Chapter Text

The women are positively elated when he reaches them, sees their tear-stained faces. The matriarch of the group, the daughter of the late village mother, sweeps out of her house with her mouth set in a line and her long hair swishing behind her. Less frantic than the others, she does not bow before their visitor, but he cannot miss the shine of tears wavering on the cusp of her eyelids.

“I broke my promise,” Nan Yang says, readjusting the quiver he wears strapped to his broad back. His body is flawless and divine; this man has not been human for centuries. “I’m sorry. I could’ve at least sent a messenger to let you know where I was.”

He meets the hard black eyes of the matriarch. She has always treated the general with courtesy, but Nan Yang knows that his time as this small community’s benefactor will likely come to an end with her in charge. Suspicious of the martial god of the southeast and of most supernatural beings in general, she speaks only of her herbs and potions, a passion that has turned her into a fine healer by mortal standards.

“One of our sisters was attacked,” the woman says. “Won’t you come inside? I can explain the goings-on.”

They enter the modest, crooked temple, which is still somehow the grandest building in the entire village. Above the door to the structure is a plaque carved with a name that is not Nan Yang’s own, but he has assured the women that he will not be harmed by conducting his business here. Especially in this temple, belonging to this god.

They kneel side by side in front of the altar. It takes the woman several long moments before she can bring herself to speak words. Nan Yang can hear the quiver of her voice and her small, intense inhales; she has been crying quietly for the past few minutes.

“I’m…so afraid for them. More than I ever have been. I just wonder—if we’ve done anything to anger him—”

“You haven’t done anything wrong. Gods and demons are pretty similar with their disregard for human lives, quite frankly. You would have to fuck up pretty badly to get our attention.”

“I…see.”

Nan Yang does not know her name, does not know if it has ever even been offered to him. He has never learned the names of any of the women here, no matter how many times he passes through to sup with them and bless their humble community. It has been decades.

“The girl who was attacked,” he starts, “was she—”

The door to the temple bangs open, and the black-eyed woman jolts and makes a noise of surprise. Nan Yang leaps to his feet, flinging his hand over his shoulder to grasp at the tail of an arrow. He is without his bow—a condition of his indefinite exile—but his arrows are still sharper and faster than anything mortal hands can make or shoot. But even without the explosive power of his divine bow, these arrows are still effective when thrown by a keen wrist working in tandem with a perfect eye.

Nan Yang rushes out of the temple and on to the dirt road that leads to the modest village square.

And then he hears it—the sound of crackling, like a fire, though there is no heat and no smoke. He follows the sound on swift feet, an arrow gripped between his thumb and forefinger. But the weapon does him no good, even if he’d had access to his bow or any of the spiritual weapons hanging in his armory. Neither will his fists, nor his voice. He was stripped of most of his spiritual energy many years ago, leaving him neutered of magic. The martial god of the southeast, Nan Yang, is powerless.

Therapy is not something that will ever work for him. Mu Qing decided this long ago. His last appointment took place when he was still a very young child, barely in kindergarten.

“I won’t make you go back. I promise,” his mother had said in a gentle voice. She’d been told by friends that it was a good idea to bring an adopted child to therapy, even if the adoption had taken place in his infancy. The advice, while well-meaning, had not worked for this particular family nor this particular child, who had left the therapist’s office with a face cherry-red from fury.

But he still needed a place to “put his feelings” as his mother had phrased it. Shortly after her son reached functional literacy, quite a bit earlier than many of his peers, she’d introduced Mu Qing to an art he would carry with him for many years.

Stashed under the twin bed in his cramped Toronto apartment is a collection of notebooks, each one bursting at the margins with his every desire (new Nikes in ’02, a PlayStation in ’05, a girlfriend in ’09, a scholarship in ’14, a boyfriend in ’17, a new planet in ’20, and a sunscreen with less white cast in ’23). These notebooks also contain his every heartbreak and every indignity he’s ever suffered. Though he’s heard of the therapeutic benefits of keeping journals and regularly reflecting on oneself, Mu Qing almost never goes back through his diaries to revisit any moment that has passed him by. The only exceptions are when he has a point to prove and needs to find contemporaneous accounts to point to exact dates that he was wronged or disappointed by the people in his life.

Maybe not a terribly net-positive hobby, but it has been part of his routine for so long, Mu Qing feels weirdly untethered on days that he does not record the details in his life, no matter how mundane.

But in early 2025, Mu Qing injures his wrist while at work (who knew tailoring could be so hard on the joints?) and is unable to write by hand for several months. After a few days journal-free, he gets a note on his door from an annoyed downstairs neighbor saying that she is tired of hearing him pacing his floor well into the night, and could he please do it outside, even if it does happen to be the dead of a Canadian winter?

He needs to find a new outlet.

And this is when Mu Qing begins to record video diary entries, which he keeps saved in his cloud storage, a folder he has never accessed. He will film himself speaking to the camera—sometimes not even facing the lens when he feels especially ugly, instead turning his phone around to face outside his window—and report all the happenings of the day and how he feels about them.

Even when his wrist is healed, Mu Qing rarely finds himself writing in journals anymore, now that his new habit is so much faster and takes up far less physical space. Instead, he has hundreds of brief videos that document nearly every day of his life for the past year, all of it safe and sound in the cloud.

“She’s selling the entire thing,” he says into his phone one morning, which is propped on his kitchen counter. He is chopping fruit for his breakfast of yogurt and black coffee as he talks. “The boots, the coats, the hats, every damn piece of the collection. To a mystery client who is so private, Lisa says I can’t know their identity. Despite them buying everything I care about!” He flings a handful of blueberries on top of his yogurt, and half of them go tumbling off and rolling across the floor like antioxidant-rich severed heads.

His workday today is mundane, but Lisa reminds him that he’s having a design consultation later in the afternoon. Design consultations are rare occurrences now for Mu Qing, who has a reputation around the workshop as being “not a people person” and therefore tends to assemble stylings and do his own tailoring projects solo. Be that as it may, Mu Qing is still a professional, and he will take any client matter seriously.

Provided, of course, that the client takes him seriously.

It’s thirty minutes past the time their client was supposed to come in for his design consultation. Mu Qing is leaning his hip against the front desk, two locks of black hair skimming his collarbones and obscuring part of his face as he scrolls on his phone. All he knows about this client is that he’s attending a D-list celebrity costume party, one of the high-profile ones trying to be the next Met Gala for shitty influencers. They even have a red carpet and corporate sponsorships (though most are for energy drinks and adult toys). A custom garment will run this guy thousands of dollars, and surely the return on his investment can’t possibly be that high? But the house’s executives and lead designers are confident that this is the new generation of tastemakers, no matter their origins, and recognize that having millions of young eyes on a well-crafted garment from their collection will pay major dividends over time.

When the front door finally opens and he hears the panting of a flustered patron, he does not look up.

The stranger approaches Mu Qing, still pushing harsh exhales out of his mouth. He stops right in front of him, and Mu Qing finally deigns to swing his gaze upward.

The lobby of the atelier is already dim, entirely paneled in dark woods and lit with low, warm lights discreetly hidden in the edges of its tastefully empty shelves. The limited luminance is an entirely front-of-house charade; in the workshops, deep in the back of the building, tailors cut and sew using hospital-bright lights that allow them to tear at and mutilate fabrics like furious birds of prey. It is in this trendy dimness that their eyes meet, and Mu Qing’s body jolts, a charged ion flung too close to its opposite.

“Hi. Feng Xin,” the client pants out in short bursts, flashing a handsome smile. “And I’m super fucking late.”

Mu Qing has a habit of looking at clothes first, person second. But for the life of him, he will never ever remember what it was that Feng Xin was wearing on this day (even if he were to be, say, threatened with a truth serum, a bizarre circumstance that will in fact happen to him a few months hence). Instead, Mu Qing takes greedy eyefuls of Feng Xin’s face, of how his unmemorable clothes are filled out by his body. He’s the same height as Mu Qing, though the slightest bit broader, with a country-club smile and working-class hands. He uses one to push a lock of warm brown hair out of his face, where it’s escaped from the bun he wears at his crown. The other he extends to Mu Qing.

Mu Qing hesitates before shaking Feng Xin’s sweaty hand, mentally berating himself for not openly fussing about the rudeness of arriving so late.

“My name is Mu Qing,” he says in a clipped tone. “I’m the Director of Acquisitions. I manage garment purchases made for the house and the hiring of designers and tailors. I also buy historical pieces that have made it into our esteemed collection after centuries.”

“Oh shit?” Feng Xin says, thick brows raised. “Medieval drip. Cool.”

“We are not a department store,” Mu Qing says, eyes flicking back and forth down Feng Xin’s front. It’s bitchy, but it also lets him indulge in another look without sacrificing his dignity. Still, the man’s clothes don’t register—just the body neatly wrapped within them. “There’s nothing ‘off the rack’ here. We only do custom designs and short-term loans from our existing collection.”

It’s almost cartoonish how much Mu Qing is dialing up his snobbery, as if there isn’t a scuffed Honda parked out back that he’s still making payments on.

As he leads Feng Xin back to the changing rooms, a tense silence curls and undulates between them. Each knows he should try to strike up conversation, but neither knows how. That is, until they have nearly reached the middle of the hallway, but there is genuine awe in Feng Xin’s voice when he speaks.

“This, uh, tapestry—that’s what it is, right? It’s super beautiful.”

Mu Qing stops and turns to look. The six-foot-long tapestry is a work of lace, painstakingly woven entirely by hand, the red thread stark against the black wool of its “setting.” Dragons, birds, tigers—all latticed designs, all pomegranate red and just as textured. Mu Qing had made the tapestry himself, as a thesis for design school, and its stitch-perfect construction was what had gotten him a position in the fashion industry and a job as a lowly tailor at this very house.

“Thank you. It’s handmade. One of a kind,” Mu Qing says, stretching his fingers. He can remember the long nights clutching the small bobbins and braiding until his eyes crossed. “Pillow lace” is such a cozy term for something that is so back-breaking and agonizing in reality. But Mu Qing had liked the challenge, and a tailoring expert who can restore and recreate such intricacies in his own work is indispensable. And he knows that.

When they turn a corner down one of the lantern-lit hallways, out of the corner of his eye Mu Qing catches how Feng Xin’s gaze is focused on his rear. It’s a little flattering, though Mu Qing takes some pity on him, too. These black slacks, which pinch his waist so nicely, do little for his lower body. He almost regrets the sleek black long-sleeve he wears as well, which shows off his leanness but absolutely no skin. His entire wardrobe is like this—well-made, high-quality pieces that never quite communicate sex appeal. They communicate Miranda Priestly more than anything. Perhaps he should finally invest in some cologne? Feng Xin certainly has. When Mu Qing opens the door to a large dressing room, complete with a round dais and 180 degree mirrors, Feng Xin glides past him, and Mu Qing’s lungs swell with his scent. He savors the masculine pine.

“One of the tailors will be with you shortly,” he says, sounding a little hoarse.

“Oh. Are you not my…?”

“I’m not taking your measurements, no. But once we have those, we can find something from our collection for your…needs.”

Mu Qing returns to his office after informing one of the standby tailors that the client is ready. He really should be pawing through their archives to find something for Feng Xin to try on, but nothing is springing to mind at the moment. It’s peculiar—Mu Qing can usually find the perfect garment for just about anyone who walks in the door. He has worked miracles on customized replicas of older styles, a jack of all trades no matter the decade or even the century. But the moment he’d met Feng Xin’s eyes, something inside of him had thrummed with the white glow of nervous energy. Feng Xin is a kick to the solar plexus in the shape of a man.

“Excuse me,” the tailor says, stepping into his office twenty minutes later. “He’s all measured. I had him try on a few pieces we had lying around that seemed vaguely appropriate, but I could tell he wasn’t interested in anything.”

“And you think I can get him to commit to something? Straight men will stumble into a tattoo parlor and pick something nasty out of a sticky book they barely glance at, but god forbid they have to choose what to wear for one event.”

When Mu Qing returns to the fitting room, Feng Xin is sitting on the dais, resembling a dejected child. I should have done his fitting, Mu Qing thinks. There’s a gloom around Feng Xin that hadn’t been there before, and there’s no way it’s from self-consciousness from his measurements.

“Follow me,” he says.

Feng Xin gets to his feet, and they relocate to what Mu Qing informs him is the grand archives. It’s separated into a few separate rooms, like a museum, with some clothes displayed on dress forms while others are hung on racks.

“Don’t write off the womenswear,” Mu Qing says, gesturing to a lace shift on a dress form. “These function as just the base for the design. Of course, we can loan out things that fit you, with several truly priceless exceptions.”

Feng Xin folds his arms across his chest. “And yet these ‘priceless’ clothes are kept in the back room? It’s a shame.”

Mu Qing’s glare is icy.

“Archival pieces aren’t exactly the kind of thing you can wear just to take some girl on a date,” he huffs.

Feng Xin rocks back on his heels. If he can sense the condescension in Mu Qing’s tone, he doesn’t let on that he’d heard it.

“Imagine showing up to a date wearing something this impressive, though,” he says, grinning like a fool at the thought. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I really did want to buy something from your old-ass collection of old powdered wigs and chastity belts. Not a custom design or a replica. Or if I wanted to buy any of the stuff in this room—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s not stuff—”

“I just said hypothetically,” Feng Xin says in a firm voice.

Anyone who has worked with the public or with clients in general is familiar with the shift in atmosphere when a conversation slides from a neutral discussion to an actual argument. The temperature in the room will at once become hot as a kiln, baking fury that starts as soft clay into heavy stone. Even Mu Qing’s onyx-black eyes sizzle with repressed wrath.

“Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear enough. These pieces are historical. They are not for sale.”

“Aren’t they?” Feng Xin snaps back, turning to face Mu Qing. “Because the tailor you had measuring me let it slip that you’re probably in a bad mood today because they just sold off your, your…Vatican collection or something to a rando.” He clicks his tongue. “Seems kinda disappointing. Not even purchased by a college or a museum or anything.”

“Why are you so insistent on asking about buying from the collection? You’re not the center of the universe, and not everything is for sale. Do you start throwing out ridiculous offers of your nonexistent millions when you go to people’s houses, too?”

Feng Xin narrows his golden eyes.

“It’s your own fault you can’t take a joke. You’re acting like I pissed in your unsugared cornflakes.”

“If you just came here to get on my nerves and not actually settle on a design, then you can leave.”

“Y’know, this job of yours is actually pretty cool, but you’ve gotta be one of the most miserable people in Toronto, Jesus Christ. Do you fly off the handle like this every day?”

“OK, you know what, you should just leave,” Mu Qing says again. His tone is even, but his skin itches as adrenaline cycles through his body. He taps his foot, finely crafted sole clicking against the marble floor.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Mu?”

Fuck. Of all the times for one’s boss to turn the corner.

“We’ve encountered some creative differences,” Mu Qing says, glare locked on Feng Xin’s face.

Lisa looks back and forth between the two, mouth slightly agape.

“Maybe I should help with the rest of the tour?” she finally says, words coming out in a nervous rush. Mu Qing balks.

“I really think you—”

“Awesome, thanks so much,” Feng Xin says, loudly speaking over his now-former escort. “Sometimes people just have bad days.”

Lisa gently touches Feng Xin’s elbow, guiding him along to the next room, speaking all the while about leatherwork as they enter a room full of sword sheaths and other military accessories. Feng Xin’s expressive voice carries as he asks her about the archive, and she sounds all too happy to indulge him. Still planted firmly in place one room over, Mu Qing seethes.

He really should just leave, but it’s only mid-afternoon, and slipping away would not go unnoticed by the rest of the staff or his boss. Leaving now would send a clear message: that Mu Qing is bothered. And if there’s one thing thoroughly bothered people hate, it’s when other people are made away of their humiliating botheredness.

An hour after Mu Qing has returned to his cramped but spotless office-studio, there’s a knock at his door. Lisa, looking far less frazzled than she had earlier, demands her grouchy employee call their visitor and apologize.

“This is not one of my duties,” Mu Qing argues. “Lisa, you can’t ask me to do this.”

“Can’t I?” she says, quirking a brow. “Because my job involves maintaining partnerships and client relations. And seeing as how you work for me, you are obliged to help make that happen. Honestly, Mu Qing, I don’t understand why you’re acting like this. I can usually count on you to put the needs of the business above your own.”

I am thinking about the business, he wants to cry. Instead, he just fixes her with a blank look.

“Fine.”

“I got his business card, which has his personal number. Please try to lighten up?” She gives him a weak smile.

Mu Qing rolls his eyes.

“Did you settle on a design?”

“Of course not!” she says in an exasperated voice. “Why else would I be asking you to call him, so he could take you as his date? We need the business right now!”

“Fine, fine. I promise to call him.”

“Tonight.”

“Ugh. Sure. I…I promise I’ll call him tonight.”

Hey, uh, this is Mu Qing, from Xiu House. I hope this isn’t a bad time. I just wanted to call and apologize for my…my behavior this morning during your visit. It was unprofessional of me and did not reflect the values of the atelier. Also…I was thinking…I would love to invite you back and have a redo of your appointment. If t-that’s fine with you. And, if you’re amenable to the idea and don’t want to switch consultants…I could help you with your design, and we can move on. Or whatever.

Though it’s late, Mu Qing is still at work, scrolling through hundreds of pages of garments and shoes in the atelier’s online inventory as he thinks about how to dress his obstinate “client.” As the hours pass, he has only felt more and more mired in the muck of styling, completely at a loss as to where he should even start.

Maybe he just needs to wipe his mind of the day’s anxieties. Speaking out loud might help to sharpen his sensibilities and get him back to a more intellectual and professional mental place. After checking to ensure his office door is locked, Mu Qing taps his phone and launches his camera app. His battery is running low, but he probably has enough juice to get through this.

“Today was shitty,” he says bluntly. His phone is resting against his computer monitor, and he doesn’t even bother to look at it as he clicks around his screen. POV: you’re a mean gay who works in fashion.

“We had a client come in today, and in the first place, I never work with clients anymore, so he should really be grateful to me. He had all the trappings of a shithead micro-celebrity: acts innocent and aw-shucks until he doesn’t get his way or someone isn’t charmed by his good ol’ boy act, and he turns into a total prick. I can’t even remember what it was we argued about, but I know it was probably stupid, and it just sucks when people make me look stupid. Especially at work. Just because they don’t understand my job doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.

“Here’s the worst part,” he says, and then he pauses for a long time. He glances down at his phone, as if finally noticing its presence. “The worst part is he’s so hot. Like, objectively, but also in a way that I just...can’t resist. And it pisses me off even more. He smells incredible, and he’s got dimples of all godforsaken things, and he’s definitely straight but doesn’t have a ring...” Mu Qing pauses again. “It’s been a long time. I don’t even think I was recording these videos the last time I saw a man. But...” Here his face goes scarlet. “But I just haven’t met someone who made me want to lock myself in a dark room and touch myself in a very long time, and…it’s the worst. God. Shit, I thought this would make me feel better, but now I’m just horny again...”

Mu Qing jams his finger against the screen to stop the recording and flings himself back in his chair. He pushes his fist against his mouth and scrunches his eyes shut as he muffles a scream into the side of his hand.

With that finally out of his system, Mu Qing trains his eyes back on his monitor. He’ll have some concepts ready by the end of the night if it kills him, dammit. Feng Xin won’t even know what to say when he sees what Mu Qing has pulled for him.

What Mu Qing doesn’t realize, however, is that in his haste to record his diary entry and then stop the recording, he mistakenly had used the in-app camera from his messaging app. And the video was sent to his most recent number. Meaning it was delivered to Feng Xin’s phone, rapidly downloading thanks to twenty-first century 5G technology. But Mu Qing, wrapped up in his work, does not realize this—nor will he, until he receives a phone call.

It’s from Feng Xin.

Chapter Text

It had all started a year ago, the business of consulting a soothsayer. The psychic, a kind-eyed man named Xie Lian, is always able to fit Feng Xin into his calendar no matter the time or day. In fact, the rundown psychic shop is empty every time Feng Xin pays him a visit, despite the row of dusty chairs in the dreary hallway that serve as a “lobby.” Not that Feng Xin ever has to wait; each time he approaches the business, whether early or late for his appointment, the front door will swing open for him. When Feng Xin enters the shop, Xie Lian has a habit of taking one of his hands in his own and giving it an affectionate squeeze.

It’s the weirdest thing—the guy can’t be older than twenty-five, yet he has the air of someone much older. With grandfatherly gentleness and patience, Xie Lian will explain what each tarot card Feng Xin pulls from his deck means. Unless he is shuffling the cards, Xie Lian never touches them himself, not even to point out specific mystical elements of their elaborate illustrations.

“Ah, the High Priestess,” Xie Lian had said during Feng Xin’s most recent visit. “I think this is the first time you’ve pulled a card so connected to the divine feminine.”

“Is that bad?” Feng Xin had said, blinking stupidly.

Xie Lian touched Feng Xin’s forearm.

“No. It’s actually a wonderful card. The answers you’re seeking, they all live inside you!”

Despite the vague fortune, Feng Xin’s brows pinched in thought. “So…are you telling me not to come back to you, then?”

Xie Lian withdrew his hand, reaching for a pair of obsidian dice he always keeps on his reading table. He has a habit of rubbing the dice throughout their sessions.

“You are always welcome to come see me,” Xie Lian said, a choked-down scrap of emotion in his voice. “Always. I will never turn you away.”

“...OK. Uh. Same time next week, then?”

Today, Feng Xin is more prepared than he’s ever been for his appointment. He’d even typed out a dozen questions in the Notes app on his phone, aware that the chances of them going over the appointment time is high, something they’d been doing more and more often lately.

Out of the blue, his brain supplies the helpful thought: I can’t fuck my psychic. He slams the door to his car far harder than he’d intended, prompting a small murder of crows to fling themselves off the ledge of a building and take flight.

Like…obviously, Xie Lian is attractive. Obviously the two of them have a spiritual connection. And obviously Xie Lian feels comfortable making time for Feng Xin, smiling softly at Feng Xin, touching Feng Xin with his ringless hand…

He’s so lost in love-dumb contemplation that he doesn’t even recognize the state of the shop until he is just outside its metal front door. The door that for the first time is not being held open by a pretty man with an affinity for white kaftans and stained jeans. Through the glass, Feng Xin can see that the space inside is dark. He tries the door; it’s unlocked.

“Hello? Xie Lian?” he calls, creeping into the hallway and almost tripping over one of those damn chairs. There’s no answer.

Scratching his head, Feng Xin lets himself into the room where Xie Lian usually does his readings. It’s small, and he never turns on the harsh fluorescent overheads, preferring to rely on candles and antique lamps to light the space and give it cozy ambiance. There’s a round wooden table draped with a shimmering fabric in the center of the room, flanked by two mismatched chairs. Though Feng Xin has never seen Xie Lian use it, there’s a crystal ball in the center of the table, which at least has the benefit of making the space look like a real fortune-telling shop and not a gang hideout.

But today, the crystal ball is lying abandoned on the floor, looking like a child’s toy. Tarot cards are scattered everywhere, and the chair where Xie Lian usually sits has been tipped over. The bland art he’d had on his walls, which Feng Xin had never given much thought, have all crashed to the ground. It’s an utter wreck.

Something red catches the corner of Feng Xin’s wide eyes. He cautiously approaches it, ignoring the roomful of other utterly destroyed things. When Feng Xin finally gets to the object, which lays in a heap on the ground, he retracts his hand as if stung by a wasp. The red thread is bright against the black setting, and he can make out some of the shapes sewn into the fabric. It may be crumbled up, but it’s unmistakably Mu Qing’s “handmade” tapestry.

