Chapter Text
It is a mystery, to be sure, whether it truly was an act of mercy or not to have the traitorous former An Ding Peak Lord confined outside of the Underground Palace. Left to roam freely as long as his absence has been noted by personnel, Shang Qinghua was resigned to his own devices more often than not. The Cold Palace may not be a nice place to stay, exactly, with its heart consisting of only the most spiteful and cruel of the Emperor’s seemingly never-ending harem. Still, it could always be worse.
That was to say, Shang Qinghua was (thankfully) only called upon for the most important meetings and otherwise prone to fending for himself. Heaven knows what the Emperor was thinking, Shuyi thought, when he left that one alive. It's all in good luck, though, that Shuyi thoroughly liked the snivelling man. He wasn’t at all incompetent, per se, but it was as if his mere presence brought about a primal sense of frustration. He was built with a face that amplified every violent urge you might have or not have experienced throughout your life miraculously. All of this, topped with a squirrely personality.
Shuyi had thought there surely had to be more he was hiding, that when she was assigned to him, she would soon discover a hidden side. She did to some extent, but there apparently hadn’t been much for him to hide anyway. He was hard-working, but cowardly. If he could find an easier way out, he’d exploit it regardless of the consequences—including pushing the less favorable tasks onto his assistants. That is why when her associate approached her to tell her that Shang Qinghua had not delivered any orders that day, she was instantly stricken with suspicion.
“Jie.” At the call, she swivelled her head around to find a pair of blank, expressionless eyes peering into hers from a short distance.
“Oh, Yiming.” Shuyi sighed with relief.
“Good timing. Do you have the summary for today’s expenses? I want to see how many of our orders have come through before I relay the payment plan to the rest of the team.”
“Yes.” Yiming's pincers made a strange clacking sound as he spoke, head turning this and that way occasionally to loosen any bits of fluffy white fur caught in them. “Though, Immortal Master Shang said not to touch upon the matter of the importations today. There are more important things, he said.” Yiming curtly replied, hands tucked firmly at his sides.
“What? Has something come up?”
“Yes.”
“Report?”
“...Ah.” Yiming's expression shuddered for a moment before he blinked. “‘Totally normal Northern Kingdom business’, he said.”
“…Yeah, right. Yi-er, you’re off-duty this morning. Return with a report in the evening.” Shuyi gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder, shaking her head with something in-between bemusement and apprehension. “I’ll deal with Shang Qinghua.” Shuyi may not win any points in politeness, but at least she wasn’t one to slip away at every given opportunity. Now, when it comes to Shang Qinghua…
“I have to catch up on a few concerns with our dear senior.”
Shuyi sidestepped past some frazzled-looking servants, their faces lined with exhaustion, before making her way past and out into the main building. Lined along the corridors were banners pinned high on the walls, sprawling landscapes and sigils painted on them. The ceiling was a lattice of dark wood, with delicate paper lanterns strung casting a soft glow.
Beastly illustrations crawled up the stone walls, merging into a swirling vortex where reddish light split through a gap in the ceiling highlighting the Demon Realm's true skies. If she called correctly, these engravings served as directional markers: a mighty qilin representing the east, a sleek fox-like spirit joined with a malicious serpent for the south, a formidable horned tiger for the west, a soaring phoenix for the north and a statuesque dragon for the centre. Finally, she stopped momentarily at the foot of an outer courtyard.
The outer courtyard stretched wide beneath the unnatural crimson sky of the Demon Realm. It was a serene space, roughly rectangular, enclosed on all sides by the palace’s main structures. The layout was symmetrical and with white stone paving arranged to form winding roads fittingly designed to adhere to scenic walks. A circle of light painted the floor shimmering hues, screens set up and carved to depict auspicious symbols in the light's shadow. At most times, the sky was a deep, blood-red hue, turning a blazing orange with streaks of pink as the sun—if it could be called that—began its slow descent.
At the center stood a raised platform with a stone pavilion, its roof carved with swirling motifs of azure and violet, supported by crimson columns. A stone fountain with a carved Anglerahna spouting water served stood atop it, surrounded by meticulously maintained flowerbeds bursting with peonies, chrysanthemums, lotus blossoms and such floral arrangements.
The walls enclosing the courtyard were high, whitewashed and topped with curved eaves that extended outward, the tips painted in vibrant red and gold. Surrounding this focal point were lush, otherworldly plants—greenery that, twisted, had mutated from their Human Realm counterparts in strange ways, with leaves that shimmered with iridescent colors and flowers that pulsed softly with a faint glow. Some flora had elongated tendrils that hung lazily, waving in unseen currents, others had long vines that crept around to entangle themselves into the flowerbeds and circle the platform.
The fading light made the twisted, gnarled trees seem to shimmer with faint, demonic energy. Some of the trees bore fruit, their branches sagging under heavy, darkened orbs in unnatural shapes; she could see an elongated peach, a bright plum, and a vaguely rectangular pomegranate—others were leafless, their bark mottled and discolored by the realm’s unnatural influence, yet somehow thriving just as well.
Beyond the courtyard, the palace complex stretched out further, an unrivaled vastness of halls, gardens, and auxiliary buildings. Past that, the drab mountain the palace was carved out of stood proudly. Shuyi tore her eyes away and trudged further down spiraling stone walkways, their ceilings supported by elegant pillars. The ground was a mosaic of cobbled marble alternating between black and white, smooth and cool beneath the feet.
Her destination lay in the northwest wing, where the Cold Palace was situated. The palace’s carpentry in the outer wings was reminiscent of a traditional siheyuan—an enclosed courtyard house—built mostly in white sandstone and ashen lumber, with accents of deep blue, soothing lilac, and vibrant red. In contrast, territory far outside of the range of the Inner Palace had a gradual degradation in quality, ending in dungeon-like terraces and enclosed cloisters.
Desolation was a constant in the far reaches of the Outer Palace and as she neared the entrance to the Cold Palace, it became only more apparent. The entrance was a set of massive, imposing gates crafted from dark, weathered blackwood, reinforced with iron fittings and bands. They were adorned with silver knockers shaped like snarling demons, making a dull, rhythmic thudding sound whenever struck. The knockers’ darkened eyes, their figures carved from a particularly translucent polished quartz, seemed to follow her as she approached.
Pushing open the gates with a grunt of effort, Shuyi entered the Cold Palace.
Beyond the gates, the palace’s interior was bleak and utilitarian. It sported plain, unadorned walls and favored sparse furnishings. The space was spartan in appearance but maintained to a startling degree, with an orderly atmosphere. The high-ceilinged halls felt much too wide and empty, echoing a hollow silence and leaving much to be desired in terms of decor.
