Chapter Text
He could only stare out the windows some days. When the bright light of the screens around him were enough to give him a headache. The window next to his bed was taller than he was, a picture of a world he couldn’t wait to finally escape to when his current operations were over.
If he could actually find the energy to be outside when he finally was allowed to go home.
Even when he was home, he’d find himself laying in his bed staring at the sunlight cutting its way through his curtains. Hours passed until it was only the streetlights dimly lighting his room once more. The sounds of the cars below trying to shepherd his heavy eyelids into unconsciousness, only catching the soft morning light peaking through those curtains before he was forced to sleep.
His head felt like it was killing him.
“A strange subject you’ve chosen, if I must say.”
His head snaps up as does his spine, “Shizun.”
Shizun stands tall next to him, her face in graceful amusement as she looks at the painting in front of them. It is then he knows he is being criticized to the core, seeing the minute changes in expression on her face that he can only put a few names to in the years he’s known her. He rests his brush alongside the pigments laid out before him, allowing himself to self-criticize alongside his teacher.
“It is rather rare to see white become an oppressive force within a piece,” she comments, her face unreadable, “Not to express a storm, but a simple room.”
Shizun turns to him, “Where did the idea for such a subject come from?”
It is once again he finds his head hurting, but it is a pain he deals with more often than not alongside the other pains that have latched onto his body.
“This one finds it comes from one’s own mind,” he responds, and wishes he could hide his expressions as well as his teacher, “…A dream this one’s had for a while.”
Shizun is silent as she gazes upon the painting once more, an eyebrow raised only for his understanding, “Then this room, what is your meaning of it?”
He can only shut his eyes when it feels like his head is pounding, like the doors he’d try and uselessly break down in desperation. There are locks, and keys he does not know the locations of despite how much he had searched. Any memory of the dreams seem to escape him, and for once he feels like he shouldn’t forget this one. Like any dream that attacks him in the night, only the lingering feelings remain in the morning and etched into his mind.
“It is hard to breathe in this place,” he decides, staring at the only color he’s put on the paper so far, “Staying within this room makes one feel ill, with one’s only freedom being within what is outside.”
Is it a window? Or a portal he cannot reach? He would laugh if not for his shizun being next to him. That his only escape from the nightmares plaguing his sleep is another place where he cannot escape. One where he can barely move his limbs while his own lifeforce feels as if it has been choked out of him. Truly, is that the only solace his mind can come up with? To be trapped once more in a room with such an obvious exit in sight?
Pathetic.
Shizun hums, “Intriguing.”
That is enough to know that she approves, and he finds a hand resting on his shoulder. He manages not to flinch, even in the years he has known her. The touch is gentle, and he has assured himself so many times that his shizun is not one who will do the harm his mind unconsciously thinks it will do. A response he has been aggravatingly been training his body out of, just to uphold the little dignity he’s managed to acquire in this place.
“Eat and then rest,” his shizun advises, “A head disciple of mine will not run himself into the ground before he is even a lord of this peak.”
Right. It’s only a few years until she—he’ll be-
“Yes, shizun.”
That room always feels so lonely.
Usually it's his sister who visits him the most. It’s only because she’s in university and has the occasional time to knock on his apartment door.
Half the time he doesn’t have the energy to talk as much as he can type, but his sister tends to fill the conversation anyway. Those days they end up sitting on his couch watching a drama she’s been into as of late. It fills the silence better as they waste the night away.
The days he does have energy he’s usually off the high of reading and can’t help but burn it complaining to his sister about what his hack author’s done this time.
But the days he looks forward to are when his sister brings something to eat. He favors the sweets, but he won’t tell her that. Not when the rest of their family usually comments to watch their diets or some other complaint. His brothers always get on his ass about the contents of his fridge and how often he should clean it anyhow.
He hates the days he has to turn her away from the door. When his migraines become too much to handle company or the days he watches her messages fly by on his phone as he lays in his bed into the late afternoon.
She ends up leaving something at the door anyway.
There isn’t anyone on this peak that looks like this. Nor anyone at the brothel or any of the other peaks his shizun takes him to.
