Work Text:
Shang Qinghua doesn’t really get injured anymore. No, he hasn’t been for a long time.
He’s long realized that battles are better fought with minds rather than swords. The strength of the heart prevails over that of the body, or so he thinks.
Under his whispered command, the talisman grows warm in his hand and sends his world swirling. It plants him unsteadily in a familiar room with light meek enough to conceal but friendly enough to comfort. Back in the safety of his chambers, where there are no enemies and no eyes that wish to pierce through the veil of his mask, Shang Qinghua’s knees buckle and hit the floor.
The seal slips from his hand and strikes the floor. Its gold engravings glint in the light as it whirls in a loop, once, twice, before it slows to a rest. The wretched thing sits innocently, mocking the burn it sent to his qi just moments ago.
The sound of his own breaths, sharp and trembling, scares him, but not as much as the wetness he feels near his abdomen. There was no blade that struck him. The injury came from his own qi, a betrayal from within. It is a blessing that Mobei-jun fashioned his room with dark carpets. Blood is a pain to wash out.
He attempts to circulate his qi, but a jolt of pain erupts when he stirs his qi awake, which… shouldn’t happen. Not at all, unless the seal carried not a one-strike offense, but a curse.
A whimper escapes him, and when he remembers he’s alone, he lets himself whine. The mask he has on muffles the pathetic noises he’s making so he doesn’t remove it, even if it clings hot and damp against his skin. Besides, he doesn’t quite dare to move his hands, which are pressed tightly against his wound, for fear that he upsets it.
He doesn’t know how long he lies there, temple pressed against the carpet, hoping that his senses will dull into something more manageable. Despite the frigid temperature of the North, a trickle of sweat runs down Shang Qinghua’s back. Mobei-jun must be nearby, he thinks. Perhaps he’s in the training hall past the old armory; or perhaps there is only a wall separating them. In any case, the moment Mobei-jun’s name slips past his lips, no number of walls matters.
Except, there is no way in hell that Mobei-jun can know of this. Absolutely not.
Shang Qinghua’s informants had carried back whispers of the Ou family, a noble subclan of the Mobei Clan, communicating with an enemy. Intercepted letters proved their guilt. But the struggle for political power could drive one to do heinous things; forging letters to harm a rival’s standing is mere child’s play. A traitor in the midst of Mobei-jun’s court, despicable enough to cloak their treasonous act with another family’s name, could spell greater disaster.
Shang Qinghua, as usual, began to scheme. When he presented Mobei-jun his idea, however, Mobei-jun told him… Well, he’d said, You’re not to act personally. Give your orders to another.
Uh. Um.
Mobei-jun should’ve known by now that Shang Qinghua operated best when no instructions were given! What boss doesn’t know the working style of his subordinates!?
He doesn’t quite believe Mobei-jun will get angry at him; not while he’s on the brink of hell’s gates, at least. Mobei-jun holds some care for Shang Qinghua. After all, Shang Qinghua is nothing but useful. His wealth of knowledge, loyalty, and most importantly, willingness to execute, make him exceptionally hard to replace. Unlike Cucumber-bro, Shang Qinghua’s shifting morality is not a consequence of lovesickness. If Mobei-jun needed something done, Shang Qinghua would get it done. Deceptively, underhandedly, whatever.
To work in the North, a frozen heart was needed. Mobei-jun was no exception.
So Shang Qinghua will tie up every loose end and clean up any traces he left behind before he reports to Mobei-jun, who will know nothing about how he was left pathetic and hurt on Mobei-jun’s castle floors after being recalcitrant.
Worryingly, the floor tilts. Shang Qinghua knows it’s not actually happening because he’s never written about tilting floors. Actually, he’s never written about a lot of things: the dragon-skin boots Mobei-jun gifted him, the dust bunnies beneath his bed, and the lifted corner of the nice carpet. Thank you, System, for filling in these details. Help me, System. You can take my points, if you take this pain away, too. System? Don’t pretend to be dead. How can you abandon the protagonist's dear father?
Shang Qinghua’s eyelids weigh heavily, but it’s fine. He’s in his bedroom, which is in Mobei-jun’s wing, and the castle’s inhabitants know better than to set foot into their king’s personal quarters, even if they desperately need Shang Qinghua’s signatory approval for something.
A power nap will do the trick. And when the curse’s effects wear off and everything hurts less, he’ll get up.