Functional doors lead to dormitory-style rooms down the left wing—simple and without ornamentation. A massive food hall occupied a central wing right in front, its long tables and benches arranged in a grid. The air was stale but kept clean, the scent of incense faintly lingering to mask the more lingering odors borne of the place. At the topmost level, in a hidden corner of the Cold Palace, was Shang Qinghua’s main office.
“I knew it!” Shuyi’s voice suddenly rose, unbidden, as her eyes fixed on a certain rodent-like ex-Peak Lord slipping out of his office with a bag strapped to his front. In the center of the room, a large portal shimmered open—its edges glowing red, while the middle twisted into a swirling vortex of dark black. The shape was vaguely oval, just big enough for one wee man to pass through. Shang Qinghua froze, flinching as if struck rather savagely in the stomach. The office’s interior was occupied by simple, what should've been elegant furniture were it not for the unfortunate state of it, and the windows allowed a thin sliver of the disturbing red sky's color to seep in. The entire room was in disarray. Cartons of files were upended and clothes had been thrown haphazardly across the floor, joining the mess. A decent amount of ink stone cartridges were lying strewn about, all of which were tightly packaged with adhesives to keep them safe in transportation—adhesives which had completely gone to waste.
“W-Wanbei! Well! You’ve caught me at a most inopportune time!” Shang Qinghua yelped.
“You were just trying to get out of work!” Shuyi could already feel the telltale throb of an impending headache.
“Look, I actually have a reason this time! I left something really important at my King’s, and I have no choice but to go back and get it—”
“Can’t you do that after you finish your work?”
Shang Qinghua made a sound somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a squeaky, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m never going to be able to finish all of this.”
“...Okay, fair, but you could’ve at least told us beforehand.”
“This is why I couldn’t tell you! It was so sudden, and now I have to go back and get it before it’s too late…”
“Too late?”
“Ahh, it’s nothing, I promise!”
At that moment, Shuyi noticed something odd. “Hey, why is your room...” She made a vague hand gesture. “...more of a mess than usual?”
“Well. That’s. An awfully invasive question! Just like I’m going to make an e-vasive maneuver—”
Shuyi quickly zipped past, though not without the sacrifice of a few papers crunched underfoot, blocking Shang Qinghua’s path to the portal. “No. You’re going to tell me exactly what kind of predicament you’ve gotten yourself into that has you acting like this.”
Shang Qinghua pursed his lips, then slumped his shoulders in defeat, a grim look crossing his face.
“Look, this is really hard for me to explain, but you have to believe me. Tomorrow, there’s going to be a meeting. Everyone will gather in the Centre Pavilion in the Meeting Hall, and the entire Palace will go into an uproar. I need to get out of here before that—preferably keep myself busy enough not to have to sit through another last-minute, unplanned meeting.”
“...And you know this how?” Shuyi asked, though she didn’t doubt him—far from it. Shang Qinghua’s uncanny ability to predict reality with frightening accuracy had more or less convinced her he was at least partially some sort of Seer, blessed with the gift of future vision. This? This was nothing.
“I-... Uhhh….” Shang Qinghua's mousy face somehow managed to look even more agonized as it drifted off to the side, then suddenly blanched as if he had come to some horrible conclusion inside of his head. “Let's say a little birdie told me.”
“A little birdie,” Shuyi echoed, her tone dry, making sure to portray just how clearly unimpressed she was.
“Uh-huh!” He sounded genuinely hopeful—almost pitifully so.
“Go finish your work.”
As it turned out, this was one of those times when Shang Qinghua’s intuition was spot-on. Noon broke over the city with its usual serenity: guards idled at the gates, casually chatting in low voices, their armor catching the sunlight as they leaned against the stone walls. Some were sharpening their blades, others watching the crowds go by, exchanging jokes to pass the time. The false sense of peace persisted no longer than a few short hours into the morning before it was brutally shattered.
A dark, oppressive wave of demonic energy erupted from the Western border, weighing the air heavily. Soldiers hurried to their stations, weapons drawn, faces grim with readiness. The clash was a furious onslaught on all fronts—blades slicing through the air, claws raking at nothing. Said enemy completely decimated the Palace’s wards, breaking through and shattering the carefully maintained and painstakingly installed arrays like fragile glass.
Quick, brutal and efficient, it moved like a black blade splitting open every crack it could see and exploit, barreling straight through the Palace defences. The hurtling ball of bloodlust tore across the rocky terrain much like a force of nature, kicking up century-old dust and stone. Eventually, the enemy ended up at the foot of the long-winded flight of stairs leading up to the main gates. Scouts swarmed the crowd, barking out observations in the nick of time just as the threat prepared another assault.
There was no enemy.
It was Junshang.
Roaring like an Abyssal beast gone mad, he thrashed uncontrollably. It appeared to be a particularly gruesome qi deviation. Formalities were quickly cast aside in light of the new circumstances, and healers, sages, attendants—anyone capable of withstanding such a magnitude of demonic energy without immediate backlash—were eagerly called forward to aid their ailing Junshang. A throng of concerned wives gathered around his collapsed form outside the gates, and those with qi-wielding affinity were singled out from the crowd to stabilize his energy—by any means necessary.
Luo Binghe was taken to his own chambers, by his request, to have the damned thing be sated. In the blur of people flitting forth and in the midst of a life-threatening qi deviation, Luo Binghe was unable to make sense of exactly which wife had the pleasure of bedding him that day. As he came back to himself in the light of the morning, all that he could recall from the encounter were girlish moans and a boiling hot agony writhing beneath his skin, threatening to split him open.
Somewhere in the time frame of him tearing into his own flesh and blood, feeling his meridians trying to escape out of his own body and falling into bed with a blurry face, he had managed to command one of his ministers to prepare a meeting to discuss the appearance of a new enemy. Luo Binghe observed his ceiling, finding he was in no state to rest—even with his ability to force himself into a state akin to resting on his own. So he mused, something he had taken to doing a lot more as of late.
This is far from the first time that Luo Binghe has had a qi deviation, though this one would likely go down in history as one of his most spectacular. Really, it must have all been a sight to see. From his self-induced minor deviations from attempting to master incorrect cultivation techniques through a faulty manual as a young thing to unfortunate incidents at the behest of Xin Mo before mastering the sword entirely. All of that, the fault of his dearest Shizun.
Luo Binghe recalled that he had believed that his involvement with his Shizun would end after his imprisonment.
Luo Binghe had been foolish.
