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Chapter Text

When Mobei-jun died, it was with a gasp and a thump.

Shang Qinghua, as the type of shut-in who wasn’t even invited to his grandparents’ funerals, had never grappled with the permanence of death before. He sometimes fantasized about it – both his own death (during his most exhausting weeks) and his former classmates’ (when they juggled those weeks so seamlessly) – and, when that outlet began to fail him, satiated his most cowardly urges with his favorite Zhongdian literature.

When he had started writing his own dogblood novel, he had made all the deaths sufficiently dogblooded as well. When wicked villains fell, they fell to the sickest violence Shang Qinghua could conjure up; when brave heroes fell, they fell to a monster befitting of their station. When either fell, they would usually say something like Curse you, Luo Binghe!, and they would hack and sputter and swear their last breaths away, for as many pages as Shang Qinghua could possibly drag it out.

Maybe because Mobei-jun was neither a wicked villain nor a brave hero – or maybe because he was one of the treasured few Shang Qinghua had never envisioned a corpse – when he fell, he said nothing at all.

Just as Mobei-jun hit the floor, Shang Qinghua woke up on it.

He woke up naturally and slowly, the kind of wake-up that could be poetically described as with the sun, and the kind of wakeup that Shang Qinghua was not often blessed with. A short distance behind him, something producing wind whirred away, producing a faint and periodic tick, tick, ticking noise. The moving air brushed past him, tickling his face with his bangs; Shang Qinghua sniffed, bringing his wrist up to rub at his nose.

Ancient air conditioning? Where did I fall asleep?

In the Northern Kingdom, needing something to produce cold air was a privilege; there was more than enough of it to go around. Shang Qinghua shivered himself to sleep every night and slept like the dead, hibernating under his quilts until the morning came. 

Seeing as he was not only not a Qinghua-shaped ice sculpture, but was also privy to a not-freezing breeze, Shang Qinghua deduced that he must be somewhere other than the Northern Kingdom – An Ding Peak, probably, based on the familiarity of a floor against his back. He had fallen asleep many a time on this very floor, sorting through delivery logistics until his vision went blurry and he slipped right off his chair, bruising his cheek and spraining his old man back.

He was lacking the memory of getting to An Ding Peak, but he also spent much of his day-to-day life being dragged around in a state of semi-consciousness, so this wasn’t a particularly strange occurrence. Granted, it was a bit odd that Mobei-jun would bring him to An Ding Peak instead of ripping him away, but the human and demon realms had achieved a temporary peace, which meant Mobei-jun was occasionally expected to share custody.

Shang Qinghua breathed in air that didn’t make his teeth chatter, feeling quite content.

A Peak Lord’s job on An Ding Peak was busy, but compared to the expectations Mobei-Jun had for him, visiting was like taking a vacation day.

Ahh, so warm… don’t come back for me too quickly, My King!

It was so pleasantly warm, in fact, that Shang Qinghua didn’t understand why someone had elected to chase it with cold air. He was the Peak Lord, and he hardly had any privileges by default; surely this, at least, should be his decision!

He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the wind, loathe to open his eyes, then waited a beat.

Tick, tick, tick.

The wind continued to blow. Shang Qinghua was a tad disheartened by this; he was no Cucumber-bro, but he certainly had the cultivation to shut down a simple flow of wind. Sure, he hadn’t done terribly much using it, lately – there was only so much that magic could assist you with, in the business of accounting – but he was quite sure he would know if he had deteriorated so significantly.

Shang Qinghua waved his hand again, with a bit more agitation. Then he smacked the floor with his palm, utterly peeved.

Even magical devices don’t listen to An Ding Peak nowadays?! I! Own! You!

So much for continuing his peaceful floor-slumber! Shang Qinghua sat up abruptly, now feeling quite testy, only to slam his head directly into the underside of the desk above him. His forehead went red hot – a sure sign of an incoming welt – and he snapped his eyes open, whirling around. He had just started pawing at the floor for the nearest throwable item when, for the first time, he took in the target of his hatred.

An ordinary plug-in fan stared right back at him, tick tick ticking with every rotation of the cheap blades.

Shang Qinghua was fairly certain electricity had not been invented and perfected during his slumber. But the fan kept thrumming steadily along, cold air whistling by his ears. 

If there was a fan here, that must mean – but then – 

Shang Qinghua scrambled to his hands and knees, very nearly concussing himself again. He scuttled out from under his desk like a bug –  a desk that felt substantially shorter than the one he was familiar with – and stumbled to his feet, so quickly that it left him feeling lightheaded. He steadied himself, palming at the corner of his desk, and whipped his head around to properly look at his surroundings.

Against his desk, his fingers began to shake.

Shang Qinghua was neither in the Northern Desert, nor in his office in An Ding Peak. No – he was in a room where he had spilled more tears than Mobei-jun could ever wring out of him, where he had howled with more rage than the most obnoxious expense reports could evoke. He had set records here in word count, in days of isolation, in the number of manic episodes one man could have in one semester. Far more than any disciples’ chambers, or any parents’ houses, this was where he had become an adult.

This was his college dorm room, just as pitiful as he remembered it.

He spun slowly, like a globe on its axis, and the contents of his college dorm room – hardly 100 square feet in size, untouched for decades but somehow, precisely as he remembered it – spun with him, moving in slow motion. The gadgets of the modern world – his fan, his digital alarm on his bedside table, the flickering light of his laptop – clicked mockingly. 

Shang Qinghua whipped his hand away from the desk and stared at it. He hadn’t noticed before – why would he notice, this was his hand, he knew his hand – but this wasn’t his hand at all. No – it was his hand, more his hand than the ones he had possessed for a long, stolen life. This hand was not the slender, oft-bruised hand of cultivator Shang Qinghua – this hand had nails bitten down to the quick, soft palms, and the lingering burn-scars from boiling water in the microwave. 

This hand – this terribly unfamiliar, deeply familiar hand – was the hand of one Xiang Fei.

He paced two steps and picked up the sole mirror he owned, fingers trembling like he had been dunked wrist-deep in ice water. 

It was funny – Xiang Fei had never thought about what it would be like to see yourself as a stranger before, and for a moment, he instinctively concluded that terrified face must belong to someone other than himself. It had, after all, been a long time since he had been chubby-cheeked and red-faced, since he had worn his hair in a sloppy neck-level pony instead of a high, distinguished pin. He looked at this college-aged boy as if the mirror was a window, and he was simply looking through at a stranger from a family tree, at someone long-dead or long-disappeared. The eyes of Xiang Fei met the body without recognition, dull and dark.

The face that stared back looked like it had seen a ghost.

Then he dropped the mirror, which cracked on his nightstand like a stone dropped into a frozen pool.

In this cramped dorm room, surrounded by the acidic stench of trashed ramen and the buzz of an unfamiliar world, Xiang Fei felt lightheaded. He closed his eyes, sucked in a feeble breath, hoarse and choked – and then snapped them right back open. Somewhere, in the back of his head, a thought nagged at him.

Shang Qinghua’s eyes, Xiang Fei’s eyes – neither of those eyes were as familiar as Mobei-jun’s, and the last time he had seen them, they had not seen him!

When Mobei-jun was sent hurtling to the ground, he hadn’t even had time to blink. He had landed with a heavy, disquieting thump – Xiang Fei had never seen him so boneless before – and he had stared forward, blank and unseeing, as his head thunked against the icy ground. He had been looking at something in Xiang Fei’s direction before it had happened, but Xiang Fei had never found out what it was. Mobei-jun – a man who had previously found the wherewithal to threaten his servant, with a hole punched straight through his body – had finally found himself lost for insults. 

Xiang Fei pinched himself once, but those deep blue eyes burned into his vision – their color, in reality, faded by Linguang-jun’s fatal touch – did not disappear so easily.

It’s a dream! It’s a dream, it’s a dream – I’m sleeping in my bed in the Northern Palace, and I’m dreaming a terrible nightmare. I’m being sabotaged by my own son’s sick dream-abilities for visiting my friend the other day, this isn’t real!

Xiang Fei’s hands fumbled over his skin, pinched at his wrists, his arms, his throat, until his flesh had become raw and red and his bitten-down fingertips smarted terribly.

I’m dreaming, and my King is alright – I’m going to be woken up soon from oversleeping, and I’ll take my beating gratefully, today, if you’ll let me wake up! Pinch, pinch, pinch – why aren’t you waking up?!

Xiang Fei’s legs had gone wobbly. His bloodied fingertips smeared red prints over his desk, and his heart thumped loudly enough to hear it in his ears, to feel it in his shoulders. He thought, dizzily, that this must be what a heart attack felt like.

Then, he whipped around and bolted, crying out at the top of his lungs. 

“My King!”

My King, My King, I’m coming for you! Wake up, wake up, wake up, wakeup, wakeupwakeupwakeup–

Halfway to the door, Xiang Fei’s foot dragged on something crinkly. The flat of his sock ground against an empty, slippery chip bag, and his body went careening violently forward. His leg shot up in the air; the corner of the desk, inches away from his neck, shone with dried red; and before Xiang Fei made a thump of his own, everything had gone dark once again.

“Qinghua!”

Shang Qinghua startled awake, dislodging the thick, furry blanket encasing him like a coffin. It fell to the ground with a hefty thump, and he shot up as if pulled by his hair.

“My King! My King, my –”

Shang Qinghua’s voice trailed off. There was not a hint of tick tick tick to be heard.

“...King?”

Naturally, this time, Shang Qinghua wasted no time in opening his eyes. 

His bedroom in the Northern Palace was, for a servant, a quietly lavish one. It had a substantial amount of space to it – no doubt built for a demon, whose height could range much higher than Shang Qinghua’s modest human stature – and, while largely undecorated, was furnished with everything a humble assistant to the ice King might need. It had exponentially better living conditions than Shang Qinghua’s old dorm, which had him feeling bad for the cockroaches that had to scuttle around in it. It was also totally unmistakable.

And if sight wasn’t enough for Shang Qinghua to verify where he was, once his eyes were open, they were immediately assaulted by the cold-as-shit Northern Kingdom air, the kind of air no fan could ever replicate. His eyes began to water.

Ahh, that’s the stuff! Home sweet home.

He fumbled to yank the heavy quilt back onto the bed, which took no small amount of strength. A blanket like this would qualify as the weighted (and expensive) variety back in the human world, but here it was, apparently, servant-quality; Mobei-jun had given him four or five for his ‘human day of birth’, along with a grunt, and had refused to take them back when Shang Qinghua suggested more than one would turn him into a pancake. 

But just one – that was the sweet spot! Shang Qinghua dipped his face into the blanket, breathing in the fresh, clear smell of the Northern Kingdom’s wash water. His head began to clear.

A dream – that was all it was. A stubborn, long dream, but clearly a dream! Perhaps one sent to punish him for his lack of gratitude towards his icy benefactor. Shang Qinghua swore to himself that he would not complain about his job for the next 30 minutes, if not 45, as penance. He would very much like not to suffer that dream again.