He sees a missed call from Mu Qing but doesn’t bother listening to the message. With trembling fingers, he hits the call-back button.

“Hello?” Mu Qing says after a maddening six rings. “Look, about my message, I really—”

“Is this fucking funny to you?” Feng Xin blurts.

There’s silence on the other end. Mu Qing finally stammers, “I know it was unprofessional, j-just pretend it never happened. I can have my boss—”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

“Seriously, I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to worry about your stylist wanting to—”

“What did you do with my psychic!”

Another, longer silence. Then, Mu Qing’s entirely flabbergasted voice:

“I did what?”

“The tapestry is here! The one you had on the fucking wall! It’s in his shop, and he’s not here, and there’s shit everywhere.”

“OK, OK, shut up for a second. Number one, I’ve only ever gone to work today and then straight home. If you’re trying to accuse me of anything, I’ve got alibis for days. Number two, why am I not surprised you go to a psychic?”

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin sounds like he’s taken at least one or two calming breaths while he was being insulted, “you said that tapestry was one of a kind. I think you were duped, man. But I’d never seen it here before, so it still doesn’t explain—”

“It is one of a kind! I should know, I made it! You just don’t have an eye for these things, it’s probably totally different.”

They’re getting nowhere with this. Feng Xin snaps a photo of the tapestry and texts it to Mu Qing.

“Tell me what this is, then.”

Mu Qing is grumbling as he pulls the phone from his ear and goes silent as he reviews the text. Then, swiftly, his voice is back.

“Send me the address.”

While he waits for Mu Qing to arrive, Feng Xin picks through the mess, looking for any clue as to what happened here or where Xie Lian could have gone. He knows he should probably call the police and make a report, lest someone else show up and think he is the one responsible for what happened here, but something deep in his gut is telling him that getting the authorities involved would be against Xie Lian’s wishes and would poison the space and possibly jeopardize both the business and Xie Lian himself. He never got any outright “sketchy” vibes from Xie Lian…but the man certainly seemed a bit nervous at times.

“This is stupid,” he mutters to himself, finger hovering over the screen of his phone, just a small tap away from summoning people much more qualified than himself to investigate. As the minutes tick by, he settles with the knowledge that he’s making himself seem suspicious by just staying here and not asking for help from the authorities. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes.

Feng Xin turns when he hears the front door open, then is unable to contain a slight smirk when he hears Mu Qing curse as he trips over one of the chairs in the hallway.

“You better not be here to murder me or prank me for a TikTok,” Mu Qing is saying as he strides into the room, still dressed in his work clothes. He stops dead in the center, looking around at the floor with his hands in his pockets.

“Are you positive the tapestry is still back at the design house?” Feng Xin asks immediately. “Someone could have robbed you before coming here. Maybe this has to do with me.”

“Oh, a stalker, huh? You do seem like the type to have a crazy ex. I bet the entire time you dated you swept all those red flags riiiight under the rug, huh? And now she’s dragging me into it. Anyway, to answer your question, yes, I had one of the guys working overnight check the hallway.” He holds up his phone. “He sent me this picture. It’s right where it’s been for years. Let me take a look at this replica, then. I bet it’s a poor imitation. Makes sense for a place like this.”

Feng Xin wants to bite his head off for each and every rude and unprovoked comment, but he manages to swallow his anger and point to the corner.

“It’s over there. I’d never seen it before, and I’ve been here…um…more than once…”

Mu Qing laughs.

“You shouldn’t hide things from me if you want my help, you know. Tell me, how many times have you come by asking for career or love advice from someone who I’m sure is some hippie?” He walks over to the corner where the tapestry lays in a sad pile and squats, arms at once uncrossing from his chest to inspect the piece. He runs his fingers over the lace, occasionally poking his pinky through especially large lattice gaps and wiggling it around.

“Well?” Feng Xin says from where he’d crept up behind him, making Mu Qing jump from surprise. “What do you think?”

“If this is a prank, it’s not funny. Are you trying to humiliate me?”

“Huh?”

Mu Qing looks back at Feng Xin over his shoulder. His lashes look even longer and wispier from this angle.

“This design is exactly the same. And I mean identical.”

“Even the fabric?”

“That’s what’s so weird,” Mu Qing says, turning back to run a hand over the lace again. “It’s very, very close. I think there are some differences, possibly in the age of the thread, but…altogether, it’s the same design. I even recognize my personal flourishes.” He points at a tiny floral motif sewn into a discreet corner, beside a larger embroidered buck.

A few seconds go by, and then Mu Qing is yanked up by his collar. He drops the replica tapestry and whirls around to smack Feng Xin’s arm away.

“So you did just fucking call me here to assault me!”

“Stop playing stupid and tell me why Xie Lian would have this!”

“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. I’ve never heard that name in my life, never been to this place in my life, never had my fortune told, none of it!” He’s backing up now, but his eyes are full of hate as he matches Feng Xin’s glare. “You’re a goddamn lunatic. And a gullible one at that. Whoever this ‘psychic’ is, clearly they didn’t foresee being fucking broken into! You’re being scammed, yet for some reason you think it’s best to take it out on me, someone you just met five hours ago!”

“I’m calling the police,” Feng Xin says, and he makes good on his promise. Fuck being in for a pound after all. Within seconds, he has the phone up to his ear as he’s connected to an operator. “Hello? Yes, I’d like to report a break-in. The intruder is still here. Let me give you the address…”

Mu Qing’s mouth is set in a straight line as he listens. There’s a pause after Feng Xin has supplied the address to the shop, and then he turns to face Mu Qing directly.

“Yeah, he’s an Asian male in his thirties, long black hair in a ponytail, black shirt and pants,”—fuck, Mu Qing had known the combo would be too severe—“maybe 5’11?”

“Six foot,” Mu Qing corrects him. “183 centimeters if you prefer.”

Feng Xin gives him the finger. Mu Qing retaliates by drawing his patent leather Oxford back and giving the crystal ball on the floor a harsh kick, sending it flying into the hallway. There’s a loud smash, then a series of hollow clatters as the chairs hit the walls and floor.

“Look what you fucking did!” Feng Xin snaps. “Yes, I think he’s getting violent,” he says into his phone. “I’m trained in martial arts, I’m not worried…”

He gives Mu Qing a venomous glare as he stomps past him, disappearing into the hallway to presumably assess the damage.

Mu Qing blows his bangs out of his face and, now alone, finds himself biting back the sting of tears. He even tilts his head back and takes a few steadying breaths, squeezing his arms as he does so. This day could not possibly get any worse, and to top it all off, Feng Xin doesn’t seem to have listened to his mortifying voicemail…That’s the last time I’ll ever reach out to anyone again, he tells himself. I’m better off waiting for them to come to me, even if it means literally waiting for the rest of my stupid life.

Three or four minutes must go by like this when Mu Qing is made aware of how quiet it is in the space. He can’t hear anything coming from the hallway, not even breathing, and he hadn’t heard the front door open and close either. Brows furrowed, he calls out, “Feng Xin?”

There’s no answer.

“Feng Xin? You still on the fucking phone? Or did you leave me here to get SWATted or something?”

Silence.

Mu Qing feels dread wind itself inside of him, squeezing his heart, his lungs, his stomach.

“If y-you listened to my voicemail…it was a mistake, you know, just forget it even happened. I wasn’t in my right mind…”

But then there’s still no answer. Blinking, Mu Qing steps into the hallway, looking around. It’s empty. He takes a step to his right.

And then he’s falling from 20,000 feet in the air, hurtling toward the bone-breaking ground.

But there is no impact.

As if waking from one of those startling twilight dreams, Mu Qing’s entire body jerks violently, and he realizes he is sprawled on the floor.

For the moment, he forgets all about the psychic shop and all about Feng Xin, still so dazed so as to be grasping for his bearings, struggling for a thread of familiarity. Gracelessly, he rolls onto his front and climbs to his feet, shoulders hunched.

The first thing Mu Qing notices is the smell.

His feet are at once unsteady, but his slim nostrils unconsciously widen to accommodate the delectable scent of this new environment. The air is hazy with the saturation of incense, which melts into the cozy smell of resinous agarwood and the delicate aroma of steeped oolong. Upon exhaling that first, exalted breath, he tastes spiced cassia. His knees buckle.

“Is...is this a trick?” he whispers to no one.

No longer is he in the cramped, drafty hallway of a psychic shop in downtown Toronto, with crumbling drywall and bulletin board advertising garage sales. Instead, Mu Qing stands in a spacious room, with walls made from solid cypress and a floor covered with a sumptuous red rug. The ceiling stretches high above his head, exposing wide beams ornamented with exquisite carvings. As his eyes adjust to the dim light, Mu Qing notices elegant Chinese characters painted on a dozen long banners hanging from on the walls. Though the smell of the room is thick, it’s completely silent. Gone are the sounds of traffic and the clank of a heater.

The room is divine. The room is terrifying.

Once he’s recovered—somewhat—from the ice bath of shock, Mu Qing at once begins to touch, poke, pound, and claw at the smooth wall behind him, hoping a secret door will spring open and lead him back to that awful little store. But the wall is unblemished; there is no door, no window, no way back.

“OK. I must have...blacked out...? Did someone drug me...?” he wonders aloud, still feeling along the walls. On one end of the room is a set of grand double doors; on the other end, a heavy curtain dangles over an open doorway. Perhaps he stumbled through there? But he would have remembered such a thing, surely. There’s also the possibility that this could all just be a dream—but when doesn’t he have any memory of falling asleep?

When he finally gives up on scratching at the walls like an animal, Mu Qing dares to approach the curtain. But just as he reaches one careful hand out to part the richly embroidered fabric, they flap open, and his fingers jam against the forehead of…of…

…of a very bewildered-looking child.

“Jesus!” Mu Qing yelps, springing backward. The carpet is so thick and soft, his footsteps are noiseless, and he somehow manages to keep his balance.

The child doesn’t retreat, nor does he take any steps further into the room. He stares at Mu Qing with glittering black eyes, lips parting with shock. His head is entirely shaved, and he wears plain white cotton pants and a long blue tunic with a high collar. The ensemble has a rather traditional, almost historical look to it, right down to his silk slippers. Though he’s certainly old enough to speak, looking to be around eight or nine, he says nothing to Mu Qing. Instead, he stares at him—specifically at his clothes.

“Is this a joke?” Mu Qing shrieks at him. At once realizing that his tone is far too severe for a child, his voice softens. “Um. Who are you? Uh…Qui es-tu?”

The boy only looks more confused.

“So. Not Québécois. OK. Hm.”

Mu Qing tries speaking to him again, this time in somewhat broken Mandarin. The boy doesn’t reply.

Perhaps sensing Mu Qing’s frustration, the boy points at his mouth and shakes his head.

“You don’t speak?” Mu Qing says in a flat voice. The boy nods. Well, at least he understands English.

“Can you do me a favor?” Mu Qing does not wait to hear his answer. “Can you show me the way out of here? Back to the front door or the street or something?”

The boy nods, his expression still a bit bewildered. He steps aside and grabs the edge of the hanging curtain, bowing his head and motioning with his free hand. Mu Qing wastes no time in brushing past him, and he finds himself in a covered walkway, also constructed from fine oiled lumber. The cloister encloses an elegant courtyard decorated with rock formations and bright flowers. There’s even a pond, with broad, soft lotus flowers floating atop the surface.

“When did it get so warm out?” Mu Qing wonders out loud. His gaze flicks over to the boy, who has followed him out of the room like a shadow. “It almost feels like I’m not in Canada anymore.”

“That’s because you’re definitely not in Canada anymore, you wicked witch,” comes a voice from behind him. When Mu Qing spins around, he sees none other than one Feng Xin, leaning against one of the pillars of the elegant peristyle. “Mu Qing,” he continues in a serious voice. “Promise you won’t freak the fuck out when I tell you this.”

“No. Tell me anyway,” Mu Qing says. His hands are slick with sweat.

“We have been abducted by aliens. Mu Qing, this isn’t Earth.”

“…You sound insane,” Mu Qing finally says. He turns to the boy, who is still hovering near the curtain leading back to the first room. He raises an eyebrow in an imitated expression of “can you fucking believe this guy?” But the boy isn’t looking at him; he’s staring intently at Feng Xin, brows pinched. Feng Xin finally notices his presence. 

“Who the hell is that? Oh god, is he an alien?” Feng Xin’s voice drops into a still-obnoxiously loud whisper. 

“I don’t know his name, but I do know that he’s not an alien, you clown!” 

“Then how do you explain where the fuck we are?”

“Feng Xin!” Mu Qing hisses, jerking his head toward the boy, who doesn’t react to the curse at all. “You want my best guess? I think something in that seedy woo-woo shop drugged us. I think we’ve been taken to a second woo-woo location.” 

“My psychic wouldn’t do that!” 

“Whatever. Why couldn’t you just go see a therapy like a normal person?” Mu Qing counters, as if his own negative experience with mental health professionals had never happened. “Do you have your phone on you?” 

Feng Xin produces a phone with a screen so striated with cracks, it looks nearly white. 

“Battery died right after I called you,” he explains, spinning the phone between the grip of his thumb and middle finger. Well, that explains the state of his screen. “Assuming you don’t have yours either?” 

“I left it in the shop by accident,” Mu Qing groans. He looks at the boy again. “Do—you—have—a—phone? Even a landline is fine, if there’s one nearby.” 

The boy looks confused. 

“I’m telling you, he’s a fucking alien,” Feng Xin whispers, sidling up beside Mu Qing. “Their technology has gotta be more advanced than ours. I bet they just talk to each other with their minds.” 

Mu Qing shakes his head. “The room I was just in had a bunch of hanzi I recognize written on banners. So unless these are aliens who made contact with China already, I don’t think we’re in extraterrestrial custody.” He looks around the courtyard, squinting some. “Hell, this whole area looks very...uh...imperial.” 

“It’s probably an illusion—” 

“Shut up,” Mu Qing says. “We’re probably just at some kind of temple somewhere. Toronto has plenty. Let’s try to find someone else who can help.” 

The boy behind him scuffs his slipper on the ground, pouting. 

Mu Qing grabs Feng Xin by the sleeve, jerking him along and leaving the frowning boy behind. To the right side of the courtyard is a grand moon gate, perhaps eight or nine feet tall. When both men step through it, they find themselves in a smaller courtyard, this one a rock garden with enormous stones arranged to resemble a mountain range. In one corner stands a separate pillar of stone shrouded in shadow and haphazardly covered in vines. It looks as if it doesn’t belong in the rest of the tastefully designed space. 

Before them is another huge moon gate, this one with red doors. It takes both men to pull at the ornate gold handles, straining to so much as get the doors to crack open. They don’t budge. 

Mu Qing feels a tap on his shoulder. Already worried that he’s thrown his back out, Mu Qing turns to see the same boy from before, face still unreadable. He points at the door. 

“Good luck, Junior,” Mu Qing grumbles. But to his amazement, the boy pulls the door open as easily as he pulled aside the curtain from earlier, as if the door were a flap of weightless silk, not a piece of solid wood a foot and a half thick. 

“Damn,” Feng Xin exhales, his eyes wide. “Still think we’re not among aliens?” 

Mu Qing rolls his eyes. 

There’s noise from the other side of the door, and both go to peek outside, only to knock their skulls together. Mu Qing yelps and swats Feng Xin away, and the men tussle for a brief moment, smacking at each other, when a bright voice calls from below: 

“Good morning, Generals! It’s been a while!” 

Mu Qing shoves Feng Xin away, stepping into the open doorway. 

If his initial experience in the first room had shocked him, then this atmosphere has him feeling physically sick with bewilderment and awe. It’s...well, he has to admit it, as no other word will do: it’s sublime. His body reacts to the sight before his mind can possibly catch up, making his eyes prickle with tears as he takes an unintentionally deep inhale. 

Two dozen marble stairs extend below his feet, making up one of many veins that connects to the shining ivory street below, inlaid with dazzling gold. In the near distance he sees the delicate arches of several bridges, which disappear into cottony white clouds. The clouds, they’re everywhere, and Mu Qing has the insane thought that he’s somehow wandered into a movie for six-year-old girls. The sky is a pastel blue, a soft backdrop for the scarlet and obsidian spires and roofs of nearby grand buildings that fade into the hazy horizon. 

“General? What are you wearing...?” 

Mu Qing looks down. At the foot of the exquisite stairs stands a young man, smiling softly up at him. He’s dressed in elegant silver robes, a black underlayer swaying gently as he takes a single step on the staircase. He wears a red headband, pulled across his forehead, in the style of what Mu Qing knows is called mo-er. The headband matches the red tassels that hang from a silk belt pulled tight around his slim waist. Most jarring of all are the large pauldrons he wears on his shoulders, which give his silhouette an elegant V-shape. 

As with everything else in this confounding nightmare—terrifying.

“General? Hey, can you hear me?” The man takes a few more steps up the stairs. Even from a distance above this person, Mu Qing is reminded of what it felt like to wait in line for photos with Santa at a mall: staring up at a stranger in an elaborate costume, a person wrapped in mythos and power. Omnipotence occupying a sparkling-eyed vessel.

Before Mu Qing can move, another figure sweeps into view. 

“Your highness,” a woman’s voice, respectful but severe, says. “Your highness, are you speaking to General Xuan Zhen...?” 

“Yeah! Guess he’s back now!” the man—a prince, a king?—replies, turning to look at her. 

This second individual is also dressed in long, flowing robes, though these ones are dyed a soft plum. Her sterling hair is pulled into an elaborate looped style atop her elegant head. In her arms she clutches an enigmatic assortment of scrolls. When her eyes land on Mu Qing, she stumbles in surprise, and the scrolls go tumbling to the ground. 

“Oh! Let me help!” 

With both of them distracted, Mu Qing flings himself back behind the door and throws his shoulder against it. Feng Xin springs into action and moves to help, but the silent boy pushes him aside and takes the spot beside Mu Qing, closing the door as easily as he’d pulled it open just a moment ago. 

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing whispers, gulping for air, “this is weird. Those people down there...they weren’t people.” 

“Huh?” 

“I...I can’t explain it. But whatever is going on here, it sure as hell isn’t human. It’s not even close.” 

Mu Qing doesn’t dare stick around to see if the two people—not-people—from earlier ascend the stairs and try knocking on the door. He and Feng Xin flee back into the villa, which Mu Qing is realizing is much larger than he would have ever expected. It almost resembles... 

“A palace,” Feng Xin says and then whistles. He crosses his legs and gracefully plops onto a silk floor pillow, thick forearms resting on his knees. “The guy who lives here is a prince or a king. For sure.” 

“But they called me ‘general’ earlier.” 

“Maybe it’s the kind of thing where nobility are also in the military,” Feng Xin muses, scratching his chin. “And he’s off to war or something right now, which is why this place is so deserted and why they seemed so surprised to see you.” 

“But I can’t possibly look the same,” Mu Qing says, taking a seat across from Feng Xin. A beautiful lacquer table separates them. “Unless this Xuan Zhen guy also likes vintage Ralph Lauren.” 

Feng Xin’s eyes scan Mu Qing’s outfit, appraising its style and likelihood of appearing on an alien general. 

“I mean, I’m sure his clothes are stored around here somewhere. Why not—” 

“No. Absolutely not.” 

“You stick out like a sore Tim Hortons-slinging thumb right now. If we want any hope of figuring out where we are without being vaporized or having our assholes probed, we should try to blend in first.” 

“No!” Mu Qing crosses his arms across his chest, looking more like a petulant child than a thirty-year-old man. 

“Fine, if you aren’t going to at least attempt to save your own skin here, then I’ll do it for you.” 

Feng Xin rises and sets a brisk pace as he leaves the room. Mu Qing rolls his eyes and settles on trying to do some investigating of his own, starting with his immediate surroundings. 

Which are...odd, to say the least. Though everything looks to be crafted in a style evocative of the thirteenth century, each rug and wall scroll and carved furniture piece gleams with fresh splendor, as if it’d received its final coat of polish that very morning. The air is rich and fragrant with that woody, smoky scent Mu Qing had first noticed upon stepping out of Toronto and into...this. 

He leans back on his palms, letting his head loll back to stare at the intricate carvings that ornament the fine ceiling. The absent staring helps to ground him, and he takes a deep, steady breath and lets his eyes slip closed. Should he keep them open any longer, he half expects to eventually find quaint bottles with labels like “DRINK ME” and “EAT ME” sitting around, tempting him with even stranger madness. 

“You asleep?” 

Mu Qing rolls his head forward, already dressed in a glare. But his expression rapidly stretches into one of childlike amusement when he gets an eyeful of Feng Xin in his...ensemble. 

“Fine, fine,” Mu Qing says with a cruel laugh as he gets to his feet. “Where’d you find those?” 

“Those” being the frankly stunning robes pulled slapdash over Feng Xin’s sloppy street clothes. Even from a distance, Mu Qing can tell that the garments are exquisite. The wounded red and juicy black of the fabric capture him at once, and he is seized with the desire to pinch and caress the textiles. Feng Xin clearly hadn’t had a clue when putting them on; they gape open, secured only by a belt that is definitely tied incorrectly. He turns around, peeking over his shoulder with a coquettish smile. 

“They were in a huge armoire in another room. You gotta see this thing, it’s painted with—” 

The next words catch on his throat as a small door at the back of the room clicks open. 

Mu Qing’s eyes go wide as he spins around, hands groping for something he can use to cover himself. But there’s no time; he’ll have to talk his way out of why he’s wearing a pair of ankle-length slacks in this setting. Perhaps these people are like the Amish and are familiar with outsiders but just don’t typically engage with them? 

The young woman who walks in the room is herself wearing a simple black robe, accented with silver trim. A gleaming dagger dangles from her belt, which is cinched tight around her waist. Her dark hair is pulled into thick loops on each side of her delicate head, obfuscating her ears. At once struck with surprise, she takes in the scene, honey-brown eyes flicking back and forth between the Canadian intruders. 

“General Xuan Zhen—!” she rushes to say in a thin voice. “I see Ling Wen was right. Forgive me, this humble one didn’t mean to interrupt, but she is so glad to see you.” She clasps her hands and ducks her head. Feng Xin attempts to return the courtesy by bowing, but one of the robes slips off his shoulder and drapes haphazardly across his chest, the fabric collecting in the crook of his elbow. 

“And General Nan Yang. It’s…good to see you as well,” the woman continues. She can’t possibly be a day older than twenty. 

“...The p-pleasure’s all mine?” Feng Xin stammers. When the woman gives him a strange look in return, Mu Qing makes a desperate attempt to salvage the situation.

“You’ve spoken with the others, then?” he says, trying to sound casual.

“This one apologizes. It’s not befitting my station as a junior deputy. I should not have infringed on the conversations of the other senior gods.”

Mu Qing and Feng Xin both blink in tandem.

The woman goes on, “If you’ll forgive my disrespect toward the station of the Higher Court, I imagine they’ll want to question you later. I may have heard Ling Wen Zhen Jun mention something about it...” 

Mu Qing glides into character, using whatever scraps of context he can clap together into a cohesive performance. 

“You may have heard...?” 

Her face flushes. 

“My apologies, General...” she mutters. “They will send for you when they are ready to discuss your…future.”

“I see,” Mu Qing says. “Is that all?”

He knows it’s tremendously suspicious to not call her by her name, but context is enough for him to glean that the two have an important, though hierarchical, relationship.

“I hope General Xuan Zhen…knows that we all missed him,” she says, her voice flat. “Very much. Heaven hasn’t been the same without his grace and nobility.”

Feng Xin blanches, but Mu Qing is a master at keeping his heart tucked within his well-tailored sleeve (provided his sleeve is a metaphor for his various journals). That, and he’s committed to the bit.

