Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Xie Lian had heard most of what happened from his place behind the barrier, but he still had questions. When San Lang returned and dropped the barrier, he immediately began asking him what happened, who those two were, and who Fangxin was. But then he got a good look at the sword San Lang was carrying—the black jade sword that the other person had thrown. He knew that sword, and his entire being grew ice cold as he fell into the worst memories he’s recalled to date.

He fell through a whirlwind of memories, of a banquet hall bathed in blood, of a king commanding him to kill all of Xianle, of him stabbing the king through the heart with that black sword, his sword. The sound of a young man's anguished cries, begging for his mother and father to wake up. The scene quickly changed, the cries fading into manic exclamations, as Xie Lian confronted a man he called An Le.

An Le wanted to work together, to kill the prince and take control of the kingdom. Xie Lian thrust the hilt of his sword into An Le’s solar plex before striking the blade. The vibrations of the metal caused his organs to fail, his blood vessels bursting throughout his tissues. He coughed up blood before falling dead at Xie Lian’s feet. As the blood approached his shoes the scene changed yet again. He stood before the crown prince, his student, and confessed to the massacre. He claimed with all the conviction of a usurper that he ‘couldn’t stand to see them on the throne’ and that all of the royal family deserved to die.

He was sentenced to death, and the scene morphed again.

He was dead; or, at least, pretending to be dead. He lay in a stone coffin in a state of meditation to appear dead. He had just been ‘executed’ by hanging after confessing to committing the massacre at the Gilded Banquet. He planned to stay in the coffin for a few years meditating before breaking out.

He didn’t expect the sudden intense pain in his heart.

Someone was hammering a wooden stake into his heart! Each slam of the hammer sent it further into his chest, first tearing through the skin and pectoral muscle, then shattering two of his ribs, before tearing its way through and embedding itself in his heart.

He could feel the muscle spasm, tearing itself more as it contracted around the stake. It hurt. It hurt it hurt it hurt! But Xie Lian kept his meditative state. He knew this wouldn’t kill him; nothing would. After all, this wasn’t the first time he’d been stabbed in the heart. And so long as he was branded with the cursed shackles he wouldn’t die, they saw to that.

No, he would follow through with his plan. Lay in the coffin in reflection of what went wrong, what he could have done to stop the massacre before it happened, then in a few dozen years when everyone has forgotten about him he would break out.

He felt his blood pooling around him, in the hollow of his throat, saturating his hair. He distantly heard his student, the crown prince he was tasked with guarding and teaching, give the order to seal the coffins.

First, the heavy stone lid of the innermost coffin slammed down above him. Another stone lid slid into place on the second layer, before the lid of the wooden outer coffin was nailed shut.
‘Three coffins. They’ll likely seal the outer layer with anti-ghost talismans.’

He felt lightheaded from the massive blood loss. He fell unconscious shortly after, the first of many deaths he would have in that coffin.

He had no way of knowing how long it was before he woke up again. The air in the coffin was thick with the smell of blood, his blood, which had dried, caked into his hair and on his skin. He lifted his arm, wanting to start breaking down the innermost lid before he lost the strength to later, but the stake in his heart stopped him immediately. It hurts. He had forgotten about it, the pain blocked out during his time unconscious, but moving tore the tissue that healed around and into the grain of the wood, and immense pain blossomed through his chest. It hurts. His heart contracted faster around the stake, reacting to the pain as a threat, but that only increased the pain. It hurts. He bled again, and if the pain didn’t knock him out then the blood loss surely would. Before he passed out and died his second death, he fought through the pain and landed a firm blow against the lid above him, and a thin crack formed in the stone.

Pain from his lungs woke him next. There was no air left in the coffin now, and his lungs burned with need. It hurts. His body inhaled and exhaled uselessly, rapidly, trying to find even a molecule of oxygen left in the space. All it did was force his heart to beat faster and faster, tearing itself around the stake over and over again. It hurts. He had to continue breaking through the lids above him. He struck the lid and his muscles added a new layer of pain, burning from the lack of oxygen in his body. It hurts. He fought through, gritting his teeth, adding more pain and more burning, and struck again and again. He heard the crack spread through the stone with each blow. His hands were bleeding, he was clinging to consciousness, and blood was once again pouring out of the hole in his chest. It hurts. He blacked out and died again.

When he woke up next he felt extreme thirst. His lips were chapped, his throat dry. His body barely had enough fluids left to replace the blood he lost, supplemented by the spiritual energy of the shackles. He couldn’t use the energy, but it kept him alive. He didn’t focus on how the thick blood felt moving through his veins. It hurts. He didn’t focus on the way his useless attempts at breathing jostled the stake in his heart. It hurts. He didn’t focus on the burning need for oxygen that came from his lungs. It hurts. He put all his focus into trying to break through the lid. He had to be able to leave when he decided his punishment was over. He struck the lid, but he was weak with thirst and dizziness and pain. It hurts. He tried and tried but his fist slammed uselessly against the lid. It hurts. His skin tore and his bones cracked and new pain bloomed up his arms. It hurts.

