Chapter Text
The throne room is silent.
Luo Binghe sits on his throne and stares at nothing.
Three months.
He should have forgotten by now. He has lived for centuries. He has forgotten faces, names, entire wars. Memories fade like old ink, bleeding at the edges until nothing remains but the vaguest impression of something that once mattered.
This does not fade.
This is carved into him. Burned into him. Woven into the fabric of who he is now, this new self he did not choose, this person he has become against his will.
He presses his palm against his chest. Just left of center. Something sits there. A weight. A pressure. A thing without name.
It is heavy.
It is always heavy.
He does not know what to call it.
He does not want to know.
Because naming it would make it real. Would make it permanent. Would mean accepting that this thing—this want, this need, this endless gnawing absence—is not going anywhere.
It is not going anywhere.
He knows this.
He just does not want to admit it.
The tea arrives.
He lifts the cup. Takes a sip. Sets it down.
Too hot. Wrong leaves. Prepared by hands that do not know him, do not care, do nothing but complete a task.
He thinks of another cup. Another pair of hands. Hands that moved with care, with attention, with the ease of long practice. Hands that had learned someone's preferences over years.
Hands that had reached for another face.
Hands that would never reach for his.
He had watched those hands. For one day. He had catalogued every movement, every gesture, every tiny unconscious touch. He had stored them away like a starving man hoarding crumbs.
And now he cannot stop seeing them.
Every time he lifts a cup. Every time he sees ink. Every time he passes a white flower.
Those hands.
Those hands that will never touch him.
He pushes the tea away.
Does not drink again.
The cup sits there, growing cold. Like everything in this palace. Like everything in his life.
He reviews reports.
The Northern territories are calm. The Eastern borders are secure. A minor dispute in the Southern provinces requires attention—something about trade routes and tariffs and the endless small problems of empire.
He reads the words. He understands them. He dictates responses.
His gaze catches on the scribe's brush. Ink flows from the tip. Black against white. The scribe's fingers are wrapped around the handle, ordinary fingers, unremarkable fingers.
Ink stains.
Fingertips. Slender. Marks that never quite wash away.
He thinks about hands that held brushes not for conquest but for correction. For essays. For the small, ordinary work of teaching.
He thinks about those hands reaching for another face.
He thinks about those hands never reaching for his.
He had seen those hands close up. That night. When Shen Qingqiu had slept curled against him, trusting, vulnerable. Those hands had rested on Bing-ge's chest, loose and unconscious, fingers slightly curled.
He had looked at them for hours.
Had memorized every line. Every callus. The exact shade of the ink stains at his fingertips.
He could draw those hands from memory.
He has, actually. In private. On scraps of paper he burns immediately.
The scribe is still writing. Waiting for the next command.
Bing-ge cannot remember what he was saying.
Cannot remember anything except those hands.
"Dismissed."
The scribe bows and flees.
Bing-ge sits alone.
The reports wait. The empire waits. Everything waits while he sits here, thinking about hands that will never touch him.
He walks through the garden.
The flowers are blooming. White ones. He does not know their names. Has never cared to learn.
White orchids.
A small vase on a tray. Arranged carefully. Deliberately. By hands that wanted to bring beauty into someone else's space.
He thinks about being thought of like that.
He thinks about being the reason someone arranges flowers.
He has never been that reason.
His wives arrange flowers for the palace. For the gardens. For each other. They do not arrange them for him. They do not think of him when they choose which blooms to cut, which stems to place, which colors to combine.
He is not in their minds that way.
He has never been in anyone's mind that way.
Except once.
For one night, he had been in someone's mind. Shen Qingqiu had woken up and looked at him—at him, thinking he was that other Binghe—and had smiled. Had said good morning like it meant something. Had been glad to see him.
It was not real.
It was borrowed.
It was stolen.
But for that moment, he had been the reason someone smiled.
He stands among the white flowers and feels the weight in his chest press harder.
He keeps walking.
There is nothing else to do.
Ning Yingying passes him in the hall.
"Junshang."