His Shizun had nearly all of his cultivation taken away, leaving only enough to remind him of what he once was—what he had lost. It was a fate far worse than any torture Luo Binghe could think to inflict. Even then, his Shizun’s face remained fixed into a scowl; even then, he refused to acknowledge Luo Binghe. He spat at him, called him a beast, demeaned him still. So many, countless times had he considered relieving him of that smart tongue and leaving him to rot underneath the ground. Alas, he couldn’t do that to poor Yingying. Even in what he believed were to be his final moments, Luo Binghe never still failed to provoke his ire—disappoint him enough to see that disgust curling his lip into a vicious sneer. Shen Qingqiu’s memory had been erased from Luo Binghe’s mind, as he resolved to look past what could have been—to leave him to disintegrate bit by bit forever inside of that Water Prison, his golden core devouring itself for resources. Perhaps he’d return once or twice, not out of compassion, but to blow off steam or to satisfy Xin Mo’s whispers echoing in the back of his mind. Oh, Shizun. I really am a wretched thing, aren't I? It's just like you said.
Now, Luo Binghe found himself once again deep in the throes of his Master’s influence, reduced to the trembling lamb he had been before. He had mindlessly toddled his way into Shizun’s bamboo house to be admitted to the highest-ranked sect in all of the lands, completing a ceremony meant to represent something grand and sacred. The turning of a new tide. But Luo Binghe never could forget the past, always stuck repeating the foregone in the back of his mind. He couldn’t forget the sting of scalding hot tea poured over his head, a cup listlessly thrown to the side. It haunted him, repeating endlessly in the back of his mind. He mourned the loss of his most sacred treasure—what his mother had sacrificed her life savings for. He still grieved her, picturing her tired eyes and gentle smile. Now, he saw those same kind eyes on another face—jade, carved with pin-point-like precision, with eyelashes that fluttered just right, the furrow of a brow, and an unfamiliar smile devoid of derision plastered to an all-too-familiar face. Luo Binghe was trapped in this cycle, replaying these images—of his mother, his shixiong, his true Shizun—over and over again.
He had once considered marching straight into Huan Hua Palace to take his Shizun away. Stealing him away and locking him behind the tightest security he could find, nevermind the consequences that would surely befall him in the form of Shizun’s martial siblings. But something inside of Luo Binghe whispered that the Shizun he’d found wasn’t the same. They weren’t cut from the same cloth. Luo Binghe sensed that his Shizun would scowl and laugh if he ever even implied such things, if he dared to consider offering him freedom. Shizun was resigned to his solitary suffering. The other Shizun—Shen Qingqiu—would have fought tooth and nail to break free, just as he had fought to reclaim the other Luo Binghe. The failure. The impostor. The disappointment. Yet, despite everything, Shizun loved him—at least, Luo Binghe thought so.
Shizun had called him those same words—failure, impostor, disappointment—but Luo Binghe knew that Shizun had never loved him. Not an inch of him could bring itself to even breathe in the vicinity of Luo Binghe, beastly that he was. Attention-seeking that he was.
Now, Luo Binghe was convinced: they were not the same. And if that Shizun existed in another world… what were the chances he existed here, too? It was a childish, foolish obsession—this yearning, this craving. Power and riches came to Luo Binghe, not the other way around. He poured every ounce of his strength into his goals—plotting, strategizing, scheming—and each time, he succeeded without fail.
There was no room for mistakes, not on his high-stakes escapades, not in his harem, not during Shizun's lessons. There was no use in daydreams. The last time he allowed himself to dream, he was crushed beneath the weight of his own hopes—like a fragile worker ant underfoot. Every victory made him sharper, smarter, more capable. He was meant to be better now. So why did he always return to these thoughts? Why did he keep pushing the newest obsession to the forefront of his mind, using it as a distraction from his own darkness? Sometimes, he found himself willing to bend, to whine on his knees like the miserable dog he’d always been—if it meant getting what he wanted. He believed he had outgrown these habits, that he was better than this. But deep down, he knew the truth.
Luo Binghe’s desire had always been to grow stronger—stronger than anyone, always. A boy's fantasy. But now, he saw that he had no choice but to do so. His fantasy was carved into reality with blood and gore. He needed to survive. All of this was to survive. To survive his shixiong, the Abyss, the Demon Realm itself.
He was going to become stronger—more than enough to deserve a kinder Shizun.
The Grand Meeting Hall was designed to evoke awe and fear. It was meant to serve as a testament to the unassailable power of the demonic court. Dark basalt walls lined with intricate tapestries depicted scenes of victory, their rich reds and blacks almost glowing in the torchlight. Tall, imposing columns stretched up to the high ceiling, their surfaces carved with fierce, swirling patterns climbing the eaves.
Heavy, black lacquered furniture—throne-like chairs and a massive central table serving as the central piece dominated the room, all adorned with sharp edges and bearing gilded accents. Strategically placed torches burned with unnatural purple flames, a phenomenon native to the distant Southern territories that has been tamed and reinforced by his artificers, violet hanging in every corner. The leather over the seats was aged, but not even remotely damaged. He could detect a faint tang of resin lingering in the air as he made his way past the other seated committee members.
This place, its power to intimidate, to command, to crush dissent before it even dared to surface should be his proudest accomplishment. Instead, his chest felt horrifyingly empty of pride. The high, vaulted ceiling was draped with dark silk banners embroidered with the sigil of the exalted Heavenly Demon bloodline, fluttering faintly with every gust of wind that slipped through what the staff had taken to calling “ventilation shafts” after they’d recently been installed.
The committee members sat rigid at the long, ebony table, their faces a mixture of barely concealed fear, intrigue, and respect. Good. Fear, in Luo Binghe’s eyes, was always preferred to derision. The subordinate officials, some pale, others sweating, shifted uncomfortably, their expressions carefully neutral but their eyes betraying their unease. Servants and aides hovered at the edges of the room, some nervously clutching scrolls, others trying to mask trembling hands behind practiced masks of composure.
He allowed the silence to settle, then slowly lowered himself into his seat, eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the room. The Ministers, now visibly rattled, exchanged wary glances unlike the Clan Heads who appeared perfectly used to upsets such as this one. The room’s oppressive atmosphere intensified—demonic qi boiling to a halt before booming in a pressure that seemed to reach for the gathering like claws. In that moment, each demon present became acutely aware of their subordinate position beneath the unveiled wrath of Junshang.
Then, as if a signal had been transmitted through an unspoken channel as of that moment, the entire assembly suddenly shot up to their feet as one. A thunderous chorus of “Welcome back, Junshang!” erupted loud and clear throughout the room, echoing through the hall’s high vaulted ceilings. Collectively, their backs hunched and their heads lowered as far as their strained spines could manage without snapping. The sound reverberated like a storm, straining Luo Binghe’s ears.
