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Chapter Text

Xie Lian sat upon the costly bed as though carved from porcelain itself—dazzling in beauty, yet so unnervingly perfect that the very stillness of his figure seemed unnatural, like a deity sculpted too finely ever to bleed.

The silken robes upon him shifted with the faintest movement, the delicate fabric slipping from one narrow shoulder to reveal the fragile lines of bone beneath. What he wore bore a striking resemblance to the ceremonial attire of the Shangyuan Festival long past—a refined variation of the vestments once belonging to the Flower-Crowned Martial God. In his homeland, where the doctrine of harmony between yin and yang shaped every ritual, those garments had been altered with care: the rigidity of a warrior’s attire softened by flowing lines, the austerity of masculine tailoring tempered by the grace of the feminine, until martial dignity and serene beauty wove together into something entirely new.

The result was strange and wondrous at once. Not the solemn majesty of a heavenly general, nor the drifting purity of a celestial maiden, but something suspended in that fragile space between the two—so delicate it seemed a single breath too sharp might unravel the vision.

Then, with a soft, deliberate creak, the door opened.

The man who entered was arresting in a very different way.

He towered above, his presence filling the chamber with a weight that left no corner untouched. His own robes echoed the same ceremonial lineage, yet they had been altered not for grace but for strength—reinforced with armor that pressed against the breadth of his shoulders and the frame of a body honed by battle. Where Xie Lian on the bed resembled moonlight, luminous yet untouchable, the man before him seemed wrought from dusk and iron, the embodied shadow to that fragile radiance

Xie Lian’s honey-gold eyes lifted at last, meeting the figure before him.

What he found there was not warmth.
It was a gaze of cold, wintry silver—steady, expressionless, and utterly unreadable.

With his hands folded neatly behind his back, the man stepped forward with the quiet authority of one who had never once needed to ask permission to command attention. It was none other than the Heavenly Emperor—Jun Wu.

He reached out and brushed the boy’s face with a hand that carried no tenderness. Xie Lian sat motionless beneath the touch, as silent and still as a porcelain doll—so still it seemed as though the very breath of life had been drained from him.

But the moment that cold hand grazed his cheek, he turned his head sharply away. Jun Wu only regarded the reaction with the faintest glimmer of amusement before tugging with idle ease at the overlapping folds of his ceremonial robes.

“So many layers,” he murmured. “At least they keep you from straying too far. A pity, though—you’ve lost your spirit.”

Xie Lian’s lips curved into the faintest, bitterest smile as his gaze flicked back in disbelief. His voice, though quiet, carried the sharp edge of contempt.

“…Wasn’t this doll act your idea in the first place? Or have you grown so old you’ve already forgotten?”

The sound came swift and merciless.

Crack.

The slap struck hard enough to whip his head to the side, a sharp sting blooming across his cheek as though fire had blossomed beneath the skin. His vision swam, the edges blurring, and before he could stop them, tears rose hot to his eyes. He did not bother to hide them. Jun Wu would strike him again and again until he broke—so what difference did it make to let them fall now? If anything, it might shorten the torment.

Silent trails of silver slid down the pale expanse of his face, each one catching the light as it passed over the vivid red print of Jun Wu’s hand. It was a terrible sight—raw, humiliating, and yet haunting in its fragile beauty.

The same hand that had struck him returned once more, this time pinching his chin between unforgiving fingers. Jun Wu tilted his face up, studying the flushed skin with a quiet, almost satisfied calm, as though contemplating the finishing stroke of a painting. Then his thumb pressed deliberately into the swelling, savoring the wince that twisted Xie Lian’s features.

A faint smile touched the corners of the emperor’s mouth. Only then did he release him.

“Xianle,” he said gently, almost coaxing, “mind your tongue. You would do well not to forget the position you’re in.”

The position he was in… yes, it could not possibly have been worse.

Perhaps everything had gone wrong the moment he had crossed paths with Mei Nianqing once more.

“So what if you’re not a god? Then you’re not. That’s all.”

What expression had crossed Jun Wu’s face at those words?

Xie Lian thought he understood now—that subtle shift, that faintly unreadable look. Mei Nianqing had spoken so little, and yet it had been enough to unravel the last threads holding everything together. The Wuyong Crown Prince, the Human Face Disease, Bai Wuxiang… and in the end, nothing but Jun Wu himself.

What had he felt in that moment? Anger, perhaps. A desperate urge to deny it. Or maybe sorrow—sharp, bitter, hollow. He could not even say whom he felt betrayed more: Mei Nianqing, for seeing through the veil and letting the truth fall bare, or Jun Wu, for weaving the nightmare in the first place.

His thoughts scattered like ash in the wind. And yet, through the dizziness and the sting still burning across his face, he forced out a single word, quiet as a broken prayer.

“…Why?”

His goushi taught him that a crown prince must be benevolent and graceful to their people. Xie Lian, with the innocent faith of someone who had not yet tasted betrayal, had believed every word. He believed that his teacher had chosen him not out of duty or necessity, but because he cherished him, because he saw in him something worth guiding and nurturing. He had trusted him as deeply as he had ever trusted his own parents—perhaps even more—and every vow he made, every path he walked toward becoming the god who would never abandon his people, had been taken with the simple hope that Mei Nianqing would be proud. That he would see, and understand, and approve.

And yet now, he no longer knew what to believe.

Had it all been false from the very start? Was he nothing more than a tool, shaped and sharpened for another man’s purpose? Had his devotion been nothing but dust in the wind?

No. He could not think so. He would not.

Surely not everything had been a lie. Surely Mei Nianqing must have meant some part of what he said.

After all, he too was trapped now—caught in Jun Wu’s grasp as securely as Xie Lian himself. Resist or submit, fight or yield, it made no difference. They were both already ensnared, mice tangled in a net too strong to tear apart. And even if bitterness had begun to coil cold and sharp within him, Xie Lian could not cast aside the one figure in this vast and hollow Heavenly Court who might still hold a fragment of care for him. Even if he kept silent. Even if he did nothing.

So he held his tongue.

Instead, he fixed his gaze on the hand gripping his chin, as though sheer defiance alone might be enough to break the fingers holding him like a wayward pet. His eyes burned—not with the fury of one who believed he might prevail, but with the raw refusal of an animal that will not kneel, even as it is driven toward slaughter.

Jun Wu’s lips curved.

It was a warm, familiar smile—the very same that had greeted him when he was seventeen, when a sword was first placed in his hands, when someone had called him remarkable and told him he could change the world. And for a breathless instant, the years collapsed into one another, the past and present cutting across his mind with such violent sharpness it left him reeling.

And before the bitterness could even take its full shape in his chest, Jun Wu let him go.

He turned toward the heavy doors and said, with the weightless authority of someone who never needed to raise his voice, “Come in.”

The doors opened with a soft creak.

A man stepped inside. He was tall, his build broad but composed, and though there was a certain stillness to his expression, his eyes were sharp beneath his lowered lashes. He had the look of someone who had learned how to conceal emotion—quiet, and controlled. He said nothing as he closed the door behind him and began walking forward, past Jun Wu’s golden robes and toward Xie Lian, who sat unmoving, dressed and posed like a doll meant for an altar.

There had been a time, long ago, when Xie Lian might have lifted his head with a smile. That time had vanished like mist at dawn.

It was Mu Qing who stood before him.

Even now, Xie Lian could not erase the memory of that day in the training ground—the way Mu Qing’s eyes had turned cold, distant, as though he stood across an uncrossable gulf. He remembered how one of the junior officials had carelessly spat out the word servant. He remembered the instant that word struck Mu Qing, how his gaze hardened like stone, how a flicker of shame crossed his face, and how something far harsher surfaced beneath it anger, sharp and unrelenting, pressed down only by the iron of his restraint.

That rage had not been directed at the officials. Instead, it had turned toward him. The saber Xie Lian had once placed into Mu Qing’s hands—offered with the clumsy sincerity of someone who thought he was giving a gift—was the very same blade now drawn against him, its edge catching the damp light of the mud-soaked earth.

He had tried to understand. He could have fought back. He could have crushed those thirty-three junior officials with nothing but his bare hands. Yet if quietly leaving would have truly lifted even a fraction of Mu Qing’s humiliation, he would have done it.

But when he saw Mu Qing freeze at that single word—servant—and when that fury, that shame, came striking out at him instead, all he could say was something pitiful, small, and unbearably human

“I came here first… You believe me, don’t you?”

Undignified though it was, desperate though it sounded, he had needed to say it. Because in that instant, he had never felt more alone.

And when the blade lifted, it did not pierce his flesh. It cut deeper, against something already cracked, already trembling within his chest, and shattered it clean.

Xie Lian had gathered those broken pieces, along with the ruined bundle of food, and left the training ground in silence.

Now, Mu Qing stood before him again.

And Xie Lian knew—whatever bond had once been there, he could never trust him the same way again. The thought pressed against his heart with a quiet, aching weight, and somehow that hurt most of all.

He did not lower his guard. His eyes, sharp and steady, remained fixed on Jun Wu.

Then, with the ease of someone setting a game into motion, Jun Wu said, “Begin.”

Mu Qing inclined his head. “Yes.”

He stepped forward and, without hesitation, reached for the folds of fabric around Xie Lian.

The sudden touch made Xie Lian’s body recoil on instinct. His muscles tensed, ready to strike, ready to drive his foot into Mu Qing’s shoulder and break it clean. But something in him faltered, a hesitation that stayed his hand. Instead, he pressed against him firmly with one palm, resisting without violence, unwilling to lash out—clinging still, even now, to the last fragile restraint he possessed

But then Jun Wu’s hand descended, light as a whisper, upon his shoulder.

In the space of a breath, his body froze; every muscle, every tendon locked in place as if a sheet of ice had surged through his veins and seized him whole. No matter how fiercely his mind screamed at his limbs to move, no matter how desperately he willed his body to resist, nothing answered. His throat constricted, his arms hung heavy, his legs rooted into the floor as if bound by chains he could not see. He could not move. He could not resist. He could not even speak.

And Mu Qing, before him, did not falter. His expression remained unreadable, his silence like a wall, and his hands moved with the clinical precision of one dismantling armor from a corpse. Piece by piece, layer by layer, the ceremonial robes slid loose beneath his fingers, each fold undone with a dispassionate ease, until the fabric fell soundlessly from Xie Lian’s shoulders, drifting to the floor like petals plucked one by one from a flower.

The touch was not cruel, yet it was worse for its emptiness. It carried no warmth, no intention beyond command fulfilled, and that very absence turned each brush of contact into something abhorrent. Horror spread through him like ink in water. He felt it then—the sensation of being bare against his will, of being touched without choice, of being exposed with no recourse to fight back. And with it, memory surged. That day—that day—the one that lingered no matter how much he tried to forget..

His voice cracked, trembling out of him in fragments he could scarcely control.
“Stop… stop it—stop! I said no! Let go of me—let me go!”

Once, long ago, Mu Qing’s hands had touched him in moments of service—never like this. He had stood as an attendant in Xianle Palace, wordless and dutiful, arranging the fall of his robes, preparing steaming water that filled the marble corridors with gentle mist, drawing a comb through hair damp from rain or exhaustion. Even in such proximity, even in such fragile intimacy, Mu Qing’s touch had never forced itself upon him. It had been necessity, not command; service, not subjugation.

But now—under Jun Wu’s orders, under his gaze that loomed like a shadow over the entire room—Mu Qing’s touch no longer belonged to those memories. It was stripped of gentleness, of choice, of everything that had once lent it trust. What remained was something colder, something alien, transformed by authority into violation.

And Jun Wu, seated with the composure of a sovereign watching an inevitable play, regarded the sight with an ease that made Xie Lian’s blood seethe. His tongue clicked softly against his teeth, a sound of shallow reproach, and his voice drifted through the air like false fondness, like the indulgence of a parent to a child too restless to obey.
“Be still, Xianle. It’s only a medical examination.”

The words ignited fire in his chest. A medical examination? Then why was he being stripped of his will along with his robes? Why had his body been locked into paralysis, his voice choked down his throat, his limbs rendered useless as if they no longer belonged to him? He burned to hurl those questions back, to cry out with all the force left in him—but his voice was already sealed away, swallowed by an unseen grip that denied him even that last shard of dignity.

His vision swam. He tried to move, to twist away from the hands that gripped his body, but he was still a puppet with cut strings. Mu Qing, unmoved and unreadable, knelt between his legs and began to press his knees apart. His hands were large and firm, easily spanning Xie Lian’s narrow thighs, and though his touch was not cruel, it was clinical and cold—too practiced to be truly impersonal. The skin beneath his fingers flushed immediately, reacting as it always had to pressure and heat, pale as jade and just as delicate, now marred by red marks that bloomed with every adjustment. Without hesitation, Mu Qing pushed aside the last sheer layer of clothing that still offered him modesty and placed his hand low on Xie Lian’s abdomen, just above the pelvic bone, where the body’s most guarded secrets lived. A faint chill emanated from the tool in his other hand—a thin, metallic instrument meant to probe.

