Chapter Text
It was always night among the stars. Before the huge bay windows of the Huanyue II, Yan Wushi stood with his hands linked behind his back, watching the vast blackness of deep space rush by. Yu Shengyan, seated in the captain’s chair before an array of blinking buttons, gave him a wary look as his hands flew over the control panel.
Usually Yan Wushi would pilot his ship himself, but these days he was waiting on a comm from Bian Yanmei back in the Northern Zhou star system, and in the meantime—well, his disappointing second disciple needed to get some experience.
All was silent, save for the occasional tap of some button on the console and the low electric hum that suffused the spacecraft, until a high pitched, rhythmic beeping began to emit from Yu Shengyan’s headset.
“Shizun,” Yu Shengyan said, “there’s a signal. An automated distress call.”
“Ignore it,” Yan Wushi said. He didn’t much believe in automated distress calls, and he had disabled the ones programmed into his ships long ago. “If anyone is idiotic or unlucky enough to get stranded in this kind of place, they don’t deserve to have a ship.”
He leveled a pointed glare at Yu Shengyan, who shivered.
“Wait a second, shizun, this is the signal of one of Hehuan’s ships.” Yu Shengyan’s eyes suddenly widened, and if he weren’t piloting the ship, he probably would have raised himself out of the captain’s chair. “Not just one of their ships. This—this is their flagship!”
“Their flagship?” Yan Wushi’s eyes narrowed. “Get us out of warp.”
“Yes, shizun,” Yu Shengyan said, and the ship jolted then slowed. Yan Wushi scoffed a little—at Yu Shengyan’s age, he never had anything other than a perfect descent out of warp—but gave him a reprieve this time. From the window, Yan Wushi watched as the faint silver dot of a ship emerged from the swallowing darkness of space. It was gaudy in a way only Hehuan ships were, all gleaming silver and crisscrossing lines. Indeed, Sang Jingxing’s flagship, floating prone in the darkness. As they came closer, Yan Wushi could see that one side of the ship was listing dangerously, and the other bore scorched marks that testified to battle. One engine was torn off completely.
“Only one life signal,” Yu Shengyan reported. “And weak, too. I’ve been trying to hail their comms but whoever it is, they haven’t responded.”
“Make port,” Yan Wushi ordered.
“Yes, shizun.” Yu Shengyan drew a breath, then hesitated. “But, Sang Jingxing. He’s always been a crafty one. Could it be a trap or—”
At Yan Wushi’s look, he shut his mouth with an audible click.
“Look at the state of the spacecraft,” Yan Wushi said. “And try to say that again. I’d be surprised if it had oxygen, let alone something like firing power. A pilot must know their ship. You’ve been neglecting this particular aspect of your training, haven’t you?”
“My apologies, shizun,” Yu Shengyan said, his voice subdued. “I’ll read up on it later, I promise—”
“Leave it. Go ahead and dock.”
As the Huanyue II moved closer and closer to the Hehuan, the extent of the damage became clearer than ever. The ship was ravaged, the inner bowels of the spacecraft exposed to open space, jagged peaks of metal sprouting from every direction. Luckily, the docking ring looked intact.
The ship eased, and began to turn. The sleek metal of the Hehuan slipped past the windows as the Huanyue II closed in on the docking target and moored with a smooth click and a shudder. Yu Shengyan’s frame visibly relaxed. Gently, he lifted off his headset and turned to look at Yan Wushi.
“A smooth dock, at least,” Yan Wushi said, and turned to the door to punch in the code. The door slid open with a click, revealing sleek chrome that expanded into a high-ceilinged room. Yan Wushi had no doubt that in normal scenarios, the Hehuan would have security measures to prevent a foreign spacecraft from docking in this manner, but with all the systems, including the central AI, down, he’d be surprised if any security system was still in place.
“According to the ship, the life signal is on the bridge,” Yu Shengyan said, as he walked over to join Yan Wushi.
Yan Wushi gave a low hum of acknowledgement.
The two picked through the ship, past the tight hallways, past conference rooms littered with broken shards of glass and wood, past what would’ve been the mess hall. It was eerie, how empty and silent it was. Normally, this ship would have a crew of at least seventy people. But there was no sign, anywhere, of life—no blood, no bodies, only the faint hiss of each automatic door as it opened.
Finally, the two found their way to a set of metal double doors, which, once slid open, revealed a bridge similar to the one on the Huanyue II, albeit about two times larger. The windows that wrapped around nearly the entirety of the bridge gave the impression that they were standing in open space. Holographic panels, now powered off, wrapped around the front of the bridge in a semicircle. The captain’s chair, made out of silk and gold, stood on a raised dais near the center of the room.
The first thing Yan Wushi noticed was the copper tang of blood. Sprawled, not near the captain’s chair but at the foot of the pilot’s seat, was a slim body, wearing near-transparent red robes that glimmered with beads, some of which lay fallen and smashed on the ground. Blood stained the floor by the body. Yan Wushi’s eyes narrowed. This was not Sang Jingxing.
Yu Shengyan rushed forward to flip the body over. As he did, his eyes widened, and he stumbled backwards.
“Who is it?” Yan Wushi asked, with a note of impatience.
“This—this is Shen Qiao!”
Heir of Xuandu, Shen Qiao. Disciple of Qi Fengge, Shen Qiao. Missing for nine months, Shen Qiao. Yan Wushi still remembered when Yu Ai, in tears, had announced to the galaxy that Shen Qiao had gone missing, perhaps kidnapped or captured.
Yan Wushi stepped closer. Shen Qiao’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut, as if in pain. There was an angelic, otherworldly quality to him, marred by weeping gashes which ran across his body and a large mottled bruise where his robes had fallen open. It looked like he had been in an explosion—the worst injury was to his neck, where the flesh up to his left ear was burned and charred. Exposed bone, seemingly hastily reconstructed with a regenerator, peeked out of the open wound of his face. Blood pooled around his head. It certainly contrasted with the soft paleness of his skin.
“Ah,” Yan Wushi breathed, and smiled. “Perhaps space travel has not grown so tedious after all.”
He turned to Yu Shengyan. A little lamb, so far from home, in such a condition, shrouded by such mystery, was an interesting thing indeed. “Take him onto the ship.”
*
He woke to darkness, and pain. A low warmth enveloped his body, and a soft buzzing rang in his ears. Unwillingly, he made a small noise of discomfort.
Who am I? Where am I? He remembered a flash of unbearable heat. Agony like a knife to every nerve. The tang of copper and the nauseating aroma of burning flesh. A voice screaming that he was not sure was his own. Everything else escaped him completely, silver minnows slipping out of his hands.
“Don’t move,” a voice said. Whoever it was, they sounded young. Masculine. “We just picked you up last night. You’re still very injured.”
“This—kind stranger,” he forced out through cracked lips, “where—who am I?
There was a moment of silence. “Your name is Shen Qiao,” the voice said. “And you are on my shizun, Yan-zongzhu’s ship.”
He could not remember anyone named Yan-zongzhu, or, if he were to be honest, anyone at all, but Shen Qiao. There was a familiarity to that name. A cascade of memory, too fast to identify—Shen Qiao! in a voice clear and ringing as bells, Shen Qiao? in a deep, warm voice, Shen Qiao in a low rasp by his ear—he shuddered, just a little. With immense effort, he dragged his eyes open.
A beat. Two. “Sir,” he said finally, his own breath loud and ragged in his ears, “I can’t see.”