Chapter Text
The grand halls of Yong'an’s new palace in Qiyi gleamed with lacquered pillars and jade inlays, but a shadow hung over its opulence. Wang Ya, the queen mother and regent, paced her private chambers, her silk robes whispering against the polished floor. Her brow furrowed, her heart heavy with grief and fury. Lang Ying, her nephew, was gone. Yíng'er, her precious grandson, was slaughtered. The sudden deaths of Yong'an’s king and her chosen heir had left the throne empty, save for Lang Yang, a mere baby, whose Xianle blood tainted by his mother’s lineage, repulsed her. That child cannot rule! Not! As long as she was still breathing.
As regent alongside Chief Eunuch Zhao, Wang Ya wrestled with the court’s whispers. Lang Ying’s death, a mystery cloaked in violence, gnawed at her. Who dared strike the king? Yíng'er’s loss cut deeper, her dreams of his reign shattered. Lang Yang, cradled by that bitch—Yiping, was the lawful heir, but Wang Ya’s ambition recoiled at his half-Xianle heritage. Seething, she recalled her suffering during Yong'an’s drought and their war against Xianle, the scars of human-face disease still fresh.
Her thoughts were interrupted by an eunuch’s announcement. “Your Majesty, your son has arrived.” Wang Ya’s heart leapt, a rare smile breaking her stern facade.
Láng Jūn (郎君), her first born, presumed dead in the drought that ravaged old Yong'an, stood at the palace gates. Wang Ya swept to the courtyard, her robes billowing, and beheld him—tall, weathered, his eyes bright with hardship yet kind. “A-Niang,” He said, his voice thick with emotion.
Wang Ya touched his face, her hands trembling. “My son,” She whispered, studying his face, marked by years of toil, “We thought you lost forever.”
Lang Jun smiled, bittersweet. “The drought took much, but I survived in Lang'er Bay, labouring, saving every coin to return to you,” He gave her his travel pass, his gaze swept over her opulent attire, his eyes widening slightly, “...and Mum, you look… breathtaking. So majestic!” A quiet joy bloomed across his face, a visible wave of relief washing over him as he saw his mother, now looking truly well and radiant.
Wang Ya chuckled softly, a gentle hand going to her elaborate gown, “That’s because, my son, I am a royal. And by virtue of that, so are you. We are royals now, Jun'er.”
Lang Jun laughed heartily, but soon he paused, grief clouding his eyes, “I heard of Lang Ying, my cousin, and Yíng'er, my nephew. I wish I’d met them before… before they were taken.”
Wang Ya’s gaze softened, but a glint of calculation flickered. “Perhaps it was fated,” She said, her voice cryptic, “...that you return at this precise moment.”
Lang Jun’s brow furrowed, “What do you mean, Mother?”
She waved a hand, dismissive, “Nothing, my dear. You’re home now.” She summoned Xiao Meng, a young eunuch with steady eyes, she handed him the travel pass and commanded, “Escort my son to his chambers. Ensure his comfort.”
Eunuch Meng bowed, guiding Lang Jun through the palace’s labyrinthine halls.
...
..
.
Hours later, in her private study, Wang Ya sat across from the chief eunuch Zhao, his gaunt face illuminated by flickering lanterns. Scrolls of court decrees cluttered the table, the air thick with unspoken tensions. “Zhao-gonggong,” She said, her voice low, “Can my son not take the throne in Lang Ying’s stead?”
Chief Eunuch Zhao’s eyes narrowed, his tone measured, “Your Majesty, Lang Jun’s return is a blessing, but the throne is not so easily claimed.” He leaned forward, his fingers tracing a scroll, “Lang Yang, though an infant, is the late king’s son, the rightful heir by primogeniture. The imperial law, rooted in the mandates of Heaven, prioritises the direct line of the sovereign. Lang Jun, as your son, lacks this lineage.”
Wang Ya’s lips tightened, “But Lang Yang’s blood is tainted, a half-Xianle, a remnant of our foes!”
Chief Eunuch Zhao sighed, his voice calm but firm, “The boy’s heritage is contentious, true, but he is lawful. Lang Jun, though noble, has lived as a commoner in Lang'er Bay, unknown to the aristocracy. He lacks the training of a prince such as court etiquette, governance, and the rites of the ancestral altar. To crown him would require the Grand Council’s approval, a near-impossible feat without years to build his legitimacy.” He paused, choosing his words, “Moreover, Lang Yang’s supporters wield influence. Elevating Lang Jun risks rebellion from their faction, plunging Yong'an into civil strife. Surely, Your Majesty would not wish to repeat the tragedy of Xianle? A regency for Lang Yang, guided by Your Majesty, is the safer path.”
Wang Ya’s eyes flashed, her voice sharp, “A baby cannot rule, Zhao. Lang Jun is my blood, my hope...” And her control, her ambition, a coiled serpent. She couldn’t fathom what the Zhangsun truly hoped to gain by throwing their full support behind a mere baby.
Chief Eunuch Zhao bowed his head, but his silence spoke volumes, Lang Jun’s path to the throne was fraught, a dream yet to be forged.
In the Heavenly Realm, the air buzzed with fervent gossip, the divine deputies huddled in shimmering pavilions, their voices a mix of awe and scandal. The sudden appearance of Xie Lian at the Crown Prince Summit, just as they were about to commence their cultivation, had set tongues wagging. The deputies, draped in flowing robes, sipped celestial tea while dissecting every detail of Xie Lian’s dramatic return. “Did you see how he just materialised?” One deputy whispered, eyes wide, “Bold as brass, striding in like he hadn’t been gone for centuries!”
