he looks more otherworldly than usual. Bathed in golden light. “I’ve made a lot of problems for you.”
The ghost doesn’t know why it says this: “Better to be here and have you getting in my way, than to be… dead and have you getting in everyone else’s way.”
Xie Lian looks away, and Wu Ming instantly feels the loss of those golden eyes fixed on it. “How many times have I called you weird, Wu Ming?” Xie Lian asks, with a surprising lack of ire in his voice. In fact, his voice sounds… like something out of a dream.
“Apologies, Your Highness; this one hasn’t been counting.”
Xie Lian laughs, but it’s small. Not enough to feed a starving man in a wasteland, but Wu Ming isn’t human anymore, and ghosts don’t need to eat. “When… when Human Face Disease kills everyone,” Xie Lian muses, “and the Heavenly Court falls from the sky, after all that… I hope you’re still… weird. My weird little ghost.”
My weird little ghost.
My weird little ghost.
My.
My.
My.
In a brief moment of insanity, Wu Ming considers saying something foolish.
Luckily –
Or unluckily, depending on one’s perspective –
The itch beneath the ghost’s flesh turns to fire.
Like a hand held in a campfire, like a corpse being burned past the point of smelling delicious, like – like – like –
No. Bleeding out on the battlefield was cold. This is the same. This is the opposite. Who bled out on the battlefield, all alone? It wasn’t Wu Ming. Wu Ming wasn’t there. That person – whoever they were – died before Wu Ming ever existed, with Dianxia’s name on chapped lips.
“Wu Ming?”
Dianxia’s voice sounds far away, and that feels wrong. Wu Ming should never be far away. Never too far, never leave –
“Dianxia, I –”
Fire. So much fire. So much heat.
There’s a temple full of blood. A mutilated body on the altar, more blood and bones and gore than anything resembling a human. It wasn’t Wu Ming on that altar, but it would’ve been better if it was. There was heat then, too, but that heat belonged to Wu Ming. Turning the people that dared do this into naught but charred husks of humans. Kneeling before the altar, forgetting Bai Wuxiang’s promise that the prince couldn’t die, because there was no way anyone could survive this in a merciful world.
Begging –
Please.
Please.
Please.
Xie Lian. Xie Lian is here. Or is he? He keeps on telling Wu Ming to leave. Wu Ming will never leave, but what if Xie Lian leaves, like he tried to in Jun Wu’s temple.
Nothing makes sense, and everything hurts, and there is a mountain full of screaming fire.
And the world
d i s s o l v e s.
…
When the ghost next becomes aware of itself, it’s bound to a tree, Xie Lian’s sentient silk band wrapped around and around Wu Ming’s lean form. The second thing Wu Ming notices is that its mask is somewhat askew, though still securely covering the thing beneath.
Xie Lian stands a few meters away, the intensity of his stare pinning Wu Ming to the tree at its back more firmly than the silk band ever could.
“…Dianxia?” Wu Ming manages, and Xie Lian stiffens.
“Wu Ming.” Xie Lian’s voice is like thin ice; like snow coating city streets. There’s something breakable in it; something delicate.
“Did something happen?” There’s a blank spot in Wu Ming’s mind. No, wait. There’s something there. But that something doesn’t belong to the ghost.
Xie Lian seems to relax somewhat at the sight of Wu Ming’s confusion. (If Wu Ming’s confusion puts him at ease, Wu Ming would happily forsake any understanding of the world.) “You’re back?”
“…Yes?”
In one elegant motion, Xie Lian’s silk band unwinds from around Wu Ming, flying to wrap around Xie Lian’s neck, covering the black rot of his cursed shackle. “What… do you remember?” Xie Lian asks slowly. “You were acting strange. We… we fought.”
“We did?!” Whatever happened that took Wu Ming out of its own mind, it was enough to make Wu Ming do that?! What do Wu Ming’s promises of eternal faith even mean, if something like that can just happen –
“…Yes,” Xie Lian answers.
Wu Ming bows its head. Despite the silk band having freed it, the ghost hasn’t moved from its place with its back pressed against the tree. “This servant apologizes to Dianxia.”
“You really don’t remember anything?”
Wu Ming thinks about those memories that don’t belong to it, the ones that fill the space where the ghost was… fighting, apparently. With Xie Lian. Those memories strain against the confines of Wu Ming’s flesh, yearning to return from where they came from. “This ghost dreamed about a mountain filled with fire, Dianxia.”
“A volcano?”
Wu Ming doesn’t know that word, but Xie Lian said it, so it must be the correct term. Wu Ming raises one arm, pointing off towards the horizon. The gesture makes the bones in that arm sing, as if the memories inside the ghost’s body are delighted to be even just a few centimeters closer. “It’s over there.”
Xie Lian nibbles at his lower lip for a moment as he stares off in the direction Wu Ming indicates. Finally, he asks, “Are you talking about Mount Tonglu?”
“This one doesn’t know of such a place, Dianxia,” Wu Ming replies honestly, every millimeter of its form protesting as the ghost lets its arm drop.
