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It begins one morose night while Binghe is still in the Abyss. They’re reminiscing over a jar of wine, listing out all the things they miss from their old lives and coming up with increasingly ridiculous ways they could get some of those modern conveniences here, in their new lives.
Shen Qingqiu knows they’ll both regret this in the morning, moving on and pretending they never had this conversation. But for now, basking in talking with the only other person who gets it, he’s willing to put aside sensibility for a bit of comfort.
Also, Shang Qinghua gets the best wine.
“—get a— a Purple Horned Rhino Wasp and—” hiccup, “—and melt down its hide—”
“You going to hunt one?” Shen Qingqiu asks, his eyebrows raised as he sips from his cup. “Deal with the— the stinger and the plates and—”
“Exactly!” Wine sloshes over Shang Qinghua’s sleeve as he gestures, seemingly unaware and uncaring of the spilt alcohol. “The plates are exactly what— what we need, if we just—”
Shen Qingqiu sighs. “Shang Qinghua—”
“Xiang Fei.”
The words fall from Shang Qinghua’s mouth like an automatic response, leaving Shang Qinghua to blink as his alcohol—drenched brain struggles to comprehend his mouth’s actions.
Shen Qingqiu is similarly confused.
“Who’s Xiang Fei?”
The other transmigrator blinks stupidly, before a grin spreads across his face. “Bro! How’d you know my name?”
“You just— That’s your name?”
“Yeah! Or, it was. Y’know. Before.”
The melancholy returns quickly. Shen Qingqui pushes his own aside to file the name away in his memory. Xiang Fei. It feels weird to know Airplane’s real name after so long, and so many other names. It suits him, though, Shen Qingqui thinks. It’s almost…
“Wait. Your handle was a pun?”
They’re passing through a town on one of their many “hunt down useful artifacts” trips when it clicks.
There’s a shrine just off the main road, small and shabby but clean and scented with recent incense. It’s barely a shack protecting a painting, the scroll hanging from the back wall, a table for offerings underneath. The painting itself is nothing fancy — a typical depiction of a scholarly god, a brush in one hand and a scroll in the other. Most notable is the vista painted behind them — rolling hills and bountiful plains and a vast array of flora and fauna all squeezed in around the main figure. It’s beautiful in its chaos, and Shen Qingqiu can’t help but pause to admire the art.
Beside him, Shang Qinghua takes one look and goes all squirrelly.
“Ah, Cucumber-bro, come on. We’ve gotta get to the next town before sunset, remember? No time to lose—”
Shen Qingqiu cuts him a glance before stepping closer, now even more curious. “You are truly awful at redirection, Airplane-bro.”
Airplane splutters. “I’m not— It’s not a redirection! We really do need to get going— We don’t have time—”
Shen Qingqiu ignores him, stepping under the shrine’s eaves so he can look more closely. There’s a nameplate below the scroll, brass with lettering done in a fine but shaky hand.
Xiàngfēi Mìngzhǔ.
The lord of fate.
Shen Qingqiu freezes, processes, then spins slowly to fix his most unimpressed glare on the rat cowering behind him.
“Really?”
Airplane flinches. “C’mon, tell me you wouldn’t? If you invented a whole world, under a pseudonym even, wouldn’t you want to put yourself in it, even just a little?”
Shen Qingqiu breaks his fan in the process of giving the incorrigible author his dues. It’s a worthy sacrifice.
This stupid, useless, self-agrandising Gary Stu—
They leave before he gives in to the urge to burn down the shrine.
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t mean to use Shang Qinghua’s real name. He barely wants to think of his own; the memories and questions too painful to consider.
The first time he does, they are once again drunk and Shang Qinghua is busy moaning about how unfair it is that his king seems to hate him so much.
“—I barely even looked at him,” Shang Qinghua cries into his desk, sounding like a maiden whose heart has been torn out, alcohol sloshing everywhere as he gestures, “and that was enough! Just, bonk. Instant concussion! I’m just human! He can’t do that!”
“You wrote him like that,” Shen Qingqiu says with no sympathy.
“Not like this! He’s meant to be standoffish and cold and stern, yes, but not— not— unnecessarily violent to his subordinates!”
Shen Qingqiu sighs and downs his cup of wine. As he refills it — he has to go hunting for a new bottle to do so — he says, “And what do you want me to do about it? He’s your king. And your character.”
“Not like this!”
“Based on the arc with the fish demon princesses—”
“That doesn’t count!”
“He was behaving exactly like this.”
“That was an exception! He was annoyed by the politics, and stuck between a rock and a hard place with Luo Binghe breathing down his neck, and—”
“Then figure out the similarities!” Shen Qingqiu resists throwing his cup at Shang Qinghua and throws a peanut instead. “You wrote him, Xiàngfēi Mìngzhǔ. You figure it out!”