The demon world was cold and unforgiving, but it had thick quilts and warm beds. In the human world, Shang Qinghua could hardly afford sheets. The choice, to a sleep-addled servant, was hardly a choice at all.

He had just melted quite peacefully back into his cocoon when, outside the door, that voice thundered once more.

“Qinghua! Get out here!”

Not all of it was a dream!

“Coming, My King! Just a moment!”

Shang Qinghua threw himself out of bed, his sleepy body smacked with a healthy dose of prey-animal adrenaline. He stumbled to his closet half-naked and dressed quickly in the first robes his fingers touched. He kept spare hair sticks in his pockets – for instances in which Shang Qinghua had to hastily remove his and hand it to Mobei-jun when he needed something to break, instead of some poor servant’s (his) fingers – and so he yanked one out, bunching handfuls of hair to the top of his head with his spare hand. 

How had he slept in so late?! And why was Mobei-jun here to wake him? Couldn’t he send a slightly more polite lesser demon, instead of the King coming himself?

“Qinghua,” the voice outside said – growled.

“My King, I’m trying to look presentable! Please have some patience!”

Shang Qinghua had clearly overstepped, because the door to his room swung open, smashing against the wall. Shang Qinghua winced; he was going to have to call in someone for repairs. As if he didn’t have enough tasks on his list!

“Ahh, you’re right, you’re right, shouldn’t have said that–” Shang Qinghua resignedly dropped his handful of hair, which waterfalled back down his shoulders. He decidedly did not look towards the door, like how a jungle explorer might avoid agitating a big cat. “It wasn’t to imply you can’t come in whenever you like – of course, My King is welcome to wake this servant up! Just, um, why are you here –”

“Qinghua is absent from his duties,” Mobei-jun said. “Look at me.”

Shang Qinghua sheepishly turned to look – and yes, there he was, beautiful and tall and alive as ever. 

Mobei-jun glowered down at him, no shortage of color in his very functional eyes. His pale skin glowed with a healthy demonic flush – like a deep blue ocean flowed through his veins – and Shang Qinghua realized, quickly, that having seen Mobei-jun as a corpse did not make him any less imposing. He was just as regal as he was pre-dream, and more importantly, just as pissed. Shang Qinghua was flooded with unexpected relief, though not quite enough to overcome his trepidation.

“I didn’t mean to sleep in so much, My King –”

“Quiet!” Mobei-jun said. Shang Qinghua quieted.

He had just held his hand out to offer his hair stick when Mobei-jun bent down, just enough to come face to face with Shang Qinghua. Shang Qinghua shrunk back, feeling newly protective over his own life.

“Your neck,” Mobei-jun observed, suddenly. “What happened.”

“My neck? My King, I don’t –”

Mobei-jun took Shang Qinghua’s shoulders, roughly, and spun him to face the full-length mirror. Shang Qinghua steadied himself with his palms, then tilted his head, and – hey, what the fuck was that?!

Traversing the width of Shang Qinghua’s slender neck – and it was Shang Qinghua’s this time, just as expected – was a thick scar, reddish-pink and fleshy. 

Shang Qinghua instinctively snapped his hand up to touch it, feeling along the raised scar tissue. It wasn’t painful to the touch, nor overly sensitive, but it made itself known amongst the otherwise flat, pale plane of skin. And – looking in the mirror – it was a bit gruesome! Shang Qinghua had never sustained an injury of this severity by Mobei-jun’s hand – really, compared to this, he hardly even left a bruise! 

“Did someone hurt Qinghua?” Mobei-jun said. He sounded unhappy, which was also just his normal tone of voice.

“No, no! I mean – not that I can remember, My King. You would know!” 

You’re the expert in hurting Qinghua, after all!

Shang Qinghua squinted at the mirror. Mobei-jun brought up a good point, but given that the scar was very much there, it was less an if and more a when. He was sure that when he had gone to sleep, his neck had been pristine and fair; had someone snuck in during the night and tried to assassinate him?

Why would someone try to kill Mobei-jun’s humble servant? His King was fully capable of doing that himself!

The scar stung with phantom pain, and Shang Qinghua touched it once more. Really, intent was not the only suspicious factor; it was more like everything else, too. Being a light sleeper was practically in Shang Qinghua’s job description, in case the Ice King needed immediate assistance with a bedtime story – could he really have slept through getting his fucking neck sliced open? And, even if he had – could such a violent wound have healed overnight? How was he supposed to apply for medical leave with an already-healed wound?

The situation was altogether completely lacking in logic, so Shang Qinghua began to contemplate some illogical alternatives. If he really thought about it, the only time he could remember sustaining such an injury to his neck would be –

The corner of his dorm desk flashed in his mind. Shang Qinghua dismissed it quickly.

No way! It was a dream, after all, and the live evidence of such was right in front of him. It wasn’t that unrealistic to imagine that someone had snuck in, made an attempt on his life, and sealed him up promptly once they realized his stubborn body would take a while to bleed out. Anything was possible in Shang Qinghua’s world – dumb assassins with shockingly convoluted killing techniques would be the least stupid thing. And either way, a petty attack on an overstated accountant was certainly more likely than Shang Qinghua getting dream-killed by a bag of Cheetos.

Mobei-jun must have come to the same conclusion, because his eyes were narrowed. He looked very, very displeased.

“Go to the physician,” Mobei-jun ordered. “And receive treatment. I will have your clothes moved.”

“Thank you, thank you, My King is so – ah? Moved? To where?”

Mobei-jun’s gaze became substantially more frosty. Shang Qinghua, not wanting Mobei-jun to finish what the assassin started, helpfully went.

Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t much the physician could do for a healed scar.

Shang Qinghua was given a cursory examination – during which the physician ensured not to touch him more than absolutely necessary – and sent on his way, with a vial of ointment to be used as-needed. The physician had not quite explained what as needed meant, but Shang Qinghua was equally as unenthusiastic about a check-up as she was, so he didn’t bother to ask.

Shang Qinghua was, in all likelihood, the first human these demon physicians had ever been asked to treat. He truly, sincerely, couldn’t blame any of them for wanting him in and out as quickly as possible; he imagined this was the medical equivalent of Mobei-jun stopping him during an accounting job, handing him a stack of US dollars, and asking him to make all future payments in the form of paper cranes. As a fellow put-upon employee of the highly unreasonable demon King, he could only sympathize.

Once he had given his thanks and left, he unscrewed the cap of the ointment, sniffed it, and promptly disposed of it in the nearest blue fireplace. Given the differences between human and demon physiology – and Shang Qinghua’s fantastic artistic choices – an anti-infection cream for demons was, more likely than not, some sort of twisted aphrodisiac for humans; well-suited for the original story, but not for this one. So long as his scar wasn’t leaking pus or otherwise smelling strange, there was no need for further action.

Even so, Shang Qinghua certainly wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for a bit of leisure time. He had very nearly made it to his room when a shadow – one less than six-feet-tall this time, thankfully – darkened his door.

“Peak Lord Shang,” the guard said. “His Highness has requested your presence.”

Still?! Surely you’re done with whatever you needed me for by now?

“Does he!” Shang Qinghua said instead. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how badly does he need me? If you can see, I’m very sickly, and have much work to catch up on. It’s not a great time.”

The guard furrowed his brow.

“His Highness did not give me a number.” The guard said, unsurely. “But His Highness’s request was urgent.”

Urgent, huh?

Mobei-jun was a bit like a toddler in this regard; any requests he made were urgent, and anything requested of him could be completed at his leisure. The concept of fairness had yet to be defined under the Mobei dictatorship.

Either way, there was no point in refusing, unless Shang Qinghua got a kick out of Mobei-jun himself dragging him by the ear. So he thanked the guard, cast one more mournful glance towards his door, and followed the aura of murderous rage to the throne room.

Sure enough, Shang Qinghua had once again been summoned for something decidedly not urgent.

Mobei-jun sat on the throne, nostrils flaring like a bull’s. About 5 meters away from him, across the invisible personal-space line Mobei-jun strictly instituted, stood a gaggle of demons: a lesser Lord and his servants, probably, from a different Kingdom. A less handsome Kingdom, too, as the one doing most of the talking had a serpent’s head.

“Sir,” The Lord began, and it sounded more like sssssir. “This humble Kingdom urgently requests His Highness’s assistance…”

Urgent request this, urgent request that – all everyone ever does around here is make urgent requests! 

Mobei-jun made no attempt to stop the droning on, but he also did not look like he was listening. His icy eyes flickered around the throne room until they swept over Shang Qinghua, then stalled. He lifted his hand, beckoning him like one would call a dog.

Shang Qinghua trudged over, having long since accepted public humiliation. He approached the throne, weaving to stand by Mobei-jun’s side.

“Apologies for being absent, My King – this servant is here now,” Shang Qinghua whispered, not wanting to disrespect the visiting Kingdom more than biology already had.

Mobei-jun propped his head up slightly from where it was resting on his palm. He seemed to have no such qualms.

“Did the physician treat you properly?

The snake Lord blinked a few times. He paused in his drivel.

“Indeed she did, My King,” Shang Qinghua said, hastily. “Good as new!”

Mobei-jun’s gaze flicked down to his neck, disbelievingly, then back up. When he had concluded that Shang Qinghua had no new wounds and wasn’t bleeding to death, his expression relaxed just a bit.

“Sit, Qinghua,” Mobei-jun said. 

This again? Really?!

This was a new and exciting technique Mobei-jun had devised for – something to do with degrading Shang Qinghua, probably, or something else along those lines. 

Mobei-jun often had many Kingly consultations with neighboring and faraway Kingdoms to attend to, but simultaneously had little patience for such worldly affairs. So, he had begun requiring Shang Qinghua’s presence, in the same way that a small, shivering dog would be used in a zoo to befriend a cheetah.  

Shang Qinghua would sit by the throne, half-paying attention and half-fantasizing about how much sexier this would be if the floor wasn’t fuck-all cold, and Mobei-jun would usually manage to get through the meeting while only killing one or two demon underlings per Kingdom. It was a great system for Mobei-jun, and would have been a better one for Shang Qinghua if he had just a smidge less dignity. Considering how little he already had, this was a great ask.

There was less than no value in protesting, so Shang Qinghua sank to his knees, sitting politely by the throne. Mobei-jun relaxed, sinking back into it.

The snake Lord looked around, probably under the impression he had just interrupted something.

“I gave you ten minutes,” Mobei-jun said. “Why did you stop.”

So the snake Lord scrambled to continue, and Shang Qinghua lost himself in his mental filing cabinets, or whatever else he could think of that didn’t involve him getting murdered in the night.

Unfortunately, he was not given time to occupy himself for long. About halfway through the snake Lord’s droning speech, Mobei-jun extended a fist and unfolded it expectantly. He crooked his fingers, shiny black claws curling towards his wrist.

When Shang Qinghua didn’t do anything, Mobei-jun quirked an eyebrow at him. Shang Qinghua hastily complied.