He will.
***
“Qinghua.”
There’s a hand touching the back of his head. Pressure leaves his cheekbones and cool air kisses his face. Without the layer of silk pressed against his mouth and nose, it becomes easier to breathe.
“Shang Qinghua,” the voice says again. Urgent. Nearly pleading. But the weight of sleep and the promise of pain without it are too tempting.
There are light, pleasant touches on his face. They press against the side of his neck momentarily. Then they travel to his wrist, which is pried from his stomach. It hurts, but not enough to muster the strength to resist.
A wave of cold starts from the top of his head and runs through his entire body once, then twice. The frost lingers momentarily around his wound. It doesn’t bite. Instead, it scares away the heat of pain temporarily. It’s qi, not his, because his own isn’t ice-cold, but he recognizes it as safe.
When the voice calls him again, it’s sharper than before. Hands shake him, sending sharp jolts of pain which smother the last dregs of unconsciousness Shang Qinghua was latching onto. Involuntarily, a sound slips from the back of his throat.
A final, stern call of his name forces his eyes open. It’s Mobei-jun. Shang Qinghua must’ve imagined the gentle touches because they starkly contrast Mobei-jun’s severe expression. Icy dark eyes pin him to the floor, reducing him to a stubborn stain in Mobei-jun’s carpet. So maybe Shang Qinghua miscalculated this, too. How foolish, to think that he would be excused from Mobei-jun’s wrath.
“What happened to you?” Mobei-jun demands.
Without a reply, Mobei-jun still manages to find the answer on his own. His eyes find the incriminating seal of the Ou Family on the ground, and he stiffens. A shadow darkens his face. “What did you do?” he growls.
When he reaches for the seal, Shang Qinghua shoots up in a panic, his face pinching in pain. He manages to capture Mobei-jun’s wrist, but, too late, Mobei-jun has already picked up the seal. Shang Qinghua braces himself for it to glow and for Mobei-jun to flinch, but nothing happens. He sighs in relief.
Frost creeps from where Mobei-jun grips the seal, webbing over gold. His brows furrow, like he’s trying to figure something out.
“It has a curse,” he declares. He must’ve checked the seal for spells.
“Yes,” Shang Qinghua says faintly.
“You’ve been cursed,” he says accusingly. His eyes search Shang Qinghua’s face, and when he finds the answer he needs, his brows dip menacingly.“I believe you understood my orders when I gave them.”
“My king…” Shang Qinghua murmurs in an attempt to pacify him.
For a second, it seems to work. The edges of Mobei-jun’s face do not soften, don’t be silly, but he doesn’t push Shang Qinghua away when his eyes roll back involuntarily and he slumps against Mobei-jun’s shoulders. Instead, cold hands hold the back of Shang Qinghua’s neck in a way that should make him hunch his shoulders, except he’s long grown used to it. His skin warms under Mobei-jun’s palms. At first, dumbly, he thinks Mobei-jun is using his powers to warm him up; it is ridiculously cold. But the warmth starts to burn and burrows its way under his skin uncomfortably.
Shang Qinghua makes a sound of protest and tries to shift away from Mobei-jun’s touch, only for the latter to press his hands against Shang Qinghua again, firm and unyielding. The sensation slams back into him with an intensity that leaves his breaths stuttering.
“Don’t,” he manages to say. Weakly, he attempts to push Mobei-jun’s hand away.
“Endure it,” Mobei-jun says simply. He leaves no room for argument.
His hand finds Mobei-jun’s robes and latches onto the fabric. He hopes the gesture looks as pitiful as it feels. Patheticness always did work wonders on Mobei-jun’s will.
Shang Qinghua attempts to breathe through the entire thing until he can’t anymore. He gives in, allowing Mobei-jun’s prodding qi to flood his meridians, with Shang Qinghua’s own qi retreating. Almost instantly, he regrets it; the demonic qi sizzles like hot oil in water in his veins, and Shang Qinghua struggles as much as a person can with a hole in their stomach but is quickly subdued by strong, unrelenting arms. Backed into a corner, he does what he does best and pleads with Mobei-jun. “It hurts,” he cries.
