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Shang Qinghua hadn’t intended to get captured this time.
It’s an important distinction to make, because sometimes he does intend to get captured, if it means removing himself from a less preferable scenario. Shang Qinghua spends most of his time nowadays pinballing between two unfavorable situations, but one at least is usually slightly less terrible than the other.
Not this time. Shang Qinghua begs for his life the entire time the guards drag him across the winter-stripped desert, all the way to the Northern Palace; he’s begging up until the exact moment he’s deposited at Mobei-jun’s feet, and then he begins a fresh round of begging. He knows who Mobei-jun is, of course. He knows Mobei-jun better than anyone ever possibly could. And Shang Qinghua knows very well what Mobei-jun is capable of, having created him.
Still, all of that said — and probably the least of his current priorities — he hadn’t expected Mobei-jun to be quite so handsome in person.
The first thing Shang Qinghua notices, being at eye-level with them, is Mobei-jun’s boots. They’re black and knee-high; there are metal spikes on the soles to cut through snow and ice. Shang Qinghua peeks up the rest of his body as he grovels. Mobei-jun is lounged on the throne with his legs slightly spread, staring down at him with evident disdain. He’s wearing dark layers, cut open in a deep plunge that exposes the pale planes of his chest and a silver chain around his throat. His outer robe is accented with black animal fur. The demon mark between his brows glows blue. He’s every bit as beautiful and terrifying as Shang Qinghua had imagined him to be. It nearly distracts him from his predicament, which is this:
During his months in this world, Shang Qinghua has heard whispers of this unusual ritual of Mobei-jun’s. Each night, or so it’s said, Mobei-jun brings a prisoner before him and asks them to perform for their life. Shang Qinghua is unsure of the success rate of any of these candidates, but it doesn’t seem promising, given the dark way Mobei-jun is looking at him.
“Y-Your Majesty,” Shang Qinghua stammers once he’s finished gawking. He remains prone on the floor. “Please allow this humble servant to provide an evening’s entertainment, in whatever fashion you . . . in whatever way you want.”
“Can you perform?” Mobei-jun says without looking at him.
“N-no, Your Majesty,” Shang Qinghua says, then quickly corrects, “My king.”
“Can you dance?”
“. . . no, my king.”
Mobei-jun runs the point of his blade under a fingernail, looking bored. “Have you a voice for singing?”
Shang Qinghua experiences a horrific supercut of every drunk karaoke outing he’s attempted and wheezes. “I — no.”
The knife dangles loosely from Mobei-jun’s hand as he appraises Shang Qinghua with something resembling incredulity. “Have you any ability at all?”
Shang Qinghua remains bowed low and trembles. His own staggering lack of talent is something, well. Fairly established and well-documented, by this point.
Mobei-jun waves his hand once, boredom settling over his perfect features once more. “Dispose of him.”
Shang Qinghua does have some sense of self-preservation, thanks very much, underneath the layers and layers of general cowardice, and it bursts through in a surprising surge of heroism.
“Wait!” he cries, as Mobei-jun’s two guards move toward him. “I can — I can —” He looks up at Mobei-jun through his lashes, fluttering them in what he hopes is a coquettish expression. He isn’t above whoring himself out to save his own skin. “I can — service my king in other ways, if he so wishes? In the ways of the . . . flesh?”
Mobei-jun looks decidedly less impressed by this. “Dispose of him.”
Shang Qinghua scuttles away from the guards. In his panic, his voice explodes out of him, thundering around the hall. “Stop!”
The guards hesitate for a moment, looking a little confused. Mobei-jun’s expression has left the territory of bored and is shifting rapidly toward anger, the point of his knife dug into a divot in the arm chair.
Shang Qinghua’s voice shakes. “I can tell stories.”
The guards look to Mobei-jun. Mobei-jun looks at Shang Qinghua, radiating skepticism.
“Stories,” he says.
“Yes, really good stories,” Shang Qinghua insists, thinking the white lie probably won’t hurt anyone, at this very moment. “I can — spin a long yarn, so to speak. I was known as something of a storyteller in my old — in my hometown.”
Mobei-jun appraises him for another moment, expressionless. Shang Qinghua’s teeth nearly chatter.
Then Mobei-jun leans back in his chair. “Go on, then.”
Shang Qinghua freezes, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment. “My king?”
Mobei-jun’s eyes glitter like chips of ice. “Spin.”
◈
Shang Qinghua spins out.
He goes blank, and then blanker, stammering and foolish under the knife of Mobei-jun’s increasing impatience, and then his brain latches onto the first OC he can think of — Sha Hualing (???) — and he’s off to the races, word-vomiting a long stream of nonsense. When he’d first drafted Proud Immortal Demon Way, he’d cobbled together the scantest threads of a backstory for Sha Hualing — after all, even the most villainous of demons couldn’t be so excessively malicious without some basis. However, it had become immediately clear that his readership would, one, possess negative interest in sympathizing with her even remotely; and two, would torpedo him in reviews for it. So Shang Qinghua had focused on her pendulous breast size and her obsession with Luo Binghe instead. That had gone over much more swimmingly. Except with Peerless Cucumber, who in a downvoted comment had called Sha Hualing’s character design a “pathetic jerk-off fantasy insulting to any reader with critical thinking skills and a basic understanding of narrative.”
Anyway. Shang Qinghua scrambles for the scraps of what he can remember of that old plot bunny, the usual cliched tale of childhood abuse and betrayal and humiliating servitude. He creates a new alias and some bullshit plotline for Sha Hualing as he goes, weaving it into a romance arc with — fuck, it can’t exactly be Luo Binghe, can it? He makes it a random human man named Cao Yusheng instead. Shang Qinghua tells of how they met, “Xia Huiling” invading an enemy clan’s manor and finding Cao Yusheng, who begs her to spare his life. And for some reason. . . she listens. . .