Xie Lian lay there, unable to do anything but feel. Unable to protect himself, unable to even look away. One tear slipped out, slow and quiet, trailing down his cheek and disappearing into the fabric beneath his head.

When Jun Wu’s fingers tapped lightly against his shoulder, it was as though some unseen chain had been loosed, some silent spell dismissed. At once, his body was his again.

He drew his limbs in close, knees folding tight to his chest, his arms wrapping around himself as if to hold in what little dignity remained. He hunched low and small, trembling, shoulders curved forward, chin pressed to his collarbone, as though if he made himself slight enough—fragile enough—he might vanish from their sight altogether. His legs squeezed together, feet angled inward, his whole frame shrinking into a pitiful knot. He did not meet their eyes. He scarcely dared to breathe. Every rise and fall of his chest felt too loud, too shameful, as though the very sound might betray him.

Behind him, muted voices stirred—Jun Wu and Mu Qing, exchanging words too low for him to catch. Their tones wove together, one calm, one clipped, but all of it blurred into a muffled hum he could no longer follow. And then, abruptly, silence. A silence that pressed into his ears until it rang.

When Mu Qing spoke again, his voice was clear, flat, merciless in its restraint.
“It's confirmed your majesty. His highness is pregnant.”

The words did not land at once.

For a moment, Xie Lian sat there hollow, his head bowed, as though he had not heard at all. Then slowly, his lashes lifted, his eyes seeking Mu Qing’s face with blank confusion. The syllables reverberated in his skull, foreign and absurd, as though spoken in a tongue he had never learned. His mind stumbled, tripping over disbelief, tumbling through denial, until at last it seized on a single thought, jagged and impossible.

Pregnant?

Who?

…Me?

He stared at Mu Qing, gaze wide and disbelieving, as if horns had sprouted from his forehead or his flesh had split to reveal something monstrous beneath. His lips parted soundlessly, the air scraping his throat as though it, too, resisted. At last a single word cracked free, fragile as porcelain.

“…What…?”

Jun Wu moved then, slowly, deliberately, each step weighted with inevitability. He crouched beside him, the folds of his robe brushing against the filthy floor, and leaned close. A pale hand reached forward with grotesque tenderness, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Xie Lian’s ear. Then, unhurriedly, it drifted downward and settled upon the soft curve of his belly. The touch was almost gentle, almost reverent, the way a parent might soothe a frightened child.

But here—now—it was nothing but desecration.

Jun Wu’s voice was warm, too warm, the tone of comfort twisted into mockery by the horror of the truth it carried.

“There is a child inside you, Xianle.”

The words seemed to echo long after he had spoken them, spreading like cracks across glass, until Xie Lian could hear nothing else at all.

Xie Lian stared at him, unblinking.

A child? But that wasn’t possible.

He was an omega, yes, but he had ascended before his secondary gender could ever fully manifest. He had become a god at seventeen, a being freed from the passage of time, from the limitations of mortal biology, including the cyclical demands of heat and fertility. Even after his fall, he had never required suppressants, had never once entered heat, likely because the weight of cursed shackles and divine exhaustion had smothered whatever instincts remained.

And more than that—more than everything his body was not—there was the matter of who he had lain with.

The one had not been alive. How could he have made a life with a dead person?

Mu Qing’s voice, still cold, broke through the silence like a blade.

“The measurements confirm it. The spiritual signature is far beyond human parameters. It’s likely the child of a ghost—though given the density of energy, it borders more on a demon.”

He spoke as a physician, but even so, Xie Lian could hear it—that faint thread of disdain he hadn’t managed to hide.

Jun Wu nodded, his voice smooth with false kindness.

“Thank you, Mu Qing. As you know, Xianle’s position has already caused enough unrest. I needed someone trustworthy. And truly, who better than the one who once served at his side?”

 At the word “served,” Mu Qing’s expression stiffened—so slight it could almost be missed, yet sharp enough to cut, like a fissure opening across polished stone. The room itself did not stir, but the air shifted, heavy and suffocating. Everyone present understood, or at least whispered behind tightly shut doors, that Mu Qing had once stood not as a disciple, but as Xie Lian’s personal servant. It was an arrangement so unusual that it had long drawn sideways glances, and quiet gossip.

In the courts of noble houses, omega royalty were assigned attendants chosen with the utmost care betas, steady and neutral, safe above all else. Never alphas, whose presence carried the danger of unchecked strength and unwanted dominance. Never omegas, whose cycles could clash and spiral into chaos. It was a practice rooted in precaution, a safeguard to prevent tangled heats and territorial conflict after bonding. Yet against every expectation, Mu Qing had been the one exception. He was the alpha who had stood behind Xie Lian, dressing him in silk, combing the rain from his hair, guarding him from shadow.

This, too, was born from the peculiar foundations of Xianle’s culture. Beyond the broader world, which glorified might, conquest, and the harsh traits of alphas, Xianle revered something else entirely the union of opposites, the marriage of yin and yang, the delicate balance of extremes. To them, divinity was not the triumph of one pole over the other, but the meeting point where opposites fused into harmony.

And so, Xie Lian—an omega born in a male body, with the softness of an untouched bloom and the grace of a celestial dancer—was seen as the purest incarnation of this principle. In their eyes, he embodied balance itself, the living vessel of a god’s gentleness. That such a being should choose an alpha like Mu Qing as his personal attendant was irregular to the point of scandal, yet in Xianle, the choice only exalted his image further. To the faithful, it made him radiant, a perfect symbol of heaven’s symmetry, the fusion of strength and fragility, dominance and submission.

In time, the people embraced this vision so fervently that even the emperor and the grand preceptor—who had once cosseted him like the youngest princess of the realm—relented. They gave their consent with visible reluctance, comforted by two reassurances: Xie Lian, who had never entered heat, and Mu Qing, who had sworn the path of a celibate disciple, vowing his purity to the heavens. With those guarantees, the scandal seemed containable.

But for Mu Qing himself, it was no blessing. It was a humiliation.

What others praised as harmony, he felt as chains. To him, being named “Xie Lian’s attendant” was no honor, no sacred trust—it was a brand, a stigma carved into his very being. He believed that Xie Lian, the untouchable omega, looked down upon him with quiet superiority, that every kindness extended to him was merely a performance of benevolence meant to display how magnanimous a god could afford to be. That every gift, every gesture of inclusion, was nothing more than pity disguised as grace.

And so, what others celebrated as divine balance, Mu Qing carried as humiliation. No matter how high he climbed, no matter how rigidly he honed his blade or tempered his spirit, that title clung to him like a stain—attendant, servant, shadow. It followed him into Heaven, echoed behind his back, and tightened like an iron collar whenever the word was spoken aloud.

His jaw tightened as though swallowing back something bitter.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said evenly. “If Your Majesty requires further examination, you may summon me again.”
He offered a shallow bow, turned on his heel, and slipped out without another word. The door closed with a quiet click, the sound delicate as glass shattering.

Jun Wu’s gaze lingered on the departing figure, his lips curving in a half-smile that was more disdain than amusement. A faint tsk escaped him before he spoke, voice light yet sharpened with scorn.

“Doesn’t even know his place,” he said, as though delivering a verdict. “All he ever does is sulk in jealousy. Pathetic, really—.”

When Jun Wu’s eyes returned to him, Xie Lian felt his breath lock in his chest. His body moved before thought—he recoiled instinctively, curling inward as if to shield himself, arms wrapping protectively around his stomach, knees drawn close, the corner of the bed suddenly the only refuge left to him. His whole frame trembled, yet his eyes did not waver; they burned with a steady, cutting glare that felt like salt ground into a raw wound.

If Mu Qing’s words were true—if there truly was a life growing inside him, however impossible, however unthinkable—then he would guard it with everything he had. No matter the cost. No matter what Jun Wu sought to claim. That fragile warmth, that new existence, belonged to no one but him.

Jun Wu, however, only regarded him with the indulgent calm of a father humoring a frightened child, hands folded neatly behind his back, smile faint and unbearably knowing.

“There’s no need to tremble like that,” Jun Wu said softly, almost kindly. “I always suspected it would come to this. Sooner or later, it was inevitable. After all—” his smile deepened, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement, “—it wasn’t only once that I saw you in bed with that lowborn ghost.”

The words struck like a blow to the chest.

Heat flooded Xie Lian’s face, shame and fury colliding in his veins like storm waves. The image, the thought of Jun Wu watching—watching then, during a moment so private —sent bile rising bitter in his throat. His stomach lurched with rage, his hands shaking with the weight of words he couldn’t force past his lips.

Creepy bastard! Pervert!

The insult blared in his skull like a curse, rattling louder than speech. And in the next instant, unable to contain himself, he seized the nearest object—a pillow—and hurled it across the room.

It spun clumsily through the air, soft and ridiculous as a bird stripped of wings, before bouncing harmlessly off Jun Wu’s shoulder. He did not even flinch, only tilted his head with the mild curiosity of a man observing a child’s tantrum.

Xie Lian’s breath came hot and ragged, his cheeks aflame. 

And Jun Wu only chuckled, low and pleased, as if savoring the outburst for his own amusement.

“If you behave,” he said softly, “you and your child might both live peacefully. But if you don’t—well, I could cut open your belly right now and end the bloodline of that filthy creature you spread your legs for.”

Xie Lian went pale, the blood draining from his face in an instant. He tightened his arms around his abdomen, curling his frame as though to shield it, protect it, as if bones and skin and breath could form enough of a barrier.

Jun Wu lifted a hand, two fingers curling inward in a gesture so simple and unhurried that it left no room for doubt.

“Come here.”

The command was soft, scarcely more than a breath, yet it carried the weight of an unbreakable chain.

Xie Lian’s body obeyed before his mind could resist. As if pulled forward by invisible strings, he moved across the bed on trembling limbs, each motion halting, unwilling, yet inevitable. The silken sheets gathered and crumpled beneath his knees until at last he stopped before Jun Wu’s feet. He lowered his head, shoulders hunched, as though the very act of making himself small might shield him.

A pale hand descended, fingers ghosting over the crown of his head. The touch was deliberate, patronizing, as one might soothe a hound taught long ago to heel.

“Good,” Jun Wu murmured, satisfaction laced beneath the quiet praise.

Xie Lian did not lift his eyes. His face was emptied of expression—not serenity, but the still mask of survival, a blankness carved for the sake of endurance.

Jun Wu straightened, withdrawing his hand as he stepped back, the faint smile never leaving his lips.

“You’ll remain in the Palace of Xianle,” he said with calm finality, like a verdict already sealed. “Stay there until I come for you.”

The once-resplendent halls of the Palace of Xianle now echoed with nothing but silence. Curtains no longer stirred with breeze, and golden tiles gathered dust. The air was too still, as if the entire building had forgotten how to breathe. In one of the back chambers, dim with drawn screens and long shadows, Xie Lian sat curled upon the floor, limbs folded in tight. His forehead rested on his knees, hair spilling forward like a curtain, hiding what little of his expression remained.

Xie Lian’s fingers moved absently over his still-flat stomach.

A straight back. Hair dark as polished obsidian. A voice that always spoke low and even. Hands that touched with precision, never haste. A slender neck, always tilted like he’d just woken from a dream—and that voice, again, swearing he’d never leave.

“You’re going to leave me anyway, aren’t you?” Xie Lian snapped, voice cracking. “You’ll go chasing after your precious beloved! I don’t believe a single word you say. If you really mean it—then prove it!”

He was tired. Tired of false hope, of waiting for promises to break. If they were all going to leave, he’d rather they just stabbed him cleanly and walked away. Better that than the slow, twisting cruelty of being left behind.

“…Choose me instead. Not them.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. It just came out. No one had ever chosen him—not his family, not his friends. Why would this nameless soldier, this “Wu Ming,” be any different?

But Wu Ming stayed. In all of Xie Lian’s miserable, meaningless life, he was the first to choose him.

His first time had been on a rotting wooden floor, with a boy whose face he’d never seen. At the very least, the boy seemed to know more about this than Xie Lian, who had grown up believing sex was a vulgar act that sullied one’s spirit. So Xie Lian lay still, stiff as a piece of timber, letting the boy do as he would.

But the boy, too, was inexperienced. His fingers fumbled; when Xie Lian gasped, he flinched in panic, as if terrified of hurting him. And yet… every movement was careful. Reverent. As if he didn’t know how else to show tenderness but still tried anyway.

Xie Lian didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like, but he could tell—he was being treated gently. Wu Ming had explained that it would hurt unless he was “opened first.” Xie Lian, long numb to pain, had only scoffed and urged him to hurry. He was more afraid that Wu Ming might change his mind, might decide to go back to that perfect golden beloved instead of staying with a broken, unwanted trash like him.

