Chapter Text
[ ACTIVATION CODE: “Dumbfuck author! Dumbfuck novel!” ]
[ SYNCHRONIZING… ]
[ ERROR! ERROR! ERROR! ]
[ RECALIBRATING… ]
[ SYNCHRONIZING… ]
[ TRANSFER COMPLETE: “Good luck, Host!” ]
─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─
Shen Yuan wakes up blearily. As per his usual routine, he heaves a long sigh and peels his face up off the desk. After rubbing his eyes and blinking a few times, he casually glances around and… frowns. This definitely isn’t his room, but—
“Shit!”
He startles from his seat, throwing out a hand to keep the lit candle from tipping over and utterly decimating the piles upon piles of paper—a rush of energy shoots through him and instantly extinguishes it just before he physically reaches it. Shen Yuan frowns at his hand, taking an extra helping of care while he fixes the candle. Once it’s upright again, he feebly flexes the hand in question. It’s still buzzing with energy, like a less painful version of that pins-and-needles sensation. Isn’t this a bit, well, extreme for a dream?
Wait. His eyes catch a fleck of gold. Please, don’t be what he thinks it is.
Scrunching up his face, Shen Yuan plucks one of the several official, sealed letters shoved in this corner and holds it closer to the open window. He curses to himself. Moon, you traitor! Couldn’t you have dramatically revealed literally anything except Huan Hua’s old emblem before Luo Binghe took over?
Okay. So, he’s dreaming about Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s wretched novel now. Great! Really, just great! And here he thought he was done with that trash after choking—
Shen Yuan pinches the bridge of his nose and, very elegantly, sinks back down into the chair at his desk and ends up covering his entire face with his hands. Right. Well, being trapped in his own personal nine rings of hell à la Proud Immortal Demon Way in a comatose state can’t be the worst fate out there.
Yeah, right! Couldn’t anything else have sent him into this fever dream? Once he wakes up from this, he’s never going to get any allowance to waste on such shittily (cummily?) strung along worldbuilding ever again. Just the thought of his meimei walking in on him and unwittingly reading that complete and utter dogshit excuse for a final passage—he’s going to grind his teeth into dust just thinking about it—for this webnovel that only people with literal webs in their thick skulls could possibly derive pleasure from? It’s enough to give him hives! Literal hives!
Ugh. If it came to light, he just hopes she assured the rest of his family he would hate it to the grave. But don't cut his life support yet, because he still needs to leave a rating on the site so he can publicly denounce all engagement with it too: Zero of ten. Don't waste your fucking time.
Shen Yuan reluctantly lets his hands fall from his face and pokes at the papers scrawled around his desk. The sheer number of them definitely represents the onslaught of tabs his poor computer endured in the name of writing up bios on each of the wives. Initially, it really was just meant to be a few messy notes here and there for his own reference, but after O’ Great Master Airplane thought he’d be slick slipping in Wife #520 with the exact same name and similar lithe but muscular frame, and alluring raven eyes, and blah blah blah type appearance as Wife #113 when she was introduced in Chapter 748, what else was he supposed to do but clean it up and publicly shame him?
Of course, after Shen Yuan anonymously released the timeline on the wives, Airplane miraculously decided to immediately start yet another arc that was barely worth its salt: introducing some nonsense as to how Wife #520 was actually a shapeshifter who experienced a vastly different (but just as, if not more horrific) childhood and clung to the idea of Wife #113, Ren Yijun, as this one person who was resilient beyond measure. After the girl passed through the town, it was apparently easy enough to emulate her out of some sort of deep admiration keeping her attached throughout their years apart.
Needless to say, it ended in a very tearful threesome wherein papapa cured every single heart demon.
Shen Yuan was steaming the entire weekend while reading through the contrived scribes written on that literal piss-poor tissue paper. Maybe, just maybe, in a moment of weakness, he dared to think Airplane really could work with a spur of the moment prompt. A friendship like that between harem members could’ve been cool, right? Not that it fucking matters!
Oh! He could rip his hair out at it all! It’s enough to regurgitate buckets of blood and nothing but blood. All that time spent meticulously keeping the Wife Timeline updated as a way to get back at Airplane, the naive little jump in his chest when he realized Airplane actually recognized her as the 520th wife and meant to use that thematically, and then the bastard just proves all they know is porn and trauma porn all over again!