Throughout the entire tale, Mobei-jun watches him with a wordless, glittering disdain, his gaze the piercing blue of a winter sky. He doesn’t interrupt Shang Qinghua; he doesn’t leap up from his seat and impale him with a fire poker, like Shang Qinghua is half-expecting him to do at various points. Instead, Mobei-jun lets him talk until Shang Qinghua reaches what he considers to be a decent cliffhanger, at which point he stops.
Shang Qinghua realizes, after a frosty silence settles over the room, that he’s already blacked out the last several minutes from adrenaline. Had he been . . . entirely incoherent? Had he staked his life on the single skill that he thought he possessed, and then run it through with a skewer?!
Mobei-jun continues to observe him for a long time, his face as hard as stone. Shang Qinghua can feel his knees shaking, threatening to knock together.
I’m going to die, he realizes in a dreadful burst of clarity. Again.
It’s surely some kind of karmic punishment to die at the hand of a man he’d conjured from the deepest psychosexual recesses of his own id.
Mobei-jun raises one hand, and the two guards move forward again without a word to collect Shang Qinghua. Shang Qinghua yelps and tries to flee, but they pick him up by either arm so his legs pinwheel uselessly in the air. They bring him forward so that he’s in front of Mobei-jun, put to his knees as though awaiting execution.
“I can try singing!!” he starts to babble to Mobei-jun’s feet — far beyond dignity, if he’d ever possessed any to begin with. “I have many other skills of great use, you know! I’m very good at birdwatching!! I can fold laundry and do chores! Or perhaps you’d like a — a — a bed-warmer, my most venerable lord? It must get very cold here in the evenings —”
Mobei-jun makes a sound of impatience and says, “Shut up.”
Shang Qinghua shuts up.
Mobei-jun stares down at him from the throne. Scared witless, Shang Qinghua stares back.
“Tomorrow,” is all Mobei-jun says.
“M-m-my king?” Shang Qinghua says.
“You will return tomorrow,” Mobei-jun says with another wave of his hand, “and continue where you left off.”
◈
Shang Qinghua is not led to a frigid prison cell or the gallows, but a slightly-less-frigid servants quarter. The entire room is probably the size of the bathroom in his former apartment, when he’d been alive. At least there’s a tiny, cramped wooden bedframe and a straw pallet, and a chamber pot to relieve himself.
“Ah,” Shang Qinghua says, turning to appeal to the guard. “What should I —”
But the guard has already turned to go, sliding the door shut behind him with a resolute click of the lock. Perhaps a prison cell, after all.
For several minutes, Shang Qinghua paces in a tiny, agitated circle, gnashing his teeth and tearing at his hair and weeping in his heart. Had Mobei-jun actually bought that load of bullshit? Or had he seen right through Shang Qinghua, and now he has something far nastier planned for him?
Shang Qinghua considers his options. For all of his insufferable qualities, it’s possible that Cucumber-bro might know what to do. After all, hasn’t that loser made a sport out of surviving here on obscure lore knowledge until now?
Shang Qinghua fumbles around in his robes, cursing and patting down the layers until he finds the talisman he’s looking for. The guards had stripped him of his weapons when they’d taken him into custody, but they hadn’t stripped him, period. The communication talisman is something of a deus ex machina that he’d written in, but — whatever. He’d created this world, after all. He’s entitled to some narrative convenience.
Shang Qinghua stares down at the blank talisman, then whimpers and curses when he realizes what’s required of him. He sinks his teeth into the pad of his finger with a wince, biting down until the skin breaks. With the blood, he carefully traces out the characters for Shen Qingqiu on the paper.
A wavering circle of light appears before Shang Qinghua, beaming up from the talisman like a projector. Distorted through the portal projection, there’s the distinct sound of a crash, then cursing, a befuddled what the hell?, and then Shen Qingqiu’s sharp, elegant features swim into view, wearing an expression of deep disapproval. The look only deepens when he sees who’s on the other end.
“Oh, it’s you,” Cucumber-bro says.
“Help me!!” Shang Qinghua wails.
Cucumber-bro sighs, the face of Shen Qingqiu rippling through the distorted connection. “Now what?”
Nearly tearful, Shang Qinghua explains his situation while Cucumber-bro listens with a pensive expression.
“Mobei-jun,” Cucumber-bro says to himself once Shang Qinghua finishes. “I haven’t encountered him here, not yet. And I don’t know much about him otherwise. You didn’t exactly give him the protagonist treatment.”
“I made him hot, didn’t I?” Shang Qinghua says defensively.
“Hmmm,” Cucumber-bro says. “Well, it sounds like you’re going to have to keep going until he gets bored and either kills you or lets you go. Surely you’ve got a thousand trash storylines knocking around up there somewhere?”
“I don’t have to explain my creative process to the likes of you,” Shang Qinghua says haughtily, “but yes, there are a few.”
“I’m not sure why you called me, then. Is it just that you’re worried about retconning your own lore?” Cucumber-bro says.
“I’m worried about dying.”
Cucumber-bro peers at him through the watery connection, appearing thoughtful. “Have you tried prostituting yourself?”
“Of course I did!” Shang Qinghua snaps.
“Hm,” Cucumber-bro says again, like that had exhausted the last of his ideas.
A familiar voice cuts into the call in from behind Cucumber-bro, the timbre of it nearly a whine. “Shizun, who are you talking to?”
Luo Binghe. He sounds petulant and sulky, no doubt jealous at hearing Shen Qingqiu speak to another man. Hearing his tone of voice, Shang Qinghua experiences a cold shiver in his heart.