“Oh! Yes, My King, I’ve got it–”

Shang Qinghua went fumbling in the pockets of his robes, selecting a hairstick solely by touch. The one he retrieved happened to be one of his nicer ones, inky black and shaped like a tree branch, and he silently mourned it as he obediently passed it to his King. He hadn’t even thought the Lord was upsetting him that much; usually, when someone’s fingers or life were in danger, Mobei-jun would visibly tense. When he was keen on turning someone into an ice sculpture for his palace, his foot would begin to tap.

Shang Qinghua certainly hoped Mobei-jun hadn’t lost those tells; he had relied on them many times in the past, and his expressions – ranging from pissed to more pissed – were not so easily readable.

Mobei-jun’s fingers curled around the hair stick. Shang Qinghua braced himself for an unpleasant crack, but it didn’t come; in fact, Mobei-jun held it almost delicately, within that huge hand.

When Shang Qinghua had been staring for too long, Mobei-jun’s hand drew close to his face, knuckles brushing against his cheek. Shang Qinghua decidedly did not look at his claws, glinting with the reflection of the stick, lest he be forced to admit to some masochistic tendencies. 

“Right, My King.”

Shang Qinghua swiveled his head right back around, setting his attention on the minor Lord, feeling somewhat like he had just been asked to turn his back on a predatory animal. Instead of contemplating the implications this would have in the real life wilderness, he tuned back in to the snake Lord’s speech, which had yet to reach a conclusive point.

“All this to say, Your Highness, if you wouldn’t mind allowing us into the outskirts of the Kingdom on the fourth of the month, that would be sssplendid. Our struggle is nothing to sniff at, and…”

Shang Qinghua felt a faint, anticipatory tingle on the back of his neck. When he instinctively tilted his head, he felt a large hand clasp around it. Just below Shang Qinghua’s chin, Mobei-jun’s claws clacked together.

“Stop moving, Qinghua,” Mobei-jun rumbled. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Hurt me? Hurt me?! My King, did I do something to upset you? This seems like a bit of an overreaction for sleeping in, and really, if you’re going to do something so intimate as threaten my life, I would appreciate it if it wasn’t in your throne room! I’m going to be the talk of the demon realm in hours! 

Shang Qinghua closed his eyes and prepared to have his vocal cords forcibly removed. 

Instead, he felt a ghost-like brush of fingers on the ends of his hair, which wound into soft spirals in Mobei-jun’s cold palm. 

It was… a shockingly gentle gesture, and a not unpleasant one, either. It could even be described as nice, in a tingly kind of way, like Shang Qinghua was being treated to a scalp massage by Freddy Krueger. Shang Qinghua allowed his head to tilt back, just slightly; Mobei-jun carded through his hair, and once satisfied with what he had gathered, pulled those thick strands of hair up towards the top of his head.

Was he… trying to put Shang Qinghua’s hair up for him? 

Shang Qinghua was no longer focused on the snake Lord, and could not remember whether he was currently talking. He strained his ears out of politeness, and when he heard nothing, tilted his head down; in place of the seconds-ago mobile Lord, there was a suspiciously snake-shaped block of ice. Shang Qinghua felt a very human-like sympathy.

Pushed your luck a little too much, huh? Happens to the best of us, buddy.

He didn’t recall the poor guy doing anything to piss Mobei-jun off, but Shang Qinghua knew from experience that sometimes, breathing was all it took. The snake-guards hurried to begin sliding their poor snake-Lord away, but Mobei-jun held out a hand to stop them, generously releasing Shang Qinghua’s throat. 

Then, he brought that hand right back up to Shang Qinghua’s scalp. He formed the hair into a makeshift bun, and slipped the hair stick right inside. Then he twisted his hair around a few more times, trapping it in place, pulling tawny hair between the little branches.

“There,” Mobei-jun said, sounding quite satisfied with himself. “Look.”

Shang Qinghua was about to ask where, sir, when Mobei-jun gestured towards those snake-guards. They, very reluctantly, pushed their Lord forward; Shang Qinghua realized, with a start, that he was now near-perfectly reflective! 

You mean he didn’t even do anything wrong?! You just needed a mirror? Mercy, My King! This is too far!

“Is it good?” Mobei-jun said, once Shang Qinghua had been silent for too long. He jerked his head towards the ice, doing his very best to ignore the faint outline of a person in there.  

It was… the shittiest hairstyle Shang Qinghua had ever seen, in his whole life! This could hardly be called a bun at all; it looked more like a small, fluffy rodent had been shot with an arrow onto Shang Qinghua’s head. Were Shang Qinghua to show up to a Peak Lord conference like this, he would be laughed out; no, were he to show up anywhere like this, he would be laughed out! This, truly, was cruel and unusual punishment! Mobei-jun had outdone himself!

So, naturally, with all that in mind, he said:

“Wonderful job, My King – I couldn’t have done it any better myself! My King truly is multitalented – of course, this servant would expect nothing less!”

Shang Qinghua snuck a look at Mobei-jun. 

His eyebrow was lifted in that hardly-glimpsed pleased expression. Shang Qinghua suddenly felt something of a twinge, and felt that he couldn’t be too hard on him. His Grumpiness, Ruler of All Things Mean and Cold, had probably never done someone else’s hair before. In fact, he had probably hardly done his own; it was a rare occasion when Mobei-jun’s hair was styled, and even then, it was only a small section. Probably done by some terribly-scared-looking servant.

Shang Qinghua, for not the first time that day, silently apologized for thinking his job was hard.

“Acceptable,” Mobei-jun said, then nodded at the snake guards. They hastily began pushing their Lord away, presumably to find somewhere warm to melt the poor soul. They would be pushing for quite some time; there was none of that here.

“Then, if you forget, I will put your hair up for you,” Mobei-jun said, with an air of finality. From the other end of the throne room, the next humble Lord scooted his way inside. 

Shang Qinghua, whose neck was now both handless and hairless, shook himself to warm up. 

Oh, don’t worry, my King – I won’t forget again!

Not only had Shang Qinghua’s clothes been moved – his everything had been moved.

He had endured quite a long day of being Mobei-jun’s chew toy, so when he first returned to his quarters that night, he failed to recall his King’s promise. He naturally assumed that his clothes had been stolen by perverts and hooligans, and it was only when he summoned his guard – two demons who seemed less than thrilled to be at a human’s beck and call – that he was formally reminded of his own stupidity.

“Peak Lord Shang is expected to meet His Highness for further instruction,” One of the guards informed him, with a tone that said Peak Lord Shang, your reputation precedes you.

“Did His Highness say when?” Shang Qinghua asked, while checking his drawers for forgotten items. There were none – Mobei-jun’s ransackers had been incredibly thorough. Thorough enough, in fact, that Shang Qinghua feared his newest erotica would soon be making its rounds.

“One hour ago,” One of the guards said.

“Oh, good!” said Shang Qinghua, who then left promptly.

At the very least, Shang Qinghua had some unearned confidence he couldn’t be punished for this mishap; Mobei-jun might have been little more than a bratty toddler, but likely understood that if his favorite chew toy was beaten in his current state, he would fall apart like shattered glass. Then toddler-jun would be very unhappy. So emboldened was Shang Qinghua by this theory that he only power-walked instead of ran to Mobei-jun’s quarters.

It wasn’t often that Shang Qinghua stepped in here, though that was less a rule and more his own better judgement. Shang Qinghua knew that in his past life, there were certain things he’d owned that, if he was in possession of demonic powers, would inspire him to promptly obliterate the snooper if found. Out of consideration for his own life and Mobei-jun’s privacy, he didn’t snoop; his imagination was definitely funnier than the reality, anyway.

What kind of erotica would Mobei-jun read? If you take after your Daddy, then I’ve probably read it myself, ha ha ha–

Shang Qinghua, having amused himself into courage, knocked on the door. Mobei-jun opened it so fast that he jumped.

“My King! I came as soon as instructed. Would my King mind telling me where my clothes are?”

“Come in,” Mobei-jun said.

“My King wants to discuss it here? Are my clothes really a matter requiring such privacy?”

“Come in,” Mobei-jun said, now glowering. Shang Qinghua, understanding that he was no longer being asked, stepped inside.

How could he have known that his clothes would have been moved in here?!

Lined up along the wall of Mobei-jun’s quarters – huge, by the way, though Shang Qinghua hardly dared to take his time sight-seeing – were Shang Qinghua’s robes, hung neatly on a set of racks. Near the bottom, his excess of heavy blankets were piled in a thick stack, and next to those, his paperwork had been left in a heap rivaling the blankets in height. A few feet away, he could see the rest of his possessions, tossed into boxes and jammed into openings; Shang Qinghua’s quarters and life, condensed into a corner of Mobei-jun’s room.

Faced with this sight, Shang Qinghua found it strikingly similar to an unfaithful boyfriend getting his shit thrown out on the lawn by his girlfriend. Except in reverse?

“My King?” Shang Qinghua asked, weakly. “This is too much–”

Mobei-jun, however, seemed a tad bit pleased with himself. His shoulders were straight and tall, and he wasn’t looking at Shang Qinghua; he only closed the door with a wave of his hand.

“Qinghua will sleep here for the time being,” Mobei-jun said. “I will protect you from further assassination attempts.”

So Mobei-jun, sensing that Shang Qinghua’s life was in danger from a tiger, had decided to move him directly into a lion’s den. Wow, good thinking, My King!

“This servant could hardly accept such a generous offer!” Shang Qinghua said, imagining Mobei-jun as a dog at the park who refused to let any other dogs play with his ripped-up squeezy toy. “I thank my King sincerely, deeply, ardently!”

“Get changed, Qinghua,” Mobei-jun said.

“Right here?”

Mobei-jun cocked an eyebrow. 

Shang Qinghua trudged towards the rack, turning his back on Mobei-jun. He would like to say that he didn’t know he was looking, but Mobei-jun had the kind of stare that could wilt flowers from a mile away, and make Shang Qinghua’s meager body hair stand up in response. So, when he unbuttoned and dropped his robe, he was markedly aware of his glare.

Listen, My King – nobody said a good body was in the job description. Aren’t you glad I’m not built enough to fight back? 

But even if Shang Qinghua was muscular, he would still have the personality of a possum who screamed and then played-dead at sign of threat. He quickly discarded his rebellious thoughts.

Shang Qinghua exchanged his robes out for a sleep shirt, then his pants out for sleep pants. He kept his same underwear on, even though that was a bit gross, both because he liked his ass cheeks unfrozen (Mobei-jun’s quarters, if anything, were even colder) and because he didn’t want to moon his boss. He had certainly done grosser things in the past, and if there was one positive of the Northern Kingdom’s unyielding weather, it was that it was very hard to sweat.

With no further imminent commands to follow, when Shang Qinghua turned around, he took the chance to observe Mobei-jun.