The conversation inevitably veered to Xie Lian’s chequered past; “Long before that ghastly human-face disease fiasco in Lang'er Bay and his shady dealings with Bai Wuxiang...” A senior deputy said, lowering her voice, “Xianle tried to pull off a robbery, didn’t he? Caught red-handed by Liang Wei, no less!”
Murmurs rippled through the group, some nodding knowingly, others gasping in mock horror. “Liang Wei’s always had a knack for sniffing out trouble,” Another chimed in, smirking, “No wonder Xianle’s been skulking about ever since.”
The gossip took a sharper turn when they added Mu Qing into their topic, his reference like a spark to dry tinder. Liang Wei joined in, his voice cutting through the chatter, “Xianle’s parents were corrupt to the core.”
The deputies’ whispers grew louder, “No wonder their kingdom was doomed to fall. It was written in the stars!” The crowd gasped, some exchanging sly glances.
Jin Lin leaned in, voice dripping with intrigue, “Didn’t some say Mu Qing had a hand in their deaths? Can you believe it? Murder!?”
The rumour mill spun wildly, each deputy adding their own embellishments until the Heavenly Realm seemed ready to burst with speculation.
But just as the gossip reached fever pitch, Jun Wu, through his trusted officer Ling Wen, stepped in to quell the storm. With her calm authority, Ling Wen addressed the assembly in the Grand Hall, her voice resonating like a bell.
“Enough of this nonsense!” She said firmly, “Deputy Mu had no part in the demise of Xianle’s parents. They took their own lives, records from the mortal realm’s archives confirm it, sealed by the Heavenly Emperor’s own decree. Here are the scrolls, if you care to verify.” She unfurled ancient parchments, their divine script glowing faintly, detailing the tragic end of Xianle’s parents with no trace of foul play.
Ling Wen’s evidence was irrefutable; dates, testimonies, even a celestial log of the parents’ final moments, all meticulously preserved. “Let’s not tarnish reputations with baseless tales,” She added, her gaze sweeping over the now-silent deputies.
Slowly, the whispers died down, the scandal losing its lustre as the truth took hold. By the time the next celestial banquet rolled around, the gossip had faded, replaced by newer, shinier tales...
“Thank you, Ling Wen-yuanjun,” Mu Qing said, his voice tinged with genuine relief as he approached her when she descended from The Great Martial Hall after a meeting, “You truly saved my name.”
Ling Wen offered a small, knowing smile, “You needn’t thank me, Deputy Mu. Your gratitude would be better directed towards Lord Jun Wu. I was merely carrying out his orders.”
Mu Qing’s brow furrowed. “The Heavenly Emperor?” He repeated, a knot forming in his stomach. This wasn’t the first time Jun Wu had unexpectedly intervened on his behalf, publicly defending him against the relentless tides of rumour and animosity from his fellow deputies. It left a strange, unsettling feeling in Mu Qing’s chest, a mix of indebtedness that chafed at his independent spirit, and a growing awareness that these public endorsements, while clearing his name in one breath, often solidified the resentment of others in the next. He was beginning to feel like a pawn in a larger, unseen game, and the thought made him deeply uneasy.
...
..
.
Mu Qing resumed his duties as Shen Yi’s deputy with his usual diligence. That day, he was in a class on advanced surgical techniques, meticulously practising the art of stitching wounds with precision. Shen Yi, ever the stern mentor, watched closely, nodding with rare approval. “Your hands are steady, Mu Qing,” He said, his voice warm with praise, “Few can match your skill in keeping a wound clean and seamless.”
Mu Qing, though pleased, kept his focus, his needle threading through the practice material with the grace of a seasoned artisan. Naturally, the familiarity with needle and thread he inherited from his mother gave him a distinct head start.
Midway through the lesson, a deputy from Ling Wen’s palace, Cài Yuèróng (蔡月容), burst in, her face pale with urgency. “There’s a malicious spirit detected in Tiánchéng (甜城)!”[205] She announced, her voice trembling slightly.
Mu Qing frowned, setting down his tools. “That’s a job for the martial deputies,” He said curtly, but Cai Yuerong shook her head, “One was sent days ago, but there’s been no word since. He’s vanished.”
Shen Yi, after a moment’s consideration, gave Mu Qing a nod, “Go. Investigate the situation and find that spirit.”
Mu Qing descended to the mortal realm, arriving in Tiancheng under a sky heavy with storm clouds.
His search led him to an abandoned shack on the outskirts, its aura so menacing it would choke the breath from any mortal.
The air thrummed with malevolent energy, but for a deputy god, Mu Qing was unfazed.
As he approached, he heard faint, pained cries from within. Pushing open the creaking door, he found a young woman crumpled on the dirty low cot, her face slick with sweat and fear. She was in labour, her body trembling, and the oppressive atmosphere suggested the child she carried was tainted by the malicious spirit Cai Yuerong had warned of. Upon closer inspection, he recognised her as Jian Lan, a Xianle noble with close relations to the royal family.
Jian Lan’s eyes locked onto Mu Qing, recognition sparking a mix of desperation and resentment. “YOU–” She rasped, clutching her swollen belly. She was a fugitive from the House of Saffron Veils, a brothel where she’d worked, now fleeing to protect the child she bore.
Mu Qing knelt beside her, his presence a sudden intrusion of calm into the raw chaos of the room.
Jian Lan’s face, slick with sweat and pale with exhaustion, saw him and her fear curdled into fury. “GET OUT!” She shrieked, her voice cracking, “Get out of here!” She threw a clay jug toward him and tried to push herself up, her eyes wild and distrustful.
Dodging the jug, Mu Qing did not flinch from her hostility. He remained kneeling, his gaze steady. When he placed a gentle but firm hand towards her swollen abdomen, she recoiled as if struck.“DON’T YOU TOUCH ME!” She snarled, slapping weakly at his hand. “GET AWAY!” The aggression was a desperate shield, forged from pain and terror.