She bows. Her voice is soft. Polite. Distant.
Junshang.
Not A-Luo. Not even Binghe. The title of an emperor, not the name of a person she once loved.
He thinks about another voice saying another name.
Binghe.
Like a prayer. Like a promise. Like the most important word in any language.
He had heard that voice say that name a dozen times in one day. Each time, it had lodged in his chest like a blade. Each time, he had felt the difference between what that other Binghe had and what he would never have.
He thinks about that voice saying his name.
Bing-ge.
Once. In a clearing. With recognition instead of fear.
He had not known, in that moment, what it would cost him. Had not known that one word would become a wound he would carry forever.
He will never hear it again.
He nods at Ning Yingying. Continues walking.
Behind him, her footsteps fade in the opposite direction.
She is not the one he wants to hear.
He holds court.
Petitioners come and go. Supplicants bow and plead. He grants requests, denies appeals, dispenses justice with the casual authority of someone who has held absolute power for centuries.
A woman approaches. Young. Desperate. Her hands shake as she kneels. She begs for her husband's life—some minor offense against the crown, some transgression that would normally mean execution.
He watches her face.
She loves him. This husband of hers. It is written in every line of her body, every tremor in her voice, every tear that tracks down her cheek. She would do anything to save him. She would give anything to keep him.
He thinks about what it would be like to be loved like that.
To have someone who would beg.
To have someone who would fight.
To have someone who would stay.
His wives would not beg for him. They might mourn—a little, appropriately, for the required period—but they would not beg. They would perhaps fight, but any foe capable of killing him would easily subdue them. They would accept his death the way they accept his presence: as a fact of their existence, nothing more.
They have each other. They have their own lives, their own purposes, their own reasons for existing that have nothing to do with him.
If he died, they would grieve.
And then they would continue.
Without him.
He grants the woman's petition.
Not out of mercy. Not out of justice. Just because... he wants to believe that love like that exists somewhere. That someone, somewhere, is loved enough to be worth begging for.
He is not.
He will never be.
But at least she can keep what he cannot have.
He lies in bed.
Sha Hualing is beside him. Warm. Present. Her hand rests on his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns. She is trying. She always tries. It is what she does—try to please him, try to reach him, try to find the man beneath the emperor.
He feels nothing.
Not her touch. Not her warmth. Not her effort.
He feels the ghost of another hand. Cooler. Slender. Callused from holding brushes. A hand that had rested on his chest for one night.
One night.
Shen Qingqiu had slept curled against him. Trusting. Vulnerable. His hand had rested on Bing-ge's chest, loose and unconscious, as if he had done it a thousand times before.
He had done it a thousand times before. With that other Binghe.
Not with Bing-ge.
Never with Bing-ge.
Bing-ge had held him all night. Had not slept. Had watched the rise and fall of his chest, counted the seconds between each breath, memorized the rhythm.
He still knows it. Three months later. He still knows exactly how many seconds between each inhale and exhale. He still knows the exact temperature of Shen Qingqiu's skin against his. He still knows the weight of him, warm and real and there.
Sha Hualing's hand continues its patterns. He feels them distantly, like sensations happening to someone else. They mean nothing. They have always meant nothing. He just did not used to notice.
He notices now.
He notices everything now.
Everything is absence. Everything is lack. Everything is he is not here, he will never be here, you will never have what that other version of you has.
He closes his eyes.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, he sees Shen Qingqiu's face. Relaxed in sleep. Unaware that the arms around him belonged to a stranger. Unaware that the man holding him was not his husband. Unaware that he was being stolen.
He had held him anyway.
For one night, he had held him.
It was stolen.
It was borrowed.
It was the most real thing he had ever felt.
He summons a concubine.
Not a wife—someone new, someone who does not know him, someone who might look at him without the weight of years and duty and disappointment.
She comes to his chambers. Beautiful. Young. Eager to please. Her eyes are bright and empty. She does not know him. She does not know what he is. She only knows that he is the emperor, and she has been chosen, and this is the greatest honor of her life.