He, too, was not dressed in his formal day robes; his sleep clothing was silky and dark blue, and just a bit tight around his assets. His hair, less immaculately brushed out than it was during the day, fell less in a singular black mass and more in thick, tentacle-like strands, hanging and curling loosely along his clothes. Naturally, he was still scowling. Dressed like this, he looked less an intimidating King and more a child who was too embarrassed to say he’d had a nightmare.

It was, in all honesty, unbearably cute. Shang Qinghua’s character design abilities were top-notch!

Shang Qinghua, so as not to be caught staring, bent over to begin hastily arranging his blankets. He laid one down flat and formed the others into a shapeless mass that evoked the word nest. Then he reorganized them so it didn’t evoke that word anymore.

Mobei-jun was still watching him. Shang Qinghua’s body proved it could still sweat.

“Apologies, My King – I’m only setting up where I’ll sleep! If you need to rest, that’s alright – I can handle it on my own. This servant is capable of this – My King?!”

In lieu of listening to Shang Qinghua continue to yammer, Mobei-jun had approached, reached for the back of Shang Qinghua’s shirt, and lifted him up off the ground. Then he walked him right across the room, depositing him with a thump on the bed.

The modern world’s definition of King-sized did not properly encompass how big this bed was, but the modern world’s idea of a King was also substantially smaller than Mobei-jun. It was really Shang Qinghua who had gotten greedy with 200+ pounds of man meat. When Shang Qinghua was set down on this bed, he felt like he was swimming in an ocean of fabric – obscenely soft fabric, too. It was really more like he had landed on a cloud.

Mobei-jun turned away, then returned shortly with two of Shang Qinghua’s blankets. He dropped them right on top of him, flattening Shang Qinghua like a sheet of croissant dough. 

Shang Qinghua popped his head out, wide-eyed.

“Qinghua will sleep in the bed with me,” Mobei-jun said, as casually as if he was asking Shang Qinghua to pass the demonic salt. 

You are being protected; please do not resist.

This situation – both by nature and by the way Shang Qinghua’s pulse tripled familiarly - reminded Shang Qinghua of the other time he and Mobei-jun had shared a room. Then, a young and stupid Shang Qinghua had attempted to join Mobei-jun on the bed, only to be mercifully kicked off instead of killed; now, he was practically being dragged up, as an adult who had come to understand just how dangerous his creation was.

Had Shang Qinghua’s boy finally learned to share? 

Mobei-jun stared at him. Shang Qinghua realized he was expecting an answer.

“Yes! Of course, My King – whatever My King wants. This servant could rely on no one more to protect him – this servant would cry tears of gratitude, if they wouldn’t turn to ice.”

“Don’t do that,” said Mobei-jun.

“It was hyperbole, My King.”

Mobei-jun snorted. Shang Qinghua scooted his way up towards the pillows, still wrapped in his quilts, like a pig in a blanket.

Really, complaints aside – Mobei-jun was being incredibly generous, and yes, it was true Shang Qinghua had a better understanding of his danger, but he had an ever-so-slightly better understanding of his nature, too. Mobei-jun could kill him without even getting his glamorous nails dirty, but if he did, it wouldn’t be here. Shang Qinghua had managed not to say aww or keel over laughing at his cute PJs, and Mobei-jun hated doing paperwork, so – at least for tonight – he had nothing to fear.

Shang Qinghua got settled in a relatively-normal sleeping position. The bed was large enough that there were several feet between them, but he was still struck by how close they were. Mobei-jun was ice cold, so Shang Qinghua thought he must be imagining the heat he radiated.

Mobei-jun was no longer speaking, nor was he looking at Shang Qinghua. He was looking up at the ceiling.

“My King,” Shang Qinghua whispered, genuinely a bit moved. “Thank you very much.”

Mobei-jun didn’t say anything. 

“I’m going to sleep now, My King, so I can better serve you in the morning. If My King needs anything in the night, wake me up.”

Mobei-jun still didn’t speak. Shang Qinghua thought he must have fallen asleep.

“Goodnight, My King,” Shang Qinghua said, and then rolled over onto his side. This was a bed even Goldilocks would be happy to sleep on, because only within minutes, Shang Qinghua felt his eyes begin to grow heavy.

Beside him, the bed shifted, dipping with sudden weight. Shang Qinghua felt that familiar gaze on the back of his neck, chilling him even through the quilts.

Shang Qinghua wanted to ask if Mobei-jun needed anything, or if he would please look away so he could sleep soundly, but sleep already had him within its clutches – within seconds, he had slipped into unconsciousness. The last thing he felt were fingers caressing the back of his neck, and his hair stick being gently pulled free.

Mobei-jun, to his credit, allowed not a single hair on Shang Qinghua’s head to be touched. He failed, however, to apply the same standards to himself.

Only a week after Shang Qinghua’s strange and foreboding dream, Mobei-jun had decided to take his servant-pet on a day trip to the local Evil Ice Fortress. While the two of them lingered inside, Shang Qinghua snuck look after look at Mobei-jun. His jaw was set at an especially stern angle, and he stared unbudgingly forward. His fists were clenched harder than Shang Qinghua had ever seen them, and he refused his offer to rub comfortingly at his knuckles, which he normally quite liked. He was – fittingly – cold as ice.

Shang Qinghua had always heard that humans, on some visceral, bloody level, knew in their guts when they were about to die. A short time later – when Linguang-jun’s palm had dug a crater in Mobei-jun’s chest, claws digging out fleshy chunks of the King of the North – Shang Qinghua wondered if Mobei-jun had known the same. Had it nagged at him, in the back of his head? Had he thought that if he looked anywhere but ahead, Shang Qinghua might have been able to see right through him? Had he been scared?

When Xiang Fei awoke in his room, he felt nauseous. He hardly made it to the bathroom before the last meal he had – whenever that was – came right back up.

From inside the bathroom, kneeling and hunched over the toilet, Xiang Fei took the chance to mentally regroup.

As Xiang Fei had woken up panicked thrice within the past few weeks, flailing up and without the slightest idea of where he was, this was no longer his first rodeo. This time, the panic had only lasted a minute – the more immediate sense of sickness had quickly overwhelmed him, clearing his head and filling his throat with bile. He felt like he had thrown up all of the uncertainty, and was able to begin drawing some conclusions.

He was back in the modern world. His strange dream was not, in fact, a dream. 

In fact, the circumstances had been near – if not completely – identical. Mobei-jun had requested Shang Qinghua accompany him, in his quest to seek his family’s martial aspect at his ancestral site. That was not a surprise, and hadn’t been the first time, either – that was a plot point Shang Qinghua was markedly familiar with, only minutely adjusted to fit a world including him. It was only after that that things sharply began to derail.

Then, both times – at precisely the same time, even, at Mobei-jun’s twelfth footstep – Mobei-jun’s traitorous uncle, Linguang-jun, had made his presence known. And as soon as Mobei-jun took his singular misstep – one of the few Shang Qinghua had watched him ever make, and just at the wrong time, too – he had seized his chance.

Really, the only difference was how he went about it – last time, he’d had the decency to do it from afar. This time, it was bloodier, hungrier, more violent, like two fierce animals battling over a fresh corpse. Linguang-jun was, at his core, an opportunist – were Mobei-jun to slip up even once, he certainly would not let it go to waste – and so, when Mobei-jun exposed his chest for one second too long, he had taken his beating heart as a war prize. 

Then, he had looked at Shang Qinghua, like he could use an extra. And maybe he had pried open Shang Qinghua’s ribs, pinned his guts up right next to Mobei-jun’s on the Northern Kingdom’s walls, but Xiang Fei hadn’t been there to find out. His soul was somewhere else.

He flushed away his sick, stood up, and slipped out of the bathroom to investigate.

Just as before, Xiang Fei had awoken on the floor – he did, however, wake in a slightly different spot than the last time. Before, he had woken up under his desk, at an angle that left his fan within his line of sight. This time, however, he could not see the fan from his final resting place; if he looked forward, he could only see the wall, and if he looked up, only the desk’s corner was immediately visible. This was, therefore, not so much a Groundhog Day scenario as it was something else; something that Xiang Fei had just a modicum more control over.

Xiang Fei’s desk was still covered in handprints. He flattened his palm over one of them, then slid his fingers down the laminate until he reached the sharp corner. 

Blood – dried blood, but blood nonetheless. The pale brown corner had been dyed darker, a sickly maroon that evoked the very human physiological response to get the fuck out. The corner was no longer sticky, but it wasn’t quite smooth, either; the layer of dried blood gave way to the desk a few inches away, leaving an uneven texture. Were Xiang Fei to get surprise-dorm-checked right now, he would certainly owe a lot of money he didn’t have.

Xiang Fei stuck a sticky note to the corner, feeling like Sherlock Holmes.

This corner, then, was the corner that had killed him! It was the one he had seen an instant before it all went dark, the one that had turned Xiang Fei’s throat into mincemeat and left such a gruesome scar. But then – if the blood was already dry – the sensational death of a college student in his dorm room couldn’t have happened recently. He, as someone who had naturally dipped his toes in gore, had a bit of a morbid understanding about how these things worked – with just how much blood Xiang Fei had fountained out, it surely couldn’t have dried so soon.

It could have been 30 minutes, or an hour, or a day – unfortunately, that was as far as he could get. He kept his blinds closed regardless of the time of day, and hadn’t seen whether the sun was up or down the last time he had awoken – no points there! And when he checked his phone, he hadn’t received any texts, but honestly, that didn’t have to mean anything, either – it wasn’t like Xiang Fei was Mr. Popular, back when he had traversed the modern world. He could only state with confidence that it hadn’t been that long, to the scale of weeks or months, because Xiang Fei was on a semesterly housing plan and had yet to be kicked out.

Xiang Fei abandoned the desk and approached the mirror. His neck, miraculously, was completely unmarred!

For a second, Xiang Fei felt a sense of vain relief. It wasn’t like he was in the running for Mr. Universe already, and yeah, it might have been a lesser concern at the moment, but he didn’t want to be any more chopped up than he already was. Metaphorically or literally.

But then he thought about how Shang Qinghua’s body was the one sustaining the damage, and how if it came down to it, he would most certainly choose to wear a scarred-up Shang over a pristine Xiang. This thought depressed him again, so he busied himself with writing his findings down in his notebook, which looked much less cool than an evidence board.

There was still, of course, one more thing to think about.

The last time Xiang Fei re-entered his novel, it had been after his untimely demise. Now, in hindsight, that death felt more like a miraculous fate than an idiotic accident.

For every death that poor Mobei-jun took, it seemed that one of Xiang Fei’s was owed. If he wanted to return to Mobei-jun – and take a gamble at sparing his poor, sweet King – Xiang Fei had two options.

He would either need a miraculous stroke of luck again – one where he had little time to feel fear, where he only felt the instinctive ah! of an imminent, tragic accident – or –

Well, Xiang Fei knew what he needed to do.

That night, Xiang Fei tied up his loose ends.

First, he left his dorm and took a walk.