“Just your shishu,” Cucumber-bro replies, in a fond tone that’s equally hair-raising. “He’s facing execution again. Go on without me, Binghe. I’ll make ramen for us later.”
Shang Qinghua hears Luo Binghe sigh and mutter something displeased before his voice disappears.
“Whipped much?” Shang Qinghua can’t resist saying.
“Good luck on the not-dying,” Cucumber-bro says coolly, then disconnects the call.
◈
There isn’t much else left for Shang Qinghua to do, after that, but stare at the ceiling and cycle through dreadful thoughts until the late hours of the night.
He hardly sleeps, his mind churning over potential story ideas that would entice Mobei-jun and discarding them just as quickly. When he was still alive, he could barely come up with good enough ideas to save his own career, let alone his life! Shang Qinghua spends the next day practically clawing up the walls of his room and wondering how long it will take for him to entirely lose his mind. The guard drops off a meal at breakfast and then dinner, but Shang Qinghua’s pleas for freedom go ignored.
When the sun sinks low enough that it peeks through the small, arrowed window-slat near the ceiling, a guard comes to fetch him, wordlessly taking him by the arm and pulling him out of the room even as Shang Qinghua gives a small yelp and resists.
The guard appraises him for a moment, then makes a scoffing sound and says under his breath, “Huh.”
“What?” Shang Qinghua says.
“It’s nothing,” the guard says as he frog-marches him toward the throne room. “It’s just that . . . out of everyone that’s been brought in front of our king, you’re the only one to have survived the night. I don’t get it.”
“Surely not?” Shang Qinghua says, his voice shrilling at the notion of so many dead. “Aren’t there at least consorts, who —”
“Our king will host their company for an evening, but it’s always the same,” the guard says. He seems pleased to have Shang Qinghua’s attention. “They’re all executed by the next day. Sometimes banished, if our lord feels merciful. Usually they’ll sing, or dance, or recite poetry, and certainly many perform sexual favors. But it always ends the same.”
Shang Qinghua processes this information with increasing disbelief. He tries to remember all he’d said yesterday. “Surely the story I told wasn’t anything. . . exemplary?”
“It wasn’t,” the guard agrees, a little too readily for Shang Qinghua’s ego. “Like I said: I don’t get it.”
◈
The next two days are much the same — babbling in the center of the throne room, wringing his hands into knots while Mobei-jun stares him down coldly and says nothing at all. Except at the end, when he says, “You’re dismissed,” and both times, Shang Qinghua thinks it’s the second end of his short and pitiful life, but both times, he’s escorted back to his quarters with his intestines intact.
The fourth day marks a startling change. The guard, who Shang Qinghua has learned goes by the name Wen Ping, escorts him not to the throne room, in the late golden hours of the afternoon, but Mobei-jun’s personal chambers, once dusk has already fallen.
Mobei-jun receives him as though he’s still on the throne — lounging imperiously in the wooden chair at his table with a coiled, feline grace. With one long hand, he stirs dark wine in a goblet. Possibly . . . blood?
“Begin,” Mobei-jun says, and Shang Qinghua does. He has little enough to lose now that he allows himself to be swept up in his own story, speaking without forethought or filter to the singular audience of Mobei-jun’s iceberg gaze.
His voice hoarse with use, Shang Qinghua gets lost in the telling as he paints the scene he has in mind: By this point, he’s reached Cao Yusheng’s inevitable betrayal of Xia Huiling, in which Cao Yusheng chains his spurned demon lover to a cliff-face in the throat of the Eternal Abyss. Xia Huiling screams and spits and bares her teeth at him as he imprisons her, but Cao Yusheng, so different from the human she thought she knew, receives her vitriol with indifference.
The human world is no place for one of your kind, he tells Xia Huiling as he chains her to the fiery rock, nor my heart for your wickedness, which is quite a line, if Shang Qinghua does say so hims —
Mobei-jun’s interruption is so startling that for a moment, Shang Qinghua thinks he’s imagined it.
A displeased crease has dented Mobei-jun’s perfect marble brow. “Did the human not care for Xia Huiling, after all of his fanciful words? Was his affection for her not in part genuine?”
Shang Qinghua puffs out an incredulous laugh. Despite the circumstances, he finds himself irritated to be interrupted when he was in the middle of such a climactic telling. Things were just getting good.
“Of course not,” Shang Qinghua says. “Cao Yusheng only manipulated Xia Huiling to save his own skin at Boli Hu Manor. Xia Huiling is a demon, after all; Cao Yusheng couldn’t possibly feel anything for her, nor her for —”
Mobei-jun’s expression darkens so suddenly that the rest of Shang Qinghua’s sentence shrivels up in his throat. Shadows bubble in the corners of the room, licking up the walls. The temperature drops so fast that the hair prickles on the back of Shang Qinghua’s neck. Ice crystals spiderweb across the glass panes of the windows.
“Get out,” Mobei-jun snarls, and the ground seems to shake. “I’ll hear no more today.”
Terror-stricken, Shang Qinghua flings himself to his knees and bows his entire body against the icy stone floor. “M-my king, if my story has displeased you, I can alter the —”
“No, you spoke your words true,” Mobei-jun says, sounding rather glum now. The fury seems to have blown over as abruptly as it arrived. “Leave my sight.”
Shang Qinghua remains rigid and bent low, quaking. “You’re . . . not going to dispose of this humble servant, my king?”
“I’m more inclined to by the second,” Mobei-jun says through his teeth. Shang Qinghua scrambles to his feet and beats a hasty retreat — right into the grip of the guard outside the door.
“Guess you’ll live to see another dawn, after all,” Wen Ping says with a baffled shake of his head, and he leads Shang Qinghua back to his prison cell.
◈
Another week lapses like this, and then a few more.