His stomach felt as if it was being torn apart. It hurts. He lifted his hand to rest it on his stomach, to feel if something was somehow attacking him, only to misjudge where to place his hand. Instead of gently resting on his stomach, his hand fell a cùn before landing. It hurts. How long has he been in the coffin to have already wasted away this much, his body breaking his flesh down in a sick attempt to keep it alive? He tried to feel around his upper body, to see how emaciated he was. His muscles screamed under the effort to move, the fibers pulling themselves apart. It hurts. He fought through the pain and traced his ribs and face. He felt each one of his ribs through his robes, and his cheeks and eyes were sunken in.

‘About a month? Is that all the time that’s passed?’

A delirious laughter worked its way through him. It was coarse and hollow, fighting its way through his too-dry throat, tearing at his vocal cords, tearing his heart open around the stake yet again. His lips split open, bleeding, and for the first time in a month, he tasted something, anything, other than dust. It hurts. He didn’t stop laughing until he bled out again.

It was freezing cold when he woke next. The only warmth he felt came from his neck and ankle, from the cursed shackles. The seasons must’ve changed, and winter hit the central plains. When had he been buried? In the summer? He couldn’t remember, his starved brain struggled to form coherent thoughts. It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting these lids broken. He tried to move his arms, to try to strike the lid again, to try and further the crack in it, and maybe make some real progress on this first lid. But his arms didn’t move. He was puzzled, but tried again, putting more effort into it. This time, his arms moved. And with that movement came the sound of crunching, as of fresh snow underfoot. And with that sound came pain, so much pain, and realization. His body had begun to freeze, and when he forced his arms to move it caused the ice in his flesh to shatter and the skin of his hands to tear off, having frozen to the stone of the coffin. It hurts. His body tried to scream, but it couldn’t. As if realizing his life was threatened, the warmth from the shackles started to spread, but that only caused more pain, giving him the feeling of being set on fire. It hurts. It’s too much. He passes out again.

He wakes again when it’s warmer, and his flesh has thawed out. He tried again to strike the lid, to make some progress before he inevitably passed out and died again, but he was too weak, too emaciated from the months he spent dying over and over, and over again.

He needed help but there was no one but him in this damned coffin. His eyes burned trying to form tears of frustration but had no water to spare for such a useless thing.

Suddenly, there was movement against his wrist. In all his pain and time spent in and out of consciousness, he had forgotten about the sentient silk band that followed him.

He struggled, trying and failing to wet his lips, before barely croaking out “R-ruoye…”. The effort tore at his throat, and he tasted blood.

The band slipped out from his sleeve and gently stroked his cheek, offering a small comfort. It didn’t need Xie Lian to say anymore, it knew what its master wanted and set to work.

There wasn’t much room for the band to work with, but it did its best, slashing along the crack Xie Lian had formed in the lid.

Xie Lian choked out “G-good… Ba-and…” before he passed out, this time dying from having aspirated on his own blood.

He marked the passing of time by the change in temperature; at least the ones he was awake for. Another winter came and passed before Ruoye cut through the first lid, and sent it crashing down on his body. It hurt. His bones snapped and his skin split, and he promptly passed back out, dying again.

When he woke again Ruoye had moved the pieces of the lid off of him and to either side of the coffin. The band had already started working on the next lid. It had taken the band at least a year by Xie Lian’s count to break the lid with a crack in it, who knew how long it would take to break the pristine middle lid? Or the outermost lid, with the talismans he’s sure the crown prince placed on it? At least this time there was no new pain, just the same ever-present pain of starvation and dehydration and his heart tearing itself anew around the stake. It hurt. But it was almost like an old friend now. He leaned into the familiar pain and let himself die again, the most peaceful of his deaths so far.

It was during his third winter that he started to pray.
He prayed to Feng Xin first.

Then to Mu Qing.

And Jun Wu.

And anyone who would listen.

He prayed for help, to be rescued from the coffins. He would do anything they asked if they rescued him.

He begged Jun Wu for power, just enough to free himself. He could take it away the second he was out.

He prayed and pleaded and begged and bargained, in every waking moment he had in that coffin.

He still tried to keep count of how long he’d been in there, counting the winters he was awake for. He lost track, the last number he remembered was somewhere around 30. Who knew how accurate that was?

All the while Ruoye kept slashing away at the stone, its edges fraying from snagging on the rock.

By the time Ruoye had broken through the second lid, he had begun to forget himself. He referred to himself as ‘This one’ when he prayed.