It had been no less than decades since Xiang Fei had seen his college campus, and so he took the time to enjoy it. He looped around the park a few times, enjoyed the spring breeze, and watched the other students hurry by to and from their classes. It was possible Xiang Fei had class today, but considering the – well, everything – his idea of high stakes had been fundamentally changed, and showing up to class would be nothing short of ridiculous.

Besides, even though he occupied a 20-year-old body, he was now older than most of his college Professors. This made him feel strange and slightly unpleasant.

Xiang Fei watched his former classmates wander for a while, feeling a bit like a creepy old man hanging outside a middle school, and then popped to the nearest fast food joint. He splurged with the little money he had – with any luck, there would be no need for it soon – and scarfed down mouth-watering salty, soggy fries. Xiang Fei could acquire noodles easily enough in the Northern Kingdom – maybe not ramen, but something vaguely similar – but despite their theoretical simplicity, nobody had managed to perfect the art of the fry. He dunked them in sauce and relished every bite, and only wished that his good friend Shen Qingqiu could be there to enjoy them with him, as a fellow connoisseur of the modern world’s cuisine.

Xiang Fei didn’t have to do either of these things, but he felt like they were the right thing to do when you were about to kill yourself, in order to appreciate the beauty of the world or something. Xiang Fei’s impending suicide was substantially more unserious, but he did his rounds anyway, just to show some respect for the art.

Not even the most delicious fries would change his mind, of course – Xiang Fei had a mission to complete – but they did strengthen his resolve to invent the magical deep fryer when he got back.

Once his belly was full and his nostalgia was satisfied, he got down to business. 

He stopped into the nearest convenience store, made his purchase with ID, and then returned to his dorm as night fell. He plugged in his computer – the thing was damn near impossible to revive once it died, and if he fucked this up again, he could come to need it in a few days – and set it into sleep mode. He started the stopwatch on his phone, which made him feel strangely nostalgic for the days of setting an alarm for class, and set it on his desk.

He unplugged his fan, made his bed, and turned off the lights.

Then he took out his newly purchased bottle of cough syrup, fiddled with the childproof cap, and flicked it off onto the floor.

Xiang Fei could probably kill himself quicker, if he really wanted to – the world was wide, after all, and contained many options for a death-seeking young man. But not only was Xiang Fei a bit of a coward – not the type to turn a knife on himself, at the very least – he also could very well be repeating this process in the coming days, and would like to wake up to a clean room on a comfortable bed. Future Xiang Fei’s comfort was of the utmost importance, and honestly, so were Shang Qinghua’s looks – yeah, Shang Qinghua might shit himself a bit when he woke up, but it was for your own good, buddy, suck it up.

 “Well!” said Xiang Fei. “Bottoms up!”

Once he had chugged 16 oz of bitter chemical disguised with fruit-punch flavor, Xiang Fei took a melatonin gummy. Then he laid down and thought of Mobei-jun, who, in the fantastical world where Xiang Fei would ever tell him about this, would certainly owe him something. 

“My King,” Xiang Fei said, then coughed. “I bet you’ve never had a servant as loyal as this one!”

Xiang Fei soon fell to the effects of the melatonin, and didn’t dream. And when the cough syrup kicked in – whenever that was – it didn’t even hurt.

Shang Qinghua woke up nauseous, sickly, and very much Shang Qinghua. He kissed the bed, kissed the mirror, and almost kissed the first scaly guard who came to wake him.

Notably, he had awoken in a fairly reasonably-sized bed – ie, not Mobei-jun’s – and when he asked the guard what day it was, he was given both a strange look and an enlightening answer. This was, similarly to last time, a week before Mobei-jun sought his family’s martial aspect. Shang Qinghua had yet to nearly be ‘assassinated’, and Mobei-jun had yet to move him to his quarters. As it was Shang Qinghua’s insides that were more immediately painful this time, as opposed to his even-more-faded scar, that ‘yet’ would not come to pass unless Shang Qinghua took matters into his own hands.

And seeing as Mobei-jun clearly could not be trusted to manage himself – this was twice now he had walked obliviously into his own death! – Shang Qinghua figured it was only right that he monitor his irresponsible King. So when Mobei-jun came to fetch him, Shang Qinghua claimed symptoms of poisoning, got sent to the physician, and happily accepted his reassignment to that massive bed.

Still scary – absolutely – but no longer did Shang Qinghua have the privilege to be fearful. If he wanted to spare his King’s life – and himself, from re-entering the vicious college machine – he needed to work single-mindedly and strategically.

One way or another, he would definitely save his King!

But, of course, it wasn’t so easy.

Plan A – a safe bet, for a combat-deficient servant – was to simply yell watch out, My King! before Linguang-jun could land his first fatal blow.

This postponed Mobei-jun’s life for about five seconds – allowing him one dodged attack – until Linguang-jun realized that he could simply freeze Shang Qinghua’s vocal cords, and not allow him to vocalize at all. Xiang Fei woke up in the modern world with a very sore throat and without any money for lozenges.

Plan B, then, had to be more hands-on. Shang Qinghua stocked his bag with various weapons and doo-dads – things that could stall, if not stop – and prepared, valiantly, to join the fight. But this plan only made Shang Qinghua into a mildly annoying mosquito flitting between two butting rhinos, and there was one instance where Linguang-jun didn’t even have to neutralize him – Mobei-jun, in the chaos, did it himself, then took an ice-shard through the back when he came to his side.

Shang Qinghua might have been bitter the first time, but now, he could only empathize.

Really, My King – I’m not upset! Please don’t look at me with those guilty eyes! It really is a good thing you don’t remember.

Plan B1, Plan B2, and Plan B3 proceeded in similar fashions. Shang Qinghua could often buy Mobei-jun an extra minute or two – and one time, they even brought Linguang-jun to his knees, as Shang Qinghua’s budding martial experience saw him grow more and more in-tune with his King – but at the end of the day, his presence there only hindered. 

If Linguang-jun saw himself losing, and saw Shang Qinghua there, he would take him as the hostage he was born to be. And instead of going straight for the martial aspect – like Shang Qinghua’s stupid honorable creation should have done, god damn it! – Mobei-jun, invariably, knelt.

Shang Qinghua, out of consideration for a better future, had humanely euthanized his King himself. And when Linguang-jun gaped at him, in those few seconds Shang Qinghua had before reverse-transmigrating, all he could do was shrug.

Don’t look at me like that, bro – you think I’m going to let my King be your dog, when I know how much more he can be?! Fat! Fucking! Chance! See you next time, asshole!

Plan C was a bit of a breakthrough. If Shang Qinghua’s presence at the beginning of the fight was too distracting, he could alternatively try a mid-battle assist. It was this idea that led him to an interesting discovery; there was no need to live a whole week prior to the inflection point twiddling his thumbs. With the power of belief – and a bit of Shang Qinghua quite literally being fucking God, too – he could drop himself wherever he wanted. 

Unfortunately, Shang Qinghua failed to account for the natural startle that might occur when you see your servant dropping from the ceiling. And so when Mobei-jun naturally jerked his head, Linguang-jun removed it quite precisely.

Shang Qinghua woke up rubbing his own neck.

Ouch, yeah, that one was my bad, My King – didn’t think that one through.

Well, let’s try again.

All of these plans had one thing in common – Shang Qinghua enabled Mobei-jun to go. And so, for Plan D, he simply decided to avoid the incident altogether. When Mobei-jun requested his presence on that fateful day, Shang Qinghua took a dignified approach to stopping him.

“Please, please, My King – whatever it is, surely it can wait! You see, this servant is in a lot of pain right now, ooh, ahh, oouughh, and it would devastate me if I were to die without my King landing the killing blow. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that either! So please, My King – whatever it is, not today!”

Shang Qinghua said this while clutching Mobei-jun’s leg and sobbing, like any good underling would.

Mobei-jun hesitated – for hardly a second – and then yanked his leg back.

“Qinghua can stay here,” he said, at last. “Seek treatment. This cannot wait.”

“It’s your family’s martial aspect, right, My King? I mean, really – who needs it, am I right? My King is handsome, and regal, and oh-so-powerful without it – maybe you should just forget about it! Or, like, give it a few more years  – how can a few years hurt?!”

This had been the wrong thing to say, and Shang Qinghua had a lot of time to think about his actions from Mobei-jun’s room, where he had been put under house arrest.

He ground his palm into his face – duh, of course Mobei-jun wouldn’t take that well, he probably thought his servant was finally turning traitor and sabotaging his right to power – and then poofed out of existence, presumably when Mobei-jun became Swiss cheese a few miles away.

Back in the modern world, the first time he woke up again – in his bed, just as anticipated, yesss – he promptly checked his stopwatch. 24 hours had elapsed since he set it, right before his adventures with Nyquil. That, then – assuming time wasn’t a fluctuating thing – made about every week Shang Qinghua spent with Mobei-jun equivalent to about a day here. Xiang Fei found this division of time a bit unfair, seeing as it logically couldn’t have been this way prior to Mobei-jun’s first death, but, as always, the universe’s complaint box went unchecked.

Xiang Fei set the stopwatch again, just to be sure.

The next of the many, many problems Xiang Fei had to face was that he had, like a good boy, chugged the whole bottle of cough syrup. Cough syrup was expensive, and Xiang Fei had already emptied his pockets on the first bottle! Couldn’t this whole universe-switching business send him back to a singular point in time, instead of leaving him worse off than he began? Wasn’t this kind of rude?!

But there was nothing to do about it other than expand his horizons, so Xiang Fei stuck his singular metal fork into the wall outlet.

From then on out, Xiang Fei became intimately familiar with the weaknesses of the human body.

Once he had abused that fork so much that it was no longer usable, he elected to try Old Reliable: toastering himself in the bath. But he didn’t have a toaster, so he got one last use out of his good vibrator, plugged it in, and made steaming Xiang Fei soup.

Over the next two or so weeks of attempts, Xiang Fei taste-tested all his cleaning supplies, discovered where his vital arteries were, and constructed a deeply worrying list of future yeses and nos. And, with time, he found that some nos could eventually become a tentative yes – once you had created your own corpse a few times, doing so felt much less taboo. He still liked to keep it simple, clean, and painless, but if he couldn’t – well, compared to the suffering his King was doing, what was a bit of blood? What was a scream, in exchange for Mobei-jun’s life?

Some part of Xiang Fei felt unjustifiably smug about this: who was the coward now? How could anyone outside his dorm understand the heights of bravery he had reached?

But even if Xiang Fei had wanted to tell someone – with the understanding that not a soul would believe him – he had nobody to confess his sins to. By the end of two weeks, not even his parents had reached out, not even once. This made Xiang Fei terribly upset and quite lonely, and that night, he hurried home to Mobei-jun much faster.

Seeing as Shang Qinghua had exhausted just about every option within the week prior to Mobei-jun’s death, he decided to begin backpedaling. 