But as Wu Ming’s fingers pressed deeper, and thicker, and finally gave way to something heavier and full, Xie Lian inhaled sharply without meaning to. Only then did he understand why Wu Ming had been so insistent about taking his time. It felt as if something deep inside him—something sealed by years of spiritual cultivation—had cracked open all at once. And in that moment, he almost wanted to let go completely.

When Wu Ming asked if he could move, Xie Lian found himself nodding before he could think. Heat and pressure surged through him like being lifted into the sky and slammed back into the earth. He had never once struggled with chastity before. Desire, for him, had always been something to endure, to silence, to conquer.

But now—under Wu Ming’s awkward rhythm, beneath a body colder than ice yet somehow full of life—he began to understand. Perhaps it was not desire at all, but loneliness—an ache for warmth, for presence, for someone who would not vanish the moment he reached out. Perhaps, he thought dimly, people could withstand anything—so long as they were not left alone.

When it was over, Wu Ming murmured that he would fetch a cloth to clean him. He dressed in haste, movements clumsy with nerves, and slipped out of the room without waiting for a reply.

Xie Lian did not call him back. He only sat there, watching the door close, wondering if Wu Ming despised him now. Because of him, Wu Ming had wasted his first time—not on the flawless, radiant beloved he must once have dreamt of, but on this: a man who could not sleep without nightmares, who spurned even fruit given with care, who lashed out with venom the moment anyone drew near.

And yet, for all that, Xie Lian felt… relieved. If his old Goushi, his father, or any of those who once who knew him saw this, sprawled and tainted, they would collapse with horror. A part of him wanted them to see.

This is what I’ve become, he thought bitterly. This is what happens when you leave me. When you say you care, and still abandon me. Look at me now. Look at what you made.

The thought twisted in him until it almost dragged out laughter—or tears. Naked and shivering, he pushed himself upright on the musty mat, dragging a hand across his face as if he could wipe away the memory with sheer force.

That was when a voice, smooth as silk and twice as venomous, unfurled from the shadows.

“Had a good time, Your Highness?”

The words struck like a blade. His heart plunged. Heat shot to his face as he scrambled for the ragged blanket, clutching it against himself in blind panic.

How long had he been there? Had he seen—?

“Oh, I saw everything,” the masked figure crooned. His voice dripped with honeyed malice. “You were adorable, pretending to cum.”

Xie Lian’s breath caught, shame crashing over him like a tidal wave. His ears burned crimson. Rage burst out before reason could stop it—he snatched the nearest pillow and hurled it with all the fury he had left.

The figure in white only tipped his head aside, lazily, as if dodging a passing leaf. The pillow smacked the wall behind him with a pitiful thump.

“Oh dear,” the man sighed, mock sympathy curling at the edge of every syllable. “Was that supposed to hurt me?”

The grin carved into his mask never shifted, but in Xie Lian’s mind it seemed to stretch wider, crueler, until he could almost hear the laughter stitched into it.

“Still,” Bai Wuxiang went on, his voice dry and smooth as aged wine, “if you’re so desperate to throw yourself at someone, I could always find you a proper alpha. Someone at least competent enough that you wouldn’t have to fake your climax just to spare their pitiful pride.”

The words were venom—but the way he delivered them, lilting, almost playful, was enough to make Xie Lian’s shame twist into raw fury. It was unbearable, humiliating—and yet absurd, too, the sort of cruelty sharpened so fine it cut into farce.
Xie Lian had never in his life despised someone so purely, so completely. And yet, the figure before him stirred something uglier than any fury he’d ever known. He wanted to draw his sword—gut the wretched ghost where he stood—but he was bare, not even a thread to shield himself. All he could do was grit his teeth, jaw trembling with rage.

Bai Wuxiang adjusted the mourning-robe-like garment that hung from his shoulders and stepped closer. Xie Lian, face burning red, glared up at him, scrambling to cover his stained, exposed body.

With cold, dead fingers, Bai Wuxiang seized Xie Lian’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. The lifeless touch felt nothing like the arms that had held him just moments ago.

“Look at yourself,” he sneered. “Pitiful. Do you truly think that spending one night with him makes you capable of replacing the one he truly adores? He only pities you, that’s all. He stays because you’re too broken to be left alone—because you’re a failed, useless god too pathetic to stand on his own. A god who needs his own devotee to carry him… what a joke. How pathetic.”

Blood throbbed behind Xie Lian’s eyes. He wanted to scream at him to shut up, to call him a liar, to curse him and shove him away. But instead, with a trembling voice, he choked out—

“…I know!”

Bai Wuxiang stared at him for a long moment. Then, seemingly satisfied, he released his grip and let Xie Lian’s chin fall from his hand.

“You think crying will change anything?” he mocked.

“I’m not crying! I haven’t shed a single tear!”

Even as he said it, Xie Lian scrubbed furiously at his face. But his sleeve kept growing wetter and wetter.

Bai Wuxiang watched him for a while, then his tone softened. He moved beside him, settling down with unnerving calm.

“In the end, only I will remain by your side. We are the only ones who will ever truly understand each other.”

He let out a heavy breath and turned away, forcing himself upright. But when he looked again, Bai Wuxiang was already there—dressed in a white funeral robe, that smiling-weeping mask upon his face, sitting beside him as if he’d never left.

Xie Lian jumped, heart hammering in his chest.

“…! Don’t just appear out of nowhere like that.” he snapped, his voice edged with annoyance.

Bai Wuxiang, amused as ever, tilted his head, as if thoroughly entertained by his distress.
He already knew the truth behind that mask—yet why Jun Wu still clung to such a grotesque disguise was beyond comprehension. The thought that the face beneath it belonged to the man he had trusted and followed all his life made his stomach twist with nausea.

“Follow me, Your Highness,” Jun Wu said, his voice cool and unreadable. “It is time for your education.”

Education?

Xie Lian’s heart lurched coldly in his chest. The last time Bai Wuxiang had sought to “teach” him, the outcome had been something too dreadful to even remember.

“What do you mean? Education?”

“You will know soon enough. Come.”

He instinctively drew his arms around his stomach, silently swearing that no matter what happened, he would not break.

Don’t worry, little one. I will protect you.

With that vow whispered to the life he carried, he followed Jun Wu.

Jun Wu—no, Bai Wuxiang—led him into a grand, imposing chamber, its very air steeped in an oppressive weight. Xie Lian did not lower his guard for a second, his eyes scanning every detail. He was about to demand an explanation when a blinding light engulfed him. His mind went blank, and darkness claimed him.

When he opened his eyes again, he was seated alone in a stark white room, nothing in sight but endless pale walls. Groggy and disoriented, he pressed a hand to his throbbing temple and struggled to take in his surroundings.

Bai Wuxiang’s voice came, calm and deliberate, as if addressing a child in need of discipline.

“This is the 白房间—the White Room. A place I have prepared for your education. It exists only in the realm of the mind; it will not harm your physical body. You are carrying a child in reality, and while you may be injured, the child must not be. Consider this… an act of mercy.”

Mercy, my ass…

Xie Lian gave no answer, only tightened his hold around his abdomen. If what Bai Wuxiang said was true, then the body he now inhabited was without the child. Were he still in possession of his spiritual power, he could have sent out a pulse to confirm the child’s presence, but now he had no way of knowing.

His unease deepened, a restless tide he could not quell. Again and again his palm strayed to his lower belly, pressing lightly as though the gesture might offer reassurance. Yet the anxiety remained, gnawing, unrelenting.

Without warning, Bai Wuxiang stepped forward, seizing his wrist in a grip like iron. A surge of spiritual force, cold and overwhelming, shot into him. Agony flared white-hot, racing up his arm, and before his widening eyes a black band coiled itself tight around his wrist.

He already bore cursed shackles at his neck and ankles—what more could the man possibly strip from him?

But this was different. Unlike the others, it did not drain his fortune or block his flow of energy. Instead, it hollowed him out. In a single instant, every layer of cultivation, every realm of power he had once ascended to, was torn away, leaving nothing but a frail, trembling shell. His body felt weaker than that of an ordinary mortal.

“What…?” His voice broke with disbelief.

The sensation dragged him backward through memory, back to the day he had been bound in white silk, helpless beneath Bai Wuxiang’s hand. Terror clawed at his chest, yet he forced it down, swallowing hard until his heart stopped battering against his ribs. He would not yield. Not this time.
His unease deepened, a restless tide he could not quell. Again and again his palm strayed to his lower belly, pressing lightly as though the gesture might offer reassurance. Yet the anxiety remained, gnawing, unrelenting.

Without warning, Bai Wuxiang stepped forward, seizing his wrist in a grip like iron. A surge of spiritual force, cold and overwhelming, shot into him. Agony flared white-hot, racing up his arm, and before his widening eyes a black band coiled itself tight around his wrist.

He already bore cursed shackles at his neck and ankles—what more could the man possibly strip from him?

But this was different. Unlike the others, it did not drain his fortune or block his flow of energy. Instead, it hollowed him out. In a single instant, every layer of cultivation, every realm of power he had once ascended to, was torn away, leaving nothing but a frail, trembling shell. His body felt weaker than that of an ordinary mortal.

“What…?” His voice broke with disbelief.

Terror clawed at his chest, yet he forced it down, swallowing hard until his heart stopped battering against his ribs. He would not yield. Not this time.

Straightening, he steadied his voice and hurled his words like a blade.

“So what now? Will you spread fear again, drive the people to turn their blades against me? You already know that trick has lost its edge. No matter what you do, I won’t break. Your so-called ‘truth,’ that humans are worthless—it’s nothing but your failure, your shame twisted into rage. Yes, when life is threatened, they’ll raise a blade. But that doesn’t strip them of worth. They are also capable of saving one another. And so, no matter what games you play, I will never break!”

The words had barely left his mouth when Bai Wuxiang’s boot struck his face. He did not hesitate, as if the fury inside him had burst its seams. A killing intent spilled from the folds of his white robes, chilling the air until it seemed the world itself shuddered.

There was a sharp crack—the splinter of bone. Pain detonated through his jaw, white-hot and blinding. His vision swam; tears spilled before he could stop them. Perhaps it was this fragile, seventeen-year-old body, but the pain was sharper, crueler than he remembered.

He folded forward, clutching at his face, breath stuttering. There was no time to recover before Bai Wuxiang’s hand fisted in his hair and wrenched his head up. His scalp screamed; strands tore from their roots, and more tears welled unbidden.

“You’d better watch yourself,” Bai Wuxiang snarled, voice venomous enough to sear. “Push me further, and I’ll split open your belly in the waking world and twist that thing inside you—barely human—into a monster before it even draws breath. Don’t dare speak as if you understand anything. You know nothing.”

Xie Lian wanted to retort, but his shattered jaw betrayed him. Blood filled his mouth from the tongue he had bitten, and he could only rasp, trembling with ragged breath. At the mention of the child, a new fear flooded him—colder, sharper, more merciless than any blade could ever bring.

The fire drained from his expression. His gaze dropped, lashes trembling as he let his body curl inward, small and submissive, as though trying to vanish into himself. Seeing him so reduced, so cowed, Bai Wuxiang’s lips curved with dark satisfaction.

And then—almost tender—he lifted a hand and smoothed it over the swelling, knitting together the shattered bone and dispersing the dark blotches of bruising.

“We can’t have blemishes, can we?” His voice was soft now, mocking in its gentleness. “Not in the middle of education.”

The latch gave a sharp, metallic click, and the white door opened with an almost ceremonial slowness. A man stepped inside, his posture uncertain, eyes flicking between Bai Wuxiang and Xie Lian as though he had wandered into a place he was not meant to see.

He was of middle years, his hair disheveled and streaked with gray, the smell of unwashed clothes faint but noticeable. The cheap, fraying seams of his tunic spoke of long hardship, and the lines carved into his weathered face told of someone who had once worked under the sun until his hands were calloused. There was nothing in him of the soldier or noble—only the dull, stubborn endurance of a common man who had lost much and endured more.

And yet when his gaze fell on Xie Lian—seated in the center of that immaculate white room, draped in resplendent robes like a blossom caught in winter—his eyes widened. Something in them shifted from confusion to a stunned, almost incredulous recognition.

“That face…” he breathed.

A cold ripple ran through Xie Lian’s chest. Did the man know him? Could he be… someone from Xianle? The thought struck like ice.

Bai Wuxiang’s voice slid through the air, low and deliberate, with the unhurried cadence of a predator circling prey.
“You once claimed that man does not commit evil unless he bears malice in his heart. That without desperate cause, a man will not harm another. Foolish… so foolish. Still the naïve Crown Prince.” His tone cooled further, eyes narrowing. “I will show you how easily a human can be shaped into a monster.”