Shang Qinghua is careful in his step now, minding himself not to touch the same subject as before that had sparked such a visceral reaction in Mobei-jun. Xia Huiling and Cao Yusheng’s tragic love story must, of course, come to an inevitable conclusion, so Shang Qinghua quickly branches off into another plotline — one he’d initially drafted for Liu Qingge and then, for lack of bandwidth, had let sit within his monitor gathering dust. During that second week, as Shang Qinghua spins more and more stories for Mobei-jun’s unimpressed reception, he finds that he might — be . . . enjoying himself? He at least starts to use his hands when he speaks to illustrate certain plot points, rather than leaving fingernail-prints in his palms. He stops shaking each time he enters Mobei-jun’s room, as though his body has forgotten that imminent death is still very much in the cards. He stops vomiting with anxiety into his chamber pot each night before bed.
The time-slot for Shang Qinghua’s storytellings gradually shifts later and later each day, from dusk into deep evening. Deep evening, when Mobei-jun has already removed all of his layers and vambraces and weapons for the day, leaving just two inner layers and the silver chain necklace behind. He seems to at least have settled on the fact that Shang Qinghua isn’t a physical threat to him, which is a correct assessment. The missing layers leave the deep vee of Mobei-jun’s neck exposed; pale smooth skin down his throat and collarbones, a peek of sculpted pectorals.
Shang Qinghua, contrary to reason, experiences a pang of envy whenever he sees Mobei-jun half-dressed like this. Oh, to have the perfect male body. Oh, to be marginally attractive. Of course it’s all fictional, but it looks real enough. Mobei-jun is real enough. He breathes and glares and speaks and his heart beats and the vein ticks under his jaw and his temple when he’s angry, and he looks at Shang Qinghua sometimes like he’s a particularly grotesque specimen of insect, or on rare occasions like he’s something to eat. Shang Qinghua weaves stories at his bedside until he’s nearly too tired to keep his eyes open, until Wen Ping has to bodily drag him out and back to his cold, cold quarters.
Then, on the seventeenth night, Mobei-jun tells him to sit on the bed.
“My king asks. . .” Shang Qinghua stares. “— what, of me?”
Mobei-jun glowers, an icy aura charging up around him. “Would you dare defy — ?”
“Nooo, no, nonono!” Shang Qinghua practically flings himself into bed next to Mobei-jun. “I was simply — clarifying the matter, ahah.”
Mobei-jun scowls at him without speaking for another moment, then says, “Not so close.”
Shang Qinghua scoots to the edge of the very large bed, so much so that he’s nearly hanging off.
“Begin,” Mobei-jun says, and Shang Qinghua does in a rush, resuming where he’d left off the previous night. This time, he has the odd satisfaction of watching Mobei-jun’s long, dark lashes droop throughout his story, as though he’s fighting to stay awake. To think Shang Qinghua is sitting here in an emperor-size bed, telling a demon king a bedtime story. It feels so ludicrous. Still, Shang Qinghua finds himself drawn in closer, lured by Mobei-jun’s unguardedness. Some of his icy exterior has cracked in his exhaustion; Mobei-jun almost looks human like this, albeit an ethereally handsome one. Shang Qinghua wriggles in closer, still narrating the story at a fast clip, until he can feel the chill of Mobei-jun’s body temperature seeping through the sheets. At last, after another several minutes of Shang Qinghua’s narration, Mobei-jun’s eyes fall shut, the black sweep of his lashes against his sharp cheekbones. Shang Qinghua breathes a silent sigh of relief, then he makes to move away, crawling toward the edge of the bed.
Instantly, Mobei-jun’s hand shoots out and ensnares his wrist in a bone-creaking grip, so tight that Shang Qinghua squeaks in surprise. He turns in terror, expecting to find the cold, furious weight of Mobei-jun’s gaze on him, but Mobei-jun’s eyes are still closed as though asleep. His grip on Shang Qinghua’s wrist is vice-tight.
Shang Qinghua holds his breath for several minutes, until he’s nearly lightheaded. Then, ever so gently, he attempts to tug his wrist away. Mobei-jun holds on, his eyes still shut. Shang Qinghua internally wails. What kind of bullshit is this? Now he has to stick next to Mobei-jun’s side like a limpet all night, practically shackled at the wrist?!
It takes Shang Qinghua a very long time to fall asleep. He stares, wide-eyed, at the silvery shadows on the ceiling, curved into spiky shapes from the bare trees outside. Mobei-jun’s grip is so tight it’s almost uncomfortable; not to mention his skin is freezing. Once or twice, Shang Qinghua tugs his wrist, certain that Mobei-jun’s hand will loosen in his sleep, but he still holds on with a fierce grip, leaving Shang Qinghua to weep quietly in frustration.
Eventually, in the deep hours of the night, Shang Qinghua manages to nod off. When he comes to, the first thing that greets him is Mobei-jun’s cold, cold eyes, bluer in the morning sun. He still has a hand around Shang Qinghua’s wrist like a manacle.
“Ahhh!!” Shang Qinghua says succinctly, then attempts to scramble away. At last, Mobei-jun lets him go, regarding him with something like curiosity. “M-m-my king, I was only — I simply — ”
“You fell asleep,” Mobei-jun says.
I did not! Shang Qinghua wants to complain. He had not fallen asleep; he’d been imprisoned here against his will, just like every other evening in this dismal place. But he doesn’t think it would be wise to contradict Mobei-jun when he seems to be in fairly high spirits. Which, for Mobei-jun, basically means not thundering around throwing things.
“I must have, my king,” Shang Qinghua lies. “Fallen asleep, that is. This humble servant is terribly sorry.”