But now that he’s actually here, he really should get a lay of the land. Even if these papers, he squints at them, really are just his past mistakes haunting his subconscious.
…
Yeah, no. He doesn’t understand any of this, and not just because he’s grown tired of this world. They’re probably taxes for the Cang Qiong Sect, considering the names put to each of those huge numbers and the various materials marked beneath, but it’s way too much to dig into right now.
That’s just as well. There are other, classic ways to get the lay of the land anyway, and the darkness will definitely help him from seeming like he’s just some bumbling fool if he gets lost during his evening stroll.
Speaking of… he glances down at himself and fusses a little with the sash, debating whether or not to keep the beizi—but another rush of wind through the open window quickly decides that for him. Shivering, he stubbornly closes it. Before the stifling air can get to him, he quickly slides open the door of his office and lets himself wander along. The hallway leading from the office he found himself in is elegant enough, with rich material on the floor that almost seems to reflect moonlight too well in its eerie little engravings, but its pattern is thankfully nothing too extravagant.
Following the gentle lit path on the floor, it doesn’t take long at all to make his way toward the main part of this upper hall, well-enforced with grand, granite pillars and a large banner hanging far above displaying each peak woven in their designated colors. Shen Yuan can’t help but stop and admire it in-person. Sure, yeah, the whole rainbow-colored rainbow bridges nonsense is tacky in and of itself, but it is cool to think of someone actively making an effort through each one to sew in a gradient that blends the peaks together. At a glance, he didn’t even realize they were several tapestries.
Outside of that, the whole area’s surprisingly naturally well-lit. Some of the stragglers (hall masters, maybe?) still hold up small lanterns to guide themselves, but the huge arcs spanning each wall let in more than enough moonlight to keep people from tripping over themselves.
Not that Shen Yuan was ever worried about that. Obviously.
Carefully descending the stairs, he realizes there’s an inner garden surrounding the entire plateau and his heart practically sings. It takes everything in him to not immediately rush outside and inspect every single plant—most of Airplane’s writing is shit that stains the wall, yeah, but they occasionally manage to stumble across little hooks of worldbuilding that trap Shen Yuan in PIDW’s notoriously ignored sunk-cost fallacy. Little thrills like these, building up a detailed ecosystem for the monsters, that kept him engaged with the world amidst all the brainless filler.
And, look, it’s not like the hallways before were lifeless per se. But small potted plants could never live up to such a lush garden surrounding him on every side.
Shen Yuan darts into one of the sections of the garden closest to the stairs, grinning like a man gone mad. He’s tempted to slap himself to school his expression, but before he can work up the courage to (the wind’s already biting him! ruthlessly!), he recognizes a Heaven’s borough beneath one of the large floral trees not in season. Rushing to kneel at its side, he realizes it’s already blossoming around its most favored coupling: a jade-eyed root! Although it is an extremely effective antidote to the acidic and near-parasitic nature of frenzied split-tongued vultures, its essence can easily be twisted. It wilts under intense sunlight, upon which it releases a toxic gas once its ‘eye’ closes, making summer a dangerous time for exploring high mountains. On the other hand, if it doesn’t receive enough warmth in these cold months, it turns into a potent poison that effortlessly mimics the taste of whatever it’s infused with. Only when it’s defended by the warmth of the Heaven’s borough can it achieve its best form.
Unfortunately, the borough is a very loyal thing. Unless it was planted alongside its intended at conception, the chances of it forming enough of a bond to defend it is null. And, since the borough is technically a weed, it’s basically doomed to die unless it forms a connection with another plant that, with nurturing, can actually sustain them both.
Does that make this Qian Cao? Shen Yuan was always under the impression Mu Qingfang had to be further down the mountain to have easier access to disciples after missions, considering the very few times Luo Binghe stumbled into the master healer’s line of sight, so he didn’t even think of the possibility they’d have the altitude meant for either of these to truly thrive.
Shen Yuan glances around and immediately spots a vase filled to the brim with flame lilies against the outer entrance that he’d missed in his hurry to look at the main attractions. This close, in his thick-layered gear, he almost feels too warm. It emanates qi against his sore cheek, soothing all that was abused by the wind flailing about.
