Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief, Feng Xin–duck–is capable of planning when it’s important. After all–feint right–no martial god–duck–worth his merits could survive more than–punch, punch, block–eight hundred years of the heavens without picking up a few–dodge–tricks here and there.
A small chime rings in his ear; a junior official interrupting him, despite his direct orders that he is not to be disturbed until the rooster hour1 at least. But this one must not have gotten the notice, because… “Boss, there’s something wrong with the number of prayers again–” Feng Xin ignores it, shutting his communication array off completely.
That was nothing new anyway; ever since the highly public and extremely destructive fall of the greatest, most revered god in a millennium, humans have been far less trusting of all gods in general. After all, if the Heavenly Emperor was not omnipotent–and if he was apparently a scheming bastard on top of that–what did it say about the others? Everyone took that hit to their reputations, and most gods across the board have been feeling the strain. But so what? Given enough time, people would move on, and the problem would solve itself.
Mu Qing squints and flicks his hand in front of his ear, like he’s waving a fly away. “Yours too, huh?” Feng Xin asks him.
“Focus please, or I'm going to spar with someone else.” Mu Qing swipes a kick to his left.
Feng Xin blocks it, laughing. “With Ming Guang? Fucking try it.” The thwarted kick leaves Mu Qing off-balance, and Feng Xin senses an opportunity–he lunges forward. Big mistake. Mu Qing digs in, catches him, and uses the momentum to toss him overhead several chi away. Feng Xin lands with a roll. He’s barely gotten back up before Mu Qing runs at him with a spinning kick, hooking a leg around Feng Xin’s neck and sending them both tumbling down the slope. He tries to dislodge the hold by rolling around, but it’s no use; Mu Qing has Feng Xin’s head locked between his thighs.
Today’s victory is Mu Qing’s. They both immediately crash, energy spent, not bothering to get up from the spot where they fell on the grassy knoll.
So far, a typical afternoon for them. This is another one of those recent developments: now that Mu Qing appears to have made peace with some centuries-old insecurity, he and Feng Xin have been spending a lot of time with His Highness Xie Lian–their former crown prince, most recent savior, and current friend–down at his little shrine in Puqi Village. But when they’re not there, and when they’re not swamped with the shared responsibilities of being southern martial gods, this is where the two of them would usually be: sparring by the shade of a great peach2 tree in some hidden corner between their domains.
They rest for now, letting their bruises fade with the afternoon light as the sun sinks over the horizon, the sky awash in pinks and purples. Mu Qing, his legs still wrapped around Feng Xin’s head, knocks him gently with a knee. “Someone’s distracted today.”
Feng Xin turns around carefully, one hand under Mu Qing’s thigh to set it down and the other to brace himself against the hill. This is it. Feng Xin has planned this whole day around this: the weather is comfortably cool, with a few picturesque clouds and a magnificent view of the sunset. They’ve sparred away the excess energy, so now they’re both relaxed enough for a serious talk. It’s the perfect time, perfect place, perfect moment; he’s ready. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out, except a hopelessly plaintive, “Mu Qing.”
Mu Qing, head turned slightly to the side, is watching a bird pass by, leaning back on his elbows. His profile could have been cut from fine jade: angles sharp as a blade, tempered with the softness of his mouth and the gentle curve of his long lashes. The obsidian black of his eyes seems to eat up all the light. At the sound of his name, he turns those dark eyes to look at Feng Xin, expectant. “You’re acting so strange,” Mu Qing says. “Well, don’t kill me with suspense. Out with it.”
Feng Xin tries again, clearing his throat. “Mu Qing, I’ve been thinking…”
“Dangerous game.”
“Shut up. Anyway, we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and I really like being–”
A thunderous GONG booms in their ears at the same time. Mu Qing closes his eyes and sighs; Feng Xin groans, bumping his forehead on the other’s shoulder. Duty calls.
Mu Qing lets go of Feng Xin and kicks him off, a little roughly, and Feng Xin tumbles sideways. Back flat on the cooling grass, he watches as Mu Qing smooths his disheveled ponytail with one hand and a trick of qi–how vain!–straightens his sleeves, and ascends to heaven first.
Feng Xin follows not far behind.
❱❱─────────➤
They’re the last to get back to heaven, apparently; thousands of gods have already swarmed the Grand Heavenly Hall’s polished marble floors. It was built to replace the old Palace of Divine Might, which had crumbled to dust like the rest of the Heavenly Capital in that final battle. It was to Mu Qing and Ling Wen’s great mutual dismay that much of the debt now owed to Crimson Rain was spent on this, due to all the other deities wanting to partition the prime location on which Jun Wu’s palace once stood.
