Chapter Text
They found the tomb by accident.
The team had been searching for an ancient chapel said to house the remains of a nameless martyr—one of many lost to the war between the ancient Church and Vampire, a conflict now spoken of like folklore.
Archaeologists had been itching to get their hands on any kind of tomb or information about the ancient civilization. The ruins were buried beneath a collapsed mountain range in the long-dead kingdom of Xiantian, where even the grass refused to grow. What they unearthed, however, was not a chapel.
It was a gate of scorched gold, blackened at the edges like it had once been kissed by fire.
The symbol above it, two wings, cracked through the middle, had not been recorded in any known Xiantian scripture. But the aura it gave off was suffocating. Like it had watched every man who dared to approach.
Inside, they found a temple carved into the earth itself. No statues. No offerings. No inscriptions. It was definitely a temple, but it was so deeply hidden.
Just a single sarcophagus—plain, hand-carved, untouched by time.
And watching over it from the far wall...
A statue.
Six feet tall. Made entirely of solid gold. Its surface was warped, as if the metal had once been molten liquid. The figure stood hunched forward slightly, as if mid-reverence, or agony. Its arms curled around something invisible, cradling it gently. Devotion carved into every inch.
Its face was beautiful.
Too beautiful.
The statue's expression was one of anguish frozen in eternity, mouth parted, brows knit in pain, and eyes that gazed down at the sarcophagus with a sorrow too human to be made by hands. Had a great craftsman of the era carved this wonderous statue?
The air inside the tomb was colder than the snowstorm above.
And as the last lantern flickered low, one of the senior researchers reached out to touch the base of the statue with gloved hands.
Her fingers came away stained with soot. And an inscription could be seen beneath the dust.
‘Heaven Does Not Mourn For Us.’
"Where...did this come from? Who could be buried in this coffin?" A junior researcher held his flashlight closer, as multiple others took notes on the translation.
What did it mean?
The coffin was narrow, of good craftsmanship, but not overly decorated. It could belong to a young woman. Perhaps it belonged to the wife of a noble? Maybe paint was washed away with time.
"Come on, lets leave and bring back others to examine what we found." The group left through the rusted gate, bowing their heads to the dirt tunnel above them.
They missed the way a gentle mist escaped the statues solid mouth.
—
"Eh, Wang Si, have you got a hold of the team yet?" A researcher sat hunched over a fire, grinning up at his senior. Wang Si turned around, clutching her notebook.
"There isn't any signal out here, we'll have to go to the nearest town tomorrow." Everyone groaned, slowly heading towards the musty tents they had built. Wang Si glanced towards the tomb they had unearthed, her eyes narrowing at the still flickering torchlight.
By morning, they made their decision. The sarcophagus and the statue would be removed and sent to the mainland for preservation and further study. It would take weeks to analyze everything here properly, carbon dating, artifact translation, soil breakdown. But the tomb was too delicate to leave here.
And something about it…unsettled them.
They documented the coordinates. Covered the site. Began the slow transport of the two relics.
No one noticed that the soot on the statue’s mouth had thinned. No one noticed that its golden arms now cradled the air a little tighter.
And as they loaded the sarcophagus into the transport crate, a whisper passed through the empty tomb like wind in a crypt.
Wait...don’t leave him alone.
—
The statue and the sarcophagus were sealed in two separate, reinforced transport crates and lifted carefully onto trucks bound for the mainland.
The rain started almost immediately.
The sky had been clear, crystalline blue just hours earlier. But as the convoy crossed the ridge and began the descent down the craggy mountains, the clouds folded in like wings of ash. Fat drops of rain hit the windscreen, then sleet, then snow. Visibility shrank.
"What the hell," muttered one of the drivers, tapping the dashboard of the lead vehicle. "This wasn’t in the weather report."
Back in the rear truck, which held the statue, the temperature began to drop.
The heating system failed without warning. The driver tried the dial. “No signal. No fan. Nothing!” The lights on the dashboard flickered and died.
"Shit– It'll take us hours to start the stupid thing up again."
And in the container behind them, something moved.
—
A memory bled through the gold.
It’s snowing again. He always hated the cold.
He would rub his arms and mutter about drafts in the cathedral, pulling his robe closer while pretending he wasn’t shivering. He looked so small when he did that.
So human.
And he who bled for him, lied for him, loved him in silence—would only ever say,
"Come here. Idiot. You’ll freeze."
And the youthful priest would roll his eyes and walk forwards anyway.