“You’re dismissed,” he says, giving a little wave of his hand. She ducks her head once more in farewell and departs, leaving nothing but a dense silence. They don’t even hear her retreating footsteps; in fact, her entrance had also been as silent as snow.

“I suppose…you were right. I should change,” Mu Qing finally says, eyeing his companion’s robes.

“Mu Qing.” Feng Xin pauses for a long time. “We are so fucked.”

Chapter Text

“I think we’re post-fucked,” Mu Qing says, rubbing his chin between his index finger and thumb. “I get the impression we’re in heaven, or whatever these freaks think is heaven. And they seem to even revere us as deities. You heard her when she mentioned the ‘other senior gods.’ That must mean I’m also a senior god.”

“And what about me?” Feng Xin sputters.

“As much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably a senior god too. She called you ‘general’ just like she did me. Anyway, like I was saying, that armoire you mentioned—”

“Are you being so fucking serious right now? Deadass?” Feng Xin exclaims. “We need to find someone in this fucking hippie commune who has a phone and get the hell out of here! You’re over here talking about mystical organization charts, and I would like to get back to my normal fucking life!”

“I just don’t think it would hurt for us to play along a little bit, you big baby. Who knows if these people will get violent with anyone who tries to question their delusions? I just think laying low but still going along with things is the safest route right now, at least until we know more.”

Their exchange is interrupted by the appearance of the boy from earlier. He must have overheard Mu Qing’s demands for robes of his own, because in the boy’s arms is a neat stack of embroidered red silk. When Mu Qing takes the pile, the “thank you” is halfway out of his mouth when the boy is already retreating, head down.

“Jeez, did the last Xuan Zhen beat this kid or something?” Feng Xin wonders aloud.

“I think he might just be overwhelmed, seeing as he’s a servant in the house of who he thinks is a god.”

“It’ll be mighty disappointing when he finds out the truth,” Feng Xin says with a smirk. Mu Qing jerks his head, fury written across his face.

“You’re not going to tell him,” he says. “You’re not going to tell him a damn thing.”

“He’s already heard plenty of—”

“No! We need to be careful who we trust. I’ve read enough mythology to know that when gods do die, the method used to kill them usually sucks, so I’d prefer to spare myself that fate,” Mu Qing says.

“I think we’d be better off just being honest than if we lie and are immediately sniffed out as imposters.”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes, pulling the fine red robe over his shoulders. He finds ribbons sewn into the seams that allow him to tie the garment closed as he pulls on a second layer, which is a black robe made of noticeably thicker material, with wide sleeves trimmed in silver. Before he secures that layer, he pulls a long skirtlike garment up over his legs, tying it just below his ribcage. There’s still a pile of remaining fabric on the floor, and Mu Qing continues talking as he pulls on a thick red sash, cinching it at his slender waist.

“Here’s the thing—gods aren’t actually real. And if they are, they clearly aren’t omnipotent, or they’d have already found us out. You’re still in your Nikes, you dope,” he accuses, pointing at Feng Xin’s factory-made shoes. “The most insane scenario is the least likely, and even then, we’re not totally effed.” Mu Qing looks down at his robes, which fit him strangely well. He runs his fingers over the fine fabric, brows furrowing.

“You’re not actually going to try and go to that meeting she was talking about…?” Feng Xin asks, fingering the tragically lopsided belt slung low on his hips.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Mu Qing says. He squats to remove his shoes and pull on the fine leather boots that peek out from under layers of sleek fabric.

“We could sneak out. We should sneak out.”

“Not if we don’t know where we are or where we’re going. Look, chances are, we’re still in Canada and just…woke up in some weird cult. You’re jumping to conclusions.” Mu Qing gets to his feet and approaches Feng Xin, reaching toward him. Feng Xin recoils, nearly backing up into an ornately carved pillar.

“Your hanfu looks terrible. They’re really easy to get on. I have no clue how you messed up the order this bad,” Mu Qing grumbles, withdrawing his hand. “I just wanted to help you.”

“...Fine,” Feng Xin says, stretching out his arms like a child about to be wrapped in a puffy winter coat by an overbearing mother. Mu Qing starts by gathering up the sash, then peels the robe away from his body, looping it gently over his arm. Neither speaks while the careful undressing is taking place, and both sets of eyes stay firmly fixed straight ahead.

When Feng Xin is stripped to just a pair of plain cotton trousers he’d taken from the armoire, hitting just above his knee, Mu Qing is hit with a strange feeling of self-consciousness. He’s still wearing his normal clothes under the robes, after all, yet Feng Xin had replaced his outfit from head to toe. Maybe he’d just been fooling around earlier, but seeing him at least commit to putting on the entire hanfu is…something. Certainly something Mu Qing wouldn’t have expected of the loser when they’d first met just hours earlier.

Feng Xin’s skin is just on the hot side of warm, and Mu Qing barely lets his hands skim over the contours of his heavy body as he refastens the inner robe. Everywhere his eyes sweep, they swallow greedy looks at Feng Xin’s thick pecs. His light brown skin casts exquisite shadows—beneath his collarbone, in the hollow of his throat, the valley of his sternum, the ridges of his abdominals, the descent of his navel…

Mu Qing holds his breath as he smooths the robe down Feng Xin’s shoulders, ensuring the seams lay correctly so the fabric forms a neat drape. He uses the side of his hand like an iron, pressing the side of his palm against the silk. He peeks at Feng Xin’s chest one last time, sees a brown nipple in the corner of his chest. The breath, until now a hostage inside his body, flees from his hot lungs in the form of a croak.

Feng Xin, who’d been running his mouth this whole time about aliens, pauses to regard Mu Qing with a searching look. 

“Are you feeling sick or something?”

Mu Qing pulls the other side of the robe across Feng Xin’s chest (tragically bidding that skin adieu within his sex-soaked mind), his fingers sweat-sticky as he secures it in place.

“Allergies,” he lies. “Must be the incense.”

“Ah, I get it. I’m allergic to shellfish myself. Sucks to be allergic to something in so much Chinese cuisine, so I have to be pretty careful when I eat out.”

Thoughts of Feng Xin’s wet mouth are a plague on his consciousness. With an absent nod, Mu Qing finally tightens the sash around Feng Xin’s waist. The redressing process is mercifully done, but the moment Mu Qing withdraws his hands, he’s sorry it’s over so soon. Feng Xin rolls his head on his broad shoulders, stretching his neck.

“Thanks for the help. Though next time, maybe tell me how I can do it myself…?”

“Next time,” Mu Qing repeats in a flat voice. “If we live that long, sure.” He smirks when the comment makes Feng Xin’s expression twist with fear.

To the relief of both Mu Qing and Feng Xin, the silent servant boy reappears with a food-laden tray in his steady hands. The moment both men see the pillowy baos, stuffed with seasoned mushrooms, they descend upon the poor servant. This is certainly heaven after all, for a bao to be that sweet and fluffy on the outside and so delightfully flavorful on the inside. Despite his usual disdain for the behavior, Mu Qing licks his fingers, searching for even a lingering morsel of the taste.

“That was so fucking good—hey, where’d you go?” Feng Xin whirls around, searching for the servant, but he’s slipped out of sight, back into the scarlet abyss of the enormous palace.

“I don’t think he has a name,” Mu Qing says. “We ought to call him something, don’t you think? Maybe I can ask someone if he—”

“You idiot, that’d be suspicious as fuck!” Feng Xin snaps.

They bicker about what is and is not suspicious behavior when there’s a firm knock on the door. Assuming it’s the servant boy again, Mu Qing calls out to him.

“Perfect timing. Please tell my braindead companion that we are not naming you ‘Ironcalf.’”

“Uh, my D&D group loved that name.”

But it’s not the servant who slides the door open. The silver-haired woman from outside the palace stands motionless before the threshold, not even taking a step inside the room. Her purple robes are even more stunning up close, Mu Qin realizes, studying the fall of the fabric and the way her sleeves hang just so. Her eyes are dark blue, half-lidded and almost sunken in her otherwise delicate face. She looks like the women Mu Qing sees in skin care commercials who somehow manage to be airbrushed in motion.

“Generals,” she says as they stare at her, “it’s been a long time. I trust you are both well?”

“Um—” Feng Xin starts, but Mu Qing interrupts.

“Very much so, madam,” he says, praying that the address is sufficiently formal. Were she anyone of significantly higher status than himself—er, than of whatever god he’s supposed to be—Mu Qing figures she probably wouldn’t trouble herself to come to his home.

“General Nan Yang, I’m glad I caught you here as well,” she says, though the cool water of her voice does not betray anything resembling gladness. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you at General Xuan Zhen’s palace.”

“Well, the food here is just so damn good, you see—”

“What’s the occasion for this visit?” Mu Qing interrupts again.

“As you might imagine, the Heavenly Court needs to discuss your return and your futures here in the Heavenly Realm. Seeing as how none of us was informed that the two of you would be back…”

“Well, you know how plans change!” Feng Xin squeaks, tucking his hands into his now properly arranged robes.

The woman raises a dark, delicate eyebrow. Mu Qing feels his ears go hot.

“As you were saying…?”

“The Court would like to see you, and as such, I’ve been sent to escort you at the request of the other members of the Upper Court. I trust the two of you can have your deputies continue to handle your duties in your absence? They’ve done well these past few decades.”

“That should be fine,” Mu Qing agrees, knowing less about what he’s agreeing to than if he were signing the terms and conditions of a social media account. He and Feng Xin exchange a panicked look as the woman turns, her elegant purple robes fluttering as they skim the floor. Her gait is more of a glide than it is a walk, more graceful than any model or ballerina Mu Qing has ever seen (and in his line of work, he’s met several). Perhaps this cult is the kind with a physical element or a martial art that imposes poise upon its abused members.

They pass the servant boy one last time, and he lifts his head to give the pair a small smile. Feng Xin smiles back, but Mu Qing steels his expression and focuses on trying to match the woman’s pace. Luckily, he’s always had impeccable posture, which will hopefully be enough to help him blend in among the other…“deities.” The attempt to remain smooth and unbothered is not helped by Feng Xin, who scurries up next to him as they descend the front steps of the palace.

“Do you think this is a Synanon thing?” he whispers. “Are we going to get screamed at?”

“Probably,” Mu Qing says, his face unchanged as Feng Xin stumbles. “Making up for what you clearly didn’t get as a child.” 

For the next fifteen minutes, their escort leads them down what Mu Qing can only describe as a Boulevard of the Sublime. They traverse arched bridges made of gold, which hover above water so clear it almost resembles air, were it not for the kaleidoscope of fish that flicker by like fireflies. They are flanked at all times by majestic buildings, all made from polished wood and marble, with xieshan roofs plated with glimmering shingles so sleek and brilliant they resemble dragon hides. The smell of incense never fades, though it is occasionally interrupted by the scents of delicate perfumes as other beautiful people pass them by.

“Good morning, your highness,” their escort says to a woman with elaborately styled silver hair and gigantic gold earrings.

“Good morning, Ling Wen,” the woman answers politely. It takes a moment for Mu Qing to realize the woman is floating on a sword suspended in the air, as if it were a skateboard frozen mid-stunt. She turns to Mu Qing and Feng Xin, gripping her hands and ducking her head in greeting.

“Generals.”

“Your highness,” Mu Qing answers, mirroring her pose. It does the trick; she smiles and floats away.

Though the walk down what they will eventually learn is called the Grand Avenue has been breathtaking, nothing prepares them for the splendor of the Palace of Divine Might (not even the four thousand fuckin’ stairs they have to climb, as Feng Xin puts it). The pillars outside the structure are so tall, they disappear into the clouds. To Mu Qing's relief, the gargantuan front door is already ajar, stretching probably sixty feet in length but allowing for a gap of perhaps a single meter. At no point has Ling Wen turned to ensure the “generals” are following her. There's something chilling about her attitude of unaffected certainty.

The great hall almost appears empty, though there are perhaps thirty people talking quietly in the center of the cartoonishly huge room, easily at least fifty meters in length and twenty meters tall. The size is almost suspiciously big, at least to Feng Xin.

“Fe-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of a Can-a-di-an,” he says just loud enough for Mu Qing to hear. Mu Qing glares at him and mouths for him to cut it out.

“Whoa, they really are back,” someone says, and at once all the people gathered stop talking. They are dressed in robes and armor of various colors and fabrics, but all look both beautiful and terrifying. Each wears an expression of shock upon seeing the “generals” enter—except for one man, Mu Qing notices, who wears a frown.

“We are glad to be back,” Mu Qing says in an even voice. “I trust you all are well.”

There's a murmur in the crowd. Ling Wen clears her throat from beside them.

“You of course aren’t aware,” she begins, “of His Highness Xianle’s disappearance.”

When neither general reacts, she continues, “And Crimson Rain doesn't seem to know his whereabouts either. Or, if he does know those whereabouts or any helpful clues, he won't share them with us.”

“Can't we force him to talk?” Feng Xin asks, putting all his eggs in the improv-comedy theory of Yes, and...

“Our only connection to Crimson Rain apart from His Highness is General Qi Ying.” She turns to glare at a man standing apart from the rest of the group. His hair is a pile of curls wrangled into a ponytail, fluffy bangs nearly obscuring his unfocused eyes. Whoever he is, he's certainly not paying attention to a damn thing happening right now.

Feng Xin nods and says, “Ah. Understood.” (He does not understand.)

“We are getting away from ourselves,” a new voice interjects. “We're here to discuss the mysterious reappearance of Generals Nan Yang and Xuan Zhen, are we not?”

Mu Qing observes the person who just spoke, clocking that it's the man who had been frowning when they'd first entered. He is exceptionally handsome, with sleek black hair adorned with a few slim braids. He wears bone-colored robes accented with lavender lining.

“Considering the circumstances of their abrupt departure, I'm surprised to see them back so soon,” he says in maddeningly vague language.

“I'm sure it has something to do with His Highness’s recent disappearance,” another person interjects. “Perhaps they killed him…?”

“Generals Xuan Zhen and Nan Yang are many things, but godslayers they are not,” a broad-shouldered man says. He peers at the two of them with deep purple eyes, chin pinched between his gloved thumb and index finger. “Besides, their time away has done nothing to assuage the situation in the south.”

“We've had many years to reassign those areas. I can't even blame the generals’ poor deputies, who have truly been burdened with an unfair and hastily delegated responsibility,” the frowning man says.

“Ke Zhizhong, the very proof that reassigning the south would be a bad idea is standing in this room right now,” the broad-shouldered man says. There’s some grumbling, and he continues, “This is not a democracy. You all want mob rule? Join Crimson Rain down in hell.”

As the argument gathers more strength, winding through the room, the terrified Feng Xin and Mu Qing remain quiet. Beside them, Ling Wen flicks her wrist, instantly conjuring—as if by magic—a brush and a stone tablet, parchment spread across its front. She takes elegant notes, her characters as neat and tidy as her smart robes. The sight is almost comical; she looks like a Song dynasty secretary, clipboard gripped in slim typist’s hands as the company board argues over the Q4 bonus structure.

Finally, after several moments of swirling quarreling, Ling Wen speaks above the noise.

“With the generals returned, regardless of their circumstances, they can assume their authority over the southern regions once more. With their deputies free to assist with the duties here in the Heavenly Realm, many of you will see your schedules relax somewhat. Perhaps that time can be allocated to searching for His Highness.”

“I think that's a fine idea,” the broad-shouldered man says, crossing his arms over his chest. He gives her a charming, dimpled smile. He is evenly matched with Ke Zhizhong in handsomeness.

There's a beat of silence, and Mu Qing realizes that everyone gathered is staring at him, expecting him to speak.

“Of course,” he finally says, forcing himself to sound like he knows what the fuck is happening. Among the people present, no one really has an atmosphere of being…twenty-first centarian. When he doesn't continue, his mouth gaping like a carp’s, Ling Wen clears her throat. (What could tickle the windpipe of a god, anyway, he thinks. Angel dust?)

“Both generals are likely very low in spiritual energy right now and would probably appreciate some time to cultivate in solitude before returning to their duties.”

“Their worshippers have been suffering for a long time now,” someone beside Ke Zhizhong says. 

“I assure you, our, uh, cultivation will be quite expedient,” Feng Xin says, speaking so fast that Mu Qing can hardly understand him. The people gathered all look uneasy, glancing from Ke Zhizhong, whose face remains placid, to Fen Xin, who is praying to whatever god does exist that he will one day find this all hilarious. Maybe he’ll sell the story to a few of his contacts at Netflix; people love cult documentaries, right?

“In that case, perhaps Ling Wen can begin to meter out assignments to the returned generals,” Ke Zhizhong says, glancing at Ling Wen.

“I think that would be unwise,” the broad-shouldered man says, shaking his handsome head. “We haven’t investigated the circumstances of their homecoming, nor do we know if His Highness has given his blessing for it. It’s possible they’ve been cursed or unwittingly roped into a situation that benefits unsavory enemies of Heaven.” He jerks his head in their direction. “Besides, just look at them. They look a mess. No matter the reason for their return, they need to replenish their spiritual energy. In the meantime, I can offer my assistance as their deputies hand off some of the more pressing prayers and hauntings. How does that sound, gentlemen?”

All eyes are back on the strangers from Canada.

“You have our thanks,” Mu Qing says, nodding his head to show respect to the broad-shouldered man. “Your help is much appreciated. But perhaps we can discuss it at a later time?”

He receives a wolfish grin in return.

“I can tell the general is tired. Why else would he be acting so nice toward me and accepting an offer of help?” he teases.

Ling Wen says, “Or perhaps His Highness was right all along.” Then she turns to the rest of the people gathered, each person more dignified and graceful than the last. They look as though they were attending a historical gala, a noble class gathered for a coronation or a wedding, not a thirty-minute check-in meeting with their immortal manager.

“That is all,” Ling Wen says, flicking her sleeves again. “Remember those of you assigned to the Qinuan River mission are to report to General Ming Guang tomorrow.”

“Bring any spiritual weapons you think would give you an advantage in the water,” the broad-shouldered man, who must be Ming Guang, says. He’s already turned around and is strolling toward the giant doors at the front of the chamber. “Shi Wudu left his armory behind if anyone is in need. It’d be an appropriate way to honor the dead.”

The walk back to the palace of Xuan Zhen is silent, save for the click of their shoes against the holy ground of…wherever this cluster of elaborate temples and palaces is. The mothership? Feng Xin periodically looks back at Mu Qing, searching for even the barest flicker of emotion on his well-formed face. But the one they call Xuan Zhen is quiet and by all appearances, unbothered.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin begins once they’re inside, “we have to get out of here, and I don’t think any of the freaks back there make the cut as ‘allies.’ This has got to be some kind of collective mental illness, one of those delusions by association or something. I say we pick a direction and start walking. The weather here is perfect, I’m sure—”

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing says, interrupting his babbling. “What time is it?”

“Hell if I know. I haven’t seen any clocks anywhere. Maybe it’s part of this weird…ancient era cosplay…”

“How long would you say we’ve been here?”

“A few hours, maybe. Why?”

Mu Qing’s expression remains unreadable. 

“The temperature hasn’t changed at all. There’s light, and I’ve seen the sun and felt the wind, but it feels…perfect here.”

Feng Xin shrugs, saying, “I’ve been to LA. It’s similar there—sunny and warm for a lot of the year. Maybe that’s where we are? Oh god, what if this is a fucked-up reality show? I can’t believe I got tricked in this again.”

Mu Qing pinches his pointed chin and tugs at the hem of his silk robes with his free hand as he thinks.

“We need more information,” he says. “I don’t think planning an escape is going to do us much good if we don’t even know where we are.”

“At least everyone here speaks English,” Feng Xin moans. “I was half-expecting them to start throwing down some Ancient Chinese.”

“That is odd,” Mu Qing says. “Why go through the effort of constructing this huge ‘theme park’ without hiring or recruiting people who at least speak Mandarin? It feels less immersive.”

“Well I for one feel quite fuckin’ immersed,” Feng Xin squawks. “I’m sure some freaks who love those haunted houses where you go in totally alone and are terrorized for ten minutes straight will absolutely love this place!”

“The Ming Guang guy seems to throw his weight around a lot,” Mu Qing says, as if speaking to no one in particular. “He’s probably our best bet to learn where we are. Maybe he’ll even help us, when he sees there’s nothing we can possibly offer this…commune…”

Feng Xin is shaking his head before his companion has even finished his thought.

“No way. We should just leave on foot, tonight, and see if we can find a highway.”

“Feng Xin, have you heard any planes overhead?”

Feng Xin is silent, his tan face draining of a bit of color at the underlying implication of Mu Qing’s question. That they are far beyond the reaches of any technology they had, until this very day, taken entirely for granted in the scope of their mundane lives.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he finally says, his eyes so wide, they look like ink blots on a white page.

Mu Qing snaps. He reaches out to grab Feng Xin’s sleeve, which he tugs with fury.

“You’re the one being reckless! Talking about leaving tonight with no food, no plan?”

“At least I’m not trying to pretend to be a fucking make-believe tooth fairy or whatever the fuck it is they have going on here in this lunatic—”

The door to the chamber slides open. Both men go quiet and still as the servant boy from earlier enters, a lacquered tray in his steady hands. Upon the tray are two tall piles of meat buns, still steaming. The smell is unspeakably delicious. He’d also crowded a large jar and two jade cups on the tray, gleaming in the low light of the luxurious room.

Their argument forgotten, Mu Qing and Feng Xin swoop toward the tray the moment the boy has set it down, barely remembering to thank him before they are biting into the buns, flavor exploding in their mouths. They wash the food down with what turns out to be rice wine, which has a pleasant sweetness to it that neither has encountered in even the swankiest restaurants in Toronto (not that they frequent the same places; Mu Qing will always prefer to cook from home, while Feng Xin is a cheap takeout fiend).

Night falls quickly, but the air is still as pleasant and warm as during the height of the day. Mu Qing shifts uncomfortably, setting down his third or fourth cup of wine.

“You gotta piss.”

Mu Qing is too drunk to deny it.

“What do we do?”

Ten minutes later, the drunk duo stumble into a large room tiled with dark stone, lit by a few warm lanterns that hover over an enormous bath. The tub is miraculously full of not only steaming water but also flower petals. They drift over the surface of the bath, filling the humid room with the scent of jasmine. There is no corner of this palace that isn’t the best-smelling thing Mu Qing has ever experienced. He wonders if he and Feng Xin smell bad to the other inhabitants of this luxurious and strange city—perhaps their scent had already given them away. Perhaps they’ll be killed and cooked in a pot of boiling water not unlike the deep tub in front of him.

“Hey. Hey, I found the uh. Toilets?” Feng Xin calls to him from beyond the room, down a short hallway. “I’m taking a big risk here but am just going to assume a hole in the stone bench here can only mean one thing…”

They were left alone the next day. And the day after that, and the day after that, too.

The servant boy, whom Mu Qing had begun to call Shui Shu, owing to his habit of quietly navigating the palace and sneaking up on him, continues to supply them with food. Each day they both dress in the fine robes they found in the palace, which fit Mu Qing perfectly, though Feng Xin’s robes are the slightest bit tight across the chest and shoulders. Shui Shu notices; three days after arriving, Feng Xin finds a pile of new robes left at the foot of his bed one morning. These ones fit far better and are a slightly different style than the robes he’d been wearing. His new robes are lined with rich golds and sumptuous dark blues, rather than the black and red he’d been wearing. They smell different too—woodier, like a carpenter’s.

Feng Xin finds Mu Qing in one of the palace’s many elaborate chambers. He’s examining jewelry that he’s spread around where he’s sitting cross-legged on a dark blue rug embroidered with long-necked birds, wings spread.

“Weren’t you doing the same thing yesterday? But with shoes?” Feng Xin asks, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall.