“Wait—” Xie Lian began, but Bai Wuxiang’s attention had already shifted to the newcomer.

“You are a citizen of Xianle, are you not? You know this face. This is the Crown Prince of the kingdom that brought yours to ruin. Because of him, you and your wife—once prosperous merchants—were driven from your home. You fled with nothing, your life overturned in a single stroke. If not for him, your world would have been untouched. Is that not so?”

The man’s jaw tightened. A slow flush spread across his face, and his eyes grew bloodshot. Xie Lian recognized the look all too well—rage bubbling beneath the skin, desperate for something, someone, to shatter upon. He instinctively recoiled a step, only to feel the cold wall at his back.

Bai Wuxiang’s voice cut sharper, each word precise, venomous.
“Your wife… she left you, did she not? When you could no longer provide, she chose another man. Became his concubine in exchange for the comfort you could not give. And this so-called god—” he gestured toward Xie Lian “—failed to save you. Failed to save anyone. Worthless. Pathetic. And yet now, he is nothing more than Heaven’s pampered pet, indulged like a concubine. An omega who once swore chastity—selling his body without shame.”

Then, turning the blade, he let the words fall like an order.
“Take your anger—your humiliation—and spend it on this useless god.”

The man stood stiff, fists curling at his sides. His breath quickened; the cords of his neck strained taut. For a moment he turned his head, as if searching for something solid to cling to. Conflict twisted openly across his face—rage and disbelief warring with hesitation, a flicker of shame, the faint shadow of conscience.

Bai Wuxiang closed the space between them and seized the front of Xie Lian’s robes. The delicate silk ties snapped beneath his grip; the garment slid loose, baring a narrow pale shoulder. Xie Lian flinched violently, curling inward to shield himself, but the motion only made the fabric slip further, exposing the fragile rise and fall of his chest, the smooth line of throat and collarbone.

The man’s throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes darted across the revealed skin before snapping away, his fists clenching, loosening, clenching again. There was something raw and restless about him now—anger, yes, but with it a darker edge, an unfiltered hunger that made Xie Lian’s pulse falter.

Xie Lian stumbled back, his voice breaking, trembling with desperation.
“W-wait—please, listen! This is a trap! He only wants to drive you into committing something unforgivable—then he’ll cut you down without mercy. Don’t believe him! Everything he says is false!” His words tumbled out, raw, frantic. “The death of the family which started the war—they were never real at all. They were puppets, lifeless shells forged by Bai Wuxiang’s hand, made to bleed and die so you would think Xianle’s fall began with them!”

His voice rose, fierce despite its shaking.

“It was he who schemed behind every ruin. He who lured Lang Ying with promises to spare his wife and child, only to force him into unleashing the Human Face Disease.  He died in misery, discarded like refuse once his use was spent. That is his way—turning men into monsters, then grinding them into dust when they no longer serve. That is what he intends for you!”

The man faltered at Xie Lian’s words. They did not sound like lies—if anything, there was a tremor of desperate truth in them that could not be faked. His eyes, unwilling, slid toward Bai Wuxiang. The figure in white merely reclined with languid ease, as though concealment had never crossed his mind, and spoke with a careless lift of his voice.

“It’s true. All of it. I spread the plague. I whispered ruin into your kingdom’s bones. This foolish Crown Prince did nothing but draw his people’s hatred onto himself, and in doing so, he made my task laughably simple.”

The man’s hand clenched tight into a fist. His nails bit his palm until the skin broke, but even then, he did not move. He was no warrior, no cultivator—only an ordinary man—and in the shadow of such a being, rebellion meant instant death. He knew it as instinctively as he knew the pounding of his own heart. His gaze wavered and fell again upon Xie Lian—bare, cornered, his robe half torn from his shoulders.

Something in him snapped.

The fury he had swallowed for years—humiliation, grief, betrayal, loss—erupted like a dam giving way. His body moved before thought could catch it. His eyes rolled with a fevered glaze, as if some last tether to reason had torn loose. For a fleeting moment, the delicate curve of Xie Lian’s shoulder—so fragile, so infuriatingly untouched—seared into his vision, and the sight detonated something inside him.

With a raw cry, he swung out his leg.

The crack of his boot against Xie Lian’s skull rang out like a whipcrack, sharp and merciless, echoing in the sterile white chamber. The force of it twisted Xie Lian’s head violently to the side; bright stars exploded in his vision as his knees buckled, and his frail frame collapsed onto the floor. He struck the ground with a brittle thud, light and breakable as a doll discarded by a careless child.

The man loomed over him, chest heaving, eyes rolling with the madness of a cornered beast. Fear of Bai Wuxiang still quivered in his bones, but it only sharpened into something uglier, more desperate. He could not lift a hand against the god in white; he dared not. And so all that fury, all that helplessness, fell upon Xie Lian instead.

He roared and kicked again, his heel slamming into Xie Lian’s ribs with a sickening thump.

Then again.

And again.

Each blow landed with the violence of years condensed into an instant, each kick bursting from him with the sound of something inside tearing loose. It was not methodical—it was not even entirely conscious. It was fury made flesh, exploding in spasms of brute strength, each strike a punctuation of hatred.

“You useless god!” he spat, his voice shattering with the force of his rage. “Because of you, my life is ruined! You filthy whore! You failure—you should never have been born!”

Xie Lian curled inward, arms tight to shield his body, but the strikes kept raining down, hammering against bone and muscle without pause. The air was driven from his lungs in short, broken gasps, his breath catching on the edges of sobs that could not escape.

“And now you spread your legs for the Emperor?!“ the man snarled, his voice rising into a howl, “while the rest of us rot like animals in the gutter? That’s divinity? That’s what I worshipped?” His voice cracked, strangled by grief and fury both. “I curse the day I ever believed in you!”

Xie Lian took it all—not because he bore it with the dignity of a god, but because there was nothing left to resist with. Every blow drove him deeper into the knowledge of his own helplessness. The pain filled him until his thoughts blurred, until His heart pounded wildly in his chest, a trapped bird battering against its cage.

“No… no, it wasn’t me…” His voice was barely audible, trembling as blood stained his lips. “It wasn’t me…”

But the man no longer heard him. His eyes were glassy, fever-bright, a mask of rage that no reason could pierce. He seized Xie Lian’s chin in his blood-smeared hand, forcing his head upward, his fingers biting into tender flesh. His gaze roved across Xie Lian’s tear-streaked face, assessing, degrading, until his mouth curled in a smirk that was more a wound than a smile. Slowly, deliberately, he smoothed down the front of his own clothing, as though preparing for something final, irreversible.

Panic tore through Xie Lian at the gesture. His body, sluggish with pain, moved with desperate instinct—he clawed his way backward across the floor, dragging himself inch by inch, sobs tearing at his throat.

“Where do you think you’re going, slut?” the man snarled, his voice shaking with cruel anticipation. He advanced, step by step, his shadow falling long over the trembling figure. “Is the Emperor the only one you’ll open your legs for? You filthy rag. Worthless trash!”

“No—don’t—! Please!”

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts——Wu Ming, help me!

The rest dissolved into a blur of violence and shadow, his body’s weak resistance dwindling beneath the crushing weight of the man’s rage until there was nothing left in him to fight with.

When it was over, he lay half-stripped upon the floor, his lower garments gone, his limbs sprawled limply like a marionette with its strings cut. His chest heaved in shallow, uneven gasps, each breath trembling as though even air had become too heavy to draw. He did not move—not because he was bound, but because exhaustion, pain, and shock had hollowed him out to the core.

Soft, deliberate footsteps approached, unhurried as if their owner had all the time in the world. Bai Wuxiang crouched beside him and, with a hand almost unbearably gentle, brushed back the sweat-damp hair clinging to his brow. The touch was grotesquely tender, the kind a parent might bestow upon a beloved child, and in that incongruity lay its deepest cruelty.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, voice low and almost kind.

“It was I who summoned the plague to your land, and Lang Ying who carried it from door to door. Your so-called kingdom never stood a chance. And you—” his fingers ghosted through Xie Lian’s hair, lingering for a heartbeat before falling away—“you were nothing more than a pawn. Even as your strength bled from you day by day, you still staggered through fields and villages, begging the heavens for rain. And yet, see how easily they cast you aside. Truth means nothing when what they crave is simply a scapegoat.”

His tone softened, sinking lower, more intimate, as though imparting some final lesson.

“Your failure was never yours. The fall of your nation was written from the start. But no one will ever acknowledge that. They will blame you until their throats run dry, because it is easier than admitting that ruin was inevitable. They are nothing more than wretched creatures, ruled by fear and desire, and truth to them is worthless coin.”

Xie Lian’s eyes did not flicker. They were wide and glassy, reflecting nothing, emptied of all response.

Bai Wuxiang straightened then, dusting his pale hands as though brushing off something too trivial to keep.
“Well,” he said mildly, almost cheerfully, “this is only the beginning. The next one is waiting.”

And in that instant, something in Xie Lian’s gaze went dark completely, the last ember of light within him extinguished without a sound.

“Your Highness, the air is bitterly cold. You’ll catch a chill if you linger outside any longer—pray, return to your chambers soon.”

Xie Lian spun lightly, gathering the long, petal-like train of his robe as he twirled. In his small hands he held a wooden practice sword, wielding it with graceful gestures that made him look less like a crown prince than a delicate sprite at play. Unlike the heirs of other kingdoms, who wore martial uniforms to project valor, he had from childhood been dressed in garments closer to a maiden’s attire—garments that honored the balance of yin and yang. Flowing sleeves drifted like cloud and mist, the cinched waist emphasized his slender form, and the shimmering fabric was embroidered with golden blossoms so radiant they dazzled the eye.

“Guoshi, but my training for today isn’t finished yet! Please, let me practice a little longer!”

Mei Nianqing shook his head with a helpless sigh.
“Truly, Your Highness, rather than study statecraft or learn the affairs of court, you are ever intent only on training.”

“That is because I wish to become a god!”

At this, the boy darted forward and clung to his teacher’s leg with innocent insistence. Barely twelve years of age, dressed in trailing silks with a flower-mark adorning his forehead, he looked for all the world like a peerless girl-child of exquisite beauty. Mei Nianqing cupped his snowy cheek in one broad palm and asked gently:

“And why, Your Highness, do you so desire godhood? You could inherit your father’s throne one day.”

Even as he spoke, he could not help but think the young prince was utterly unsuited for the intrigues of politics.

“But Father has told me—when one becomes king, one cannot help the people freely, not as I dream of doing. I want to save them! That is why I must train, for I am the Crown Prince, am I not?”

Mei Nianqing smoothed a hand over his chestnut hair, soft as silk. Porcelain-pale skin, eyes of molten gold as if cast from the very light of heaven, cheeks brushed with rose, lips red as candied sugar—the boy was sculpted as though the sum of the world’s beauty had been poured into one small body. His loveliness possessed an almost tyrannical force: it melted the hearts of the coldest men, and could drive even the sane into mad devotion. The king had raised this child as though he were a fragile blossom—too easily crushed by the faintest touch, too easily scattered by the wind. Yet for all such protections, the flower longed only to ride the winds beyond its gilded cage.

“But Your Highness,” Mei Nianqing murmured, “you need not lower yourself for the sake of the common rabble. You are like a single snow lotus upon the highest peak—雪莲花, untouched by any stain. With such beauty and the promise of immortal power, you will be adored by all. Even if you remain above them, still and unyielding, the incense in your temples will never die, and the multitudes will bow and bring tribute at your feet.”

But the Crown Prince only shook his head, firmly, resolutely.
“No, Guoshi. And what of those who cannot afford incense, who have no offerings to give? Who will hear their voices? Who will guard their lives? If not their Crown Prince, then who will bring them light in their darkness? I cannot be content to remain nothing more than an ornament, a blossom to be admired. I want to save them.”

Mei Nianqing let out a long, pained sigh. Ah—what greater tragedy could there be? To bestow upon one so young a body of such perfection, a beauty that shone brighter than any jewel, and yet within it place a soul so guilelessly pure. If Heaven had seen fit to give him a heart of cruelty, or even a streak of cold ambition, it might have spared him. But no—his only pride was his unshakable kindness, his earnest compassion. Such a soul was far too rare, and therefore far too vulnerable.

How cruel the world would be to him. That precious blossom would one day be torn apart by grasping hands, trampled underfoot by the currents of time, and abandoned to the winds of forgetfulness. For to a soul so tender, the world had nothing to give but merciless brutality.
Yet Mei Nianqing would not permit it to be so. He would raise this boy into the fairest flower the kingdom had ever known—a blossom too radiant to touch, too untouchable to be marred, a bloom whose very stillness fulfilled its purpose. If that were the case, then surely the tragedies of the past would never be allowed to repeat themselves.