“Hm,” Mobei-jun says. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”
But the strangest thing happens as he says it: He reaches out and touches the top of Shang Qinghua’s head. Just like that, a little pat, like Shang Qinghua is some — some — faithful terrier. Shang Qinghua freezes up at the touch, a little dumbstruck. He opens his mouth to say something, but Mobei-jun is already moving out of bed, making to get dressed for the day with a bath called in, and, well — Shang Qinghua makes himself scarce, for that part.
◈
After about a month more of this, something changes. Shang Qinghua can’t quite say what. But Mobei-jun stops glaring at him all the time.
Oh, there’s still some of that. But now, when Shang Qinghua reaches the more outlandish parts of a story, purposefully ridiculous, he catches the barest shadow of a smile curling Mobei-jun’s mouth. His eyes aren’t as glacial as before, as though he’s thawing by degrees. Shang Qinghua is allowed to leave his quarters at least a couple of times a day now, to stretch his legs and stroll in the thin winter sunlight around the palace’s western pavilions. He receives three meals a day rather than two; sometimes, Wen Ping sneaks in some chili oil for him to alleviate the blandness of the meals. It’s not much, as far as freedoms go, but it’s better than before.
After that month and a half, right in the middle of one of Shang Qinghua’s stories, Mobei-jun interrupts him. “Do your quarters suit you?”
Shang Qinghua stops talking, taken off-guard by the question.
“I am grateful to have a place here in your palace, my king,” he says, very carefully.
Mobei-jun waves an irritable hand, as though impatient. “I asked if they suited you.”
“We-elll,” Shang Qinghua hedges, “my most venerable lord. My king, who I will follow until I die, long may you reign. Um. They are quite — cramped. And very cold. And also, I’m not allowed to leave, except — except for twice a day. And bathing is somewhat difficult. And the food is . . . ” He trails off, cowing under Mobei-jun’s stare. “I mean, the food is wonderful! I do love — I love . . . plain congee.”
Mobei-jun’s thumb twists at the silver ring on his forefinger. “You are unhappy here.”
“No, my king!” Shang Qinghua hurries to say. “No no no, I’m very content! So long as I can serve you and keep telling stories.”
Mobei-jun surveys him for a long, silent moment. A slow bead of sweat crawls between Shang Qinghua’s shoulder blades.
“Very well,” Mobei-jun says, then gestures for him to continue.
Later that night, Shang Qinghua is unceremoniously uprooted from his tiny servant’s quarters. He almost wants to complain about the treatment — his room had just started to adopt a lived-in feel, accented by some spindly brown vegetation Shang Qinghua had collected from the courtyards and propped up in a cup on the single window-pane. Wen Ping redirects Shang Qinghua and his dead plant to a much larger room, nearer to the center of the palace and to Mobei-jun’s room. While Mobei-jun’s fortress lacks severely in daylighting features, there are far more windows in his new quarters, and a full bed, and even a writing desk with — Shang Qinghua could weep — scrolls upon scrolls of blank parchment, as well as a smattering of ink sticks of high caliber. That evening, for the first time since he was dragged into Mobei-jun’s throne room, Shang Qinghua eats a whole meal, and its fullness sits nearly uncomfortably in his belly when he falls asleep.
With the upgraded room comes new permissions: Shang Qinghua is allowed to wander throughout the palace during the day. Within limits, of course. Wen Ping warns Shang Qinghua if one hair on his head attempts to make a bid for freedom, Mobei-jun has ordered both of his legs removed. Shang Qinghua is quite fond of his legs. Although they’re more gawkish in this body than he’d prefer.
That would be enough disincentive on its own, but Shang Qinghua finds that he doesn’t need it regardless. Where else would he go? Certainly, he’s still a prisoner here, but he has a roof over his head, his own bed, free meals. Perhaps most appealingly, the only thing he needs to occupy his pretty head with nowadays is writing. At last, something he’s actually capable of doing in this wretched, brainchild world of his. Ever since he first arrived here, Shang Qinghua has been pelted with arrows and trampled underfoot by horses and oxcarts; he’s been punched, poisoned, tortured, verbally and physically and emotionally abused; he’s scurried every which way to save his own neck, fleeing from humans and demons alike that want to kill him. He’s begun to quite enjoy this new lifestyle of his, even if there’s still the constant threat of execution hanging over his head.
Across the months, Mobei-jun sometimes spends a few weeks away at a time, out leading battles or on missions in the human realm. Shang Qinghua takes this time to explore the palace, which is endlessly massive, and to work on writing, thinking up stories that he’s found, by trial and error, are best suited to Mobei-jun’s tastes. Perhaps it’s masochistic or a little strange, but Shang Qinghua finds everything quite dull when Mobei-jun is gone. It’s possible he’s grown attached to that scowling, handsome face and the intimacy of their odd bedtime rituals. Well, he’s always been helplessly fond of Mobei-jun, even before this whole ordeal. Shang Qinghua is only a mortal man, after all, and Mobei-jun is quite the specimen.
This time, when Mobei-jun returns from his travels, Shang Qinghua is summoned to his chambers right away. When he enters, he finds Mobei-jun already stripped of his top layers, just the inner trousers left. He’s leaning himself against his table with one hand, as though supporting his own weight. His hand rests over the center of his chest, and sweat clings to his hairline, dewing his usually pristine face.
It’s not what Shang Qinghua expected to find. “My king? Are you well?”
As if to answer the question, Mobei-jun stumbles with a mighty crash and drops to one knee. Shang Qinghua sounds his alarm and hurries forward, dropping beside him and placing a hand on his bare, muscled shoulder. His skin is cool to the touch, but still warm for Mobei-jun, nowhere near his usual icy temperature. Closer inspection reveals a long, red wound in the center of Mobei-jun’s chest, glistening with some kind of medicinal oil.