Once upon a time, a young man stood beneath a cherry tree in the snow, picking the last surviving fresh ones. His hands and cheeks were pink, and he shivered slightly. Golden brown eyes watched gently, wanting so badly to go and cover him in a warm coat.
—
The truck reached the ferry just before sunset.
The researchers followed by boat, and the two crates were lowered into the basement of the private Xiantian Cultural Restoration Facility, a stark, state-of-the-art laboratory many a mile away from the nearest city. It had been chosen because of its security and isolation.
Perfect for analysis.
Dr. Ling, the lead archaeologist, stood beside the sealed sarcophagus, clipboard in hand. Her assistant hovered by the other container, where the golden statue had been placed behind glass.
"Get the lighting just right," she murmured. "This one…this one’s not like the others. It’s not a grave marker." Xiantian people were sentimental. They resembled Xianle people, who buried their dead in lavishly decorated tombs. Statues were uncommon.
"Then what is it?"
"A guardian."
The assistant raised a brow. "It’s…hugging something. Like it’s holding someone."
Dr. Ling hesitated. "Maybe it was."
—
That night, the security footage from the statue’s containment room glitched for six minutes.
No alarms. No breach. Just a still frame: the golden statue, hunched in sorrow, cradling nothing.
And then, for a single second, the footage distorted–
The statue had moved.
Just slightly, its fingers had curled tighter.
Like it was trying to escape.
—
And a soul, trapped in molten eternity, dreamed.
He remembered fire. The way it wrapped around him like penance, like justice, like love that could not forgive itself.
He remembered clutching someone’s silhouette in his arms. Their skin had already lost its color. Their lips were blue. And yet this statue still murmured to him,
"It’s okay. I’ll stay. I’ll never leave you. Even if I burn."
And then the gold came down.
It screamed as it sealed him. And he screamed with it.
—
The next morning, Dr. Ling received a call from the mainland lab.
"The soil samples from the sarcophagus don’t match the surrounding tomb," the scientist said. "It’s like the coffin was moved there long after the rest of the chamber was carved."
Dr. Ling froze. “So it wasn’t a burial site?"
"We don’t think so. More like…" A pause. "...a hiding place." The tomb was built prior to the wall around it. It's almost as if someone built it after the burial of the sarcophagus and statue."
—
In the storage room, beneath the false comfort of fluorescent lights, the sarcophagus lay undisturbed. Beside it, laid upon an examination bench, was the statue.
But if you pressed your ear against the gold, you might hear something.
Breathing.
Or sobbing.
Or a voice, hoarse from centuries of silence, saying,
Don’t open it. Please don’t open it. He’s still dreaming.
He'll wake up soon, it whispered.
—
It was snowing again.
The kind of snowfall that coated even the wreckage in white, as though trying to preserve what was left of the world in its last moments. Trees, burned down to blackened stumps—bore soft crowns of white. A broken cathedral steeple jutted from the ground like a splinter in the earth’s skin, and still, the snow fell.
It dusted the cracked stone road that stretched across the ruins of Xiantian, and blanketed the boots of the soldiers as they dragged a young man toward the pyre.
Mu Qing kept his chin up, even as blood painted his skin and ropes bruised his wrists. His priest robes, once fine white silk, hung in shredded tatters from his frame. A shattered medallion, symbol of the Church, swayed from his neck, half buried in blood. And still, he walked.
He didn’t look left or right. Didn’t flinch when a child spat at him. Didn’t wince when someone hissed "traitor."
There was no fire in his eyes. But neither was there fear.
A soldier shoved him from behind. He staggered, barefoot through snow—but did not fall. Where was the head? Lord Jun Wu had fallen. Xie Lian and the others had defeated him, but that didn't stop Xiantian's army turning on the church a few days later. Mu Qing had allowed the youngest members of the church to escape, but elder ones and all servants were captured. They had misunderstood. The vampires had saved Xiantian, not hurt it!
So why…
Why did the City Head order for the Church to be torn down? His senior had disappeared, the Shi brothers were nowhere to be found, and that left Mu Qing. He had to play the part of leader, even though every single civilian knew what he had sacrificed for them.
He will continue to sacrifice for them.
—
Far above the capital, nestled into the side of a holy mountain, a towering palace loomed. Black spires, bleeding red banners.
The Vampire Citadel.
Lord Feng Xin watched the storm from its highest balcony. He was waiting for a single bird to come flying over with a note from a special someone. Then, when that note had been pressed to trembling lips, would Feng Xin go and retrieve his beloved.
