Chapter Text
Sometime before the third ascension of His Highness the Crown Prince of Xianle.
General Nan Yang discovers a fragment of a damning secret. It’s only one piece of an enormous puzzle, one he can not possibly assemble by himself. It is, however, one piece too many, and large enough to put a target on his back.
The mission was issued directly by the Great Martial Emperor to Nan Yang Palace. Descend, it commanded. Investigate. Ensure that Mount Tonglu is not waking. So Feng Xin was supposed to be alone on this mission. But who would refuse the company of an ally at such a place and time? Even if he had preferred to carry out this task alone, even if there seems to be no need for assistance, who would refuse the company of a powerful companion? After all, it is Jun Wu himself who has descended with him. The mission must be more important than Feng Xin thought, apart from requiring discretion. Silence.
The trail into Tonglu is silent. No tremors, no host of ghosts. All is quiet.
He doesn’t see it coming. But that one puzzle piece suddenly falls into place. It is wrestled into the hole that would hold it firm, forced into the outlines that would restore its sense. Even to one such as Feng Xin, the meaning becomes obvious.
Tonglu closes as it opened, without explosions. Without noise. The mountain broods in total silence.
Feng Xin will have to sit with the secret until he is strong enough to break out.
The Four Calamities are a plague-bringer, an infiltrator, a ghost king, and a joke. And now there is one more.
No one hears from General Nan Yang again. Worship rapidly declines.
No one hears about the new supreme ghost. No one knows how long he sat in Tonglu, or how he broke out. The mountains are quiet. Those who can speak to them are still in hiding, those who know their names are disguised.
There is no ruckus, no rampage. Not enough for a legends. Not enough for a name.
Feng Xin was loyal to a fault. Determined to a fault. He rarely came up with his own goals, never really lived life for himself. When he was mortal he was gifted to Xianle Royalty to serve as a noble body guard and brother-in-arms. Not quite family, just a purpose. A good purpose for awhile, then a lost one. When he ascended to immortality he was swamped with responsibility, rushing from one mission to the next. Not quite fulfillment, but a whole lot of purpose.
When Jun Wu silenced him he was given a double tomb to fill with purposeless thoughts. All he knows is what he knew coming in and the many lies or truths he was told as he lost that battle. He has stewed in those lies and truths, for a long enough time to learn them by heart when words failed.
He has no real personal resentment. No target for violence except one his arrows had already proven futile against.
But he could settle with a purpose.
When he escapes he is a distilled version of himself. Determined to a fault. Loyalty requires an institution—he has lost faith in those. Loyalty requires another person. He cannot be loyal to the person who gave him this sense of purpose.
But the purpose itself ...it will have to do.
Here are some idioms:
Heaven is the worst place to be.
No one deserves to have hard work repaid with such betrayal.
The higher they climb the harder they fall…
Better take them down. Take them down before anyone climbs too high up.
Before they face the truth there, at the summit. There it waits with half a smile. Save them.
As soon as he breaks out he rediscovers his old routine. Easy. Easy. Easier with each try. Easier than before.
Quietly this time. Job well done. Onto the next.
Trap. Neutralize. Release.
The fallout of Junior Officials is disturbing.
Their missions are often simple and proceed with the usual rates of failure and success, but more and more often, one or two officials in each group would return gravely injured. Their immortal cores are gone. Not sealed; destroyed. They are human…only worse, they are human again.
It happens everywhere in the realm, to officials of every temple, martial or civil: enough to make the reports, to have its own filing shelf.
Yet these are small personal tragedies amongst the wars and massacres, the burning of temples, the greater workings of Heaven. Against the larger tapestry, these failures are negligible threads, stray yarns. Between the rise and fall of Gods and droves of humans dying, what’s a little demotion from the Middle Court?
Trap. Neutralize. Release.
No ever sees him. He has taken down officials of the Upper Court, too. Many of them are obscure to begin with. Weak, in comparison. Many count for nothing. Just don’t do it all at once and get moving right after. He never takes on the big names, the faces he has recollection of. But then he rarely recognizes anyone when he makes his rounds. They may well be faceless, these small gods. Of them there are so many. When he was a god he made rounds often, though his hunting grounds were never this wide. He rarely looked at other gods. He would not know their faces.
He did know the faces of ghosts and many fell creatures. But now they feel his presence, they know to avoid him. They sense all that spiritual energy, still much too heavenly for comfort. Some know it is best to stay away. Most get burned away by the fringes of his celestial aura. He never sees them anymore.
He has never seen himself. He hasn’t bothered much with his physical form. He has no need to appear human-like. Like a god, he makes no contact with humans. Unlike a god, he receives no prayers. Those have long gone silent. He has no business with them.
He calls no place home, the mission requires he remain on the move. And he always has a new mission. It’s exactly the same as the last one he made for himself. Every mission is the same. Only the details vary, only a little.
All that matters is the mission.
These rounds eventually bring him round to old hunting grounds. South and east. There is a vile beast haunting the mountain forest. Eventually someone will come, sent by heaven. He tracks the beast. It cowers. He corrals it. He sets the real trap.
He never sticks around for faces and names. He has no loyalties and therefore no qualms. No second guesses, no second thoughts.
Then the heavenly official arrives.
Certainly from Upper Court. Definitely a martial god; an elder deity ascended from an ancient kingdom, whose very breath is swathed in power.
The mission he had set out for himself dictates that he pass on this one. Make no ruckus, remain unseen and unheard of. Stealth ensures success: no names, no titles, no legends. He knows he should make himself scarce, that he should track the next target instead.
But he recognizes the Martial God of the South by the flicker of his silhouette.
He recognizes General Xuan Zhen by his weightless gait.
He knows Mu Qing by the depth of his shadow.
Trap. Neutralize.
Feng Xin does not want to release this one.