Chapter Text
Two cultivators meet on a golden bridge.
It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke– Two cultivators walk into a tavern– except nothing about their situation is a joke, or even particularly funny. It's a pretty unfortunate situation, actually, or even borderline awful, all considering.
It is also not the exact truth–not the whole entire story–because the broad sweeping statement happened brushed under the rug, for the sake of convenience and simplicity, some very critical information.
So, more accurately, two demonic cultivators meet on the Golden Bridge in land that, while beyond the reach of the living, is not quite as far as the land of the dead.
Yet. Not the land of the dead yet. Another very important modifier.
While the two demonic cultivators existed in very different points in time, they have–quite coincidentally, and almost impossibly–managed to find themselves at the same crossroad: the one which exists between being alive, and being dead.
One of the demonic cultivators has been resting in a state of forcefully found peace for nearly thirteen years, while the other is newly almost-dead. Oddly, it is the newly almost-dead demonic cultivator who finds the most comfort in their strange set of circumstances.
“You want me to do what?” the long-almost-dead demonic cultivator exclaims, throwing his hands wildly into the air, a flurry of unstoppable and vaguly-transparent movement. If he still had his corporal body, then he would have long worn a hole through the Golden Bridge with his thirteen years of pacing, the nearly-almost-dead demonic cultivator has no doubt. An astute observation and a very accurate estimate, considering the two demonic cultivators have known one another for all of three minutes.
He tries to explain once more, but his senior pushes on with all the grace of a raging bull, “You– you! You cannot just expect me to uproot my life here and go along with your silly scheme!”
Pointedly looking at the non-existent landscape around the bridge–barren of both life and scenery–the newly-almost-dead cultivator seems to say ‘What life?’ with his eyes and slight tilt of his head.
The bridge exists in a void, after all, with the only other stable point of existence being the path which leads both up to, and away from, the bridge. The dirt path cuts harshly through the abyss of white nothingness. Before the bridge, the path is worn–tread down upon from the weight of millions of earthly feet–but after, the dirt is smooth. Untouched. Beyond the Golden Bridge is the lack of existence entirely: the promise of being released from the cosmos for souls who have been good.
Unfortunately for the newly-almost-dead demonic cultivator, his judgemental look serves only to rile up his senior once more, based on the way he anxiously wrings his hands and prepares for another tangent.
“I want revenge,” the newly-almost-dead demonic cultivator states again, for clarity and also for the purpose of hopefully avoiding another tangent, “I do not want to live anymore, and I thought that you would be a fearsome ghost who could come back and make my family pay for their actions.”
The Yiling Patriarch–also known as the very-dead demonic cultivator–scoffs, “Of course, of course. What else should I have expected? All you have to do is make a few little mistakes, maybe start a little tiny war and instill a lot of terror, and you get branded as a demon for life!”
Utterly unamused, Mo Xuanyu insists further, “I gave up my life for revenge… so the least you can do is honor my sacrifice! My life may not be worth a lot to anyone else, but certainly it must mean something to you. This is another chance!”
“To do what?”
Stumped, Mo Xuanyu looks away, beyond the Yiling Patriach and along the bridge, towards his fated destination: the beautiful non-existence beyond the Golden Bridge and at the end of the smooth dirt path. An opportunity which he hadn’t, necessarily, believed to be possible in light of his sinful life on earth, and was minorly freaking out over. Honestly, Mo Xuanyu thought himself to be holding it together remarkably well, considering he hadn’t thought that summoning the ghostly spirit of the fearsome Yiling Patriarch would result in actually communing with him, much less communing with him on the Golden Bridge.
Which was another thing.
“How are you here?” Mo Xuanyu asks, “On the Golden Bridge? Shouldn’t you be punished for your evil actions?”
He half-expects another tangent, or perhaps some grand and circular reasoning why the Yiling Patriarch isn’t “that bad” or something along the like. Only, the ghostly apparition of the most terrifying man to ever live, the demon meant to scare children into behaving, just shrugs.
“Beats me.”
How incredibly frustrating.
“Well….” Mo Xuanyu draws out thoughtfully, carefully burying his frustration, “You have yet to cross the bridge in all the years you have been here, so there has to be a reason. Maybe you are waiting for another chance!”
In an instant, a dark, thunderous anger wipes away any traces of amusement and patience, and for a moment, Mo Xuanyu wonders if the Yiling Patriarch will hit him, then spends another second wondering if ghosts are even able to make contact with one another. Then another second wondering if assulting someone on the Golden Bridge is enough to damn a person for life. But Yiling Patriach does not assult him, surprisingly, and simply storms toward the end of the bridge, as if he will prove Mo Xuanyu wrong by passing onto the next life right this instant.
“Wait!” Mo Xuanyu protests. If the Yiling Patriarch were to pass on now, then Mo Xuanyu might never get his revenge. But he need not have worried, as the instant the Yiling Patriarch steps off the Golden Bridge and onto the perfect dirt path, he vanishes.
“Now do you see?” The Yiling Patriarch somehow complains from behind Mo Xuanyu, who whips his head around in utter confusion. His voice sounds far more childish than a fearsome person such as the Yiling Patriarch should ever be able to manage, “I am unable to leave.”
The anger has already faded from his face, and Mo Xuanyu cannot help but wonder if there had ever truly been anger to begin with, or if it had more so been a deep frustration that came from the unwelcome reminder of his situation. Tentatively, he murmurs, “Maybe my ‘silly scheme’ isn’t so silly now. You… you might be able to leave, if we switch places. If your soul goes back to my body, then my soul can peacefully pass on.”