"Feng Xin...what is that smoke?" Xie-Dianxia was sitting on cushions behind him, gazing out at the vast city. A small column of smoke was gathering in the middle.
—
That night, a young woman crept into an underground cell. The guards had grown bored, tired. No one cared what a condemned priestess did in her final hours.
"Mu Qing," she whispered.
He looked up. Bruised, bloodied. Smiled faintly.
"I thought you'd abandoned me Qingxuan."
She laughed, a choked, wet sound. "Don’t joke like that. You know I–"
"I know."
She knelt beside him, gripping the bars. Her face was pale, and Mu Qing felt a pang of sympathy for the poor thing. She had gone through too much. "They're going to do it tomorrow. The sacrifice. In front of the Church, the nobles, everyone."
"I figured."
"The Head...his body will be burned there. I'm trying to get you out," she said. "I don't know how to contact Feng Xin, and no-one I know is at the temple anymore!"
Mu Qing tilted his head back, watching snow drift down through a crack in the stone.
"Tell the heavens," he murmured, "to send someone prettier next time. If I’m going to be a martyr, I want an audience."
I want his audience, were the words he left unsaid.
She hit his shoulder, then clung to him.
"I’ll come back," she whispered. "I’ll keep trying. I won’t let them do this."
Mu Qing closed his eyes. "It’s alright. I think someone else will."
—
His lordship stood at the heart of the grand cathedral, gold robes spotless, crown glimmering beneath the stained-glass skylight. He held looped ropes in his hands, slim, ceremonial. Blessed with fire and holy light.
He did not smile.
He didn’t need to.
The execution was set.
"Let this blood cleanse our sins," he intoned. "Let this traitor's soul pay the price for our salvation."
The cathedral doors opened. And a group was led in.
—
Two-thousand years forward, a thunderclap split the sky.
Glass shattered from above.
Yelling could be heard as people scrambled down white hallways, ignoring the open door to an examination room.
And behind those doors—set upon a stone table, was a coffin.
Beside it was a figure. The statue that would one day weep tears of gold.
—
They called it an oracle.
A blinding light erupted from the chamber sealed beneath the Cathedral of Radiant Light, and the great bells of Heaven rang on their own for the first time in a hundred years.
Within minutes, whispers swept through the ranks of the Church. A new ascension. A new disciple with great power.
No one expected it to be him!
Former-now-present member Xie Lian stood in the grand hall with soot on his cheek, the sleeve of his white robe half-burnt, and a calm smile on his face.
"Hello again everyone! Sorry about the west wall. A...minor structural miscommunication occurred."
Crickets chirped.
"..."
"Someone get Ling Wen."
—
Ling Wen arrived precisely five minutes later with her usual calm expression and a stack of scrolls under one arm. She looked at Xie Lian, then at the new crack running along the wall behind him.
"You couldn't have come in through the door?"
Xie Lian scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "There was a fire. And a horse. The horse was also on fire."
She sighed. "Follow me please Xianle-Dianxia."
The procession began with practiced efficiency. He was led through gold-lit halls, past portraits of saints and gods and long-forgotten martyrs.
Xie Lian smiled softly at the old paintings, happy to see them still up after such a long time. He remembered them from his last…official time in the sect, and it was rather nostalgic. Other church officials stepped aside, eyes flicking over him with equal parts recognition and disdain. A few whispered behind his back.
Wasn’t he given immortality by the Leader?
Was he the one who destroyed Feng-shixiong's temple?
Royal blood. Probably bribed the oracle.
Eh?! That's not even possible, Shidi.
Xie Lian bowed his head politely to each one.
—
In the antechamber of Ascended Assignments, Ling Wen glanced through her notes.
"You’ll be assigned under someone until we determine your current rank and area of best service. For now, you’re being handed to...Mu Qing."
Xie Lian blinked. "Oh?"
"Yes, he's one of our higher-ranking disciples, and often takes care of new ones."
"Ling-shijie, I'm here."
Mu Qing stood at the door like he'd been summoned under protest.
"Why me?" he asked flatly.
"Because you’re one of the only ones who hasn't refused to work with new disciples in the last decade."
"He's not mortal anymore."
"Exactly."
Mu Qing turned to Xie Lian. They stared at each other for a moment.
"You look horrible, how'd you get so much dirt on you?" Mu Qing said, scoffing and crossing his arms.
