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Chapter Text

Xie Lian had always known solitude, a companion that lingered as close as his own shadow. After centuries of isolation, the concept of happiness had become foreign, like a long-forgotten melody. He had once been the Crown Prince of Xianle, revered and beloved, but those days were buried under the weight of time. Now, more than 800 years old, he could hardly recall the warmth of familial love or the joy of true friendship. What were a few decades, 20 or 25 years, compared to the centuries that had eroded his spirit? The faces of his parents, his kingdom, and those he once called friends had faded into distant memories, leaving behind a numb acceptance of his eternal loneliness.

Xie Lian despised his cousin, who had brought nothing but trouble, yet even that hatred was dull and worn. His parents had been dead for centuries, and his best friends... He had driven them away long ago. Each one had left him, either by his own design or through the cruel hand of fate. His heart had long since grown cold, and he lived his days like a ghost, neither truly alive nor dead, merely existing. Accepting joy only of mondains things like steamed buns or fluffy beds.

Yet, something had changed recently. He had begun to feel again, to remember what it was like to care, all because of one person. San Lang, or rather, Hua Cheng—a supreme Ghost King and ruler of Ghost City. Hua Cheng had appeared in his life like a beacon in the endless night, and for a moment, Xie Lian had allowed himself to believe that perhaps, he could be happy again.

But happiness, he had learned, was fleeting. It was a cruel joke played by the heavens, a brief respite before the inevitable fall.

Today, as he returned to his modest Puqi Shrine after a mission where Hua Chang had tagged along once more, a message awaited him, one that filled him with a cold dread. The seal left inside unmistakable—White-no-Face, or as Xie Lian knew him by another name, Jun Wu, the Heavenly Emperor. A being who had haunted his past, orchestrated the fall of his kingdom, and whose influence had poisoned every part of Xie Lian's life.

The sight of blood smeared across the walls of his shrine greeted him upon entry. The scent in the air was human, but his heart didn’t race, and his hands didn’t tremble. Instead, he was filled with a hollow resignation. He knew this was Jun Wu's work, a message far more direct and brutal than any written word. The emperor was reminding him that he was still a puppet, and the strings were still firmly in Jun Wu's hands.

When Xie Lian ascended for the third time, he had done so with a heart as barren as the ruins of his once-great kingdom. The skies had opened up for him once more, granting him a place among the heavens, but it was a hollow victory. He had long since ceased to care about the trappings of divinity—power, reputation, honor—none of it mattered to him anymore. He was a god in name only, a scrap deity whose temples lay in ruins, whose worshippers had long forgotten him.

This time, there was no triumph in his ascent, no joy in reclaiming his place among the immortals. He had no one left to fight for, no loved ones to protect, no kingdom to restore. The passions and ideals that had once driven him were now buried under centuries of despair. As he stood before the Heavenly Emperor, Jun Wu—his jailor in all but name—Xie Lian felt nothing. No fear, no anger, not even the bitter sting of betrayal that had once consumed him.

He had looked Jun Wu in the eye, and for the first time in centuries, Xie Lian had felt completely and utterly fearless. There was nothing left that Jun Wu could take from him, no leverage to be used, no weakness to exploit. Xie Lian had lost everything, and in that loss, he had found a twisted form of freedom. The emperor’s presence, once so imposing and terrifying, now seemed almost inconsequential. Xie Lian was beyond fear, beyond hope, beyond anything that Jun Wu could inflict upon him.

As Xie Lian had faced him, he could almost see the flicker of something in Jun Wu's gaze—surprise, perhaps, or even displeasure. Had the emperor realized that Xie Lian knew the truth about him? That he had seen through the elaborate mask of benevolence to the twisted soul beneath? The truth had been clear to Xie Lian since the fall of Xianle, since that final, devastating revelation. But what had it mattered? At the time, he only seeked revenge on the Yong’an people. But now, he had no need for vengeance, no desire to strike back at the one who had orchestrated his downfall. His only wish had been to be left alone, to fade into obscurity, to find some semblance of peace.

Yet Jun Wu had never allowed him that peace. And now, even after centuries of silence, it seemed the emperor had decided that Xie Lian had not suffered enough. Jun Wu was not done with him. The torment that had been inflicted upon the Wind Master, one of the few who had dared to befriend Xie Lian, had been a warning. A warning that anyone who came close to him would suffer, that his presence was a curse, a harbinger of misery. The sight of the Wind Master’s downfall had been a cruel reminder of the power his shackle still held, a power that could reach even the most remote corners of Xie Lian's life.

As he knelt on the bloodstained floor, the walls of his shrine closing in on him, he felt a sensation he had not experienced in centuries—fear. The emotion washed over him in waves, relentless and suffocating. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He had thought himself immune to fear, that he had been hardened by centuries of suffering. But the thought of what Jun Wu might do next, of who might be caught in the crossfire, was enough to bring him to his knees.

He could still see the faces of those he had lost, could still hear their voices calling out to him in his dreams. Lang Qianqiu, Banyue, Shi Qingxuan—all of them had suffered because of their connection to him. And now, the fear that had taken root in his heart was not for himself, but for Hua Cheng. The Ghost King had always been strong, capable of withstanding any storm, but Xie Lian knew all too well that Jun Wu was not above exploiting even the mightiest of beings. He was one of them a long time ago after all.

The terror that gripped him was unlike anything he had felt before. It wasn’t the fear of pain or death on himself—he had long since resigned himself to those possibilities. It was the fear of losing someone he had come to care for again, of being the cause of yet another tragedy.

Xie Lian’s hands trembled as he clutched the hem of his robes, the fabric stained with blood that was not his own. The scent of iron filled the air, mingling with the salt of his tears as they fell silently to the floor. How had it come to this? After centuries of isolation, of pushing everyone away, he had finally allowed someone back into his heart, and now that decision threatened to destroy everything.

The realization was a cruel one—by letting someone in, by daring to care again, he had opened the door to more suffering, more loss. Jun Wu had sensed it, had known that Xie Lian’s heart was not as empty as he had once believed. And now, the emperor would exploit that weakness, would use it to punish him in the most devastating way possible.

Xie Lian had faced the emperor without fear once, but now, kneeling in his bloodied shrine, he felt that fear return with a vengeance. He had nothing left to lose, except for the one person who had made him feel alive again. And that loss, that potential devastation, was more terrifying than anything he had ever endured.

For so long, he had tried to protect those he cared about by pushing them away, but Hua Cheng had slipped through the cracks. Xie Lian had known who he was from the moment they reunited on Mount Yujun. He recognized his little ghost general immediately, but he had allowed himself to believe that perhaps Hua Cheng, now the powerful Ghost King, could handle the curse that seemed to follow Xie Lian like a plague.

He knew what Jun Wu wanted. If he didn’t act now, it would be Hua Cheng who would pay the price. Xie Lian couldn't bear the thought. Wu Ming’s death had nearly destroyed him once; the thought of losing Hua Cheng was unbearable.

He couldn’t allow himself to be reckless again. The mess in the shrine needed to be cleaned before anyone could see. Hua Cheng, or anyone else who might come looking for him, couldn’t see this. Anxiety and absolute terror gripped Xie Lian’s stomach like a vise, tightening with every breath he took. His hands trembled as he forced himself to move, every step feeling as though he was wading through thick, suffocating fog. The sight of blood splattered across the walls of his shrine, once a place of humble refuge, now transformed into a scene of horror, sent a chill through him that he hadn’t felt in centuries. Yet, his heart remained eerily calm, a hollow drumbeat in his chest.

He moved toward the corner where an old wooden bucket lay, its surface worn and cracked from years of use. Next to it, a tattered cloth hung limply on a nail, stained from countless past cleanings. Xie Lian grabbed them both with numb fingers, his mind already retreating into a state of cold detachment. He filled the bucket with water from the small basin nearby, watching as the clear liquid rippled, distorting his reflection. He could barely recognize the face that stared back at him—eyes dull, lips drawn into a thin line, a visage of someone who had long forgotten what it meant to live.

With the bucket in one hand and the cloth in the other, Xie Lian knelt on the floor, the coldness seeping through his robes. He dipped the cloth into the water, wringing it out slowly, the motion almost mechanical. He pressed the damp fabric against the first smear of blood, a deep crimson streak that marred the otherwise simple, sacred space. As he began to scrub, the cloth dragged across the rough surface of the wall, the friction pulling at his weary muscles.

The blood did not come away easily. It clung to the wood, seeping into the cracks and crevices, as though the very walls themselves were trying to absorb the suffering that had been inflicted upon this place. Xie Lian scrubbed harder, his movements growing more frantic as the stains resisted his efforts. The smell of iron filled his nostrils, thick and metallic, a scent that had become all too familiar. It was the scent of death, of lives snuffed out too soon, of pain and despair that had no place here but had found its way into his life nonetheless.

With each pass of the cloth, Xie Lian’s mind spiraled further into despair. The act of cleaning, once a mundane task, now felt like an insurmountable burden, a reminder of the endless cycle of bloodshed that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He scrubbed until his hands were raw, the skin of his palms splitting and bleeding, yet he couldn’t stop. He felt as though if he could just erase the blood, he could somehow undo the horror that had been unleashed. But the stains remained stubborn, just as the guilt and shame weighed heavily on his soul.

Tears blurred his vision, turning the world into a hazy mix of red and gray. They fell silently, merging with the water as he wrung out the cloth again and again, the clear liquid now tainted with blood and tears. Xie Lian’s shoulders shook with the force of his grief, but he made no sound. He was afraid that if he allowed himself to cry out, he would shatter completely, and there would be no one left to pick up the pieces.

The task stretched on for what felt like hours, his muscles aching, his spirit drained. Every time he thought he had cleared a spot, another stain appeared, as if the blood was multiplying, mocking his efforts. But he continued, driven by the need to erase any trace of what had happened here, to make the shrine look as it did before—innocent, peaceful, untouched by the darkness that lurked at the edges of his life.

His mind replayed the moments leading up to this, the joy he had felt when San Lang had been by his side, the brief, stolen moments of happiness that he now realized had been too good to last. He should have known better. Misfortune followed him like a curse, and now, it had found its way to this place, to these innocent villagers who had paid the price for his weakness.

When at last the blood began to fade, Xie Lian sat back on his heels, breathing heavily, his chest tight with unspoken anguish. His hands were covered in a mix of blood and grime, the cloth in his hand nearly disintegrated from the harsh scrubbing. The water in the bucket was now a murky red, a sickening reminder of what had been spilled here.

Xie Lian knew that no amount of cleaning could wash away the guilt that stained his soul. The villagers’ blood was on his hands, just as the blood of so many others had been over the centuries.

With a heavy heart, Xie Lian rose to his feet, his legs shaky from exhaustion. He carried the bucket of tainted water outside, his movements slow, as though each step took more effort than the last. He poured the water away behind the shrine, watching as the bloodied liquid soaked into the earth, leaving no trace of what had transpired inside. The cloth, now nothing more than a tattered rag, he discarded, letting it fall to the ground where it landed with a wet thud.

Once the shrine was spotless, Xie Lian began to prepare for his departure. He shed all his possessions, leaving behind even Ruoye, his loyal weapon, though it fought against his decision. He didn’t want it to witness what was about to happen. He instructed it to hide, to show herself to no one, especially Hua Cheng.

With shaking hands, he wrote a note and left it in the shrine: For anyone looking for this humble god, I was assigned a very special mission by the emperor. I won’t be able to communicate by spiritual array or any other form of contact. This may last a couple of days or a couple of weeks. Please don’t be worried.