Luo Binghe’s expression remained impassive. He didn’t even blink.
The meeting goes about as well as you’d expect. A number of rattled assistants—shouts and accusations bouncing high off the walls, ministers shouting over one another, clan heads butting in to interject at every turn, trying to be the one to first get a word in to their precious Junshang, a clerk rushing to and fro scrambling to record everything.
Luo Binghe had an urge to kill something.
There was nothing he wanted to do more than shatter the fragile veneer of civility he was forced to undertake when in reality, all he wanted to do was rip and tear.
Instead…
“There is a sure way to resolve this without…” He started, only to be cut off—
“Well, maybe if the Sha clan would consider dividing some of their resources to the clans they actually took responsibility for, there wouldn’t be so many troubles with trade.”
A roar of rebuttal erupted from one of the ministers. “How is it the Sha clan’s fault you let your people ransack our supplies like brutes? How is it that you let criminals run free? Do you truly believe this to be acceptable behavior?!”
“This one would like to note that fending for our right to a living should be encouraged. If the Sha clan…”
“Enough.”
The hall fell silent as if a switch had been flipped. As soon as his headache let up, Luo Binghe knew he would have to handsomely reward Mobei-jun for that. Luo Binghe’s eyes narrowed slightly as he settled back against his throne-like seat, his claws flexing subtly as his nails tapped along the arms of the chair he was seated on. His legs were crossed at the ankles, floods of ringlets weaving through his hands with every movement of his hands. Still massaging his temples, He lazily directed a wave to the nearest minister, whose spine straightened like a bamboo stalk under a sudden wind.
Bamboo…?
A gentle breeze, rushing through tall shoots, brushing over his exposed nape and twisting his hair in tangles. Stepping through an isolated path, serene. Tall, broad shoulders dressed in a uniform of an idyllic green. Seeing the end tail of a green ribbon rounding the corner of a nook—
Focus, Luo Binghe.
“Clan Head Guo, Vice-Head Sha, surely you are both learned enough to recognize the impropriety of your conduct without the added assistance of this Lord? Disrupting the natural order of this Lord’s court is no trifling matter. This one advises you both to mind your stations. For now, this Lord will forgive your transgressions, but be warned: another misstep, and there will be consequences.”
“We humbly request Your Imperial Majesty’s forgiveness,” one minister croaked.
“Mm,” Luo Binghe acknowledged, gaze still distant.
“We are honored to receive Your Majesty’s benevolence,” another added hastily.
Luo Binghe released a breath he had not realised he'd been holding back, then called for a servant with a sharp snap of his fingers. An attendant holding their head low hurried forward, bowing deeply as they, with a slight scrape, unrolled a thick scroll. Luo Binghe gestured to the contents of this scroll, revealing a sprawling landscape dotted with mountain ranges, dense forests, and strange points of light.
“In far more crucial matters… Due to various external factors and a peculiar circumstance connected to this region and the Human Realm,” Luo Binghe began, voice smooth but laced with underlying menace, “this area—”
He traces a set of characters spelling out “Whisperer's Creek”. “-has become a nexus of space-time anomalies. The fabric of reality there is so thin it could be cleaved in two. Interrealm travel has been proven possible through ‘wormholes,’ as one of my ministers has taken to calling them.” There was the faintest perk of Mobei-jun’s brow.
“These ‘wormholes’ function largely the same as any portal—only they transcend our spatial barriers and, far more disturbingly, can trespass temporal boundaries. The artifact this Lord had discovered during his travels, the Egressor—allows passage without risking the destruction of one’s cultivation or being crushed in the backlash, with a caveat. It is only to be utilized once. It was this Lord's intention to return to you with this same artifact in tow, only it was this Lord’s misfortune to be faced with resistance to a degree before that this Lord has not experienced since…” A low growl rumbled from the back of Luo Binghe's throat. “Past years.”
“What in all of the Three Realms could have felled our great Imperial Majesty?” one of the Clan Heads dared to ask what was likely on the mind of many.
Luo Binghe’s expression hardened. “Feasibly is quite a way of wording it. This Lord defeated a horde of vermin, calling themselves divine, protecting some kind of array—” He recalled flickering blue light that still shimmered faintly at the edge of his vision, the ominous glow of what he'd now come to know was likely a dream demon or some otherworldly entity. “When this one found himself facing an enemy this one could neither see, hear or otherwise sense.”
“That region,” Luo Binghe continued, “is prone to realm instabilities—thin spots in the fabric of reality. These ‘wormholes’ are not just portals—they are breaches within our realm, unstable enough to be capable of swallowing entire armies if left unchecked. This Lord’s discovery of the artifact and the subsequent portal activity cannot be ignored.”
Luo Binghe clicked his tongue.
“This one traced the path into the Realm and happened upon this Egressor, only to have it stolen in front of this Lord's very own eyes in a flash of blue. Naturally, this one pursued these heathens, who schemed to lead this one into another realm of the Heavenly variety. Things did not work out as intended, and this Lord has regretfully returned empty-handed.”
“Whatever those ascended ones had sealed, it could reach beyond Heavenly arrays, and it is distinctly not our ally. The aura it had was mighty, only the qi I detected wasn’t… spiritual or demonic. Not of this world. Something entirely other. Whatever it was, it had the means to manipulate qi of an unknown nature and guide it to puppeteer the unwittingly meek victims.”
“...so to uphold the dignity of this Lord’s realm—you will prepare defenses against threats from all directions. Spells, barriers, whatever it takes. The nature of this threat remains unobserved, and so this Lord commands vigilance. Any and all inquiries can and will be registered through the proper channels. That is, the Governor Department and the Research Sector’s Heads respectively. Take this Lord’s word as law—understood?”
The ministers nodded in unison. “Very well, Junshang.”
Sensing that the most urgent matters were out of the way, the magistrate to the second seat at the left of the Emperor took the opportunity to chime in. “Junshang, may this one debrief those present of internal affairs?”
“Get on with it. Quickly.”
The magistrate rose. His stature was tall—taller than most—and his gaunt figure seemed almost skeletal beneath the flowing robes of dark crimson embroidered with silver filigree. His face was sharply chiseled, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin, giving him an air of austerity betraying neither emotion nor fatigue. Long, slender fingers rested lightly on the lacquered blackwood table. A faint scar at the corner of his mouth that crawled up the bridge of his nose takes some of this away. His eyes—an unnatural shade of violet—gleamed with a blazing determination even as his mannerisms portray a demurred disposition. They darted across the assembly, as if searching, until they landed between two seated individuals.