"Mu Qing, it's been a long time." Xie Lian smiled, but there was a hint of sadness behind it.
"Don’t start. Come on."
They walked in silence through the cold halls. Mu Qing’s steps were crisp and sharp. Xie Lian floated behind him like an obedient ghost.
Xie Lian tried small talk.
"So. Been busy?"
Mu Qing didn’t answer.
"Is your sword new? Very shiny. Nice edge."
Mu Qing didn’t answer.
"...I missed you."
Mu Qing stopped walking. "Dianxia. You should get into a higher position before being so kind to everyone. You can't afford to lose."
Before Xie Lian could respond, they turned a corner–
And collided with someone.
Scrolls scattered across the floor. "Watch it! Oh."
Feng Xin stared at Xie Lian like he'd seen a ghost. Then he broke into a grin.
"Dianxia? Is that you?"
Xie Lian smiled yet again, holding out his tired arms for his former best friend and guard.
Feng Xin stepped forward and hugged him. Xie Lian let out a small breath of relief.
Mu Qing coughed.
"Touching," he said. "Maybe wait until you’re alone next time."
"No one fucking asked you," Feng Xin snapped.
"Unless you're blind, you can clearly see I'm bringing him somewhere."
Feng Xin narrowed his eyes. "You still have that stick up your–"
Mu Qing brandished one of the scrolls like a dagger. "Say another word and I’ll drive this through your eye."
Feng Xin rolled his eyes but took a step back. "Whatever."
He turned to Xie Lian and bowed respectfully. "Your ascension broke three walls, and destroyed part of the literature gate."
"E-eh? I'm so sorry!" Xie Lian scratched the side of his face in shame, and Mu Qing rolled his eyes to the sky once more.
I thought I only broke one wall...how can I make it up to the others?
"Go away. I'm busy." Mu Qing scoffed, shoving Feng Xin by the shoulder, who only nodded respectfully at Xie Lian and began walking away.
As he turned away, Xie Lian caught sight of something at Feng Xin’s neck: a white cloth, tied neatly, almost lovingly. It fluttered with his movements. It looked...pretty similar to his own Ruoye.
No. Just a trick of the light.
—
Mu Qing deposited Xie Lian back with Ling Wen.
"Done babysitting. He’s yours again." He crossed his arms and turned away.
"Thank you for your service," she replied without looking up.
"They’ll chew him up," Mu Qing muttered, already halfway down the hall. His hair was nearly tied in a ponytail, blue ribbon fluttering around with his movements.
"Probably." Ling Wen raised her brush, keeping her eyes focused on the paper in front of her.
"He won't do anything."
"Definitely."
Xie Lian stood quietly between them.
"Thank you, Mu Qing." he said.
Mu Qing paused. A flicker of something passed through his expression. He nodded stiffly. Then he was gone.
—
Far beneath the cathedral, in a chamber without light, a golden mirror rippled with movement.
A man stood before it, eyes half-lidded.
"So," he whispered. "You're back. My precious prince."
Behind him, bound in sigils and silence, someone's lips moved in vain.
—
That night, Xie Lian sat in the room they had given him. It was large, neat, and quite beautiful. It appears that Heaven's Cathedral does still treat their disciples well.
On his desk lay a folded note, shaped into a lotus. Lotus? He remembers a long time ago, when he would fold cranes out of paper as his Guoshi attempted to teach. His assistant knelt beside him, making flowers for him to keep. Mu Qing always had nimble fingers.
He opened it.
"Don't make trouble." No signature. No seal. Only the faintest trace of sweet incense.
Xie Lian smiled, carefully tucking away the lotus and getting into bed. He hadn't exactly expected to be back here, and it wouldn't be long till he had to meet with the Head. Hopefully...despite Mu Qing's clear annoyance, he would be able to make some sort of friendship again. With Feng Xin as well.
But it was far too late for that as Xie Lian sipped his tea.
Sipped his tea…
Tea…
Tea…
...
“Dianxia? Dianxia!”
“Gege?!”
Xie Lian’s eyes opened, and he gazed around, expecting the room he was just in. He wasn't. Calm down, his mind told him, you aren't there.
Hua Cheng smiled from where he stood, happy that his highness was okay. Feng Xin was a different story, he looked almost sick. Even if he was a vampire, his skin was still a little too sickly. That's when Xie Lian noticed the smoke pouring from the window.
“Wha…what's going on? Why is there smoke?”