The woman on his paper gives him a mischievous smile, as if laughing at the way his mind searches for answers.
She does remind him of the women he finds company with in the brothels. Her face somehow gave him peace of mind and ease to the pains within his chest. He never knew that a drawing could achieve the same effect he’s been searching for years. Alas, as he’s come to know, all good things must come to an end when that ease is replaced with a sharp pain in his mind and a return of the headaches that plague him from time to time.
This woman is a sister. She has the face and demeanor of one every time he finds himself absentmindedly drawing her. Always an expression he somehow knows has a teasing remark behind it, one of friendly jest and unlike those of his fellow disciples. She follows his brush around like a child hanging onto their older siblings' robes.
Like he did once for—
He’s noted she has strange decorations on her ears. He’s familiar with the earrings and jewelry that the women in the brothels tend to wear. They’re less elaborate than the one’s he saw earlier on in his life, but pretty nonetheless. He’s seen some have multiple holes in their lobes to carry more jewels, but never the amount pierced all along this woman’s ears. Silver rings and intricate metal designs attach themselves along the rim in a beautiful pattern, matching her proud face.
He tends to draw something different along her ears everytime she finds herself on a page.
Her face follows him within his dreams eventually, an actual savior from the white rooms he so often dreams about. It is the first time in years the lingering feelings when he wakes do not make him nauseated. There are no words he remembers, but he knows they talk exclusively of literature. If only he could have better insight of the writings they speak about he could die happier. To have a respectable peer for once to talk about the books he’s poured hours of his life into. To feel…safe around a singular person who walks his dreamscape.
There’s a strange thought that comes to mind as he stores away his drawings into storage.
He doesn’t remember when he learned how to read. As if he was simply born with the ability to.
There’s not a lot to his life to make note of.
He isn’t much of anything, really.
Not as if his whole online persona would be of any note to his family anyway. His sister had laughed when he admitted to what he does all day.
When this current web novel is finished he really should get back to thinking about what he’s going to do.
If he actually has any redeeming qualities to work off of.
…He’s nothing, really.
“Shen…Qingqiu?”
He snaps his fan open as he turns to look at his shidi who almost jumps at the sound. Didn’t they say this one was competent? Yet, confidence was not on the list of qualities he had assessed from descriptions of his fellow head disciple. Was this one’s work ethic all this shidi was known for at his peak?
“Yes?”
“Ah—well. It’s good…to be uh, working with you on this assignment, shixiong!”
Assignment is the word he wouldn’t use for this…task his shizun has put him to. An assignment would mean he would actually respect himself enough to put work into improving one’s self. An assignment would mean he could work at this alone, using his own skill to get him by.
What this task really is, is an excuse by the other peak lords to get their head disciples on working terms with each other. To get along with the people he will be working with in only a few years time. He could think of worse people to get paired with on this first planned excursion. He can’t even name the first one without getting an aneurysm, but he’ll strangle Liu Qingge if he hears that brute speak ever again.
He doesn’t understand how Shang Qinghua is a head disciple at all when he thinks about it. His shidi has already begun to sweat in his presence, and with such rumors about himself that have been going around for years—even he is unsure what reputation has reached An Ding of all places. The last time he even spoke to Shang Qinghua was when his shidi was an outer disciple of his peak, coughing and tearing up trying to recount how exactly he became the sole survivor of a demon attack.
The suspicions he had back then have not left his mind, but seeing the man in front of him now it’s a wonder how he’s still alive.
Shang Qinghua clears his throat, “So…is there anything shixiong had in mind for what he wanted to display for the gallery?”
No.
He wanted all his works to stay right where he could see them. As if anyone else would have the right to even see half the pieces he’s worked so hard on. But apparently, a gallery show to raise funds is the right amount of bullshit to pull Qing Jing and An Ding together for something for once. And so it is his shizun’s word that he agreed to.
Shang-shidi flinches at his glare, “We could ah—just go through them and see what you’ll want to keep and what you want to show?”
“…Fine.”
Shang Qinghua is going to die before he even gets to the plot of his own novel.