When it recognizes his own qi signature, he almost gasps. Now that it’s consciously offering the strength of its petals, it’s so soft, too... Shen Yuan feels it flow through his worn spiritual veins and soothe another ache he didn’t even realize was there. After all this time, he had to get accustomed to shelving away the pain brought on by his sensitive nerves. It was much easier to ignore when he was distracted; physical work would exacerbate it, but he had plenty of stuff to hold him over thanks to the glory of the internet. Whether he was in the hospital or at home, it was his digital distraction that kept him thriving well enough!
One thing the internet does not have, though, is cultivation. Summoning what’s probably a small amount of energy, he steps away and tries sending little bursts of qi to twirl it around. It takes a bit more concentration to manipulate it than he expects, but… so fucking worth it!
“Ah—Shizun?”
A girl’s voice startles him from his victory. Shen Yuan can’t even look to see who it was—his body completely freezes in place at the shock, quickly abandoning any warmth he’d gained through the connection with the flame lilies. A ‘shizun’ wouldn’t grumble, but at least he can indulge the ravings of his bruised heart silently. Only natural that his body’s a traitor no matter the world, ah?
“Deepest apologies, this disciple only meant to see if Shizun was well.”
Shen Yuan slowly unlocks his arms and manages to peek behind himself, turning around with all the graceful loftiness expected of an immortal master, and looks over her properly. The girl can’t be more than his meimei’s age, can she? Maybe eighteen at most, but he’s not betting any more than that. She seems tall, all things considered, but has yet to grow into that lankiness. That stature must be a bit stressful to bear, considering she’s clearly the quiet and studious sort. The light uniform is in pristine condition, with her dark hair tied back in a half-up style and with braids resting on her shoulders. She’s staring him down with a nervous bitten lip while she goes on.
“Mu-shishu,” and, it’s not her fault, but he deflates at confirmation this isn’t Qian Cao after all, “they warned this disciple that, ah, ‘if Sect Leader is resting in his office, his yishi will personally extract him. This master suggests you tell him this verbatim, Ren-shizi.’”
In that moment, a crisp blue light slowly rises from the moonlight that was gently enshrouding her shoulders. Silent and haunting. Shen Yuan’s face pales.
[ Yue Qingyuan’s Head Disciple of Qiong Ding Peak, Ren Yijun. ]
“Ah,” Shen Yuan says. Sweat starts to form on his bare neck. His (?) disciple—that is, his (?!) head disciple is staring at him even more fretfully, but what else can he even say in a situation like this?! I’m sorry I maybe-mind conjured you because I was thinking about your role in a three-digit harem? And if I didn’t actually will you into existence, sorry that must sound so weird, then it means my sister saw me die? Badly? Oh, by the way, do I happen to be possessing Yue Qingyuan of Qiong Ding? Who wants to hear that classic, dull-edged confusion? Not him, and certainly not when it’s from his own mouth!
“Shall this disciple stand guard, Shizun?”
Again, with that! That’s suddenly a lot of pressure young lady! Shen Yuan turns around again with a noncommittal hum. Very sorry, come back later! He can’t come up with any good and wise platitudes right now! His mind is racing far, far away from him like a dog that caught a whiff of streetfood. As it is, he just feels… stuck. If he’s Yue Qingyuan, then it must mean he had died then, right? If this faint note above her head is any indication, he probably transmigrated into the last thing he read, complete with an omnipotent guide and all. But, even if it’s Airplane’s shitty novel, he can still make the most of it in this second life! Way more than their creator ever did, anyway.
“What time is it, hm?” he scrounges up the words after the silence hangs just a bit too long, “Go on to your room. Rest for the days ahead Ren Yijun.”
After a time, more than he'd like, she does finally bow and take her leave. Freshly alone, Shen Yuan haphazardly plops down on the nearest bench and decidedly does not bludgeon poor Sect Leader Yue’s face with the nearest wall. Instead, he holds his shoulders and leans back against it, staring out at the various flora with slightly less enthusiasm.
So, not a coma. He’s dead. He transmigrated. Those are the facts.
Well, alright.
It’d be easier if his head disciple wasn’t Ren Yijun, however she got here, but she is a nice girl after all. Once he processes this, it’ll probably be fine to pat her head and apologize for worrying her. That always placated his meimei for a little bit, at least.