“I’m looking for clues. Signs. Anything.”

“Jinkies.”

“For someone so desperate to get the hell out of here, you don’t seem all that motivated to figure out how.”

“Oh, I know how,” Feng Xin spits. “I’m just waiting for you to come around, which you eventually will.”

Mu Qing sets down the ruby earrings he’d been examining, sighing.

“If you’re so fucking convinced, why not just leave? I’m not going to do anything drastic like run away unless I absolutely have to.”

“So you want to pretend to be a god around a bunch of crazy people?”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes.

“It’s not that hard, Feng Xin. We’re out of our spiritual powers or HP or something, so it stands to reason we can’t do god stuff just yet. In the meantime, I want to figure out how Xuan Zhen got ahold of these pieces.” He holds up the earrings, staring at the gems with a reverent expression. “The craftsmanship is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“I’m so over this shit. Your greed is gonna get us both killed.” Feng Xin turns on his heel, stomping away. “I’m outta here. I’ll tell the police where you are, but try to stay alive ’til then.”

“Bye-bye,” Mu Qing spits. Feng Xin has had this same temper tantrum every day since their arrival.

Less than five minutes after Feng Xin’s left, Shui Shu appears, holding a letter. He presses it into Mu Qing’s hand, eyes fixed on the floor, as usual. The wax seal is still warm.

The letter—also written cleanly in English—is an invitation.

General,

I miss your sour face. Join me in my palace for tea this afternoon? I’m eager to catch up. If you accept, I’ll send along an escort in two hours’ time.

General Ming Guang

Mu Qing fumbles for something to write with—surely there are brushes and inkwells around here? He’s sure he’s seen some…

“Do you have something I can write with?” Mu Qing asks Shui Shu, miming the act of painting with a brush. Shui Shu looks thoughtful for a moment, then slowly shakes his head.

Left with no other option, Mu Qing digs a ballpoint pen out of the pocket of the slacks he’d arrived in, currently folded neatly in a pile in the room he’s slept in for the past two nights. The pen skips some on the paper, and its ink is an ugly grayish blue, but at least the feeling of the instrument in his hand is familiar.

Yes. Thank you.

Mu Qing does not sign the letter, to say nothing of sealing it with wax. He merely hands it back to Shui Shu, with instructions to deliver it to Ming Guang, wherever he may be. Hopefully this curt style of reply is in-character for whichever god’s—or devil’s—skin he is trying to wear.

Chapter Text

“General. You look wonderful,” Ming Guang says, drinking in the sight of Mu Qing. Today, the imposter has opted for an all-black ensemble, all the way to the obsidian sticks he wears in his equally black hair. Black is the safest color, right? And his palace-turned-hiding place is full of fetching black garments.

“I must admit,” Ming Guang continues, “I’m a little surprised to not see General Nan Yang with you.”

“He took a walk,” Mu Qing says, not altogether lying.

“Ah. Another spat? Perhaps things haven’t changed between the two of you after all.”

“He can be hard to be around. For me.”

“I don’t doubt that. Here, the water is ready.”

Ming Guang pours a delicate trickle of steaming water into the cup placed before his guest. The tea Shui Shu serves is sweet and light, but this tea, judging from the strong smell alone, is full-bodied and crackling with spice. Mu Qing takes a kitten-sip.

Everything about Ming Guang palace is decadent, from the layers of plush carpet to the tapestries hanging from a black ceiling bordered with equally intricate fretwork. Each tapestry features at least one unique kind of bloodshed and suffering, usually in the form of great battles, the embroidered warriors still fierce and bloodthirsty with red-thread eyes. Mu Qing couldn’t say if the palace is bigger than his own just yet, especially since he figures he’s really only explored the main floors and has yet to enter the cellars. But the luxury of Ming Guang palace also carries an air of danger; behind the general of the North is a massive display of swords, stacked neatly on the wall. The longest blade must be close to twelve feet.

“I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but I’d like to cut to the chase here, General,” Ming Guang says around a sigh.

Mu Qing’s back is ramrod straight. He starts to feel the blood rush in his ears, ears that will never have the opportunity to hear Feng Xin chant “I told you so!” because they’ll be too busy being cut off and eaten by these crazy—

“General? Is the tea too hot?”

“Hm?” Mu Qing’s eyes refocus, and he realizes Ming Guang is peering at him with suspicion. His hand is so large, it covers most of the side of the cup when he brings it to his lips for a drink.

“Perhaps the general would…prefer a different flavor?” Ming Guang says in a soft tone.

Willing himself to stay calm, Mu Qing nods.

“Ah…mn. Afraid so. I prefer something with a milder taste. And perhaps a touch of honey or fruit.”

“Not a problem. I suppose with your spiritual power running so low, you’re extra…sensitive. Am I correct?” His dark purple eyes flash.

“I really am just thirsty.” Mu Qing is surely sweating through his robes. His voice trembles, and he narrows his focus to pronouncing his words, pleading with his tongue to cooperate. Anxiety that switches around moving targets is sometimes easier to deal with than a single fixation on what is sure to be his doom. Especially doom that could have been avoided if he’d only listened to that insufferable meathead.

“I prefer all kinds of tea,” Ming Guang says. He rises from the table to retrieve more tea, this flavor housed in a wooden horse. “Variety is good for a god, don’t you agree?”

Mu Qing knows that if he stays here, he is going to die. Ming Guang is playing with his food at this point.

“I really should be going…in case General Nan Yang returns….”

“Ah, that’s precisely what I wanted to ask you. Clever boy,” Ming Guang says, returning to the table. He pours him a new cup of tea, this one sweeter than the last. It does, in fact, suit Mu Qing’s taste.

After a beat of uncomfortable silence, during which Mu Qing is attempting to take the slowest sip of tea that is humanly possible, Ming Guang sighs.

“I’m not your enemy, you know. Look at what happened with Xie Lian and Crimson Rain. I always supported them, despite Crimson Rain’s reputation.”

Xie Lian? Where has he heard that name before?

“I’m sorry, I just…have a lot on my mind.” Mu Qing grasps at whatever he can, like he’s a tenth-grader forced to participate in class discussion for a book he hasn’t read. “What with the upcoming missions, and what Ke Zhizhong said the other day…”

Ming Guang nods, closing his eyes.

“I suppose you’ve noticed his curious surge of influence in the court,” he says in a tone that suggests this piece of information isn’t one that he’s thrilled about. “I understand your anxiety, but once you and Nan Yang are up to speed on things, I have no doubt that the two of you will push him out of the spotlight and go back to how things were before.” He gives Mu Qing a searching look. “Unless, of course, you don’t want things to return to how they were before…?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Mu Qing for once answers honestly. He’s shocked when a hand, wrapped in calfskin gloves, reaches for his face and cups his warm cheek. It could be tender, sinister, or…some unspeakable third thing.

“I think I understand why Xie Lian ended this whole debacle so far ahead of schedule. He is a wonderful god but can be a touch naive, as I’m sure you know. But surely now he understands, as someone who also dual-cultivates himself…”

Ming Guang must interpret Mu Qing’s blank stare as a tough intimidation tactic rather than as animalistic leg-chewing born of desperate confusion. He rises to the challenge.

“I assume that’s why you were so insistent at the meeting that you could recover your spiritual powers so quickly? Not that you’ve explained how you lost them in the first place, though I certainly have my own theories. But I assume you intend to rectify this deficiency by dual cultivating with Nan Yang?”

Mu Qing may not know what the fuck is going on, but he clings to every context clue like a cat clings to furniture.

“I want as little to do with Nan Yang as possible.”

“Interesting, seeing as he’s been at your palace for three entire days. Did someone topple his own palace again?”

Mu Qing quirks a brow.

“That letter came to me the second Fen—Nan Yang left. Were you waiting the whole three days so your letter would find me alone?”

Ming Guang smiles around his teacup.

“Caught me,” he says.

Feng Xin has walked in the same direction for twenty minutes, skittering past three or four magnificent palaces, when he decides to try to take a stealthier approach to his short-sighted escape. The palaces lining the boulevard are all surrounded by tall gates, usually fashioned in sunny gold or coated in a cherry red lacquer. These gates appear merely decorative, as they all remain wide open, leading to elegant bridges or steep marble stairs. Some of these temples must have several layers of gates and bridges, to say nothing of the labyrinthine gardens that sprawl across the vast perimeters. Each “block” of the street is more or less a villa all on its own. Feng Xin half expects to see a Rolls-Royce Phantom turn around the corner, liquid black against the creamy white stone of the street. After a quick glance around, Feng Xin ducks through one of the majestic gates and continues his journey behind a looming wall. With eight feet of stone between him and the street, there’s no way the freaks who live here can find him.

“General?”

The freaks who live here should not, it turns out, be underestimated.

His first instinct is to run, but there’s no telling if anyone here is armed. Instead, Feng Xin turns to face the woman who must have silently materialized behind him. He’s startled to see a familiar face.

The junior deputy whom they’d encountered their first day in Xuan Zhen’s palace stands there. Thanks to some careful eavesdropping just inside the palace gates one day, Feng Xin had learned her name—Pan Yawen. She had been discussing the distribution of merit credits with another junior god, a topic as accessible to Feng Xin as the specifics of pig feed.

Pan Yawen blinks at him, expectant. But when the senior general says nothing, she mercifully greets him again.

“General Nan Yang.”

“...Yes?” he replies stupidly.

“I don’t mean to pry, but…” She inclines her head to the side in the direction of the palace towering over them both. It’s one of the tallest Feng Xin has seen, built of a deep blue stone marbled with gold, making it look like a gargantuan slab of lapis lazuli. “Is there a reason why you’re in the garden of Shi Wudu’s palace?”

“Oh, my mistake. Perhaps apologize to him for me if you see him? I just stopped to, uh, collect my thoughts.”

Pan Yawen gives him a blank stare.

Fidgeting with his plated gloves, Feng Xin swallows.

“You…how do you not know?” she asks, her face devoid of emotion.

Intuiting that the situation could very well veer south, Feng Xin exhales quickly.

“Look, my memory has been kind of bad lately. Maybe I hit my head on something? I just wanted to take a walk to, um…”

“Maybe it happened while you were already gone,” Pan Yawen says aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. “I suppose you could ask Ling Wen if you need specifics of the timeline, but since the two of them were so close, perhaps…”

Feng Xin is rapidly flinging puzzle pieces together in his mind as she talks. This is all like some horrible escape room.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble Ling Wen, and it seems like she already has so much on her plate right now…” (This is one of the easiest lines Feng Xin has ever learned when it comes to social situations, especially when people want to discuss a career you barely understand. Make vague allusions to how busy and stressed they must be. No one will ever refute that statement.)

“You really don’t know, huh?” Pan Yawen’s wide, pretty eyes seem genuinely surprised, not suspicious. Feng Xin wills himself to relax.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says with a lame half-laugh. Hopefully learning the lore of this weird town will only add more flavor to the story when he sells it to Netflix. “Uh, how did you happen to know I was here, by the way…?”

“Oh! There’s a rotation of deputies who care for the Water Master palace,” she says. “Given the circumstances, we have to be extra vigilant and ensure none of his possessions contain any cursed energy or house secret remnants of his spirit.”

“Makes sense,” Feng Xin says. Nothing has ever made less sense to him in his nearly thirty years of life.

Pan Yawen’s eyes flick back to the palace, and she sighs. “The details of what happened are mysterious even to me, though I know that his highness Xianle was present for much of the event. It’s certainly a big deal when someone kills a god, after all. I don’t think anyone except a ghost king like He Xuan could have done it. He lopped his head clean off his shoulders.”

OK, great, so this cult’s murder count is at least above zero. Great news for the Netflix audience, bad news for Feng Xin.

“So…why did He Xuan kill him?”

“Shi Wudu swapped his brother’s fate with He Xuan, taking advantage of their shared birthday. He Xuan should have ascended to godhood and joined you and I here in heaven, but instead he suffered a life of misery and died a terrible death. Madam Wind Master—I’m sure you know her—ascended only because of this deception. Her brother was essentially a liar, and it turned her into a false god. Naturally, when all this was discovered and Shi Wudu was executed by He Xuan in an act of revenge, the Wind Master’s godhood was stripped away. In case you were wondering why you haven’t seen him around—or her, as I know some people only knew his female form.”

“So…for being a victim of a lie that wasn’t her fault, she was made mortal again…?”

Pan Yawen frowns, eyebrows squeezing together in an expression of pity.

“Not just that. He also was cursed to live with the bad fate that should have plagued his human life to begin with. I haven’t heard anything about him in years, so I imagine he died in poverty down in the mortal realm at some point.”

“I see.”

“The Wind Master palace was empty for a while too. And who knows when we’ll replace the Earth or Water Master…” Pan Yawen shakes her head. “What he did was wrong, but it’s always a shame when someone who is good at their job is forced to leave for…personal reasons.”

Her brother was essentially a liar, and it turned her into a false god.

Feng Xin tucks both hands behind his back and forces himself to smile.

“I appreciate being caught up to speed. However, I think I need to, um, go—”

“Is the general staying with Xuan Zhen permanently now?” Pan Yawen blurts. Her face instantly tinges with red when she says it.

“...He and I have had, we’ve had, uh, much to discuss lately.”

“I don’t mean to pry.” Pan Yawen ducks her head. “But your deputies have heard of your return and have started asking after you, wondering why you haven’t returned to your palace.”

“My…palace…” Feng Xin mutters, eyes wide.

“Is there…any message I should relay to them? They’ve told me they can’t reach you via communication array. I haven’t been able to reach General Xuan Zhen in the array either…I assume your spiritual energy is still quite low, but the lack of progress in healing both your cultivations is…concerning me.”

“As I said, I’m still recovering from an injury,” Feng Xin says, pointing at the side of his head. “We need a little more time.”

He lopped his head clean off his shoulders.

“Especially Mu Qing. Er, I mean Xuan Zhen. He needs a lot of time to recover too. Maybe even more. You know how stubborn he can be.”

Pan Yawen smiles, though there’s still a hint of uncertainty in her expression.

“Speak of the devil—I mean, the god—I should really go back and check on him. How long are you guarding this place, anyway?”

“I swap with one of Ke Zhizhong’s deputies in about a week.”

“Well, uh. Keep up the good work. I’ll tell Xuan Zhen you said hi. And that you’re concerned. About his head and all. Nice talking to you, Pan Yawen!”

Feng Xin slips around her, casually jogging back down to the main avenue. He does not turn around to see Pan Yawen’s confused expression, nor does he continue in the direction he’d been originally walking to make his “escape.” Instead, Feng Xin perfectly traces his steps back to the palace of General Xuan Zhen, where he finds it completely empty—not even the servant boy Shui Shi is there to see Feng Xin enter and begin tearing the luxurious palace apart. 

Feng Xin is waiting for him at the front gates of the palace, his hair down and messy, as though he’d been running his hands through it. Mu Qing has barely even formed a tease on his tongue before he’s being grabbed by his large sleeve and yanked inside, thick doors booming behind him as Feng Xin throws his weight.

“Slow down, freak. What’s got you so worked up?”

Feng Xin motions with his head toward another room, lit from within by candles and warm lanterns. It reminds Mu Qing of Lunar New Year. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Change your mind about leaving?”

“Mu Qing, if you knew how much danger we’re in right now, you wouldn’t be smirking like that.”

In response, Mu Qing clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, taking his time as he follows Feng Xin into the formal parlor.  He notices the room is windowless just as Feng Xin smacks the moon-shaped doors shut behind him.

“You don’t have to act like such a—”

“If they find out we aren’t gods, they’re going to kill us, Mu Qing.”

Mu Qing’s fair face remains neutral. He strides over to a sofa and sits down, crossing his legs and swishing a pointed-toe boot.

“And I presume you prevented that from happening? From their finding out?” He reaches toward a crystal bowl filled with candied fruits, shiny with hard sugar. Feng Xin lunges for him and swats the morsel out from between his fingers.

“You’ve got to stop eating the shit here. We can’t risk being drugged.”

“Well then we’re already drugged,” Mu Qing says, rolling his eyes again. “Besides, I’ve been keeping notes since we got here. Nothing I wrote a few days ago is all that different in attitude from what I’m going to write today, which will involve my visit to Ming Guang palace—”

“The northern general guy? With all the fancy armor?” Feng Xin interrupts, honey-brown eyes going wide with disbelief, which then shifts to hurt as his brows pinch. “You went to someone else’s palace and didn’t fucking tell me? Much less ask me along? What if you’d been hurt?”

“Oh? And what if I’d been body-snatched? What if I’m actually a puppet being controlled by someone else, sent here to murder you and steal your Playstation?” Mu Qing leans back on the sofa, chin tilted up in defiance.

Feng Xin doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he sighs, lowering himself into a seat opposite Mu Qing. Under his companion’s narrowed, withering gaze, Feng Xin summarizes his conversation with Pan Yawen. To his surprise, Mu Qing does not interrupt him, even when he takes long pauses to reorient himself and his thoughts. At some point, a gong sounds somewhere in the distance and they both freeze, holding their breaths for a long moment before the panic passes. Even so, Feng Xin takes a brief break in telling his story to return to the front door and ensure that it’s shut tight and secure with a wooden bar lock thicker than Feng Xin’s arm. When he returns, Mu Qing looks up at him, just as he pushes a piece of yellow candy past his pink lips.

“They decapitated him, Mu Qing. And they’ll do the same thing to us.”

“Hm, that conclusion isn’t supported by the text,” Mu Qing scolds, wagging his finger. “It was a person with a grudge who killed a person who was supposed to be an authentic god. Meanwhile, the curse for being discovered as inauthentic is…just being thrown back into the ‘mortal realm’? Also known as ‘your shitty empty life’? Meaning we won’t be any worse off than we were before.”

“What about your job?” Feng Xin counters.

“What about it? I’ve already been missing for a few days. I’ve been meaning to take a sabbatical anyway.”

“Your friends?”

Mu Qing inspects his nails. “I have colleagues. And don’t ask after my family, either—they’re all in whatever real heaven is, which is to say, nowhere.”

Feng Xin runs his hand through his hair again, mussing it up even more.

“You angry with me?” Mu Qing says, popping another candy into his mouth.

“No,” Feng Xin answers. He looks up with a searching expression. “No, I’m not mad at you. I feel bad for you.”

Mu Qing is on his feet in an instant, his flowing robe fluttering dramatically as he presses his elegant hands against Feng Xin and gives him a quick but aggressive shove. The violence catches Feng Xin off-guard for a fraction of a second, and then he returns the shove with even more force, making Mu Qing stagger backward into the sofa. They glare at each other, both wondering the same thing: How far am I willing to take this?

It’s Mu Qing who withdraws his claws first. He flicks his sleeves and practically flows out of the room in a dark-haired wave, leaving Feng Xin standing in place. Feng Xin is sure Mu Qing has noticed the state of the palace—drawers pulled out, furniture upturned—as he’d searched for any clues that could aid in their escape. Some weapons fashioned later than the seventeenth century would be nice, too. But the palace had yielded no secrets, just silks upon silks, luxuries that may as well have been gray pulp to the man who was growing increasingly desperate to leave.

In the days that follow, Mu Qing makes no secret of his intention to avoid Feng Xin by any means necessary. He starts by waking early in the morning and taking his breakfast in bed, served by an ever-silent Shui Shi. Mu Qing tells himself he’s imagining things any time he sees the boy pause in the red-lacquered doorway to his room, as if contemplating turning around, but when he never does, Mu Qing is internally embarrassed of himself. This servant has known him for all of four days; there’s no way a kernel of trust would have had time to sprout by now. Hell, Mu Qing has work colleagues he’s known for years who don’t even know where he grew up.

Once he’s eaten, Mu Qing dresses himself in whichever finery suits him that day, then sets off to take a long morning walk around the “neighborhood.” He has never seen the inhabitants of the palaces next to his own; they appear to be empty, though occasionally he’ll see deputies in plain robes doing small chores in their gardens.

He does not visit Ming Guang again, not out of consideration for Feng Xin’s caution, but because he figures it might be suspicious for him to constantly be visiting  the same person. Be it a weird anachronistic doomsday cult or a boring corporate office, playing politics means having more than one ally in your corner.

So Mu Qing nods to each upper-court god he passes in the street and even affords the deputies of the lower courts a few small smiles. The deputies always, without fail, seem deeply disturbed by this behavior and have a habit of gaping at him like hungry carp. He ceases the smiling.

But otherwise, Mu Qing is unable to glean much information about this place. People are strangely quiet, though occasionally some will meet another’s eyes with an understanding or sometimes fierce expression—almost as if they were engaging in silent conversations. Come to think of it, that bonehead Feng Xin had said something about a communication system, but that had to be a euphemism for an app of some kind.

The whole experience is like being set loose in an atelier of fairies. Everything is beautiful but ephemeral, both parts comfortable and alien.

It’s on one of these meandering walks that Mu Qing runs into Ke Zhizhong.

“Ah,” the regal god says, returning Mu Qing’s polite greeting. “Xuan Zhen, it’s good to see you. Though from what I’m hearing, Heaven has been seeing quite a lot of you lately.”

“I’ve been restless as I recover,” Mu Qing says, face placid. “Ke Zhizhong, are you taking a walk as well?”

“I’m actually on my way to the mortal realm,” the man explains, pinching a strand of hair between his fingers and twisting it. The words spike Mu Qing’s adrenaline immediately, and his tongue is already moving before his brain can catch up.

“Might I join you?” he asks, instantly regretting the eagerness in his voice. How can he, when he finally has the opportunity to at least visit the world he knows without Feng Xin there fucking everything up?

“I’m afraid that would be a bad idea right now,” Ke Zhizhong says, his countenance sympathetic. “Your spiritual energy hasn’t recovered enough for any ghost-hunting missions. And certainly not enough for this specific ghost-hunting mission.”

“Perhaps another time,” Mu Qing says, his voice returning to its usual even tone. “Though I know Nan Yang is also eager to…to visit the mortal realm. And see all the, uh, the ghosts.”

Ke Zhizhong makes a “hm” sound, looking at Mu Qing with some surprise.

“His spiritual power is healthy? Are you sure?”

“I…I’m sure. Unless there’s something wrong with m-my ability to, uh…to tell.”

Ke Zhizhong quirks an eyebrow.

“I suppose you and Nan Yang do follow different cultivation paths, after all,” he says, pursing his lips in thought. “In that case, I’ll volunteer Nan Yang for the next minor mission that comes up. General Qi Ying could always use the help.” There’s a barely detectable note of derision in his tone when he says this, but of course Mu Qing can’t possibly guess at its source.

“He will really appreciate that,” Mu Qing says, already thinking about the pride he’ll feel waltzing in the door later to gloat to Feng Xin that he alone has fixed everything. All Feng Xin’s anxiety was clearly misplaced, and he was a fool for trying to drag Mu Qing down with him. The Netflix special isn’t over yet. Time to pack your bags, loser.

But there’s a catch here, of course. What the fuck does he mean by ghost hunting? And will Feng Xin be in a position where he has to catch a ghost before he can make a break for it and try to find a sympathetic person willing to call the police?

Figuring that it couldn’t hurt, Mu Qing changes course on the walk back home. Ten minutes later, he is climbing the gleaming steps of Ming Guang palace.

A beautiful deputy answers the door, her eyes widening when she sees Mu Qing standing there.

“General—! I apologize, we weren’t expecting you. This deputy will announce your arrival. Please, won’t General Xuan Zhen take a seat?”

White skirts swishing, she leads Mu Qing to a room that could probably double as a lobby for an exclusive luxury hotel “in the mortal realm.” To pass the time while he waits, Mu Qing studies the tapestries on the wall, most of which are serene landscapes rather than scenes of cavalry and war. He doesn’t recognize any of the paintings, despite their sublime beauty.