She lies beneath him and makes the sounds he expects.
He feels nothing.
Not her body. Not her warmth. Not her willingness.
He looks at her face and thinks about another face. Dark eyes. Ink-stained fingers. A left eyebrow that drops lower than the right when frustrated. A small, rare smile that appears only for one person.
He closes his eyes.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, he sees Shen Qingqiu.
He sees him in the bamboo house, grading essays, his left eyebrow lower than his right. He sees him looking up at that other Binghe, soft and wondering and something like awe. He sees him sleeping, relaxed and trusting, his hand resting on a chest that is not Bing-ge's but should be.
He finishes.
Dismisses her.
She leaves, confused, perhaps relieved. He does not care.
He lies alone in the darkness and thinks about what it would be like to be touched by someone who actually wanted to touch him.
Not out of duty.
Not out of obligation.
Not out of fear or hope or the desperate need to please.
But just because... they wanted to.
Because they could not imagine not touching him.
Because he was the one they reached for in the dark.
He will never know.
He dreams. Naturally.
Not of the bamboo house this time.
Of the abyss.
He is climbing. Always climbing. The walls are sharp. His hands are bleeding. The darkness never ends. It has never ended. It will never end.
But someone is with him.
That other Binghe.
The soft one. The loved one. The one who has everything Bing-ge wants.
They are both climbing. Side by side. The same wounds. The same blood. The same desperate need to reach the top.
"You're still thinking about him," that other Binghe says.
Bing-ge's hands grip the rock. The edges cut into his palms. The pain is familiar. Welcome. It is something to feel besides this.
"Shut up."
"You held him. One night. You watched him sleep. You felt his hand on your chest."
"I said shut up."
"And now you can't forget. Now you think about him constantly. Now everything reminds you of what you can't have."
Bing-ge turns. Grabs that other Binghe by the throat. Slams him against the abyss wall. The rock is sharp. He feels it give. Hears that other Binghe's breath catch.
"I will kill you."
That other Binghe does not struggle. Does not fight. Just looks at him with those dark eyes—his eyes, the eyes they share, the eyes that have looked at Shen Qingqiu with love and been loved in return.
"Go ahead," he says. His voice is calm. Steady. Infuriating. "Kill me. Take my place. See if he looks at you the way he looks at me."
Bing-ge's hand tightens.
"He won't. You know he won't. Because you're not me. You'll never be me. You're the version of myself that grew in the dark, that conquered and killed and took everything except the one thing that matters."
That other Binghe's voice does not change. Does not waver.
"You had him for one night. You held him while he slept. And in the morning, you tried to take more. You tried to dual cultivate with my husband."
Bing-ge's grip falters.
That other Binghe's eyes flash. For the first time, there is something other than calm in them. Something hot. Something dangerous.
"You pretended to be injured. You let him care for you. You let him hold you. You slept in my bed, beside my husband, with your arms around him. And then you tried to take him."
The words are venom. They burn.
"I should kill you for that alone."
Bing-ge releases him. Steps back. His hands are shaking. He does not know why.
"I didn't—"
"You didn't succeed. That's the only reason you're still alive." That other Binghe's voice is cold now. Hard. The voice of someone who has killed before and will kill again. "You touched him. You held him. You tried to take what is mine."
"He's not yours."
That other Binghe's eyes narrow. The abyss darkens around them. The walls seem to press closer.
"He chose me. He stayed with me. He married me. He loves me. Every day, he wakes up next to me. Every night, he reaches for me in the dark. He is mine, and I am his, and nothing you do will ever change that."
Bing-ge's hands shake harder.
"You don't deserve him."
That other Binghe laughs. It is not a happy sound. It is the laugh of someone who has asked themselves the same question every day for fifteen years and never found an answer.
"You're right. I don't. I never did. I never earned him. I never worked for him. He just... chose me. For no reason I will ever understand."
He steps closer. Close enough that Bing-ge can see the anger in his eyes, the grief, the fear that still lives there despite everything.