It becomes a bit of a habit. Only when they’re in private, and only when he’s particularly annoyed at the author forgetting his own damn work. But it happens often enough that by the time everything is resolved and Shen Qingqiu has settled down with Luo Binghe, he doesn’t really think twice about calling Shang Qinghua by his real name when they’re chatting casually.
That becomes his undoing.
It’s been a tiring week, between some old Huan Hua disciples causing a stink and a small coalition of demon clans getting ideas about carving out a corner for themselves. Luo Binghe had been pulled between both, Shen Qingqiu trying to help where he could — and when Luo Binghe would let him — with Shang Qinghua and Mobei Jun pulled along to help.
That’s what brings them to tonight — the four of them relaxing in one of the Palace’s many parlours, Luo Binghe and Mobei Jun playing wei qi on one side of the room, Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua on the other, nursing a bottle of wine and discussing Shang Qinghua’s latest draft.
Well, Shen Qingqiu is tearing it apart and Shang Qinghua is tearfully trying to defend his “artistic choices”, but it amounts to the same thing.
It’s comfortable. Cozy, almost. Lanterns cast soft, flickering light across the room, chasing away the night’s darkness, and a sumptuous dinner of Luo Binghe’s heavenly cooking sits heavy in Shen Qingqiu’s stomach. The wine, though not plentiful, is warm and fragrant, and the familiarity of the arguments and the gentle click clack of stones being placed has lulled Shen Qingqiu into a heavily relaxed state, lounging indolently on a divan piled high with cloud—like pillows. He can barely even see Luo Binghe or Mobei Jun, the head of the divan blocking his view except when he leans forward to steal more snacks from the table.
It’s only missing some gentle music, Shen Qingqiu thinks, then vows to never mention such a wish to Luo Binghe lest he hire musicians to follow Shen Qingqiu around all hours of the day.
“It’s about the vibes!” Shang Qinghua argues, gesturing wildly with a handful of peanuts before shoving them in his mouth. Shen Qingqiu has forgotten what exactly they’re arguing about, but is determined to win regardless. “Realism isn’t always king, Cucumber-bro. Sometimes you need to let the story just flow.”
Shen Qingqiu snorts, and sips at his wine. “And look where that got us,” he snarks.
Shang Qinghua shoves a finger in his face. “You can’t complain, you like it, you—”
“I can absolutely complain, you hack author—”
“No, no, I distinctly remember, last time we got drunk—”
Shen Qingqiu snaps a fan open to hide his face. “I said nothing.”
“You did! You said you loved it! You loved the worldbuilding and the depth and the protagonist’s—”
“You should do something about that faulty memory of yours, Xiàngfēi Mìngzhǔ.”
A stone clacking harder than normal against the wei qi board reminds Shen Qingqiu they’re not alone. A brilliantly red popup appears in the corner of his vision at the same time, a klaxon sounding as the System — usually blissfully quiet these days — decides to issue a dire warning.
Shen Qingqiu closes the warning with a blink, and twists slowly, cautiously, to peer around the head of the divan.
Luo Binghe and Mobei Jun are both looking their way, wei qi briefly forgotten. Both are frowning. Mobei Jun looks, in his usual subdued way, like he has heard something he doesn’t like. In comparison, Luo Binghe’s face is moving through a whole series of emotions — confusion, contemplation, then a dawning comprehension that makes Shen Qingqiu swallow nervously.
True worry blooms when Luo Binghe’s gaze shifts to him, and that comprehension grows and expands into awe and glee and the kind of worship that usually precedes Luo Binghe doing something so outrageous Shen Qingqiu becomes at risk of spontaneously combusting.
Luo Binghe rises like a man possessed and fairly floats across the room to them, sinking to his knees beside the divan and catching one of Shen Qingqiu’s hands in his own with the kind of delicate touch one uses on a precious flower. Shen Qingqiu can feel his face reddening; his fan rises higher until he can barely peer over it.
Though Luo Binghe’s gaze stays locked on Shen Qingqiu, his next words are clearly aimed at Shang Qinghua.
“This one could not help but overhear, and now can not help but wonder if he heard correctly. Did Shizun indeed refer to Shang—shifu as Xiàngfēi Mìngzhǔ?”
Shang Qinghua gulps, his eyes sliding to a point in the air the same way Shen Qingqiu knows his sometimes do, before, slowly and clearly reluctantly, he nods. Just once, barely more than a tip of the chin. It is still a nod.
Luo Binghe’s fingers twitch around Shen Qingqui’s hand. “And is that a name Shang—shifu claims as his own?”
Another glance, another nod.