The woman returns after about fifteen minutes—an agonizing wait for Mu Qing, who’d already begun to regret his decision to make this pit-stop on his way back to his own palace—and leads Mu Qing to the same room he’d been in during his last visit to see Ming Guang. The general is seated at a low table, sipping tea. He does not stand when Mu Qing enters.

“Welcome back, Xuan Zhen. I believe this means I’ve seen more of you in the past week than I have in decades. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Mu Qing bites back his humiliation just long enough to rapidly say, “I wanted to let you know that General Nan Yang will be going to the mortal realm soon to help…” He can’t remember Qi Ying’s name. “...He wants to help the other gods. I worry that the general is a little out of practice and wanted to know if…if I could pass along any, ah, ghost-hunting advice. His memory isn’t what it used to be.”

Ming Guang’s brows shoot up.

“Are you sure descending to the mortal realm for a mission is a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mu Qing asks. He’s still standing in the doorway, since his host had yet to insist he sit down. He figures seating himself across from the general without an invitation is likely to rouse suspicion—better to risk being too formal than too familiar.

Ming Guang doesn’t answer. He seems to study Mu Qing’s face for a brief moment, gaze flicking back and forth between his dark eyes. Mu Qing begins to feel the back of his neck sweat, making the collar of his robes stick to his hot skin. Had he come so close to freeing them, only to blow up their only chance to escape in a matter of half an hour?

But the look melts off Ming Guang’s face, and he rubs his eyes with a gloved palm.

“These damn ghosts. Xuan Zhen, I don’t know how out of the loop you really are, but things are worse than ever when it comes to evil spirits making a nuisance of themselves. Normally things wouldn’t be a problem, but Heaven has been short-staffed for decades now while you were gone, and the cracks in our foundation are finally beginning to buckle. Without Jun Wu or Xie Lian around to help things, I’ve been relying on Qi Ying to keep things in order. But it’s been more than we can handle for a long time.”

Mu Qing dares to say, “Then why are there deputies wandering empty palaces around here?”

Ming Guang reaches for his tea, frowning.

“Should any of the residual spiritual energy in those palaces or the weapons stored within them be left unchecked, the weight of such spite could swallow Heaven in a bloody gulp. You know this, Xuan Zhen.” His eyes flick back to Mu Qing’s face, glinting.

There’s a heavy pause, as Mu Qing racks his brain to think of something to say. The comment had clearly been a misstep, so should he just change the subject? Should he blame his head or his poor memory again? Fuck, why had he come here?

“Xuan Zhen,” Ming Guang finally says. His lips tilt up into a smile. “Tell Nan Yang that if he wants combat ‘advice,’ he should bring his own pretty face to ask, rather than sending yours.”

The summons arrives the next morning. The confused messenger at the door pushes a scroll into Mu Qing’s hands, still breathless after having run all the way from the Palace of Divine Might to the palace of Nan Yang, only to be told by the deputies there that their general had spent the past week at the palace of Xuan Zhen. Surely there’s been a mistake, the messenger had insisted. He was rarely used for errands like these, in a realm where most people just talked via the communication array. Most of his jobs involve delivering spiritual weapons or stacks of documents to or from the palace of Ling Wen. But he’d been around long enough to know that Xuan Zhen and Nan Yang had always been enemies. Why on earth would Nan Yang be at his rival’s palace, unless he was chained in a dungeon?

Mu Qing, naturally, attempts to break the scroll’s bright red seal—but it won’t budge. Screwing up his face, he yanks at the blot of wax, certainly hard enough to rip the paper, but nothing happens.

“Um, esteemed General Xuan Zhen,” the messenger mumbles from where he’s still standing in the doorway. “The scroll can only be opened by Nan Yang.”

“I thought I dismissed you? Get lost,” Mu Qing snaps, anger standing guard for his sudden fear. OK, so this seal clearly uses some kind of hidden fingerprint scanner or something. But no matter the technology used on the scroll, Feng Xin is very much not Nan Yang. How the fuck are they going to open this thing?

“I see we’re comfortable throwing our godly weight around,” comes a voice from behind him. Feng Xin is still in his sleeping robe, a cream-colored linen that makes his skin appear even more tan. Despite mostly being holed up inside the palace, Feng Xin’s skin has yet to lose any of its bronze luster, Mu Qing observes.

“You got some kind of thing,” Mu Qing says. “But I can’t open it worth a damn.”

Feng Xin snatches the scroll out of Mu Qing’s hand, scowling.

“Weasel. Maybe let me read it first before you go pawing through my mail?”

“Oh, so we’re calling this ‘mail’? How domestic,” Mu Qing says, rolling his eyes. But to his surprise, Feng Xin easily breaks the seal and unrolls the entire length of the scroll, eyes scanning the text. It’s written in a script that certainly isn’t English, but doesn’t exactly look like the hanzi he’s familiar with either. Weirdly, his eyes fly over the words, his brain supplying their meaning as if he’d been using this writing system since elementary school.

Feng Xin’s tone is serious when he says, “I’m to report to the Palace of Divine Might today. To be assigned a mission in the mortal realm.”

“Lucky you,” Mu Qing says. “This means you finally get to leave, just like you always wanted.”

“You act like I’m a dick for wanting to go back to my home and my friends! Every night I stay up and think about my parents. I…I even pray for them, you know.”

Mu Qing stares at him.

“Why?” he finally says. When Feng Xin asks him what he means, he says, “What’s the point? I never would have pegged you as a good little church boy.”

“You know, it’s really a dick move for you to clown on someone who is just doing what they can to get through the day. I haven’t been to church in years, I’m just…” He runs a hand through his brown hair and looks at the floor. “I’m desperate, and I’m getting scared.”

“So you think talking to yourself will make things all better?”

Feng Xin glares at him.

“Do you want to hitch a ride with me back to reality or not?”

Mu Qing sighs and rolls his eyes. He’d really, truly miss the food.

They depart for the Palace of Divine Might about an hour later, having fallen into a tense silence since their spat. When they enter the gargantuan structure, still mind-boggling in its vastness, they are greeted by a small audience of upper court officials. Ke Zhizhong is among them.

“Welcome, generals. I trust you’re both feeling better today?”

“Oh, yes,” Mu Qing says quickly. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking, since I’m feeling so much more like myself, if it would be possible for me to accompany General Nan Yang on his assignment?”

The other gods, who had been chatting softly, drop their conversations like axes splitting wood.

“General Xuan Zhen…” Ling Wen says, fixing him with a surprised look. “Accompanying him for such a minor mission would be…highly unusual. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“Perhaps,” another god—Ming Guang—pipes up, “the general is merely concerned for his colleague, since they have been apart for so long. We shouldn’t blame him for being anxious at the thought of letting Nan Yang out of his sight.”

It’s looking like the only lifeline Mu Qing has. Feeling like every interaction with these people is always a stab in the dark, he says, “Some concern for him might be affecting my decision, yes. I recognize it’s unusual, but I would be sitting at home worried about him otherwise.”

Every eye in the room, including Feng Xin’s, expands as round and wide as steamed buns. Someone coughs.

“I suppose…there’s little harm in the two of you working on this mission together,” Ke Zhizhong says, the first to return to a neutral expression. His words are slow and careful, and he avoids eye contact with everyone else, save for Mu Qing. “I’m glad the southern generals are getting along so well.”

“Mm,” Feng Xin intones, the only noise he’s made in the past thirty minutes.

“You should leave tonight,” Ke Zhizhong continues. “There should be a high amount of ghost activity in the mortal realm, given the full moon.” He glances at the other officials in attendance, as if expecting someone to dramatically object to this unorthodox team-up. But no one speaks—their faces settle into placid masks, all those sparkling eyes trained on the two Canadians standing before them.

They bid the gods farewell and leave the palace, shoulder to shoulder as they make the short walk back. Mu Qing glances, discreet as he can, at Feng Xin’s hands. They’re shaking.

Feng Xin glances, discreet as he can, at Mu Qing’s hands. They’re also shaking.

Their eyes never meet.

Shui Shu has prepared a hot meal by the time they return, already laid out neatly on one of the lacquered tables Mu Qing has grown so fond of. He wishes he could ask about taking one home, but the furniture is far too outrageously heavy for that to be possible. (Much of it sits rather low, and has never budged so much as a centimeter when he’s rammed his shins into it by accident and let out shrill howls of indignant suffering.)

He doesn’t speak as he helps Feng Xin into his armor, fastening the belts and straps tight enough not to slip around but loose enough to make movement easy. Feng Xin is not quite so skilled when he helps Mu Qing with his own armor. He fastens the waist far too tight, almost to the point of pinching. But it has the benefit of giving Mu Qing a silhouette Feng Xin finds he quite likes, actually, so he says nothing to the man fussing with his gauntlets.

“You work out?” Feng Xin asks, his voice sounding a little scratchy.

“Yes,” Mu Qing answers. Monosyllabic and final.

They finish up and take one final look around the palace of Xuan Zhen. Mu Qing even offers Shui Shi a slow wave as a good-bye, which is reciprocated only by the servant ducking his head.

“Let’s go.” Feng Xin is at the door.

The platform where they are supposed to leave is a short walk from the main neighborhood that contains all the heavenly palaces. Mu Qing had even been here before during a walk, but beyond the platform he’d run into an impossibly high wall. Perhaps there was some kind of mechanism to open the wall, a gate that would lead him back toward his former life? There could be no other method of leaving; there was no paved asphalt road, no train tracks, no landing strip.

Ming Guang is waiting for them as they climb the half-dozen steps up to the platform, which sits beneath a curved red roof.

“It’s good to see you again, general,” Ming Guang says to Mu Qing, completely ignoring Nan Yang’s stiff presence. “I feel we’ve really gotten to know each other well the past few days.”

“Ah, don’t talk like you’ll never see me again…” Mu Qing mutters.

Feng Xin looks back and forth between the two, one eyebrow cocked. He opens his mouth to say something, but Ming Guang beats him to it.

“I thought the esteemed generals of the south might appreciate a little assistance returning to the mortal realm,” he says, grinning. “Since you’re both low on spiritual energy, you should preserve whatever you can. I can think of a certain god who used to stumble his way down to the mortal realm whenever he descended, essentially rolling down, smacking every obstacle he could in the process.”

Mu Qing and Feng Xin stare at him.

Ming Guang sighs and flicks his wrist. Instantly, a beam of golden light erupts from the bottom of the platform. It shimmers and undulates, giving off the warmth of a flame, yet moving as slow and smooth as a cool stream.

“Gentlemen?” Ming Guang motions to the light.

They exchange a look. Feng Xin finally turns to the light and takes a step forward—but then Mu Qing grabs his hand, giving it a light squeeze. Their wrists are ensconced in tight gauntlets, not the flowing sleeves of silk robes, so the gesture is impossible to hide. Ming Guang, who has certainly seen it, says nothing. He merely smiles and takes a step back.

Both approach the beam of light together.

“You know this is probably just a dumb trick,” Feng Xin whispers.

“Shut up, coward,” Mu Qing says back, but the tone of his whisper is neutral, his eyes still trained on the light before him. It casts a yellow glow on their faces.

Feng Xin suddenly surges forward, practically lunging into the space.

His body evaporates.

Mu Qing, seized with no immediate instinct of self-preservation, leaps after him. For a long time he will think about this moment: why it had never occurred to him to hesitate, why he hadn’t sought reassurance from Ming Guang, why there didn’t seem to be a single coherent thought in his head. It was a language only his body knew, and its meaning was more tangible than that of any spoken sentence: Follow him.

When Mu Qing’s feet are both fixed beneath him, the last wisp of his black hair following after him like a shadow, everything turns white.

A fraction of a second later, Mu Qing is heaving his body forward, out of the entrance to the psychic shop and into the freezing streets of Toronto at midnight.

Chapter Text

DESCRIPTION: Asian male of indeterminate adult age (25-39) with severe cranial bleed and hypothermia

CHIEF COMPLAINT: Severe cranial bleeding - ER

HISTORY OF PRESENT ILLNESS: Patient walked to emergency room from an unknown location. Patient lost consciousness shortly after walking in the door, but was caught by a bystander. He was hemorrhaging from the head, 4cm from the right temple. Patient’s vitals were abnormal, including a core body temperature of 34C. Head wound measured 7cm in length. Patient’s skin showed signs of struggle or encounter with perhaps a wild animal, including wounds on his arms. Unclear if these wounds are related to the head trauma. Hypothermia does not appear to be related to the cranial wound, though it is worth noting that the outside temperature today is 23C. Patient received a CT scan to check for brain swelling. No traumatic brain injury showed during the scan. Dr. Z was the attending physician and placed ten stitches to relieve the bleeding.

MEDICATIONS: Not obtainable.

PREVIOUS MEDICAL HISTORY: Not obtainable.

FAMILY HISTORY: Not obtainable.

ALLERGIES: Not obtainable.

REVIEW OF SYSTEMS: Not obtainable.

PHYSICAL EXAMINATION: Core body temp of 34C. Blood pressure 52/38. Pulse 41bpm. Patient’s clothing soaked in blood. Lungs are clear. Abdomen is soft. Patient is unconscious, but pupils measured 5 mm reactive to light.

DIAGNOSIS: Cerebral hemorrhage, hypothermia.

PLAN: Patient was transferred to ICU for further evaluation and to watch for seizures. Neurology has been alerted and are preparing a diagnosis plan of action.

Everything is loud.

Feng Xin gasps awake, already pawing at the IV in his arm. He can hear someone in the hallway rolling a heavy cart down a tile floor. There’s the soft sound of women’s laughter.

Even several floors up, he can hear the sounds of the street below, sirens and motorcycles and cranked radios playing the top 40. A few moments go by, and Feng Xin can hear two people arguing in Québécois French somewhere outside, maybe just beyond the front doors of the hospital. For once in his life, the sound of an argument relaxes him.

Feng Xin is home.

He is nestled under crisp white cottons, not the slinky silks of Xuan Zhen Palace. The room smells of bleach rather than incense. There’s already a card waiting for him by his bedside. When he feels a little more lucid, he will read it, and his eyes will sting with tears to see his father’s handwriting.

His backpack is waiting for him in a chair by the window. On shaky legs, he stumbles over and fishes his phone out of the front pocket. He’s dressed in a light hospital gown, and there is no sign of his robes. Fuck. That would have served as his only evidence as to what had happened to him during his disappearance.

When he ambles back to the bed, he turns his phone back on and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that the battery is mostly full. A few seconds of silence go by while it loads his data, and then his notification bar explodes.

It’s been two weeks since he was last seen by anyone who knows him as someone other than General Nan Yang—save for Mu Qing.

Feng Xin’s puffy eyes go wide. Mu Qing—was he still over in “Heaven”? Fuck, what if he’d died and was in real-real heaven? Had he been mauled as badly as Feng Xin had?

The memories of what precisely led to his current state are murky. Feng Xin remembers his time in Heaven mostly fine, but the moment he’d stepped into that golden teleportation array, everything fucked up. And he should have known it would, right? Especially judging by the sly smile on that prick Ming Guang’s handsome face. Feng Xin had opened his eyes after a bright flash of light and found himself in a quiet field, grasses whipping in the wind. The moon had made them look like tinsel against the inkblot sky. He remembers the night had been warm.

Beyond that, his memory is as opaque and fuzzy as wool.

Feng Xin’s phone freezes about eight times before it finally finishes processing all his notifications. He starts by opening his missed calls, figuring he’d work his way backward to see who had contacted him and send them a text letting them know that he was awake and doing…fine? Maybe? For all he knows, a doctor could waltz in here and tell him he has five days to live. Good night.

The possibility makes him hesitate, but he still wants to at least knock out listening to and clearing some of these voicemails. He scrolls back through the missed call log, feeling a pang in his heart when he sees that on more than one day, his mother had placed at least twenty calls to his phone.

When he reaches the day of his disappearance, Feng Xin blinks. There was only one unopened message from that day—from Mu Qing.

When did Mu Qing message me?

If Mu Qing is still missing, this might be the last recording anyone has of him. When Feng Xin launches the app, he sees that Mu Qing had sent a video of all things. Maybe he’d wanted to show Feng Xin some of his conceptual stylings and designs for the now long-forgotten and long-past event he’d never attended.

Today was shitty…

…The worst part is he’s so hot. Like, objectively, but also in a way that I just...can’t resist.

… But I just haven’t met someone who made me want to lock myself in a dark room and touch myself in a very long time, and it’s the worst. God. Shit, I thought this would make me feel better, but now I’m just horny again...

The video ends.

Feng Xin gapes at his phone.

Did he just wake up from his fucking coma to discover that Mu Qing had, right before they spent weeks together in paradise and agony, sent him (by accident, it would appear) a confession of…sexual attraction?

Even more bizarre is the fact that Mu Qing had sent that message a mere ten minutes after placing a regular call and leaving a lame voicemail about how he’d behaved rudely at the appointment, ending the message with an offer to meet up so that can continue their collaboration.

After he’d left that message…had he really…?

Feng Xin’s fingers slip on the phone screen as he tries to punch at Mu Qing’s number. If he’s already back, they need to talk immediately.

But he fumbles the phone in his excitement, possibly because it’s been a few days since he last handled one, and it jumps out of his hands and clatters to the floor. There’s a noise outside his room, and a nurse opens the door and peeks her head inside. She stares at the awake Feng Xin, who is looking down the side of his hospital bed at his phone’s black, somehow more-shattered screen.

“Oh—you’re up! I’ll have the head nurse call the doctor right away. Here, please sit back down, I need to check your vitals…!”

Mu Qing has never experienced relief like this.

“Hello, is this Qing Mu?”

Mu Qing pushes away from his desk, laptop screen glowing. He closes his tired eyes. He’s been staring at the screen for hours as he types up everything he remembers about what happened to him the past two weeks, preparing his story for…the police? The press? At the very least, he needs to get his narrative correct before he talks to anyone about anything. Any minor detail out of place would render him mentally unstable at best, and suspect in the disappearance of Feng Xin at worst. Call him selfish for taking a few days to get his bearings, but he won’t be of much use to anyone without a coherent reason for what happened to them.

He'd already tried filming a few video diary entries about the encounter, but he tends to lose his train of thought and will end up confusing himself as he attempts to work backward through even the most minute details. No, for now, text is the better medium for digesting what had happened.

“This is Saint Sebastian’s. We’re calling to inform you that one of our patients has requested we get in touch about his condition. He’s given us written permission to share any details about his health.”

Mu Qing feels a spike of white heat zing through his body.

“I see. What’s his name?”

“Xin Feng, a friend of yours? We’ve already alerted his parents. His condition is stable, but we’re keeping him here under surveillance until we have reason to believe his condition is manageable at home.”

“His…condition?”

“He suffered a laceration to his head that required stitches, plus dramatic hypothermia when he was admitted.”

Mu Qing checks the weather icon in the task bar of his computer. It’s 15 C (58 F) outside.

“So he’s…going to be fine?”

“We of course can’t make promises, but for the time being, he seems to be moving in the right direction.”

“Can I…see him?”

Mu Qing scrambles for a pen and paper to jot down the hospital address and visiting hours, things he could probably find with a quick internet search, but he doesn’t want to get a single detail wrong. Can’t risk not seeing Feng Xin as soon as possible, now that he knows he’s home.

“His parents are here with him now,” the voice on the phone tells him. “We have a limit on the number of visitors a patient can have at a time, but they’ve mentioned they plan to leave around six, if that works for you?”

At 6:10, Mu Qing pulls his car into a spot in the hospital’s tall parking garage. He hustles to the elevator and then navigates directly to the correct building and wing, and then he takes another elevator to the fifth floor, where Feng Xin’s room is located. He knows St. Sebastian’s Hospital well.

Feng Xin is asleep when Mu Qing’s knuckles rap softly on the door to his room, which is left partially open so nurses can periodically peek in at him. It’s certainly for safety reasons and not because Feng Xin is the most attractive patient any of them have seen in months. Mu Qing’s presence does not go unnoticed by the staff, either, who will giggle and whisper about this equally good-looking visitor. Lie down with handsome dogs, get up with handsome fleas.

When Mu Qing steps inside, leather boots clicking on the tile, Feng Xin stirs. He lets out a heavy exhale and opens his amber eyes, which are spacey and red-rimmed. His pupils are enormous.

“Oh, you’re so fucked up,” Mu Qing whispers, surprising himself with the concern in his own voice. He walks to the side of Feng Xin’s bed and plops down in the armchair pulled up beside it. It’s still warm, likely from the body heat of whichever parent had just left. Mu Qing eyes a Starbucks cup left on the nightstand, its lid stained with red lipstick.

“Your parents tucker you out?” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Feng Xin doesn’t reply, but he does offer Mu Qing a weak smile.

“I guess now isn’t a good time for me to grill you about what mess you got yourself into,” Mu Qing says with a sigh. “That weird…beam…thing…spit me back out on the street. Where’d it spit you, huh? Nunavut?”

“You’re alive,” Feng Xin whispers through cracked lips. His smile fades as he tries to sit up, the wires and tubes connected to his body clacking together like wooden prayer plaques.

“Yeah. I made it out fine,” Mu Qing says, fidgeting with the silver chain necklace he’s wearing. Feng Xin’s eyes drift down to watch his fingers. “They must have you on crazy painkillers to look so—”

“Hey,” Feng Xin says in a soft voice, and Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “I’m glad you made it out.”

“I haven’t been back for that long,” Mu Qing admits. “I had to basically beg to keep my job and was only let off the hook because my boss bought my fib that I’d had a nervous breakdown and that’s why I stopped showing up.”

“You mean you didn’t?” Feng Xin asks, and Mu Qing wants to smack him, but there’s genuine amazement in Feng Xin’s eyes.

“No? We were never in any real danger. They thought we were gods. I don’t know if you know this, but you can get away with an awful lot of shit if people think you’re a god. And then if they doubt you, you can just make a big fuss about it. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Feng Xin turns away from Mu Qing to grab a cup of water and take a sip. His cheeks are pink when he turns back.

“You can get away with an awful lot, but you, uh, you clearly didn’t try to get away with everything.”

“What do you mean?”

Feng Xin stares at a spot on the hospital wall over Mu Qing’s left shoulder. He can always blame this on the medication later.

“I’m just saying, we were in that mansion together for a while, with hardly anyone around, and you never…”

“I never what?”

“You never, well…tried to use your…divine charms on anyone.”

Mu Qing stares at him.

“…and by that I mean. Me. I guess.”

“You guess what?”

“Look, I know now probably isn’t the best time, but we just went through something super fucked up together and—”

“Please stop talking!”

They glare at each other, both their faces scarlet. Accepting that the situation is currently unsalvageable, Feng Xin flings himself backward into his propped-up bed. The fluffy pillows crinkle as they deflate around him. A moment passes in silence.

“It sucks that you think I’d do something like that,” Mu Qing finally grumbles. He’s staring down at his knees.

“I was under the impression you…well, what was I supposed to think after you sent me a video like that?”

Mu Qing’s red face goes white in an instant as the memory slaps him in the face. He keeps his eyes fixed on his knees, but his hands clasp and unclasp fists.

“That was. A mistake,” he says quietly.

“Sure. But you seemed awfully…honest in it.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“…Don’t I? After everything…”

To Mu Qing’s relief, the sentence comes out a little quiet and slurred. Whatever medication Feng Xin’s on must be kicking in as his burst of energy wanes, leaving him drowsy. With any luck he won’t remember most of this conversation, but Mu Qing doesn’t want to take any chances.