“You’re hurt,” Shang Qinghua exclaims. Genuine worry trills through him. “I’ll call for a doctor, or Wen Ping can — ”
“No need,” Mobei-jun says with a labored grunt. “It’s already been seen to.”
Shang Qinghua opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Mobei-jun is half-crouched on the floor soaking through his remaining clothes, his face distorted with discomfort and his perfectly-sculpted chest gouged open — this is clearly not seen to!
“My king, are you sure. . . “ Shang Qinghua begins uncertainly.
“Enough!” Mobei-jun flares at him, and the temperature plummets. Shang Qinghua flinches away from him, dropping his hand. Mobei-jun glances at him, looking frustrated, and then he sighs. His voice is quieter and more worn when he speaks again. “I simply need rest.”
“Of course, my king,” Shang Qinghua says, then helps him into bed despite Mobei-jun’s dissatisfied grunting at being handled.
Once Mobei-jun is laid out on the bed, Shang Qinghua stares down at him with his foot tapping and his lip between his teeth. He’s not sure their usual ritual is called for tonight, given Mobei-jun’s current state, but Shang Qinghua is reluctant to leave him alone like this, either.
Mobei-jun fixes him with an imperious, irritable look. “What are you waiting for? Has my time away made you idle?”
“No, no!” Shang Qinghua rushes to say, meaning it. “I’ve been working on all kinds of things while you were gone. Thank you for the, ah — the new accommodations. They’ve been. . . most helpful, for getting stories written. I am not worthy of my king’s graciousness.”
Mobei-jun grunts again in assent, his hand folded over his wound.
“Don’t touch it,” Shang Qinghua murmurs, then skitters a nervous laugh when Mobei-jun glares at him in disbelief. “Ahahaha, don’t listen to anything I say, I just run my mouth with nonsense. Aiyoh, don’t listen to me.”
“I will,” Mobei-jun says, staring at him with an odd intensity. “Listen.”
“Ah,” Shang Qinghua says. He rocks back onto his heels. He swallows. He eyes the vacant side of the bed, awaiting his orders, and Mobei-jun sighs and waves a hand toward it. Shang Qinghua does as he’s bidden, bundling into the bed to sit cross-legged next to Mobei-jun.
“Do you remember where we left off, my king?” Shang Qinghua says. “Before you left?”
“Mm,” Mobei-jun says with a nod. His eyes are closed, the lids blue-veined. His skin is even paler than usual, bordering on sallow. The line of his throat is so sharp; Shang Qinghua can’t help but stare.
“The Blind Corpse attack at Fenghuang Peak,” Mobei-jun is saying.
“Yes,” Shang Qinghua answers, surprised at the precision of Mobei-jun’s memory. It had been weeks ago when they’d stopped, after all, and Mobei-jun has been occupied with far more pressing matters in the meantime. “Shall I continue?”
Mobei-jun nods again, his eyes still closed. Quietly, Shang Qinghua begins, and Mobei-jun seems to relax further and further the more he speaks, his hand slipping away from the wound on his chest. Shang Qinghua can’t help but fixate on it as he talks. It’s very puffy and very red, still wet with blood. It looks painful, possibly infected. Mobei-jun is hard to kill by design, but he can still die. He can still be hurt, and maimed. The wound is clearly much worse than he’s letting on. Mobei-jun can be such a stubborn, proud fool.
Almost without thinking, Shang Qinghua reaches out to hover his palm over the wound, and as he continues to narrate in soft tones, he begins to transfer spiritual energy. Shang Qinghua is a low-rank cultivator at best, but he at least has some qi to spare. It’s not like he has any use for it himself, nowadays. The process noticeably drains Shang Qinghua’s own energy level as he does, his eyes beginning to droop, but he’d worked for weeks on developing this storyline for Mobei-jun, and he’s determined to see it delivered — even if Mobei-jun is very possibly asleep.
Toward the end of the chapter, Shang Qinghua idly transfers his attention from the wound to Mobei-jun’s face. A shock travels through him to find Mobei-jun staring back at him, half-lidded but very much awake. The thread of Shang Qinghua’s spiritual energy nearly stutters, his hand wavering under the intensity of that gaze. He almost cowers back, expecting to be reproached, if Mobei-jun has just woken up and found him like this. But Mobei-jun only continues to stare at him. He doesn’t snap at him to stop, or sling verbal abuses at him. He doesn’t clock Shang Qinghua around the head or shove him off the bed. Contrary to the ice in it, Mobei-jun’s gaze burns with a low heat.
After a momentary stumble in his narrative, Shang Qinghua tentatively continues, feeding over his words and his qi until there are none left of either. It leaves him so depleted that he finds himself weighed down, sinking into the comfort of Mobei-jun’s generous bed, and almost immediately, he’s asleep.
◈
After he recovers from his injury, Mobei-jun seems to relax around Shang Qinghua, now that it’s evident Shang Qinghua isn’t trying to run for the hills at every possible moment. The shift in mood puts Shang Qinghua in grave danger of . . . well, he isn’t sure what. Deepened attachment.
Shang Qinghua’s quarters are much nicer and more comfortable than before, but he finds that there’s little use for the bed — most nights, he stays over with Mobei-jun, an unspoken arrangement. He had tried to leave before bed a few times, certain that Mobei-jun wanted time away from him, but these attempts had been received. . . poorly. Mobei-jun had thrown something at his head, the first evening Shang Qinghua had tried to leave for his own chambers. It had missed, obviously. But it makes Mobei-jun’s, ah, preferences clear.
It also makes another thing very clear. That is to say, Mobei-jun’s lack of . . . recreational company. With Shang Qinghua sharing his bed nearly every night, it pretty much bars Mobei-jun’s other options in bedfellows — and he and Shang Qinghua are certainly doing nothing of that nature together. If Shang Qinghua is the sole factor responsible for the death of Mobei-jun’s sex life, well — it’s only a matter of time before Mobei-jun takes out his pent-up frustration and resentment on Shang Qinghua, isn’t it?