[ WARNING: Host must become Peak Lord of An Ding Peak! ]
HE KNOWS THAT! He’s known that ever since he was reborn in his shitty world! If he had any choice in the matter he would have stayed within his hometown far far away from any sort of sect that was going to disappear into rubble in a few decades anyway! Of course he’ll miss out on the juicy bits but this world was constantly trying to kill him anyway whether he liked it or not!
Even then, being in the same room as Shen Qingqiu has definitely raised the death flags up again!! He’d put the man on the same danger tier as Mobei-Jun for getting him killed prematurely before the plot can even begin. TRIPLE SSS! It’s been years since the whole demon attack fiasco and he’s still unsure if he’s in the clear of being outed as a traitor when he’s too scared to find out if he’s been outed or not! System can you at least give this poor author a break for once!
[ Shang Qinghua must be Peak Lord of An Ding Peak ]
Shut up!!
At least he can admire the terrifying beauty of the guy when he’s this close. He and Mobei-Jun are alike in that regard—taller than him too. Shen Qingqiu carefully analyzes each piece of his from a few seconds to minutes and sorts them in his “to keep” and “to show” piles. It’s kinda cute in a way. Maybe in a “cat that will let you observe but is going to kill you the second you touch it” sort of way. Ay…Honestly a lot of things in his current life at the moment can be both a blessing and a curse.
When he first wrote about Qing Jing Peak and its rather crummy peak lord, all the shit about “mastering the four arts” was just a single sentence until he had to expand upon some of the aspects when writing the first arc of his novel. Seeing it first hand is…he can’t even put a word to it. This is what the Qing Jing peak lord was making in his youth!? These are all masterpieces!! Why is the man even sorting them into piles, all this should just go into the gallery so they can make some good money off some rich lords!
They’re well into their sorting session, neither one having made any conversation for what feels like an hour when Shang Qinghua looks up at the next painting Shen Qingqiu put up on the display table.
What the fuck?
What the fuck?!
HUH?!
WAIT WAIT WAIT WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!
“If this is the piece that truly displeases you, Shang-shidi, I advise you step outside while I finish.” Shen Qingqiu glares at him.
“No no no no! I was just—uh-“ he puts his hands up in a pathetic attempt at self-defense, “This one just, really caught my eye!”
Shen Qingqiu seems to pause, as if actually taking his words into consideration,
“What about it then?” he asks, “What interests shidi about this painting?”
ALL OF IT!
“Ah um—the architecture?”
Shen Qingqiu’s expression seems to soften, half of which is now covered by his fan, “While strange, the buildings do not have quite the artistry of the ones on Cang Qiong.”
You painted fucking skyscrapers!
Wait, was that a sort of compliment to An Ding?
“Well it’s just. Aha…” He trails off, trying to rack his mind on what else to say without the System readying the execution platform for his own head to be displayed on.
He would have noticed if Shen Qingqiu was a fellow transmigrator right??! Er, any sort of plot he wrote about this period of the world is muddy in his mind at best—Hell! It was probably only a few sentences to note down Yue Qingyuan’s backstory and that’s about it! But if anyone knew PIDW and woke up as Shen Qingqiu they’d probably do something out of character…right?
Oh, he’s hoping he didn’t get one of those readers to run around this world in. Jeez he thought he escaped the weirdos who actually got off on all the revenge plots he wrote.
Well, he might as well take a stab at it, “Have you ever heard of Proud Immortal Demon Way?”
[ Rule Violation, Point deduction ]
Asshole, just let him work here!
Shen Qingqiu only looks at him puzzled behind his fan. Maybe he’s already marked him down as an idiot and a trash piece not to be looked at ever again. Which is fine! He can work with that for the rest of his life until his neck gets snapped by Mobei-Jun!
It’s then his shixiong’s eyes shut tight, hand going to his head as he winces.
“…Shixiong?” He bites his lip, reaching out to maybe uh, comfort the guy?
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Shen Qingqiu slaps his hand out of the way.
His own hands then shoot up in the defensive position that’s become part of his nature, “Okay! I won’t!”