His hand trembled as he wrote, the weight of his fear pressing down on him. How had he come to this, after 800 years of indifference, feeling terror again? Not for himself, but for Hua Cheng. Jun Wu’s influence was still a shadow in his life, one he had never truly escaped.

Xie Lian took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He couldn’t let this fear consume him. He had survived worse, endured centuries of suffering. But the thought of Hua Cheng suffering because of him—that was something he couldn’t bear.

He had to leave, to protect the one person who had managed to reach his heart again. Even if it meant enduring the torment of Jun Wu’s wrath, he would do it without hesitation. He had always been willing to sacrifice himself to save others, and this time would be no different.

As he stepped out of the shrine, the world felt strangely quiet, as if holding its breath. Xie Lian knew he was walking into another trial, another test of his endurance. But this time, he wasn’t alone in spirit. His special someone image was etched into his mind, giving him the strength to face whatever came next. He would have liked to confess before this situation, but he knew the ghost already had a beloved.

Chapter Text

Hua Cheng had never been one to worry needlessly, but the gnawing feeling in his chest had only grown stronger over the past few days. It wasn’t unusual for Xie Lian to disappear on one of his spontaneous missions, but something about this time felt different. They had parted amicably, with Xie Lian saying he wanted some alone time—a request Hua Cheng had respected, though reluctantly. But now, after two days of silence, Hua Cheng found himself yearning to see his Gege, if only to ease the unease that had begun to settle deep in his bones.

Deciding to check in, Hua Cheng attempted to reach Xie Lian through their communication array. His brow furrowed slightly when he received no response. The array didn’t even connect. A sense of unease began to creep into his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. He knew Xie Lian couldn’t contain spiritual energy long anyway; perhaps that was all it was. Still, a lingering doubt nagged at him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

Resolute, Hua Cheng decided to visit Puqi Shrine directly. Taking his Xiao Hua form, he teleported to the village, the familiar landscape materializing around him in an instant. As his boots touched the ground, he immediately noticed something strange—the village was eerily quiet. No villagers were outside, no children playing, no one tending to their daily tasks. The stillness was unsettling, like a held breath before a storm.

His heart beat a little faster as he approached the shrine, his senses on high alert. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, revealing the modest interior. But something was wrong. Xie Lian was not there. Hua Cheng’s gaze swept the room, searching for any sign of his god. His eyes fell upon a note left on the small wooden table, its edges slightly curled. With a quick flick of his hand, he picked it up and read the message:

For anyone looking for this humble god, I was assigned a very special mission by the emperor. I won’t be able to communicate by spiritual array or any other form of contact. This may last a couple of days or a couple of weeks. Please don’t be worried.

The words were meant to reassure, but they only made Hua Cheng’s unease grow. A special mission? Xie Lian had never mentioned any such thing, and it was unlike him to leave without saying anything, especially to him since he thought they had grown closer. The note was far from comforting—it was troubling. The tone felt off, too distant, too resigned. Hua Cheng’s eyes narrowed as he inspected the shrine further.

The room was unnaturally clean. Xie Lian kept the shrine tidy, but this was different—almost sterile. As Hua Cheng moved through the small space, he noticed a pile of items on the table: a bundle of medicines, a half-eaten bun, small trinkets that seemed hastily gathered, Fang Xin, and... dice. The very dice Hua Cheng had once given to Xie Lian. Seeing them discarded like this sent a chill down his spine.

Something was very wrong. Hua Cheng could feel it in his bones. Xie Lian’s absence, the strange cleanliness of the shrine, the discarded dice—it all pointed to something he didn’t want to acknowledge. His unease began to morph into a cold, creeping dread.

Hua Cheng’s sharp eyes caught a flicker of movement behind the dresser, something white and fleeting. He stilled, his heart skipping a beat. Moving cautiously, he approached the spot, half expecting to find nothing. But as he leaned closer, he saw it—Ruoye, Xie Lian’s beloved spiritual weapon, coiled behind the furniture as if hiding.

Panic flared in Hua Cheng’s chest. Why would Xie Lian leave Ruoye behind? The weapon was an extension of the god, a part of him that he rarely let out of his sight. To find it here, abandoned and agitated, sent alarm bells ringing in his mind. He reached out to the ribbon, his hand shaking slightly. It twitched and swirled nervously, darting behind another piece of furniture as if it were frightened.

“Ruoye…” Hua Cheng whispered, trying to calm the weapon. But it remained restless, its movements erratic, as if desperately trying to convey something. Hua Cheng’s unease deepened into fear. What kind of mission would his god embark on that made him leave behind his most trusted weapons?

Determined to understand, Hua Cheng picked up Ruoye, holding it gently in his hands. The ribbon seemed to vibrate with anxiety, its usually calm energy now frantic. He tried to communicate with it, to sense what was wrong, but it only swirled around him, pointing toward the walls of the shrine.

Hua Cheng’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the walls more closely. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But then Ruoye pulled toward a spot high up, where a faint stain marred the otherwise pristine surface. Hua Cheng’s heart lurched as he recognized it—blood. His breath caught in his throat as he realized that the shrine was far from clean. The blood had been scrubbed away, but the energy of the place told another story. Miasma still lingered in the air, the telltale residue of violence and suffering.

A shiver ran down Hua Cheng’s spine as the full horror of the situation began to dawn on him. There had been a massacre here. Someone had been killed, and the blood had been cleaned up, but not thoroughly enough to erase the traces completely. At least, it wasn’t Xie Lian’s blood—it was human. His mind raced as he recalled the eerily quiet village, the absence of the villagers who should have greeted him.

Ruoye tugged insistently at his sleeve, pulling him toward the back of the shrine. Hua Cheng followed, his heart pounding in his chest. Outside, behind the shrine, he found an old wooden bucket and a worn-out cloth, stained with blood. His breath caught as he recognized the scent—Xie Lian’s. The dread that had been building within him now bloomed into full-blown terror.

He hurried back inside the shrine, his eyes falling on the note once more. He read it again, searching for any hidden meaning, any sign that Xie Lian had left him a clue. But there was nothing, just the same distant, resigned words. Yet something about the handwriting caught his eye—it was shaky, unsteady, not Xie Lian’s usual confident script. It was as if his Gege had been trembling when he wrote it.

Dread seeped into Hua Cheng’s bones, a cold, suffocating presence that refused to let go. He could feel it wrapping around him, a dark fog that clouded his thoughts. His hands trembled as he clutched the note, fear gripping his heart in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries. Xie Lian didn’t get scared. Xie Lian didn’t run. So why was he gone? What had happened here that had left his god so shaken, so desperate to leave without a trace?

Desperate for answers, Hua Cheng closed his eyes and focused inward, reaching for the red string that connected him to his beloved. It was a connection he had woven with utmost care, a bond that should have been unbreakable. But as he reached out, he found… nothing. The connection was severed, as if it had never existed. Hua Cheng’s eyes snapped open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. It wasn’t possible. No one knew about the red string—not even Xie Lian himself. How could it be gone?

A cold wave of fear washed over him. So he knew? Xie Lian obviously didn’t want to be found, but why? And how? Why would he sever their connection? Unless… unless he was in danger, something so terrifying that he didn’t want Hua Cheng to follow. The thought left Hua Cheng feeling utterly helpless, a sensation he despised with every fiber of his being. His mind raced, grasping for reassurance: It’s okay, he told himself. My beloved can’t die. He doesn’t feel pain. He’s the greatest martial god to live. He’s definitely alright.

But the words felt hollow, even to himself. Hua Cheng’s thoughts were a whirl of panic and dread as he reached out through his communication array, seeking answers. He contacted Yin Yu first, hoping he might have heard something from Heaven.

“Yin Yu, have you heard any news of his Highness?” Hua Cheng’s voice was tense, his usual calm veneer shattered.

There was a brief pause before Yin Yu responded, “Nothing in particular, Chengzhu. He wasn’t seen at the heavenly meetings for a week. Everything has been quiet on that front.”

A week. Xie Lian hadn’t been to Heaven in a week. The timeline only deepened Hua Cheng’s fears. Yin Yu’s voice held a note of concern as he suggested, “Maybe you should contact General Nan Feng or General Zhen Fen. They might know more.”

Hua Cheng barely heard him. His mind was already spinning with possibilities, each more dire than the last. Xie Lian was missing, his connection to Hua Cheng severed, and the shrine where he had last been was stained with the blood of innocents. The thought of Xie Lian facing something so terrifying alone, without even Ruoye or FangXin, made Hua Cheng’s heart clench painfully.

Hua Cheng’s mind raced as he considered Yin Yu’s suggestion. Feng Xin and Mu Qing had been Xie Lian’s closest companions in the past, though their relationships were fraught with history and tension. If anyone might have insight into Xie Lian’s situation—or might have heard something—it would be them. Hua Cheng wasn’t one to seek help easily, but the dread coiling in his chest left him no choice. He couldn’t afford pride when Xie Lian’s safety was at stake. After all, the god had told him their passcode in case of danger, and danger there seemed to be.

Taking a deep breath, he reached out through the communication array, first focusing on Feng Xin. The connection buzzed slightly before it clicked, signaling that the communication had gone through. Feng Xin’s gruff voice came through, sounding slightly surprised.

“Hua Cheng? What do you want?”

The Ghost King wasted no time on pleasantries. “Have you heard anything from His Highness recently? Xie Lian?”

There was a pause on the other end, and Hua Cheng could almost picture Feng Xin frowning in concern. “Not for a while. Why? Has something happened?”

“He’s missing,” Hua Cheng said, the words tasting bitter as they left his mouth. “I found his shrine covered in blood—human blood. And he left behind his spiritual weapon, his sword, his dice, and a note saying he was on some ‘special mission’ for the Emperor.”

“What?” Feng Xin’s voice grew sharper, laced with worry. “Xie Lian wouldn’t leave Ruoye behind unless… No, that doesn’t make sense. Did he say anything to you before this?”

“Nothing beyond that he wanted some time alone,” Hua Cheng replied, frustration mounting. “But the note he left was strange, and the villagers in Chestnut village are missing. The shrine is too clean, but I can sense the miasma. Something happened there, and I think his Highness was trying to hide it.”

Feng Xin muttered a curse under his breath. “And you’re sure it wasn’t his blood?”

“Yes,” Hua Cheng said grimly. “I checked.”

“Damn it,” Feng Xin growled. “He’s always in trouble. I’ll try to find him, but you should contact Mu Qing, too. If anyone has been keeping an eye on him from a distance, it’s that guy.”

Hua Cheng didn’t bother acknowledging Feng Xin’s suggestion. He knew he would start searching immediately, and time was of the essence. With a swift mental command, he severed the connection and turned his focus to Mu Qing.

The line buzzed with static for a moment before Mu Qing’s voice came through, cool and measured, as always. “Hua Cheng. This is unexpected. What’s going on?”

“Xie Lian is missing,” Hua Cheng said bluntly, the fear in his voice barely restrained. “I found his shrine covered in human blood. He left a note about a ‘special mission’ from the Emperor and abandoned everything—Ruoye, his dice, everything. Have you seen or heard from him?”

Mu Qing’s usual calm demeanor faltered for a moment. “Missing? And you’re certain it’s not a trick of some sort? Xie Lian has a habit of disappearing you know—”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?!” Hua Cheng snapped, his patience thinning. “Something’s wrong. The shrine is too clean, but the energy there… it’s like a massacre took place. And now Xie Lian is gone without a trace. You know as well as I do that he wouldn’t leave without a reason.”