Still, a pang of guilt stirred faintly within him. Why had he chosen this child, of all others, as his ward? Was it truly to shield this fragile prince from the grasp of that man who would one day covet him? Or was it only to atone for a failure long ago, to prove to himself that he had not been mistaken? Was it, perhaps, to force Jun Wu at last to concede defeat?

And if so—then what was this boy to him? A cherished disciple? Or merely a tool? A tender blossom, caught in the crossfire of an endless feud, born beneath the star of solitude only to be ensnared in its curse. A pitiful victim of fate, condemned to be nothing more than a fragile bloom, plucked and preserved, admired and forgotten.

He sank into his thoughts, staring blankly into a haze of half-formed regrets—until Xie Lian suddenly laughed, bright as a lark, and his golden eyes shone like sunlight scattered upon water.

“It shall be so. After all—am I not the Crown Prince?”

When the tenth “lesson” ended, Xie Lian collapsed into unconsciousness. Yet when his eyes opened again, he found himself lying neatly upon the familiar bed in his palace chambers, as though nothing had transpired. The silken coverlets were straight, the lamps burned steady, and the stillness of the room was so ordinary it seemed to mock him.

He pushed himself upright, gaze vacant, staring into the air with hollow eyes. His mind was still wreathed in fog, lost in a haze where nothing was certain.

Something filthy entered my body… Something , inside me… inside…

His trembling hands pushed aside the half-loosened robes, baring a frail white figure. Yet the ruin he had glimpsed before his collapse—the wreckage of flesh, desecrated and broken—was nowhere to be seen. What lay revealed was skin pale as porcelain, flesh soft and unmarred, as if untouched.

My baby… my baby is inside me. And something filthy…

The thought drove him near mad. He wanted to tear himself open, to claw through his own belly and carve away his insides, to rip the vileness from within and return to a state of untouched innocence. Over and over he imagined it—slashing, gouging, cutting until nothing remained but the shell of what had once been. But within him stirred a tiny life, fragile and impossibly small, and because of that he could not move, could not choose.

No. No—it wasn’t real. It didn’t happen. Look at me—my body is whole. It was an illusion, not reality. It wasn’t real.

He clutched his head so hard that blood welled beneath his nails, tearing at his scalp as if the pain might erase the memory.
I’m not dirty. I’m not dirty. I’m not dirty. I am not—!

And then, without a sound, Jun Wu was there beside him. Not clad in mourning-white as he had been during the “education,” but armored in stately grandeur, every fold immaculate, his bearing that of a benevolent emperor.

Xie Lian’s thoughts flickered wildly; he pictured the glass vial on the bedside table shattering in his hand, pictured plunging the shards into those calm, imperious eyes. But his limbs were limp, his body hollowed of strength. All that emerged was a voice brittle with exhaustion:

“…Why me?”

Jun Wu only regarded him in silence.

“What did I do that was so wrong?” Xie Lian murmured, his voice unraveling like an incantation breaking apart in the wind. “Was it because I said, ‘body in the abyss, heart in Paradise’? But… but I only spoke it for the soulnof the dead. Not for the living. It was only so they might go on, to a kinder place after death. That was all…”

He spoke as if entranced—not railing in blame, not spitting curses, but desperately, helplessly searching for the root of his undoing.

Jun Wu stepped closer, looming with calm composure. With the same unshaken poise as always, he reached into the folds of Xie Lian’s disheveled robes and pressed a hand first to his chest—smooth, flat—and then lower, to the fragile softness of his belly. A current of spiritual power thrummed from his palm, and Xie Lian flinched at the surge.

There—so faint it could have been imagined, and yet undeniably real. A pulse. A fragile rhythm, answering the flow of energy: the first whisper of a heart not yet formed, beating softly, as if to declare, that it's alive.

“…Ah…”

Tears spilled, unbidden, sliding down Xie Lian’s pale cheeks. Without even knowing why, he pressed his own trembling hands over Jun Wu’s, clutching at his belly as if to draw nearer to the tiny spark of life within, as though he could feel it more fully if only he held tighter. Overcome, undone, he wept at the undeniable proof that something lived inside him.

“If you lose the will to live, that would be troublesome,” Jun Wu murmured, his tone low, almost tender. “Our path is still long, and you must never collapse. Not if you cherish the life in your womb. Isn’t that so?”

Dazed, Xie Lian raised his gaze. Jun Wu’s gauntleted hands cupped his face with disarming gentleness, thumbs brushing away jeweled tears that clung to those golden eyes. He looked every inch the compassionate elder, the guardian, the patriarch.

“Why was it you?” Jun Wu echoed softly. “There is no reason. Your misfortunes have always been like that, haven’t they?”
“They all came to you with their own reasons—betraying, condemning, stabbing,” his voice continued, steady and inexorable. “Do you really think if you had tried differently, Feng Xin would not have grown disillusioned with you? That Mu Qing‘s friendship would not have soured into resentment? No, someone like you… the outcome would have been the same no matter what you did. A beautiful face, an upright heart—an ideal god worthy of love. But regrettably, they never saw you as a person. Pain was inevitable since you were born."

“Humans have circumstances, excuses. But gods? No. Gods are not permitted such things. Mortals may be forgiven, but gods never are. You were adored and reviled, worshiped and despised at whim. That is the essence of divinity. Even the two you thought of as friends treated you thus. Even your parents believed you would never falter, never collapse—for you were not their son, but their god, and you were expected to rise to every expectation.”

As he spoke, Jun Wu’s hand lifted once more, armored fingers brushing Xie Lian’s cheek with a startling delicacy, as if caressing a porcelain vessel that might shatter at the slightest touch. Then, without hesitation, he leaned down and pressed his lips against that pale face—both tender and cruel. His expression twisted as though he adored what he hated and hated what he adored, trapped in a torment of contradictions.

“Feng Xin raised you up to impossible heights,” he murmured against Xie Lian’s skin. “Mu Qing dragged you down into the dust. But never, in their eyes, were you Xie Lian. You were always Crown Prince. Always a god. The mortals who raped you, stabbed you, spat upon your statue—do you understand? You were never someone to be known. To them you were only a god, and gods exist to be used. Every tragedy was inscribed from the start. They were nothing but scraps of flesh demanding endlessly from the divine.”

His voice sank lower, rich with conviction. He drew Xie Lian wholly into his arms, and the frail body vanished within the breadth of his armor, swallowed as though into a darkness without end.

“But I am not like them.” His breath stirred the strands of Xie Lian’s hair as he spoke, low and certain. “We were born beneath the same stars. Bound by fate itself. Perhaps you were born for me—to become one with me, to walk the same road. We cannot be parted. Not ever. Look now: in the end, who remains at your side but me? Who else could ever understand you? Who else would stay, forever, but me?”

His eyes caught Xie Lian’s, and for a long moment he simply stared. They were cold, searing eyes, overflowing with madness and loneliness amassed over countless centuries. The gentleness in his touch was a grotesque mask for the frenzy that burned beneath.

“Accept me, Xianle. Kill the common people. Do that, and I will protect you and your child for all eternity. I will love you las no one ever has. You will be my heir, my son, my disciple. But if you refuse me, then you will suffer forever, trapped in purgatory. You will learn again and again what it means to be nothing more than flesh in the hands of those you trusted. You will see that my words were true.”

Xie Lian’s lips parted faintly. His face was blank, dazed, as if the weight of it all was too much for thought. 

“…You said you love me.”

Jun Wu’s mouth curved into a smile—radiant, untroubled, as though Xie Lian had spoken the most obvious thing in the world.

“Of course I do,” he said brightly, almost tenderly. “If I did not, you would already be dead.”

Xie Lian drifted forward as though in a dream, his steps unsteady, his body moving without weight, as if he were nothing more than a shadow borne upon water. His vision was blurred, his thoughts dimmed, yet when his gaze fell upon a small crimson flower blooming by the roadside, he halted. The fragile blossom, soaked from the rain that had passed in the night, trembled under the weight of the droplets clinging to its petals. For a long while he simply looked at it, and then, lowering himself to the earth, he pressed a little soil at its base so that the thin stalk would not collapse. His fingers, smudged with dirt, moved with a quiet reverence, as if this tiny act of care could restore some fragment of dignity to a world that seemed determined to strip him of it.

It was then that a ripple of laughter, low and stifled, broke the silence. The sound grew clearer, and Xie Lian looked up to see several junior officials approaching, their pale training robes neat, their belts drawn in perfect symmetry, faces carrying the flush of exercise from the sparring hall. He knew them; he remembered those eyes, sharp with disdain—the very ones who had once denounced him and driven him from the training grounds.

“Well now,” one of them said lightly, his smile genteel, though his eyes betrayed the pleasure of mockery. “Who would have thought His Highness would grace these halls again? You fall, and yet somehow always manage to climb back up. Quite the talent.”

Another leaned closer to his companions, though his voice was pitched just loudly enough to carry. 
“Privilege does work wonders. Most men are ruined after one disgrace, but some… well, some seem to have a gift for staying desirable, don’t they?” His words drew a ripple of smothered laughter, the suggestion clear enough.

A third tilted his head, his tone mock-thoughtful, like a scholar reciting an observation. “I suppose it isn’t hard to guess. A face like that, a there are many ways to please superiors, aren’t there? Perhaps effort in the training yard matters less than other… devotions.”

Their laughter, restrained yet dripping with cruelty, vibrated through the air. They spoke not as though they taunted a fallen crown prince, but as though they were making witty commentary at a banquet table, every word lacquered in disdain.

Xie Lian gave no answer. His voice had long since abandoned him. He turned as if to walk away, to leave them behind, when a foot slid deftly into his path. The motion was so subtle it could have been mistaken for chance, yet it caught his ankle with perfect precision.

The world lurched. He stumbled, unable to catch himself, and fell hard into the mud. White silk met earth, robes soaking through at once, clinging heavy to his limbs, sullied beyond recognition. The shock rang through his body, breath stolen, and then terror rose sharp and blinding—

My baby!

In an instant his arms locked around his lower belly, curling upon himself like a shell clamped shut. His chest heaved in shallow bursts, vision flaring with white as dread consumed him. Had the fall hurt it? Had his embrace failed to protect what was so small, so breakable? His body trembled with the panic of not knowing.

Behind him, laughter swelled, rising like a tide intent on drowning. One of the officials stepped forward, delivering a light kick to his side—careless, dismissive, not enough to harm, merely to remind him of his place.
“See how swiftly he kneels. Some things never change.”

Xie Lian fought to rise, his arms never loosening their desperate hold around his abdomen. But before he could find his feet, another hand pressed down at his shoulder and shoved, forcing him back into the mire. His body curled tighter, instinct overriding reason, shielding the fragile life within from every jolt and strike. His forehead pressed into the earth, breath ragged, as though he could bury both himself and his secret beneath the soil.

The sight drew a murmur of amusement. One official leaned lazily upon his staff, lips twisting with mock concern.
“What?—did they play too roughly with you last night? Is that why you can’t stand?”

Their laughter broke again, coarse and grating, each word lodging like thorns beneath the skin. And through it all, Xie Lian clutched himself tighter, thoughts unraveling into a single, frantic prayer—not the child, not the child, not the child

From a distance, a group of young men emerged, their training robes pristine and uniform, as though cut from the same cloth. They walked with the assured grace of nobility, their faces striking, their postures tall and easy. Their eyes soon caught upon the figure collapsed in the mud—Xie Lian, drenched in filth, his fine robes sodden and clinging to his trembling frame, his hands clutching protectively at his abdomen.

Among them was Mu Qing, just returned from training. The sight of Xie Lian’s ashen face, his arms wrapped desperately around himself, drew the faintest flicker across his expression—then stilled, hardening into something unreadable.

The junior officials who had shoved Xie Lian into the dirt exchanged knowing looks as they noticed Mu Qing’s presence, their smirks sharpening.

“Mu Qing,” one drawled, lips curling, “your Crown Prince couldn’t even restrain himself from lunging at me. Tell me, how used-up must he be to act so shamelessly? He’s always been like this, hasn’t he? You’d know—you served at his side.”

Laughter rippled through them.

“Or perhaps he thought he’d better seize his chance before you ascend,” another jeered. “Who knows which elder he’s already spread his legs for?”

“With that cursed shackle around his neck, parading through the heavens—just imagine how many exalted lords he must have warmed the bed for.”

“Mu Qing, when you ascend, ask for a taste. Ah—but perhaps you’ve already had it?”

At that, Mu Qing’s face stiffened like stone. As an alpha who had once served as the Crown Prince’s closest attendant, he knew all too well what they implied. His teeth ground together; his hand curled tightly into a fist.

Some of the young men laughed louder, emboldened, while others flicked uneasy glances toward him. After all, Mu Qing was already whispered to be the most likely among them to ascend next.