If one week of preparation wouldn’t do it, then two weeks or three weeks might; it stood to reason that the further back Shang Qinghua went, the more opportunities he’d have to butterfly-effect the future into a world where Mobei-jun survived. With that in mind, he had gone back a month.

And – finally – after two weeks of pretending to be busy, Shang Qinghua had found a potential opening.

Mobei-jun, during an hour of the night when he would usually be fast asleep, was flipping through a stack of unmarked letters. His sleep mask was pushed up to his forehead, and his brows were furrowed.

Shang Qinghua, both desperately hopeful and curious about the importance of the letters – so important that Mobei-jun was looking through them, instead of shafting them off to a servant (Qinghua) – leaned over in bed to snoop.

“What are you looking at, My King?”

Mobei-jun was clearly less-than-thrilled about what he was reading and passed the letter over without complaint. Then he pulled his sleep mask back down, making for a sight that had Shang Qinghua biting the inside of his cheek.

He hastily turned his attention down to the letter.

It was written in some variety of demonic script – fortunately, one of the ones that Shang Qinghua dealt with more often. He only had to squint a bit to begin parsing it.

The Southernmost Sect of the Mountain Kingdom would like to humbly invite His Highness, the future Mobei-jun and Claim to the Ice Throne, to join us for a night of negotiation, meals, and festivities celebrating the millennia-strong bond between our Kingdoms. 

Shang Qinghua had unearthed a plot point! 

This plot point wasn’t totally unfamiliar to him, either; obviously, seeing as Shang Qinghua had written it himself. Granted, he had hardly gone into detail on it, probably for the same reason why Shang Qinghua hadn’t lived through it in his first go around. He creased the paper and continued reading.

His Highness’s valuable insight would serve as a boon to us all, who are hardly worthy to lay eyes upon His Highness, nor to even lay pen to paper in reference to His Highness. Attached to this letter is the right hand of the author, in order to convey this humble Kingdom's deference…

Shang Qinghua’s gaze drifted downwards, skimming for more valuable information.

His Highness’s presence would serve as an honor to this humble Kingdom, and we would happily compensate for his trouble through daughters of age, our stockpile of human organs, and one minor Lord of His Highness’s choice to be publicly executed and consumed…

Alright, that was enough.

Shang Qinghua folded the letter, reached for the envelope, and stuffed it back inside. Then he looked at Mobei-jun, whose hands were too tense for him to be convincingly asleep. 

“My King’s presence is certainly an honor to any Kingdom,” Shang Qinghua said, choosing his words carefully. “Will My King be attending?”

Mobei-jun snorted. Then he pointed, and the letter tore itself to pieces.

This fucking guy!

This was the very reason that Shang Qinghua had not devoted fifty thousand words to this very scene, back in his original webnovel; millennia-strong bond or not, Mobei-jun was an antisocial asshole, and had quite happily let any long-standing demonic allyships crumble into dust for a bit more Mobei-jun time. He certainly wouldn’t be attending any parties.

This had been very cute to Shang Qinghua back when he wrote him this way, so much that he refused to leave even a scratch on that perfectly designed characterization for a bit more content. Now, however, when Shang Qinghua really really could use a nudge in his quest to save his fucking life, it was a bit more frustrating.

In fact, had Shang Qinghua not been in this very bed with him – something that he most certainly wasn’t in his first go-around – Mobei-jun would have read the letter late at night, torn it up, and never let a soul know it even existed. 

Come on, My King, be reasonable here – I don’t like parties either, but try and be grateful you’re even invited! Guess who never was!

Shang Qinghua scrambled for the bits of the letter, gathering them up into the palm of his hand for later repair.

“My King,” Shang Qinghua tried again. “This servant can only dream of the deeply important and pressing things his Lord has to do, day-in and day-out, but perhaps this would be a worthy endeavor – My King’s presence for another hundred years of faithful loyalty?”

Mobei-jun grunted. He seemed less than convinced.

“Then, for…” Shang Qinghua flipped through shreds of paper like index cards, until he came across the paragraph he had read earlier. “Not just food and festivities, but daughters of age?”

Mobei-jun was silent for a moment. Then he lifted his hand and peeled the eye mask off.

“Ah, that caught my King’s attention, didn’t it?” Shang Qinghua pestered, a bit gleefully. “My King, this servant has never been to the mountain Kingdom, but perhaps there are some real beauties there, if he were interested in sampling more than the food–”

“What is Qinghua saying,” Mobei-jun said.

When Shang Qinghua looked up at him, his eyes were narrowed.

“Not that my King should marry, of course!” Shang Qinghua said. “That would be an obvious method to gain a foothold within the Northern Kingdom, and not one that my King – or this servant – should permit! Just that, if my King wanted to work through some stress relief, then –”

Come on, My King, don’t make me say it so explicitly!

Mobei-jun was a young man; younger than Shang Qinghua, even. And yes, Shang Qinghua had not gotten his boy laid within the original text – all the beauties were taken by Luo Binghe, after all, and God forbid Mobei-jun encroach on some married pussy – but he hadn’t written anything about him not having urges! Surely Mobei-jun felt a man’s calling from time to time; with how much masculine vigor Shang Qinghua had injected into him, there was no way he didn’t.

And Shang Qinghua certainly was not interested in serving under any Queens, but Mobei-jun was self-absorbed and often hard to get along with; Shang Qinghua would follow him to the ends of the Earth, and still sometimes found him too belligerent to bear. Even if Mobei-jun’s chilly heart began to beat for some demon woman – unlikely – she would probably pack her shit and be out before he could point to her new seat on the floor. 

So maybe – so long as Mobei-jun wrapped it – some beautiful demoness could be a nice motivation to attend a politically motivated party. But, as usual, Mobei-jun seemed quite unappreciative of what Shang Qinghua did for him.

“This King doesn’t want that,” Mobei-jun said. “This King – is uninterested in such an arrangement.”

You’re saying ‘this King’? My King – are you feeling awkward?! 

“Really, My King? I mean, it’s up to you, obviously, but I’m sure any demoness would jump at the opportunity; surely she should deserve a chance. Perhaps you haven’t been frequenting that social sphere, but My King has oomph regardless. It’s never too late to jump in!”

“This King is satisfied with Qinghua.” Mobei-jun snapped, suddenly. “Qinghua should not suggest ridiculous things.”

My King?

Mobei-jun, instead of looking like Shang Qinghua had just given him some friendly man-to-man advice, looked like he had shot his dog. His nostrils were flaring, and he was glaring vaguely in Shang Qinghua’s direction – notably, not at him, but instead at the wall behind him. Shang Qinghua had obviously touched a nerve – but what nerve?! Shang Qinghua hadn’t written in any nerve! 

Regardless, Shang Qinghua ducked his head hastily.

“This servant went too far,” he quickly conceded. “My King can and should do as he likes!”

Mobei-jun breathed in deeply. Shang Qinghua peeked up at him.

“But – this servant really does think that, even aside from the daughters, My King should attend where his presence is requested. These kinds of alliances are important, My King, and you never know when they might come in handy.”

Mobei-jun’s nostrils flared, but he did not break the bedpost.

“My King can choose to have the Lord who recommended daughters as a prize executed,” Shang Qinghua offered, helpfully.

Mobei-jun breathed out, slow. Then he lifted his head, looking haughty as ever.

“Qinghua will attend with me,” Mobei-jun said. “And we will watch that Lord be consumed.”

Okay, well – Shang Qinghua wasn’t terribly interested in that part, but if it would persuade Mobei-jun into attending, that was a win! Political allyships aside – if there was even a chance Shang Qinghua could use this party as a stepping stone, that would be enough.

“Yes, My King – thank you! My King’s decisions are only ever correct.”

Mobei-jun suddenly reached across the bed and roughly grasped the back of Shang Qinghua’s neck. Then he yanked him down from his sitting position, back to where he had been lying.

“Qinghua is in need of sleep,” Mobei-jun said. “As he was not thinking straight.”

“My King, I don’t think –”

Mobei-jun pulled back the strap of the sleep mask and slapped it right over Shang Qinghua’s eyes. Shang Qinghua blinked a few times. 

He had probably pushed his luck enough.

“Sleep it is, My King,” Shang Qinghua agreed, wisely.

Mobei-jun said something like hmmph, and the bed did not move again until Shang Qinghua, having long-grown accustomed to the general ??? feeling of dealing with Mobei-jun, put it far enough out of his head to drift off to sleep.

The Mountain Kingdom was not terribly far away, but because Mobei-jun was flight-incapable, the ride took several days. 

Any carriage containing the King of the North was luxurious and large, but still substantially smaller than any room back in the palace; Shang Qinghua had never shared such a small space with Mobei-jun, not even that inn where they first spent the night. Shang Qinghua put up with these cramped quarters well, but felt that Mobei-jun was being even stranger than usual; he spent the whole trip staring at Shang Qinghua and left him no place to retreat.

When Shang Qinghua tried to politely pry into his King’s thought process, Mobei-jun simply grunted and turned away, just like a petulant child. Eventually, he stopped trying.

Once the journey was complete and the Northern Kingdom’s procession had gotten settled, Shang Qinghua was promptly dressed in robes much too expensive for his station.

Mobei-jun, who clearly had no understanding of what constituted uncomfortably intimate for humans, not only refused to leave the carriage but also insisted on helping him dress. Mobei-jun adjusted his collar, messed with his jewelry until it was symmetrical, and then – because he couldn’t let Shang Qinghua look too good – insisted on being the one to put his hair up, which he proceeded to do in his normal clumsy fashion. Shang Qinghua thanked his generous King profusely, and then littered his hair with enough jewelry to nearly cover that train wreck.

Once Mobei-jun and Shang Qinghua entered the palace, flanked by a small procession of other servants, they were stopped and greeted by the palace guards.

The one closest to the front took a knee.

“His Highness, Mobei-jun,” The guard began, reverently. “The Mountain Kingdom is honored by your presence.”

Shang Qinghua elbowed Mobei-jun. Mobei-jun grunted.

“And then, accompanying you is…” The guard’s gaze flicked towards Shang Qinghua, and he started, briefly. He glanced between them, nervously, and then attempted an address.

“Mobei-fur…”

“You will address him as Peak Lord Shang.” Mobei-jun interrupted sharply. “Out of respect for his station.”

The guard blinked, then hastily acquiesced. 

“Our mistake, Your Highness – Peak Lord Shang, it is!” The guard announced, and ducked his head to bow. Shang Qinghua instinctively tried to return the favor, but hardly dipped an inch before Mobei-jun had yanked him back to a standing position.

Mobei-jun’s bad temper must have been legendary across the demonic Kingdoms, because the guards seemed relatively unfazed by his petulance. The head guard stood back up and folded his hands behind his back.

“If Mobei-jun and Peak Lord Shang would please follow us, so the festivities may commence…”

Shang Qinghua was, admittedly, hardly paying attention; as the Ice Palace’s self-appointed interior designer, he had much to observe and nip from the castle of another Kingdom. He was only broken from these thoughts by cool skin brushing over his palm, and the feeling of Mobei-jun’s claws closing around his wrist in a demonic handcuff.