And when Mobei-jun doesn’t react, a different hurt stings Shang Qinghua’s chest. Shang Qinghua continues, “Please, my king. It really hurts. Stop, please. Why’re you–” A pulse of pain shoots through him and forces him to bite down a groan. He knows he shouldn’t neutralize the demonic qi with his own. That’s a death wish, and it was how Shen Qingqiu self-detonated and died. But in the haze of panic, like an instinct to swallow, he does it anyway, and Mobei-jun’s eyes flash with something murderous.
“Shang Qinghua, don’t do stupid things!” His voice cracks through the air like a whip.
The rush of demonic qi calms a little, granting Shang Qinghua time to recuperate. He exhales and turns limp against Mobei-jun.
Roughly, Mobei-jun grabs his chin and turns his face towards him. He taps Shang Qinghua's cheek with a finger. “Open your eyes. I can’t tell if you’re dead.”
Shang Qinghua listens, as he always has. Mobei-jun looks as handsome as ever, even when his expression is plagued by something heavy. When he sighs, Shang Qinghua realises that it’s disappointment weighing down his features. Exhausted tears silently leak from Shang Qinghua’s eyes.
Mobei-jun wipes the wetness from Shang Qinghua’s face. He’s surprisingly tender, and Shang Qinghua, tired and loopy, soaks up as much of the comfort as he can.
“Endure it for a while more,” Mobei-jun says. And then, he adds, very stiffly, “Alright?”
Shang Qinghua shakes his head. “Why?” His voice scrapes against his throat.
“You’ve been cursed,” Mobei-jun says again, like it answers the question, and maybe it does but Shang Qinghua can’t think past the fog in his head.
Before he can probe further, demonic qi spikes, and oh, forget it, forget it. He’s not figuring anything out in this state.
The foreign energy marches on in him, backing nearly all of his own qi into his core, which isn’t great. If the only thing that’s flowing within him is demonic qi, Shang Qinghua will be in no better state than Luo Binghe at Maigu Ridge.
He trusts that Mobei-jun knows what he’s doing. No one else has more experience in keeping Shang Qinghua alive. Mobei-jun is the last person Shang Qinghua expects to kill him, which might be a rather stupid belief, considering he had written Mobei-jun to do just that in his original story.
Even now, as the demonic qi floods into him like a storm tide breaking through a dam, the belief doesn’t shake. The energy pulsing from Mobei-jun’s palm spears through flesh and bone, wringing choked sounds from his throat.
Mobei-jun’s qi engulfs his core and for a second, he thinks it’s going to be consumed. Instead, it wraps around it, tightening, compressing, and finally hardening into a seal.
It shocks clarity into him. If the curse targets human qi, then of course he has to be rid of it until the curse wears off. It also doesn’t seem to have an effect on demonic qi, which makes it a good barrier to shield his core while the spell runs its course. Good thinking, my king.
Too soon, the blip of relief is shattered by the rush of demonic qi. It bursts out of him so fast that it leaves him gasping and light-headed.
A new quiet presses against him. In the absence of the constant hum of qi flowing in his veins, Shang Qinghua can almost hear his ear ringing.
Mobei-jun studies him intently. His arm around Shang Qinghua is tight, probably because he realised Shang Qinghua’s obedience wasn’t truly his, even though it had been promised to him in every I’ll follow you for the rest of my life, my king.
“I’ll make it up to you, my king,” Shang Qinghua says weakly. “I really will.”
“Save it,” Mobei-jun dismisses, his voice oddly gravelly.
Shang Qinghua’s eyes droop, and he tries to stay awake, he does, especially when Mobei-jun tightens his hold around him and fiercely calls out his name.
But if he closes his eyes, he gets to lean into a fantasy where the tightness he hears in Mobei-jun’s voice is worry and not anger, where the hold around him means something more than a possessive clutch of a favourite tool.
***
The waking up bit is anticlimactic.
At first, he thinks it’s another morning. It’s not until he attempts to sit up that he realizes something is amiss. He feels like he has been run over by a truck. Wait, there are no trucks in this world.
The memories pour in. Shang Qinghua cringes, recalling his neediness, but quickly reminds himself that he can never outdo the embarrassing things he’d said and did right after Mobei-jun’s ascension.
He does, at least, find some relief in recalling the reason for his infirmity. His core is sealed. That’s why it feels like he could be blown away by a gush of wind.
Shang Qinghua shifts in his bed and realizes that his clothes have been changed. The robes are untidy, not done up by the adept hands of a servant. The only other possibility is… Shang Qinghua's face heats, but he quickly gets his head out of the gutter. These are his warmest set of robes! It’s completely overkill for the summer weather! Mobei-jun might actually be trying to murder him through overheating!