Instead of recoiling, he let his hand hover in the air, his expression softening with empathy. “I know you are frightened,” He said, his voice soft yet clear enough to cut through her panic. “But the child is not positioned correctly. Your lives are in danger,” His words were direct, leaving no room for false hope. Seeing her defiance still warring with exhaustion in her eyes, he knew words were not enough.
He withdrew his hand and raised it, palm upward. A soft, golden light gathered above it, coalescing from motes of dust in the air into solid forms. Jian Lan’s shouting hitched in her throat, her tirade dying into a gasp of stunned disbelief. First, a celestial scalpel materialised, its edge shimmering with an ethereal light that hummed faintly. Next, a stack of perfectly white, sterilised cloths, and finally, a small, elegant vial carved from what looked like white jade.
The fight drained out of her, replaced by a profound, weary awe. The sheer impossibility of what she was witnessing shattered her aggression, leaving her vulnerable and silent. As he uncorked the vial and gently moved to lift her head, Jian Lan only flinched for a second before a wave of resignation washed over her. She had no strength left to fight, and in the face of such power, what was the point? Her eyes, now clear of rage, fixed on him with a desperate, final plea. She gave a short, jerky nod.
“Drink this,” Mu Qing murmured, tipping the pearlescent elixir he concocted to her lips, “This will help.”
Jian Lan obeyed without protest. The liquid slid down her throat, and its effect was immediate. The frantic tension in her body eased, her ragged breathing softened into a steady rhythm, and the deep lines of agony on her face relaxed into a hazy exhaustion.
With his patient now quiet, Mu Qing turned his full attention to the task. The air around him grew still as his focus narrowed, blocking out all distractions. There was only the gentle hum of his divine instrument and the life hanging in the balance beneath his hands. Bringing the glowing scalpel to her skin, his hands were steady as he began the procedure, his movements fluid and unhurried. The celestial blade did not tear or cut in a conventional sense; it traced a precise, glowing line across her flesh, parting it cleanly and without a single drop of blood, the divine energy sealing every vessel it touched.
Jian Lan’s breathing hitched, “You–” She rasped mid-contraction, her voice, laced with bitterness, cut through the tense silence, “How does a lowly servant like you end up in Xianle’s circle, in their harem no less?” Her words dripped with envy, her eyes glinting despite her pain.
Mu Qing’s jaw tightened, but his hands remained steady, slicing with surgical precision. “Don’t speak of things you don’t understand,” He said quietly, his tone sharp with suppressed shame, “That part of my past is no triumph, it’s a stain I bear, not a crown.” The air crackled with their shared history, old wounds of hierarchy and Xianle’s fall resurfacing.
Jian Lan’s lips curled, but another contraction silenced her retort. Mu Qing, undeterred, continued the procedure, his focus unyielding. “Who’s the father of this child?” He asked, his voice low as he worked to free the baby.
Jian Lan’s silence was defiant, her eyes narrowing as she refused to answer. Mu Qing didn’t press, and returned to his task.
“Keep breathing,” He said calmly, his focus unwavering despite her pained gasps. As he extracted the infant, his tiny form radiated an unnatural heat, a mark of the malicious spirit’s influence. Before Mu Qing could react, the newborn’s mouth clamped onto his arm, tiny teeth biting with surprising force! Mu Qing winced, the malicious spirit-baby let out an insidious wail. With swift, practiced movements, he ensnared the thrashing, spectral infant within a consecrated cloth, the divine weave instantly quelling his unholy cries. The struggle had been fierce, but Mu Qing had prevailed, the wicked essence of this malicious baby now bound, awaiting proper confinement.
Mu Qing completed the caesarean, stitching Jian Lan’s wound with the same care he’d shown in Shen Yi’s class, ensuring her pain was minimal and the stitches were very neat. After finishing, Mu Qing looked at the stitches for a moment while subconsciously touching his lower abdomen, a far cry from what he had received during Lang Yang’s birth.
The shack’s oppressive atmosphere lingered, mirroring the taint in the baby’s eerie warmth.
Once he ensured everything was in order, he turned to take the infant to the heavenly realm, only to find him wriggled free with unnatural speed, his tiny form darting into the shadows of the shack and vanishing.
Mu Qing’s eyes widened, but Jian Lan gripped his wrist, stopping him from pursuing immediately. “Find him,” She gasped, her voice breaking, “His name… Cuò Cuò (错错)… it was my mistake… o–our mistake…”[206] Her eyes fluttered, and she collapsed into unconsciousness, her body limp against the dirty cot.
Mu Qing hesitated, then rushed out, searching Tiancheng’s outskirts for Cuo Cuo. The city was cloaked in a sinister aura, wisps of malevolent energy curling through the air like smoke, but the infant was gone, as if consumed by the spirit’s influence.
Mu Qing scoured the alleys, forests, and riverbanks, his divine senses straining for any sign of the child’s unnatural heat, but found only lingering traces of the malicious spirit’s influence.
Hours turned to days, and Cuo Cuo was gone, as if swallowed by the darkness that birthed him.
...
..
.
In the weeks that followed, Mu Qing returned to the shack to check on Jian Lan, whose spirit had shattered. She lay listless, her once-vibrant face hollowed by despair. At first, she rejected him, her voice sharp with resentment. “GET OUT!” She snapped, turning away, “I DON’T NEED YOUR PITY.”
Mu Qing, undeterred, brought elixirs to ease her pain and food to sustain her frail body. “I’m not here for pity,” He said evenly, setting a bowl of broth beside her, “I’m here because I couldn’t save him.”