He cleared his throat, voice low. “The disputes between the eastern demonic tribes continue to bode ill for the neighboring areas getting unwittingly involved in the conflict. High tensions and lack of information for both sides have led to an escalation on a larger scale, resulting in a declaration of war from the Fang Clan to the Horned Tiger Clan. The Fang Clan claims territorial infringements are the root of these, and that they are developments of familial grudges between the two noble families. The main prospect being fought over are the Ironclad Mountains, where the veins of spirit ore are yet to be fully excavated. The letters officially say the tribes’ leaders are eager to expand into the borderlands, and recent skirmishes threaten to escalate into open fire.”
A younger minister, eager but inexperienced, leaned forward, voice deliberately kept calm. “Your Majesty, the Fang Clan has been pushing into our eastern passes and disturbing nearby tribes, including the Sha—if they gain control of the mountain routes, our supply lines from the Southern Regions will be cut off. Then we’ll have no choice but to rely on the northern routes, which are heavily guarded but vulnerable to ice storms and mountain rogues. We have less say in the Northern Kingdom's territory.”
Luo Binghe narrows his eyes. “And what of the retaliation of the Horned Tiger Clan?”
“They’ve responded with guerrilla attacks. Ambushes in the home of our fog-laden jungles, poisonings that have already claimed a few scouts. They are unruly, sire, and attempts at mediation through the Spirit Envoys have failed, as the tribes refuse to surrender as they claim it is their ancestral right. If war persists, it could spiral into chaos, destabilizing the eastern march entirely.”
The minister to the fifth seat right of Junshang pipes up, slamming an angry fist down as he points an accusing finger right across the table. “What the messenger of the Fang Clan fails to mention are the likenesses of their planned attacks on our ground, encroaching on neutral territory and disturbing the citizenry—”
“That will be quite enough, from both of you. Fang Biao, Jiao Jingzhong, this one suggests the two of you discuss things with one of my ministers when it comes to matters of territory ownership. Borders are a fickle thing that changes with time. Should there be more cause for alarm, alert my generals directly.” Luo Binghe states succinctly.
The man from the fourth seat at the right of Luo Binghe raised his hand. “Proceeding now to internal matters—erm—regarding the budget, Shang Qinghua requests your attention, Junshang.”
Shang Qinghua stood with a slight tremor in his hand. His face was round, with soft features—mussed brown hair barely keeping itself inside of its updo, eyebags clinging underneath absent irises. He fidgeted with his cuffs, positively twitching with nervous energy. His robes were slightly rumpled, as if hurried from one crisis to another, and his cheeks were flushed. Luo Binghe vaguely recalled that his seat had been empty at the start of the meeting.
He cleared his throat and began, voice trembling slightly. “Your Imperial Majesty, the damages in the royal chambers, the dungeons, and the throne room have been assessed. The bedrooms suffered minor structural harm—mostly from recent renovations carried out too hastily to accommodate the influx of accepted servants hired into the Palace. The throne room’s pillars, however, require reinforcement, as recent upheavals in court—particularly the last dispute—have caused cracks in the supporting beams.”
Shang Qinghua hesitated, then continued, “The dungeons, unfortunately, experienced breaches during the last attempted siege—some cells were compromised, allowing a few prisoners to escape briefly before being recaptured and dealt with, Junshang. These incidents have caused unrest within the prison wardens. Given the natures of these incidents are interconnected and could thus be solved in a joint effort, this one proposes reallocating part of the defense budget toward structural repairs and increased patrols. Additionally, this one suggests we gather funds for new spell matrices—resilient enough to withstand the energy fluctuations caused by the recent disturbances.”
Luo Binghe nods faintly. “Noted.”
The magistrate from before speaks again, voice low but steady—his tone carrying the weight of experience. “Furthermore, your Imperial Majesty, there are recent phenomena in the uncharted territories beyond the Whisperer's Creek. Creatures that are irritable and hostile have appeared where none existed before—some say they are the spirits of the land disturbed by the recent upheavals of ancient untouched land in your Imperial Majesty's journeys. The weather in the area has become erratic. They are sudden storms accompanied by unnatural cold and unnatural lightning that freeze rather than burn. There are tracks—large and unfamiliar, not belonging to any creature native to these regions. Strange dancing blue lights flicker at the edges of vision, and afflicted visitors report spells of dizziness, as if their minds are being pulled apart. From the heart of the forest, flashes of qi disturb the air. The Southern Regions are in turmoil, with unrest spreading eastward.”
He paused, eyes flickering with concern. “The Research Sector reports that they had predicted something like this would come to be in the future after renovations on scorched zones begin in earnest. Uninhabited land tends to gather large masses of qi and hoard it until the land is intruded upon. The problem is destined to only worsen. These disturbances threaten to unravel the fragile balance between realms. The borders must be reinforced, and expeditions dispatched to investigate these phenomena. This one recommends Noble Consort Mingyan.”
A pair of eyes the hue of cherry blossoms flitted in the direction of Luo Binghe, the aforementioned wife's back straightening at attention.
Luo Binghe’s gaze darkened. “And what of the unrest elsewhere? Is it connected to these anomalies?”
The magistrate bowed his head. “It appears so. The creatures of the South have grown more aggressive, and the ground trembles in intervals. If left unchecked, the chaos could spill into your Imperial Majesty's grounds, threatening the stability of the entire continent.”
A tense silence followed as Luo Binghe considered. “Summon the generals. Mingyan, this Lord will have you pick a team at your leisure. Prepare expeditions to the Southern borders. The rest of you, keep a close watch on these anomalies. I want detailed reports—very detailed.”
The magistrate bowed.
Luo Binghe considered those present. Luo Binghe was aware that every disappearance of his leaves gaps and lead to more indecision, slowing down the effective workload. He could not, under these circumstances, keep handing off his work to his ministers like this. None of them were quite as efficient as he'd like. Things piled up. This empire needed him, but he needed relief. Purpose. How useless must his subordinates have been, to not be able to handle such minor disturbances without his direct input? Unbelievable. “Make haste. We cannot afford delays. The realm’s hard-won peace depends on it.” And yet there is nothing Luo Binghe will not do if it means succeeding. He does not mind putting this off to the side for a time. Shizun will be his, one day, anyway.
Ning Yingying had always been a bit of an oblivious kind of person. She never quite foresaw the consequences of her actions before it was already too late, leading to her failing again and again in protecting someone who did not deserve to be hurt.