Feng Xin took his hand away from his eyes, “We don't know, I’m sure Mu Qing told us that he would see us soon. It's been a while.”
Xie Lian rose with Hua Cheng’s help, heading over to the window.
“We need to go down there. Now.”
“Gege are you okay?”
“It's a candle—the candle!” Xie Lian cried out, eyes wide at the pole erected in the town center. The smoke was coming from there.
“Gege what candle–”
“It's a punishment for treason…the head is decreased but Mu Qing is still down there.”
Feng Xin had to stabilize himself by clinging to a wall, “You don't mean,” he swallowed slowly, “they'll put him up the candle..?”
Xie Lian didn't bother waiting, he ran for the door. For Mu Qing.
—
The snow whipped sideways as Xie Lian ran.
His feet barely touched the crumbling steps carved into the mountainside. Every breath felt like broken glass in his throat. His white robes were stained with soot, not yet cleaned after the harrowing few days he'd had. Now he was running, calling after someone who wouldn't turn back even if the gods themselves told him.
"Feng Xin!" he shouted, voice cracking over the wind.
Feng Xin didn’t stop.
He was a blur of motion, long cloak snapping behind him, boots slamming against stone. There was blood on his hands, still healing from battle, and fury in his eyes that hadn’t dimmed since the fire first rose over the capital.
He shoved aside a fallen archway. “MOVE!”
Behind them, The Vampire Citadel trembled.
Hua Cheng’s voice tore through the air behind them, sharp and frantic. “Blackwater, get up! They’re torching the lower sectors! The prisoners—MOVE!”
"Shi Qingxuan!" Xie Lian gasped, heart lurching. “She was still in the cathedral prisons!" The church lay ahead, half-consumed by fire, the top spire fallen like a broken tooth. Screams echoed from the city square beyond it, screams and chants and the hollow sound of a war drum.
The square.
The candle.
“FENG XIN, HE’S—!”
But Feng Xin was already gone, tearing down the last slope like a falling star. The clock was ticking and not even his superhuman strength and speed could get him down the mountain fast enough.
Flowers crumpled under his boots and the wind almost sliced into his face, it was cold.
Cold.
-
Mu Qing was cold, but not from the wind.
The snow had grown thin by then, half-melted into slush by the fires still smoldering in the outer districts. The city reeked of smoke and blood and soaked ash. But that wasn’t what chilled him. It was the silence.
The kind that hangs in the air before everything is gone. The kind that makes birds flee. The kind that belongs to graves. To headstones in rows, marble staring back at him.
His bare feet left wet prints on the stone as the soldiers dragged him forward. The rope chafed where it wrapped around his wrists, but that pain was distant now. His joints ached. His arms had long gone numb. His shoulders burned from being yanked too far back. His spine throbbed with each step.
And yet, still, he stood tall.
He raised his head.
His mother’s voice, long gone to the dust and ash, whispered in his mind. "A priest of peace must still walk with pride, my son. The world will try to make you small. Don’t let it.”
So he didn’t. Even as blood from his temple slid into his eyes. Even as the crowd began to gather. He walked high, for his mother, his friends, and his beloved. For his church, because what the Head had done did not shake what Mu Qing loved and fought for.
Children peered out from behind their mothers’ sleeves. Some cried. Others threw stones. One struck his collarbone. Another bounced off his jaw.
He didn’t flinch. It was not their fault. Cycles start and keep going, and children listen to the poison of their parents. There was no mercy in the eyes around him. Only hatred, confusion, and the cold indifference of people who had already decided he was no longer worth grieving.
These same people who had served the church could not spare the innocent born of it. Mu Qing's Shidi and Shimei had been outlawed for their crime of saving others. Mu Qing would not bend to those who treated him like this.
A traitor. That’s what they called him.
The vampire priest. The heretic. The Church’s shame. They considered him the same as the fallen Head, but he was not! He had spent his life fighting for peace, and had never genuinely wanted anything except appreciation. A single...single thanks would have been enough. A single bit of love. Never mind that he had hidden the children first. Never mind that he had turned away every chance to flee and had stayed behind to surrender for their sake. Never mind that his blood had soaked the church floors long before the war had ended.
They had forgotten.
All of them.
He stared straight ahead.
A guard grabbed him by the jaw and yanked his head sideways. “Look at the crowd,” the man snarled. “You owe them your face.”
Mu Qing said nothing. He owed them nothing.