"But he did choose me. Not you. Me. The soft one. The weak one, as you call me. The one who makes tea and braids hair and shares his life with him. He chose me."
Bing-ge's jaw tightens. "You're lesser."
"Am I?"
"You have power. You could conquer anything. You could rule everything. And you chose to sit in a bamboo house and make tea."
That other Binghe's expression does not change. But something in his eyes shifts. Softens. Becomes something that looks almost like pity.
"Yes. I did. Because that's where he is. That's where I want to be. That's the only thing that matters."
He looks at Bing-ge. Really looks. The way Shen Qingqiu had looked at him in that clearing—seeing everything, flinching at nothing.
"You conquered three realms. You have hundreds of wives. You have more power than anyone in any world. And you're standing here, in a dream, shaking because you can't stop thinking about my husband."
The words land like blows. Each one hits. Each one leaves a mark.
"Who's lesser now?"
Bing-ge's fist connects with that other Binghe's jaw.
He takes it. Does not fight back. Just wipes blood from his lip and looks at Bing-ge with those dark eyes. The eyes that have seen everything. The eyes that know.
"Feel better?"
Bing-ge's chest is heaving. His hand hurts. His whole body hurts. The abyss presses in around them, dark and endless and hungry.
"No."
"Good. You shouldn't."
That other Binghe straightens. His eyes are hard again. The softness is gone, replaced by something cold and certain.
"You deceived him. You let him care for you. You held him while he slept, thinking he was safe with me. And then you tried to take more."
He steps closer. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill.
"If you ever come near him again—if you ever set foot in our world, if you ever look at him, if you even think about touching him—I will find you. I will hunt you across every realm, through every world, to the ends of existence. And I will destroy you."
Bing-ge meets his gaze. Holds it.
"You think you could?"
That other Binghe's smile is sharp. Familiar. It is the smile Bing-ge sees in the mirror. The smile of someone who has crawled out of hell and will do anything to stay out.
"I am you. Every dark part of you lives in me too. The hunger. The violence. The willingness to destroy anything that threatens what's mine."
He pauses. The smile fades.
"But I have something you don't."
Bing-ge waits. He does not want to ask. He has to know.
"What?"
That other Binghe's voice softens. Just slightly. Just enough to hurt.
"I have him. I have his hand in mine. I have his voice saying my name. I have his trust, his love, his choice. And that makes me stronger than you will ever be."
Bing-ge feels the words like blades. Like the walls of the abyss, sharp and endless and inescapable.
"I don't need to fight you," that other Binghe continues. "I don't need to prove anything. I already have everything that matters."
He turns away.
"Stay away from him. Stay away from our world. Stay away from everything I have."
Bing-ge watches him go. Watches his back disappear into the darkness. Watches the last person who might understand him walk away.
"You don't know what it's like," he calls out. His voice cracks. He does not care. "To have no one. To never be chosen. To be alone for centuries."
That other Binghe stops. Does not turn.
For a long moment, there is only the darkness and the silence and the endless hunger of the abyss.
Then, quietly:
"I know exactly what it's like."
He turns. Just enough to look back. Just enough for Bing-ge to see his face.
"I lived it too. Before he stayed. I was alone. I was hungry. I was convinced that no one would ever want me. And then he looked at me—really looked at me—and decided I was worth keeping."
He pauses.
"The only difference between us is luck."
The words hang in the void.
"Just luck."
He disappears into the darkness.
Bing-ge stands alone in the abyss.
The walls are sharp. His hands are bleeding. The darkness never ends.
He has been here before.
He has never left.
He wakes.
The bed is empty. Morning light filters through the windows, pale and cold.
He lies still.
Breathes.
The only difference between us is luck.
That other Binghe's words echo in his mind. They will not stop. They will never stop.
Not worth. Not strength. Not power.
Luck.
That other Binghe knows. He knows he did not deserve what he got. He knows he did not earn it. He knows it could have been otherwise.
It could have been Bing-ge.
If Shen Qingqiu had been different. If the story had been different. If luck had gone the other way.
It could have been him.