She had never wanted to make the choice between master and childhood sweetheart, but deep in her heart, she'd still loved her A-Luo—demon or no. What she couldn't overlook though, no matter how she tried, was the degradation of his mental state. She could see it clear as day, how that sword, how the stress and the responsibility gnawed away at the boy she'd fallen in love with and left her, little by little. Soon, the one who'd sat braiding her hair between lessons inside of a small woodshed was replaced with a stranger who shared his face, and as always, she was powerless to do anything to help stop it. Too little, too late.
To be given the title of First Wife, Noble Imperial Consort—was a mighty honor bestowed only upon her. He'd always called her his first, even if Qin Wanyue had been the one to first lay with him. Ning Yingying had undoubtedly grown from the naive girl she was back then, this she knew, but she always found herself somehow slipping back into her persona in the presence of her dear A-Luo. It was the only way for her to preserve the memory of what they had, to disregard the hundreds of others who shared his heart.
She alone helped him through those days spent carrying water back and forth on rocky mountain peaks, lugging timber into the little shed where a part of her still resides in the wake of these decades. She remembered bright eyes dimming with time, she remembered grieving him for years from the comfort of her lofty peaks. She remembered him coming back scorned and filled with rage. She remembered him looking upon her with something more than gratitude, something akin to the love she had dreamed of those years on her lofty little mountain peak.
She whined pitifully at any opportunity given to her to garner his attention. She still does. She engaged in petty fighting, all for those piercing eyes to fall back on her. Just as any other wife would've in her position, and yet she can’t help but hope that maybe she means just a little bit more than just another. She hadn’t been ready to consider what might be if she lost him completely to that other man who sometimes wore his skin, the demon robbing him of his humanity.
Then, it was as if a coin had been flipped. Suddenly, so suddenly, her husband was not only distant, but almost bellicose. He was entirely uninterested in any advances, be it her or her sister-wives. He went out of his way to intentionally avoid them, seeking comfort in his isolation. It started a major uproar in the harem, the worst bloodbath seen in decades. Ning Yingying, at the time, had been devastated.
It really was too shameful how quickly she’d accepted the change. Really, it almost hadn’t felt like that much of a difference when it came down to the bottom of the feeling. She turned a blind eye to the connection they might've had. She closed her heart. She swallowed her childish fantasies in a way she hadn’t been brave enough to before. She saw reality for it was in a way she hadn’t been brave enough to before. Leaving Cang Qiong Mountain had been a mistake. Ning Yingying considered for weeks, ruminated over the possibility of ever escaping. Of finding her way back to Qing Jing Peak alive. Of building a tiny cottage up on that lonesome mountain.
Only, she knew better now. She knew if she did that, Luo Binghe’s wrath would engulf the Human Realm. She and Liu Mingyan were likely Luo Binghe’s last tethers to the mercy he was willing to bestow upon the Cang Qiong Mountain. The only reason it had yet to burn to a crisp under his ruthless fist. Shen Qingqiu, her Shizun, the one who sat with her for hours, guiding her hands as a thirteen-year-old Ning Yingying strummed over a guqin, damned to a thousand years in the Water Prison, never to return. Accused of crimes he had no part in.
She liked to think that they were but accusations. She wouldn't know what to make of herself if they were true.
But Ning Yingying said none of those things. She knew better not to. Any time Ning Yingying spoke her mind, somebody got hurt on her behalf. She would not allow herself to hurt anybody like this. She knew A-Luo always meant well. She knew that her Shizun was harsher toward him than anyone else. She knew that she was not brave enough to confront either of them about it as things stand.
So she would bear this. Then maybe, in the future, she'd get confident enough to take more liberties.
Ning Yingying sat with a book in her lap, comfortably tucked against the side of an armchair in the midday’s last beams, eyes hazy as she traced the characters with her fingertips, never quite processing what was being said even after sitting in the same position repeating the words dozens of times. She'd been so absorbed in her reverie that she did not catch when a figure had rolled up to her with a small cart, back hunched over it with a number of stacks of books sitting on its top. Ning Yingying caught a glimpse of black, straight hair hanging over obscured features in her right peripheral. She raised her head, about to greet who she assumed to have been the librarian, when she froze, her voice caught in her throat. Her limbs were locked in place, eyes bulging out of their sockets as she studied the one in front of her as one would an unexpected present rather than a supernatural horror.
To her right was a walking corpse.
It had gray skin, tattered rags likely meant to mimic robes securely fastened over its body with… some viscous ointment binding it all together. It had its lips parted in a permanent grin, although none of its other features gave the impression of joy. Its eyes were lifeless and dull. Its many, many eyes. All of them, the usual whites of its eyes a strange blue, condensed into a single point on its misshapen face. Its hands were flaking, as if about to wither apart, all except for the points of its fingertips. They were sharpened into thin points, likely enough to cleave off a limb.
It did not have pupils.
Acting ever the part of a gracious gentleman, its neck creaked as it hunched its back a bit further in what some could call a bow. Its jaw unlocked with a horrifying crackling sound teminiscent of a door half-stuck on its hinges creaking open. A shaky breath, much like a gust of wind as it was colder than it should be, was released into the air.
“Noble Imperial Consort Ning.” Its voice was unlike anything she had ever heard.
Ning Yingying screamed.
Shang Qinghua was not getting paid enough for this. Actually, Shang Qinghua wasn’t getting paid at all, courtesy of being a glorified war prisoner. From the System randomly waking him one early morning to dangle a threat of death over his head (whereas it had been relatively tame for some time after he got the brilliant idea of deviating from the plotline, causing post-canon to look very different) (I.e. -1 human stick, +Cang Qiong Mountain stands) all the way to getting effectively booted out of his office and dragged into an onslaught of unscheduled meetings… Suffice to say that Shang Qinghua was over this arc already. He'd had quite enough of running himself ragged. That was not to say that Shang Qinghua had not enjoyed this week one bit though. Shang Qinghua was pleased that his overgrown son had arrived back home, even if it was in a rather unfortunate state. He’d thought things were going to quickly go downhill after the ruckus his appropriately-flashy entrance had caused, but had been happy to find dear ol’ Junshang in tip-top shape the next day. Or, at least in as good a shape as you could be after a major qi deviation. Yikes.
Shang Qinghua had always planned to change the story somewhat, as he was in fact, not too keen on dying. His System had been dormant (glitched out an awful lot…) for the majority of his childhood and teenage years, which allowed him a lot of breathing room. Because of that, he’d gotten to work relatively early. So why was it acting up now? He hadn’t done anything! He was innocent! He was no convict repenting for his sins (he had enough repenting being done enduring the occasional beating from his King, but it was worth it), spare him some mercy O Computeresque Overlords!
Shang Qinghua gathered his strength to face ahead. His determined gaze was greeted with a bright, flashing red interface.