To think, Shang Qinghua would see him in this state. To trigger such a reaction in him where his mind feels as if it’s tearing itself apart. Even thinking about those words his shidi just remarked upon is as if a sword was stabbed within his head. Can one put a curse into words? To use qi to worm into one’s brain to slowly kill him from the inside?
Something tells him he should already know the answer to that question. But he doesn’t know what that is.
Shang Qinghua is still hovering around him as he feels forced to kneel by the pain, “Shixiong? You’re uh—You’re bleeding?”
His gaze snaps to the splotches of blood dripping on the floor, his hand slapping to his mouth as blood grazes his lips from his nose. It makes his vision blur, whether it be from the pain or the blood making a mess of his floor.
You’re on a list, Shang Qinghua!
It’s that woman again, who walks his dreamscape.
They sit at a table, foods he knows aren’t too healthy for him but they both indulge nonetheless. They’re both crowded around a crystal screen of sorts. Its light hurts his eyes a little, but it displays pictures of men in strange clothing and words he cannot decipher in this hazy dream. They must be talking about literature again. Or perhaps something else? Her ears are rather bare at this moment, only holding a few rings while she sits in plain clothing.
There’s an alert from somewhere, and he feels himself dig another crystal screen from a pocket in his clothing. Clothing that is too thin and he wouldn’t get caught dead in if he had anything to say about it.
It’s the first piece of text he can ever decipher in these dreams for the first time in his life.
[NEW CHAPTER FROM AIRPLANE SHOOTING TOWARDS THE SKY: PROUD…]
“Ah, you’re awake.”
He blinks quickly, letting his vision clear as he sits up in the bed he’s found himself in. Over the years he’s become more familiar with the rooms of Qian Cao whether he likes it or not. Enough that he’s talked more to Mu Qingfang out of all this generation’s head disciples as they’ve both risen through the ranks of their peaks.
Mu Qingfang gives him a look as he places a pitcher on the side table, “Be glad Shang-shixiong was quick enough to bring you here before your condition worsened into something that could have damaged your qi.”
He accepts the cup of water from Mu Qingfang, “Did you figure out what caused such an attack?”
“That is the question I was going to ask you. Shang-shixiong mentioned it was triggered by a turn of phrase he said, were you aware of this?”
Of course he was. He mentioned that accursed—
He rubs a hand on his temples at the dull throbbing of his head.
What was he about to say?
“Yes.” he bites out, taking a sip of the water to let the coolness wash over him, “Does Shang Qinghua have any idea of what this must be?”
“He wished to speak to you, actually. He’s sitting outside, should I go get him?”
Mu Qingfang only takes one look at his glare and walks out of the room, a second later returning with a trembling Shang Qinghua wringing his hands together, “I’ll be right outside. Don’t do anything rash.” He says with a pointed look toward him as he leaves.
Shang Qinghua doesn’t say much of anything as Shen Qingqiu glares at him from the bed he is forced to sit in. It’s a full minute before Shang Qinghua decides to even speak,
“You look better—shixiong!” his shidi chokes out, “Uh…I apologize! That I did that! Whatever that was! I didn’t…mean it?”
He’s heard worse attempts at apologies from men he shouldn’t speak of.
“What was that?” he grits his teeth, an action that only makes Shang Qinghua dive into a kowtow and grab the sheets of his bed,
“I’M SORRY SHIXIONG! I DIDN'T KNOW THAT WOULD HAPPEN! PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!”
Well, at least the man knows how to beg.
Annoyance seems to overtake the anger in his body, “I meant the phrase. How do you know it?”
Shang Qinghua takes a seat by his bed, “Ah—Well, it’s um. A book?”
He glares, and something tells him Shang Qinghua’s wording isn’t describing it well enough, “And?”
“You—You shouldn’t be able to know that name,” his shidi’s eyes darted from side to side, avoiding his gaze, “...Unless you don’t recognize it?”
Now that is intriguing.
“I…do. I don’t know from where but it sounds familiar.” He admits, watching Shang Qinghua’s eyes widen to the size of plates, “And where did you hear it from?”