He could have been the one waking up next to those dark eyes.
He could have been the one receiving that small, rare smile.
He could have been the one chosen.
But he wasn't.
He was here. In this world. With this emptiness.
And that other Binghe was there. In that bamboo house. With everything Bing-ge wanted.
He presses his palm against his chest. The weight is still there. It will always be there.
He gets up.
The day begins.
It is the same as every other day. It will be the same tomorrow. It will be the same forever.
Except now he knows.
Now he knows that somewhere, in another world, a version of himself is waking up next to someone who chose him.
Now he knows that he had one night.
One night of holding him.
One minute of being seen.
It is not enough.
It will never be enough.
But it is all he has.
He thinks about that other Binghe's face. The hatred in his eyes. The fury barely contained. The way he had looked at Bing-ge like he was something to be destroyed.
He had tried to take his husband.
He had held Shen Qingqiu all night.
He had woken up with Shen Qingqiu's hand on his chest, Shen Qingqiu's breath warm against his neck, Shen Qingqiu's body curled trustingly against his.
For one night, he had had everything.
And then he had tried to take more.
He had tried to dual cultivate. Had reached for Shen Qingqiu in the morning, wanting, needing, hungry.
And Shen Qingqiu had realized.
Had seen through him.
Had said his name—Bing-ge—with recognition instead of fear.
And then that other Binghe had arrived, and everything had ended.
He thinks about what would have happened if Shen Qingqiu had not realized.
If that other Binghe had not arrived.
If he had succeeded.
Would Shen Qingqiu be here now? In this world? With him?
Would those dark eyes look at him the way they looked at that other Binghe?
Would that hand reach for him in the dark?
He does not know.
He will never know.
But he thinks about it.
He thinks about it constantly.
It is all he has.
He walks through the palace.
The halls are empty. The guards bow. The servants press themselves against walls. He does not acknowledge them. He never does.
He thinks about that other Binghe's words.
I will find you. I will hunt you across every realm, through every world, to the ends of existence. And I will destroy you.
He believes him.
That other Binghe would do it. Would hunt him. Would kill him. Would tear apart worlds to keep what is his.
Because that is what Bing-ge would do.
That is what he would do, if someone tried to take what was his.
But he has nothing for others to take.
Nothing that matters.
Nothing worth fighting for.
That other Binghe has everything.
He has him.
He thinks about Shen Qingqiu's face in the clearing.
The moment of recognition. The way his eyes had widened, then softened. The way he had said his name.
Bing-ge.
Not with fear. Not with hatred. Just with... understanding.
Like he had known exactly who Bing-ge was. Like he had understood exactly what Bing-ge was. Like he had looked at the monster and seen the man and decided, in that instant, that the man was worth acknowledging.
He had not run.
He had not flinched.
He had not looked away.
For one minute, he had seen Bing-ge.
And then that other Binghe had arrived, and Shen Qingqiu's attention had shifted, and the moment was gone.
But the seeing had not gone.
It had lodged in Bing-ge's chest.
It is still there.
It will always be there.
He eats dinner alone.
The table is large enough for twenty. He sits at the head, alone, surrounded by empty chairs. The food is exquisite. Prepared by the best chefs in three realms. It tastes like nothing.
He thinks about another table. Smaller. Low to the ground. Two people sitting across from each other.
He thinks about the way Shen Qingqiu had looked at that other Binghe. Soft. Wondering. Like he was the answer to a question.
He thinks about the way that other Binghe had looked back. Like Shen Qingqiu was the only person in any world.
He thinks about never being looked at like that.
He pushes his food away.
He is not hungry.
He has not been hungry for three months.
He does not summon anyone tonight.
He lies alone in the darkness. The bed is vast. Empty. Cold.
He thinks about that night in the bamboo house. About Shen Qingqiu's hand on his chest. About his breath, steady and trusting. About the weight of him, warm and real and there.
He thinks about waking up the next morning. About Shen Qingqiu's small smile. About the way he had said good morning like it meant something.
It had meant something.
To that other Binghe.