Scowling, Mu Qing slips a hand into the pocket of his pants, extracting a small pouch. It’s full of little bags of oolong, which he’d purchased at a nearby Chinese grocery store. At first he sets it down on the table. Then he changes his mind and takes the pouch back, turning to Feng Xin, who has slipped into a hazy sleep. He tucks the pouch in Feng Xin’s hand, sliding the back of Feng Xin’s hand against his palm and using his thumb to push Feng Xin’s fingers into a loose grip. After one last indulgent squeeze of his hand, Mu Qing turns.

He is reaching for the door when he hears Feng Xin’s voice. Quiet and a little mumbly, but certainly intended to be heard:

“I’m not done…we can talk about the video later…”

Mu Qing adjusts his clothes, pretending he hadn’t heard, and leaves.

“I’m not sure today is a good day for Mr. Feng to have visitors,” the head nurse tells him. “He’s a bit…agitated.”

“When is he not agitated?” Mu Qing grumbles. “I won’t be long. We’re, uh, working on a project together, and I just wanted to give him a quick update.”

The head nurse sighs and flicks his hand, sending Mu Qing off to do as he wishes.

Mu Qing is hardly a tactful person. When he opens the door to Feng Xin’s room, the insults are already popping off his tongue, hot and salty.

“Heard you’ve been on your worst behavior today. What, is lazing around in this big cozy bed so hard for you to do?”

Feng Xin is sitting up in bed, his back forming a C as he leans forward. His hair is down, hanging damp around his face, meaning he must have had a shower recently in the en suite bathroom. When Mu Qing enters, Feng Xin’s eyes snap to him and widen in surprise, and he sits up. His hands are folded in his lap. To Mu Qing’s surprise, Feng Xin’s lips tilt into a gentle, if tired, smile.

“Thank god it’s you.”

“I didn’t bring you any coffee, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Mu Qing says, holding up his cup from the cafe downstairs. “You’ve already got a team of professionals at your beck and call.”

“Mu Qing, I need to talk to you,” Feng Xin says, speaking slowly. He lowers his gaze again, looking somewhere in the direction of Mu Qing’s knees.

“Well, I’m here, and I don’t have all day. Getting my job back has been a whole bitch and a half—”

“They’re real, Mu Qing. All of it is real. The gods, the ghosts…We didn’t imagine it, and they weren’t playing tricks on us.”

Mu Qing at first rolls his eyes and sneers at him. Even so, he ducks his head out the door to make sure no one is nearby, then quietly closes it behind him. Sitting in the chair beside Feng Xin’s bed, he leans back and crosses his legs, his expression serious.

“Explain.”

Feng Xin slumps even further. He lifts his head as if it’s dangled from a string,

“They’re here, Mu Qing. I saw them.”

“The other gods?” Mu Qing’s eyes go wide, and he settles both his feet on the floor. “They followed us?”

“No, not them. None of them. Unless they control them.”

“Control who?”

“The ghosts.”

Mu Qing blinks, entirely unsure what to say to that. A month ago, he would have laughed his ass off at this clown. But now, after all they’d been through, there’s not an amused bone in his body when he hears the words come out of Feng Xin’s mouth.

“They’re here, Mu Qing. In the hospital. I saw them last night.”

“The ghosts?”

“Yes!” Feng Xin smacks his fist against the mattress. “They fucking followed me!”

“So these are ghosts you…recognize? From when you blacked out?”

“...No.”

Mu Qing’s voice softens when he asks, “Feng Xin, what did you see?”

“I saw a man. An old man. He was dressed all historical—the robes and stuff—and he held a staff.”

“Was he a ghost?”

“I think so. I didn’t get very close, because he was surrounded by more of them. Mu Qing, they were all…fucked up. Like, a quarter of them didn’t have heads. Some of them…their organs were all…” He takes a deep breath. “It’s not like in the movies, where everything is set to spooky music and you’ve already picked who you hope doesn’t die. It’s so quiet.”

“Usually I root for all the characters to die.”

Feng Xin glares at him. For once, Mu Qing backs off.

So were they ghosts or were they zombies? Because what you’re describing sounds like zombies,” Mu Qing asks.

“They could disappear and reappear in random places. Like they would just dissolve right into the night. And it all happened so fast.” Feng Xin’s hands are shaking. “I guess…ghosts or zombies, the label doesn’t matter. Mu Qing, they were not of this fucking Earth.”

“Well, if they’re buried, I’d say they know a lot more about being ‘from Earth’ than either of us does.” Mu Qing takes a sip of his coffee, ignoring how even his own hands have begun to tremble some. His blood sugar must be getting low.

“If you’re just gonna be an asshole, you should leave,” Feng Xin snaps, startling Mu Qing with his sudden aggression.

“What exactly are they pumping into you, anyway?” Mu Qing shoots back, leaning forward in his chair to get in Feng Xin’s face, sneering. “Your big meaty body is metabolizing those drugs slower than you figured, huh? Probably because you’re laid up in here like a little prince.”

“Get out.”

Mu Qing doesn’t have to be told twice. He leaves his coffee cup behind, just to be a bitch and to remind Feng Xin of their nasty little chat. Think of me fondly, prick. He’d only been joking.

As Mu Qing traverses back to his car, he thinks about the grain of truth in what Feng Xin had said. For thousands of years, people have claimed to see ghosts—there’s a reason why they’re such enduring phenomena, across cultures and across time. And why shouldn’t people believe in ghosts? Is the possibility of being “stuck” on Earth really so bad? After all, the alternative is likely an endless black void, cold and eternally hollow.

Mu Qing scuffs his boot against the pavement, screwing up his face as he pushes down the absurd jealousy he feels toward Feng Xin in this moment. They were both trapped in that weird place for weeks, so why does he get the cool power out of the experience? Why couldn’t he have his anxiety about the black void that lay beyond be assuaged by visions of freaky former humans who may or may not have “unfinished business”? Having any business at all can be a blessing. More than likely, of course, these are all just figments of Feng Xin’s imagination. He’ll probably forget their tense conversation even happened a few days from now, and when his doses of pain medicine are decreased, he’ll probably stop having visions of anything, anyway.

That night, Mu Qing sleeps with all the lights in his apartment turned on.

Feng Xin has to beg his mother to leave. She has tears in her eyes as she tightly grips her son’s arms. His father is already waiting outside in the car.

“Mom, it’s plenty of food. You’ve done enough. I’ll be fine.”

His mother whimpers and dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. She has been crying for most of the past month, and even after Feng Xin’s return, the crying hasn’t stopped.

“The reheating instructions are taped to every lid,” she says around hiccups. “I know you don’t like carrots, so I left those out.”

“As long as nothing has shellfish, I’ll be fine,” he says with a laugh and kisses the top of his mother’s head. Her hair is mostly white, and she stands barely five feet tall. It almost feels like he’s hugging a little child.

“Please call me tomorrow, would you? I want to talk to you again before our Sunday lunch.”

Feng Xin finally succeeds in herding his mother out the door, then flops down on his leather couch. The apartment, spacious and well-furnished but usually a mess of clutter, had been cleaned spotless by the fretful woman. Feng Xin and his father had just stood awkwardly while she zoomed around the floorplan, holding vacuums and brooms like magical spell-casting staffs.

During his time trapped in Heaven, Feng Xin had missed a lot of things. Whenever he’d been awake while recovering in the hospital, he’d caught up on sports highlights and a few new episodes of television programs he’d missed. Beyond that, there was really only one thing he missed that he hadn’t really been able to do: watch porn.

Practically gleeful, Feng Xin switches on his TV and launches his favorite camming app. Living alone has its perks—he can stream filth all hours of the day and night if he so desires. There’s no risk of a Three Kingdoms-looking servant or a peppy nurse waltzing into his space.

The brunet camboy is grinding on his pillow and moaning, silky hair falling over his face. Feng Xin settles back into his couch as he watches the performance, already tugging at the ties of his sweatpants. He hasn’t been this eager to jerk off in years, and doing it in Heaven of all places had just felt fucking wrong. What if Mu Qing had walked in?

Then again…Feng Xin thinks back to Mu Qing’s voicemail, how the request for a date had teetered right at the tip of his bratty tongue. After what they’d endured for two weeks, after all the fights they’d had, there was no way Mu Qing still felt that way about him. It was a shame, really. Being abducted by aliens at the same time really does tend to kill the chemistry. That fight they’d had a few days ago when Feng Xin had lost his shit really seemed like it probably killed the chemistry. He regrets the outburst, if he’s being honest with himself.

The camboy flips over, revealing his naked, cream-colored body. Feng Xin has an idea, something so foolish and spontaneous, it could only occur to someone who’d just had an inexplicable and life-altering experience.

He mutes the television and navigates to the contacts list in his phone. Holding his breath, he taps Mu Qing’s name, already letting his other hand skim across his stomach under his shirt, fingers dipping below his waistband. The phone rings, and his fingers venture deeper, approaching heat.

But the line only rings once—then goes straight to voicemail.

He’d been fucking blocked.

Suddenly, the porn feels mocking. He switches off the television and tosses the remote across the couch, flopping his head back. His erection, as if itself embarrassed, softens without ever having been stroked.

Well, that’s it, then. Mu Qing has fucked off forever to write about what happened to them and sell the rights to Netflix. Maybe he’ll design a fashion line based on the beautiful clothes they’d worn. He can put on a whole new exhibit for all Feng Xin cares. May as well turn the whole experience into a gimmick.

He peels himself off the couch after a moment of moping, shuffling toward the bathroom. During the shower, he finds himself weirdly annoyed by the bath products he had been using for years. The shampoo doesn’t feel as slippery in his hands, and the soap doesn’t produce fluffy blue bubbles. Even the clear gel for taming his eyebrows when he is leaning over his sink feels gloopy and unsophisticated compared to what he’d been using in Xuan Zhen’s palace. He makes a mental note to post a status online to ask about good luxury hygiene products that can possibly match the quality that had clearly spoiled him.

When Feng Xin crawls into bed, he’s mostly forgotten about Mu Qing blocking him. (Well, and he’d briefly smoked a joint he’d been delighted to find in his dresser.) It’s time to settle back into his normal and altogether pretty charmed life.

Feng Xin turns his head on the pillow. The severed head of a white-skinned child stares back at him, its ghost eyes glowing blue in the darkness.

Chapter Text

Mu Qing jumps when the security system he’d installed on his phone begins to ring, a shrill noise that has the intended effect of prompting him to practically throw his body over his desk in panic. He punches 911 into his phone’s keypad, finger poised over the “call” button as he leans against the blessedly solid back door of the atelier.

“I’m calling the police,” he says into the intercom system. The screen mounted beside the door displays a man in disheveled clothing, hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. He’s shaking.

“Feng Xin?” Mu Qing flies down the atelier hallway and yanks open the back door, all the venom absent from his voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You blocked me,” Feng Xin croaks. “They came back, and you fucking blocked me.”

“Take it easy,” Mu Qing coos, tempted to reach a hand out to pat his shoulder. “I do that sometimes. It’s nothing personal. Get over it.”

Feng Xin’s entire body shudders.

“They followed me home,” he whispers. “They’re in my bed. Mu Qing, we fucked up, whatever we did—”

“Stop yapping,” Mu Qing growls. He grabs Feng Xin by the forearm and yanks him inside. They’re in a small receiving room at the back of the atelier, with cement walls and a few flickering fluorescent lights. Now in a more enclosed space, Mu Qing’s nostrils quiver.

“You reek of weed,” he says, rolling his eyes. “No one is fucking following you. You just got too high.”

Feng Xin reaches into his pocket, looking as though he’s on the verge of throwing up. His fist is balled up when he thrusts it toward Mu Qing, fingernails digging into the flesh of his palm. Squeezing his eyes shut, as if waiting for an explosion, Feng Xin slowly uncurls his fingers, the objects in his grasp so cold that even his sweaty grip couldn’t warm them up.

Mu Qing gasps and makes a heaving noise.

In Feng Xin’s hand are two small human ears. They’re milky white and semi-transparent in the harsh light. One ear has a tiny gold earring that dangles from the lobe. The sides of the ears—that is, where they should have been attached to a head—appear ripped up and shredded, as though they’d been hacked off.

“Feng Xin, this isn’t fucking funny,” Mu Qing yells. The sound bounces off the hard walls, echoing.

“It’s all over my apartment, Mu Qing. Bodies, pieces of bodies—it’s like the fucking House of a Thousand Corpses in there. I can’t go back. Ever.”

“So you’re haunted! Well then! What the fuck does that have to do with me!”

“We fucked up the past, Mu Qing. Something we did, some kind of butterfly effect thing…we messed with the fabric of time and set the universe off course. And I bet now the timelines are all fucked up.”

“First of all, time travel doesn’t exist. You were probably just drugged by all those weirdos. And even if we did go back in time and mess with things, that doesn’t explain why you’d be seeing…this,” Mu Qing says, pointing at the ears still sitting in Feng Xin’s hand.

“I was the one who saw the ghosts back there. If they died hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago, they’re still dead now, right? I think they’re following me to get their revenge. I think they came to finish what they couldn’t do back then.”

“Even if ghosts are after you, that doesn’t mean they’re from another time period,” Mu Qing says, shaking his head. “You’re suddenly going from zero to sixty with all the random shit you believe.”

“Is it random shit, though? I was on Earth. Everyone was dressed like how they do in those old-timey soap operas my mom loves. The old man, the ghosts. Everyone. And if we hadn’t time traveled, shouldn’t I be seeing more ghosts from the past, I dunno, century? A ghost with a hearing aid or a modern haircut or clothing?”

“Maybe it’s just these specific ghosts you pissed off,” Mu Qing says. To his relief, Feng Xin folds the severed ears into his closed fists and deposits them back in his pocket. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll burn these clothes later, Mu Qing thinks. It helps that they’re also unflattering and poorly fitted. Mu Qing really could style him so much better.

“Mu Qing, I have to go back,” Feng Xin says in a dark voice.

Mu Qing cocks an eyebrow. “Why only you? Didn’t we both mess up?”

Feng Xin shakes his head. “It’s possible, but that doesn’t mean we both have to go. In fact, having the two of us go back there doubles the chances that we mess something up again. Second, I…I don’t know if I can trust you to not get sucked back into that place. You need to stay here and keep an eye on things.”

Mu Qing’s jaw hangs from his head. His eyes flick all over Feng Xin’s face, as if searching for a clue that he’s lying. When he finds none, he leans against a cold wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, you seem like you’ve made up your mind without any of my input,” he spits, though there’s a thread of hurt in his voice. “You sound like a total lunatic, you know that? Coming here in the middle of the night with weird fucking…props…just to tell me I’m not ‘time traveler’ material. How am I supposed to think this isn’t a fucking joke?”

“Because you’re the only person I can trust with this. You can call me crazy a hundred times over, but you saw what happened to us. You tasted the food, you wore the robes, you slept in the silk sheets just like I did. Fuck, Mu Qing, think it’s a joke all you want, but even if you think that, please just help me. If you think it’s a joke, please just go along with it. Please.”

Mu Qing’s face is bright red. He puts a hand to his right ear—blessedly attached to his head, at least for now—to try to cool it off, slender index finger rubbing the shell while his thumb presses into the back of the soft lobe.

“Fine. Fine! But only because you beg like a dog, and I need you to stop,” Mu Qing says, refusing to meet Feng Xin’s grateful eyes. “What’s your plan to find your way back?”

“Well,” Feng Xin says, “I was thinking I could start by calling my psychic.”

“OK. Tomorrow morning you can call him. For now, you need to…” Mu Qing turns and glances behind himself, back into the empty atelier. He spins back to Feng Xin and shrugs. “You can stay with me tonight.”

Thirty minutes later, Mu Qing is unlocking the door to his condo and waving Feng Xin inside, barking at him to remove his shoes in the entryway before Feng Xin has barely even stepped over the front threshold. From there he trudges into the living room and takes a wary seat.

Though Feng Xin is exhausted, he fidgets on Mu Qing’s couch, glancing around the tastefully decorated living room as if expecting a ghoul to leap from the shadows. Seeing his paranoia, Mu Qing takes mercy on his houseguest and flicks on a Himalayan salt lamp he keeps on a floating shelf.

“This should keep the boogeyman away,” he teases, looking back at him. Feng Xin doesn’t smile.

“I don’t know if I can sleep,” he confesses. “I just feel so fucking wound up.”

“It’s the adrenaline,” Mu Qing says. His condo has an open floor plan, so he can see Feng Xin from his kitchen as he walks behind the counter and starts rummaging through cabinets. “Your fight-or-flight kicked in, and you’re only just now winding down from your ‘flight’ response.” The two wine glasses he’s holding make a tiny clink as he sets them on his island. Even with the warm light of the salt lamp, it’s still dim inside the condo, and the wine Mu Qing pours looks black as ink. It settles heavy in the bottom of both glasses, which are filled equally.

Feng Xin blinks, finally pulling his mind out of his fears.

“Is that a good idea?” he says, eyes flicking back up to Mu Qing’s neutral face.

“What, you think I’m going to take advantage of you or something?” His voice is bitter, but he deposits one of the full glasses into Feng Xin’s hand, their fingers brushing during the exchange. Rather than taking a seat beside his visitor, Mu Qing settles into a chair across from him. The stem of his glass rests between his middle and ring fingers, dangling in the air.

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to come across as such an asshole,” Feng Xin says, then takes a greedy gulp of wine. Mu Qing scrunches his nose at the inelegant gesture. “We don’t have to talk about it. I know it was just a mistake, and shit, maybe if the circumstances had been different…”

“I’ll let you know if this talk goes too far, don’t you worry. What circumstances?” Mu Qing’s tone is bored, but his eyes are dark and shining with genuine curiosity.

“Uh, the whole being sucked into another dimension thing? I dunno, I just mean that if that weird shit hadn’t happened, maybe I would have seen your video message and would have. Would have had different thoughts about it.”

“So you’re insinuating your thoughts about me are colored by our experience in Heaven?” Mu Qing’s response is instant. A conversation with him tends to devolve into a careful choreography of avoiding the traps he’s set. He takes a drink of his wine, savoring the taste and crossing his legs. It’s at this point that he realizes his socks don’t match. Fuck.

“No shit? Of course they are.”

“Are you implying that you would have responded positively in a world where we didn’t get sucked into Heaven, but because we did, your response is less positive?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Only because you’re incapable of coaxing them down out of your head.”

Feng Xin takes another drink of wine.

“Let me just start over,” he mumbles. “I was really flattered by the video. Hell, the voicemail was maybe even better, because you made it seem like you wanted to see me again. I guess if I hadn’t thought you’d murdered or kidnapped my psychic, I would have maybe liked to get to know you better.”

“Your wish was granted, wasn’t it?” Mu Qing says, his voice low. Somehow he’s caught up to Feng Xin in the amount of wine he’s drunk. They’re both nearing the bottom of their glasses, and it’s been less than five minutes.

“I mean, I could have gotten to know you better…on my own terms. Y’know.”

“And I don’t have a say?”

Feng Xin finally grins, his teeth a little pink from the wine. “I have a feeling we would have wanted the same thing. Just a hunch.”

“I see. Then what do you think I want right now?”

He buys himself some time before Feng Xin answers by taking a long, indulgent drink of wine, finishing the last dregs. His eyes are closed as he does so, tempted as he is to take a peek at the handsome face across from him.

“I think you want to feel…appreciated,” Feng Xin says, choosing the word so carefully, he even squints a little as he says it. A little tipsy and draped over Mu Qing’s couch, seemingly primed for anything that might involve less clothing, he looks at his host. As if checking for his approval, for reassurance he’d gotten the right answer.

“What I actually want,” Mu Qing says, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, an action that feels electric, “is to go back to that place. Even if the whole thing is fake, these are clearly some really powerful people. I’m curious. And maybe I want to help them, a little.”

Feng Xin sighs. He drains the rest of his own wine glass, then fixes Mu Qing with a pleading look.

“We’ve gotta repair whatever it is we broke. We can’t get comfortable, Mu Qing. We don’t belong there. Is there really nothing here in this life that you want to hang on to?”

Mu Qing is silent for a moment, then says, “Well. As I stated, I’d let you know if the conversation went too far. I’ll see you in the morning, Feng Xin.”

When Xie Lian doesn’t answer his phone, even after two days of repeated calls, Feng Xin finally takes matters into his own anxious hands and visits the shop. To his surprise, the entire establishment had been boarded up, with an eviction notice nailed to the front door. Undeterred, Feng Xin slips around the back and begins checking windows and doors. When that doesn’t work, he climbs atop a garbage bin and manages to pull himself up to the roof of the building. To his delight, the door he finds there is locked but is also terribly flimsy. With a well-placed kick, Feng Xin is finally entering the building. He descends into the back of the psychic shop like a cat, landing in a crouch.

The entire shop appears to be deserted. All the lights are off, leaving Feng Xin in total darkness as he stumbles through the space, his eyes not yet adjusted to the lack of light.

Feng Xin thinks of the ghosts who could be hiding in the shadows. He shivers, demanding himself to get a grip. His apartment has been mostly free of the apparitions, until he saw the figure of a woman crouched in the corner of his kitchen while his mother hummed over the lunch she was making.

His mother. Feng Xin had sent her a long text just before he departed, promising to return. He’d done it once before, after all, and fixing the past doesn’t exactly feel like an “optional” task for him at this point.

Feng Xin opens a door—to what room, he doesn’t know—and takes a step inside. He is at once seized with a sense of vertigo, and he feels his body rolling through space as soft lights sparkle around him, as bright and transient as the glow of distant fireworks.

When his body finally flops onto the floor, Feng Xin inhales, his nose filling with the smell of old incense. Though he’s terribly nauseated, he scrambles to his feet—only to find himself in a palace entirely unfamiliar to him. It’s dark, though some light filters in through dark navy curtains. The wood floors, though exquisite, are bare of any sumptuous rugs or silks. Looking around, Feng Xin notices that all the furniture in the room is simpler than the ornate yet tasteful luxury of the palace of Xuan Zhen.

The rest of the palace matches the emptiness, the sadness, of the first room. Everything feels a little gray, a little forlorn.

When he reaches the front door, an iron gate glazed in red, the identity of the palace’s primary occupant makes itself known.

“So this is it, huh,” Feng Xin says, crossing his arms over his chest as he examines the name plate over the door. “The living space of the great Nan Yang. Though it doesn’t feel like anyone has lived here in decades. Why the hell did Mu Qing get a servant and shit to keep things up and I didn’t?”

Though if the former “Xuan Zhen” of Heaven is anything like his distant successor, he is a man who cares deeply about appearances. Even an extended absence would not be a good excuse for his palace to fall into a sad state such as the one Feng Xin has found himself in. The false god sighs, retreating back into the empty rooms to try and find robes for himself. With any luck, he’ll remember how to tie them, instead of remembering the look of the light blush that had colored Mu Qing’s nose.

“General. What a pleasure.”

Feng Xin stops dead in his tracks and turns to see Ke Zhizhong observing him from one of the elaborate bridges that hover over misty brooks. He’s wearing an ink-colored robe, cinched tight around his waist with a lavender belt. A gleaming blade hangs at his hip, its hilt carved to resemble the head of a tiger.

“Oh. Ke Zhizhong. Good to see you.”

“You are on your way to Xuan Zhen’s palace, are you not? I’m afraid he has yet to return from his mission on earth. I heard the two of you were separated. Someone would have let you know if he’d returned.” The god clears his throat, eyelids lowering a bit as though embarrassed. “You know, General, you really did not have to push yourself to take that mission. It should have taken less than a day to take care of. Yet no one has seen you until…well, until now. And to leave a job unfinished is unlike you.”

“What happened to all the ghosts?” Feng Xin asks, already growing a bit impatient at Ke Zhizhong’s insincere niceties. “Did someone else…?”