“I’ll get to that! It’s just information that nobody here should know. Because it—it doesn’t exist here. You shouldn’t be able to know that name but you do and that’s—Well I don’t actually know what to do with that information!” Shang Qinghua then wipes down his face with a hand in exasperation, and it’s strange to see this side of the man.
“What would it mean for me to have this information, then?” he notes off on his internal methodical list of questions.
“I don’t know.” Shang Qinghua mutters, his leg bouncing as he thinks, “But you do. And that painting of yours tells me you should know more but you aren’t asking me questions that you would be asking me if you are aware of—well. A lot of things.”
That’s interesting, “My painting?”
“Do you know what that room is? Or what those buildings are?” Shang Qinghua presses, scooting forward in his chair.
The pain in his head is dulled as he tries to remember, it must be whatever Mu Qingfang gave him earlier that helps him think more clearly about it than ever before. That white room he ends up in time and time again where he feels like he can barely breathe. Where all he can do is stare out the window while his head hurts, watching the vibrant lights glow before a curtain covers it in order for him to sleep.
“My room,” he mutters out as he’s deep in thought, “At the hospital. That was…my room.”
He blinks.
What?
“What?” Shang Qinghua looks at him with wide eyes as he inches even more forward, “Wait! Bro, think harder! What about the buildings—you remember what city you were in?”
“Don’t touch me!” he pushes Shang Qinghua out of his personal space. His mind feels like it's slowly being overwhelmed by ocean waves as he tries to search for an answer.
“C’mon bro! I know you can do it! There has to be something else you remember!”
“Remember?” he growls, glaring as he rubs at his head, “What exactly am I remembering that’s rendering my brain into a fine paste?”
Shang Qinghua’s eyes darted to the side to look at something before he answered, his voice rising with every word, “Your, um…past life—? OW!”
He watches as Shang Qinghua stumbles forward, hand clutched over his nose as it begins to bleed down his face. His eyes begins to tear up, his shidi groaning as he falls on the floor,
“Fucking System...”
Mu Qingfang throws the door open, puzzled at the state of his shixiong passed out on the floor.
“You didn’t punch him, did you?”
“He did that to himself.”
Shang Qinghua has also become quite familiar with Qian Cao (or well, the medicinal herbs in the gardens) in the years he’s been in servitude to his king. He has a hand wiping down his face noting every point infraction he’s accrued in the past few hours or so trying to figure out this whole Shen Qingqiu mystery he has his hands on.
“Can you at least explain what’s going on? I know you’re hiding another transmigrator from me!”
[ USER 002 is scheduled for transmigration into character Peak Lord of Qing Jing, Shen Qingqiu ]
“You’re shitting me,” Shang Qinghua groans into his pillow, “You’re caring about semantics?! Just throw them in now!”
[ Character Peak Lord of Qing Jing, Shen Qingqiu currently does not exist! ]
“What’s my existence then!”
[ Character Peak Lord of An Ding, Shang Qinghua does not have a full backstory! USER 001 is set to fill in plot holes and flesh out worldbuilding to improve original basis of novel! ]
He wants to scream.
“Is Shang-shidi feeling alright now?” A voice calls into the room that does make him squeak out a noise as he sits up,
“Ah—uh-shixiong! Yep! Totally fine now!” he laughs as he stumbles out of the bed in front of Yue Qingyuan of all people. What is going on with today??!
“Are you sure? I understand that you and Qingqiu-shidi were supposed to be working together on the gallery exhibit this afternoon. Did something arise for the both of you to be checked into Qian Cao?”
Ahhh!! He can’t deal with this right now! Someone save him!!!
“Yue-shixiong. I have an important talk to have with Shang Qinghua. Alone.” Shen Qingqiu utters with severity, almost a large looming shadow behind their future sect leader.
NOT YOU!
Before any sort of passive argument can erupt between the two of them Shang Qinghua dashes past Yue Qingyuan and behind Shen Qingqiu.
“Yep! We still have stuff to talk about with the gallery exhibit thing! Let’s go Shen-shixiong!”
Yue Qingyuan raises an eyebrow, “But-“
“Don’t worry Yue-shixiong we’ll figure this out! Right Shen—“
The death glare he gets from Shen Qingqiu is enough to make him start bolting down the hallway.