[COUNTDOWN to the END: 23:17:52:34]
There was also… That.
[COUNTDOWN to the END: 23:17:52:33]
He had been trying not to pay that much attention to it.
[COUNTDOWN to the END: 23:17:52:32]
Because he knew if he thought about it too hard, it wouldn’t bode well for his mental health. He had enough to think about.
[COUNTDOWN to the END: 23:17:52:31]
It was as if the System was allergic to explaining itself. Shang Qinghua had come to an obvious conclusion when he first saw the notice, but it felt too easy. Why would the System go through all the trouble of making him “follow the plot” if this was, in the end, where things ended up?
Shang Qinghua exhaled a trembling breath, his body slackening as he sagged forward, muscles loosening from the tension of the moment. How was he supposed to explain this sight to anyone without seeming suspicious? He had already stood there rooted in place for what felt like an eternity, gawking and slack-jawed like a complete fool. Long enough to be strange. If anyone who had seen him enter the chamber realized he was still lingering, it could spell trouble. Luo Bing-ge had killed hundreds for less of a slight! This was outrageously bad luck, even for Shang Qinghua's unfortunate standards!
His gaze was fixed on the inert figure before him, wide-eyed and unblinking. A flickering lantern sitting on a lone cabinet cast wavering shadows across the walls, their dance unsettlingly reminiscent of ghostly figures. Outside, the dying light of late afternoon seeped through narrow lattice windows, streaking the room in a hazy amber glow. The faint aroma of burnt paper and candlewax permeated the halls inside. He hesitated, then internally cursed his own indecision. A frustrated sigh escaped him. Ah, what the hell. He very well could not, in good conscience, just leave her there to be kidnapped or something, could he? This was an obvious Airplane-Style™️ wifeplot set-up! And a certain husband of hers was nowhere in sight—probably off in some distant wing doing god knows what. Most likely ankle deep in the newest conquest, considering the fanfare of his entrance. It’s perfectly in character for the protagonist to hoard attention, yes, but it is also a tell that he was on the less conscious side of things. If he knew his son (which he was pretty sure he did), he’d never take the flashy option over the subtle one. Who knew what might happen if he decided to stroll off, unbothered! Well, technically, he did—he’d just forgotten how he had initially scripted this part of the arc.
He cast a quick glance at the lit candle, noticing the wax pooled unevenly on the edge of the table. Near the edge of the desk, a small, charred smear on an open scroll hinted at the accidental spill—likely when Ning Yingying had knocked over the candle in her passing out. The pages of the book she’d been reading had been scorched along the spine, curling slightly at the edges, the edges blackened and brittle.
Considering past experiences with being blamed for things he (most of the time) had no part in, he was not eager to take any chances of being (sometimes) falsely accused again. His heartbeat was loud in his ears now, a dull thudding that seemed to echo in the stillness. The faint glow from the candle reflected in her closed eyes, her face serene yet unresponsive. Maybe it was just his imagination, or the tired flicker of the candle, but he felt a strange sense of unease, as if there were eyes on him.
Shang Qinghua cleared his throat, trying to steady his nerves. Then, with as much composure as he could muster, he pinched his face together, awkwardly lowering himself into a slightly more deferential stance. His voice softened, but still carried a hint of urgency. “Heeey there...” he muttered, voice tentative. “Don’t mind me, ma’am. Just your old shishu going to rush you to the nearest medic. Doctor? What xianxia terms are there for a doctor, actually?” he pondered aloud, glancing uncertainly at her inert form for signs of life.
He paused, considering—perhaps daifu, or maybe something like shen yi. His mind briefly wandered, then he dismissed the wandering thought. Another he had just as quickly while on the topic of healing was how to bring her to one. Maybe attempting to carry her? …Bridal-style? That was immediately discarded as an option. Touching any of the wives was practically inviting disaster. Hell to the no. Instead, he carefully threw her arm over his shoulder and maneuvered her onto her feet, her shoes catching on her long robes. Her chin rested against his shoulder, and he had to continually adjust her position, jostling her slightly to keep her steady as they moved. Every few steps, he had to heft her up again, as her body kept threatening to slide loose. Meanwhile, he kept talking, his words spilling out in a nervous stream, trying to distract himself from the mounting tension by filling the awkward silence with background noise. Carefully, they approached the exit doors. He slipped his foot into the crack in the doorway and nudged the doors open in one swift move.
“You know, it just came to me that I have never actually had a full conversation with you. The only time I remember seeing you face-to-face was a few years back, during the Department Heads’ selection. Oh, thank the heavens, I can actually feel you breathing. You’re not dead. Wait, nevermind—that’s kind of weird. Eugh. Is it strange that I am feeling calm right now? Sure, there’s always this underlying sense of stress haunting my every move, but in life-threatening situations, I tend to become reeeally focused.”
Suddenly, Ning Yingying stumbled—her foot caught on a small, intricately carved end table. It appeared that Shang Qinghua had not been paying enough attention to his footing. The unexpected jerk caused Shang Qinghua to unceremoniously drop her like a ragdoll, his arms flailing for a moment before he managed to catch himself. He winced at the sudden impact, then stiffened as he heard hurried tapping approaching from the distant end of the corridor.
Two figures appeared at the far end, clad in heavy, scaly armor that shimmered with dark, iridescent hues under the flickering torchlight. Both wielded formidable swords which were being drawn as they gradually advanced forward toward Shang Qinghua.
“You!” one of them barked sharply.
“Me!” Shang Qinghua echoed, panic rising in his voice. His heart pounded fiercely against his ribs as he hurriedly tried to find the words to explain but came up empty-handed.
“What have you done with First Wife Ning?!”
“I haven’t done a thing!” Shang Qinghua hurriedly insisted, raising his hands defensively. “I found her out cold in the library after going in there to fetch some scrolls!”
“And why should we believe the likes of you?!” snarled the second man, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“Aaah! I’m sorry! I promise, I— I will explain everything to you in thorough detail, but please, can you take her to a physician?” His voice wavered, desperation creeping into his words. He needed to make them see reason now more than ever.
He continued, voice growing more urgent. “Her breathing is getting shallower.”
“What?!” one of the armored men exclaimed, alarmed. Without hesitation, the other man lunged forward, pushing through the hallway’s narrow space. He swiftly lifted Ning Yingying in a manner identical to Shang Qinghua’s earlier efforts, cradling her carefully against his chest.
“Go fetch someone to keep track of that rat,” the man ordered sternly, “this one will escort First Wife Ning to Li Daifu.” His tone was commanding, unwavering. The second man nodded stiffly and hurried off down the corridor, his figure disappearing into the shadows, leaving Shang Qinghua momentarily relieved.