“Jun Wu mentioned it once, and I got curious,” Xie Lian explains. “Apparently, it’s a cursed volcano. There’s an urban legend that any being who can throw itself into the volcano’s Kiln and emerge will come out with ‘the power of the gods’. Of course, nothing has ever…”
Xie Lian trails off, still staring at that distant point of the horizon. “Has ever what, Dianxia?” Wu Ming presses.
Slowly, a smile presses across Xie Lian’s face. The smile looks… wrong, in a way Wu Ming couldn’t quite explain. (Not that Wu Ming will ever explain anything to anyone who isn’t Xie Lian.) “You can get me to the Kiln?” Xie Lian questions.
The Kiln. Mount Tonglu. The words resonate, somehow, as if the memories that weren’t created by Wu Ming agree with those terms. “Yes, Dianxia,” Wu Ming answers, and the memories sing in chipper agreement.
Xie Lian’s grin widens. “I know how I’m going to do it, Wu Ming.”
“Do what, Dianxia?”
Xie Lian hesitates for a moment, finally looking away from the direction of Mount Tonglu to glance at Wu Ming. There’s a secret in his no-longer-smiling expression, one that looks… intimidating to attempt to decipher. “I know how I’m going to kill Jun Wu.”
…
The journey to Mount Tonglu is not exactly a short one, and Xie Lian gets quieter and quieter as the mountain appears on the horizon, growing larger with every day they get closer.
The silence leaves Wu Ming’s thoughts to wander, which has, historically, never ended well.
(The ghost could never guess just how terrible a result those wandering thoughts could bring back with them from their journeys.)
(Things that Wu Ming… wants to banish from its head, carve them out with the scimitar at its waist and leave them behind and buried.)
Wu Ming is, ironically, more at peace when they finally do reach the cursed mountain – or volcano, as Xie Lian called it. Being under attack by feral, vicious ghosts nearly every hour of the day forces Wu Ming’s thoughts to stay firmly planted in the moment, and the constant intrigue of their surroundings provides something to focus on even when Xie Lian and the ghost aren’t actively under attack.
They encounter a lot of ghosts, and though every new opponent makes for a fight a thousand times more interesting than anything that bandaged soldier experienced on the battlefield, none of the other fighters here stand the smallest chance against Xie Lian by himself, and with Wu Ming at Xie Lian side? It’s less battle, more massacre.
The mountain at the center of it all is surrounded by a city long-destroyed, filled with ash husks that stand as the only sign that mortals might have once inhabited this place. The architecture is old enough that very few echoes of familiarity can be found in it. In short: this ancient city is utterly and completely fascinating.
Wu Ming notices that certain symbols always appear in certain places, within certain contexts. Archaic blacksmith shops will always have the same characters on their signs. Wells that Wu Ming quickly learned are no good always have matching characters, too.
That bandaged brat never really learned how to read. There were a handful of rudimentary terms, and the symbols for Xie Lian’s name, of course, and that was the extent of a literary education. Now, Wu Ming deciphers every character it encounters with something it might have called hunger, if ghosts needed to eat.
One day – or night; it’s hard to tell with the near-constant cloud cover hanging overhead – they pass by one of the many temples in the ruined city, and Xie Lian pauses, staring inside at the sculpture of the deity. The statue is worn down, missing chunks of itself in a way that makes one think of how Human Face Disease victims would cut away their own skin in a faulty effort to rid themselves of the lesions. All that can be discerned from the statue now is that the god was probably male, and adorned in armor that might have once sparkled.
“Whoever this god was,” Xie Lian mutters, “they must’ve been really popular. I’ve only seen his temples the entire time we’ve been here.”
“It isn’t… entirely illogical,” Wu Ming points out slowly.
“Huh?”
“He was their ‘esteemed’ crown prince –”
Xie Lian turns to face the ghost. “I won’t even be surprised if you do, but please tell me you don’t think every god was a crown prince or princess.”
…What? “No, I don’t believe that, Dianxia. This one was just reading the inscription plaque.”
Xie Lian blinks. “The inscription plaque.”
“Yes, Dianxia.”
Xie Lian glances back at said inscription plaque, frowning. “You can read that?”
“…Yes, Dianxia.”
Finding out that Xie Lian hasn’t been paying the same attention to the signage in this ancient city, that he hasn’t been soaking up the new words the way Wu Ming has been, that Wu Ming, in this scenario, has become the expert over Xie Lian…
It’s wrong. It has to be wrong.
Or maybe the archaic words covering the city just aren’t really as important as they feel. That doesn’t seem right, though.
None of this is right.
And there are the creeping thoughts again, trying to take root before Wu Ming forcefully shoves them away.
…
If Xie Lian notices the increased vigor with which Wu Ming slaughters the other ghosts, he does not comment on it.
…
They begin moving uphill after… well, Wu Ming doesn’t know how long they’ve been moving, when neither the sun nor the moon are visible. But it feels like it’s been a long time. It feels like it’s been a very long time.