Mu Qing was silent for a moment, processing the information. “No, he wouldn’t. And if he left Ruoye behind, that’s even more troubling. The fact that he mentioned the Emperor makes this even worse. Xie Lian has always had a complicated relationship with Jun Wu…”

“Exactly,” Hua Cheng interjected. “But this isn’t just about his relationship with this trash. I felt a severance—the connection I installed through a red string. He’s cut it, and Xie Lian wasn’t even supposed to know about the string.”

Mu Qing’s voice, though still measured, now held an edge of urgency. “We need to find him, and quickly.”

“Feng Xin is already searching,” Hua Cheng informed him. “But I need someone to go and ask about it to your goddamn emperor so that I can go and see.”

Mu Qing’s voice came through the communication array, tight with tension. “You want me to confront Jun Wu directly? Are you crazy?”

Hua Cheng’s tone was cold, his patience fraying. “I don’t care.”

There was a long silence on the other end, and Hua Cheng could almost feel the broom god rolling his eyes, his mind calculating the risks. Finally, Mu Qing spoke, his voice low but resolute. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do about it but don’t get your hopes up.”

Hua Cheng clenched his jaw, irritation bubbling beneath the surface at Mu Qing’s nonchalant attitude. “Fine,” he muttered.

He ended the call without waiting for a response. The silence in the shrine was suffocating, broken only by the faint rustle of Ruoye as it twitched nervously on his wrist. Hua Cheng cast one last glance around the room, his sharp eyes scanning every corner, every shadow, for anything he might have missed. But there was nothing. No more clues, no hidden messages. Just the lingering sense of dread that refused to leave him.

Determined not to waste any more time, Hua Cheng stepped out of the shrine and into the eerily quiet village. The stillness that greeted him was unsettling. No villagers, no signs of life—just the empty, abandoned streets. The absence of the usual bustle only heightened his anxiety. He began to search the village methodically, checking each house, each alleyway, for any sign of what might have happened.

But as the minutes ticked by and the sun dipped lower in the sky, Hua Cheng found nothing. No traces of struggle, no remnants of the villagers’ lives—just emptiness. An hour passed, and still, there was nothing.

Just as he was about to return to the shrine, the communication array buzzed in his head. His heart leaping into his throat as he heard Feng Xin’s voice on the other end, followed closely by Mu Qing’s.

“I asked for an urgent audience with the Emperor,” Mu Qing began, his voice calm but tinged with an edge of unease. “But it seems Jun Wu isn’t in Heaven. He’s not in his dormant state, and he’s not undergoing tribulation either. The only explanation is that he’s out on this ‘special mission’ Xie Lian mentioned. If that’s the case, he’s likely with His Highness right now. They’ll protect each other, so there’s no need to worry too much.”

Hua Cheng’s heart skipped a beat, but not in relief. If anything, the news only made his unease worse. “And you’re sure?” Hua Cheng pressed, his voice tight. “No one’s seen him? No one knows where they are?”

Mu Qing hesitated, the silence heavy before he spoke again. “No one has seen them. But I was told not to worry. If Jun Wu is with Xie Lian, then they’re likely dealing with something that requires both of them. Xie Lian has survived worse, Hua Cheng. You know that.”

“Don’t tell me what I know,” Hua Cheng snapped, his patience fraying. “The fact that no one knows where they are only makes this worse. What if something happened to him? What if—”

“Hua Cheng,” Feng Xin’s voice cut in, more gentle than usual. “We all care about him, but panicking won’t help. Mu Qing’s right. If the Emperor is involved, then it’s something serious, but it doesn’t necessarily mean something bad. Xie Lian’s not weak. He wouldn’t want you losing your head over this.”

Hua Cheng clenched his fists, struggling to suppress the fear and anger that churned inside him. Rationally, he knew they were right—Xie Lian remained a strong god, even with his shackles, a survivor of countless hardships. But that didn’t quell the gnawing dread in his chest, the fear that this time was different. That this time, he might not be able to protect Xie Lian.

“Keep me informed if you hear anything,” Hua Cheng finally said, his voice subdued, but the tension in his body remained.

“Of course,” Mu Qing replied, his voice softening slightly. “We’ll keep searching from our end. But if Xie Lian did something to stop you from reaching out, he had his reasons.”

“I know,” Hua Cheng muttered, ending the call. He stood alone in the village for a moment, the silence pressing in on him. The reassurance from Feng Xin and Mu Qing did little to ease his fears. If anything, it made him feel more helpless, more useless.

With a heavy heart, Hua Cheng turned away from the empty streets and teleported back to Paradise Manor. The moment he arrived, the familiar surroundings of his domain brought no comfort. Instead, they felt like a mockery of his helplessness. Here he was, the Ghost King, revered and feared by all, yet utterly powerless to protect the one person who mattered most.

He moved through the grand halls of the manor, his footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space. The normally comforting solitude felt oppressive now, each step a reminder of his inadequacy. Hua Cheng’s mind churned with thoughts, doubts gnawing at him like relentless beasts.

Why had Xie Lian severed their connection? Why had he gone to such lengths to ensure Hua Cheng couldn’t find him? The possibilities swirled in his mind, each darker than the last. Xie Lian had always been self-sacrificing, always willing to bear the burden alone. Had he done this to protect Hua Cheng? But from what?

Hua Cheng sank into a chair, his usually sharp, confident demeanor crumbling under the weight of his fears. He stared down at his hands, hands that had held so much power, yet felt so useless now. He could destroy mountains, command armies of the dead, but he couldn’t even find the one person he cared about.

He had always prided himself on his strength. But now, when it mattered most, he felt like he was failing. And the worst part was that Xie Lian had chosen to face whatever danger awaited him alone, without even giving Hua Cheng a chance to stand by his side.

The walls of Paradise Manor, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison. Hua Cheng couldn’t stay still, couldn’t bear the silence that only amplified his fears. He rose abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. The images in his mind grew more vivid, more terrifying—Xie Lian, hurt and alone, facing some unimaginable threat, with no one to help him.

“No,” Hua Cheng whispered to himself, the word a desperate plea. “He can’t be alone. He can’t…”

But the reality was that Hua Cheng was powerless to change it. Xie Lian had made sure of that, severing the string between them, cutting off any chance of Hua Cheng reaching him. The only thing Hua Cheng could do was wait, an agonizing, torturous wait that threatened to drive him mad.

For the next three weeks, Hua Cheng returned to Puqi Shrine every day, searching desperately for any sign of his god, but there was nothing—no trace, no message, no clue to where Xie Lian might be. The Ghost King was growing restless, the tension inside him threatening to boil over, when finally, Mu Qing called with urgent news: His Highness had been seen in his palace in Heaven.

Chapter Text

The road to Jun Wu’s palace was long, but Xie Lian walked it with steady resolve. The grand halls of Heaven stretched out before him, silent and empty, as if the very air around him was holding its breath. He knew what awaited him at the end of this journey—punishment, retribution, pain. But none of it mattered as much as what he had to do right now.

Xie Lian paused in his steps and looked down at his left hand. There, barely visible but ever-present, was the faint red string that connected him to Hua Cheng, a bond that had been his silent comfort in recent times. The string was fragile, delicate, yet unbreakable—a testament to Hua Cheng’s unwavering devotion. But it was also a danger, a link that could lead Hua Cheng directly to him.

He couldn’t allow that.

With a deep breath, Xie Lian touched the string, his heart heavy with the decision he was about to make. Severing this connection was more than just cutting off a line of communication; it was cutting off a lifeline, the one thread that kept him tethered to someone who cared. But he couldn’t risk Hua Cheng finding him in the middle of his punishment.

Focusing his spiritual energy, Xie Lian drew a sharp line with his fingers, severing the red string with a clean break. He felt the bond snap, the connection dissolve, and a cold emptiness settled into his heart where the string had once been. It was like losing a piece of himself, but it was necessary. Hua Cheng couldn’t be allowed to follow him into this darkness.

With the string gone, Xie Lian continued his journey, his steps quiet but determined. As he approached Jun Wu’s palace, the grand, imposing structure loomed over him, its gates wide open as if expecting his arrival.

The massive doors of the palace creaked open as Xie Lian stepped inside, and there, at the end of the long hall, stood Jun Wu. The Heavenly Emperor’s expression was calm, almost welcoming, but Xie Lian knew better. Beneath that serene façade was the soul of White No-Face, the calamity who had destroyed his kingdom, ruined his life, and haunted him for centuries.

“XianLe,” Jun Wu greeted him, his voice smooth and untroubled. “What a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe this visit?”

Xie Lian walked forward, stopping just a few steps from where Jun Wu stood. There was no need for pretenses, no point in playing games. He met Jun Wu’s gaze with unwavering resolve. “I know who you really are, my lord. White No-Face. The calamity who brought ruin to XianLe. I’m not here to pretend otherwise.”

For a moment, there was silence, the weight of Xie Lian’s words hanging in the air. Then, slowly, a smile spread across Jun Wu’s face—a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. He laughed, a low, devious sound that echoed through the empty hall, sending a chill down Xie Lian’s spine.

“Ah, XianLe,” Jun Wu said, his tone mockingly affectionate. “You’ve always been so perceptive, haven’t you? But tell me, how long have you known? Since Xianle fell? Or was it before that, when you first glimpsed the darkness beneath my mask?”

“It doesn’t matter when I knew,” Xie Lian replied, his voice steady. “What matters is that I’m here now. Do whatever you wish to me. I’ve dared to make friends again, dared to try and help others. I’ve committed the same sins as before, so if you wish to punish me for that, I won’t resist.”

Jun Wu’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with a sinister light. “You’ve always been so willing to sacrifice yourself. It’s almost admirable, in a pathetic sort of way. But you still don’t understand, do you? This isn’t about punishment. This is about control. You defy me, and yet, you come to me willingly, offering yourself up like a lamb to the slaughter.”

He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, like a shadow that threatened to swallow Xie Lian whole. “You’ve always been a fool. A well-meaning fool, but a fool nonetheless. Do you really think that by cutting off that little string, by walking in here alone, you can spare those you care about? That you can somehow contain the misery you spread wherever you go?”

Xie Lian held his ground, refusing to let Jun Wu’s words shake him. “I know I can’t stop the suffering I bring. But I hope I can trade it.”

Jun Wu chuckled, a sound devoid of any real humor. “Oh, XianLe. So noble, so self-sacrificing. But it’s pointless. You are my creation, my greatest masterpiece. And as long as you exist, so too will the suffering. It’s in your nature, as much as it is in mine.”

He extended a hand, and Xie Lian felt a force like invisible chains wrapping around him, binding him in place. Jun Wu’s eyes gleamed with a cruel satisfaction as he continued, “But you’re right about one thing. There is a punishment to be had. Not for your sins, but for your defiance. You thought you could hide, thought you could shield others from your curse. But I will show you that no one can escape me. Least of them all, you.”

With a swift motion, Jun Wu turned, dragging Xie Lian along with him. The chains tightened, pulling Xie Lian forward as Jun Wu led him deeper into the palace. Xie Lian remained silent, his heart calm even as the atmosphere grew darker, the air colder.

They descended into the bowels of the palace, the light from above growing dimmer with each step. The air became thick, oppressive, as if the very walls were closing in around them. No one knew about these hidden depths of Heaven, and Xie Lian suspected that no one ever would. It was a place shrouded in secrecy, where the screams of the condemned could echo endlessly without ever reaching the ears of those above.

Finally, they arrived at a massive iron door, its surface etched with ancient symbols of power and control. Jun Wu pushed it open with ease, revealing a cavernous chamber that seemed to stretch on forever. The walls were lined with chains and manacles, the air heavy with the scent of iron and despair. This was a place of punishment, of endless torment, and Xie Lian was its oldest and newest inhabitant.