Ke Zhizhong shrugs. “It’s your territory, General. None of us really has the rank to interfere in your jurisdiction, what with you back and ready to assume your divine responsibilities is all. As for the village that had requested your help, well…It’s likely they were all slaughtered.”

Feng Xin stares at him.

Ke Zhizhong continues, “A pity, but with a tenure like yours, these things are bound to happen. Though of course you won’t let this happen again, so your millions of other followers who populate the southern territories need not cease their worship of you.”

“How many people…?”

Ke Zhizhong lets a finger slip along the railing of the bridge, following its trace with his deep-set eyes.

“You won’t like it if I tell you, you know.”

“So you do know what happened to them?”

“General Nan Yang…” Ke Zhizhong says around a sigh. He walks the rest of the length of the bridge, coming to stop right in front of Feng Xin. They’re standing closer than Feng Xin has stood by anyone in this place, save for Mu Qing. “I know you’re…rusty. Please don’t let this mistake get in the way of your broader ambitions, hm? There are those who would love to see you fall.”

“Right now my main concern is to just…recover well enough to do my job,” Feng Xin forces out. He still feels scraped raw from the news about the innocent village that had to bear the consequences of his deception.

“I understand. I think that would be best for you, too, at the moment. But as I said—keep your guard up. Don’t rush into anything. Especially just because another god forces the duty upon you.”

“Mu Qing didn’t force it on me,” Feng Xin blurts, too worked up to realize he’d used Mu Qing’s given name. To his surprise, this doesn’t seem to surprise or confuse Ke Zhizhong, who just shakes his head.

“The two of you have ruled side by side for many centuries, and none of those centuries have been peaceful. They’ve only gotten worse. Need I remind you what led to your punishment?”

Feng Xin wants to say, Um, yes, please, but to do so would doom himself. Instead, he stares back blankly, trying to think of something to say back that might make any sense at all.

“Your attempts to befriend Xuan Zhen are noble but will end only in tragedy, if your history is anything to go by. I am overstepping my bounds when I say this—I beseech you to forgive me—but you should steer clear of him. The ‘Mu Qing’ you think you know died eight centuries ago. The Xuan Zhen who rules the southwest…he’s a cunning man. Perhaps the affectionate memories of your childhood have clouded that fact for you. And like the patient wolf, he knows this.”

“I…yes. Sure. That makes sense. I, uh. I promise to be more careful around him.”

Ke Zhizhong laughs, patting Feng Xin on the shoulder as he sweeps past him.

“Why do you talk to me as though you are my shidi? Humility coming from you leaves a strange taste in my mouth, General.”

Feng Xin is about to bid him farewell, when Ke Zhizhong turns to regard him with a final searching look.

“If I may share one last unasked-for opinion, General. There’s something strange in the air. I don’t know what it is, but my intuition rarely fails me. I’ll be sure to keep you informed of any news I may get about Xuan Zhen.” He imparts a small smile and walks away, the silver sword at his waist sliding against the outside of his thigh.

A little dazed, Feng Xin abandons his original intention to walk to Xuan Zhen’s palace. Perhaps it would be a good idea to lie low for a bit, if his relationship with Mu Qing is arousing even the slightest bit of suspicion. In fact, perhaps he ought to avoid mentioning his fellow false god at all. Spending time at his palace is certainly out of the question unless he can manage to sneak in.

While wandering the golden avenues thinking about how he can possibly undo whatever he’s done to invoke the wrath of so many ghosts, he is approached by Ling Wen, her arms brimming with scrolls.

“Can I help with that at all?” he asks after catching her eye.

“Truthfully, yes,” she says with a sigh. “I can’t use magic to transport all of them. Some are quite old and delicate.”

Feng Xin is dying to ask what the files contain, but he figures he’s done enough blundering of his identity today. Instead, he collects a dozen or so scrolls from atop Ling Wen’s pile, falling in lockstep beside her as they make their way to one of the sprawling general palaces of the civil gods. It acts almost like an ancient office building, with deputies and civil gods scribbling away at desks and doing quite a bit of clicking abacus beads, counting figures Feng Xin can’t even begin to fathom.

Unable to resist a peek, Feng Xin glances down at the scrolls he holds as they ascend the stairs. Though he can read the writing, the scrolls are wrapped in on themselves so tightly that he can only decipher a few lines.

“Xie Lian?” he says out loud, somewhat shocked to see his psychic’s name staring back at him.

“Hm? Oh, yes, these are all reports that need his review once he returns. And now with General Xuan Zhen gone, I’ll have even fewer members of the upper court to sign and seal these into the Holy Records…” she grumbles, dumping her armful of scrolls on an enormous white desk that sits in the center of the buzzing room. “He causes enough problems when he’s here. At least Xie Lian has the decency to be pleasant.”

“Sure. Um, I should really be going…”

Feng Xin knows that the longer he stays here, the more likely it is that he’s screwing up the future even more. And if this really is Heaven, which, what the hell, he may as well suspend his disbelief for the time being, then who’s to say how his actions up here may influence things back on earth?

The big question for him—and for everyone in Heaven as well—is to what extent he should be performing these divine “missions,” which to him seem like ghostbusting more than anything. If he is able to affect things like crop yield, wealth, fertility, or weather, no one has mentioned it to him. Perhaps there are others in Heaven who handle those kinds of requests?

Ming Guang finds him just as he is leaving Ling Wen. The general’s eyes sparkle when they see him, and he wastes no time in sidling up to Feng Xin for a chat.

“Ah, General,” he says, placing his gloved hands on his hips and smiling, as content as a cat. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Everyone seems to be out and about today…” Feng Xin mutters, looking over Ming Guang’s shoulder, half-expecting the scowling, wine-drunk Mu Qing himself to emerge from behind a massive iron fence or artfully shaped tree.

“Well, of course,” Ming Guang says, blinking. “The Mid-Autumn Festival is approaching. As usual, everyone is trying to squeeze in the last few merit credits at the last minute.” He puts on a theatrically sheepish expression. “That’s why I’m here, in fact. I need to settle some of my accounts prior to the ceremony. Even if it is just for show, these things can help give a little challenge and excitement to a near-infinite lifespan like ours. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“...No?” Feng Xin says, bewildered. “What would the point be in living forever-forever?”

Ming Guang waves a hand in front of his face, sighing. “Ah, Nan Yang, always so righteous about these things. Don’t tell me a few decades away have softened you.”

“A lot can change…” Feng Xin says, hoping the platitude is trite enough so as not to arouse suspicion. No such luck.

“You know, I probably shouldn’t lecture you about this, but your followers need you. You give them something to believe in, from the richest prince to the lowest servant. Both will light a stick of incense, tears streaming down their wretched faces, as they beg for someone to hear them…” Ming Guang pats him on the shoulder, grinning. “Besides, better you than some of the other young hopefuls in the lower courts.”

Feng Xin opens his mouth to respond but is cut off by Ming Guang, who snaps his fingers, face brightening.

“Speaking of which—I think I owe you an apology.”

“Uh. Sure?”

Feng Xin rubs the seams of his sleeves between his sweaty fingers. Is Ming Guang to blame for the portal spitting Mu Qing back into the future while sending him straight to what may as well have been hell?

“I had a little too much to drink the other night at a banquet I was holding. I was sad you couldn’t attend, by the way, but after you disappeared in the mortal realm and left the ghost hoard behind…Well, I suppose you had your reasons. Anyway, the short of it is, I may have indulged in a bit too much libation, and as a result may have said some…colorful things in mixed company.”

“About me?” Feng Xin asks, crumpling his sleeve into his fist.

“Well. About you and General Xuan Zhen. Listen, after Xie Lian found his husband, it’s only natural that Xuan Zhen would develop affection for you.”

“Did he say that to you?” Feng Xin is gaping.

“Oh, no, no. You know how he is.” Ming Guang rolls his eyes, then chuckles to himself as if laughing at an internal joke. When Feng Xin says nothing, he continues, “It was all just a bit of harmless gossip. Speculation. As I said, with lifespans as long as ours, we have to make our own fun. And is it so wrong that I find the idea of you and Xuan Zhen very fun?”

Feng Xin thinks back to Mu Qing’s message. He gulps.

“It’s just, I realize that not everyone in Heaven shares my delight at the idea. So if you and Xuan Zhen are, you know,” he winks, “then my advice would be to keep it private for a little longer, at least until the both of you have been maintaining your territories for a few more years.”

“Did Mu Qing tell you anything?” Feng Xin says, slipping up again with the name. Fuck. But Ming Guang doesn’t look at all confused or surprised. He just gives Feng Xin a sly smile.

“We’ve chatted,” is all he says. “I assume you’ve been in contact with him during his absence?”

“Yeah, he’s been a bit…preoccupied.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Recovering his spiritual energy after changing cultivation paths is a challenging process. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Feng Xin nods, giving the god a strained smile. To his bewilderment, Ming Guang looks positively delighted.

Stepping past Feng Xin, he pats him twice on the shoulder and winks a final time.

“I knew you had it in you, General,” he says, before sweeping off in the direction of the dais where Ling Wen is still curled over her scrolls. Feng Xin watches as he leans toward her, whispering something in her ear. Her eyes go wide, and Ming Guang says something else, which makes her scowl and flick ink at him as he laughs. The lanterns that line the entire enormous room flicker as he does so, as if the light itself is joining in his mirth.

The rest of his walk to the palace of Xuan Zhen is uneventful, though Feng Xin is careful to stay hidden as best he can. The streets are indeed busier than when he’d last been here, and there is one nerve-wracking moment where he leaps off a bridge and into waist-deep cool water to hide from a group of deputies who round a corner. Dripping wet and more than a little spooked, Feng Xin wrings out his robes as best as possible and climbs back up to the avenue once the coast is clear.

Shui Shi doesn’t look surprised to see him. In fact, the young servant seems far more concerned with how wet he is. He gives Feng Xin a disapproving look and points in the direction of the bathroom. Though the tub is empty, to Feng Xin’s astonishment, Shui Shi merely waves his hand, and all at once, the tub is full near to the brim with water. He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and smacks it against the side of the tub, and it immediately begins to steam. Feng Xin has seen these in TV shows before—a warming talisman.

After his bath, changing into clean robes, and eating an enormous meal, Feng Xin’s mortal body pulls him into bed. He falls into a long, dreamless slumber, uninterrupted by ghosts of any kind.

His search of the palace the next day proves unfruitful. There’s nothing he can point to that serves as proof of timeline meddling. Unless the future is so fragile it could be affected by some robes thrown around, nothing of substance even happened here.

Feng Xin is soaking his feet in the pond in one of the palace’s grand gardens, staring out at the lotus pads that cover half the surface of the clear water. He thinks about Ke Zhizhong’s warning about “Xuan Zhen”—a person who, even as his twenty-first century identity as one Mu Qing, had been a complete stranger to him as little as six weeks ago. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to trust the man, especially given his behavior when they’d been trapped together in Heaven. It was as though he had wanted to “play god,” with no thought for what that would even entail. The jump from “tailor” to “deity” reveals a hunger Feng Xin had never thought a person could even have, unless it was directly in service to someone else.

He kicks his feet, admiring the glittering of the rocks at the bottom of the pond. It reminds him a little of the opalescent sheen of fuel on asphalt. The thought makes his heart twinge with homesickness. His mother is probably crying hysterically as he sits here, by all accounts on a luxury vacation.

He’d risked so much to come back here, all to stopper the terror of horrifying apparitions that would surely lead to his eventual madness. But if a god’s purpose was partly to, for lack of a better term, hunt ghosts, then shouldn’t the people of this earth have the freedom and comfort to sleep easy at night? If this is indeed the past—hell, even the present—they probably have hard enough lives as it is. Feng Xin, if he can harness whatever technique is required of him to help, even just a little bit, might be able to eventually return to his own time and place and just take care of that ghost problem.

There’s a rustling behind him. Shit, he’d been talking out loud. If Ke Zhizhong or Ming Guang heard him…

But it’s just Shui Shi, his eyes bright in the sun. In his hands he holds a large, gleaming bow.

Chapter Text

Feng Xin struggles more than usual with dressing for the Mid-Autumn Festival, set to begin at the grand Palace of Divine Might in a few short hours. He shrugs on the robes that Shui Shi has set out for him, but the little servant is nowhere to be seen when he actually starts to slowly pull the clothing on, having to start and disrobe and start all over again several times when he gets the garment order wrong.

His hair is an even bigger pain in the neck. Shui Shi had lined up an array of elaborate hair pieces and headdresses, crowns and hats, only for Feng Xin to merely tie his hair up in its usual gold ribbon. He does end up placing a small gold guan at the crown of his head, but only when he’s peeked outside his front door and seen multiple gods in the streets dressed in their elaborate finery, and all wore gilded crowns and tiaras.

Less than satisfied with his appearance but running out of time, Feng Xin makes it out the door just as dusk is falling on the Heavenly Realm, the sky a deep pink. He doesn’t speak to any of the other gods as he walks toward the enormous palace at the end of the avenue, only nodding in acknowledgment when other gods call out to him with polite greetings. No one approaches him.

“Ah, I’m glad you could make it, General,” Pan Yawen says when he steps inside the palace. She is dressed in several layers of shining black robes, textured with long pleats so as to resemble the wings of a blackbird. Her hair is styled in a weave of perfectly symmetrical loops atop her head, ornamented with red rubies. Her gold earrings are so long, they nearly reach her shoulders.

“It’s been a while,” he says, eyes darting around the space with a panic that is familiar to anyone who shows up to a large function in which everyone seems to know exactly what to do except you.

“Ke Zhizhong has requested to sit by you tonight. He told me to let you know that he’s waiting inside—and also that you should try to reconnect to the main communication array from time to time, so as not to miss any news.”

Feng Xin blinks. Ke Zhizhong wants to sit beside him? Whatever for? The guy seems popular enough as it is, always strolling down the street deep in conversation with other officials, from the greenest deputy to the most wizened, white-bearded civil god.

He thanks Pan Yawen for letting him know and follows the crowd through the mail hall, where it empties into a smaller, but no less ornate, foyer, with twelve-foot-tall doors that lead further into the palace. It feels a bit like a theme park ride, Feng Xin thinks, as he shuffles along each beautiful scene. Looking, but never daring to touch.

One of the doors in the foyer leads to an enormous garden. Truly, Feng Xin has never seen anything like it. He cannot see the tops of any other palaces from within the garden at all, yet the foliage is mostly rather short, apart from a few majestic trees that twist and curve like the body of a woman. Lanterns hang from her fragrant branches, and Feng Xin jolts when a haitang blossom lands right on the tip of his nose, nearly colliding with the god they call Qi Ying. The god, crowned with a full head of wild curly hair, turns to regard him with narrowed eyes.

Feng Xin blurts an apology and zooms past him, no longer gawking at the edenic scenery as he continues down the stone path toward a large sitting area, where tables had been set up, each one heaped with at least a dozen dishes. The steam from each one wafts into the air, visible against the now-teal sky peppered with shy stars.

Ke Zhizhong is seated at a table near the center of the gathering, just in front of a tall dais. He notices Feng Xin’s presence immediately and stands, locking eyes with him and nodding. Lacking any appetite despite the impressive spread, Feng Xin approaches his table.

“Why so glum, General?” Ke Zhizhong asks immediately, gesturing toward the seat right beside him. “It won’t do you any good to be in such a bad mood when we start the games.”

Feng Xin had been a beer pong, flip cup, and ring of fire champion while in college. He does not presume that any of these skills will be transferable to whatever games gods play at their ragers.

“I’m just a little tired. Still recovering from the ghosts and all.”

“What a shame. Well, this beef stew should perk you right up.”

The food is divine. It’s hard for Feng Xin to even pay attention to the toasts and announcements the gods rattle off as he devours several plates of delicacies. Ke Zhizhong continues to scoop more noodles and meat on his plate whenever it begins to dip below half-full. The dumplings burst with the flavor of salted pork, and he follows each bite with a greedy mouthful of noodles mixed with vegetables that had been roasted in animal fat and sprinkled with spices. Pomegranates ooze juice over his fingers as he takes mindless bites, already eyeing the candied pears sitting dangerously within his reach.

“I suppose you are used to having a big appetite after spending so much time in the mortal realm and eating mortal meals,” Ke Zhizhong says, his smile gentle. “I’m afraid that after so many decades of practicing inedia, I don’t derive much pleasure from feasting anymore. Do your worshippers often leave food at your altars?”

“Yeah. All the time. Meat buns, fruit, beer, Oreos, Crunchwrap Supremes, it’s great,” he rattles off mindlessly.

Ke Zhizhong’s eyes widen with genuine astonishment. “The worshippers of the southeast have such exotic food!”

Someone finishes their long-winded toast. Ke Zhizhong pats his greaseless lips with his napkin and stands, tucking his hands into his sleeves as he begins his own speech.

“Thank you, Prince Yang, for your inspiring toast. I would like to take the time now to direct our attention to a very serious matter, one that all of us have probably already encountered. Even if you have not yet met this individual, you likely will. He is the most dangerous person in all three realms. I would recommend everyone heed what I’m about to say with utmost attention and seriousness, as each one of us here tonight is in very real danger.”

Feng Xin is furiously chewing his duck leg, staring at a large rock sculpture in the distance.

Ke Zhizhong continues, “It has been a long time since the birth of the last ghost king, and a full generation since Heaven was ever truly threatened by one. Many of you today likely have no idea what to do when a new ghost king rises to power and how you might maintain your own safety and the security of your deputies, colleagues, and property. The villain who has emerged from the kiln is a stranger to us—he does not appear to have had much of a reputation as a human, as far as we can tell. But he is known colloquially as Stone Mouth Chewing Bones, and soon you will hear this title in many prayers.

“What we know is that he is a plague-caster, and his method of choice is famine. Mortals who fall victim to his powers will see their crops wither and die in a matter of days, even when the rain and heat is plentiful and the pests are unremarkable in number. For those of you who are unfamiliar with agricultural practices in the mortal realm, this also means livestock die. Entire villages have already starved to death.

“But do not despair. This ghost king is no fool. He spares the largest villages and any towns and cities that could provide him with the greatest amount of tortured souls to devour himself. Instead, he appears to target the subsistence farmers, those old villages in the mountains and out of the way of major rivers or trading routes. This allows him to keep the famines contained, though he will sometimes strike a cluster of communities to prevent them from aiding one another. My fellow gods, this is a good thing—it means he recognizes his responsibility as an apex predator and will not risk wiping out large swathes of humanity. Famine is an effective tool for him because he need not exert much energy to torment the pool souls he seeks to keep for himself or devour, but his stomach is only so big.

“My friends, though this ghost king is a nuisance, we don’t need to dirty our hands with him. Though his attacks have primarily occurred in the southern regions, they do not appear to affect villages with a high number of temples, especially large temples with many monks that tend to them. He is taking advantage of our weak spots but does not want to risk direct confrontation, and since the villages he targets are free of many serious or powerful worshippers anyway, we need not fear the retribution of former worshippers turned into vengeful ghosts themselves. In fact, if we consider this ghost king as having a part to play, not unlike the performances we will see later tonight, many of you will likely see a boost in worshippers who beg you to spare their villages and families and will become even more devout when their homes are most likely spared without you or your deputies having to intervene.

“I know many of you feel strongly about all your worshippers and wish to grant their wishes all of the time. But do not forget your station. You are not servants, and these mortals are not your masters. Most mortals who die of famine suffer because it is the wars they foolishly wage on one another that steals away their strong farmers and the iron they would use in their equipment to instead fashion weapons. This ghost king is going to serve as a check on this behavior, providing mortals with a common enemy—rather than blaming each other, or worse, us, for their every problem.

“Do not mistake me. I am not proposing an alliance. But I am proposing that we pick our battles and that we not endanger ourselves or our followers with any hasty action.” He raises his wine cup, closing his eyes. “Thank you all.”

Feng Xin expects the moment of silence. What he does not expect is what comes after.

The sound of the applause is so booming, so fearsome, it makes him nearly fly back in his chair. Several gods shout words of agreement and praise, all at the same time and so intensely loud that not a single word is intelligible. Ke Zhizhong sips his wine as half a dozen people approach their table, pushing past Feng Xin to crowd around him and congratulate him on speaking so bravely about the topic. Feng Xin finds it interesting that so many flatter him for his courage, yet his stances on ghost king-neutrality and Heavenly isolationism have quite clearly landed well with this crowd. He looks out over the rest of the diners, who are all smiling and talking animatedly. How brave to speak in a room with no dissenters, indeed, espousing a position of laziness and what sounded like total abandonment of the human beings who live on the fringes.

“Excuse me,” Feng Xin mumbles. No one hears him anyway. He rises and slips away from the banquet, suddenly no longer hungry. Frankly, he feels a bit sick.

The avenue is deserted. This would be an excellent time to try and do a bit of investigating—but what the fuck is there to do anyway? He’s got to have fucked up the timeline even more by now, throwing the future even more out of whack. Maybe Canada is overrun by fucking zombies by this point.

Well, there’s not much to be done about that from where he is right now. But what Feng Xin does know is that there is a ghost in this time period that is a major problem, and if he doesn’t try to defeat it—with desperately needed divine allies, of course—then he’ll be abandoning innocent people to a terrible fate of slow starvation.

Like a dark highway sprinkled with cars, the sky behind him fills with thousands of lanterns gliding up through the air. They are sucked up into the heaven of heaven, whatever terrible place that might be, as Feng Xin wanders over to the spot where he’d last left for earth.

To his relief, a junior deputy is stationed at the transportation array depot, and after fussing over Feng Xin missing the best part of the banquet, he agrees to sketch an array that will get Feng Xin back to earth.

“Why do they have you up here, anyway?” Feng Xin asks before he steps into the shimmering light.

“A god can ascend at any time, of course! General, do you not remember when His Highness the Prince of Xianle ascended several decades ago and toppled your grand palace in the process?”

“With all due respect,” Feng Xin says, “if you mention anything about any ‘grand palace’ to me, I swear to whatever worthless god above I’ll kill you with my bare fucking hands.”

The deputy’s face goes ashen. But Feng Xin doesn’t see it; he’s plunging into the array and back down to the surface of the literally godforsaken planet below.

Mu Qing sleeps until noon, and when his phone rings for the tenth time, he finally scrapes himself up out of his rumpled bed. His room is messier than it’s ever been, with dirty clothes strewn across the floor, notes and half-eaten snacks left on every flat surface. The television that for ten years had been unused, mounted above his dresser, is presently autoplaying another episode of Supernatural.

Without checking who is calling, Mu Qing rejects the call and tosses his phone on the bed. He crawls to the edge, pale legs dangling as he twists his back, first left, then right, moaning when his spine pops and cracks. He’s dressed in only plain black underwear, his fine flannel pajamas forgotten in a drawer somewhere he hasn’t accessed in months.

It’s been five days and Feng Xin still hasn’t returned. The first day, Mu Qing had gone to work as usual, the muscle memory of his old routines carrying him through the day. He’d brought the robes to work, storing them in his office, where he can use his sophisticated equipment to light and photograph the fabric and their unusual stitching. He’d even gotten desperate enough to email a vermeologist to ask for help identifying the type of silkworm that had produced the exquisite material.

Mu Qing shuffles into his bathroom, where he takes a spacey shower. He doesn’t even realize he’d “shampooed” his hair with conditioner, then “conditioned” it with a $90 face wash.

The rest of the morning follows a similar tenor. He is thoughtless when he dresses, pulling on sloppy acid-wash jeans and a shapeless brown sweater that clashes with his complexion. He is thoughtless when he wanders into the cafe across the street, staring at a point over the cashier’s shoulder as she slowly repeats her request that he please order, sir, you’re holding up the line. And he is thoughtless when he allows his feet to carry him to the Toronto subway stop, where he boards a glossy red train that twenty minutes later deposits him three blocks away from the spot where he’d fallen through time.