“Ahh. At least we didn’t have to explain anything to Yue-shixiong.” Shang Qinghua sighs, accepting the tea placed on the table now they’re in the privacy of Shen Qingqiu’s quarters, “Seriously. I don’t know what I would have even said!”
He almost spills the cup on himself when Shen Qingqiu slams his fan into the table.
“Explain what you said earlier.” he demands, pointed and sharp.
“Right! So uh. Past lives. You and me. We’re kinda in the same boat right now? I think?” Honestly he never thought he’d be saying that ever in regards to him and Shen Qingqiu of all people, “I’ve already finished remembering mine like, years ago. Around when I became a disciple is when I was sure I remembered everything. But I think you’re still in the early stages of the whole process. Maybe? Honestly you’re case two of this whole sort of fucked reincarnation deal, I can’t give you exact details on what’s going on.”
Shen Qingqiu seems to consider his words (or process the whole word jumble he just sputtered out), taking a sip of his cup of tea as he narrows his eyes at him.
“Did you often dream of those past memories?”
It’s hard to think back on before he was even aware he was a transmigrator. According to the parents he’s cut off ever since he became a disciple, he’s been a weird kid from birth. Saying weird stuff, doing weird things. Honestly not really a big change from his last life’s family situation.
What he remembers is waking this life’s mother up in the middle of the night, so full of anxiety a little kid shouldn’t really be having at that age. Something about—
Oh.
“Yeah. I think I got a bit fucked up mixing up both lives when I was a kid,” he admits, “I was living paycheck to paycheck back in my last one, you know! Ay, it’s a wonder I didn’t have a panic attack when I was only six!”
“So you believe we used to be from the same world then.”
Shang Qinghua shrugs, “Well I recognize the type of buildings in your painting. And if you remembered the name of that book from earlier we’re definitely from the same world!”
The phrase “Shen Qingqiu has read Proud Immortal Demon Way” does something to his stomach however. The man really shouldn’t remember that part of whoever’s transmigrated into his life! Forget Mobei-Jun snapping his neck in a decade or so, Shen Qingqiu was probably going to snap his once he finally remembers!!
Shen Qingqiu raises his fan again to cover his expression, “Was a book so well read that anyone from that world would know what it is?”
Shang Qinghua sweats.
“Well uh—“ he gulps, trying to find an angle to ease into things, “B-Because it means you read my novel?”
His expression doesn’t change, which is scarier.
“Your novel.”
“Aha…yeah. My novel.”
“You called your novel Proud Immortal Demon Way?”
While he doesn’t receive a death glare of any sort, he knows he’s being terribly judged right now. Shang Qinghua quickly takes a sip of his tea before he’s forced to get back to this trainwreck of a day in his life.
“Well we didn’t have demons—or cultivation for that matter! You figured that out, right?”
Shen Qingqiu hums a low sound, snapping his fan closed and rising to his feet.
“I will think about this,” he mutters, “Thanking Shang-shidi for bringing this to my attention.”
He doesn’t get another word out before Shen Qingqiu basically kicks him out. The exhaustion of this entire day and passing out for an hour is already enough for him to simply hop into his bed and forget about the other work he still has to complete. He even flies back to his peak instead of crossing the bridge just to cut his trip shorter. Maybe he can pray to the System to give him the ability to invent coffee in this world so he can feel functional for the rest of the day.
Throwing open the door to his quarters instead of a warm bed he’s met with a face full of freezing air.
“Shang Qinghua.” Mobei-Jun growls, “You’re late.”
Please he just got done dealing with a tsundere ice prince he can’t deal with another one right now!!!
It’s almost a blessing that his past life has begun to haunt his dreams further. That flashes of this mundane life has overtaken the hold the Qiu estate traps his mind in.
There are drinks with strange colors in this dream. He doesn’t understand the appeal until a sweetness he didn’t know was possible fills his senses.
It’s in the morning he realizes his rest has been peaceful on Qing Jing Peak.
“Shizun, is it possible for one to reincarnate and retain one’s memories of their previous life?”