Jun Wu turned to him, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “This is where you belong, XianLe. Here, in the darkness, where no one will hear your cries, where no one will come to save you. You’re mine.”

But Xie Lian didn’t flinch. Even as Jun Wu’s laughter echoed in the chamber, even as the chains wrapped around him tighter, dragging him to the center of the room, Xie Lian felt a strange serenity settle over him. He had made his choice. He had severed the string, knowing full well the consequences. He would endure whatever torment Jun Wu had in store for him, because that was his fate—his burden to bear alone. He wasn’t strong enough anymore to dream to defeat him, and he didn’t want to put the burden on his little ghost. He knew his San Lang would sacrifice himself too if it meant saving his god. He couldn’t imagine what he would do for his beloved, knowing the length he would already go to for a lowly god like him.

As the chains pulled him to the ground, and as Jun Wu’s shadow loomed over him, Xie Lian closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him. He had no fear, no regrets. This was where he belonged—alone, in the depths, where his suffering would harm no one else.

Xie Lian had walked into the darkness with resolve, convinced that he could endure whatever torment Jun Wu had in store for him. But as the days bled into nights, and the line between pain and madness blurred, he soon realized how wrong he had been. The stoic calm he had carried with him into the depths of the Heavenly Emperor’s underground lair was stripped away, layer by agonizing layer, until nothing remained but raw, quivering flesh and a mind teetering on the brink of insanity.

It began with the chains. Jun Wu had stripped him naked, the cold air biting into his exposed skin as he was dragged to the center of the cavernous chamber. His wrists were shackled above his head, the rough iron biting into his flesh as they were fastened to the ceiling. Xie Lian's feet barely touched the ground, his body suspended in a position that left him vulnerable, helpless. The Heavenly Emperor moved with a sadistic glee, his eyes alight with a sick, twisted joy that sent a shiver of dread through Xie Lian’s already trembling form.

“You’ve always been so defiant,” Jun Wu murmured, his voice dripping with malice as he circled Xie Lian like a predator playing with its prey. “But defiance comes with a price. And today, I think I’ll enjoy collecting it.”

Then came the whip. Made from cursed leather, it cut through the air with a sharp crack before it struck Xie Lian’s back. The pain was immediate, searing, and unlike anything he had felt before. He had expected to withstand it, to bear it as he had borne so many wounds in the past. But the whip was no ordinary weapon. It was infused with a curse that magnified the pain, making every lash feel like fire tearing through his flesh.

Jun Wu’s laughter echoed off the stone walls as he struck again and again, each lash peeling away more of Xie Lian’s back, turning skin to ribbons and exposing muscle and bone. The agony was relentless, unyielding, and it tore screams from Xie Lian’s throat before he could stop them. He had thought himself immune to pain, hardened by centuries of suffering, but this—this was something else entirely. It was as though Jun Wu had found a way to reach into the depths of his being and pull forth every buried nerve, every hidden fear, and set them alight.

Days passed, or perhaps it was weeks. Time lost all meaning in that hellish underground. Xie Lian’s screams echoed endlessly in the chamber, his back reduced to a mass of shredded flesh and exposed vertebrae. The pain was constant, searing, and his body hung limp in the chains, trembling uncontrollably. His mind, never this strong, began to fracture again under the onslaught. He tried to hold on, tried to remind himself that he had endured worse, but the agony was too much. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus—every thought was drowned out by the searing pain that consumed him.

By the seventh day, Xie Lian was broken. He hung there, barely conscious, his body a ruin of torn flesh and exposed bones. His throat was raw from screaming, his voice hoarse and weak. When Jun Wu finally paused in his relentless assault, Xie Lian could do nothing but hang there, tears streaming down his face as he whispered broken pleas for mercy.

But there was none to be found. Jun Wu smiled down at him, his expression a mask of twisted satisfaction. “Begging already, Your Highness?” he mocked, his voice dripping with cruel delight. “I expected more from you.”

Xie Lian could only sob, his body shuddering with each ragged breath. His dignity, his pride—everything had been stripped away, leaving him with nothing but raw, desperate pain. And Jun Wu wasn’t finished. The whip was discarded, only to be replaced by a new torture. With a flick of his wrist, Jun Wu summoned flames to his hands, the fire dancing in his eyes as he approached Xie Lian once more.

“Let’s see how much more you can take,” Jun Wu whispered, his voice a soft, deadly promise.

The flames licked at Xie Lian’s skin, searing his flesh with a pain so intense it sent shockwaves through his already battered body. He screamed again, the sound echoing through the chamber as his nerves were set ablaze, every inch of his skin burning with the unrelenting fire. He thrashed in his chains, but there was no escape, no relief—only the endless, all-consuming agony.

And then came the nails. One by one, Jun Wu tore them from Xie Lian’s fingers, each rip accompanied by a new wave of pain that sent Xie Lian’s mind spiraling deeper into madness. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but scream and cry as his body was dismantled piece by piece. The torment was endless, each new torture blending into the next until time lost all meaning. Xie Lian’s mind shattered, unable to process the depth of his suffering.

By the end of the second week, even his tongue was taken from him, severed with a sharp blade to silence his endless pleading. He had thought he was immune to pain, thought that his centuries of suffering had made him numb. But Jun Wu was determined to remind him—remind him of what true pain was, what true suffering felt like. And he did. Oh, he did.

Xie Lian lost all sense of time. Days, weeks, years—it could have been any of them, or all of them. His mind was a haze of agony, his body a wrecked vessel that no longer responded to his will. The only thing that kept him from completely slipping into the abyss was the thought of Hua Cheng—his San Lang, his little ghost, who was likely tearing the world apart to find him. He clung to that thought, that slim hope, as if it were a lifeline. But even that comfort was poisoned by the knowledge that Hua Cheng was likely suffering because of him, searching in vain while Xie Lian languished in this pit of torment by his own fault.

Jun Wu didn’t understand why they were friends—couldn’t comprehend the bond that had formed between them. And that was for the best. If Jun Wu ever discovered the true depth of their connection, the consequences would be unimaginable. Xie Lian knew that. It was why he had severed the red string, why he had come here alone. But now, as his body was pushed beyond its limits, as his mind teetered on the edge of insanity, he wondered if he had made the right choice.

Sometime later—days, weeks, he didn’t know—Jun Wu brought him food and water. The sight of it was almost surreal; after what felt like an eternity of pain and deprivation, the idea of eating seemed foreign to him. His tongue had regrown in the meantime, another cruel reminder of his immortality, so he was able to eat, though every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his battered body.

His back had healed somewhat as well, though the memory of the whip’s bite was still fresh in his mind. He could no longer feel the cold breeze against his exposed bones, but the wounds were still raw, his nerves still screaming in protest. He ate what he could, the taste of the food almost unrecognizable after so long without it.

Jun Wu watched him with a calculating gaze, his smile never leaving his face. When Xie Lian had finished, the emperor leaned in close, his voice soft and dangerous. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, XianLe? But don’t think for a moment that this is over. If you so much as whisper a word of this to Hua Cheng, I will find his beloved and kill them before his eyes. And you… you will watch as the suffering you’ve caused destroys the one person you care about.”

Xie Lian felt his stomach churn, the threat settling like a lead weight in his gut. The thought of Hua Cheng being hurt, of anyone suffering because of him, was more than he could bear. He began to tremble, his eyes wide with horror as Jun Wu continued, his tone cold and merciless. “And if that’s not enough, I’ll shackle your old friends as well. Ten shackles each, just like the ones you wore. I’ll strip them of their titles, their power, and I’ll make sure they suffer just as you have.”

The nausea hit him hard, and Xie Lian turned his head just in time to vomit, the bile burning his throat as it forced its way out. He was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face as he begged, his voice weak and broken. “Please… please don’t. I won’t say anything. I’ll do whatever you want, just… just don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt Hua Cheng…”

Jun Wu laughed, a hysterical, deranged sound that echoed through the chamber. He grabbed Xie Lian by the hair, forcing a vial of medicine to his lips and making him swallow. Xie Lian choked, coughing as the liquid burned its way down his throat, but he drank it all, knowing he had no choice. The medicine was bitter, but it worked quickly, dulling the pain and stopping the bleeding from his still-raw wounds.

“You’re a good little puppet,” Jun Wu sneered, releasing him and stepping back. “Remember that. As long as you stay silent, I won’t touch your precious ghost. But step out of line, and I will make you regret it.”

Xie Lian lay on the cold, hard floor, his body trembling uncontrollably as the last of the vile medicine settled in his stomach. The taste of it lingered, bitter and foul, but at least the bleeding had stopped. He could feel the deep gashes in his back knitting together, the healing process accelerated by whatever concoction Jun Wu had forced down his throat. But the pain was still there, a dull, throbbing ache that echoed the torment of the past weeks.

Jun Wu loomed over him, watching with a mixture of satisfaction and contempt. “It’s time to go back to the land of the living,” he said, his tone almost casual. He waved a hand, and a bucket of water and a rough cloth appeared beside Xie Lian, along with a simple white robe. “Clean yourself up,” Jun Wu ordered. “You wouldn’t want anyone to see you like this, would you?”

Xie Lian didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His voice was gone. The chains still held his wrists, the cold metal biting into his skin, but Jun Wu made a dismissive gesture, and the chains broke away, clattering to the floor with a hollow echo.

The sudden release left Xie Lian weak and disoriented. He collapsed to his knees, the world spinning around him as nausea clawed at his stomach. For a moment, he thought he might pass out, but he managed to hold on, his fingers digging into the cold stone beneath him.

With trembling hands, Xie Lian reached for the bucket and cloth. The water was cold, but he forced himself to clean the blood and grime from his skin, wincing as the cloth brushed against his still-healing wounds. There were no bandages, nothing to bind the deeper cuts, but he did what he could, scrubbing away the evidence of his suffering with determination.

He missed Ruoye. The sentient ribbon would have wrapped around his wounds, offering comfort and protection. But it wasn’t here, just like everything else that mattered to him. All he had was the rough cloth and his own resolve. As he wiped himself clean, the cold air bit into his exposed skin, reminding him of how long he had been down here, naked and vulnerable in the depths of the Heavenly Palace.

Finally, he pulled on the white robe Jun Wu had provided, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar against his bruised skin. It wasn’t his own robe, wasn’t the comforting weight of his usual attire, but it was all he had. The medicine had stopped the bleeding, and the robe would cover the worst of his wounds.

Jun Wu watched him with a faint smile, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Remember,” he said, his voice a soft, sinister whisper. “Not a word of this to anyone. I’ll be watching, and if you slip… well, you know what will happen.”

Xie Lian nodded weakly, his throat too raw to speak. The thought of Hua Cheng, of Feng Xin, Mu Qing, and everyone else he had ever cared about, filled him with a cold dread. He couldn’t let them suffer because of him. He had to keep this secret, had to endure whatever Jun Wu had planned for him, no matter how much it hurt.

Jun Wu turned away, satisfied with Xie Lian’s compliance. “You may return to your palace in Heaven,” he said dismissively. “But make sure no one sees you. I’ll let you know when you can return to the mortal realm.”

With that, Jun Wu disappeared, leaving Xie Lian alone in the dark, cold chamber. For a moment, Xie Lian just knelt there, his body shaking from the pain and the sheer exhaustion of what he had been through. But he couldn’t stay here.

Slowly, painfully, he forced himself to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, barely able to hold his weight after so long in chains. Each step was an agony, but he gritted his teeth and moved forward, his mind focused on one goal: getting out of this place and back to his palace, where he could hide away and heal in peace.