Not to Bing-ge.
Never to Bing-ge.
He thinks about trying to take more.
About reaching for him.
About his face when he realized.
About the way he had said Bing-ge.
About that other Binghe's arrival. The fury in his eyes. The way he had positioned himself between Bing-ge and Shen Qingqiu. Protective. Possessive. Mine.
He thinks about leaving.
About stepping through the portal.
About coming home to this.
This emptiness.
This absence.
This constant, gnawing awareness of what he cannot have.
He closes his eyes.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, he sees Shen Qingqiu's face.
He always sees his face.
He does not dream.
He lies awake.
Stares at the ceiling.
Thinks.
About ink stains.
About white orchids.
About a hand on his chest in the dark.
About a voice saying his name.
About a minute in a clearing when someone looked at him and did not flinch.
About that other Binghe's words.
The only difference between us is luck.
Luck.
That's all it was.
Not worth. Not strength. Not power.
Luck.
He was unlucky.
His Shen Qingqiu threw him away.
That other Binghe's Shen Qingqiu stayed.
That's the only difference.
That's everything.
He thinks about his Shen Qingqiu. The one who had been cruel. The one who had punished him for imagined slights. The one who had smiled when he flinched. The one who had thrown him into the abyss and never looked back.
He thinks about that other Shen Qingqiu. The one with the soft voice and the small smile. The one who had looked at that other Binghe like he was precious. The one who had stayed.
Same face.
Same name.
Same position.
Completely different.
Why?
Why had one stayed and the other thrown him away?
What had he done wrong?
He had been a good disciple. He had worked hard. He had tried to please. He had done everything right.
It had not mattered.
Because his Shen Qingqiu was cruel.
Because that other Shen Qingqiu was not.
Because luck.
Just luck.
He presses his palm against his chest. The weight is still there. It will always be there.
He rises before dawn.
Stands at the window. Watches the sun creep over his capital.
He thinks about another sunrise. Another window. Another world.
He thinks about Shen Qingqiu waking up in that bamboo house. Reaching for that other Binghe. Finding him there.
He thinks about never being found.
About never being reached for.
About always waking up alone.
Xin Mo hums at his waist.
He reaches for it. His fingers close around the hilt.
The sword thrums. Hungry. Ready.
He could go back.
He could tear open the world and step through and see him again.
He could stand in that clearing and wait for those dark eyes to find him.
He could beg. Demand. Plead.
He could try to make himself worthy of being seen.
But that other Binghe's words echo in his mind.
If you ever come near him again—if you ever set foot in our world, if you ever look at him, if you even think about touching him—I will find you. I will hunt you across every realm, through every world, to the ends of existence. And I will destroy you.
He believes him.
He would do the same.
If someone tried to take the only thing that mattered, he would destroy them.
That other Binghe has the only thing that matters.
Bing-ge has nothing.
Nothing except this weight in his chest. This pressure. This thing without name.
Nothing except one night.
One minute.
One word.
Bing-ge.
Nothing except him.
He holds Xin Mo.
Thinks about that minute in the clearing.
Thinks about that night in the bamboo house.
Thinks about Shen Qingqiu's hand on his chest.
Thinks about his voice saying his name.
Bing-ge.
Once.
Just once.
He will carry it forever.
He releases Xin Mo.
He knows what he has to do.
Not yet.
Not today.
But soon.
He will go back.
He will see him again.
He does not know how. Does not know when. Does not know what he will do when he gets there.
He does not know if that other Binghe will find him. Does not know if he will survive the encounter. Does not know if Shen Qingqiu will look at him again, even for a moment, even with recognition instead of fear.
He does not know anything.
Except that he cannot stay here.
Cannot sit on this throne forever, staring at nothing, feeling everything.
Cannot carry this weight alone.
Cannot live with only one minute of being seen.
He needs more.
He needs him.
He stands at the window and watches the sun rise over his empty empire.
The light falls on his face. He does not feel it.
Nothing reaches him anymore.
Nothing except him.
Always him.
Forever him.