“Come, Qinghua,” Mobei-jun said. 

Shang Qinghua hurried along.

By the time Mobei-jun and Shang Qinghua had actually sat down for dinner, Shang Qinghua was properly half-starved.

This ‘party’ was at the end of the day not solely for enjoyment, and so there were many pleasantries to be taken care of. Mobei-jun was Mobei-jun, which left Shang Qinghua to pick up the slack; when Mobei-jun grunted noncommittally, Shang Qinghua hastily thanked Lords for their time and consideration, and when Mobei-jun narrowed his eyes, Shang Qinghua held his hand hard enough to stop him from violating the one-execution rule. Shockingly, this little trick actually worked; Mobei-jun wasn’t any less angry, but he also didn’t pull free, which had Shang Qinghua feeling pretty good about himself.

After what felt like hours of polite greetings and Mobei-jun getting his metaphorical dick sucked, dinner was served.

Or – rather – everyone’s dinner except Shang Qinghua’s was served. Understandably, the Mountain Kingdom had not anticipated a human guest accompanying Mobei-jun, and had not prepared in advance; as such, there was nothing to accommodate Shang Qinghua’s delicate human sensibilities. The only thing they could do was refrain from putting the demonic entree in front of him, which he did honestly appreciate.

He could, however, still smell it from where Mobei-jun was sitting; some kind of raw-looking mystery meat, set in an arrangement that probably looked decadent to demonic eyes. Mobei-jun at least seemed to be enjoying himself, piercing pinkish guts on his claws and slurping them into his mouth like spaghetti.

Shang Qinghua was not terribly squeamish, but he still would rather not look, so he occupied himself with people-watching.

There were many a minor Lord gathered in the hall, sometimes chatting aimlessly and sometimes speaking to each other in hushed breaths, but it was clear that Mobei-jun was the unequivocal center of attention. It didn’t get much higher in status than the Mobei Clan, after all; were it not for Luo Binghe’s protagonist halo, he would be the demon realm’s future emperor. 

The rest of the realm, then, treated him with a respectful distance; when Mobei-jun’s gaze lifted from his meal and swept over the room, everyone quieted. Two particularly young, noisy demons were quelled by an elder’s look.

Suddenly, a hand clasped on Shang Qinghua’s shoulder. His knees nearly buckled in fright.

“Qinghua,” Mobei-jun said, and Shang Qinghua exhaled shakily. “Where is your food.”

“My King – I think there might have been a bit of a misunderstanding, um, on the food front. Not to worry – this servant isn’t hungry, anyway!”

Shang Qinghua’s traitorous stomach growled and thrashed, loud enough for the demons on either side to hear it. The one on his right ducked his head, probably fearing Mobei-jun would freeze his ears off.

“A misunderstanding?”

Mobei-jun’s cat-like eyes sharpened. 

“This King will go clear it up.”

Uh oh. Shang Qinghua was very familiar with how Mobei-jun cleared up misunderstandings, and it usually left him having to call the cleanup department. Shang Qinghua, instead, shot to his feet.

“No need, My King – this servant can clear it up himself! My King seems to be enjoying his, um – delicacy, so let this servant handle it in his place. This servant is, of course, flattered that his King would step in for him, though.”

And – really – he was! Look at Mobei-jun, caring whether Shang Qinghua lived or died; it could really bring a tear to a loving father’s eye.

“Qinghua will return if there are issues,” Mobei-jun said.

“Or with his spoils of war, My King.”

Mobei-jun snorted at that, and looked a little pleased. Then he licked the underside of his curved claws, sucked the lingering blood off, and turned back towards his plate. Shang Qinghua shuddered, pushed his chair in, and hastily slipped away.

Really, Shang Qinghua didn’t intend on pestering the chefs; he was also the cultivation world’s equivalent of a service worker, and didn’t want to make anyone’s lives harder than they needed to be. Maybe Shang Qinghua wasn’t practicing inedia, but if it came down to it, he could hunker down for a bit of a hungry night; not every chapter garnered enough change for ramen, and not every demonic clan had perfected the art of pulled noodles. 

If anything, he would just ask if they happened to have any bread lying around – and if they didn’t, sleep would suffice perfectly fine for dinner.

He trekked across the room, not unaware of the stares. How often did any of these demons share a meal with a human, let alone one in matching robes with the King of the North? Could he really blame them for staring like visitors at a zoo? Shang Qinghua had hardly been better, back when that young, sweet – hah! – Mobei-jun had descended upon him for the first time, like an angel from hell. For this reason, he was especially patient.

Once the chefs heard Shang Qinghua’s request, they exchanged glances, peered unsubtly at Mobei-jun, and then rushed off to discuss. Shang Qinghua lingered, picking at his cuticles with ring-heavy hands.

A short distance away, whispers began to resurface; the two unruly demons were at it again.

“Mobei-jun actually came,” One of them – a young man with long horns – said, in a hushed voice. “He hasn’t come in years! You should have seen the look on Uncle’s face when the letter came in – the whole party had to be rearranged!”

“But he didn’t send it himself, right?”

“No way – you know he wouldn’t do that. It was probably…”

The voices lowered briefly. Shang Qinghua strained to hear.

“I bet he told him to come, too,” The second young demon offered; he had a bit of a squished face. “He wouldn’t come on his own. Uncle says his dad was the same way.”

“His dad?” Long-horns pressed.

“You know – the old Mobei-jun. Mobei-furen would always make sure he came, until – well, you know. Like father, like son, huh?”

Shang Qinghua’s attention drifted from his empty stomach.

The old Mobei-furen – Mobei-jun’s mother, dead as a consequence of Mobei-jun’s life. Shang Qinghua had only hinted at her existence, but, as usual, his story had filled in the gaps. Mobei-furen had not a single moment of screen time, or even alive time, but Shang Qinghua was morbidly curious about the character he had condemned to death.

“The Northern Kingdom was really something, back when she was alive,” An older demon commented, leaning over the table. “So much more organized! And, so much less – well, not cold, hah! But they could keep inter-Kingdom friendships, at least. Mobei-jun hardly bothers.”

Old-guy drummed his claws thoughtfully on the table. They were shorter, fatter, and much less handsome than Mobei-jun’s.

“It’s a shame, really,” he said. “You have to wonder how things would be if the woman made it – what kind of ruler Mobei-jun would be.” 

The old demon paused. Shang Qinghua tightened his fist.

“You know, with motherless demons – you can always tell they’re missing a little something.”

Flat-face opened his flat, stupid mouth to speak – and then shut it, promptly, when Shang Qinghua smacked his palm on the table. 

“What something!” He bellowed. 

Both Long-horns and Old-guy startled. Shang Qinghua smacked the table again, harder.

“What something! Say it! Share with the class!”

Flat-face exchanged looks with his demonic comrades.

“M-m-mobei – Peak Lord Shang, ah, you were listening. We mean no harm –”

Shang Qinghua, for once, felt fortunate that his bun was so weak; he lifted his hand, ripped the hair stick out, and stabbed it into the table. The three demons shrank back.

Discussing Mobei-furen was one thing; inappropriate at a formal event, sure, but not ultimately harmful. The same went for the Northern Kingdom’s organization – yeah, Shang Qinghua could admit it wasn’t fantastic, and there was only so much one devoted human could do. He wasn’t offended. But when these three assholes began to question Mobei-jun himself – Shang Qinghua’s beloved creation, flawless by design – the line had officially been crossed! 

Only Shang Qinghua could do that!

Shang Qinghua was officially making a scene. Across the room, the other demons began to stir, some seeming intrigued at the notion of a fight.

Shang Qinghua did not dare to look back at Mobei-jun.

“You stupid, rude excuses for exposition – what the hell do you know, huh?! You think My King is missing something?! Get up and say it to my face! Tell me what you think he’s missing!”

Old-guy opened his mouth, then wisely shut it. Shang Qinghua barreled right through.

“If you think My King is unpleasant, ha! I’ll show you fucking unpleasant! Open your mouth again! Do it! I’ll make you wish he only turned you into ice! I’ll make My King seem gentle!”

Intimidation-wise, Shang Qinghua might have been physically limited, but the demons seemed nervous nonetheless. They did not, in fact, open their mouths – probably using the same logic as to why you don’t poke your finger into an overexcited hamster’s cage. 

Shang Qinghua’s shoulders heaved. Then he whipped around.

“My King, excuse this servant, but –”

Shang Qinghua’s gaze landed on where, moments ago, Mobei-jun had been sitting. 

The table was empty. Shang Qinghua imagined a flashing, dotted outline where a huge man had been.

Shang Qinghua swore, loudly – in human words that these demons had probably never encountered before – and then snatched his hair stick from the table, pointing it threateningly.

“Shove my bread up your ass!”

Then he turned tail and ran.

At first, Shang Qinghua panicked – how the hell would he track down his temperamental King in a massive castle – until he skidded out the door and kicked up frosty dust from an icy footprint. It seemed those adjustments for the presence of an ice demon had not been completed.

Hold on, My King! And please slow down! This servant’s legs are short!

The footsteps wound down the hallways, twisted around the corners, and grew increasingly icy. Shang Qinghua followed them for several minutes, until he whipped around a bend and came to a screeching halt. 

The footsteps had stopped in a small room, opening up beyond two glass doors into an outdoor patio. Through the newly frosted glass, Mobei-jun’s hefty form was visible, seated on some kind of bench. His expression, blurry and staunch, was unreadable.

Shang Qinghua took a deep breath, pushed the doors open, and stepped outside.

“My King?”

Those deep, dark eyes flicked up. Shang Qinghua was caught off guard by the look in them, an expression so utterly unfamiliar that it was deeply unsettling. It was an expression that – up until now – Shang Qinghua hadn't realized how much he wished not to see.

More than infuriated, or enraged, Mobei-jun looked… sad. 

“My King,” Shang Qinghua repeated, a little quieter.

“Qinghua,” Mobei-jun acknowledged. He didn’t speak further.

Shang Qinghua tentatively approached. Sitting like this, Mobei-jun reminded Shang Qinghua of a bullied kid at the playground, swinging alone on the swingset. Shang Qinghua, once again, positively boiled with fury – and then, with shame. He had been the one who had nudged Mobei-jun to come, against his will. 

And yeah, his reasoning had been sound – it still was! – but, on some level, Shang Qinghua couldn’t help but feel responsible.

“This servant apologizes, My King,” Shang Qinghua said. “For advising My King even come to this terrible, unworthy Kingdom.” 

This servant isn’t sorry about his outburst, though.

Mobei-jun turned his left hand over, then scratched underneath his claws with his right hand. He cleaned them of dried blood methodically and slowly, occasionally shaking his right hand free. He had yet to engage.

“If My King needs to be left alone, then –”

“Qinghua may sit.” Mobei-jun said. It might have been the tone of his voice – or maybe his posture – but it did not sound like a command. Shang Qinghua, hedging his bets, sat.