Jian Lan’s eyes flashed, her words biting, “You! Always you! Feng Xin couldn’t stop talking about you, you know—Mu Qing this, Mu Qing that!” Her voice dripped with jealousy, recalling moments in the House of Saffron Veils when Feng Xin’s admiration for Mu Qing stung her. “He thought you were so devoted, so clever. Made me sick!”
Mu Qing stiffened, he eventually figured out that Feng Xin had met her at some point. His last moment with Feng Xin was a sore wound, but he stayed silent, tending her wounds with steady hands. “I never asked for his praise,” He said at last, his tone low, “...or anyone’s.”
...
..
.
As months passed, Mu Qing’s quiet persistence wore down Jian Lan’s defences. He visited between his duty as medical deputy, and his investigation of Cuo Cuo, which yielded only traces of Tiancheng’s malevolent aura—cursed winds and shadowed figures plaguing the city. Jian Lan, weakened by depression and the lingering taint of carrying Cuo Cuo, began to soften.
One evening, as Mu Qing bandaged her trembling hands, she looked at him, her gaze softer. “I get it now,” She murmured, “Why Feng Xin kept talking about you. You don’t give up, do you? Even on someone like me.”
Mu Qing paused, meeting her eyes. “I failed you once,” He said simply, “I won’t again.”
The city sparkled with celebration, banners fluttering as his father, freshly ascended to the throne, led a grand convoy through the streets. Xie Lian, barely seven, adorned in golden robes too heavy for his small frame, rode beside his parents, waving to cheering crowds. But the celebration bored him, the town square’s endless ceremonies dragging on. He had always been within the palace, and any time he ventured out, their route was fixed. What he really wanted was to freely explore the royal capital by himself. Restless, he slipped away from his guards, darting through alleys until he reached the slums, his curiosity outweighing caution.
He was almost kidnapped until a little girl, no older than him, had saved him. He was having a great time with the girl, but it was a little unfortunate as Captain Feng, his father’s stern bodyguard, arrived before he could learn her name. Feng Min’s face was taut with panic as he gripped Xie Lian’s arm, leading him back to the convoy. In the town square, Xie Lian’s mother enveloped him in a tear-soaked embrace, her sobs muffled against his hair.
“My son, you’re safe,” She whispered, her relief palpable. But his father, the king, stood rigid, his eyes cold. He snorted, a sound Xie Lian had never heard, and the boy flinched, a flicker of fear sparking at this unfamiliar side of his father.
Back at the palace, his father summoned them to the royal hall, its jade pillars looming over Xie Lian, the king, Captain Feng, and his son, Feng Xin.
The king’s voice thundered, sharp as a blade, “Feng Min, how could my son—the Crown Prince—slip from your son’s watch!?”
Feng Min, head bowed as a loyal servant, knelt in apology. “Your Majesty, we have failed you,” He said, his voice steady but heavy. He turned to Feng Xin, ordering, “Apologise, son.”
Feng Xin, pale but obedient, knelt beside his father, murmuring, “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
The king’s gaze darkened, “Words are not enough. Punish your son, Feng Min—here, before us!”
Xie Lian’s stomach dropped as Feng Min, without hesitation, drew a bamboo rod, the traditional tool for discipline in Xianle’s court. Feng Xin braced himself, and the first strike landed with a sharp crack, his face twisting but silent.
Xie Lian’s heart raced, guilt flooding him. “STOP!” He cried, rushing forward, “Father, it’s my fault! I ran off—punish me, not him!” His voice broke, pleading, but the king’s expression remained unyielding.
“You are the Crown Prince now, my son!” His father said coldly, “This is no longer a game, see? As a royal, this is one of the consequences of your actions, and you must learn your duty to your subjects—as I uphold mine.”
Another strike fell, Feng Xin’s shoulders trembling, and Xie Lian’s eyes stung with tears, his small hands clenched. He wanted to scream that it was his mistake, his childish whim, but his father’s words pinned him; duty, responsibility, the weight of a crown he barely understood.
The dream blurred, the hall’s jade pillars dissolving as Xie Lian jolted awake in a dilapidated shrine on the outskirts of a village, his cheeks wet with tears, the dust clinging to his tattered robes. The memory of Feng Xin’s punishment burned, layering fresh guilt atop his remorse; his kingdom’s ruin, his parents’ deaths, and now the fresh sting of Mu Qing’s words at the Crown Prince Summit. His accusation, that his parents’ corruption doomed Xianle, cut deeper than Xie Lian cared to admit, layering guilt atop old wounds. Those deputy gods, with their sneering gossip about his scandals, had long since abandoned the Summit, but their mockery echoed in his mind. He told himself his reputation was long shattered since his kingdom’s fall, yet the public humiliation gnawed at his heart, a quiet ache he couldn’t shake.
The shrine’s silence was oppressive, broken only by the creak of rotting beams. Xie Lian’s gaze fell to the scroll tube Mu Qing had thrown at him during their heated exchange. “Read it! Judge your precious parents yourself,” Mu Qing had said, his voice sharp with something like pity or disdain.
Xie Lian’s hands trembled as he clutched the tube, his heart a tangle of dread and longing. The Summit loomed in his memory, a place of divine splendour he couldn’t face again, that place tainted by trauma and betrayal. Mu Qing’s words replayed cruelly;
“Your parents were vile, power-hungry, deceitful, no better than corrupt nobles. They orchestrated my family’s downfall—my father’s death, MY SHAME!”
“And your father… he defiled me with his spawn, stripped my honour, left me tainted!”
Xie Lian’s guilt surged, he had failed Mu Qing, failed Xianle, failed everyone, everything! Yet the scroll tube, the remaining link to his mother, called to him.