‘This one prays…’

‘This one begs…’

‘If this one could just leave I promise…’

Verbally prostrating to gods he felt he had a complicated relationship with, but who he could no longer remember. Verbally lowering himself more than he possibly could be. If he physically could kneel he would. Something about that felt wrong to him but he couldn’t remember why. He was never conscious long enough to try.

Ruoye tried to break the final lid, but the talismans wouldn’t let it near enough to try. It kept trying, bouncing off the protective field over, and over, and over.

He woke up and found that his nerve endings had repaired themselves again. They had been only partially functioning for some time, and he had been glad for the reprieve from the pain it gave him. But suddenly they were fixed and the pain was excruciating! It broke something in him, some last shred of strength finally snapping.

‘I can’t do this anymore! I can’t, I can’t! Please, I beg. If you won’t let me out, or grant me the strength to get myself out, then please, just, let me die!!’

He didn’t even know who he was praying to anymore, he didn’t care. He just wanted this to end…

And suddenly, his shackles went cold, as if the spiritual energy was removed. A chill swept through him.

Heaven heard his prayers?

Heard them and only answered this one??

He felt a burning rage boil up inside him, and an anguished cry tore its way through him as his consciousness slipped from him again, for the last time.

He had been abandoned by everyone. Left to rot forever for a crime he didn’t commit, a crime he no longer even remembered. How many decades had he spent, feeling his body die in so many different ways? How many decades did he spendbegging for someone, anyone, to help him? How many other people have felt this way? If the heavens wouldn’t help him, shackled as he may be, just how many innocents have been abandoned in the same way?

With this feeling of anger and betrayal burning in his heart, he died. And when he did, his body burst into flames. Fueled by the anguish of his soul, fueled by the rage and the betrayal and the almost forgotten need to protect the common people. His body burned, and burned, and burned. It burned through his flesh and his bones, what little there was left. It burned through the talismans that kept Ruoye from breaking through that final wooden lid.

And when it finished burning, when his body was just a human-shaped pile of ash, a little ball of fire remained, floating in the coffin. It stayed there for a moment, before it floated through the wood, no longer enchanted with anti-ghost talismans, and it floated away.

Hua Cheng took Xie Lian back to Ghost City, leaving a clone behind to free the humans from Qi Rong’s caves. He swept through Paradise Manor, grabbing his notes and the pillow Xie Lian had slept on most, before moving to Thousand Lights Temple. He set Xie Lian on his altar, resting on the pillow, and lit some incense. Hua Cheng then split his attention between reading his notes, looking for something, anything, that he could do to help His Highness, and watching what his clone was doing through his empty right eye.

His clone quickly corralled the rest of Qi Rong’s lackeys, and two of them guided him through the labyrinths, unlocking the cages, and guiding the humans to safety.

As he shifted through his notes he experienced an unusual lack of success, not finding anything that looked even remotely useful, eventually throwing the pages across the temple in frustration. As the papers fluttered to the ground his attention was drawn back to his clone’s vision.

The clone had just left the cave system through a different entrance after freeing the last of the humans. He stood on a cliff overlooking the valley when he heard arguing from behind him. The clone looked over his shoulder to the source of the noise to see two heavenly officials, the Wind Master and the Martial God of the Southeast, arguing over some nonsense as they left the cave.

Hua Cheng really didn’t have the patience to deal with more of heaven’s trash, especially not trash that had abandoned his god. He trusted his clone to take care of General Big Dick and the Lady Wind Master; to taunt the heavenly officials and by extension heaven itself for having to do their job and rescue Lang Qianqiu’s believers for him. He wouldn’t pick an actual fight with heaven, not with His Highness in such a vulnerable state - he wouldn’t want him to anyway, but he would taunt them at every opportunity.

Hua Cheng brushed his bangs out of his face, disconnecting from the clone’s vision before he sat down on Xie Lian’s altar and took the pillow Xie Lian was resting on into his lap, cupping his hands around Xie Lian, weaving a protective web of spiritual energy around him. Hua Cheng was restless, hating that he could do nothing but sit, and wait, offering spiritual power not knowing if it would even help. He wanted to do something, anything, to help His Highness through whatever this was; to bring him back from wherever he’s gone. He wanted to destroy whatever caused this, but knew he wouldn’t be permitted to; that his god would disapprove once his memory was fully restored and he knew who he was again.

Hua Cheng couldn’t take the restless energy anymore and slipped into devout and meditative prayer. The kind of prayer that sustained him through his darkest moments, the kind of prayer that saw him through the final challenge of the kiln, the kind of prayer that brought the pieces of his soul back together after he died a second time.

He prayed to His Highness for the strength to continue existing in this world.

He prayed to His Highness for the patience to work through that which was not immediately clear to him.

He prayed that His Highness would accept this imperfect offering which sat upon His altar.