“Don’t bristle so,” one said slyly. “I heard His Majesty calling for you earlier—perhaps to entrust you with His Highness’s service again. You are the most accustomed to him, after all.”

The official who had tripped Xie Lian earlier stepped forward again. Xie Lian, pale and silent, kept his head bowed, arms still shielding his middle. The young man leaned down, and with the casualness of someone rewarding a pet, patted Xie Lian’s bowed head twice—mockingly gentle, as though praising a dog for obedience.

“At least he knows his place better here than in the training grounds,” he sneered. “We’ll leave him to you, Mu Qing. After all, he was your master once, wasn’t he?”

With cruel laughter, the junior officials finally drifted away, silk robes sweeping behind them, their voices trailing off like smoke dissolving into air.

Only when they were gone did Xie Lian dare to straighten. He did not bristle, did not spit back at the mockery. Instead, as though none of it had touched him at all, he lowered his gaze and laid both hands gently across his stomach. He stroked the place over and over, reverent, protective, as though the fragile thing growing there—barely life, was the only treasure worth guarding.

Mu Qing’s face hardened. His eyes flicked down, then back up with a sharp twist of his lips.
“Your Highness lives enviably. Life must be very easy for you.”

Xie Lian almost laughed. Easy?! My life? Then why don’t you try living it yourself?!

Mu Qing’s voice dropped lower, laced with ice and poison.

“You were exiled, and yet you managed to crawl back into Heaven as if the gates opened themselves for you. Always cushioned. Always falling into fortune’s hands. So I suppose all my years clawing toward godhood must look pathetic to you—laughably small, laughably worthless.”

The words hit like stones. Xie Lian’s throat closed; he nearly shouted the truth, nearly tore open Jun Wu’s name to shatter the venom between them. The truth burned at the back of his tongue—sharp, raw, trembling to be spoken. But at the last moment, he swallowed it down so hard his jaw ached.

And deeper still, a rawer fear pressed against his ribs like a blade. Even if he piled up reasons, even if he explained everything, he already knew why he couldn’t speak.

What if Mu Qing turned away again?
Would he have to face it once more—that he had been abandoned?
Would he be forced to confirm it all over again? To take the same wound again?
That without the title of crown prince, he meant nothing to Mu Qing at all?

His hands trembled. The mud soaking through his robes was too much like the cold floor of the training grounds—hard, wet, unyielding. The same loneliness pressed in, bitter and suffocating, sharp as blood in the mouth.

And Mu Qing, standing tall above him, did not soften. His voice rang low, but it struck like iron.
“Was it deliberate? Asking me of all people to tend to your wounds? Was that your way of mocking me? To remind me I was never your equal? That I was nothing but a shadow to make you shine brighter?”

Xie Lian’s breath caught. “What are you saying? Why would I ever—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Mu Qing’s composure shattered; his eyes burned with long-buried humiliation, his voice sharp as a blade slamming against stone.
“You only made me your attendant to glorify yourself! You wanted everyone to see how noble, how magnanimous you were—keeping someone like me by your side, someone who never even deserved the title of god to begin with!”

“I never—” Xie Lian’s voice faltered, but he forced himself to push on. “I made you my attendant because it was the only way to take you in! To have you accepted as disciple! Don’t you understand? Once we ascended, the ranks of the mortal world would mean nothing. None of it would matter—”

“Then why,” Mu Qing cut him off bitterly, “did you refuse my help at the training ground? When I brought you rice? Why did you turn it away? Wasn’t it because you couldn’t stomach owing me anything? Because you could never stand the thought of taking help from someone beneath you?”

Xie Lian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Perhaps, in truth, he wanted to do both.
‘You rage at the thought that my help was pity—parading charity to make myself look noble—yet you resent me just as much for refusing yours?'

The bitter thought stung, but he couldn’t bring himself to squander the moment. For the first time in years, it felt as if Mu Qing was speaking his unvarnished heart. Perhaps—just perhaps—if they bared everything, they could strip away the long years of poisoned silence. Perhaps they could begin again.

“I never did that,” Xie Lian burst out, his voice taut with urgency. “I was just.....!"

He was what? 

Sad
Angry
Hurt

Yes he was truly hurt. Now that he thought about it, he was so hurt he didn't want to see Mu qing at that time. He thought he might truly hate Mu qing if he saw his face any longer. 

"....I made you my attendant only so you would have a foothold in the heavens. That was the whole point!”

His words tumbled fast, raw, almost breaking under their own weight.

The role of crown prince’s attendant had always been the domain of aristocratic heirs, scions of houses bound to the royal line for generations. It was a position of prestige, proximity, power—envied by the entire court. For Mu Qing, who would have had to claw his way up from nothing, it was an elevation beyond imagining. Xie lian thought that he made things easier for Mu Qing, and not out of pity but because he truly thought he deserved it.

And yet here he stood, spitting venom as though it had been a chain.

Xie Lian’s chest ached. He didn't know Mu qing thought that way. Had he viewed him like that all this time? That xie lian was using him to make himself shine? Had his words meant nothing to him?

“And I didn’t ignore your counsel!” he pressed on, words spilling now in a flood. His voice trembled but carried a hard edge, desperation striking against desperation. “Maybe to you it was nothing, but to me—it was my family, my people. They were all praying to me to save them. How could I possibly turn away from them? At that time, I didn’t even know who Bai Wuxiang truly was!”

His voice cracked, then rose again, sharp as a blade.
“And.....and plague—you told me to unleash it on Yong’an’s poor, the civilians who had nothing, who had no means to protect themselves the way palace nobles could. But that would never have solved anything! Don’t you understand? The plague doesn’t burn out just because one side suffers—it only ends when the infected kill each other, when hosts destroy hosts until nothing is left! It only ends in slaughter!”

His words rang like iron against stone, echoing in the silence between them. His eyes, wide with hurt and fury, burned as if pleading and accusing both at once.

“Don’t you see? I wasn’t dismissing you. I would have rejected anyone who told me to stand by and watch them suffer!”

At that, Mu Qing’s expression faltered, faintly stiffening, as though struck in a place he had tried to guard. Then he laughed—a sharp, joyless sound.

“Of course. The noble Crown Prince couldn’t bring himself to soil his hands with the unclean. But do you know what it was for me?” His voice roughened, bitterness bleeding through the brittle composure. “While you were raising your head high, too pure to touch the dirt, I was clawing through it just to survive. I had family, Xie Lian. my mother depending on me. But how could someone like you—someone born to look down from the highest peak—ever understand what it means to have no choice but to bend, to scrape, to take whatever road is left?”

Xie Lian’s chest surged with anger, so sharp it nearly stole his breath.

I don’t understand? Do you even know what I gave up that day—what I lost, what I had to endure? Do you know what I went through because of..?

“I… I had a family too,” he forced out, his jaw clenched so tightly the words scraped through his teeth like shards of glass.

Mu Qing’s eyes widened, momentarily thrown off guard.

“I had my mother too!” Xie Lian burst, his voice breaking with fury, the force of it trembling through his whole body.

He had been ready to give everything up, to let go of everything he carried. Yet at the last moment, he gathered himself and walked into that training hall. In his hands was the small bundle of food his mother had packed for him, wrapped not only with care but with all the fragile hopes she still had for his future.

When Mu Qing turned him away, Xie Lian could have caused havoc. He could have humiliated him by raising a scene, could have lashed out and disrupted the trials, could even have fought the thirty-three junior officials there and forced a bloody conclusion. But he did not. He would not stand in Mu Qing’s way. So he picked up the shattered pieces of his heart, tucked them alongside his mother’s bundle, and walked home. Home to the silence of disappointed parents, to Feng Xin’s dashed hopes, to the weight of everything he had failed to be.

Later, when Mu Qing reached out his hand, what Xie Lian had wanted was not a belated gesture offered after the worst was over. What he had needed was someone to hold him in the mud when he was already on his knees. And when he remembered who it was that had done that in the end, he truly did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Mu Qing must have always thought of him that way—Perhaps, when Xie Lian grew angry, Mu Qing had not believed him capable of pain at all, had dismissed him as someone who had always looked down on him, and so turned away.

A bleak resentment welled up inside him, unbearable.
No—I can’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t mean to wound me. That day, none of us had a choice…
But if that was true, then what was his fault? What was the sin he was paying for? How many times had he repeated to himself that he must not hate Mu Qing, and yet still the ugly, unreasonable thought crept back—that if Mu Qing had taken his side, if he hadn’t been cast out of that training ground with nowhere to go, perhaps Bai Wuxiang would never have been able to break him.

He smothered that thought again and again, because Mu Qing had not acted out of cruelty. He told himself so until the words lost all meaning. But had Mu Qing ever cared about his side of the story? Had Mu Qing ever once tried to understand?

Swallowing down every word that ached to be spoken, Xie Lian lowered his gaze and said only, softly,
“Whatever you may think of me, I always thought of you as a friend.”

At those words, Mu Qing’s eyes wavered violently, betraying a crack he could not hide.

“If I ever acted in a way that made you feel lesser, it wasn’t because I looked down on you, or because I held you in contempt. It was because I’m human—because I have flaws too. My kingdom had already fallen and the whole world spat curses at my name until I could no longer lift my head. I was drowning, Mu Qing. Everything was too much. Even you, even Feng Xin—everything was too much.”

Xie Lian’s head bowed as if the weight of the world pressed it down. His words had fallen out quiet, exhausted, like ash after fire.

“If I failed to be perfect at understanding you back then, I’m sorry. But never—not even for a moment—did I believe you were anything less than my friend.”

Mu Qing had not expected this. He had thought Xie Lian would finally bare his true colors—that all of it had been deliberate humiliation, letting Jun Wu order him about like a servant, letting the others laugh at him. If it wasn’t… if everyting really had been meant as kindness… then what did that make him? No—he couldn’t allow it. Xie Lian had to be selfish, had to be cruel, had to be the villain in this story. Otherwise—

Xie Lian let out a bitter smile.
“Strange, isn’t it? After all this time, it seems we never knew each other at all.”

When he lifted his face again, all expression had drained from it. He did not even spare a glance at his mud-soaked robes as he pushed himself upright, slow and steady.

“…I hope whatever you gain up there is worth as much as you think it is. And Mu Qing—” His voice thinned, sharp with quiet steel. “Maybe you never noticed, but I can get hurt too.”

Xie Lian rose without a word and walked away. After all, there was no one left to reach out a hand to him, and by now he was far too accustomed to dragging himself out of the mud alone.

The bed that awaited him sprawled wide and ornate, embroidered with silken sheets, heaped with pillows that shimmered faintly beneath the lamplight. It was uncanny—this chamber looked almost exactly like the one he had once slept in, back when Xianle had not yet fallen. At the time he had dismissed the resemblance as coincidence, but now the thought pressed on him: perhaps someone had known him from the very beginning.

He closed the door quietly, as though nothing were amiss, his expression as blank as porcelain. Without hesitation he stripped off the mud-stained robes that clung to him like grime and walked straight into the adjoining bath. The room glittered with polished marble, carved columns, and a pool filled with warm, perfumed water; rose petals floated in clusters upon the surface, and faint smoke from burning oils hung in the air. He stepped in without pause, sinking into the heat, letting it seep into his bones.

And then, he laughed.

From somewhere deep within, a lullaby his mother had once sung—broken, fragmented, almost lost to memory—rose in a soft hum, filling the silence. As he reached into the bath and lifted a drifting petal, his fingers lingered on it with a strange tenderness, stroking the fragile surface as if it were alive. For a brief moment, he seemed soothed, caught in that fleeting gentleness.

But when he stood, droplets sliding down pale skin, the mirror returned to him an image almost too beautiful to exist: golden eyes gleaming through the haze, cheeks flushed, features fine enough to seem carved by a master’s hand. The face looked untouchable in its perfection, so flawless it no longer felt human—and confronted with it, his smile faltered and died.

With sudden violence, he drove his fist into the glass. A crack thundered through the chamber as the mirror split apart, scattering his reflection into jagged ruin. Blood welled from his palm and dripped steadily to the marble, each drop blooming red against white stone, echoing like a countdown. He stared, wide-eyed, chest heaving, as though the broken image staring back was the truest face he had ever borne.

From the debris he lifted a shard. Trembling, bare and cold, he lowered himself onto the rim of the bath. The fragment quivered between his fingers, its sharp edge glinting with cruel promise.

He pressed it to his wrist. At first the edge merely grazed the skin, but then it bit deeper, and pain flared sharp and immediate. Blood welled, sliding down his arm in a thin crimson line. His breath fractured, shallow and uneven, as though he stood on a precipice waiting for the world itself to push him over.

Slowly, almost reverently, he raised the shard toward his face. The broken reflection wavered across its surface: his features fractured, monstrous, divine and grotesque all at once. The glass kissed the porcelain of his cheek, and a thin cut opened, a drop of red staining his skin. His arm shook violently, his jaw locked so tight it ached, yet still he could not bring the blow down.