They set up camp in one of the old temples on the mountainside after wiping out a particularly sizable horde of ghosts. While Wu Ming can easily clean itself with spiritual power, Xie Lian is still covered in blood and other types of unidentifiable demonic ooze. Offering to clean Xie Lian the same way the ghost cleans itself is definitely crossing a line, and so Wu Ming collects and boils some water in an old wash basin for Xie Lian to bathe in.
While Xie Lian cleans himself, Wu Ming stands guard outside.
The ghost isn’t too worried. No beast with any amount of brains would dare come near either one of them, but Wu Ming would rather be vigilant and paranoid than lax and dispersed.
Of course, this moment of idleness proves to be a bad idea, because now, Wu Ming is thinking again.
Wu Ming thinks about Xie Lian staring at Lang Ying’s disassembled corpse, muttering four words: Would that I could…
Would that Xie Lian could do what, exactly?
Your Dianxia died! Xie Lian had shouted those words in his own dilapidated temple, so similar to the one Wu Ming stands outside of now. He’s dead!
There was another temple that Xie Lian also took to shouting in, staring down a statue of the Heavenly Emperor with… desperation. Please, come strike me down for what I’ve done!
The release you’re craving. That’s what Jun Wu called it. Release. Craving.
Why can’t I stop? Xie Lian mouthed that terrible question while blood spurting from his throat. Why can’t I stop?
I’m going to kill the Heavenly Emperor. Xie Lian had said those words like a promise, but they didn’t ring like an oath. Well, they did, but only halfway. Even if he managed to kill the Heavenly Emperor, Xie Lian would be at an unfortunate disadvantage in that fight with his cursed shackle still snugly wrapped around his neck. Attacking Jun Wu could potentially prove fatal, but it might have been Xie Lian’s only option, until…
There’s an urban legend that any being who can throw itself into the volcano’s Kiln and emerge will come out with ‘the power of the gods’. Of course, nothing has ever…
Wu Ming’s thoughts are cut short when Xie Lian calls for it.
Xie Lian is fully clothed when Wu Ming enters the temple. Xie Lian’s robes are so stained with blood, they look like they were a dark crimson from the very beginning, but it’s not like there are many other options.
Xie Lian is holding a smooth stone in one hand, and he offers it out to Wu Ming. “Use this to sharpen your blade. Until we can find you a better weapon –”
Xie Lian stops when Wu Ming doesn’t reach for the stone, remaining rooted to the floor, perfectly still.
“Wu Ming?”
Talking feels like blood bursting from a teenage soldier’s wound while that soldier kept on fighting. “Dianxia… has anyone survived the Kiln?”
Xie Lian fidgets with the stone, laughingly stiltedly. “Well, everyone who went in was already dead, so I don’t know whether ‘surviving’ is –”
“Dianxia.”
Xie Lian freezes.
Wu Ming has never interrupted him before.
“Well…” There’s that laughing again. It doesn’t sound real. It sounds like a malnourished little child felt while hiding from a father who had drunk a bit too much. Xie Lian won’t look at Wu Ming. “Okay, technically no spirits have ever made it out of the Kiln before. But you don’t have to worry! I’m still… still a god, I just… I’m still a god. I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with worse.”
Wu Ming hates the reminder of that awful night. Flesh-melting fire and screaming and blood. So, so, so much blood.
Wu Ming loves Xie Lian, but he is a terrible liar.
“Dianxia, I… I don’t believe you.”
Dying a second time would be better than this.
Xie Lian drops the stone, eyes wide. “Wu Ming…”
“I don’t believe you,” Wu Ming repeats.
For a moment, all is quiet. And then, Xie Lian is speaking again, and every word is a sword through Wu Ming’s heart. “My parents hung themselves, just before I went to the battlefield on the day we met. I tried to follow them, and when I couldn’t…” Xie Lian cackles. “You know, Jun Wu told me it was a gift, when he made my shackle so that I couldn’t die. No. No, it was a curse. I’m so tired, all the f*cking time.”
Wu Ming does something it never thought itself capable of: it yearns to be that bandaged brat again, because the brat knew what Xie Lian’s pain really feels like, right now, and Wu Ming is not that child any more. And it never will be.
Still, Wu Ming tries. (It tries, and that won’t be enough this time.) “Dianxia, this one once felt –”
“No!” Xie Lian shouts. “No, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to try to empathize, because you’re here by choice. You can leave this world at any time you want, and you haven’t! You want to be here, and I can’t say the same!” In the dim light from what little sunshine manages to filter through the constant cloud cover, Xie Lian’s eyes are sparkling. Tears, Wu Ming realizes.
Wu Ming has almost made Xie Lian cry, and the ghost can’t bring itself to stop. “I’m here because you’re here!”
“I don’t care!” Xie Lian yells so loud, his voice cracks. Like a body shattering on concrete. “I don’t want you to be here! Every time I try to make you leave, you stubbornly insist on staying! Is that what you call ‘devout’, because it’s really not very –”
“Xie Lian!”