They lingered in silence for a short while, until Shang Qinghua could no longer bear it.

“My King,” Shang Qinghua began. “The old Mobei-furen…”

Mobei-jun finally lifted his head. He looked guarded, but more interested than he was in Shang Qinghua’s apologies.

“My mother,” Mobei-jun said. “A-Niang.”

Something in Shang Qinghua’s chest seized, and he felt extra, triply guilty. That very A-Niang – could Shang Qinghua not be considered her murderer? If he had written differently, she might still be alive – she might have lasted long enough for Mobei-jun to grow up with her. 

But Mobei-furen was dead, and the Mobei-jun in front of Shang Qinghua was nothing but an oversized child. Protectiveness coiled in Shang Qinghua, like a spitting snake.

“Those demons should have kept their mouths shut,” Shang Qinghua said bitterly. “My King would have been well within his right to freeze them, for all their disrespectful talk – neither you nor Mobei-furen were any of their business. If this servant had the ability, he would have done it himself!”

Mobei-jun did not smile, but he never did. He waited for another beat, then spoke. His voice was gravelly.

“They were not incorrect; A-Niang was very talented,” Mobei-jun said. “And wonderfully vicious. That – is what this King has heard.”

To be called vicious by Mobei-jun himself – Shang Qinghua’s King clearly revered this woman, this spectre of his past that he could no longer remember. 

To hardly know your mother growing up – sometimes, Shang Qinghua felt he and his King were more similar than they appeared.

“I believe you, My King,” said Shang Qinghua. “To birth a ruler such as yourself – to be sure, this servant would have been fortunate to meet her. And to suffer by her claws.”

Mobei-jun shook his head.

“She would have found Qinghua acceptable,” Mobei-jun said. “Or so this King thinks.”

Then he cleared his throat.

“Qinghua is like her, in some ways.”

And in what ways might that be, My King? I have no claws to properly defend you, and I’m hardly enough to keep your Kingdom running – please, My King, do you know what you’re saying?

Despite all of this, something in Shang Qinghua stirred. 

Ha! Here he was, thinking of Mobei-jun as his son – who would have thought that Mobei-jun, on some level, was feeling the same way?

Please, My King – I would at least appreciate if you thought of me as your father. Daddy instead of mommy, and the works.

“My King…” Shang Qinghua said. 

He was left floundering over what to do, other than that he absolutely would not be letting his King go back to the party. Did he offer to play catch? Begin instituting a bedtime? What would make Mobei-jun feel better? How could Shang Qinghua repair a history of his own making?

“My King,” Shang Qinghua repeated, after a long moment. “This servant thinks we should return to the carriage for the night.”

Mobei-jun looked up. 

For a second, it seemed like he might turn him down, but then he stood up. He extended a clawed hand for Shang Qinghua, who took it. Mobei-jun held his hand carefully.

Shang Qinghua waited to be prompted to move – as he usually was – but no prompting came. Mobei-jun simply watched him expectantly until Shang Qinghua started and cleared his throat.

“Yes – this way, My King.”

When Mobei-jun observed Shang Qinghua’s stomach growling, he stopped briefly outside the Kingdom to hunt a deer, which he presented with both hands. Shang Qinghua cooked only a leg over a makeshift fire, and politely gave the rest back to Mobei-jun, who lingered semi-awkwardly a short distance away. Shang Qinghua, sensing that his presence was needed, fed himself quickly before tamping out the flame.

There was enough room in the carriage to sleep with space between them, but Mobei-jun did not seem interested in personal space. Once they were both inside, he closed the door and gathered Shang Qinghua into his arms. Shang Qinghua tensed instinctively, but did not freeze as Mobei-jun removed his jewelry, undressed him, and laid him down.

The two of them slept in a bundle.

Mobei-jun’s skin was cool, but not unbearably so. He looped his arms around Shang Qinghua’s skinny waist, laid on top of him – oof – and then rested his head on his chest, his tendrils of hair entangling with Shang Qinghua’s in black and brown braids. He was still dressed in his handsome King’s robe, and Shang Qinghua only reached to slip it off his shoulder once Mobei-jun had quieted and stilled, his tired eyes hardly more than slits.

“Goodnight, My King,” Shang Qinghua whispered. “We’ll go home tomorrow.”

Mobei-jun didn’t say anything; his arms just tightened near-imperceptibly, and he pushed his face harder between Shang Qinghua’s ribcage, like he could pry him open and crawl deep inside.

Three weeks later, Mobei-jun met Linguang-jun with the power of an icy storm and the steady doggedness of a glacier. 

When witnessing one of his earlier fights, Shang Qinghua had originally likened Mobei-jun to a tiger or a leopard; now, he understood that he had hardly been a housecat. This Mobei-jun was not just a wildcat; this Mobei-jun was the whole jungle. 

He attacked with a vigor that left Shang Qinghua startled and Linguang-jun stumbling backwards, scrabbling on the icy floor. The ensuing battle between the two demons left craters in the Earth, had Shang Qinghua scrambling to duck-and-roll away from the falling stalactites. Mobei-jun razed the castle to the ground, broke three of Linguang-jun’s limbs, and then – and then – 

Well, Shang Qinghua was no miracle worker. But wow, was his King cool!

When Xiang Fei woke up in bed, he was starry-eyed and quick to rise. He looped his stopwatch, dug under the cushions of his chair, and came up with enough change for a celebratory bowl of microwave ramen. As he hunched over the noodles, giddy with glee and delight, he could feel the unfamiliar warmth of pure, unrestrained optimism.

Maybe Xiang Fei hadn’t won this battle, but the war was not over yet.

Instead of jumping right back into the fray, Xiang Fei took these quiet days in the modern world to regroup.

Above all, this expedition had left him with one key observation: Mobei-jun had a victory in him. It wasn’t that he was fundamentally incapable, and it wasn’t that he was doomed, which Xiang Fei had admittedly begun to wonder – he just wasn’t trying hard enough. Linguang-jun was beating his ass not because of Xiang Fei’s failure to properly powerscale, but because – for whatever reason – Mobei-jun was, consciously or not, letting it happen. 

But not this time. This time, something had been different – this time, something had nearly broken the dam. And maybe it hadn’t worked this time – maybe it had happened too late, or there just wasn’t enough of it, or there was some other stupid factor to test Xiang Fei’s loyalty – but it had come close, god damn it! He had been so fucking close. Back in the ice palace, with Linguang-jun clutching at his shoulder, blood seeping through the slick ice, Xiang Fei had nearly been able to taste it.

But what? What had Xiang Fei done differently? What was Mobei-jun missing?

Xiang Fei spent days pacing around his dorm room, pondering this fundamental question. 

Food? No – just fucking look at the guy, Mobei-jun was hardly starved. Power? Again, not an issue – not only was Mobei-jun functionally the second in command of the entire demon world, but he seemed largely uninterested in anything more. His family’s martial aspect? Yeah, well, tough shit, buddy – until Xiang Fei managed to fix this whole mess, he wasn’t getting any of that.

What else, then, could a demon King want?

Xiang Fei contemplated this question, lost in thought, until his phone suddenly pinged with a rare notification. He scooped it up with one hand, his heartbeat quickening, and then – 

This is the loan department, inquiring about a 500,000 yuan loan. Please call back quickly, before we are forced to shut down your account –

Ugh! Another fucking spam text!

Xiang Fei mashed the report as spam button and then flopped down onto his bed, back sinking into the lumpy mattress. He, suddenly, felt quite stupid.

It had been a foolish hope, to be sure – probably born of his terrible, terrible Mobei-jun related optimism – but for just a second, Xiang Fei had thought that maybe, just maybe, the text had come from his mom. 

Out of misplaced nostalgia, Xiang Fei thumbed to open the message thread. 

If Xiang Fei added up all of his stopwatch loops – twenty or so, by now – it would reveal that, since Xiang Fei became a crash dummy for all the dumb ways to die in a dorm room, about a month had passed. At no point throughout that one month – not when Xiang Fei first dropped off the face of the Earth, or when he stopped going to class, or when he didn’t even bother to mail back a package accidentally sent to him – had his mother ever texted.

This was not terribly surprising, and Xiang Fei had no tears left to cry over it. Over the last month, he had been all cried out. It was even, if he thought about it, a little bit funny; at this point, maybe Xiang Fei ought to invite the spammers to his graduation instead.

Xiang Fei set his phone down because he couldn’t afford to throw it, and then leaned back. The pale, shiny ceiling stared down at him like the gates of heaven.

Really, it was no wonder he had turned out so fucked up! 

What happened to a child deprived of parental love? Xiang Fei! That was what! 

Xiang Fei’s classmates were probably outside right now, partying or studying in groups or maybe just basking in the pure light of knowing someone gave a shit about you, while Xiang Fei slummed it inside, wrote appallingly trashy porn, and plotted how best to methodically kill himself. Which – by the way – he wasn’t even given the privilege of really doing! Xiang Fei had been granted functional immortality, and for what – what had the body of Xiang Fei ever really done for him, other than be a garbage disposal for anything free and at least mildly poisonous? 

No – there was one thing Xiang Fei’s body had done. He might have been fundamentally useless, yes, but he had done one good thing – he had made one good thing. He had made Mobei-jun.

Mobei-jun, a child in everything but appearance, immature and violent and spoiled and rotten-tempered and the only thing that Xiang Fei had ever really loved. Mobei-jun, who was just as fucked up as he was, because – because –

Motherless demons were always missing a little something.

Xiang Fei shot up, eyes bloodshot. 

That was it. That – that was it!

That party had been such a fucking mess that Xiang Fei had put it to the back of his head, but it really had been the key, or, more specifically, what had happened after. Mobei-jun had, to the best of his demonic ability, opened up; he had told Xiang Fei about that famed Mobei-furen, the first-but-not-last person to sacrifice herself for Mobei-jun’s life. And then Mobei-jun had held Shang Qinghua, had looked at him as if he was a creator in more than the authorial sense, like the shattered child that Xiang Fei had written into existence.

Mobei-jun, that petulant, apathetic, detached manchild, born of Xiang Fei’s desperate longing and contaminated by his everything else.

Mobei-jun, you, you–

Xiang Fei breathed out. He felt like he had let out all the air he had ever inhaled.

He had fucked up – obviously. He had taken away Mobei-jun’s right to a childhood, had ripped his mother right off the pages. He was obligated to make things right. And maybe Xiang Fei couldn’t rewrite his story – maybe it was too late for that – but he could do something else.

There might have been no more Mobei-furen, but there was Shang Qinghua. And if Mobei-jun needed a mother to give a shit, then God fucking dammit, Shang Qinghua was up to the task.

You think it’s that easy to get out of this hell world? You fucking wish, My King! I’ll drag you kicking and screaming to the future if it kills me! 

That night, Xiang Fei tightened the rope, then climbed onto his chair. Then he looked back up at that very white ceiling.

Just wait for me, My King.