(He’s really not, Shang Qinghua knows. Summer in the North still makes Shang Qinghua shiver some days.)
With his cheeks still flushed, Shang Qinghua rips the outer robes off of himself and throws it to the foot of his bed. The action tugs at his injury, and he winces, then huffs. This is all Mobei-jun’s fault!
He finds his nightstand occupied by an assortment of herbs, its wrapping cloth embroidered with the crest of Qian Cao Peak – evidence of a visit from Mu Qingfang. Tucked under one of the many packets of herbs is a folded paper.
Curiosity lures him to take the paper. He unfolds it, only to find two words on it: ‘My king’.
In that instant, wisps of shadow erupt from the floors of his bedroom and Shang Qinghua nearly curses out loud.
He got tricked! He glares at the paper in his hand, the words in Mobei-jun’s handwriting. Shang Qinghua doesn’t ever get tricked! It’s not fair! It only worked because Mobei-jun knows of his habit to read things aloud! And of his incurable nosiness. Not! Fair!
(He knows, if he hadn’t wanted to see him, the name would’ve never become an incantation.)
The shadows recede, revealing the great, mighty Mobei-jun.
He’s wearing his formal robes, the ones he dons to meet foreign delegates. Shang Qinghua wonders if they have just left. He doesn’t think Mobei-jun is the kind to drop business to tend to his weak human servant.
He tries to study Mobei-jun’s mood. Aside from the tired slump in his shoulder, more could be gleaned from an empty book than from the placid expression of his king.
“You’re awake,” he says.
“It appears that way,” Shang Qinghua dully agrees.
Mobei-jun moves closer and Shang Qinghua can’t bear to meet his eyes. He stares at a spot, readying himself for a beating.
When Mobei-jun’s hands come close to his face, he has to resist pulling away, but it only rests lightly on his cheek.
Mobei-jun offers him such tenderness at times. Usually when he gets sick or sad. Or, like now, when he’s injured.
It’s terrible. Utterly so. And it’s all Shang Qinghua’s fault for writing PIDW so self-indulgently. Mobei-jun is the literal embodiment of the ideal man in his mind’s eyes, and it feels very much like being tempted by the devil.
Although it never made it into his drafts, he had the idea that Mobei-jun would marry one day. Shang Qinghua never got to thinking who or when or how, but he’d always had the vague impression that Mobei-jun was the kind to eventually settle down with someone. He’d imagined that Mobei-jun wouldn’t be loud about it. There would be no surprise proposal, no year-long honeymoon, and no real plans to have mini demons running about (not for a long time, at least). No, it would be quiet. He would make sure that his partner didn’t have too much work as a consort, would silently protect them, and would notice the small changes in their moods and try to appease them with his clumsy cooking.
When Mobei-jun finally finds the one worthy of his affection, Shang Qinghua doesn’t want to fall victim to the second lead syndrome. No, thank you. Being a side character would suffice.
“Am I that scary?” Mobei-jun asks.
“Wh- No, my king,” he quickly clarifies, shaking his head, “I-”
Mobei-jun’s palm scratches his skin. Shang Qinghua, regrettably, wrenches the hand from his face to find callouses there. It means Mobei-jun has wielded a weapon recently, and used considerable force as he did so. He scans the rest of Mobei-jun for cuts or bruises or any evidence of a battle. It’s a pointless endeavour, of course. Mobei-jun’s healing abilities allow no marks to remain.
“The Ou Family…?” Shang Qinghua asks.
Mobei-jun frowns. “I got rid of them,” he grunts.
Shang Qinghua nods. “Did their new letters bear the counterfeit sigil?”
“I didn’t wait to find out.” He crossed his arms. “That curse of theirs targeted cultivators.”
No other human cultivator fights on the side of demons. Even Cucumber-bro, who, despite being bound to Demon Lord himself, has kept a wide berth from all demonly matters. The implication is clear: the curse was meant for Shang Qinghua.
The intensity of Mobei-jun's gaze reminds Shang Qinghua that he’s still holding onto the demon's hand. He quickly loosens his grip, as if flinching from a hot pan.
