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Mobei-jun’s suspicion and scrutiny seemed to follow him. Even after he’d returned to An Ding Peak this last time, he saw the ice demon in every shadow, in every moment where a shiver ran down his spine, just waiting for the demon to catch him doing something he didn’t like.
It had been nearly decades, now, since he’d been reborn into his own creation, and no one was coming to save Shang Qinghua from the original flavor’s fate anytime soon. Luo Binghe had put himself up in Huan Hua palance, and still, where was his promised prince on a white horse, exactly? The system had promised him a fix to the narrative, another person from his own world to serve as a developmental editor of sorts, and an improvisational actor, as well.
Even as he put his shovel into the dirt, grunting with effort to dig up the only other contingency plan he could think of, he found himself raging against the stupid system.
“Hey, System, buddy, any ETA on that editor you promised? I hate to be the one to say it, but so far this novel is going off without a–” he grunted, shoving the shove in again “–hitch.”
The System, voice as coolly snarky and condescending as ever, responded.
Account created but not yet activated.
“Well, what gives? Activate it already, would you?”
Unfortunately, subject has not vacated his previous console. I cannot sync user data.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He asked.
Translation: He just won’t die already. He wasn’t predicted to make it this far.
Oh, well that was just great. His right-hand man had missed his stop to get on the wheel of reincarnation, more or less, and now his save filed was screwed to shit as he approached his own inevitable demise if he let the ongoing Proud Immortal Demon Way train run its course.
Fuck it, he thought. He was just going to have to be a strong, independent Peak Lord who saved himself! He didn’t need some guy to do it, right? He was insignificant canon fodder at this point, now that Luo Binghe was out of the Abyss and Mobei-jun didn’t need a human mole to keep him abreast of the human realm now that he had a friend in a higher place. Surely his quiet disappearance wouldn’t count towards him directly altering the protagonist’s story, if he found a way to humanely write himself out. All he had to do was to placate Mobei-jun one last time, and be quiet and fast for a little while.
He dug just a little longer, and before he knew it, he was stuffing what would look, to most people, like a dead body into his qiankun pouch. It was heavy, and pretty freaky to look at while it was uninhabited, but he swore this thing would be his ticket out of his final game over.
–
The last time he let himself to picked up by the scruff and dragged to the Northern Realm felt absurdly normal. The last several times he’d been picked up, the Northern Prince had smacked him around more than usual, each time demanding to know how the humans had anticipated his movements, and Junshang’s alongside them, yet again. Every time, Shang Qinghua made himself a headshaker, protesting his own lack of knowledge; nevermind that he’d been playing his role, and thus playing Mobei-jun and Yue Qingyuan alike.
He’d been so good this time, not making a peep to his fellow cultivators, kissing up to Mobei-jun as hard as they had when he’d met him for the first time. When the Princeling, irritable and spoiled as ever, was called to a meeting with a few Demon Lords considering joining Luo Binghe’s ranks, Shang Qinghua made to follow him in like always. Movie-jun stuck one hand out, arm across his stomach, practically clotheslining him at close range.
“No humans allowed,” he snarled.”
Shang Qinghua bowed low, and once his face was out of view, a genuine smile was spread across his face. “Of course, My King. This one will await your return.”
–
Of course, he’d made a break for it the second the door was closed and he had heard the scraping of chairs against the icy floors of the Northern Palace.
With all the important demons of the palace cooped up in one room for delicate negotiations, and the servants used to seeing their lord’s errand-boy skittering around to fulfill this order or that, none of them were any the wiser during the short time it took him to throw on a thick cloak, draw his sword, and fly off into the night.
All he needed to do was dress the mushroom body, made to look like himself, creepy as it was, cut its throat, and leave it outside. It was rotten work, but there was no one to do it for him.
Shang Qinghua wasn’t, by cultivator standards, an especially strong flyer, but he was desperate enough, and just skilled enough to make his way south. Slowly, the frigid expanse began to thaw, the horizon slowly swallowed up by the high peaks and towers of the Holy Mausoleum. Now he was absolutely sure no one would follow him, knowing he had reached the forbidden realm. Besides that; he was one of only a few people who knew that this was where the deposed emperor resided these days, that he’d traded in Bai Lu Mountain for a far more dignified abode with his nephew’s help.
When he finally landed at the base, Shang Qinghua breathed a sigh of relief, but only for a moment. Sure, he’d made it to his final destination, but the final task that lay before him involved remembering the absurd series of traps he’d laid out years ago in a chapter he was certain no one had read with nearly as much care as he’d put into laying it.
Fuck it, he supposed. If he died here, at least it would be by his own stupidity, giving it his all to stay alive, and not waiting for his treachery to be discovered, and the cold hand of consequences closed around his throat.