“Then, this one must ask if it is a coincidence or a joke, or whether Shizun was referring to the Xiàngfēi Mìngzhǔ this one is thinking he meant.”
Shen Qingqiu winces as the System’s klaxon starts up again; he closes the popup with a glare but he knows, from the tightening of Binghe’s grip, that he noticed the flinch. He cannot spare the brainspace to wonder at Binghe’s thoughts though — he is too busy figuring out how to answer without triggering the System’s punishment if their true origins are revealed.
He is saved by Mobei Jun, who drifts over to stand behind Shang Qinghua, his brow pinched with the slightest hint of concern.
“Who is Xiàngfēi Mìngzhǔ?” he asks, and Shen Qingqiu realises belatedly that a demon king is indeed unlikely to know of a human god — and a more minor one at that, with no grand temples or orders.
When neither Shen Qingqiu or Shang Qinghua speak up, too busy sharing frantic looks, Luo Binghe is the one who says, “A human god, from whose pen streams the fate of each individual, from their birth to their death.” His gaze finally slips to regard his shifu, if only for a second. “Some say it was he who wrote the world into being, but others argue his power is not that great.”
Shen Qingqiu can’t help the snort. The idea of even Shang Qinghua’s own creations doubting his power is too ironic.
Shang Qinghua’s face crumples. “Cucumber-bro!”
Luo Binghe glances between them again, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “I assume Shizun agrees more with the former?”
“Theoretically,” Shen Qingqiu says, hoping it is enough to keep the System off his back, “yes.”
Luo Binghe hums.
“This disciple is aware that the truths of the heavens are not meant for mortal ears. Even for immortals, such truths must be carefully guarded. However, theoretically, if a god were to descend upon the mortal plane for some reason…”
The System screeches again, Shen Qingqiu flinches, and Binghe trails off.
It takes a moment to find what is hopefully the right words.
“If such a thing happened,” Shen Qingqiu starts, each word falling carefully and consciously from his tongue, “this master imagines there would be certain… rules and guidelines such a being would need to follow.”
Binghe nods thoughtfully, his gaze flicking between Shen Qingqiu and the cowering Shang Qinghua — who has pushed himself back into Mobei Jun’s legs — with the kind of sharp focus that has made him so dangerous — and which makes Shen Qingqiu so very proud.
“Then this disciple has only one other question,” he says, turning, strangely enough, to finally focus that sharp gaze fully on Shang Qinghua. “Suppose Xiàngfēi Mìngzhǔ were to descend, and suppose he were not to descend alone, who would Shang—shifu guess would be sent with him?”
Shen Qingqiu nearly chokes on his own breath.
“Binghe, that’s not—”
“Juéshì Yùshǐ.”
The name falls from Shang Qinghua’s lips into the silence of the room like a stone into a mirror—still pond. Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts screech to a halt, Binghe’s breath stops, and Mobei Jun’s eyebrows rise in a surprisingly clear sign of shock.
Shen Qingqiu can only think of one thing.
“You wrote me in?” he hisses, ignoring the popups that try to overtake his vision. It’s a vague enough statement, he thinks at the System. Besides, Binghe has already figured it out — or figured something out, anyway!
The popups fade away, one by one, like a child slowly withdrawing their hand from a cookie jar.
Shang Qinghua’s face pinches, his brows and mouth warring between concern and amusement. “My greatest critic? The one who single handedly carried the forum, driving more debate and conversation than would have ever have existed otherwise? Of course I did!”
“You—”
He is saved by Luo Binghe swooping on Shen Qingqiu, pressing kisses to his brow and cheeks and nose before capturing his mouth in the kind of consuming, all—encompassing heat that drives all other thoughts from Shen Qingqiu’s head.
When they eventually separate, Binghe now draped over Shen Qingqiu on the divan, his mouth working its way down Shen Qinggiu’s neck, Shang Qinghua is gone, his snacks left scattered across the table in a way that suggests Mobei Jun swept him away in a hurry.
“Shizun,” Binghe pants against Shen Qingqiu’s clavicle, nipping gently at the bone. “My Shizun, so knowing, so powerful, yet I never considered—” He noses Shen Qingqiu’s robe aside to mouth a path towards Shen Qingqiu’s heart. “But of course, one so sublime could only be—”
Shen Qingqiu yanks on his hair, pulling him up for a kiss before he can say any more.
They will need to talk, Shen Qingqiu knows, and dreads the tiptoeing he will have to do. That is for later though; for now, he sets to distracting Binghe with his body and Binghe lets himself be distracted, worshipping Shen Qingqiu anew with his mouth and hands, the words he cannot say pouring out of him the only other way he knows how.
Shen Qingqiu cannot say he minds.