He prayed that His Highness would take what He needed to overcome this challenge, whatever Hua Cheng had was His to take.

He selfishly prayed that His Highness would continue to remain, for he would not survive in a world without Him in it.

He prayed that His Highness would return to him, though he did not deserve such kindness.

He prayed that His Highness would forgive him for failing Him; he should have tried harder, looked harder, and seen the long shots through.

It had been nearly a sichen since Hua Cheng took His Highness away from the caves when suddenly cold flames filled the temple. The flames startled Hua Cheng out of his prayer, but caused no damage to him or the temple. Before Hua Cheng could react, to seek out the cause of the flames, he felt movement from within his hands.

He looked down to see His Highness’ flame blazing wildly, in a way he had never seen him before. A moment later he floated out of the ghost king's hands and away from the altar. Hua Cheng watched in shock as the flames grew, taking the shape of a man.

A ghost’s first physical form will always be the same as when they had died. And with His Highness, it was no different.

The fire receded, revealing a translucent, gaunt, almost skeletal figure. His long dark hair was caked in old blood with fresh blood dripping from the ends, staining the temple floor. His robes, tattered with age and decay, were also stained with blood along his back, on his chest, his sleeves, his collar, and the hem of his robes. The blood stains varied from the near-black color of aged and dried blood to the bright red of fresh blood on his collar and around the wooden stake in his chest. His face was barely recognizable. The leather-like skin had sunken in, plastered directly to the skull underneath. His lips were cracked and bleeding, the blood running down his chin to stain the collar of his robes, and his eyes were fully sunken into his sockets. The wound from the wooden stake was bleeding, fresh blood flowing over the stains of dried blood, soaking further into his robes. The cursed shackle could be seen peeking out from underneath the blood-stained collar, following the too-thin contours of his throat.

Xie Lian stared through Hua Cheng his eyes unfocused, as Hua Cheng stared at Xie Lian with horrific realization etched on his face. He stood up from the altar and, shaking, he crossed the room, reaching out to Xie Lian. Before Hua Cheng could fully reach out, to touch His Highness, before he could find his voice and ask if he was ok, the figure before him suddenly opened his mouth, tearing the skin on his cheeks, and let out an anguished cry. The voice was hoarse from lack of use, but still was filled with all the pain and anguish Xie Lian had felt. Still screaming, a fire started from the stake in his chest, spreading to consume him. The fire engulfed the figure, then receded, returning to the familiar shape of a ghost fire.

Hua Cheng reached out and held the ghost fire in his hands, fighting the tears in his eye. In less than an incense time, Hua Cheng knew how His Highness died, and saw the physical effects of being trapped in a coffin with only the shackles to sustain him. He couldn’t take the time to process that, to make plans to punish everyone involved in His Highness' death, because from his hands His Highness gasped and cried out for him, crying for “San Lang!!”.

“I’m here. Gege, I’m here, you’re safe.” Hua Cheng’s voice was thick with the tears he was holding back. Now wasn’t the time for him to break down. His Highness needs him, he can lose it later.

“I remember… San Lang, I remember how I died!!” His Highness was trembling in Hua Cheng’s hands, his voice frantic and frightened.

Hua Cheng longed to hold His Highness, to comfort him, to let His Highness hide his face in Hua Cheng’s shoulder and cry into his robes, but this form would not let him. It’s presumptuous for him to even think that His Highness would welcome that kind of familiar touch, especially from someone like him. Even so, Hua Cheng brought His Highness up to his shoulder, as he had done in Qi Rong’s caves, and as His Highness had done himself that first night in this temple. His Highness nestled into Hua Cheng’s hair, pressing himself against his neck, shocking the Ghost King.

“Your Highness, you don’t -”

“I got nailed into a coffin San Lang,” His Highness continued, rambling faster than Hua Cheng could interrupt.

“I felt them nail a wooden stake into my heart… I should’ve died just from that, but I kept waking up. I kept waking up in that coffin and dying again and again and again. I tried to break out but I couldn’t, I wasn’t strong enough.”

The pain in His Highness’ voice tore at Hua Cheng. How much had he suffered before he died?

“And I prayed… San Lang, I prayed. For help, for power, for freedom, for mercy. I prayed and pleaded and begged for help from anyone who could hear me. But no one listened, no one came!! Not until I prayed for death… I spent decades praying, San Lang, but it wasn’t until I prayed for death that my prayers were answered, that I could finally, finally, die!! Why couldn’t I die, San Lang??!” His Highness was sobbing before he finished his sentence, choking, gasping sobs echoing throughout the temple.

Hua Cheng tentatively curled his hand around His Highness before gently pressing him further into the curve of his shoulder. His dead heart broke hearing His Highness’ cries, and he wanted nothing more than to break into the heavens again and burn it all down.