The stairs leading up from the underground chamber seemed endless. Each step was a battle, his body screaming in protest as he forced himself to climb, his hands clutching at the rough stone walls for support. His vision blurred with tears and pain, but he kept going, one step at a time.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he emerged into the cold, dim light of Heaven. The air was fresh, a sharp contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the chamber below, but it did little to ease the pain in his body. Xie Lian stumbled forward, desperate to find a place to hide, somewhere he could gather his strength before anyone saw him.

He moved as quickly as he could, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the main paths where he might run into someone who would ask questions he couldn’t answer. His head pounded with the effort, his vision swimming, but he pressed on, determined to reach the safety of his palace.

When he finally arrived, the sight of the familiar walls brought him a fleeting sense of relief. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him and leaning heavily against it, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His entire body ached, and the wounds on his back throbbed with every movement, but at least he was safe—for now.

Xie Lian slid down to the floor, his strength finally giving out. He buried his face in his hands, the cold reality of his situation crashing down on him. He had endured unimaginable pain, been broken in ways he hadn’t thought possible, and it was all to protect those he cared about. He had to keep quiet, had to endure this alone, for their sake.

But the thought of facing another round of Jun Wu’s sadistic punishments filled him with a dread so deep it made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t survive it—not again. But what choice did he have? If he said anything, if he let slip even the smallest hint, Hua Cheng and everyone else he loved would suffer. And that was something he could never allow.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and Xie Lian let them fall, silent sobs shaking his battered body as he curled up on the floor, his white robe clinging to him like a shroud.

As he leaned heavily against the door, he noticed something strange—something that made his stomach churn with dread. In the adjoining room, a bath was already prepared, steam rising from the hot water, and beside it, a tray with a neatly arranged meal and a small vial of medicine.

Xie Lian’s heart sank. What a sick bastard, he thought bitterly. The emperor had anticipated his return, had arranged for this… hospitality, knowing exactly how broken Xie Lian would be when he emerged from the hellish underground. It was another way to assert control, to remind him of his place.

But he was too exhausted to dwell on it, too drained to resist. Without thinking too much, Xie Lian slowly undressed, his movements stiff and painful. His body ached with every motion, his wounds throbbing as he gingerly stepped into the bath. The hot water stung as it met his raw flesh, but the pain was quickly overtaken by a deep, bone-weary relief. He sank into the water, letting it soothe his aching muscles, if only for a moment.

As he bathed, Xie Lian applied the medicine left for him, rubbing the ointment over his wounds. The healing properties were immediate, numbing the worst of the pain and helping his skin to knit back together. The emperor’s cruelty was matched only by his precision—he knew exactly how to keep Xie Lian on the edge of endurance, healing him just enough to prepare him for the next round of torment.

When he was clean and as healed as he could be, Xie Lian dried himself off and dressed in the simple robe that had been left for him. He forced himself to eat, though the food tasted like ash in his mouth, his stomach churning with nausea and the remnants of fear. But he needed the strength—needed to keep his body from collapsing entirely.

Afterward, he made his way to the bed, his legs barely able to carry him. It felt like weeks, maybe even months, since he had last slept. His mind was foggy, his thoughts disjointed, and he still couldn’t tell how much time had passed since this nightmare had begun. All he knew was that he was exhausted, his body and mind screaming for rest.

As soon as he lay down, the soft mattress cradling his aching form, his body began to relax, the tension of the past weeks slowly ebbing away. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, how close he had come to breaking completely. Sleep tugged at him, pulling him under with a gentle insistence that he was powerless to resist.

Just as he was about to slip into unconsciousness, his communication array lit up. Xie Lian’s heart skipped a beat, dread and hope warring within him as he reached for the device. The voice that came through was frantic, laced with a desperation that made Xie Lian’s chest tighten.

“Gege! Where are you? Are you alright? Please, tell me where you are!” Hua Cheng’s voice was wild with worry, the usual calm and collected tone replaced by something raw, something that echoed the same fear that had plagued Xie Lian for so long.

Xie Lian swallowed, his throat dry and sore. He wanted to reassure Hua Cheng, to ease his fears, but he could barely keep his eyes open. Still, he forced himself to answer, his voice tired and weak. “I’m… I’m in my palace. Everything’s alright, San Lang. I’m just exhausted. I need to sleep.”

There was a brief pause, and Xie Lian could almost feel Hua Cheng’s panic through the connection. But before he could say anything more, Xie Lian continued, his voice barely a whisper, “I’ll come by Puqi Shrine tomorrow… I hope I’ll see you there.”

He hesitated, his exhaustion nearly pulling him under, but he managed to whisper one last question, his voice tinged with concern. “Is San Lang… alright too?”

But the darkness was already claiming him. His eyes fluttered shut, his grip on the communication array loosening as sleep finally took hold. Xie Lian drifted into unconsciousness, his last thoughts of Hua Cheng, his beloved ghost, and the hope that they would find each other again, safe and whole.

Chapter Text

Hua Cheng had never known fear like this. For weeks, he had been consumed by a gnawing, relentless dread, the kind that ate away at him from the inside, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in his chest. Xie Lian was missing—his beloved god, his everything—and Hua Cheng had been powerless to find him.

Every lead had turned up empty, every search had been in vain. It was as if Xie Lian had vanished from the world, leaving nothing behind but the faintest traces of his presence. Hua Cheng had searched high and low, scouring the heavens and the mortal realm alike, but Xie Lian was nowhere to be found.

His solace finally came when Xie Lian answered him last night, telling him that he was in his palace and that he would come to Puqi Shrine the next day.

But that message had done little to ease Hua Cheng’s anxiety. The exhaustion in his god’s voice, the faint, trembling quality of his words—it had been enough to send Hua Cheng spiraling into a fresh wave of panic. He had barely slept, pacing restlessly through Paradise Manor, his mind racing with dark possibilities. What had happened to Xie Lian? Where had he been? And why did he sound so weak?

The hours until dawn had crawled by, each minute stretching into an eternity. But now, at last, the sun had risen, and Hua Cheng stood outside Puqi Shrine, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and fear. The shrine was quiet, the village still and peaceful in the early morning light, but the Ghost King could find no peace within himself. He had to see Xie Lian, had to know that he was truly alright.

The moment he saw the faint shimmer of white robes in the distance, his breath caught in his throat. Xie Lian was approaching the shrine, his steps slow and measured, as if every movement required a great deal of effort. Hua Cheng’s heart clenched painfully at the sight—Xie Lian looked so fragile.

Without thinking, Hua Cheng closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his true form materializing in front of Xie Lian with a burst of silver butterflies. “Gege!” he exclaimed, his voice laced with a desperation he couldn’t hide.

Xie Lian looked up, his eyes meeting Hua Cheng’s with a tired, but warm gaze. “San Lang,” he murmured, his voice still soft, but with a note of affection that the ghost had feared he might never hear again.

For a moment, they simply stood there, neither moving nor speaking, as if the world had frozen around them. Hua Cheng’s eyes roamed over Xie Lian, taking in every detail—the pallor of his skin, the faint bruises peeking out from under his robes, the lingering shadows in his eyes. The god had always been ethereal, otherworldly in his beauty, but now, there was something haunting about him, something that made Hua Cheng’s chest tighten with sorrow.

“What happened to you?” Hua Cheng finally whispered, his voice trembling with barely contained emotion. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Xie Lian’s arm as if to reassure himself that he was truly there, that this wasn’t some cruel illusion.

Xie Lian offered a small, weary smile, but there was a sadness in his eyes that Hua Cheng couldn’t ignore. “I’m alright now,” he said, though his voice lacked the strength to make the words convincing. “I’m just… tired. I need to rest.”

Hua Cheng’s heart ached at the sight of his beloved trying to put on a brave face, trying to reassure him even when he was clearly struggling. “Gege doesn’t have to lie to me,” Hua Cheng said gently, his voice softening. “You’re hurt. I can see it.”

Xie Lian’s smile faltered, and he lowered his gaze, as if ashamed to be seen in such a state. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to make San Lang worry.”

“Worry me?” Hua Cheng’s voice cracked with emotion. “Gege, I’ve been going mad with fear! I searched everywhere for you, and there was nothing—no sign of you, no trace of where you’d gone. And then, when you finally contacted me, you sounded so… so weak.”

Xie Lian reached up, placing a hand on the ghost’s cheek, his touch cool and comforting despite his own fatigue. “I’m sorry, San Lang,” he said again, his voice thick with regret. “But I had to… I had to do this alone.”

Hua Cheng’s brow furrowed in confusion and concern. “Do what alone? What happened to you, Gege? Who did this to you?”

Xie Lian hesitated, his eyes flickering with a mix of fear and uncertainty. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he simply shook his head, as if the effort of explaining was too much to bear.

Hua Cheng’s chest tightened, his fear turning into a cold, simmering rage. Someone had hurt Xie Lian—someone had done this to him, and he would make them pay. But for now, all he could do was be there for his god, to offer him the comfort and support he so desperately needed.

“Come,” he said softly, wrapping an arm around Xie Lian’s waist to support him. “Let’s go inside the shrine. Gege needs rest.”

Xie Lian didn’t resist, leaning into Hua Cheng’s embrace as they walked the short distance to the shrine. Every step was slow and careful, and the ghost could feel the tremors running through the god’s body, the exhaustion that weighed him down like a leaden cloak. It took everything in him to keep his composure, to focus on getting him inside and settled rather than on the anger that burned in his chest.

When they finally entered the shrine, he guided Xie Lian to the straw mat and helped him sit down, his movements gentle and deliberate. He knelt beside him, his eyes searching his beloved’s face for any sign of what had happened, but all he saw was the deep, lingering fatigue that clouded his gaze.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Hua Cheng shook his head, his heart breaking at the vulnerability in the other’s voice. “It doesn’t matter how Gege looks,” he said, his voice firm but tender. “What matters is that you’re here, with me. That’s all I care about.”

Xie Lian’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and he reached out to take Hua Cheng’s hand in his own, his grip weak but steady. He could see the pain etched in every line of Xie Lian’s face, the way his body trembled with the effort of simply sitting upright. He wanted to demand answers, to know who had hurt him and why, but he could tell that he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Rest, Gege,” Hua Cheng said softly, squeezing the god’s hand. “You don’t have to worry about anything else right now. I’ll take care of everything.”

Xie Lian nodded, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

Hua Cheng’s heart clenched as he watched Xie Lian struggle to stay awake, his body clearly at its limit. “Rest,” Hua Cheng urged gently. “San Lang will be here when you wake up.”

Xie Lian managed a faint smile, his eyes fluttering shut as sleep finally overtook him. He slumped against Hua Cheng, his breathing evening out as he sank into a deep, much-needed rest. The ghost held him close, his heart aching with a mix of relief and sorrow.

For now, all he could do was stay by his beloved’s side, offering what little comfort he could. But in the back of his mind, the cold rage continued to simmer, a promise of retribution for whoever had dared to hurt the one person he loved most in the world.

Chapter Text

Xie Lian awoke slowly, the haze of sleep gradually lifting as he blinked against the soft light filtering through the room. His body felt unusually warm, cocooned in a comforting heat that seemed to chase away the lingering aches and pains that had haunted him for what felt like an eternity. For a moment, he simply lay there, enjoying the warmth, until he realized with a start that the heat wasn’t coming from a blanket or the morning sun—it was coming from another body.

His eyes flew open, and he found himself nestled in Hua Cheng’s arms, the Ghost King’s presence as solid and reassuring as ever. His grip was gentle but firm, as if he had been holding Xie Lian close for some time, protecting him even in his sleep. The god’s heart raced in his chest, and a furious blush spread across his cheeks as he tried to process the situation.