“When was the last time,” Shang Qinghua asks Wen Ping soon after this revelation, as they share a midday meal together in the pavilion, “that our king had a . . . ahem. That he, er . . .”
“Took a lover?” Wen Ping says, chewing loudly.
Shang Qinghua’s face burns. “Yes. That.”
Wen Ping narrows his eyes thoughtfully as he chews. He swallows, then says, “Mm. . . . now that I think about it, I haven’t seen the king escort anyone since you arrived at the palace. Unless he’s sought company out on his missions, but I’m usually with him for those, and there’s been nothing I’ve seen.”
Shang Qinghua blinks in disbelief. “You mean to say — it’s been months since . . .”
“Guess so,” Wen Ping says with a shrug. “Doesn’t really concern us though, does it? What our king does is his own business.” He darts a shifty look around the pavilion. “We probably shouldn’t be talking about it.”
Doesn’t really concern Shang Qinghua, sure, until the moment Mobei-jun decides he’s sick of his vapid little stories and has Shang Qinghua murdered. As it is, Shang Qinghua is the only thing standing between Mobei-jun and an endless rotating selection of beautiful paramours. And with Mobei-jun’s. . . with his . . fine, his virility, that’s no small thing! What man in his right mind who looks the way Mobei-jun does would prioritize nightly bedtime stories over a harem of courtesans?!
Shang Qinghua is dead meat. Probably soon. Once Mobei-jun has no further use for him, there’ll be no reason to keep Shang Qinghua alive. Maybe it would be worth an escape attempt, after all, although it must be said how much he truly values his legs.
A few more nights pass as usual before Shang Qinghua musters up the courage to say something about it. He delivers his nightly story, a continued tale of sibling drama not-so-subtly inspired by Shen Jiu and Yue Qingyuan. Mobei-jun sips wine until his mouth turns dark and watches Shang Qinghua with a slightly distracted expression, his head leaned slightly on his hand and his eyes hazy. It’s only once Mobei-jun seems sated with drink and pleased by the evening’s update that Shang Qinghua braces himself to speak.
“I seek permission to ask a question, my king,” he says meekly.
Mobei-jun raises an eyebrow at the request but answers, “Go on.”
“Your Majesty,” Shang Qinghua says. He fiddles nervously with one of his sleeves. “I hope you know that I — I don’t need to tell stories strictly at night time. If you’d prefer to have your bed free for the evenings . . . I hope I’m not — I shouldn’t impose.”
Mobei-jun straightens in his seat. He begins to look very dangerous. “Are you suggesting you’d like to leave my service?”
“No!” Shang Qinghua says. “I don’t want to leave! I really don’t! Telling stories to you, it’s — it’s my favorite thing I’ve done since I came here.” He finds that he really means it. Writing stories for Mobei-jun, as bizarre as it might seem, is the most like himself that Shang Qinghua has felt since he first woke up in this insane storyworld of his.
At Shang Qinghua’s words, Mobei-jun relaxes again. It’s possible the word is — softens.
Shang Qinghua messes with the sleeve more, twisting a loose thread around and around his fingertip. “It’s just that — I can’t help but notice that — with my company here each night, it precludes you from — from — from . . .”
“From,” Mobei-jun prompts, clipped.
“From — taking other lovers,” Shang Qinghua rushes out in one breath. He doesn’t dare look up for Mobei-jun’s reaction, keeping his gaze trained on the floor. He remembers himself and adds, “My king.”
From Mobei-jun, he receives only silence. There’s the crackle of the fire in the grate, the low moan of the wind against the windows. Shang Qinghua peeks up from under his brows. Mobei-jun is staring at him with his jaw slightly cocked. He looks . . . annoyed. Well, he usually does. But more annoyed than usual.
“Why does such a thing concern you?” he says eventually.
“I wouldn’t want my king to —” Shang Qinghua shuffles from foot to foot and winces. “Harbor resentments toward me.”
“Resentments,” Mobei-jun echoes.
“Yes,” Shang Qinghua says.
There’s another beat of silence. Then Mobei-jun gets to his feet with the scrape of his chair legs on the stone. The sound is so sudden that Shang Qinghua flinches.
When Mobei-jun speaks again, his voice is deadly calm. “Come here.”
Oh, he’s fucking dead. Shang Qinghua is so dead. He falters back a step, bringing his hands up in front of him. “I’m really — content where I am, my king, very comfortable standing spot —”
“Shang Qinghua,” Mobei-jun says through his teeth, and it causes Shang Qinghua to freeze in surprise.
“You —” he says blankly. “. . . know my name?”
Mobei-jun looks like he might want to roll his eyes, if he were not a demon king above such things.
“Of course I do,” Mobei-jun says in withering tones. “Come here.”
Shang Qinghua goes, still a little shocked. When he does, Mobei-jun takes his wrist in a tight grip; like he had that one evening on the bed, when he hadn’t let go the entire night. Shang Qinghua makes a scared little sound and tries to retreat, but Mobei-jun doesn’t snap his bones or start whaling on him. He simply holds on and stares down at Shang Qinghua.
“And what of your resentments?” Mobei-jun says.
Shang Qinghua stops struggling, taken aback by the question. “My resentments?”
Mobei-jun appraises him closely. “Mm.”
“What resentments would — I have, my king?”
“I’ve kept you here, against your will. Extracted your services,” Mobei-jun says. Then adds, solemnly, “Precluded you from taking other lovers.”