The man shoved him. Mu Qing stumbled, landing hard on his knees. The icy stone tore the skin. The ropes cut deeper. He got back up.
Didn’t scream. Didn’t sob. Didn’t speak. Just kept walking.
'Just keep walking.' His beloved's voice echoed in his ears.
The candle waited in the square ahead. A tall, hideous thing, blackened by past years of use. The pole still glistened with sacred oil. At its base lay twisted iron for the crucifixion points, half-drenched in old blood.
Mu Qing couldn’t take his eyes off it.
He was going up there.
He knew that.
He had known for days.
But knowing was one thing. Walking toward it was another. He was the only one they had caught. He had managed to save Qingxuan, and that was a positive thought. His stomach coiled, cold and leaden. His knees wobbled once before he caught himself. He would not fall. Not here. Not before them.
His chest rose and fell in ragged, trembling breaths.
He refused to cry.
Not yet.
---
The guards seized him roughly, dragging him toward the pole. One of them wrenched his arms behind him again—too far, too tight. The pop of his shoulder leaving the socket made a few in the crowd flinch. Not Mu Qing. He only grit his teeth. He had long stopped giving them the satisfaction of watching him scream.
They didn’t even unbind his wrists. They added more.
Thick cords looped under his arms, around his ribs. They tightened across his chest so hard he could barely breathe. Every inhale felt like a knife between his ribs.
One rope crossed his neck—tight, not enough to choke, but enough to make sure every breath was earned.
Then came the nails.
They weren’t rushed. No, they took their time. This wasn’t just execution—it was ritual.
They stripped the remains of his robe from his upper body. His skin was bruised, blistered in places from where they had beaten him earlier for trying to shield a younger priestess. But he was beautiful. Nudity would never be ugly because Mu Qing stood tall beneath the skies. He took solace in the fact that soon the earth would take him where he stood, and allow him to reincarnate again. There were wings sprouting from his back, but in truth they were clouds because the sky is on his side.
They lined up the spike with his right palm.
He turned his head and watched. He would watch it happen, and he would not flinch.
A hammer was lifted.
His stomach twisted.
He looked away.
CRACK.
The pain was instant. Blinding. Hot and raw and wrong. His vision flooded with white. The wound almost felt cold with how intense the pain was, and Mu Qing fought every instinct in his body to scream. Hot tears sprung to his eyes but he stared straight at his hand, as if commanding the blood to sink back into his flesh.
He didn’t scream. Didn’t give them the sound.
But his body seized as the second nail went into the other hand.
The third—through his ankle, driving deep into the base wood.
He felt something tear in his knee, and he flinched, gritting his teeth together as blood poured from his wounds. It trickled down his tired wrists, cold on pale skin.
And still, no scream.
Blood poured down the wood like the Church’s red banners once did in the wind.
He swayed, suspended by ropes and nails and humiliation.
The square watched.
Mu Qing looked up at the cloudy sky. Let it snow, he thought. Please. Just snow, don’t let it end like this.
He speaks to the winds as if they'll carry his words to his beloved.
"Feng Xin, if you arrive...quick enough, before they harm my body." He gasps for air, feeling his broken ribs hurt more. "If you will...leave me to the beasts and bears. I'd rather that the feast was theirs instead of man's."
"Scatter my ashes, do not walk away and leave me punished without a headstone." His tears coat a beautiful face, as if the gods themselves sculpted him.
What a shame. All that beauty will go up in flames.
And then—
He saw him. Through the crush of guards, beyond the torchbearers, something was moving. Something angry. Something fast.
Feng Xin.
Mu Qing blinked through the blood stinging his eyes and his heart stuttered.
Feng Xin. The same Feng Xin who had sat beside him at the river as they washed robes in their youth. The same Feng Xin who had left the palace in a storm of fury when the highness had fallen, and had come back different.
Teeth. Claws. Fangs.
And still, Mu Qing had loved him, silently. Angrily. It wasn't until recently...that Feng Xin had decided to love him back. Oh no, they couldn't lose what they had both worked so hard for.
He had tried to say it. A hundred times. Every time is too late. Every time interrupted.
And now...now Feng Xin is here.
He was screaming something. Mu Qing couldn’t hear it. All he saw was the blood coating his hands, the splintered wood of broken weapons, the blur of limbs as he tore through soldiers.
“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing breathed.
And for a single second, a single flickering moment, he thought he might be saved.
He thought he might live.
He thought—
Maybe this story won’t end in fire.
"Feng Xin...."