His shizun looks up from the report in her hands, more surprised than he thought she would be.
“There are subjects that even this one has not graced any study upon. But to ask questions about the nature of our world is an aspect this teacher finds in wide regard that her disciple seeks its answers.”
“In theory, could it be true?”
His shizun only gives him a light smile,
“If this one knows her disciple’s soul, then one can take a guess it is crafty enough to escape Meng Po and her soup.”
A part of him wishes he did not interrogate Shang Qinghua the other day. That he left these dreams a mystery to chase without burden. It still leaves his head with a dull pain he’s accepted he will live with until…
Until what?
There is another life in his head, desperate to be known.
What did his soul in his previous life do to deserve a life he has crawled and starved through until now? Were they both suffering the karma of a third life, one that forced his previous to be bedridden and frail? His lives feel destined to die young, but he has lived longer than what anyone has tried to tell him in both.
There is a part of him that wishes that man in his dreams wouldn’t have to see what a mess he has made of this life. A man who laid in comforts wouldn’t want to be born a slave. That not even his place on this peak feels earned in the eyes of his peers. That there is nobody in this sect that he can feel safe around except one who will disappear when it is his turn to lead.
He can’t even take care of his health correctly in this life either.
He is more pathetic in this life than his last.
How has Shang Qinghua accepted this reality? How does he even live with the fact that there are more worlds than this one? That he was reborn in such a cruel world? If one was thrown into this world of demonic monsters out of one where it was simply fantasy perhaps there is some right to be a coward. Not that he respects it at their current level of cultivation. Shang Qinghua had drawn his own spiritual sword years ago! Formed his golden core before even he had!
Shen Qingqiu walks through the paths of An Ding, seeing several disciples clear out of his way as he reaches Shang Qinghua’s quarters. It takes a few knocks before he throws open the door to a mess of what he can call a home.
Does An Ding force its disciples to have offices?
“S-Shen-shixiong!” Shang Qinghua sits up from his desk, “I got most of the paperwork done with the gallery thing. If you want we can get back to sorting through your works—“
“How do you live like this?”
Shang Qinghua sputters out a response, “Y-You know how it is on An Ding! And as head disciple I’m responsible for a lot of things right now!”
Shen Qingqiu rubs in between his temples, “I meant the other thing. That we discussed yesterday.”
“Oh!” Shang Qinghua then pats at the couch located next to his desk, somehow clean of papers and scrolls. It seems more used than he thought, perhaps a place where his shidi naps instead of heading for his bed, “I don’t have the room to prepare tea, but I got some snacks!”
He eyes the bag of seeds on the table and flicks open his fan much to Shang Qinghua’s dismay. His shidi clears his throat, looking off to the side before settling back into his seat at his desk.
“So—well, uh. Reincarnating. It was worse when I was a kid, y’know. Having an adult mind living in a child’s body was confusing just growing up again. Puberty! Twice!!” his shidi groans, bouncing his leg and grabbing a few seeds out of the bag on the table, “Now we’re sorta adults, I dunno. Maybe it’ll get weird again when this body gets older than when I died last time. It’s been years for me since I lived that life, and—well it won’t be for you, I guess.”
Shang Qinghua shifts in his seat, “I stopped thinking about my lives as two people and now I’m just. Me? It’ll probably be harder for you. Cause—uh, I mean—! Well you’ve grown up a wildly different life than whoever you’re remembering. Probably.”
“I see.”
“Maybe you’ll feel like two people. Or those memories of that guy will just feel like it happened a long time ago. If I know my reincarnation tropes right you’d both probably be the same sort of person at your cores, right?”
Shang Qinghua looks like he’s going to put a hand on his shoulder but retracts it before he can touch, going to take a few seeds out of his bag again,
“And hey bro! I’m here if you need to chat about stuff. Don’t think we’re really going anywhere, y’know, with the whole ascension thing. Maybe I can explain a few things you’re confused about seeing! And uh—um.”
His shidi is then silent for a moment as he looks away, furrowing his brow,
“I’m…I’m really sorry you had to be reborn here.”