He traced the seal with a shaking finger, the sun’s dim light cast shadows across his face, mirroring the turmoil within. Steeling himself, Xie Lian unrolled the scroll, its parchment fragile but glowing faintly with a warmth that felt like her presence. He recognised his mother’s handwriting, and the words gradually blurred through his tears as he began to read.
“Mother…” His voice cracked, a single tear tracing down his cheek.
Over three years, Jian Lan’s condition worsened. The taint of Cuo Cuo’s birth and her grief aged her rapidly, her hair greyed, her skin wrinkled, her body frail. Though physically healed, she never recovered.
Mu Qing continued his care, but her life ebbed like a fading ember. One night, she whispered, “Thank you… for trying...” before slipping away. The loss of Cuo Cuo, coupled with the lingering taint of carrying a malicious spirit-touched child, crushed her spirit. She died quietly in a Tiancheng hovel, her life extinguished like a candle burned too fast.
Mu Qing visited her grave, he had buried her under a barren tree, marked with a simple stone. The malevolent aura of Tiancheng still lingering.
Her whispered “our mistake” echoed in his mind, each syllable a weight on his heart. He had saved her from childbirth but failed to save her spirit or her child. The failure gnawed at him, a reminder of Xianle’s fall and his own limits.
Kneeling briefly, Mu Qing pressed a hand to the earth, his sorrow silent but deep. “I couldn’t save you,” He whispered, “...or him.”
Rising, he turned back to his duties, carrying the ache of Jian Lan’s loss like a scar, vowing to search for Cuo Cuo until the heavens themselves offered answers.
In the dusty outskirts of Tiancheng, where the air hummed faintly with an unsettling aura, Song Xiao trudged along a winding path, his cultivator’s robes frayed from years of wandering. Once a comrade of Hong'er during the Xianle civil war, he carried the weight of his friend’s tragic death five years prior, a wound that time refused to heal. News of Yong'an’s king—the usurper who toppled Xianle—dying had reached him, but it brought no solace. Song Xiao, now a solitary cultivator, spent his days in meditation and acts of kindness, seeking redemption in a world that had crumbled around him. Tiancheng was merely a stopover, a place to rest for a few nights before moving on. He lodged at a modest inn run by an elderly auntie and a young woman he assumed was her daughter.
Song Xiao had stayed long enough to see guests come and go, their faces blurring into the rhythm of the inn’s creaking walls. His room, though comfortable, strained his meagre funds, so when a smaller, cheaper room became available, vacated only that morning, he decided to move.
At the inn’s lobby, he approached the young woman behind the counter, her hands busy polishing a tray. She glanced up, her eyes warm from days of seeing him around. “You’re the quiet one, aren’t you?” She said, smiling. “I’m Chen Yang, by the way. Not the auntie’s daughter—just a worker here.”
Song Xiao, usually reserved, nodded politely, introducing himself, “Song Xiao, just passing through.” Their small talk flowed easily, the first real conversation he’d had in weeks.
When he mentioned Xianle, Chen Yang’s expression shifted, a flicker of nostalgia and pain. “You know about it?” She asked.
Song Xiao nodded, his voice soft, “I fought in its war. Lost a friend there... Hong'er.”
Chen Yang’s eyes softened, and she shared her own past; “I was a personal attendant to Concubine Mu in Xianle’s palace.”
“The one famous for being a very stunning ‘kunze’, right!?” And the cold deputy who kicked us back then, Song Xiao mused. Chen Yang affirmed this, but Song Xiao, curious, further inquired, “But how did you end up here, so far from Xianle?”
Chen Yang sighed, her voice tinged with sorrow, “Lang Ying brought me here—or rather, spirited me away. Exiled, you could say, after the palace fell,” She paused, her fingers tightening on the tray. “I wonder about Zhuzi and his children. I failed to protect them, especially Her Highness. I pray they’re safe.”
Song Xiao’s heart stirred at the mention of them, memories of Xianle’s fall resurfacing. “I crossed paths with The Heavenly Crown Prince some years ago,” He offered, “He was with his family, including a lively child named Yao Yao, healthy and bright. That’s the last I heard.”
Chen Yang’s shoulders relaxed, a faint smile breaking through her grief. “That’s great,” She chimed, her relief palpable.
Outside, the sky was filled with dark, ominous clouds, and thunder rumbled loudly. The wind carried a faint, malevolent hum—Tiancheng’s cursed aura, unnoticed by the two but stirring in the city’s shadows.
The conversation between Song Xiao and Chen Yang in the inn’s lobby flowed warmly, their shared memories of Xianle bridging years of loss.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and a young woman limped toward them, her movements jerky, her sclera blood-red, and her gaze hollow.
Chen Yang, sensing trouble, approached cautiously. “Are you alright?” She asked, her voice gentle.
The woman’s head snapped up, and in a flash, she lunged, a hairpin gleaming as she aimed for Chen Yang’s throat. Chen Yang, honed by her master’s self-defence training in Xianle’s palace, reacted swiftly, twisting the woman’s wrist and knocking the hairpin to the floor with a clatter.
Song Xiao sprang forward, striking the woman’s head from behind to subdue her, but she didn’t faint. Instead, she snarled, clawing at him with unnatural strength. Song Xiao pinned her down, his cultivator’s senses flaring. “She’s possessed,” He said, recognising the malevolent aura. Chanting Taoist incantations, he channeled spiritual energy into her, his hands glowing as he purged the evil influence. The woman convulsed, then slumped, regaining consciousness with a bewildered gasp.
“What happened?” Chen Yang asked, her voice tense. Before Song Xiao could answer, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the inn’s upper floor.
They raced upstairs, bursting into a family suite where a horrific scene unfolded. A young boy, no older than ten, shrieked in terror as his father, eyes glowing red, slaughtered his mother, sister, and brother with a bloodied dagger. The boy’s plea—“HELP!”—was cut short as his father turned on him, ending his life with a brutal strike.