But the leader at the front of the mob stepped forward. He lowered the brand, the torch was touched to the base.
The oil caught.
Mu Qing’s robe smoked first. Then his skin began to heat and blister.
It wrapped around his legs like claws. His bones throbbed. His flesh began to crack. His breath hitched, then seized.
The pain wasn’t sharp. It was consuming. Endless. Like drowning in light.
Still, he held on.
Still, he lifted his face to the heavens.
Still, he searched the crowd for him.
Feng Xin was closer now. He was nearly there.
But it was too late.
---
“LET HIM GO!”
Feng Xin didn’t feel the blade that slashed across his ribs.
Didn’t feel the crossbow bolt that grazed his shoulder, didn’t feel the weight of the soldier he hurled aside like a child’s doll.
All he felt was fire, rising, sickening, cruel.
All he saw was Mu Qing, bound to a pyre like a sacrifice to a god Feng Xin no longer believed in. His voice tore from his throat, ragged and hoarse, "LET HIM GO! MU QING! MU QING—"
He clawed through the sea of uniforms, red eyes wild, fangs bared, not vampire, no. Not just that. Devastated.
The grief of a creature that had outlived his god and now watched the only thing he knelt for die again. He threw aside a soldier twice his size, caught another by the throat and crushed the windpipe with one hand. Blood painted his skin. He was roaring now, shouting Mu Qing’s name over and over, like a prayer, like a curse, like maybe the sheer force of love could reverse time,
“MU QING! Stay awake, please stay! Stay awake!”
And ahead of him, the flame caught.
Feng Xin saw it.
The torch met the base of the pole.
Smoke curled around Mu Qing’s feet like funeral incense. His beloved turned his weary bloodied head, arms spread wide as if awaiting an embrace. But no...those arms were nailed to wood like a painting nailed to a wall.
“No.” His breath hitched, voice cracking. “No no no NO!”
His body was moving faster than thought now. A blur of gold, and black, and fury. He dove through a knot of guards, took a blade to the thigh and kept going.
“STOP IT!” he bellowed. “HE’S DONE NOTHING! HE GAVE YOU EVERYTHING!”
Mu Qing has given everything, why can't they see? Are they blind, are they blind!? Blind to what his beloved has done for them!
His boots skidded on blood-slick stone. His hands were already shaking. Behind him, far too far behind, Xie Lian stood at the edge of the square. He had seen his friend angry. He had seen him weep.
But never like this.
Not like this.
“Feng Xin…” he whispered, throat dry as he gazed up at the candle. Because this wasn’t just grief, this was undoing. This was the shattering of a man. Feng Xin had always been steady. Loud, maybe, but firm. His devotion had always been a kind of armor, but now it cracked, and what spilled out wasn’t rage. It was love—fierce, trembling, and helpless love.
The kind that doesn’t know what to do when it's too late.
---
“I’M RIGHT HERE—LOOK AT ME!”
“Mu Qing!” Feng Xin screamed again, louder this time, because the fire was rising and he couldn’t hear his name from those perfect lips anymore.
“I’m right here! Do you hear me?! LOOK AT ME!” Look at me, he screamed, begging for the pyre to fall, or for the nails to crack so his beloved could fall into his arms. He could heal his love's injuries, but he could not heal a corpse.
He could see Mu Qing’s face now—soot-stained, eyes squeezed shut, lips barely moving. But even in the heat, even as the smoke choked the square, Feng Xin saw the way his beloved lifted his chin.
Defiant. Graceful.
Still beautiful.
Still his Qing'er.
“YOU DON’T GET TO DIE LIKE THIS!” Feng Xin sobbed. “You don’t get to just leave me! Not like this!”
He reached the base of the pyre. Guards surged around him again, shouting. One tried to strike him across the jaw. He caught the blade. Bent it with his bare hands, his rage consuming him.
“You’re going to live, do you hear me!?” His voice was a raw, wounded howl. “You have to! You promised me, Mu Qing! You promised—”
The flame rose higher.
Mu Qing opened his eyes.
Just a little.
He looked down at him.
And he smiled.
Feng Xin’s heart broke like glass.
“No,” he whispered, voice cracking. “No—don’t smile at me like that. Don’t—”
Mu Qing’s lips moved.
A whisper. Soundless. Lost in the roar of fire.
“I...have....never....regretted."
Feng Xin lunged for the base of the structure, tried to climb it, tearing his hands open on the heated wood, screaming like a man buried alive.