Xie Lian freezes, staring at Wu Ming. He even stops breathing for a moment. When he next speaks, his voice is hoarse. Very quiet. “You want to know what my plan for the Kiln is?” Xie Lian laughs, again, and it sounds so much like he’s sobbing instead. “I’m dragging you in with me. Whether you want it or not. I’ll make sure you’re the one who emerges. I’ll get to die, and you’ll get to live, and as an added bonus, I’ll even give you a new reason to stick around. You can kill Jun Wu, and you can make it painful, and you can walk away.”
“No.”
How dare it? How could Wu Ming ever dare?
Wu Ming says it again, maybe just to emphasize the blatancy of this foul blasphemy: “No. Absolutely not. Never ask me to do that, Dianxia.”
If Wu Ming’s first rejection throws Xie Lian off in any way, Xie Lian doesn’t show it. “This is the least I can ask you to do, Wu Ming! You are so strong and so smart and if you were alive, you would’ve ascended by now. But you’re not alive, because you died in my war.”
(The last words of a dying soldier: It was an honor to – to…)
“I’d rather be dead than be up there,” Wu Ming responds. “I don’t want to ascend.”
“I want you to!” Xie Lian cries. “This is the only thing I can do for you, and I’m going to throw myself into the Kiln either way, so let me do this one good thing with my useless life before I go!”
(The ghost fire, the soldier, and the child – they’re already crying.)
(The ghost wants to do the same, but it can’t.)
It’s easier to reject Xie Lian the second time: “No.”
Xie Lian’s voice is cold, now. “This is an order from your god, Wu Ming.”
“I know,” Wu Ming replies. “And I’m saying no.”
Xie Lian makes a frustrated, inhuman sound. “Fine! Fine! I’ll just go by myself! Stay here and rot for all I –”
Xie Lian finds his path to the temple’s door suddenly blocked by a rusty scimitar, held in a trembling pale hand. Wu Ming stands between Xie Lian in the door, and despite the tremors, the ghost stands tall. “I won’t let you.”
“Wu Ming…” Xie Lian breathes. “Are you raising your weapon against me?”
“I swore an oath to protect the crown prince.” Not just Wu Ming, but the ghost fire, the soldier, and the child all swore that same oath. An oath that cannot be easily broken. “I won’t break it now.”
Even if Wu Ming has to protect the crown prince from himself.
They’re standing so close, Xie Lian has to tilt his head back to look up into the eye holes of Wu Ming’s mask. It may as well be real eye contact. “Wu Ming… I think you’re better than everyone else in the world. You’re… you’re special. You’re the only person in the world I’ve ever…”
(In the centuries that follow, the ending of the sentence will be something yearned for, during both the mundanity of everyday living and the pitch black of late nights spent dreaming.)
Xie Lian takes a deep breath.
And then – faster than Wu Ming’s eyes can track – Xie Lian unsheathes his own sword.
The force of Xie Lian’s blade hitting Wu Ming’s scimitar is enough to make the ghost stumble backwards several steps.
When Xie Lian speaks again, his voice has once again frozen over, like that frigid winter oh-so-long ago, but there is no blacksmith’s shop to hide in this time. “But I won’t let you stop me. I’m going to the Kiln, whether you’re with me or not.”
Xie Lian strikes out with the black sword, knocking Wu Ming’s scimitar to the floor with a clatter that reverberates. Xie Lian picks up the scimitar and points both swords at a now weaponless Wu Ming.
“I won’t ask you again. Move.”
Wu Ming raises its chin. “You’ll have to disperse me, Dianxia.”
In the end, though, Wu Ming would never stand a chance.
Xie Lian lunges, and in one fluid motion, he has Wu Ming pinned to the temple’s floor with the ghost’s own scimitar. Wu Ming is unable to prevent its traitorous lungs from letting out a gasp as the blade is embedded deep into the tile beneath it.
Wu Ming is forced to lay on the temple floor, and Xie Lian sits on top of the ghost, still holding the sword in place. If one were to look at only their silhouettes, they might appear to be making love. But this isn’t love. It’s love, in the way that Wu Ming still stares up at Xie Lian, and it’s love in the way that, even now, Wu Ming obeys the order Xie Lian gives it:
“Wu Ming…” Xie Lian pants, “don’t you dare… disperse yourself… you hear me?”
“Yes, Dianxia.”
But this isn’t the kind of love that the ghost wanted.
(This isn’t the kind of love that the god wanted either, as much as Xie Lian will try to lie to himself in the years to come.)
Xie Lian stands up, leaving the ghost cold without his touch.
And without saying another word, Xie Lian turns.
And he leaves.
“Dianxia, please!” Wu Ming shouts – no, begs.
Xie Lian doesn’t look back.
…
Wu Ming stays there, pinned to the temple’s floor, for three days, measuring the time by the storms that ebb and flow overhead.
Soon, the Kiln will seal itself shut, locking in whoever chooses to throw themselves in.