Oh, Shang Qinghua thinks, quite put out; that’s possibly meant as a joke. A joke at his expense, from Mobei-jun himself. Is Mobei-jun capable of such a thing? Had Shang Qinghua written him that way?! Or has Mobei-jun become his own man entirely?
Shang Qinghua gives a nervous laugh, circling his wrist in Mobei-jun’s hold. “No lovers to worry about here. Trust me.”
“And what else would you like to say?” Mobei-jun asks. Their faces are very close now. Shang Qinghua can feel how fast his heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, a pounding of adrenaline.
“What else, what?” Shang Qinghua says faintly.
Mobei-jun leans in, close enough that their cheeks nearly brush.
“I would like to know,” he says, his cool breath ghosting by Shang Qinghua’s ear, “how you find your king.”
All of the hair on the back of Shang Qinghua’s neck stands to attention. His knees feel a little weak. Mobei-jun is so close now, and tall and muscled and the most handsome man Shang Qinghua can even conceive of. He smells like woodsmoke and the cold open sky, like the first slither of a winter wind on an autumn night.
“No complaints here,” Shang Qinghua breathes out, when he finds what remains of his voice. “I find my king very . . . ” His voice falters. “Powerful.”
What the fuck? He’d meant to say something like kind or gracious or accommodating, but unforeseen horniness had jumped online and taken control of the keyboard instead.
Mobei-jun’s mouth lifts at the corners, a sharp tick. Like the response has pleased him.
“Do you now,” he says.
Shang Qinghua finds himself speechless. He gives two little nods, nearly sways; their chests brush.
“Hm. And I find you very . . . ” Mobei-jun considers him with his eyes narrowed, his lips still curved at the corners. “Clever. Silver-tongued.”
Something in Shang Qinghua’s insides goes funny and melts like wax.
“Oh,” he says. No one has ever found him clever.
A long beat of silence falls between them. Mobei-jun hasn’t moved away, a hot line of muscle against Shang Qinghua’s front. Heat thumps in Shang Qinghua’s cheeks. Mobei-jun’s room, always a degree beyond freezing, is too hot now with the warmth baking off of the fire. Shang Qinghua experiences a sudden image of Mobei-jun pushing him down onto a bed of soft animal pelts and pulling at his robes, and he feels his blush deepen.
“If I let you go,” Mobei-jun says. His features are sharp and gold by the firelight from the hearth, his eyes dark as water fathoms deep. “If I were to free you from my service, this very moment. Would you go?”
The question feels like a trap. If Shang Qinghua answers yes, will he be killed on the spot? It’s a moot point, anyway, Shang Qinghua realizes, staring up at Mobei-jun. Even hypothetically, he wouldn’t say yes. He doesn’t want to leave.
“I would stay,” Shang Qinghua whispers. His mouth is very dry. “I would stay and serve my king all my life.”
A genuine emotion flashes across Mobei-jun’s face, but Shang Qinghua can’t read what it is — doesn’t have the chance to, because Mobei-jun grips a hand to his jaw, so tight that an airless punch of sound escapes Shang Qinghua’s throat, and kisses him.
Mobei-jun’s mouth is cold as snow and tastes like wine. His teeth are sharp, almost canine, against Shang Qinghua’s lips. Shang Qinghua has never been kissed before; not here, not in his previous life, when he’d wasted his short lifespan holed up and overcaffeinated and insomniac in his university dormitory, churning out hundreds of thousands of words to pay bills and tuition. He hadn’t known what he was missing. What it would be like. Had he ever even lived, when he’d been alive? Mobei-jun’s sharp tongue slips between his teeth and Shang Qinghua thinks, Oh, and nothing else. The usual frantic chatter in his brain has quieted down into white noise, a blank nothingness. Mobei-jun’s hand is on the small of his back, pushing him up onto his tiptoes so their hips connect. Shang Qinghua manages to think, a little distantly, that he must be an abysmal kisser, but Mobei-jun doesn’t seem to mind it.
Mobei-jun finally detaches from him, and Shang Qinghua sways forward, a little dizzy. He catches himself on Mobei-jun’s chest to regain his balance. He feels like he doesn’t know where he is. Shang Qinghua looks up at Mobei-jun and finds Mobei-jun already staring back at him, his gaze startlingly soft. The demon mark is illuminated, casting a faint blue glow over his features.
“Will you stay?” Mobei-jun says, and it is not a command. He means — for the night. He means — for the rest of Shang Qinghua’s life.
“Yes,” Shang Qinghua answers, meaning both or either.
◈
After a thousand nights like that one, Mobei-jun asks Shang Qinghua to create a new story, a final chapter.
The request comes when they’re lying in bed together one morning, Shang Qinghua’s head planted on Mobei-jun’s chest. It had taken around 500 days for Mobei-jun to allow this kind of affection, and he’d done so with grumbling and grousing and a strange gentleness in his features, despite the glaring.
“Mmm, what would you like me to write?” Shang Qinghua asks with a yawn. At this point, he’s wrung out pretty much every possible piece of material in the Proud Immortal Demon Way verse. He’d had to start improvising a while ago, creating entirely new worlds and characters.
Mobei-jun hesitates, then says, “A demon king, once a mortal man, who falls for a human servant.”
Shang Qinghua cracks open one eye, his interest piqued.
“I see.” Shang Qinghua’s heart beats a little quicker in his chest. “And what should the name of this demon king be?”
Softly, after a moment of hesitation, Mobei-jun tells him a name. It’s one that Shang Qinghua has never heard before. He had never given Mobei-jun a true name in his mind, or even imagined one. The syllables sit warmly between his teeth like an ember.
Shang Qinghua repeats the name back to Mobei-jun, just as quietly, and Mobei-jun nods.
“A demon king, once a mortal man, who fell for a servant with a silver tongue,” Shang Qinghua says. “Where should I begin?”
◈