As a fair compromise–meaning, all parties were equally unsatisfied–they had instead commissioned the gods of civil engineering for a palace which nobody owns, nobody likes, and everybody pays for. But at least it was financially efficient–thanks to Ling Wen’s hawk-like handle on the budget–and tasteful, as Mu Qing had personally hounded the builders about every single detail, down to the grout on the tile.
Feng Xin would not have cared about it, or even noticed the change probably, if it weren’t for the hours he spent listening to Mu Qing grind his teeth because someone didn’t use the right shade of lacquer. I said jujube, not vermillion, not scarlet, and definitely not fucking crimson! Feng Xin had told him to watch his language, and Mu Qing had pinched his cheeks until he stopped laughing.
The hall looks nothing like the old palace, which once filled the eyes with the awe and spectacle befitting an emperor. This, on the other hand, is lighter, airier, and more open. Instead of thick walls draped in heavy tapestry, they were surrounded instead with–according to Mu Qing’s specifications–rosewood columns, mother-of-pearl inlays, and translucent silk billowing from high vaulted ceilings.
Now Mu Qing, as per unspoken centuries-old protocol, enters from the western gate opposite of where Feng Xin steps through, as they’ve always done. The first recognizable god Feng Xin runs into is Pei Ming, the promiscuous martial god of the north, who doesn’t bother hiding his assessing look–first at Mu Qing, then at Feng Xin–though he says nothing.
Feng Xin takes the opportunity to ask. “What is it this time?”
“Heaven’s on fire,” Pei Ming gestures at the gathered crowd. “As usual.”
The current problem: if there are fewer prayers and offerings, gods weaken, and if they weaken they can’t answer prayers, and if they can’t answer prayers then the people lose faith, which means weaker gods who can't rise to the task, leading to fewer prayers and offerings–so it goes. Through the din, they gather that a few gods are terrified, clucking like headless chickens. “This is madness!” “What should we do?” “Someone needs to do something!” “Who is responsible?” “It’s over for us all!”
Ling Wen presides over the scene with chronic eyebags and a resignation usually reserved for sinners on death row, despite the fact that heaven has long since pardoned her for her hand in creating the bloodthirsty Brocade Immortal. Not that they have a real choice in the matter; who else can manage all the communication arrays, not to mention all of heaven’s idiots on top of that too? Feng Xin thinks that the punishment, however, might be worse than the crime after all. Must suck to be her right now.
“Everyone, please calm down,” she says, though she clearly doesn’t expect anyone to listen. “We have encountered similar difficulties before–”
“But this is different! It’s dire!” One god interrupts her. Feng Xin doesn’t know and doesn’t care who it is. “My prayers have slowed down to a trickle, and follower count is the lowest it’s ever been. If these trends continue, then all of heaven is at stake!” A handful of other forgettable gods around him start clucking again.
“Well, not all of heaven,” Pei Ming mutters. “My followers are doing just fine.”
“And mine,” Feng Xin shrugs, then remembers something from earlier. “Oh fuck, wait.”
The hapless crowd of gods continue their petitions, their forgettable leader at the front. “Why don’t we send him to do it?” There’s no need to specify who he is; these bastards want to foist off the problem on His Highness again! And by extension–though you probably couldn’t torture this truth out of them–they’re probably hoping for His Highness’ husband to be involved too…
Someone challenges the suggestion. “Remember the last time we interrupted one of their honeymoons and Crimson Rain singed all of our eyebrows off? And it wouldn’t grow back for months no matter what we did, and we couldn’t even draw them on because he laid a curse on us?” Which was, in Feng Xin’s opinion, extremely funny. Mostly because he and Mu Qing escaped his scorching wrath with brows intact, having been away on a morning errand with Xie Lian when it happened. It wasn't really a honeymoon.
A gentler chime in his ear told him that Mu Qing is sending a private message. [These fools couldn’t pour water out of their boots if the instruction was on the sole.] Their eyes lock from across the hall; Mu Qing’s face was still as a lake, except that he looks like he’s holding back an eyeroll.
Feng Xin can’t help it; his bark of laughter cuts through the noise. Everyone falls silent.
“Well, if there’s anyone least likely to…incur Crimson Rain’s wrath…” the increasingly troublesome god starts, glancing sideways at Feng Xin. Oh no. “Nan Yang Jiangjun is close to…” He struggles for which title to use. His Highness? Hua Guan? Trash God? After the third ascension, who knows anymore?
“Your incompetence is none of Nan Yang Jiangjun’s business, Jian Chi3 Zhenjun,” Mu Qing cuts in, inspecting his nails with palpable boredom.