Song Xiao froze, horrified. “What madness is this!?” He gasped.
“LOOK OUT!” Chen Yang shouted as the man charged at Song Xiao, dagger raised.
Song Xiao dodged, grappling the possessed man and forcing him to the floor. With another incantation, he purged the malevolent aura, the man’s eyes clearing as he collapsed.
Awakening, the man saw his family’s lifeless bodies and let out a guttural wail, his hands trembling over the blood on them.
Chen Yang stepped forward to comfort him, but in a spasm of despair, the man seized the dagger and plunged it into his own heart, collapsing lifelessly. Song Xiao, shaken, knelt to close the man’s eyes, whispering a prayer for his soul’s peace.
Before they could process the tragedy, doors along the corridor swung open, revealing other inn guests—blood-soaked, red-eyed, and possessed—staggering toward them.
“They’ve killed their companions,” Chen Yang whispered, her voice tight with fear. Song Xiao’s heart raced; the sheer number overwhelmed them. “We have to get out!” He urged, grabbing her arm.
They fought through the crowd, Song Xiao’s sheathed sword cracking against limbs, unwilling to unsheathe it and hurt the possessed people. Chen Yang’s agility kept her alive, but the possessed closed in, their snarls echoing.
As hope waned, a surge of spiritual energy blasted through the inn, hurling the possessed to the floor, unconscious. Two figures emerged from the fading light—deputy gods, their robes shimmering with divine power. The first, a martial deputy god with a broadsword, scanned the scene. “Are you unharmed?” He asked, his voice commanding. Behind him stood another deputy in dark indigo robes, his expression sharp yet stunned. His eyes locked onto Chen Yang, recognition dawning. “Chen Yang?” He said, his voice catching, disbelief mingling with relief at seeing his former personal attendant from Xianle’s palace.
Chen Yang’s breath hitched, tears welling as she whispered, “Z–Zhuzi...” The reunion was cut short by a distant tremor, the malevolent aura pulsing stronger as she stared at Mu Qing, her former master from Xianle’s palace. A flood of questions surged; What had become of Mu Qing after Xianle’s fall? Were his children safe? The king and queen? And The Heavenly Crown Prince?
Mu Qing’s expression softened, a rare vulnerability flickering, but before he could speak, the martial deputy god beside him cut in. “Reunions can wait,” He said gruffly, “We’ve a mess to clean up first.”
Mu Qing nodded, his focus sharpening. “Later, Chen Yang,” He promised, his voice steady.
Ensuring the second floor was secure for now, the group descended to the ground floor. A crowd of possessed inn guests awaited, their blood-red sclera and jerky movements betraying the curse.
The martial deputy scanned the trio, “Who among you can fight?” To his surprise, all three raised their hands, including Chen Yang, her jaw set, and Mu Qing, his medical expertise belied by a glint of combat readiness. The deputy grinned, muttering, “Better than expected.” He tossed a sword to Mu Qing, who caught it with a spark of delight. His borrowed blade from Zhu An had been long returned after its one-year loan, leaving him weaponless until now.
Noticing Song Xiao’s own sword, the deputy turned to Chen Yang, “Got a weapon?”
She hesitated, then said, “A staff or spear would suit me best.”
The deputy’s eyes glazed briefly, as if accessing a Spiritual Communication Array. Moments later, his hand glowed, summoning a sleek spear from thin air. Handing it to Chen Yang, he smirked, “On loan from my lord, General Ming Guang. He sends his regards to Deputy Mu.”
Mu Qing rolled his eyes, prompting a stifled chuckle from Chen Yang despite the tension.
The possessed crowd lurched closer, their guttural snarls echoing. The martial deputy barked, “DON’T KILL THEM—DISABLE ONLY!” The four sprang into action, a whirlwind of steel and skill.
Song Xiao’s blade danced, parrying clawing hands and striking joints to topple foes.
Chen Yang wielded her spear with palace-honed precision, its shaft cracking against knees and shoulders, knocking out the possessed guests without lethal force.
Mu Qing, wielding the borrowed sword, moved like a tempest, his strikes precise yet restrained, disarming and tripping opponents with medical accuracy.
The martial deputy led the charge, his broadsword a blur, knocking back waves of attackers with controlled force.
Amid the chaos, a possessed guest slashed Song Xiao’s arm, blood welling! He grunted, staggering, but Mu Qing was at his side in an instant, his free hand glowing with healing energy. Pressing it to the wound, Mu Qing sealed the gash with a faint shimmer, his focus unwavering even as he parried another attack. “Stay sharp!” He said curtly.
Song Xiao, catching his breath, managed a grateful, “Thanks.” They rejoined the fray, the inn’s lobby a battlefield of flashing weapons and falling bodies, the malicious aura pulsing stronger with each foe subdued.
As the last possessed guest collapsed, disabled but alive, the four stood panting, the air heavy with lingering malice. Mu Qing’s gaze met Chen Yang’s, their unspoken reunion hanging between them. Song Xiao, clutching his healed arm, sensed the aura’s source deepening towards the yard.
The martial deputy sheathed his sword, nodding at the group, “Good work. But this isn’t over.”
The four stumbled out of the inn into its sprawling courtyard, the air thick with malevolent aura. A guttural wail echoed from a nearby warehouse, and Song Xiao, gripping his sword, cautiously approached.
As he kicked the door open, he saw the elderly innkeeper auntie huddled in the shadows, trembling. She rushed forward, embracing Chen Yang with a sob of relief. “You’re safe!” She cried, her voice quivering.