At last his hand sank lower, dragged as though by gravity heavier than his will. The shard came to rest against his abdomen. The thought of driving it there, of ending all at once at the root, surged through him like fire. His blood dripped faster now, warm trails pattering against his bare skin, his lips parting in a silent gasp as his body bent forward, drawn taut as a bowstring at breaking point.

Then the world stilled.

A single rose petal drifted from the bath, floating through the air before landing on the tiles with a whisper-soft sound. His eyes fixed upon it, and in that fragile pause his grip slackened. The shard slipped from his hand and clattered across the floor.

Moving as though half-asleep, he stumbled toward the bed and collapsed into its hollow. The chamber glittered with cold, gilded splendor, yet all the brilliance was empty; it pressed against him like a void, a draft creeping over his skin that no warmth, no crown, no kingdom could ever drive away.

I wish I had spoken with Mu Qing sooner. Maybe then things might have been different.

I wish I hadn’t acted like such a coward in front of Feng Xin. Maybe I could have faced him honestly.

I wish I had been faster, then maybe Wu Ming wouldn’t be dead instead of me.

It seemed as though his entire existence had been nothing but a weight, dragging him down and wounding those around him.

And I wish I was never ever ever born.

Chapter Text

With his body throbbing with pain, Xie Lian forced his eyes open and lowered his gaze in silence. His hair hung in wild disarray, his robes had come half undone, and tearstains streaked across his cheeks. He must have been a pitiful sight. What had happened still clung to him with the weight of a nightmare—the countless hands striking, grasping, dragging him down. A wave of nausea rose so sharply that he pressed his hand over his mouth to keep from retching.

No… it was only a nightmare. Endure it a little longer. Just until the child is born. Just until he can escape this place. And then—

And then what? What future lay beyond? Could he truly run forever, always chased by Jun Wu’s shadow? Where would he find coin? A roof to shelter beneath? With his divine power stripped away, how could he protect both himself and the fragile life within him?

He shook his head, as if to drive the thoughts away. None of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was the child in his womb. If he could protect this life, then no matter what befell him, he would not shatter. Yet even as he clung to this resolve, darker voices swelled within him, relentless.

Why had the State Preceptor told him nothing? Why had he condemned him as the one who had summoned the Human-Face Plague? Why had he left him to bear that weight alone?

Why had Jun Wu sought so fiercely to harm him? And if cruelty had been the truth, then why, at times, had he shown him gentleness?

The questions gnawed without end. No matter how he tried to bend his thoughts toward understanding, he could not escape the certainty: the two figures who had once steered his life had both been built on lies. Where did the falsehoods end, and where did truth begin? Had “Xie Lian” ever truly existed for them at all? Or had he g only ever needed a foolish, trusting boy to serve as proof against Jun Wu?

And yet, beneath all the ruin of thought, there stirred a faint, shameful relief.

Because now… now he was nothing more than a victim.

Words of Mei Nianqing—that it had been he who called forth the Human-Face Plague—gnawed at Xie Lian’s mind with every passing moment, drowning him in guilt. No matter how many times he told himself it wasn’t true, the thought still sank its claws deep: if the heavens had punished him by creating Bai Wuxiang, then all those who perished to the plague had, in some way, died because of him. And with that thought came nights where sleep was impossible.

Xie Lian was the kind of person who would rather die himself than let others perish in his place. Not because he was especially virtuous, not because he was a saint—but simply because the thought of someone dying because of him was unbearable. He could not imagine living with his head held high while carrying such a weight. To others, it might have seemed a trifling sentiment. But to him, such things were everything.

And yet, even now, what tormented him most was the shame of his own heart—that in the midst of all this, a flicker of relief stirred. He clutched at his head and pressed his face into the bedclothes.

How vile. To feel relief at a time like this, just because—for once—it wasn’t my fault…

His robe had slipped half-open, but he made no move to straighten it. He lay sprawled, motionless, crushed beneath the weight of his own self-loathing. Every time he was forced to confront the truth of what he was—fragile, cowardly, pitiful—he drowned in a shame so deep it hollowed him out. If he had been stronger, truly stronger, then perhaps Wu Ming would not have vanished so helplessly.

And whenever such thoughts consumed him, he could do nothing but curl tighter into himself, aching for the release of simply ceasing to exist.

When he opened his eyes, the face before him was a nightmare made flesh.

The man in the half-smiling, half-weeping mask gazed down at him, utterly unmoved, as though he were studying an intriguing painting rather than the half-naked figure sprawled helplessly beneath him. Xie Lian’s robes had been torn open, his body left exposed, yet the masked man propped his chin in one hand and looked down at him with idle amusement.
And Xie Lian, for his part, no longer startled at the suddenness of the man’s appearance. There was no thought of hiding himself, no instinct to reach for his fallen clothing. Instead, with the same empty calm that comes after countless storms, he merely lifted his eyes and returned the gaze with a face drained of all expression.
In the next instant, the man’s figure wavered, and before him stood the Heavenly Emperor himself, the mask gone, replaced with the familiar, exalted form. His amusement seemed to fade like smoke, and with a languid gesture, he extended his hand—not toward Xie Lian’s face, but toward his abdomen.

The instant that hand drew near, Xie Lian sprang upright. Like a mother beast guarding their young—feral, desperate, unthinking—he curled both arms tight around his belly, baring his fear and defiance in equal measure. His wide eyes shone with the wild gleam of a creature driven past reason, willing to rend flesh and spill blood if it meant protecting the fragile life within.

“So,” Jun Wu murmured, lips curving faintly, “it’s only when the child is threatened that you still come alive.”

A surge of hatred flooded Xie Lian, so violent it made his hands clench. He wanted, in that instant, to crush the man’s bones into dust and scatter them into the river until not even a trace remained. But reality chained him fast. Here he was, ensnared within the man’s grasp, powerless to act without endangering the very life he was desperate to protect.

“Come,” Jun Wu commanded, his voice low and absolute.

At those words, Xie Lian flinched. Color drained from his face, leaving it pale as paper, and his body began to tremble before he even realized it. The word carried too much weight, echoing with memories he had tried again and again to bury. Could it be another “lesson”? Another round of his so-called education?

He could not move. He sat frozen where he was, like stone, every muscle taut, his arms locked protectively around his belly.

To endure that again… I can’t. I don’t want to…

No matter what was done to his body, it always healed as if untouched, leaving not a single visible mark behind. But the memories carved into him did not fade with the wounds. They remained, etched deep into bone and soul, scars no one else could see, but which consumed him all the same.

Watching him tremble in silence, Bai Wuxiang spoke at last.
“Rest easy. There will be no lesson like yesterday’s for you today.”

With those words, he seized Xie Lian and led him away. Xie Lian had opened his mouth to protest, to beg for even a moment to straighten his disheveled clothes, but the sight of Jun Wu dragging him forward without a word left him defeated. He let himself be pulled along, robes half-loosened, bare feet brushing against the floor—dressed in a state far beneath even the barest dignity.

Their destination was a wide, barren field behind the heavens. No blade of grass, no single flower broke through the cracked, dry earth. As Xie Lian walked across the desolate ground, unease coiled tighter and tighter in his chest.

“…What is this? What do you want from me?” he asked.

Jun Wu glanced back over his shoulder and gave a careless shrug.
“Formally, you achieved a second ascension. That makes you a Heavenly official. But giving you the rank of Martial God while you’re still serving punishment hardly seems fitting. So I thought—why not find you some… pastime?”

He gestured to one side.

There, piled in a neat stack, were tools of a gardener’s trade spades, shears, watering cans, baskets filled with twine and vases.

Xie Lian was so stunned he could not even form words. Whatever expression he turned toward Jun Wu, it made the man add, almost as if offering an explanation.

“They say flower arranging is good for prenatal care.”

Xie Lian wanted nothing more than to seize Jun Wu’s neck with his bare hands—tear him apart, throttle him until no breath remained. After everything he had done, after every humiliation, now he dared to tell him to spend his days in the forgotten corner of Heaven, planting flowers like some idle court lady? And those tools—what were they? Hardly delicate instruments for flower arranging; it looked as though he had been handed the equipment to till a farmer’s field.

Disgust and fury roiled in his chest, yet Xie Lian no longer had the strength to argue. He refused to give Jun Wu the satisfaction of seeing him protest. So, ignoring him entirely, he trudged toward the heap of gardening tools and crouched down.

There were sacks upon sacks of seeds—so many it was laughable. Some were labeled in careful script: white peonies, chrysanthemums, orchids. Others bore strange painted marks, crude sketches of blossoms he did not recognize—fiery scarlet flowers with curling petals, tiny pale blossoms clustered like stars, stalks of vivid yellow. He sifted through them, his fingers pausing on a packet with a crimson bloom inked on its surface. Without another word, he picked up a spade.

The earth was stubborn, dry and cracked, but he dug. He pressed the spade in with both hands, breaking the soil until it yielded, then scooped the loosened dirt aside. He dropped in the seeds, one by one, then covered them gently, patting the ground flat with the heel of his palm. When the soil was too hard, he used the watering can, letting streams of water darken the patch of earth until it was pliant enough to take root.

He repeated the process again and again—digging, sowing, watering. Soon his hands were streaked with dirt, his knees damp with mud. The robe he wore slipped lower on his shoulder, but he barely noticed. He planted chrysanthemums in neat rows, orchids in a crescent, and scattered the unknown crimson seeds in a patch by themselves. As he worked, something strange happened, the silence of the field seemed to soften. The barren plain, once vast and suffocating, began to transform beneath his touch.

Time slipped by unnoticed. Before he realized it, he had already tilled a wide section of land, arranging small seedlings into careful patterns, almost like a garden blooming in his mind. For a long while he forgot everything—the sting of humiliation, the weight of Jun Wu’s presence, even the fact that he was barefoot and clad in nothing but a thin under-robe. He forgot the half-healed bruises beneath his skin. All that existed was the earth beneath his nails, the smell of damp soil, the rows of tender seeds lined neatly in their beds.

For once, the act of losing himself in something—anything—felt almost like freedom. His breath steadied, his thoughts quieted, and the rhythm of digging and planting numbed the ache in his chest.

Then, just as he brushed the soil from his hands, someone tapped lightly at his shoulder. Startled, he twisted around.

And there, crouched at his side, watching him with quiet eyes, was someone he had never expected to see.

“…Ling Wen?”

Xie Lian’s voice faltered, as though the very name had lodged in his throat.

The one crouching before him was none other than Ling Wen, Junior offical of the Civil Affairs Palace. Back then, whenever their paths crossed, Xie Lian had often found himself seeking her counsel. Not because he was required to, not because of her rank—she had none worth mentioning then—but because her judgment struck him as the most lucid of all. Her words were practical and incisive, while others, however celebrated, always left him with the hollow sense of talking past one another. Yet despite her exceptional ability, she had never been promoted to a full official and had spent decades serving only as a junior official.
He remembered once, in a rare moment of candor, grumbling to Jun Wu himself that it was an injustice why should someone of Ling Wen’s talent be left languishing as a mere junior clerk while men of lesser skill advanced?

And now, after all that had happened—after his fall, after years adrift—she was here before him again.

It was then that the sharp awareness of his own condition struck him. His robe was half undone, his bare feet caked in dirt, his garments smeared with the soil of the fields. He must have looked not like a prince at all, but like some fallen courtesan gone mad, wandering barefoot and filthy. Flustered, he tried to gather his clothing, only to realize how stained and disheveled it already was.

Ling Wen, as calm as ever, said nothing. Instead, she reached out and with quiet composure adjusted the folds of his robe, covering the pale skin of his exposed thigh. Xie Lian blinked, torn between shame and gratitude, but when his eyes met hers, she gave the faintest shadow of a smile—so slight he might have imagined it.

“It’s been a long time, Your Highness,” she said, her voice even, steady. “You haven’t changed.”

Her tone carried neither warmth nor coldness, only a calm steadiness, like water flowing over stone. Xie Lian blinked, caught off guard. His lips parted, but no sound came. Ling Wen did not seem to expect a reply anyway—her gaze was level, unfaltering, as if she had already read the silence behind his eyes.

“So much has passed,” she went on, her words smooth but deliberate, “and yet, seeing you unchanged… it eases my heart.”

At those words, a faint, bitter curl stirred in Xie Lian’s chest. Unchanged? Could that truly describe him? She did not know the filth he had swallowed, the humiliations burned into his fleshless soul, the scars invisible beneath unmarked skin. Could such a man really be called unchanged? Could he truly still claim to be the same person she once knew?

“Well… I’m not sure I …” His voice faltered, thinning into the air, unsteady, tinged with bitterness he had not meant to let slip.

But Ling Wen shook her head gently, cutting him off before the thought could fully form. “It isn’t mockery. Do you remember, Your Highness, after your first ascension—you once asked for my help, even though I was no one of consequence?”