Jian Chi is briefly stunned by the unexpected interruption. What’s he even god of, anyway–being a pest? He recovers though, much too quickly for Feng Xin’s comfort. “Well actually, it is his business. And yours too, I’m afraid, Xuan Zh–eek!” The god flinches when Mu Qing cuts a glare at him. “U-um, it-it-it’s in the s-south…”
A minor goddess next to Jian Chi takes over. “The trouble is within your shared domain,” she explains. “All those affected are from Qiongya.”
“Even so, we are martial gods, and these are not martial matters.” Mu Qing retorts coolly. “What do you expect us to do, beat and terrorize your followers into submission?”
Nobody appreciates that obvious point. More yelling ensues. “Just because we’re smaller deities doesn’t mean you get to ignore us!” “How selfish are these two–as long as they get theirs, they forget about their fellow gods–” “No sense of compassion!” “Truly, every god is out for their own gain…” Feng Xin tries to think about Qiongya; when was the last time he visited? Did he and Mu Qing have a mission there–what, two hundred or so years ago? Didn't they wipe out some Tender demons from there…?
Before he can say anything else, a different goddess–tall, with a green cape and solemn face–breaks away from the crowd. They give her a wide berth, watching what she’ll do next. “Ci You Jiangjun, please slow down–” But the woman turns away without letting Ling Wen finish, rushing towards the gates to descend as quickly as possible. The gods fall into scattered murmurs, disappointed at the lack of fanfare.
“...Now what?” Someone calls out. Everyone is at a loss for what to do.
“We can vote?”
Another pointless development: now that there is no Heavenly Emperor to guide them and tell everyone what to do, all of heaven has been adrift. Morale is in shambles. In an era of general faithlessness from humans, who can lead them? Ling Wen is a barely-pardoned criminal, Xie Lian is “compromised” thanks to his association–well, marriage–with a Supreme ghost, Pei Ming’s lost credibility thanks to the Pei Xiu incident, and frankly, neither Mu Qing nor Feng Xin care to step up. The civil gods might be clawing each other’s eyes out for it, but they’re currently at a stalemate, held in check by Ling Wen’s welcoming invitations to see them try it.
Mu Qing had once confided his thoughts on this to Feng Xin, only a few months after Heaven nearly collapsed entirely: The martial gods are too mutton-headed, the civil gods too sycophantic, the elemental gods too passive, the cultural gods too pretentious, local gods too obscure, and old cosmic gods too dead to be of any use.
Then who do you think should be our handler? Feng Xin had asked him.
Next to him, Mu Qing had set down his scroll of calculations and sighed. Yushi Huang–but unlike the rest of us, she actually knows how to protect her peace.
Thus lacking in any proper leadership, the gods have taken to judging everything by popular vote. In fact, they had even managed to re-fit Jun Wu’s wall of glowing pearls, once used to show godly activity on the continent, to illustrate the votes cast in the array as they’re being chosen. To no one’s surprise, most gods voted for the two of them to handle the problem–namely, to try convincing the perpetual honeymooners to intervene–and barring that, to figure the problem out themselves. The small gods voted as a faction, while those uninvolved wished to remain that way, so they foisted it off to the nearest possible victims.
For what it’s worth, it was not unanimous: Pei Ming voted against it, Ling Wen abstained, Quan Yizhen was absent from voting once again, and Lang Qianqiu–bless him–volunteered to go down there himself. His retainer urged him to put his hand down.
All that being settled, the two southern martial gods have no choice but to go after all. The rest file out of the hall, secure in the knowledge that this is no longer their problem. Mu Qing stays rooted in his spot amidst the movement, his jaw visibly clicking until he retreats into a haughty mask. Ling Wen approaches him and whispers something; Mu Qing tilts his head and nods. Feng Xin feels the urge to reach out, distract him, make him laugh.
Pei Ming’s heavy hand on his shoulder pulls Feng Xin back to himself. “Alone time with the enemy, huh? That’s rough.” He shakes his head. “Do you want me to go with you, to keep him off your back?”
“No, thank you!” Feng Xin declines a little too emphatically. That is the last thing he wants. Pei Ming gives him another calculating glance. Either he finds nothing amiss or he decides to keep mercifully quiet about it, because he only pats Feng Xin’s back in friendly support before leaving.
When he finally gets to the training grounds of his palace, Feng Xin slaps a hand to his face. He should have just confessed earlier when he had the chance. At least then, Mu Qing would have killed him on the spot, and they wouldn’t be dealing with this fresh hot bullshit.