Of course, if the best happened, he’d have the greatest scary dog privilege in any realm known to man or demon alike.
–
He’d only set himself on fire once in the process of McGyvering his way through the mountain, which was pretty good given the time and distance between him and its authorship, and the computer death that had nerfed all his well-laid early plans.
Shang Qinghua had barely put his hand on the final door when it swung open and he was forced to stumble forward. “What the–” He had never been so glad in his life that he hadn’t had the chance to use the word ‘Fuck’ as when he found himself face to face with the newly reincorporated emperor. Even in the bootleg body that Zhuzhi-lang had made for him, he was imposing, his face perfectly symmetrical, his long hair inky black and falling in thick, shining waves down his back. He wore it unsound and wore only a simple robe, and yet he was still even more impressive than Shang Qinghua’s protagonist, just as handsome, and effortlessly charming. He could believably be the tree from which the hero branched off.
“My, my,” he said, regarding Shang Qinghua with a look of cool amusement. “A human cultivator, here? That’s certainly a first.”
Shang Qinghua swallowed hard as the emperor reached a hand forward, cupping his face and pulling Shang Qinghua towards him, at once caressing and commanding.
“Tell me,” he said, “How a bold little thing like yourself managed to get past my defenses, and what he thought his business here was.” As Shang Qinghua moved forward, the door beside this tomb’s room slammed shut.
Tianlang-jun released him, stepping back so that he could recline on the coffin behind him–his own, Shang Qinghua had to presume, or some poor ancestor who was now witness to however the Emperor amused himself–and grinned. “I’d like to hear a story before you die. Be entertaining, and I might even let you catch your breath before I do it.”
Oh. Oh thank fuck. Shang Qinghua had banked on what he knew of the demon–he had become embittered to human cultivators wholly, but he always adored a good story, a decent performance. And that knockoff riff of ‘good job, Westley, good work, I’ll most likely kill you in the morning’? That was exactly how he’d have written this scene himself.
If there was one thing he knew he could do, it was deliver on fanservice, and pander to a man’s ego. Shang Qinghua prostrated himself first, thanking His Majesty for endless mercy, before he launched into a tale far from reality
In his version, he had carefully tested the floors by tossing stones, the trip wires by memorizing the tile patterns, carefully remembered what classics and poems were evoked in each clue. When he was done, the emperor, looking like a posed model atop his coffin smiled, yanking him forward.
“Well, at least you’re entertaining, Cultivator, I’ll give you that. Since I’m feeling generous, and you haven’t wasted my time yet, I’ll give you another chance to tell me a story,” he said as Shang Qinghua’s hips crashed against the coffin, and the demon tilted his chin up with one long finger. “But first, answer two questions: Who are you, and what possessed you to enter a holy and forbidden tomb?” He arched a brow. Oh, Shang Qinghua had this in the bag. Beyond pandering, being a pathetic sycophant had grown to become his second best skill.
“S-Shang Qinghua, Your Majesty. I was once a useless cultivator, before I realized that I wasn’t good for much. I–I read tales about you. Songs, poems, the like!” A lie, none were proliferated in the world, but His Majesty was none the wiser. “And I realized that I could be of more use by serving you, be it as a servant, entertainer, whipping boy–as you wish, Your Majesty, only say what would please you, and I’ll do it.”
Tianlang-jun’s dark eyes flashed, and without another word, he picked the peak lord up like he was nothing, placing him on the stone coffin beside him. “How cute you are, Shang Qinghua,” he said. His hand lingered on the peak lord’s thigh as he spoke. “I’m glad that you have the sense to know your proper place. It might be nice to have someone to fetch me something new to read from time to time.” He hummed, low to himself. “Tell me another story; one from your realm.”
This one, he made up on the spot, a love story between a serving boy and the prince he served. It was torrid, melodramatic, a little saucy, and completely came out of him on the fly. By the end, his heart was racing in his chest as he looked to his host for approval. Tianlang-jun beside him flashed a smile again, his teeth white and sharp. Everything about him was both dangerous and alluring.
“What a good little servant you’ve been,” the emperor leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips. It began as a chaste press of lips against lips, but it wasn’t long before the emperor was forcing his mouth open, his tongue tangling with his own. Before he pulled away, he caught Shang Qinghua’s lower lip between those sharp teeth, pressing down until the skin split and he pulled away to lick the blood from his mouth.
“I think I’ll keep you through the whole night,” he said, nodding and smirking softly to himself; the emperor must have thought he’d just committed a great act of charity, and given Shang Qinghua’s other options, perhaps he had. “And in the morning, you’ll have another chance to amuse me.”