So… Shang Qinghua’s plans are becoming too predictable. But, no, that couldn’t be right. These were low IQ NPCs. Of all the tactics they could’ve had, why the old seal? How did they know that Shang Qinghua would tamper with it? Unless… unless there really is a mole. One that is not within Mobei-jun’s circle, but in Shang Qinghua’s network of informants. If that is the case, Shang Qinghua has the world’s biggest headache on his hands and Mobei-jun has more reason to be upset with him. He decides to keep this theory to himself for now.
Shang Qinghua nods minutely. “I see… I’ll accept any punishment.”
Mobei-jun blows frustrated air from his nose. “Tell me why. Why did you not heed me?” Bitterness tinges his tone.
Why? The answer is one that has tormented him since he got the instruction not to act. He has always been the one to act. He was good at it. So many operations of Mobei-jun’s would not have succeeded if he hadn't been the one acting. Maybe he’s screwed up a couple times, but Shang Qinghua isn’t a mind reader. He’s only an author of the plot driving this world, a plot which has deviated so far from what he had written initially that it’s unrecognisable most times. Perhaps that’s it. The gap between PIDW and the present timeline widens with every single interference from Shang Qinghua and Cucumber-bro. It’s not like Shang Qinghua hasn’t thought about it. At the beginning, his ideas were infallible. Every storyline and action could be predicted. Things are different now. He isn’t surprised if Mobei-jun has noticed the dip in his performance, and if he has, then this is probably his idea of gently relieving Shang Qinghua of his duties.
“Where does that leave me?” he blurts out.
Mobei-jun doesn’t say anything. He only stares blankly at Shang Qinghua, his gaze seemingly penetrating into Shang Qinghua’s soul. Shang Qinghua's hands don’t feel too steady, so he clenches the blanket in his fist, trying to find an anchor.
He finds morsels of courage in the swirly patterns of his blanket. “If my work goes to others, then where does that leave me? Are you demoting me? Or firing me? You wanted me to come back, you- you can’t take it back now!”
The air seems to hover, waiting for a landing. Shang Qinghua bites his lips. Even if Mobei-jun hadn’t been planning on firing him, he sure is now.
“Shang Qinghua.” The syllables of his name scrape like flint, the beginning of arson.
“Of course, the decision is yours, my lord, but I-”
“You’ve been by my side this whole time, attending meetings, engaging foreign delegates, influencing my decisions, learning the ins and outs of my kingdom. What role do you think you fill?”
Mobei-jun looks young all of the sudden. It makes Shang Qinghua afraid. He knows Mobei-jun is offering him something, but he isn’t sure what.
Shang Qinghua swallows. “Your… advisor?” he tries.
Something flickers on Mobei-jun’s face and Shang Qinghua fears he’s said the wrong thing, but then Mobei-jun grunts an affirmative. “I would be undone, should my advisor die on a mission.”
“My king!” Shang Qinghua wraps his arms around Mobei-jun, ignoring the strain it puts on his wound. A smile pulls at his lips, borne of happiness and relief.
Mobei-jun’s arms come around him, too, because he’s kind to Shang Qinghua, doesn’t want him to run away. What he doesn’t know is that Shang Qinghua never wanted to run away. If he did, he would’ve long been back, bathed in city lights under a lonely sky. He only pretended to want to because Mobei-jun discarded him that day and told him to scram. And one day, when Mobei-jun finds no more use for him…
“I won’t disappoint you,” Shang Qinghua promises. Hopes. Prays. He thinks something seeps from his heart into his voice and stains it, because Mobei-jun rubs his back like he is to be comforted.
Shang Qinghua decides to spare Mobei-jun from his internal spiralling. He counts to three before finding it in himself to pull away.
He’s busy trying to swallow the mysterious lump in his throat when a robe is draped around his shoulders. It’s the one he took off a while ago. “Dress,” Mobei-jun says. “I will fetch Mu Qingfang.”
With that, shadows grow from the ground again.
“My king,” Shang Qinghua says, before he can stop himself.
Mobei-jun pauses. “Yes?”
Shang Qinghua mouth turns dry. Words come up empty. He’s not sure what he wants. What could he possibly ask from this broody, grumpy, stoic demon? “Um… Nothing.”
Mobei-jun regards him for a long moment. Then, gently, he says, “I will be back, Qinghua.”
Nothing about this conversation makes sense at all. Still, the tightness in Shang Qinghua’s chest eases, so he nods.
The shadows swallow Mobei-jun, and Shang Qinghua patiently waits for his return.