The memory struck him suddenly, a flash of the old palace halls, of his own voice—brimming with conviction, with the optimism of youth.

“Of course,” Xie Lian said softly, almost absently. “Because you were the most capable.”

At that, Ling Wen’s lips curved, faint but undeniable, a shadow of a smile that seemed out of place on her otherwise tranquil face.

“Yes. Capable, perhaps more than most. But most gods would never have chosen me. To them, asking an alpha woman for counsel was an embarrassment, a stain on their pride. To pick me over the shining sons of noble families—many called it foolish, even laughable. Some said you were a fool, squandering your chance to build ties and raise your standing.”

The words struck like stones cast into still water. They said such things? Xie Lian thought, astonished. He had never known. His hand pressed the small spade into the soil at his feet with a muted thud, grounding himself in the simple task.

“Does it matter,” he murmured, almost to himself, “whether one is alpha or omega? Male or female? My mother was an alpha woman, and it was she who taught me how to live this world. I’m an omega man, but she loved me no less for it.”

Ling Wen’s laugh slipped from her lips, soft and quiet as a sigh. “And that is why, Your Highness, you are an oddity. For better… or for worse.”

Xie Lian lowered his gaze. I only hope not for worse, he thought, his lips tightening faintly, as though bracing against a storm that never seemed to end.

In his kingdom, where the harmony of yin and yang was sacred, alpha women and omega men were exceedingly rare, treasured as living symbols of balance. Among the royal family, they were considered so precious that sometimes—even at the risk of corruption—kin were forced into marriage to preserve the bloodline. But beyond his borders, the world was far less forgiving.

Then Ling Wen reached into her sleeve with that same practiced calm and drew out a small pouch. She extended it to him without ceremony, though her eyes lingered as he accepted it with both hands. Carefully, almost reverently, he opened it. Inside were precious medicinal herbs and a sachet of rare incense, the sort meant to heal wounds and steady a restless spirit. At a glance, Xie Lian could tell—these were things far beyond what a minor official’s salary could easily afford. His fingers stilled, throat tightening.

“This is…”

“You are still under censure,” Ling Wen said evenly. Her tone was simple fact, not sympathy. “I thought you might have no one to look after you. Have you spoken with Mu Qing?”

The name was a blade drawn without warning. Xie Lian’s face froze, his lips parting before he quickly closed them again, unable to answer. He faltered, searching for words, but Ling Wen only gave a small, knowing nod.

“As I thought.”

Something inside him twisted. For reasons he couldn’t entirely name, Xie Lian felt he ought to defend him, to shoulder the weight of his absence.

“Mu Qing now has an important chance to advance,” he said quietly, carefully. “If he were to help me—someone with a record of punishment, someone cast out of Heaven—it would only endanger his position. He isn’t the kind of man to make such a foolish choice.”

Ling Wen inclined her head, the motion smooth and deliberate.
“You’re right. He’s intelligent enough not to make such a mistake. But that doesn’t mean you have to understand it, or excuse him for it.”

Her words fell with a cool precision that cut deeper than scorn.

Xie Lian lowered his eyes, fidgeting with the pouch in his hands. The herbs rustled softly against one another, their faint fragrance curling into the night air.

“To be perfectly honest,” Ling Wen added coolly, “if it were me, I would’ve beaten him senseless already. Called him an ungrateful bastard, and had done with it.”

The calm, measured tone in which she spoke made the words all the more startling. Xie Lian’s lips parted in shock, his eyes widening. Never once had he heard Ling Wen speak in such a coarse way. On that fine, composed face—smooth as jade, almost scholarly in its stillness—the words landed so absurdly that he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

She only shrugged, her voice flat, carrying not a hint of mockery.
“Besides, Your Highness, if it had been you in his place… wouldn’t you have made the foolish choice, no matter the consequences?”

The quiet sting of the words struck deeper than any rebuke. Xie Lian’s lips parted, but no reply came. His throat tightened, and all he could do was lower his gaze, the silence between them speaking louder than any protest.

With that, Ling Wen turned. Her figure drifted away with the same unhurried grace she always carried, as if she were dissolving into the stillness of the garden itself.

Xie Lian sat frozen, dumbfounded, watching her retreating back. His chest rose and fell unsteadily; the pouch in his hand felt heavier by the second. At last, the swell of desperation burst past his lips.

“W-wait, Ling Wen!”

Her steps halted, the faintest pause, as though she had expected the call all along.

“Why… why are you helping me?” His voice cracked, soft but raw, more fragile than he had intended.

She glanced back over her shoulder. Her face was as unreadable as ever, that mask of composure he had never once seen slip. But just before she turned away completely, her lips curved with the ghost of a smile—so faint it might have been imagined, so brief it could have been a trick of the light.

“Because I know someone like you.”

And with that, she was gone.

After Ling Wen’s figure disappeared into the distance, Xie Lian remained standing there for a long time, stunned, as though the air she left behind still pressed against his skin. At last, he lowered his gaze, silent, and carefully tucked the small pouch she had given him into the fold of his robes. Turning back, his eyes fell upon the little garden he had only just begun to bring to life, its rows uneven, its seedlings fragile. And yet, somehow, the sight drew the faintest smile to his lips.

In this lonely Shangtianding, he had thought there was no one—no ally, no friend, no soul who would ever acknowledge his presence. But now, even if she was no true companion, the thought that someone had recognized him, had seen him, lit a fragile spark in his heart.

Slowly, almost reverently, he stretched out his hand and touched the slight swell of his abdomen. Beneath his palm, he imagined the faint flutter of a tiny heart, the budding growth of small hands and feet not yet formed. The thought struck him with unbearable tenderness, and his smile trembled.

“When these flowers bloom,” he whispered, “you might already be in this world, my little one.”

His hand smoothed protectively over his belly, his voice hushed and aching with promise.
“There may be hardships—perhaps more than I can imagine. But I will protect you. I’ll make sure that you never regret being born into this world. I’ll make you happier than anyone.”

The words came like a vow he spoke into his own bones, his eyes shutting tight as though sealing it in prayer.

The sharp sound of something falling behind him split the quiet. Xie Lian’s eyes flew open, his breath catching. He turned, and in an instant, his pupils constricted sharply. 

There, standing rigid in the barren field, was Feng Xin.

But he was no longer the brash boy who had once followed him like a shadow. His shoulders had broadened, hardened into the frame of a seasoned soldier; his face, once straightforward and youthful, was lined with grim edges. His bow lay at his feet where it had slipped from his stunned hands, and his eyes—eyes Xie Lian knew better than his own reflection—were wide, shaken, struggling to comprehend.

He must have decided to come back to the heavens after he left Xie lian.

“…What did you just say?” Feng Xin’s voice was low, rough with disbelief, but there was no heat at first—only a trembling undercurrent of worry. His gaze fell to Xie Lian’s hands, wrapped so fiercely around his stomach, and his breath stuttered.

“A child?” he said, almost hoarse. “Your Highness… are you truly with child?”

He took a step closer, cautiously, as if afraid that even the sound of his boots might startle him. “Then… whose is it? Tell me who the father is. Does he even know? Is he—” Feng Xin’s jaw tightened, his words stumbling over themselves, “is he here for you? Does he care for you?”

Xie Lian’s lips parted soundlessly, but no answer came. His silence stretched thin.

Feng Xin’s brow furrowed, a shadow of something darker crossing his face. “Don’t tell me…” His voice dropped lower, strained with the beginnings of suspicion. “Don’t tell me it’s Mu Qing’s?”

Xie Lian startled, his eyes going wide. “No! No, of course not—how could you even think that?!”

“Then what—” Feng Xin’s voice grew harsher, disbelief sharpening into anger, “—was it some Heavenly Official who took advantage? Or…” His breath caught, and he forced the words through his teeth. “…or was it the emperor?”

The name struck like a blade. Xie Lian’s face blanched, terror flashing naked across it. “No!” The denial tore from him, panicked.

“It isn’t—it’s none of them!”

“Then… who is he? Who is the father? Does he even know? Is he here for you? Does he care?”

Xie Lian’s lips parted, then closed again. His throat worked, words catching and stuttering until at last, haltingly, he breathed,

“…I… I don’t know his name.”

For an instant, Feng Xin just stared, as if the words had stripped him bare. Then something flickered across his face—first shock, then disbelief, and finally the beginnings of a darker fire.

“…You don’t… know?” His voice rasped, hoarse with incredulity. “You mean to tell me… you don’t even know who he is?”

Xie Lian flinched, panic flashing in his eyes. “It’s not—Feng Xin, it wasn’t like that—”

But Feng Xin’s expression was already shifting, tightening, hardening. His shoulders rose with a tremor, fists clenching at his sides.

“Then… don’t tell me—” his voice cracked, raw and disbelieving, “don’t tell me the reason you vanished for two months… was this?”

For a moment, he only stared. His chest rose and fell hard, the silence stretching taut between them until it screamed. Then his lips parted, and the words staggered out in a cracked whisper.

“…Is this why?” he said, his voice shaking. “Is this why you told me to leave?”

Xie Lian’s throat tightened. “Feng Xin—”

“I searched for you,” Feng Xin cut in, his voice trembling now with something harsher than rage. “I tore through every lead, hunted every shadow, drove myself half-mad trying to find you. And all the while—” his voice climbed, raw, “all the while, you were with him?”

Xie Lian’s face blanched. “No…! That’s not—”

“Tell me then!” Feng Xin surged forward, fists clenched, knuckles white. “Where is he?! Where is the man who left you like this?!” His voice cracked like thunder, shaking with fury he could no longer contain. “Don’t tell me—don’t you dare tell me—that he abandoned you after doing this to you!”

His hands shook violently at his sides. “Is that it? You’re carrying the child of some coward who ran off, leaving you—leaving you like this?!”

“No!” Xie Lian’s breath hitched, frantic. “He—he had no choice, he couldn’t stay, he—”

“Couldn’t stay?!” Feng Xin barked a laugh, hollow and savage, his composure shattering at last. “That’s your excuse? You expect me to believe that?” His eyes blazed, wet with fury and betrayal. “So you chose him? Some spineless bastard who walked away from you, who walked away from his own child—and that’s the one you cast me aside for?!”

His voice broke, rage twisting into grief. “Two months—you vanished for two months, and I thought—” His words faltered, then surged up again, ragged and sharp. “I thought you were in danger, that you had fallen into some trap, that I had failed you again. But instead… instead you were with him?!”

Xie Lian shook his head violently. “No—Feng Xin, listen to me, that’s not it!”

But Feng Xin’s fury only grew, rolling like a storm unchained.
“Your parents—did you even think of them? Do you think of what it meant when you pushed them away, when you cast me aside? All this time, all of us trying to protect you—and you throw us away for this?!” His fists trembled, his whole frame taut as a bow about to snap. 

“No!” Xie Lian’s shout ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. “That’s not it! I never—I never—Feng Xin, you don’t understand!”

But the words he needed caught like thorns in his throat. To make him understand, he would have to say it—would have to spit out the truth of what had been done to him, the grotesque violations, the unspeakable torment under Bai Wuxiang’s hands.

But how? With no scars, no wounds, no proof to offer? Feng Xin hadn’t believed him before—not even when Bai Wuxiang had stalked him then. Why would he believe now, when Xie Lian’s body was unmarked, pristine, while his soul rotted beneath?

To tell him would be to rip open the rot inside, to expose the festering hollow where his heart had been—and still, Feng Xin might not believe.

“I told you to leave,” Xie Lian whispered at last, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “Because I was afraid. Because I thought—you would be the one to leave me first. And I—” His words faltered, choked back by the sting in his throat, leaving only silence heavy enough to drown them both.

Xie Lian wanted to tell him the truth—that all he had ever wished for was that Feng Xin would stay.

But when he opened his mouth, no sound came. The words tangled somewhere in his chest, too heavy to force out.

His hands tightened instead around the thin pouch Ling Wen had given him, the edge crumpling between trembling fingers. After a long silence, he managed only a broken whisper.

“…The child… it happened after you left.”

The tears came before he realized, clouding his vision until everything swam in a blur. Feng Xin’s eyes flickered, his step faltering. He had never known what to do when faced with Xie Lian’s tears; they had always undone him. But even that old softness felt suffocating now, a weight pressing down until Xie Lian could barely breathe.

Feng Xin’s lips parted as though words might come—once, twice—but each time they withered on his tongue. At last, his face hardened, his jaw set like iron. He turned sharply away, the sound of his retreating steps cutting through the silence, and was gone.

Xie Lian remained where he was, the pouch clutched tight against his chest. The world blurred around him, his head bowed, his shoulders trembling faintly. He made no sound, yet the image of him—blurred, fragile, left behind—was that of someone dissolving into mist, unbearably alone.