Chen Yang, equally relieved, hugged her back, but in a flash, the auntie’s face twisted, her sclera glowing red. A knife gleamed in her hand, plunging into Chen Yang’s chest.
Chen Yang gasped, collapsing as Mu Qing caught her. “Hold on!” He urged, his hands glowing with healing energy as he pressed them to the wound.
Song Xiao and the martial deputy lunged at the possessed auntie who ran to the yard, thrashing with unnatural strength. The malevolent spirit within her was ferocious, far stronger than the others, and her body began to crack under its power, veins bulging grotesquely. With a sickening lurch, her form exploded in a burst of dark mist, leaving the group stunned.
Chen Yang, clutching Mu Qing’s arm, whispered, “No…”
From the auntie’s ruptured abdomen emerged a monstrous figure—a towering evil fetus spirit, its grotesque form pulsing with tainted aura.
Mu Qing’s eyes widened. “Cuo Cuo...” He breathed, recognising the child he’d failed to save for Jian Lan.
The martial deputy and Song Xiao charged, their blades flashing in a furious dance. The martial deputy’s broadsword carved arcs of light, while Song Xiao’s precise strikes aimed to cripple, not kill.
Cuo Cuo’s spirit roared, its limbs lashing like whips, shattering the courtyard’s stone tiles.
Mu Qing focused on Chen Yang, his healing energy stabilising her. “The knife missed your heart,” He said, relief flickering as he sealed the wound.
Chen Yang, pale but stubborn, tried to stand, gripping her spear. “I can fight,” She insisted.
Mu Qing’s sharp tongue cut through, “You’re not healed, don’t be a burden!” His words stung, but he softened, adding, “Check the surroundings. Keep others safe.”
Chen Yang nodded, limping to secure the area.
Song Xiao cried out, a gash opening on his shoulder as Cuo Cuo’s claw struck! Mu Qing darted to him, applying a quick healing salve, his hands steady despite the chaos.
“Thanks,” Song Xiao grunted, rejoining the fray. The martial deputy, however, took a brutal hit, blood pooling from a deep wound as he staggered. Mu Qing, torn, tossed him a glowing tonic vial. “USE IT!” He shouted, trusting Chen Yang to assist later. He couldn’t let Song Xiao face Cuo Cuo alone.
Mu Qing hesitated, his promise to Jian Lan, to find Cuo Cuo and not harm him, clashing with the need to stop the monster. Steeling himself, he joined Song Xiao, their swords clashing against Cuo Cuo’s writhing form. “Song Xiao, listen to me!” Mu Qing said, his voice urgent, “You’re a daoist cultivator, and I was... too... So how about we combine our energy to purify his aura?”
Song Xiao nodded.
But doubt gnawed at Mu Qing—his celibacy, broken long ago by the king, had weakened his cultivation, or so he feared. Closing his eyes, he prayed to the Heavenly Emperor, seeking strength.
And soon, a warmth surged within, a radiant energy pooling in his core, defying his self-doubt.
Together, Mu Qing and Song Xiao channeled their combined spiritual energy, their glowing swords weaving a radiant array that battered Cuo Cuo’s evil fetus spirit. The monstrous form shrank, its dark aura flickering, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed subdued. Chen Yang, guarding the perimeter despite her injury, exhaled in relief.
But the respite was a cruel deception! Cuo Cuo’s eyes blazed red, its shrunken form swelling with renewed malice. It lashed out, claws raking the air, forcing Mu Qing and Song Xiao back as their lives hung in peril.
At that critical moment, the martial deputy, bloodied and staggering from his wounds, roared and charged. His broadsword plunged into Cuo Cuo’s core from behind, a blinding burst of spiritual energy erupting. “GO!” He shouted, his voice breaking as the spirit’s aura consumed him. The deputy collapsed, lifeless, his sacrifice tearing a shocked gasp from Mu Qing, Song Xiao, and Chen Yang.
The blow had weakened Cuo Cuo, creating a vital opening. Seizing the moment, Mu Qing and Song Xiao unleashed a final, synchronised array, their energies merging in a golden torrent that overwhelmed the spirit. Cuo Cuo shrieked, shrinking into a small, infant-like form, its malice dimmed but not extinguished.
Mu Qing lunged to capture the child, honoring his promise to Jian Lan, but Cuo Cuo’s form flickered, reverting to a low-level evil fetus spirit. It scuttled into the shadows, escaping once more. “Damn it!” Mu Qing muttered, frustration tightening his jaw.
He turned to the martial deputy, hoping to heal him, but knelt beside the body and found no pulse. The deputy’s sacrifice weighed heavily, his sword still clutched in a rigid hand. Mu Qing’s hand hovered, then fell, his medical skills useless against death. Chen Yang, tears streaming, whispered, “He saved us…” Song Xiao, clutching his healed shoulder, bowed his head in respect.
Mu Qing rose, intending to contact Pei Ming via Spiritual Communication Array to report the deputy’s death, but a chilling hum stopped him. Resentful spirits, remnants of Cuo Cuo’s plague, lingered in the inn and beyond, their malice seeping into Tiancheng’s outskirts.
“We’re not done,” Mu Qing said, his voice resolute. He began a purification ritual, chanting Taoist incantations as he traced glowing arrays in the air.
Song Xiao joined, their combined cultivation dispersing the dark wisps, calming the surviving inn guests and nearby townsfolk. Chen Yang, still weak, guarded the perimeter, her spear ready despite Mu Qing’s earlier sharp words.
As the final resentful spirit dissolved, a deafening rumble split the sky. Lightning crackled, illuminating the courtyard in a fiery blaze. A blinding bolt struck Mu Qing directly, and Chen Yang and Song Xiao screamed, “NO!”—fearing he was incinerated.