He blinks, as if woken from a trance, planted in front of the hand-shaped sign in the front window of the psychic shop. The hand is instructive—STOP! it says to Mu Qing, who still has time to turn back—but instead he approaches the boarded-up front door and tries the knob. It is locked in several places.

Following the same path as Feng Xin, practically down to the footsteps, Mu Qing snakes around the side of the building, combing the worn brick for signs of an unboarded window or door. He spies the dumpster and sighs, grateful to at least be dressed in his ugliest clothes today. It’s a cold day, and Mu Qing shivers as he pulls himself up to his full height on the roof.

“HEY!”

Mu Qing stumbles backward, jerking his head in the direction of the voice. A man in the street, wearing an orange safety vest, is pointing up at him.

“You can’t be up there! This building is cond—hey, hey!”

Mu Qing dives for the door, muttering a silent prayer of thanks to …someone… when he pulls it open, unlocked.

When he scrambles down to the dark of the shop, he’s already too late. The workman who saw him is yanking the boards off the door with surprising speed, and Mu Qing is frozen in place in the musty hallway, eyes not yet adjusted to the low light.

Why the fuck didn’t I do this at night? he wonders.

“Hey man, you can’t be in here. The fuck are you trying to do, rob the place?” the workman yells, pulling open the front door. He stalks down the hallway toward Mu Qing, grasping for his flashlight.

“I j-just…I needed to use the bathroom…”

“Don’t care. I have to escort you off the premises. Now.”

A gloved hand grabs his elbow, pulling him toward where the light of day is shining in through the front door. He is yanked forward as the workman fumbles a walkie-talkie from his belt.

“Yeah, go ahead and call ’em. You never know,” he instructs someone on the other line. The walkie-talkie buzzes, and someone’s crackly voice confirms, “Copy.”

Mu Qing sees the gleam of a doorknob in the light. Inhaling a steadying breath, he grabs the hand gripping his opposite arm, yanking it off and twisting. The workman, taken off guard, falls forward, dropping the walkie-talkie and shrieking with surprise, but he doesn’t let go. Without even thinking, Mu Qing cocks his leg and kicks the man, still hunched over in a twist, directly in the side of the head.

His arm is released immediately. The workman lets out a pained yell, and Mu Qing barely hears him scream, “YOU ASSAULTED M—” when he is throwing open the door to the psychic’s reading room and plunging headfirst into darkness.

The darkness evaporates in seconds, and Mu Qing feels himself tilt sideways. The disorienting sensation feels even worse than usual, and he lets out a little cry as his body spills onto the floor, his own head, in a twist of karmic fate, crashing against a fine porcelain vase and shattering it.

Mu Qing does not know how long he lays on the ground, counting his breaths, his eyes barely cracked to prevent vertigo from squeezing his brain and slamming him against another piece of fine handmade décor. He is still slumped over when a pair of small silk slippers come into view, and he hears a woman’s gasp. Seconds later, someone is wrapping their arm around him, steading his chest with their hand as they slowly tilt his body up and back.

“General!” Pan Yawen is exclaiming. She gets him somewhat vertical and manages to drag them both toward a wall, against which she leans her fearsome General.

Her hands are as small and cold as stones as she places them on his face and neck, checking for any additional injuries. To Mu Qing’s confusion, she seems concerned with his right shoulder, which she keeps pushing and prodding. He wonders if he’s dislocated something and is in too much shock to feel it.

“Your spiritual energy is gone! And…and what are you even wearing? General, did the ghost king do this?”

Mu Qing has no answers for her. He merely rolls his head to the side and whimpers.

Recovering from a concussion in an enormous bed stacked high with cashmeres and fluffy pillows isn’t the worst thing, Mu Qing figures when he next wakes. Someone—Pan Yawen or Shui Shi most likely—has left him a plate of steamed vegetables, tucked beneath a heating talisman. They’re so perfectly spiced, Mu Qing swears he will never, under any circumstances, eat any other stir-fry ever again.

It takes him a day to recover enough to leave his room and slip through the palace, dressed in white under-robes and delicate slippers with red tassels. Though there is no sign of Feng Xin anywhere, Pan Yawen is seated at a table in the study, hunched over a scroll.

Mu Qing is about to clear his throat so as not to startle her, but the gesture would have been useless. Her ears are far too keen.

“If I may be so bold…you really frightened me, General,” she says suddenly, looking up from her work. Mu Qing cannot make out the character or words she is reading; the script is too small and distant from where he stands in the moon-shaped doorway.

“I’m fine. Has anything happened while I was away?”

Pan Yawen tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Pei Ming won the most lanterns at the Mid-Autumn Festival,” she says in a soft voice. “Qi Ying was second. And third was—”

“Sorry, sorry, I meant…anything important?” he interrupts.

Stunned, Pan Yawen does not answer. She finally averts her eyes, folding her hands in her lap. Mu Qing notices that her clothing is far simpler than the elaborate robes that he and the other gods wear. But the robes, though plain, still fit her every muscle and curve. A short dagger is fastened at her waist.

“Perhaps the General disagrees but…I thought he found the Mid-Autumn Festival to be quite important. Or, at least, he used to.”

Fuck.

“It is important to me, and I want a full report detailing everything that transpired.” He is trying to sound as official as possible, mentally scrambling for any shred of theatrical talent in order to squeeze the information he actually cares about out of his supposed subordinate. Ugh, this is why he always hated management work. “But besides the festival, is there anything else…?”

Pan Yawen hesitates, then shakes her head.

“I see. Has there been any news of Feng Xin?” he asks.

“Not yet. You just missed him General,” she says, practically spitting her answer. “For which I assume you are relieved.”

“I…I don’t feel any way about it. He and I have just been working together a lot, and I was curious.”

“Perhaps the General Xuan Zhen should leave General Nan Yang to his own devices.”

Frowning, Mu Qing approaches Pan Yawen, plopping down across from her at the table. She waves her hand, and the scroll she’d been reading refurls itself with a crackly snap.

“Why would you say that?”

“General…might I speak candidly?”

At his nod, she swallows and says, “General Nan Yang is not the caliber of god that General Xuan Zhen is, and it’s as clear to everyone else as it is to me. His own deputies are furious, claiming he’s abandoned them. It’s such an unusual way to treat members of the lower court. Harsh treatment is one thing, but to be totally ignored is another.

“General Nan Yang has never lived up to the example you set as a martial god, my General. Yet again, he has wandered off to the mortal realm, off on his own flights of fancy. He spent all those years allegedly looking for His Highness Xianle, and we all know how that turned out. What a waste of time and resources…”

She is on a roll, and Mu Qing is nodding along with each grievance she lists, despite his lack of context for the withering accusations.

“This faithful one has vastly overstepped. I recognize that Generals Xuan Zhen and Nan Yang have a long history and were boyhood friends during their human lifetimes. But the General of the Southeast is fundamentally naïve, and he grows weaker and more foolish with each passing day.”

“I see,” Mu Qing offers as a way to get her to stop, lest she ask him to weigh in on the quality of a character who is entirely a farce. “Pan Yawen, I value your honesty and insights. Please let me know if you notice any overtly malicious behavior from Nan Yang.”

Cheeks red, Pan Yawen lowers her head in deference.

“Please excuse me.”

Mu Qing waits until he hears the front door to the palace close (though it’s quite far away, the echoes in a space this spacious are remarkable). Then he climbs to his feet and begins his search of the palace, focusing most of his efforts on rifling through Xuan Zhen’s mahogany desks and his bookcases stacked with scrolls.

Though mention is made of ghosts all throughout Xuan Zhen’s papers, they are spoken of as little more than nuisances, generally. Some of the papers are sealed with a signet belonging to Ling Wen, while others contain harsh notes written in the margins in someone else’s handwriting. Most are just things he’d noticed while on patrol in his territories, from monster tracks to the signs of a “ghost king” lurking.

Mu Qing rests his chin in his hand. This isn’t the first time he’s heard reference to the “ghost king.” Well, if anyone can help explain where ghosts come from and how to get their horrifying, decaying bodies back there, it would probably be him.

But the mission reports refer to the ghost king by several different names—and on occasion, Xuan Zhen is at a loss as to which ghost king is responsible for disturbances in the spirit realm. That means that there are multiple, and it’s entirely possible that each one is nastier than the last.

Mu Qing gathers the scrolls in his arms and does his best to return them to their original spots, still mindful of how one misplaced scrap could have an enormous effect on the distant future. He combs through the building one last time, searching for any sign of Feng Xin having been here. A note would have been fucking great, actually. He drafts one of his own, should the “weak and foolish” god return before he makes it back:

To Mr. 34” Inseam: Returning later. Also you’re a fucking idiot and I hate you.

—Mu Qing

He dresses in black robes and pulls his hair into a tall ponytail, his long bangs skimming the sides of his ears. A silver hair piece, left on one of Xuan Zhen’s fine dressers, calls to him, and on a whim, he threads his ponytail through it. The accessory, with its tall shining spire inlaid with rubies, almost resembles a crown. Embarrassed at himself, Mu Qing removes the piece and replaces it with a plain silver band, which gleams against his hair like gunmetal.

To his relief, the streets are mostly deserted. Everything does look a little more “festive,” however, with rows of lanterns hovering over the central avenue. They are not suspended with string, nor do they wave and vibrate like drones.

“Hogwarts ass,” Mu Qing says to himself, but he’s smiling.

Ming Guang’s palace resembles a church on Christmas, it’s so lit up with lanterns. Mu Qing doesn’t even need to knock on the front door; to his surprise and worry, the other martial god is waiting for him at the top step of the grand staircase.

“You knew I was coming?” Mu Qing blurts.

Ming Guang grins.

“You’re not as sneaky as you think you are, General. Someone saw you skulking around like a cat and notified me in the communication array. I take it you’re looking for Nan Yang?”

OK, so these guys definitely have instant group-text technology. Not very reassuring.

“Yes and no,” Mu Qing says. Ming Guang is already motioning him inside, and he talks as he leads them past the tea room where they had convened in the past.

“I was disappointed at the Mid-Autumn Festival when your elegant face didn’t make an appearance.”

“I was preoccupied with business in the mortal realm.”

“Were you now?”

He leads Mu Qing into a room with low lighting and myriad couches and benches, all of which are draped in lush cashmeres and silks. An incense holder shaped like a tiger sits perched on a low cherrywood table, a coil of fragrant smoke drifting from the disintegrating stick held in its jaws. The large open window in the back of the room looks out on a dark garden, where Mu Qing can see shadows and sparkles that dance across the surface of a narrow brook.

“Would you like one?” Ming Guang is asking, and Mu Qing turns to see him settled on a princely settee, holding a pipe in his left hand. The chamber at the end of the instrument is carved from milky jade, and its long stem is a complementary dark emerald, shining like the leaves of the greenery rustling outside.

“For tobacco?” Mu Qing answers immediately.

“I got very rare and flavorful leaves as a prize for placing so high at the Festival,” Ming Guang says.

The sly answer is too risky for Mu Qing, who politely declines and seats himself in a large red chair opposite his host. Ming Guang snaps his fingers and a flame appears at the tip of his index. After carefully placing his lit finger in the shallow bowl of the pipe, he takes a long inhale.

“Do you smoke often?” Mu Qing asks, breaking the fuzzy silence.

“No. So, let’s talk about Nan Yang, shall we? Or, rather, his mortal name, Feng Xin.”

All the color drains from Mu Qing’s face. He springs to his feet, nearly tripping on the thick carpet.

“Look—I can explain—we didn’t mean to—”

Ming Guang waves a hand, laughing. Some of the smoke pushed out of his lungs is propelled into Mu Qing’s panicked face.

“General, please, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has needs, even us gods. It was only a matter of time for you two.”

Mu Qing collapses back into the chair, relief squeezing his heart.

“I’m curious. Are the two of you exclusive?”

“Uh, no. We’re not. I don’t know what…other entanglements he may have,” Mu Qing answers truthfully, vaguely.

“It’s for the best, I think. You’re both smart for approaching it like this. But if you came here thinking you’d find him in my bed, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.”

“I…didn’t think that, General Ming Guang?”

Ming Guang takes another inhale of smoke, then drops his jaw to let the smoke carefully spill out, partially obscuring his handsome face.

“Why so formal? We’re not in the Palace of Divine Might. No one can hear us. You may call me Pei Ming, if you wish.”

“Pei Ming,” Mu Qing repeats. “I wanted to ask about more than just Feng Xin, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do.” His voice is quieter.

“I’m trying to…figure something out. I, uh. I h-had questions about our…c-clothes.”

“Oh?” The smoke cannot hide the luster of Pei Ming’s eyes, pupils smothering his irises in the dim light. “What would you like to know? Have you taken an interest in sculpture, like Crimson Rain?”

Crimson Rain. One of the ghost kings Mu Qing had seen mentioned in Xuan Zhen’s reports—albeit in the vaguest terms possible, occupying little more than footnotes written in a dry tone.

“No. Well, sort of. I wanted to know where I might find the fabric used for your robes?”

“You can have them.” The answer is swift.

“No, no, I don’t want to take anything of yours. I was just looking at my own wardrobe and got to thinking about adding variety.”

Pei Ming is silent for a few seconds. Then he stands, still holding his pipe, and glides to where Mu Qing is sitting (and now trembling). He comes to a stop beside Mu Qing and leans down, snaking his free hand around the back of Mu Qing’s neck, cold gauntlet pressed against his hot nape. A thumb pushes against the side of his mouth, while the length of Pei Ming’s index finger presses against the opposite side. His face hovers just behind Mu Qing’s left ear, the smell of sweet tobacco now blooming in his nose, reaching down into his lungs, his churning belly.

“Variety?” Pei Ming whispers.

“Y-yes.”

Pei Ming presses plush lips to the skin just behind a scorching ear. His thumb and index finger slide from Mu Qing’s cheeks down the sides of his jaw, coming to rest at the center of his throat. His brown calfskin gloves are as soft as butter even as they grip him, fingers tapping.

“I really s-shouldn’t do this,” Mu Qing says, frozen to his seat.

“You’re not doing anything.”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem…”

“I see.” Pei Ming gives his throat a light squeeze and releases it, retracting his arm. He straightens up and takes a heavy drag from the pipe, meeting Mu Qing’s eyes as he exhales. Even with the window open, the room is terribly opaque with smoke. But the smell does not have the stale bite of cigarette smell; instead, it smells even brighter and sweeter than before.

“You should find Nan Yang,” Pei Ming says, returning to his seat. His legs are splayed when he sits. Mu Qing wants to escape out the window like a bug.

“Yes,” Mu Qing says. His throat feels dry.

“You have no clue where he is, do you?” Pei Ming says before taking another drag from his pipe.

“I imagine he’s somewhere on earth.”

“You imagine? What if he’s in the ghost realm? What if this rising ghost king is whisking him away, just like Crimson Rain did to your friend Xie Lian?”

Mu Qing, well beyond suspending his disbelief by this point, perks up at the mention of ghosts.

“I know he’s investigating something to do with ghosts. I just don’t know all the details.”

“Well, if you want help, then tell me what you do know.”

Mu Qing explains the situation in terms as vague as he can muster. He describes Feng Xin’s macabre visions, saying they occurred “on earth” but not clarifying that they happened (or, well, will happen) in the twenty-first century.

“My fear is we’ve accidentally done something to anger them. We just don’t know what.”

Pei Ming laughs, smoke shooting out of his mouth and nostrils as he does so.

“You don’t know what? General, with all due respect, did Feng Xin knock you on the head while the two of you were dual cultivating? Before you left Heaven, you and Feng Xin both were exorcising a few dozen ghosts a year at least! Half of the vengeful souls and their families in all of the southwest probably have it out for you. The question is, why would they wait until now to do anything about it?”

Mu Qing blinks as this information is dumped on him. He knows ghost hunting is part of the job description for gods up here, provided they’re creating enough of a nuisance and mortal cultivators can’t take care of them, but to be responsible for pissing off hundreds of years’ worth of the undead…No wonder Feng Xin is the most haunted guy in Toronto.

“I really don’t know. Believe me, if I did, I’d have fixed it by now.”

“I like this new side of you, General,” Pei Ming says, with a knowing smile. “The Xuan Zhen of half a century ago would have never expressed interest in ‘fixing’ much of anything. In any case, I’m afraid this issue is outside the jurisdiction of any of us, save perhaps for Xie Lian, who is a prince of hell in a way. If I were you, I’d start by looking around Ghost City. Perhaps don a disguise.”

“Ah, I see. I don’t think I have any wigs in my palace, though.”

“Always such a smartass,” Pei Ming grumbles around the mouthpiece of his pipe. “Most of the ghosts there are pretty useless, in my experience, but if you can find the Waning Moon Officer, you’ll have access to all the knowledge of the ghost realm. Almost nothing gets past that man. If General Qi Ying were around, I’d tell you to go to him first, as the two of them have an interesting connection…but he tends to disappear for stretches of time, probably making trouble for mortals.”

“Waning Moon Officer—how will I know when I’ve found him? What does he look like?”

Pei Ming is not holding smoke in his mouth, but he opens it anyway, but says nothing. His eyebrows pinch.

“You know, I’m not sure I could tell you. He’s fairly unremarkable. Hm…dark hair? And he sometimes wears a mask.”

Mu Qing presses for more specifics: height, weight, eye color, age? But Pei Ming can only shrug in between puffs of his pipe.

Having spared all the help he can without actually getting his gloves dirty, Pei Ming regards Mu Qing with a playful look as he dumps the ashes from the bowl of the pipe in a vase, then sets it down. He crosses his legs.

“General, if you’re not planning on staying the night, you really might consider leaving. I’ve given you leads. Unless you’re waiting for me to give you something else?” His eyes are trained on Mu Qing’s pale neck.

Mu Qing gets the picture and scrambles to his feet.

“No, no, I should be going. That kind of help won’t be necessary. But please, come find me if Feng Xin returns? Or ask one of my deputies to come to me.”

“Still won’t give me the password to your private array, I see,” Pei Ming says with a sigh. “You won’t spare me the humiliation and vulnerability of telling you how gorgeous you look out loud.”

“Message received, trust me,” Mu Qing says, heading toward the grand hallway. The heels of his boots click against the oiled wood floor once he steps off the thick rugs of the parlor. “Could I ask for one last favor?”

“Anything,” Pei Ming purrs, probably not meaning it at all.

“Could you help me get to the ghost realm…? My spiritual energy is, uh, still low.”

Pei Ming stands and approaches his fellow general, a hand coming to rest on the small of Mu Qing’s back as he guides him toward the front door.

“It would be my pleasure, General. Though before you leave, might I transfer some of my spiritual energy to you? Just in case you need it down there.”

Mu Qing hopes he can still escape when the “energy transfer” inevitably doesn’t work and he’s discovered as a false god. Maybe he can beg for his life and be allowed to work in one of these nice palaces. That wouldn’t be so bad, and it certainly beats sewing the plainest, most unremarkable suits for the crankiest jerks in Canada.

They walk along the main avenue, Pei Ming’s hand never leaving Mu Qing’s back as they do. He tells Mu Qing about idle gossip in heaven, including conjecture that some gods’ deputies have been sneaking around together and shirking their duties to try and wrest more and more control from the upper courts. Mu Qing does not offer his opinion, which he is sure would be unwelcome anyway—that maybe these second-class citizens should be given more opportunities to tackle major challenges, if it will improve the lives of mortal people, who otherwise are left to depend on overworked gods who are operating on reduced staff and no department head.

“Would you like me to draw the array?” Pei Ming asks. They’ve arrived at the platform at the edge of the heavenly village, and Mu Qing is already climbing the stairs, hoping his trembling is hidden by his robes.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, attempting to sound unruffled.

Pei Ming squats on the platform and carves into the stone with his finger, as if playing in wet sand and not black rock. The path of circles and dashes he carves glows a soft green, and when he’s finished, the array disappears, swallowed up in a column of borealis green.

“Thank you, General, I’ll be sure to—”

“Didn’t you want your manna topped off?” Pei Ming asks, hands on his hips.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

Mu Qing is not ready for Pei Ming to fold him into his arms and dive for a kiss. And it’s a fucking kiss—his lips are parted and his breath, still flavored with spicy smoke, is hot. He adjusts his head as he kisses Mu Qing, pulling away and then going back for more.

If he were back in Toronto, at the occasional gay nightclub, where things like this sometimes happen, Mu Qing would have pushed him away and made a comment about how he doesn’t fuck ugly people. But shit, Pei Ming is extremely not ugly, and this is probably the hottest kiss of Mu Qing’s ungodly life, and his body has never felt so fucking warm. It’s almost too much, like wearing clothes while they’re actively being ironed with you in them, but just as the heat starts to overwhelm him, Pei Ming pulls away. Every square inch of his skin is prickly like static. He’s afraid to touch anything for fear of a lightning strike missiling out of his fingers.

“That should be enough. Just enough to get you through a pinch of trouble or two,” Pei Ming says, patting Mu Qing on the ass as he pulls away. Without waiting for the dazed Mu Qing to respond, he gently pushes him into the array, where he’s swallowed by the green light.

This whole “teleport” business never gets any easier. Mu Qing spills on the ground, clutching his stomach and heaving from the vertigo. There’s already an unbearable shrill sound in his ears, and he scrapes his palms on the ground as he stumbles and falls.

Once he’s at least steadied himself on his knees, Mu Qing realizes that the shrill sound isn’t coming from inside his suffering ear drums. Instead, it’s coming from a cluster of women who are standing several yards away. He stares at them, his breathing slow, and watches as they scream, their heads thrown back, not even forming any words. The tops of their robes are drab but dry, but just below their waists are massive wet blood stains, which dampen their skirts and stick to their legs.

Mu Qing crawls as far away as he can, ducking behind what looks like an abandoned hut. He can hear other voices, ones not belonging to the screaming women, from nearby. He’s been deposited by the array in a grassy area just outside of what sounds like a busy town, its lights flickering against the black of the sky.

Ah, so this is the ghost realm. He was expecting more fire and pitchforks.

Still in a half-crouch, Mu Qing crawls into an alley that leads to the main street. He does not notice the tall shadow that follows him, nor the scent of blood, nor the atmosphere of fury. From behind a pile of huge sharp bones, Mu Qing observes the street, watching with wide eyes as, for lack of a better term, monsters roam the dirty boulevard. Some are humans with their guts spilling from their abdomens, while others are wretched man-animal hybrids, with bat wings or tails or hideous needle-like teeth. Women laugh and tug one another’s hair, their robes tied so loosely at their slim waists that their breasts are fully visible. A man missing his entire head stumbles by.

OK, so maybe Pei Ming describing the Waning Moon Officer as someone deeply unremarkable-looking was actually far more helpful than he’d expected.

Gulping down his fear, Mu Qing finally rises to his full height, shaking like a fawn. He’s already running scenarios in his head of how to slip into the hoi polloi without drawing attention to himself; there are some humans in the crowd of the damned, but they all wear vicious snarls or have eyes rolling with madness. He’s been told his whole life he has a terribly mean, unapproachable face. Time to finally make use of it.

But he never does. When he takes a step toward the street, an arm slips around his waist, jerking him backward.

“P-pei Ming?” he stammers. “Did you follow—mf!”

A thick piece of leather is stuffed into his mouth, gagging him. His arms are yanked behind his back, both wrists held in place by just one of his captor’s ice-cold hands, long pointed nails digging into his flesh. Blood is already collecting in his palm and dribbling to the filthy ground.

“Where,” a low voice says directly into his ear, “the fuck,” he’s yanked again, slamming his front into the wall, a second frigid hand closing around the back of his neck, “is Xie Lian?”