“STAY WITH ME!”
“STAY WITH ME!?"
The ropes lit. The figure above slumped. And the flames devoured him while like a beast.
Mu Qing could feel the smoke pouring into his lungs, burning his eyes and boiling his flesh. His robes, so priestly, hung lank around him. He wished he could wrap his arms around his weary body, but those hands were mangled and nailed to a board about to catch fire.
Mu Qing was crying, tears streaming down ash blackened cheeks as he tried to turn his weary head. Down there, hair whipping in the wind, eyes wide with horror, was Feng Xin. His Feng Xin, waiting for him at the bottom of the pyre.
'If you really love me...you will dispose of me unceremoniously in the winds.'
He would never leave his beloved with nothing. And so his lips mouthed his final words as the fire crept closer.
"I.....have...never...regretted." But his voice wasn't strong enough to finish.
'I have never regretted loving you.'
Flames enveloped him, and his hair began to crisp and light. Mu Qing's flesh blistered, fire licking at his skin and bone. With burning eyes and his final sight he could see his flesh melting off his skeleton, body writing with pain Mu Qing's burned nerve endings could not feel. With one last gasp, he looked to the heavens and closed his eyes.
For the first time since he has drawn breath, he would be undesirable again.
Ashes cannot be loved.
---
People were still screaming as they watched, and guards held some back. It appears not all loyalty was lost. But as the fire died down, ropes snapped and nails cracked.
A figure swayed before falling, crashing into the bottom of the pyre with the sound of pure agony. Feng Xin launched himself forwards and collapsed to his knees. The heat peeled skin from his hands, but he didn’t move. He reached, trembling, toward what remained. Just bone now. Just cinder.
He touched the base of the pyre. Burned his palms again. Didn’t care.
Tears fell. Steam rose.
He bowed his head, breath catching in his throat, and whispered so quietly that only the gods could have heard him.
“…You were always holy.”
“…And I was always too late.”
Behind him, Xie Lian fell to his knees.
His friend was gone.
All that was left was a half skeleton, flesh burned off bones. Mu Qing's hands were made of black blood, and Feng Xin held him close. Only his beloved could be this beautiful...in death.
With a heart as cold and as dead as ice, Feng Xin rose with the body in his arms. Hua Cheng was clutching Xie Lian close, eyes fixated on Mu Qing. He Xuan supported Shi Qingxuan, covering her eyes tightly to protect her from the sight of her friend's blackened corpse.
The crowds parted like waves, allowing Feng Xin to leave, steps heavy on ashen ground. The corpse in his arms was still warm.
---
Feng Xin had always known that when a priest passed away they would receive a golden coffin. He had one made for him, and so did Mu Qing. He never expected to use it so soon.
Except that gold would not house his beloved, who lay upon blankets in the hall of the church as Feng Xin dragged a noble coffin from the city into the room. Beneath the stained glass windows and angelic paintings, Feng Xin lowed his love into that coffin. He had not told anyone where he was going, but for hours he had been digging and building.
The outskirts of the city would do just fine.
He lifted the coffin, carrying it like he would his love. Feng Xin's boots still dragged, and his arms were weary, but he would not cease his travel to the tomb he had built.
'I hope the gold is still boiling.'
When he arrived, the tomb was spacious and he set down the beautiful coffin before turning his head towards the basin in the corner, steaming.
With one final sight, he lowered his lips to the coffin lid and pressed gently.
One last goodbye.
"Qing'er, I will follow you forever, and where you go, I will go. No matter how immortal this cursed body makes me."
He reached for the basin, lifting it over his head. The tomb was sealed, but for a moment- Feng Xin felt as if the sun was washing over him.
It would hurt.
He had melted down that priestly coffin earlier, and now it would be useful.
He let the molten gold pour over his scalp and shoulders, scalding him immediately as he howled in pain. In agony he bent, feeling the gold washing down his arms and coating his legs. His face screwed in horror at the burning sensation, feeling as if he was suffocating. The gold boiled his skin and hardened around him, creating a casing.
Feng Xin's mouth gasped for breaths it could not take before pressing golden lips back tighter. His eyes screwed shut as the gold cooled, leaving a statue beyond beautiful.
As if the gods had sculpted it.
It almost knelt, face twisted in pain too real to be carved. Made of pure gold, it stood behind the coffin head, as if guarding.
And at the base of the coffin were words this statue himself had carved.
Heaven Does Not Mourn For Us.