Wu Ming tries to struggle, to wrench the scimitar pinning it down free. It’s no use, of course. Even with the cursed shackle around his neck, Xie Lian’s strength is as doubtlessly awe-inspiring as it has always been, and the blade is lodged deep. Laying down and pinned like this, Wu Ming can’t get the leverage to be able to pull the scimitar out.
Attempting to yank itself sideways, pulling itself through the blade rather than trying to pull the scimitar from the floor, is just as futile. The stupid, cheap, foundling blade is too dull, too unsturdy, and even with Wu Ming’s considerable undead strength, the ghost can’t quite wrench itself off.
If only it had a blade…
And so, for three days, there is nothing Wu Ming can do except lie there.
Utterly and completely f*cking useless.
On the third day, an ear-splitting roar cuts through the quiet of the snow covered slopes.
This isn’t surprising. There are so few beings left in Mount Tonglu’s vicinity, with the Kiln this close to opening. Xie Lian, Wu Ming, and a small enough number of other ghosts that Wu Ming can count them all on its fingers. It makes sense that all the particularly strong creatures would be making their way up the volcano’s slopes, towards the Kiln, right about now.
What is surprising, though, are the sounds that accompany the roar. Shouts. Pained whimpers. Small feet padding against the hard ground.
And, perhaps the most shocking sound –
Two girls burst into the temple, slamming the double doors behind them fast enough that Wu Ming is only afforded a glimpse of the beast rounding a large boulder. And yes, beast is the right word. If the beast was once human, it certainly doesn’t look it anymore, with large claws and even larger fangs. But Wu Ming isn’t quite as bothered by the monster, because the two girls, now pressing against the temple’s doors –
They’re breathing. Panting heavily. Sweat gathering on their brows, hearts thundering in their chest. Wu Ming is so shocked it sniffs the air to check, and the ghost’s nose confirms what its ears and eyes already knew.
They’re mortals. Human. Alive.
(Some stories, told decades and centuries from now, will describe a group of humans. In truth, there used to be a group, and if Wu Ming hadn’t had a certain fallen god alongside it when it entered Mount Tonglu, there might still have been a group.)
“Oh sh*t!” the older of the two girls exclaims. If Wu Ming had the guess at her age, the ghost would place her somewhere around Xie Lian’s age at the time of the Shangyuan festival. She’s pressing one hand against her shoulders, blood leaking through her fingers.
“What is it?” the other girl asks. She’s thinner than her companion, and significantly younger. And her eyes –
“There’s another ghost in here,” the first girl pants, staring at Wu Ming.
“Can you describe it for me? Please?” The younger girl’s eyes are a cloudy, milky white. She’s blind.
There’s a horrid screech from ancient hinges as the beast bodily slams itself against the doors, dust falling from the millennia-old ceiling.
“It’s – it’s got a sword through it,” the older girl stammers. “It’s pinned, and – it isn’t moving. I think it’s dead.”
“This one was already dead before being pinned,” Wu Ming says, and both girls yelp.
Terrified humans, stranded in Mount Tonglu. Likely some of the refugees fleeing the Human Face Disease outbreaks, horribly lost along the way to wherever they were headed.
In their fear, Wu Ming senses an opportunity.
“You two,” the ghost continues, “will be dead too, soon, if that beast gets in here.”
The girls speak at the same time.
The older: “Tell us something we don’t know!”
The younger: “We won’t die! I’ll protect us!”
It is the blind girl’s response that catches the ghost’s attention. Despite her handicap, her youth, her slim, unmuscled figure, she speaks with an assurance that almost has Wu Ming believing she can protect herself and her friend – or, if not that, then that she will die nobly in the effort, without a single regret. Wu Ming notes the knife clutched in one of her hands, the tar-like blood sticking to it. She actually managed to get a cut in on the creature. Impressive even for an ordinary mortal.
Even as the older girl turns her head towards her companion, grousing, “Oh, like you’ve protected everyone else so very well?”
“They’re aren’t you!” the younger girl responds. “I’d never let you die!”
Oh.
This little is at once so easy to understand, and a reminder of a little boy Wu Ming believes would be better off buried.
“Unpin me.” Despite the beast slamming itself against the doors and the girls’ panic, Wu Ming’s voice is calm.
“What?”
“Get me off this sword. I can kill the beast.”
“It’s a trap, Hui-er,” the older girl cautions. “It’s a very obvious trap.”
“Then you’re dead either way,” Wu Ming points out. “But your odds are betting with me.” Wu Ming nods to the doors. “By the way, you holding those isn’t making a difference. You’re mortals, after all.”
The younger girl – Hui-er, apparently – huffs. “Okay,” she acquiesces. “But if you even think about touching –”
“You’ll end me if I touch her,” Wu Ming finishes. “I know.”
The beast slams against the doors hard enough that a chunk of jade falls from the ceiling overhead, shattering on the floor only a meter away from where Wu Ming lays. Both girls yelp, darting away from the door to stand before the ghost.