He had been sleeping in Hua Cheng’s arms for… how long? How had this happened? His mind was a whirl of confusion, but there was also a deep sense of comfort, a feeling that he was safe, cherished, in a way he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

Carefully, Xie Lian shifted in the ghost’s embrace, trying not to wake him but also needing to move, to confirm that this wasn’t some dream or illusion. As he stirred, a dull ache made itself known in his muscles. But it was muted now, a far cry from the agony that had plagued him during his time in Jun Wu’s clutches. He felt better—much better, in fact—but still a little sore, his body not yet fully recovered.

His movement must have disturbed Hua Cheng, because the Ghost King stirred beside him, his crimson eye blinking open as he came to full awareness. The moment Hua Cheng realized Xie Lian was awake, his gaze sharpened, and concern flooded his expression. Without hesitation, he gently but firmly pulled back just enough to look Xie Lian over, his hands hovering as if afraid to touch too forcefully.

“Gege,” Hua Cheng said urgently, his voice filled with worry. “How do you feel? Does anything hurt? Are you dizzy? Is there any pain?”

Xie Lian blinked at the barrage of questions, still somewhat dazed from waking up in such an unexpected position. “I… I’m alright, San Lang,” he replied, his voice soft, still slightly raspy from disuse. He offered a small, reassuring smile, though he could see that Hua Cheng wasn’t entirely convinced.

But there was something else gnawing at Xie Lian’s mind, “San Lang,” he began hesitantly, “how long… how long have I been asleep?”

Hua Cheng’s expression softened slightly, though the concern never left his eye. “Three days,” he replied quietly. “You’ve been sleeping for three days straight.”

Xie Lian’s eyes widened slightly, though he wasn’t entirely surprised. Given the state he had been in when he finally collapsed into Hua Cheng’s arms, it wasn’t shocking that his body had needed so much time to recover. But three days… it meant he had been gone for much longer than he had realized.

“How long was I… away?” he asked.

Hua Cheng hesitated, clearly reluctant to answer, but he knew Xie Lian needed the truth. “A month,” he said finally, his voice filled with the weight of those long, agonizing weeks. “You’ve been away for a month, Gege.”

Xie Lian nodded slowly, letting the information sink in. A month. He had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed made it feel all the more real. He wasn’t surprised, but a deep sense of relief washed over him.

His gaze drifted back to Hua Cheng, who was watching him intently, his eye filled with a mixture of relief and lingering worry. Without warning, Xie Lian felt an overwhelming surge of emotion—relief, gratitude, affection—and before he could think twice, he threw his arms around Hua Cheng, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“San Lang,” he whispered, his voice filled with warmth and gratitude. “I missed you so much.”

Hua Cheng stiffened in shock for a moment, clearly not expecting the sudden display of affection. His hands hovered awkwardly over Xie Lian’s back, unsure of where to place them, but eventually, he returned the embrace, though his touch was tentative, almost shy.

“Gege…” Hua Cheng began, his voice trembling with a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite express. “I… I missed you too.”

The two of them stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside forgotten.

Hua Cheng’s concern seemed to still gnawn at him though. “Gege,” he said softly, pulling back just enough to look Xie Lian in the eye. “What happened? Where were you?”

Xie Lian felt a pang of guilt at the worry in Hua Cheng’s voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell him the full truth—not yet. He wasn’t ready to relive those memories, and he didn’t want to burden Hua Cheng with the darkness that still clung to him.

Before he could respond though, his stomach let out a loud, rumbling growl, breaking the tension in the air.

Hua Cheng blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected sound. Xie Lian felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment as he quickly detached himself from the embrace, offering an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, San Lang,” he said, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “I think I’m just really hungry… I haven’t eaten properly in a while.”

Hua Cheng’s concern remained, but he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. “Gege must be starving,” he said, his tone softening. “I’ll make you something to eat right away.”

Without waiting for a response, the Ghost King quickly rose to his feet and headed for the kitchen, eager to do something—anything—that might help Xie Lian feel better. He moved with purpose, his hands steady as he prepared a simple but hearty congee, something warm and soothing that would help restore Xie Lian’s strength.

When the meal was ready, Hua Cheng brought the bowl to him, watching anxiously as the god took the first bite. Xie Lian’s eyes lit up as he tasted the congee, the warmth spreading through him like a comforting embrace. He all but devoured the meal, the nourishment a welcome relief after so many days of emptiness.

“This is delicious, San Lang,” Xie Lian said between bites, his voice full of genuine appreciation. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Thank you.”

Hua Cheng’s gaze softened as he watched the god eat, but his eye still roamed over Xie Lian’s frame, taking in the slight hollowness of his cheeks, the way his robes hung just a little too loosely on his frame. “You’ve lost weight, Gege,” Hua Cheng said quietly, his voice laced with concern.

Xie Lian paused mid-bite, his chopsticks hovering over the bowl. He could feel Hua Cheng’s gaze on him, the unspoken worry that lingered between them. He scratched the back of his head innocently, offering a small, almost apologetic smile. “The mission was really hard on me,” he said lightly, as if trying to brush off the severity of the situation.

Hua Cheng’s expression faltered, sadness flickering in his eye. Xie Lian felt like he probably wanted to ask more, to press for details, but didn’t dare.

Sensing Hua Cheng’s hesitation, he quickly changed the subject, hoping to lift the mood. He offered a bright smile, his eyes warm with affection as he looked at the ghost. “San Lang, do you think we could go to Ghost City for a while?” he asked, his voice hopeful. “I could use some fresh air, and a stroll around the city sounds nice. But I understand if you’re busy…”

Before he could finish, Hua Cheng cut him off, his voice firm but gentle. “Of course, Gege. I’m never too busy for you. Nothing is more important than you.”

Xie Lian’s smile widened, the warmth in his friend’s words wrapping around his heart like a comforting blanket.

“Thank you, San Lang,” the god said softly.

“Let’s go then.”

The day had been a welcome reprieve, filled with laughter and simple joys as Xie Lian and Hua Cheng strolled through the bustling streets of Ghost City. The vibrant energy of the city was infectious, and for a while, the god could almost forget the weight that had been dragging him down. They wandered through the lively markets, sampling street food from various vendors—sweet buns, savory skewers, and spicy noodles that left a pleasant burn on their tongues. Everywhere they went, the people of Ghost City greeted them warmly, their respect and adoration for Hua Cheng spilling over to Xie Lian.

Despite the exhaustion that lingered at the edges of his awareness, Xie Lian found himself smiling genuinely, the tension in his chest easing with each passing moment. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the present, to take in the sights and sounds of the city without the constant shadow of fear hanging over him. Hua Cheng was by his side, as attentive and caring as ever, and that alone made everything seem bearable.

But as the evening wore on and the sky began to darken, the god’s energy started to wane. The day had been wonderful, but his body was far from fully healed, and the pain in his back was growing more intense with each step. He could feel the muscles there tensing, the deep ache radiating from his spine to his shoulders.

He did his best to keep up appearances, smiling through the pain whenever Hua Cheng looked his way. The last thing he wanted was to worry him, especially after everything the Ghost King had already done for him. But even as he forced the smiles, Xie Lian couldn’t ignore the fatigue that was steadily overtaking him.

Throughout the day, Feng Xin and Mu Qing had called him via the communication array, checking in on him with genuine concern. Their voices had brought a warmth to his heart, a reminder of the deep bonds he still shared with his old friends. But that warmth was quickly overshadowed by a gnawing worry—by reaching out to him, they were getting involved, putting themselves at risk. The more they cared, the more vulnerable they became to the threats that loomed over him like a dark cloud.

As the day drew to a close, Hua Cheng seemed to sense Xie Lian’s growing fatigue. He gently suggested they retreat to Paradise Manor for the night, a proposal that the god gladly accepted. By the time they arrived back at the manor, his body was screaming for rest, the pain in his back now a constant, dull throb that made every movement a struggle.

Hua Cheng led him to a set of grand chambers, the richest room in the entire palace, but when Xie Lian realized where they were headed, he hesitated, a blush creeping up his neck. The door opened to reveal Hua Cheng’s own chambers—a place he had never expected to be invited into, and certainly not under these circumstances.

“San Lang, this is…” he began, his voice trailing off as he took in the lavish surroundings. The bed, large enough to be called a royal resting place, was adorned with plush pillows and silken red sheets that looked impossibly soft. Everything about the room exuded comfort and luxury, making Xie Lian feel somewhat out of place.

Noticing the god’s hesitation and the blush spreading across his cheeks, Hua Cheng offered a small smile, his tone reassuring. “Don’t worry, Gege. I just wanted you to have the best. This is the most comfortable bed in the entire palace, and you deserve nothing less.”

Xie Lian’s blush deepened at the sincerity in Hua Cheng’s voice, and though he felt a bit flustered, he couldn’t deny the appeal of a good night’s sleep in such a comfortable bed. The exhaustion weighing down on him made the decision easier. He nodded shyly and followed Hua Cheng’s lead, settling into the bed with a deep sigh of relief.

As they both lay down, facing each other, Xie Lian couldn’t help but notice the way the ghost’s expression shifted. The teasing smile had faded, replaced by something more serious, almost tormented. The god watched him quietly, his own thoughts turning over in his mind.

The memories of the past few weeks were still raw, but now that he was safe, lying here with Hua Cheng, his thoughts were clearer. He began to wonder if he had made the right decision by pushing Hua Cheng away, by trying to protect him at all costs. Xie Lian knew that his friend would do anything for him, would face any danger to keep him safe, but that was exactly what frightened him. Hua Cheng was already more than capable of self-sacrifice, and Xie Lian feared that if he allowed him to get too involved, it would end in tragedy.

But even as these thoughts swirled in his mind, another question gnawed at him—one that he hadn’t been able to shake since Jun Wu’s threats. What could Jun Wu really do to Crimson Rain? What did he mean by finding and killing Hua Cheng’s beloved? And most importantly… who was Hua Cheng’s beloved?

The question bubbled up from within him, born of both curiosity and a deep-seated hope. Could it be me? Xie Lian wondered, his heart pounding at the thought. Could San Lang’s beloved really be… me?

He bit his lower lip, the question burning on the tip of his tongue. He had to know, even if it meant revealing more of his own vulnerabilities. The silence between them stretched on, filled with unspoken emotions, until Xie Lian finally broke it.

“San Lang,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. “Who…who is your beloved?”

Hua Cheng’s reaction was immediate and intense. His single eye widened in shock, and he stared at Xie Lian as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “Gege… why would you ask that now?” he asked, his voice shaky, caught off guard by the sudden question.

Xie Lian’s heart raced, his nerves tingling with both anticipation and fear. He forced himself to hold Hua Cheng’s gaze, his voice soft but steady. “I… I’ll tell you what happened to me if you’re honest with me, San Lang. I want to know.”

The supreme seemed utterly taken aback by Xie Lian’s words, as if the idea of revealing his deepest secret had thrown him completely off balance. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The shock and emotion in his eye were evident, his usual composure shattered by the god’s unexpected question.

He watched him closely though, waiting for an answer, but he didn’t feel guilty for pressing the issue. He needed to know. He needed to understand where he stood in Hua Cheng’s heart, and he was willing to offer the truth of his own suffering in exchange.

Finally, after a long, heavy silence, Hua Cheng seemed to gather himself. The shock in his eye slowly melted away, replaced by a familiar, teasing glint. “Gege,” he said, his voice softening into a playful lilt. “Why are you teasing me like this? You already know the answer, don’t you?”

Xie Lian’s breath caught in his throat. The intensity in the ghost’s gaze, the way he looked at him with such open affection—it was almost too much to bear. The god’s heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of hope and disbelief swirling within him.