“Your soul will pass on peacefully regardless,” the Yiling Patriarch corrects idly, already resuming his pacing, “As there is no going back for you. But I suppose you are right in other ways. Your body is empty of a soul and free for me to take, as your sacrificial offering and shitty summoning circle opened up a ‘backdoor’–a link, you could say, to the afterlife–which would free me from this state of limbo. And, I suppose, you might also rest easier knowing that your revenge will be enacted.”
Mo Xuanyu nods his head eagerly in agreement, practically bouncing on his toes in excitement.
“So? So? Will you do it?” If Mo Xuanyu were in the Yiling Patriarch’s place, he would not have to be convinced to try his hand at living once more. It would be shameful–resorting to begging, just for the Yiling Patriarch to take advantage of Mo Xuanyu’s freely offered second chance–had Mo Xuanyu long stopped feeling such an emotion.
The Yiling Patriarch sighs, and Mo Xuanyu slumps, thinking that his offer is about to be flatly refused, when a hand lands gently on his head, patting it twice before falling away. Looking up in surprise, he notes that Yiling Patriarch is not looking at Mo Xuanyu at all, but rather, onward, toward the path that would have led him towards eternal peace and freedom from reincarnation, had he not been refused such an opportunity.
“I am sorry,” he says regretfully, and it is only now that Mo Xuanyu realizes how tired the Yiling Patriarch looks: worn and forced into a place of eternal-waiting, “But if you truly wish for me to enact your revenge, then you might be waiting here for a while with me.”
Mo Xuanyu’s bewilderment must be obvious, as the Yiling Patriarch continues without missing a beat, “I am not my entire self at the moment. When I died, my soul was… split in two, one might say. I ended up on the Golden Bridge, while the other half… went somewhere I cannot reach, and do not know the location of. And so…”
“You’re stuck,” Mo Xuanyu finishes, wide-eyed, “That is why you can’t move on. But… but does that mean the other half is still alive? Wherever it is? Since you haven’t been reunited?”
Letting out a deep sigh, the Yiling Patriarch nods, leaving Mo Xuanyu’s side to smooth hop over the railing of the Golden Bridge, where he then sits, legs swinging over the edge. It is extremely disrespectful. It is also , Mo Xuanyu concedes, the only place to sit other than the ground.
Not to mention the fact that the Yiling Patriarch has been stuck in a state of limbo for thirteen years, so some leniency in regards to etiquette could probably be afforded. Besides, Mo Xuanyu has lived in a shed for the past few years, and sacrificed his life in exchage for revenge, so perhaps he is not the best judge for other's etiquette and decorum. All of which means, of course, that he doesn’t hesitate to sit alongside the Yiling Patriarch in series of far less graceful movements.
“The last I remember,” he starts slowly, once Mo Xuanyu is seated, before immediately backtracking, “Well, I do not remember much, let's be clear, and the validity of my last memories are… ahem. My point being, in the split second between being alive and being almost-dead, I remember staring in the direction of the Golden Bridge. There was a presence against my back–that of my own existence, splintered in two. He was faced toward another destiny, one backwards from mine. I do not know who–or what–said it, or if the words were even spoken aloud… but I remember hearing this: prove yourself worthy of redemption.”
The Yiling Patriarch looks at Mo Xuanyu patiently, and he straightens, realizing that the older ghost wanted to know his thoughts on the matter, “Maybe… maybe I’m your redemption,” he hedges, and hopes he has not been too bold, “A second chance at life with the same memories. No one really gets those, so…”
Pleased, the Yiling Patriarch nods, and Mo Xuanyu feels a strange sense of pride, fleeting as it is. “Good job. That is what I suspect, too, now that you are here. Before, I thought that redemption meant being able to cross the Golden Bridge, but now…”
“When will your other half show up, then?” Mo Xuanyu asks into the extended silence.
The Yiling Patriarch shrugs. “I suppose he should show up when his task is done, join back up with me, and then we’ll move on to this redemption . Or something. This is all new to me, so I am not an accurate resource.”
“Alright,” Mo Xuanyu tries swinging his legs, too, and likes the freedom of it. He looks out into the barren void as if it would have suddenly changed since the last time he looked. It had not.
“I’ll wait with you,” he decides, before an alarming thought strikes him, “Wait! Won’t my body decay? Then you won’t be able to go back to it!”
Waving a dismissive hand, the Yiling Patriarch shrugs once more, “Aiya… don’t fret so much. Time passes differently here. I, myself, don't even know how long it has been in the land of the living. I am sure that your thoughtful gift won’t go to waste. We might be here for a while, and years may yet pass for the other half of my soul, but I am sure that in your time, barely any time will have passed at all.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Mhm.”
For a moment, Mo Xuanyu worries that he might potentially spend a small eternity kicking his legs in silence, but the Yiling Patriarch breaks it, “Before you arrived, I had been in the middle of heralding the abyss with the wild tales of my youth.” His eyes sparkle as he leans over to whisper conspiratorially to Mo Xuanyu, “Don’t tell it, but I might be exaggerating. Would you like to listen in?”
Mo Xuanyu can only muster up the slightest dregs of embarrassment at how eager he is at the prospect, considering the Yiling Patriarch apparently talks to himself aloud, which is far more embarrassing, even for a ghost. Still, he tries not to show too much excitement as he nods.
The loud, explosive laugh that erupts from the Yiling Patriarch–and nearly startles Mo Xuanyu right off the railing of the bridge and into the void, had an almost-incorporeal hand not snagged the back of his clothes–tells him he must not have done a very good job at doing so.