“Do we just… yank it out?” the older girl asks.
“It’s lodged into the floor,” Wu Ming explains. “You’ll have to cut me off of it.”
“What?!”
“Cut out the part of my body next to the sword so I can slide off of it.” It really is a simple solution. Not elegant, maybe, but simple.
It’s not like the ghost can bleed out. (Again.)
The older girl takes a deep breath through her nose. “Okay. Okay. Hui-er, give me the knife.”
“No.” Hui-er sinks down to her knees at Wu Ming’s side, feeling along until her fingers find the sword. “Both of my hands are already dirty.”
She doesn’t hesitate in the slightest, digging the knife in and carving, more like a butchering than the careful ministrations of any medic. Good. She’ll get it done faster this way. She cuts at a diagonal, cleverly skirting around the ghost’s rib cage while maintaining a direct path from the scimitar to Wu Ming’s side.
She doesn’t even make a face.
The beast slams against the doors, and those centuries-old guardians of an ancient temple finally fall.
The older girl screams.
Hui-er just grits her teeth, and makes her final cut.
In an instant Wu Ming is sliding off the sword, on its feet in an even shorter amount of time. Wu Ming darts forward, slashing across the beast’s pointy face with claws the ghost didn’t have before – but those claws appeared when Wu Ming needed a weapon, and Wu Ming takes the beast’s agonized roar of pain as a chance to dart in and leave a deep scratch across the beast’s stomach, before quickly darting around it out of the temple and away from the humans.
Wu Ming fights with a ferocity even the most viciously patriotic of Yong’an’s soldiers never saw from a bandaged soldier on the battlefield. This beast is the thing standing between Wu Ming and intercepting Xie Lian’s path to the Kiln, after all, and Wu Ming doesn’t hold back like it did when fighting Xie Lian.
But even with that added desperation in the slash of Wu Ming’s claws –
The ghost is losing.
The beast is big, oh so big, like bullies and older brothers and fathers. The beast has long, sharp claws, and its teeth are somehow even longer and sharper. If those things weren’t enough, the beast is strong. Not strong like Xie Lian is strong, but strong like the mountains that roam the perimeter of this wasteland are strong.
The beast manages to close its jaw around Wu Ming’s leg, the same one that f*cker Qi Rong broke all those years ago, and though Wu Ming manages to kick the beast away with the other leg, the ghost is still forced to limp.
Wu Ming darts in, aiming to slash at the beast’s neck, and –
The beast roars, batting at Wu Ming like the ghost is nothing but a fly, hitting Wu Ming so hard it flies backwards. Wu Ming hits a particularly firm boulder so hard the rib bones Hui-er so thoughtfully preserved all shatter. Which is sort of an interesting sensation, feeling them digging into its lung, when Wu Ming hasn’t needed to breathe in –
This beast is going to disperse Wu Ming’s soul.
This stupid, ugly, disgusting beast is going to give Wu Ming the most meaningless, insignificant death in the history of the three realms. And Wu Ming has nothing to defend itself with save for brute strength and some overglorified fingernails.
Yeah, no thanks.
Wu Ming’s existence as a ghost may have been the most awful series of poor judgments and not being good enough, but as Xie Lian’s most devoted servant, Wu Ming should at least go out with the dignity expected of someone so heavily associated with royalty!
And to get that dignity, Wu Ming needs a proper weapon.
Wu Ming makes a dash for the temple, boots crumbling as the ghost slides across the jade floor. Wu Ming stops before its traitorous scimitar, and maybe it’s hysterical strength, or maybe it’s just that the ghost has better leverage now, but the scimitar is pulled from the ground easily. Well, most of it is. Pieces of the blade are still embedded in the ground, but Wu Ming delights in the fact that the parts of the blade missing pieces seem to be sharper.
Wu Ming moves to go back outside –
“Wait!” Hui-er shouts.
“What?” Wu Ming hisses. The word sounds strange – it’s a bit difficult to talk properly when one’s lungs are still filling up with blood from all those broken ribs, after all.
Hui-er doesn’t back down from the aggression in Wu Ming’s voice, and it’s not like she can see the savage expression on the ghost’s face. “A-Ling says you’re wearing a mask. Your senses are blocked like that! I know I can’t smell very well whenever my face is covered.”
Wu Ming glances at Hui-er’s companion, but ‘A-Ling’ won’t look at the ghost. Well, if she won’t look, Hui-er can’t see, and the beast’s eyes don’t matter, why does it make much of a difference, whether the mask stays on or not?
Wu Ming yanks off the smiling mask with a low growl, tossing it aimlessly before storming out of the temple.
Having a weapon evens the odds a little bit. But those odds are still decidedly tipped in the beast’s favor.
As Wu Ming is frantically blocking the beast’s claws with its truly pathetic scimitar, it notices something carved into the hilt of the blade.
An oval with a line bisecting it.
Wu Ming knows that symbol well. After all –
It hung on a sign outside a blacksmith’s shop. And a little boy once spent a whole winter keeping warm in that shop, watching that same symbol be carved into blade after blade after blade.