“ And you! Don’t you dare move an inch!” the first man added, eyes blazing.
“This lowly one would not dare,” Shang Qinghua squeaked, bowing his head submissively. As the armored man stepped out of the corridor, Shang Qinghua exhaled a silent breath of relief.
Whew. That could have gone so much worse.
Way worse.
Fang Biao’s eyelids fluttered open, vision blurry as he gazed up into a sea of vaguely outlined imagery and bright, shifting colour. One moment, he had been wandering back to his quarters after the meeting, his mind a storm of embarrassment and frustration as his ears burnt redder than lava; the next, he found himself standing in an unfamiliar void—everything was drenched in an eerie, silvery glow. A heavy weight, discomfort, seeped deep into his bones. Weightless, yet oppressive enough to choke him of breath.
Gravity felt loose, as if the world had turned upside down, or perhaps had simply discarded its own rules. Contours stretched and writhed at the edges of his vision, and faint whispers seemed to echo from the darkness, though he couldn't make out their source. His skin prickled with unease, the hairs on his arms standing on end, a primal instinct warning him that something was deeply wrong. Was this a dream? A trap? His heart pounded, each beat loud in his ears.
Before he could process what was happening, a figure emerged from the darkness—human in appearance, tall and slender, with grayish green eyes that shimmered like fractured moonlight through a tinted window. At times, they would pulse blue. Everything about the individual came across as a bit soft, with the only exception being the sheer coldness of its expression, the dead look in its eyes. Its voice was a botched attempt at something cheery and bright, coming off as something closer to antagonistic with a tone deadset in cruel sarcasm.
“Calculating risk of ejection…”
Along Fang Biao’s arms and neck, he could feel the tiny hairs standing on end from head to toe. He wasn't sure when the sensation had begun—perhaps at the moment he saw those chilling eyes. The voice—so commanding yet oddly monotone—was entirely unfit for its delicate frame. It had an authoritative tonality, but the resonance was flat, lifeless. It was also strangely feminine in its make, compelling—as if a spell had been woven into every word. His skin crawled with an inexplicable pressure, the feeling something like qi currents probing him. It was nerve-wracking to be under its influence. He wasn't the type to scare easily, though, he'd had his fair share of encounters with beings stronger than him. He could definitely take this puny human in a fight.
“Compiling data… Rerouting according to user accessibility…”
… Though, Fang Biao wasn’t entirely naive: he was aware enough to recognize the clump in his throat and the tremble of his hands. A tightening sensation twisted his stomach, warning him that something was amiss. His instincts told him that the figure before him was no ordinary human, regardless of how convincing the flesh and blood appeared. Humans didn’t glow like that—at least, not naturally. Even cultivators, skilled in channeling energy, only cast piercing sword glares or wielded qi-fueled talismans; they did not emit this unnatural, pulsating radiance that seemed to emanate from within without outside interference. The strange, prickling sensation in his stomach grew stronger—the sense that what he faced was not merely a being, but something fundamentally different, something that did not belong in this realm at all.
“World settings adjusted to ACTIVE mode. Commencing REVIVAL quest. Processing complete!”
As the words left its lips, the entity flickered and dissolved into a heat-filled amorphous portrait, a candle’s flame caught in a draft. Flesh and blood congealed before him—young, smiling, with a calm expression that seemed too perfect. The face of the young man before him was serene, polished to perfection like a sword honed in a forge, like claws sharpened into knife-like blades. Then, with a sudden burst of clarity, the being’s form stabilized into a solid shape. “The System welcomes character FANG BIAO to the test run of the REVIVAL quest. Quest test run will commence in three… two… one…”
Fang Biao’s eyebrows furrowed deeply in suspicion, muscles coiling as he prepared himself for what might come next. A low growl threatened to escape his throat, but he forced it back, instead puffing out his chest and adopting what he hoped was an intimidating stance. His gaze sharpened into a fierce glare as he fixed his eyes on the young man, the corners of his mouth tightening into a stern scowl. “You! Did you do this? Did you trap me here? You’re not human—so you must be some kind of dream demon. But I was under the impression dream demons were nigh extinct…”
Fang Biao’s eyes narrowed, outraged. “So you did do this! And that ‘Jueshi Zhiren’—that’s your master? Well, I’ll make sure to show them a thing or two—once I get out of this mess. And I will get out of here—the moment I finish observing enough to find a way.”
The System’s voice remained steady, polite but laced with a subtle condescension, as if humoring a distinctly troublesome child. “This System appreciates character FANG BIAO’s cooperation. It has prepared a series of challenges. Should character FANG BIAO refuse to participate willingly, this System can enforce an alternate game mode.”
He squared his shoulders and shot the System an overconfident grin. Fang Biao cracked his knuckles, trying to keep up the act of his bravado. “A game? I like games,” he apprised.
“This System is aware. ^-^” It replied.
“Alright, then! Is that everything? But don’t think for a second I’m trusting you just because you threw me into a game. I’ve learned better than to put my faith in strangers—especially ones I can’t even see clearly.” Fang Biao’s eyes narrowed cautiously, muscles tensing as he kept his stance guarded. His voice carried a mixture of defiance and suspicion, wary of the strange entity before him.
“This System acknowledges FANG BIAO’s prudent skepticism,” the voice replied, eerily calm and measured. “However, to proceed with the exchange, a portion of FANG BIAO’s qi is required.”
Fang Biao waved a dismissive hand, a confident smirk curling his lips. “Sure, I’ve got plenty of qi to spare. Honestly, I’m one of the kinder demons around here. Not many are willing to part with their reserves so easily. You should feel lucky—you avoided wandering into someone else’s dream. Like for example, ugh, Jiao Jingzhong. The guy’s so full of himself, thinks he’s all that—and yet he’s still got no official title. Maybe we should start calling him Jingzhong-jun. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
The System’s tone remained eerily composed, smooth as silk. “This System appreciates FANG BIAO’s generosity in contributing to user JUESHI ZHIREN’s cause. Your cooperation is noted, and this test run will be recorded as a success.”
Fang Biao chuckled, a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes. “No worries! It’s not like it’s a big deal. I’ve got so much demonic qi cluttering my veins—it’s practically fighting to stay inside me. Honestly, it’s getting a little crowded in there.”
“Then, character FANG BIAO,” the System continued, voice unwavering, “will not mind this minor loss of ninety percent of your qi reserves.”
Fang Biao’s eyes widened slightly, and a nervous chuckle escaped his lips. “The—what? Ninety—?”
And then there was darkness.