Shen Yuan closes his eyes and his heart aches. He unceremoniously sticks a pin in it and kicks it down a flight of stairs.
Anyway, he’s earned a new respect for Qiong Ding today. These upper levels really are much prettier than Airplane ever gave them credit for. Albeit more subdued than the dense forests of Qing Jing, he does feel warm thinking of the thriving Heaven’s-Eye match. To put that together, Yue Qingyuan really had his pick of the crop!
…That is, ah, not accounting for taste.
It really is such a shame that he was held back by the scum villain of all people. Shen Yuan—Yue Qingyuan now—facepalms at the thought. Does that mean it falls to him to handhold that bastard now? If he doesn’t, will he still end up dying on his behalf, but this time at Shen Qingqiu’s Xiu Ya?! What an awful fate. He continues dragging his hands down his face, leaning forward in defeat and freezing when long strands of hair unexpectedly draw forward to curtain him.
Yue Qingyuan shakes his head and sighs. Surely, surely, there’s a way the Sect Leader of Cang Qiong will be able to get out of this mostly unscathed with the white lotus protagonist, right? It might be a bit unorthodox, but he could give a shot at transferring Luo Binghe to his Qiong Ding personally once he gets his bearings. Maybe even erect a wall of loyal disciples to fend off Shen Qingqiu’s wrath at losing his favorite and least favorite punching bags in one fell swoop. Ha! Serves you right!
“Yue-shixiong?” A gentle voice prods the evening silence. Yue Qingyuan hastily rights his posture and glances over to the entrance, swallowing hard at the sight of another pale marker rising from the individual’s shoulder.
[ Qian Cao’s Peak Lord Mu Qingfang; Yue Qingyuan’s shibiao and bound healer. ]
Okay, he’ll admit it, the mustache oddly fits—but somehow, Yue Qingyuan never thought to imagine Mu Qingfang with a heavy build. It’s a good look though! Very solid. A reliable pillar anyone can reach out to stop themselves from stumbling straight into death’s door. What’s actually shocking is the sight of glasses with a golden frame and quiet metal cord strung around the neck, presumably to keep it from being lost in someone’s gut. Yue Qingyuan valiantly fights back a grimace at the thought of the glass lens popping out instead and getting stuck in an intestine just as qi seals it up.
Mu Qingfang must have pulled an awful all-nighter though, because not even the glint of the glasses can conceal the shadow underneath those dark phoenix eyes. Even the braid tying the hair back and out of the way has come loose enough that random frizzy strands are breaking free.
The healer’s hands are as steady as a surgeon’s, and Yue Qingyuan almost wants to die again. Those sure are needles. Personally commissioned ones.
Hm. Maybe he should’ve taken Ren Yijun’s offer and started building a barrier early.
“This one was just returning to his quarters,” he offers placatingly.
Aiya, what’s with those disbelieving brows of yours? “Might this one escort Shixiong?”
“I’ll trouble… Shibiao.” What a weird title. Still, Yue Qingyuan rises to his feet and brushes off his uniform in silent agony. More than anything, he wants to find Xuan Su and fly to Qing Jing just to take a single peek at his tortured sheep to tide him over until he has a rescue plan, but he supposes that can wait for tonight. It’s not like he wants to deal with the scum villain at midnight. No more living nightmares for him, please and thank you!
“It is no trouble if it is Yue-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang assures simply, taking another step closer and clasping a hand around Yue Qingyuan’s wrist. An even gentler, warm trickle of qi easily enters his spiritual veins, smoothing out the tension so efficiently that he’s starting to feel drowsy. Swaying on his feet, he grasps the healer’s shoulder, and notices some sort of tangled expression grow more complicated.
Then, everything disappears at once. Yue Qingyuan shoots upright like he’s been dunked in ice water and quickly removes his hand—Mu Qingfang, either ignoring this pitiable shixiong’s thin face or just very kindly naive, still takes him in arm.
“Come. Shixiong needs rest.”
─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─
The next time Yue Qingyuan wakes, it is not under his control. Oh, yes, his arms push him up from where he was sprawled out on the bed, but the feeling is numb and distant, like he’s grasping at the blankets through layers of cotton balls trying to suffocate him. His chest deliberately rises and falls, but he hardly tastes the air. Further below, his feet land on the floor and move without any effort on his part. It almost hurts, tugging against the chains of his new body while he kneels down and reaches beneath the bed for—Xuan Su?