What are the odds that out of every saber Wu Ming could have picked up off the ruins of the battlefield, Wu Ming happened to find a saber that came from that little shop?
Are those the same odds that have never once favored Wu Ming, or that bandaged brat, or even the ghost fire? The same luck that has always turned up its nose at a dirty, cursed thing?
During the civil war, swords likely would have needed to be produced faster and cheaper. Not left in the forge for nearly as long as they need to be, at nearly as high a temperature as they should be forged in.
The sword needs fire. And Wu Ming –
Wu Ming has been full of flesh-melting fire and screaming and blood for as long as it has existed in this form.
If Wu Ming could rip out part of itself, part of that flesh-melting fire…
And then, Wu Ming is grinning, face mirroring the mask it discarded.
Because wasn’t there always a certain unlovable, cursed part of itself that the bandaged brat always fantasized about ripping out?
(It’s fitting, really. Fighting fire with fire. Using a source of misfortune to tip horrid odds. Some people – and some gods, too – will certainly think so.)
…
When the beast’s soul finally disperses, fading away on the wind, Wu Ming feels almost irrationally disappointed that the fight was over so quickly.
And then, Wu Ming’s selfish and silly moment of disappointment is cut short when the ground shakes more violently than any creature could cause.
Even Wu Ming stumbles.
This can only be one thing. Wu Ming knows it, deep in the parts of itself that saw a mountain filled with fire and heard it promising power.
The Kiln is closing.
Wu Ming runs.
A child once ran away from home. A teenager once charged across a battlefield.
This isn’t that.
Wu Ming runs, and Wu Ming prays, for the first time since the ghost gained its corporeal form.
Please, Dianxia. Please.
Wait for me.
In the ghost’s grip, the scimitar shudders, seemingly filled with just as much urgency as Wu Ming itself.
In the end, none of that running and urgency matters.
The ground stops shaking just as abruptly as it started, and Wu Ming stumbles again, this time actually falling to its knees in the snow.
Wu Ming is too late. Wu Ming is useless. Wu Ming is too late.
Wu Ming is too late, and Xie Lian is going to die.
At least Wu Ming won’t ever have to haunt a world without him.
Because when Xie Lian sat on top of Wu Ming, pinning the ghost to the temple floor with its own scimitar…
Wu Ming slipped its ashes into Xie Lian’s pocket.
When Xie Lian dies, Wu Ming will no.
It will be Wu Ming’s last moment in this world.
…
In the end, there’s only one thing left that Wu Ming can do. One last promise that the ghost is able to fulfill.
Wu Ming throws out the statue of the ancient god once worshiped in the fallen kingdom that would eventually become the killing grounds of Mount Tonglu. Lets the old stone shatter with disregard. If the ancient god didn’t want his temples trashed, he shouldn’t have let the place become overrun with ghosts.
The next step is procuring an image of the one god who ever truly deserved their ascension. Wu Ming makes do with carving a flat depiction of Xie Lian’s likeness into the stone wall behind the altar, and though the ghost is not hasty with its work, Wu Ming is well aware of the fact that time – both Xie Lian’s time, and its own – is in limited supply. And this is something Wu Ming wants to finish before that time runs out.
The girls have fallen asleep in one corner of the temple, snuggled together to conserve body heat. A-Ling had wanted to help Wu Ming bandage the hole in its face where that cursed eye used to sit, but Wu Ming had refused. It was someone else, who wore bandages in that place.
A-Ling had tried to push the subject, but Hui-er had only nodded, patting a hand over her own eyes.
The Kiln closing means that it’s very likely Wu Ming is the last ghost left in Mount Tonglu’s vicinity. With no other ghosts prowling the land after Wu Ming slayed the beast, Hui-er and A-Ling will most certainly be fine. They’ll find their ways back to the Mortal Realm, and have some gnarly scars and night terrors as souvenirs of the whole miserable experience. But they’ll be fine.
Wu Ming lights a stick of ancient incense, bowing once before the image of Xie Lian. Wu Ming didn’t choose the popular depiction of the God-Pleasing Crown Prince. No, Wu Ming chose something… distinctly different. Maybe sacrilegious, but honestly, that bridge has already been burned.
Wu Ming’s depiction shows Xie Lian, sitting next to a campfire at the end of all things. When… when Human Face Disease kills everyone, and the Heavenly Court falls from the sky, after all that… I hope you’re still… weird. My weird little ghost.
The altar is covered with volcanic residue, but Wu Ming thinks that the ash from this precious stick of incense should never linger with that common filth. For lack of anything else to collect the ashes with, Wu Ming sets its mask smiling-face down on the altar, propping the stick of incense up against the edge.
“Dianxia,” Wu Ming mutters.
Once, years ago, a child with a face half-wrapped in bandages fell from the sky, and landed in the arms of a god yet to ascend. Don’t be scared, Xie Lian had said. It was the first time in ages, the first time that child could remember, that anyone had cared about such a thing.