But as the smoke dissolved, Mu Qing stood unharmed, his robes billowing, a radiant aura enveloping him.
The heavens torn open, a shimmering rift revealing the Heavenly Realm. Jun Wu’s voice boomed, resonant and divine; “Deputy Mu, you have proven your valour. By your own merit, you ascend as a martial god!”
Chen Yang and Song Xiao gaped, shock giving way to awe as Mu Qing’s form glowed, his borrowed sword now a divine sabre in his grasp. He turned to Chen Yang, meeting her tearful gaze, their reunion now layered with his new divine status.
The inn’s courtyard glowed with residual divine light, the rift in the sky still shimmering as Jun Wu’s voice echoed, proclaiming Mu Qing’s ascension. His silhouette was framed by the Heavenly Realm’s golden haze, and he beckoned, “Rise, Mu Qing, and take your place among the heavens.”
Mu Qing, his expression composed yet resolute, stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Shenwu Dadi,” He said, his voice carrying the measured courtesy of one newly ascended, “...as a god of the Upper Court, am I not entitled to appoint deputies?”
Jun Wu’s eyes gleamed with approval, “Indeed, you are.”
Without hesitation, Mu Qing turned to Chen Yang and Song Xiao, their faces etched with shock. “I choose them,” He declared, his tone unwavering, “Chen Yang, my former attendant, and Song Xiao, a cultivator of unmatched valour. They stood by me through this chaos, and I trust no others to serve as my deputies.”
Chen Yang’s breath caught, her hand trembling over her bandaged chest, while Song Xiao’s grip tightened on his bloodied sword, disbelief mingling with pride. “Zhu–Zhuzi…” Chen Yang whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Song Xiao, ever stoic, bowed, his eyes shining with resolve.
Jun Wu’s lips curved into a serene smile, “Very well. Chen Yang, Song Xiao... welcome to the Heavenly Realm.” The rift widened, a celestial bridge of light unfurling, and Mu Qing, with a nod to his chosen deputies, led them upward, leaving the mortal earth behind.
..
.
In the Heavenly Realm’s Grand Celestial Hall, a vast chamber of jade pillars and shimmering clouds, the investiture ceremony began. Gods of the Upper and Middle Courts gathered, their robes aglow with divine energy, murmuring about the medical deputy who had defied fate. A celestial altar, carved with dragons and phoenixes, stood at the hall’s heart, its surface inscribed with ancient runes that pulsed with spiritual power. Mu Qing knelt before it, Chen Yang and Song Xiao flanking him, their mortal forms now touched by divine grace.
Jun Wu, seated on a throne of white jade, raised a golden sceptre, its light casting constellations across the hall. “Deputy Mu,” He intoned, his voice resonating like a heavenly bell, “your journey—shrouded in mystery, marked by sacrifice—has unveiled the truths. For this, I name you ‘Xuan Zhen’, General of the South, guardian of the southern territories.”
The name, ‘Enigmatic Truth’ rippled through the assembly, a testament to Mu Qing’s path from Xianle’s servant to divine warrior. Jun Wu’s sceptre descended, touching Mu Qing’s brow, and a surge of divine energy enveloped him, his robes transforming a resplendent black mantle, dramatically accented with vibrant crimson, revealing myriad shimmering silver stars intricately embroidered across the dark fabric, alongside fluid, swirling clouds that seemed to writhe and twist as if alive.
Turning to Chen Yang, Jun Wu summoned ‘podao’, a light glaive with a crescent blade, its shaft etched with phoenix motifs, “Chen Yang, loyal and fierce, wield this Phoenix Crescent as Xuan Zhen’s deputy.” Chen Yang accepted it, her hands steady despite her awe, the weapon humming with spiritual energy.
For Song Xiao, Jun Wu presented a double-edged ‘jian sword’, its blade shimmering with a faint azure glow, inscribed with runes of clarity, “Song Xiao, steadfast cultivator, let this Starlit Edge guide your path.” Song Xiao bowed, the sword’s weight a vow to honor his fallen friend Hong'er and Mu Qing’s trust.
The ceremony culminated in a ritual offering; Mu Qing placed a jade talisman on the altar, symbolising his oath to the heavens. Celestial incense burned, its fragrance mingling with divine chants as the runes flared, sealing his ascension. The gods applauded, their voices a chorus of approval, though whispers of him being the first kunze ascended as a martial god and Chen Yang being the first woman to be appointed as a martial deputy. Mu Qing rose as Xuan Zhen, his gaze meeting Chen Yang’s tearful pride and Song Xiao’s quiet resolve, their bond forged in battle now eternal.
As Xuan Zhen stood tall in the heavens, the cosmos whispered of trials yet to come. The truth emerged from the enigma, and the heavens welcomed a new guardian.
END OF PART 1
FOOTNOTES:
[205]it means "sugar capital", an other name to Nèijiāng (內江), a prefecture-level city in the southeast of Sichuan province, located southeast of Meishan.
[206]she meant Feng Xin and herself.
A/N:
Zhuzi = how servants refer to their immediate lords/mistresses.
Shenwu Dadi = Heavenly Martial Emperor.
For the time being, the southern region is handled by Mu Qing completely, later shared with Feng Xin in part 2.
Finally part 1 is finished with Mu Qing's ascension. If I continue here again until it ends, it could take hundreds of chapters, so I decided to end it here and split it into several parts. Thus, Mu Qing's story in this AU is far from “finished”...
I am very grateful to those of you who have been reading and enjoying my fanfic until the end. Part 2 will start with Mu Qing's days as Xuan Zhen until Xie Lian's third ascension. So many more canon characters will start to appear there.
P.S.:
I'm currently marathon watching "Payitaht Abdülhamid", the political intrigue is exciting.