At once, a shrill ringing pierces the air and he can’t even cover his ears.
[ The System has been activated! Bound role: Cang Qiong Mountain Sect's Honored Sword of Qiong Ding Peak's present Sect Leader, "Xuan Su." Master: Peak Lord Yue Qingyuan. Starting B-Points: 100. ]
What the fuck.
Hey, System? Put this other transmigration info on pause for a second. What exactly does it mean that he’s not Yue Qingyuan, but his fucking sword?!
[ User is bound to Yue Qingyuan’s “Xuan Su”! ] it pings again, extremely unhelpfully. [ Mandatory Mission: Keep Yue Qingyuan alive! Failure will result in user account termination. ]
Right, exactly! Putting aside his worst fears as to how (not) achievable that’s supposed to be when Yue Qingyuan’s loyalty and kinship is shamelessly exploited by the scum villain—how the fuck is Yue Qingyuan alive when he was literally puppeteering his body last night?
A chill shoots right through him. Does he already know about Shen Yuan?
Fuck. Fuck! How is he meant to save Luo Binghe like this?! If it comes at the expense of Shen Qingqiu, Yue Qingyuan will never let him—and yes, he’s probably wise to his existence already, knowing Shen Yuan's luck! And if he’s somehow not, one of the two generous souls from last night will probably roll up and confront him on stuff he either 1) does not remember, or 2) like now, remembers being possessed while going through the motions (which is even more horrific solely on the basis that he does not need Zhangmen-freaking-shixiong knowing he was geeking out and beaming at plants the sect leader’s probably already seen a million times!).
The System doesn’t answer any of the questions thundering through him.
Thankfully, maybe, Yue Qingyuan pulls away from Xuan Su and leans against his bed frame, holding his head to soothe their shared migraine. Through it, he opens the window across from him with a lazy flick of qi and reveals the sun beginning to peek through the mountainside. Another slow breath rises and falls, then he shakily steps toward the seat situated at this precariously wide opening and rests against it, leaning on the thick windowsill. After a moment, he raises a single hand to examine its safety array: carefully interlaced with many different wards meant to keep out intruders, demons of all sorts, and even most of the wind.
Shen Yuan (still undecided on what it means to be Xuan Su) pauses, then mentally pokes the System.
[ System provides 24-hour service! ]
Scoffing, he just decides to ask directly: ‘How do I know that?’
[ Xuan Su is attuned to spiritual energies. ]
No way, the spiritual sword is spiritual? he inwardly snarks. But, seeing as this thing is finally awake, Shen Yuan decides to interrogate it even more to test its capabilities and the guidelines of his transmigration. He needs to keep on top of his “Balance” points to continue living here, or else it’ll shove him back into his original world (where he’s probably very dead and very, very humiliated); Yue Qingyuan is currently alive and must stay alive; and he’s meant to transform this stupid world into something worthwhile. But, it forgot the most vital part to chiseling out a better story:
‘What about Luo Binghe?’
It doesn’t answer. Xuan Su mentally kicks it. It still doesn’t answer. Fine! He’s tired too, anyway, so he gives it a rest. As Xuan Su, with whatever tie he has with Yue Qingyuan, he doesn’t know how much of this is worsening their splitting headache. Not even meditation is helping soothe it.
But… then again, it doesn’t seem like Yue Qingyuan’s even trying to meditate.
Sometime during the course of Xuan Su’s badgering of the System, the grand and illustrious Sect Leader of Cang Qiong moved to sit still as a statue against this glorified carving in a perfectly good wall, with his legs pulled up to his chest all while he breathes in that steady, forced rhythm.
Xuan Su clumsily tries tapping into his meridians—Yue Qingyuan winces (he does too, in silent apology)—and tries skimming through the unnervingly calm flow of his qi. It is circulating, sure, but it’s a slow and idle process. Just the simple inhale-exhale of living. The sort of automatic contraction of a muscle that by happy coincidence keeps someone from heart failure.
Yue Qingyuan doesn’t move for a long while. Their shared eyes observe the sun as it crests the mountains and shines down upon the clouded peaks with warm gold.
Only when the darkness has fully given way to the sunrise, does Yue Qingyuan finally stand and prepare himself for the day.
Xuan Su watches.