Xie Lian had been generous enough to gift that child with so many acts of kindness, back then. So many soft words. So much care and warmth. Too much. The child hadn’t known what to do with any of it.
Don’t be scared.
Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to do anything. I only want to check your injuries.
You’re not. I know you’re not. Don’t cry, now. I know you’re not. It’s not you. It’s not your fault.
If you don’t know how to live on anymore, then live for me.
Thank you for your flower! It’s beautiful, I like it very much!
Wu Ming had thought that child, that dirty little stain on a set of gleaming robes, should be forgotten. Wiped away.
But that child was the one who got to hear all those beautiful words. Was the one who got to be held in Xie Lian’s arms.
It was because of that child that this whole worship-and-devotion thing got started in the first place. It was that child who first looked at Xie Lian and saw someone deserving of the world.
It was that child who allowed Wu Ming to be able to look at Jun Wu and see a man who would hit his own children. It was that child who stole the pearl earring that would later save Xie Lian’s life.
That pearl… wasn’t that lost?
Should that child really be forgotten?
Once, a teenage soldier dared to follow Xie Lian all the way to Beizi Hill, intent on protecting a god – a being that didn’t need protecting, not back then, but that hadn’t mattered, because the soldier had wanted to protect him.
And what had that young soldier managed to accomplish, in the end?
It will be an honor to fight for Your Highness.
Your Highness, I will never stop trying to serve you. Even if I can only clean the ground beneath your feet, I will always be your most faithful believer.
I WON’T! I WON’T FORGET! I WILL NEVER FORGET YOU!
I won’t forget. Even in the next life, I won’t forget. I’ll still – I’ll –
It was an honor to – to…
What had that useless little soldier ever done for Xie Lian, besides seeing things no common trash should’ve seen, and dying alone on a battlefield?
That soldier had learned how to fight. How to wield a sword, and later a saber.
That soldier had protected Xie Lian.
No, the ghost fire – that thing was truly useless. It had even needed to be freed from a truly embarrassing predicament by Xie Lian himself, and what kind of protector was that?
Please wait for me, just wait for me… please give me a little more time… let me… let me…
Don’t go there.
Useless. Utterly and completely useless.
But then –
I have a beloved who is still in this world. I want to protect them.
I pray to never rest in peace.
It was the ghost fire, who chose to say. The ghost fire, who was brave enough to say those words.
What had Wu Ming accomplished?
If you keep calling me by that title, I’ll disperse your soul.
A prank like this disgusts me. Are you making fun of me?
What the f*ck are you doing?!
Get out. Are you deaf as well as stupid? I’m telling you to leave, Wu Ming. I don’t care where you go – just go?
I need you to do something for me. I need you to burn down every temple to the Heavenly Emperor in Lang-er Bay.
Why did no one stop me? Why didn’t anyone stop me?
You were acting strange. We… we fought.
I know how I’m going to do it, Wu Ming.
Dianxia, I… I don’t believe you.
What was the point of Wu Ming, anyway?
You’re actually trying to help, aren’t you? Trying… though it won’t do much good.
Run!
Hey kid… are you alright? No one’ll help you if you hide these things, you know.
Dianxia! Apologies!
My Wu Ming has been so good for me. So, so good.
Unpin me. Get me off this sword. I can kill the beast.
It’s the sound of the incense stick breaking that jolts the ghost from its thoughts. Staring down at the mask, The ghost frowns at the broken stick, too old to maintain its integrity for very long. The ghost glares at the spot where it fell into the mask…
There are some odd stains in the mask, aren’t there? Stains that weren’t there when Bai Wuxiang left this mask for the ghost.
The ghost sifts through the incense ashes, lifting the mask slightly to inspect. The stains run downwards from the eyes, and the ghost runs its fingers along the stains. They’re layered on top of one another.
Whatever caused these stains, it happened more than once.
The sets down the mask, and reaches up one hand to feel its own horribly bare, now-mangled face.
On the right side, dried blood trails down the ghost’s cheek.
On the left side…
Oh.
The ghost is crying.
Judging by the mask, the ghost has been crying for a while now.
There’s a blinding flash of golden light.
And then there’s no temple. No mountain. No altar.
There’s a street made of brilliant gold. Sunshine. Warmth. Not a single cloud in the sky. Somewhere, a bell is tolling frantically.
A heart beats in a chest that has been hollow for a long time.
Mu Qing – that trash – is there. So is Feng Xin – also trash. And –
That f*cking sh*tty excuse for a Heavenly Emperor.
(Do you hate?)
(I’ll get to die, and you’ll get to live, and as an added bonus, I’ll even give you a new reason to stick around. You can kill Jun Wu, and you can make it painful, and you can walk away.)
(The soul, saved from dispersal via destryoed ashes at the last possible moment -)
Wu Ming –
The ghost –
No.
Wu Ming is like the ghost fire, and the teenaged soldier, and the bandaged boy, now.
The god falls to his knees. And he screams.