“San Lang…” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Is it… really me?”

Hua Cheng’s expression softened even further, the teasing edge fading into something much deeper, much more sincere. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against Xie Lian’s cheek, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. “Your Highness,” Hua Cheng murmured, his voice filled with warmth. “Who else could it be?”

He smiled, tears of happiness welling up in his eyes as he leaned into Hua Cheng’s touch. “San Lang,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re… you’re my special someone too.”

Hua Cheng’s breath hitched at Xie Lian’s confession, and for a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. But the joy in his eye was unmistakable, a radiant warmth that lit up his entire face. He gently pulled Xie Lian closer, their foreheads touching as they lay there, sharing a moment of pure, unspoken understanding.

Chapter Text

Hua Cheng lay in bed, staring at Xie Lian in utter disbelief. His mind was reeling, struggling to process what had just happened. San Lang is my special someone too. Those words had been like a shock to his entire being, as if they had reached into his very soul and set it aflame. He had waited centuries to hear something like that from Xie Lian, and now that it had happened, he felt almost paralyzed by the overwhelming joy and disbelief that filled him.

He had always known his devotion to the god was absolute, his love unwavering, but he had never allowed himself to hope for anything in return. And now, here was his god—his beloved Xie Lian—telling him that he felt the same way. It was more than Hua Cheng had ever dared to dream, more than he could have ever hoped for.

As he lay there, still processing the confession, Xie Lian suddenly leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. The touch was featherlight, almost hesitant, but it sent a jolt of electricity through Hua Cheng’s entire body. He froze, utterly stunned. They had shared kisses before, but this… this was different. Xie Lian had initiated it, simply because he wanted to. The realization made Hua Cheng’s heart stutter in his chest, almost as if it were beating again for the first time in centuries.

His mind went blank, and he found himself taking a deep breath, a reflexive action that he didn’t even need. When Xie Lian pulled back, Hua Cheng was still frozen in place, his thoughts racing but not quite forming coherent words. He wanted to ask—no, he needed to ask—what had brought this on, what had changed. But then he saw the smile on the god’s face, so wide and genuine that it warmed him to his core, and all his questions melted away.

Without thinking, he leaned in and captured those lips again, this time with a passion that bordered on desperation. He kissed him like a man starved, pouring every ounce of his love, his devotion, into that kiss. Xie Lian responded in kind, his hands coming up to gently cradle Hua Cheng’s face as they lost themselves in each other. For that moment, nothing else existed—just the two of them, wrapped up in the warmth of their shared affection.

But as much as Hua Cheng wanted to stay lost in that moment, the nagging worry that had plagued him since his beloved’s return refused to be silenced. He forced himself to pull back, though it took every ounce of his willpower to do so. He had to know—he had to understand what had happened.

“Gege,” Hua Cheng whispered, his voice filled with concern. “You said you’d explain everything. What happened to you? Why was there blood all over your shrine?”

Xie Lian’s expression shifted, the happiness in his eyes dimming as he grew pensive. He looked down, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the bedsheet as he gathered his thoughts. “San Lang…” he began slowly, his voice tinged with guilt. “When we came back from that mission, I found my shrine… it was covered in blood. The villagers… they were all gone, and there was a seal of White No-Face inside.”

The words hit Hua Cheng like a physical blow, and he sat up abruptly, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and anger. “Did I hear that right?” he asked, his voice rising in disbelief. “White-No-Face? That calamity was at your shrine?”

Xie Lian nodded, his expression somber. “Yes,” he admitted softly. “I didn’t want anyone to find out and panic, so I… I cleaned it all up. I left my things behind and went after him.”

Hua Cheng was out of the bed in an instant, pacing the room like a caged animal. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his mind reeling with anger and frustration. “You went after that monster alone?!” he nearly shouted, his voice tight with a mix of fury and fear. “Gege, how could you—”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” Xie Lian cried, tears welling up in his eyes as he sat up on the bed, his voice filled with guilt and desperation. “He threatened you, San Lang! He said he would hurt you, and I was so scared… I even cut the string.”

Hua Cheng froze mid-step, his blood running cold. “The string?” he echoed, turning to face Xie Lian, his voice barely above a whisper. “How did you even know about the string?”

Xie Lian managed a small, tearful smile, even as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. “I just knew,” he whispered, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I could always feel it… the bond between us.”

Hua Cheng’s heart broke at the sight of Xie Lian’s tears, at the fear and guilt that were so evident in his eyes. All his anger, all his frustration, evaporated in an instant, replaced by a deep, aching sadness. His god had been so terrified, so desperate to protect him, that he had gone after White-No-Face alone, without telling anyone. He had even severed their bond to keep Hua Cheng from following him.

But now, he looked so vulnerable, so scared, that the Ghost King couldn’t bear it. He crossed the room in a few swift steps and knelt beside the bed, taking Xie Lian’s hands in his own, his voice soft and filled with regret. “Gege, I’m not mad,” he said gently, his thumb brushing over his beloved’s knuckles. “I just… I wish you had confided in me. I want to protect you too.”

Xie Lian’s tears spilled over, and he squeezed Hua Cheng’s hands tightly, his voice trembling with emotion. “I’m so tired, San Lang,” he whispered, his words laced with exhaustion and pain. “I’m so tired of everyone trying to hurt me, using me, caring about me only when it’s in their interest. I’m so tired of the pain and the misfortune I seem to bring to everyone. I don’t want it to happen to you too.”

Hua Cheng’s heart ached for him, and he tightened his grip on Xie Lian’s hands, his voice filled with a fierce determination. “I’m your most devoted believer, Your Highness,” he vowed, his eye blazing with intensity. “I will forever worship you and slay your enemies should you say the word. Let me avenge you…”

But Xie Lian shook his head, his expression softening as he leaned in closer, his voice tender and filled with love. “San Lang,” he whispered, his breath warm against Hua Cheng’s cheek. “Stay with me forever. Just like you promised 800 years ago when you tied the string. San Lang is my favorite person in all the three realms. If something should happen to you, I would have no reason to endure it all anymore. I love you so much… please.”

Hua Cheng was utterly overwhelmed. He had never imagined that Xie Lian could feel this way about him, that he could be so cherished by the one person he had devoted his entire existence to. It was too much, more than he had ever believed he could deserve. His breath caught in his throat, and his eye stung with unshed tears. How could he possibly be worth this much love? How could Xie Lian, his god, his everything, love him so completely?

But then, as the realization sank in, something clicked. Xie Lian knew him—truly knew him. He had known all along, from the very beginning. The truth of who Hua Cheng really was, the boy he had been, the ghost he had become… Xie Lian had known, and he had loved him anyway.

Hua Cheng’s voice trembled as he asked the question that burnt in his heart. “Gege… h-how long have you known?”

Xie Lian’s smile was soft, filled with affection and understanding. He reached up to gently cup Hua Cheng’s face, his thumb brushing away the tears that had finally spilled over. “Forever, my little Hong Hong’er,” he whispered, his voice like a soothing balm to Hua Cheng’s soul. “I always felt the red string too, you know.”

It was the Ghost King’s turn to cry. His tears fell freely now, his heart overflowing with love and gratitude.

The god pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him close as the ghost buried his face in Xie Lian’s shoulder, his body trembling with the force of his emotions. They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world forgotten.

When they finally pulled apart, their eyes met, and without a word, they leaned in and kissed again. This kiss was different—softer, gentler, but no less filled with the love and devotion that had been building between them for centuries.

But as much as Hua Cheng wanted to stay in that moment, the worry that had been gnawing at him since the beginning refused to be silenced. He pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing as he looked into Xie Lian’s eyes. “Gege,” he whispered, his voice filled with concern. “What exactly happened with White-No-Face?”

Xie Lian’s expression immediately became fidgety, and he looked away, his hands twisting nervously in his lap. “San Lang… y-you don’t really want to know,” he murmured, his voice tinged with unease.

Hua Cheng’s heart sank, fear and anger rising within him. He could see the pain in Xie Lian’s eyes, the way he tried to hide the truth to protect him. But Hua Cheng needed to know. He had to understand what had happened.

“Gege,” Hua Cheng said softly, his voice trembling with both fear and determination. “Please… tell me everything. Let me protect you.”

Chapter Text

Xie Lian sat in silence, watching the faint flicker of the candle flame dance in the dimly lit room. The air felt heavy, thick with tension as if it anticipated the storm he was about to unleash. His heart pounded in his chest, erratic and anxious, but not for himself. He could feel RuoYe, his loyal spiritual weapon, slowly unwinding from its concealment, tenderly coiling around him as if offering the comfort he so desperately needed. He closed his eyes, a soft breath of relief leaving his lips as the ribbon gently embraced him. It had been so long.

“RuoYe…” Xie Lian whispered, his voice barely above a breath. He had missed it, the presence of something so deeply tied to his soul. After all this time, it had finally come back to him. It was a small but significant piece of home, a fragment of solace. He allowed himself to smile, even though the rest of his world felt like it was collapsing around him.

But now, as he felt the silk’s soft caress, his thoughts turned to the truth he had been avoiding. Hua Cheng sat near him, his usual confident demeanor softened, his crimson eyes fixed on Xie Lian with quiet patience, though there was an unmistakable weight in them. He knew something was wrong, something Xie Lian hadn’t yet shared, but Hua Cheng waited.

Xie Lian, bracing himself, moved to the edge of the bed. His hands fidgeted nervously with the hem of his robe as he spoke. “San Lang…” His voice trembled for a moment. He felt a sudden surge of fear and shame. But he had already decided: he couldn’t keep running. Not from Hua Cheng. Not anymore. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

The words came slowly, cautiously, as though he were navigating a minefield. “Ever since Xianle fell, I stopped allowing myself to have friends, or to rely on anyone. I couldn’t bear to have anyone close to me suffer… not again.” His chest tightened at the memories he had buried for so long. “White-No-Face made sure of that. He made sure that anyone who dared to care for me would end up in ruin. I convinced myself that I had to be alone, for their sake.”

Xie Lian paused, his gaze dropping to the floor. The silence between them felt deafening.

“Recently… things changed. I got closer to you, to Shi Qingxuan…” He swallowed hard. “White-No-Face noticed. He always notices. It’s like he can smell happiness… and he punishes me for it.”

Hua Cheng’s eyes darkened, a flicker of some deep emotion flashing across his face. Still, he said nothing. He listened, and for that, Xie Lian was grateful.

“I’m sure you’ve already guessed,” the god continued, his voice lowering, “what happened in my shrine. That wasn’t coincidence. That was his doing. His way of reminding me that I can never escape him, not truly. The more I cared, the more he hurt those around me. The deaths in the village... that was his message.”

Xie Lian’s voice faltered as the memories resurfaced, of the broken shrine and lifeless villagers, of the ever-present torment hanging over him. He had known what was coming the moment he saw the devastation.

“I thought…” he hesitated, biting back the painful truth, “I thought if I just accepted his torment, if I played his twisted game, I could keep you safe. I could keep you far away from all of this.”

A lump formed in his throat, and Xie Lian’s hands began to shake. He gripped his knees, trying to steady himself, but the weight of what he was about to reveal was crushing him. “But San Lang… there’s more. There’s something else I’ve kept from you, something even darker.”

Hua Cheng shifted slightly, his gaze never leaving Xie Lian. His expression was unreadable, yet his presence was as steady as always. But Xie Lian could feel the storm beneath the surface, waiting.

“I…” Xie Lian closed his eyes, willing himself to be brave. “It’s Jun Wu.”

At the mention of the name, Xie Lian felt Hua Cheng stiffen, his posture subtly changing, though he remained silent. Xie Lian continued, his words tumbling out in a rush as he finally confronted the truth that had haunted him for so long.

“Jun Wu is White-No-Face. He always has been. I knew. I always knew. But I couldn’t—I didn’t have the strength to fight him. Not after everything. I thought… if I just endured it, if I pretended not to know, he would leave the people I cared about alone. But he never does. And now, I’m not strong enough anymore. My mind isn’t what it used to be. I… I can’t do it alone.”

Silence.

Xie Lian opened his eyes to see Hua Cheng’s face. He expected fury, perhaps rage. But what he saw instead was far worse. Hua Cheng’s face had gone completely blank, his usual vibrancy drained away. It was as though something inside him had shattered, something vital, and in its place, there was nothing.

Xie Lian’s heart leapt into his throat. He reached out, his voice breaking, “San Lang, please—don’t do anything rash. I beg you, don’t—”

But the words died on his lips as Hua Cheng finally spoke, his voice low and quiet, but trembling with something Xie Lian couldn’t quite place. “You knew… all this time?”

Xie Lian’s panic surged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to drag you into this. I thought I was protecting you, but I—”

Hua Cheng’s expression remained unreadable, but Xie Lian could sense the turmoil beneath the surface. He tried to explain, tried to reach out, but the Ghost King’s gaze had turned distant, as though he were standing on the edge of something dangerously vast and unknown.

“I trust you, San Lang,” Xie Lian said, his voice almost a whisper. “I trust you more than anyone. But please… don’t do something you’ll regret. Don’t go to war with the heavens. Don’t throw yourself into danger for my sake.”

For a moment, the room was deathly still, the tension unbearable. Xie Lian’s heart raced as he watched Hua Cheng, desperate to understand what was going on behind those dark, unreadable eyes.

Xie Lian’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched Hua Cheng's carefully controlled expression. The cold dread of losing him, of pushing him into a battle he couldn’t win, gripped his soul. He couldn’t let his beloved take this burden on alone. Not when he had just started to hope for a future where they could be together, where happiness wasn’t some distant dream.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian’s voice broke through the heavy silence, desperate and raw. He reached out, his trembling fingers brushing against Hua Cheng’s hand. “Please, don’t leave me. Don’t rush off to face him alone.”

Hua Cheng’s gaze softened, his crimson eyes flickering with something unreadable. For a moment, Xie Lian thought he might pull away, but instead, the ghost’s hand closed gently around his, grounding him, keeping him steady.

“I can’t bear to lose you,” Xie Lian continued, his voice tight with emotion. “I’ve already lost so much. I don’t want this fight… I just want to be free. I want us to be free. Together.”

Hua Cheng’s fingers tightened slightly, his touch firm but reassuring. “Gege,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with quiet intensity, “you will never lose me.”

“But I can’t do this without you,” Xie Lian whispered, his gaze locking onto Hua Cheng’s. “Help me, San Lang. Help me get rid of him. Together. I can’t face Jun Wu alone, but with you…” He hesitated, his heart aching with the weight of the plea he was about to make. “With you by my side, I know we can end this. Please. Stay with me.”

Hua Cheng’s eyes darkened, the raw emotion that flickered there—grief, anger, love—was almost too much for Xie Lian to bear. For a moment, Hua Cheng didn’t speak, as if weighing the gravity of what Xie Lian was asking of him. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears and a shared longing for something better.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Hua Cheng’s expression softened, and he let out a soft, almost resigned sigh. “Gege,” he whispered, his voice warm and unyielding, “I have followed you through countless lifetimes. If there is anyone I would fight for, anyone I would defy the heavens for, it is you.”

Xie Lian’s heart swelled with emotion, his eyes stinging as relief washed over him like a tidal wave. Hua Cheng hadn’t turned away. He hadn’t left him to face the darkness alone.

“I will stay,” Hua Cheng said, his voice quiet but firm. “And I will help you. We will end this. Together.”

Xie Lian exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his hands trembling as Hua Cheng’s words sank in. A small, fragile smile tugged at his lips, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, hope sparked to life in his chest.

“Thank you,” Xie Lian whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, San Lang.”

Hua Cheng reached up, gently brushing a tear from Xie Lian’s cheek with the back of his hand. His touch was soft, but the determination in his eyes was as solid as iron.

“For you, Gege,” Hua Cheng said with quiet conviction, “I would face any calamity. Even the heavens themselves.”

Chapter Text

Hua Cheng had always thought himself prepared for anything. After centuries of facing calamities, fighting battles, and defying the heavens, nothing could surprise him anymore. Or so he believed. But tonight, the weight of revelations felt like a crushing blow, one that left him shaken in a way he hadn’t felt since the day Xie Lian had first called his name.

He sat in silence, watching Xie Lian’s delicate figure across from him, his heart heavy with the knowledge of all that his god had been enduring. Jun Wu. The truth of the calamity that had tormented his beloved for centuries was the one being Hua Cheng had sworn to destroy. And yet, he had never known.

He hadn’t known who was truly behind Xie Lian’s misery. If he had—if only he had known—he could have ended it so much sooner. The thought gnawed at him, a bitter resentment toward himself, an endless loop of I should have known, I should have protected him better.

His hands clenched into fists at his side. He was San Lang, the one who had vowed to protect his god from every harm, the one who would lay waste to the heavens for a single smile. And yet, the person he loved most had been suffering, tortured in silence, all while Hua Cheng believed he had been at his side, keeping him safe.

The room felt stifling, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Something else still lingered—something that Xie Lian hadn’t told him. Hua Cheng could feel it like a shadow hovering in the air. A gnawing suspicion ate at him, a question he hadn’t yet asked.

“Gege,” he said softly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil beneath his calm façade. “What happened to you while you were away? Where were you these past weeks?”

Xie Lian flinched almost imperceptibly, and Hua Cheng’s heart sank. There it is again. That flicker of hesitation. The avoidance. Hua Cheng had seen it before, but now, after everything, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

Xie Lian fidgeted, his fingers nervously picking at the fabric of his robe, his gaze shifting away. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice unnaturally light. “I just went to see him and...”

A lie.

Hua Cheng’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t bear it—the thought of Xie Lian carrying even more pain alone, hiding something that had clearly left scars. He had seen his god at his strongest and his weakest. He knew when his god was lying. He leaned forward, his voice dropping with quiet intensity.

“Don’t lie to me, Gege.”

Xie Lian froze, his hands trembling. Hua Cheng could see the panic rising in his eyes, the way his body tensed, preparing to evade again. But Hua Cheng wouldn’t let him this time. He needed the truth, even if it tore him apart to hear it.

“What really happened?” Hua Cheng asked, his voice growing firm. “Tell me.”

For a moment, Xie Lian looked at him as if Hua Cheng had pierced through his very soul, his expression filled with a quiet, desperate plea. But then, instead of answering, Xie Lian swallowed hard and turned away, his shoulders hunching as though under the weight of an invisible burden.

“I was…” His voice cracked. “I was being punished.”

Punished.

The word hung in the air like poison. Hua Cheng’s pulse quickened, his stomach turning cold with dread. He tried to keep his composure, but his voice faltered, barely containing the fury building inside him.

“Punished?” Hua Cheng repeated, his eyes narrowing. “What does that mean?”

Xie Lian didn’t answer, his gaze distant, refusing to meet Hua Cheng’s eyes. The silence between them felt unbearable, thick with unspoken horrors. Hua Cheng’s fists tightened at his sides. He wanted to scream, to tear the world apart to find whoever had hurt his beloved, but he didn’t move.

“Gege…” His voice softened, betraying the raw emotion he couldn’t suppress. “Please. Tell me what happened.”

Xie Lian remained silent, his lips pressing into a thin line, refusing to give the Ghost King the truth. The shame in his expression, the way he curled in on himself, told Hua Cheng everything. Whatever had happened to him—whatever punishment he had endured—it was something so horrible that his beloved couldn’t bear to speak it aloud.

Hua Cheng’s chest tightened with a pain so deep it felt like his very soul was being torn apart. He couldn’t let this go, not this time. He needed to know. He needed to help.

Without thinking, his hand moved on its own. Two fingers pressed gently against Xie Lian’s temples.

“San Lang—no—”

But Hua Cheng didn’t stop. He pushed, his mind reaching for Xie Lian’s memories. His beloved’s body tensed in resistance, and for a moment, Hua Cheng hesitated, feeling the surge of guilt. But he pressed forward, unable to stop himself. I need to know. I need to protect him.

Xie Lian’s resistance weakened, and Hua Cheng saw it all.

The memory rushed into him, vivid and horrifying. Chains. The cold bite of metal as they wrapped around Xie Lian’s wrists and ankles. His god’s naked body exposed, trembling, as whips lashed against his skin, breaking it open again and again. The sharp, agonizing pain of nails driven into his flesh. Fire licking at his skin. The endless torment. The sight of Xie Lian’s tongue being torn out, only to be regenerated and torn out again. A scream, raw and agonizing, reverberated in the hollow chamber of his mind—a scream that belonged to his beloved.

Hua Cheng gasped, the vision searing into him, tearing at his very soul. The torment was endless, the cruelty unfathomable. And through it all, Xie Lian had remained silent, had endured this nightmare alone.

When Hua Cheng finally let go, his hands trembling, he didn’t realize he was crying too. Silent tears streaked down his face as he stared at Xie Lian, who had slumped against the bed, his body weak and shaking, soft sobs escaping his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Xie Lian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry, San Lang…”

Hua Cheng’s heart shattered. The realization struck him with unbearable force—Xie Lian had endured all of this to protect him. He had put himself through this unimaginable suffering, sacrificing his own body and soul, just to keep Hua Cheng safe. To keep everyone safe.

Self-hatred clawed its way up from the pit of Hua Cheng’s stomach. He had failed. He had failed to protect the one person who meant everything to him. If he had known, if he had been more aware, he could have stopped this. He could have prevented Xie Lian from ever being hurt.

“Gege…” Hua Cheng whispered, his voice breaking. “I—”

But the words wouldn’t come. Nothing he could say would ever be enough. The guilt, the overwhelming hatred for himself, drowned out every thought, every rationality.

Xie Lian looked at him through tear-streaked eyes, his face pale and worn. “I didn’t want you to know,” he said, his voice trembling. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

But Hua Cheng did feel guilty. He felt every inch of guilt, every ounce of failure. The knowledge that Xie Lian had been enduring this torment for his sake tore him apart.

“I’m sorry,” Hua Cheng whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his body trembling as he knelt beside Xie Lian. “I’m so, so sorry, Gege.”

Xie Lian shook his head weakly, still trembling, still broken. “Don’t… don’t be sorry, San Lang. Please… just stay with me.”

Hua Cheng swallowed hard, the overwhelming wave of emotions surging through him like a storm. His love for Xie Lian, his guilt, his rage at the heavens, and most of all, his hatred for Jun Wu. His heart screamed for revenge, for retribution.

But as he looked into Xie Lian’s tear-filled eyes, he pushed that fury down, if only for now. I won’t let him suffer alone anymore.

He reached out, gently pulling Xie Lian into his arms. Xie Lian didn’t resist. He slumped against Hua Cheng’s chest, exhausted, sobbing softly into his shoulder. Hua Cheng held him tightly, his hand gently running through Xie Lian’s hair, trying to offer whatever comfort he could, though it felt woefully insufficient.

“We’ll end this,” Hua Cheng whispered, his voice thick with determination. “Together. I won’t let him hurt you ever again.”

He held Xie Lian tighter, vowing silently, with all the hatred and love that burned in his soul. I will protect you. Even if it costs me everything.