Chapter Text
“So then, Nan Yang,” Jun Wu says as he pours another cup of tea. “Will it be a problem?”
Feng Xin looks down at the pale jade cup in front of him and breathes in the jasmine aroma, sweet and familiar. It’s a night-blooming flower, he recalls, pale and delicate, and therefore it feels out of place amidst the bold and striking splendor of the Martial Emperor’s palace.
It’s never easy for Feng Xin to bite his tongue and keep his comments in check, but in front of Jun Wu is the one place where it’s necessary to try. More than once he’s left this place with the taste of blood on his tongue.
There’s already plenty of problems, Feng Xin might tell him. It isn’t in anyone’s best interests to keep adding more until they boil over like an excess of broth in a pot, but it also wouldn’t be the first time a heavenly official descended and stirred that pot by mistake, so why the extra concern? At least it’s all within his territory: General Nan Yang is the eminent god of the entire south, which means that plenty of Yong’an people pray to him despite his involvement in the war all those years ago.
There are stories to gloss over it, of course. Stories about him being moved to pity towards the Yong’an refugees. Stories about him falling for a Yong’an beauty and marrying her. Stories about him being Yong’an blooded from the start, and too loyal to the Crown Prince to ever betray him, much to his credit. They’re a bunch of stupid lies (except for the part about being loyal to the prince and never wanting to betray him), but the way to put out a flame is to smother it rather than fan it by causing a commotion. Feng Xin lets the stories fester.
“It’s never been a problem before,” Feng Xin answers, watching the ripples in the teacup as he raises it to his lips. “I don’t see what would be different now, unless you know something that I don’t.”
Jun Wu gives him a thin-lipped smile. “Indeed, in this case I concede you must know more, given your intimate history with the region. I share it not. It’s only the matter of the royal family’s involvement that gives me concern this time. Does it not reopen old wounds for you?”
The teacup returns to the table with a click, jade on lacquer.
Point one—Feng Xin has seen more Yong’an kings come and go than Xianle kings. He’d known only one of those; what bearing does it have if he liked that one king more than the hundred after him?
Point two—a wound that never closed in the first place can’t be opened again.
“There are no signs that the incidents are related,” Feng Xin answers, raising an eyebrow that’s already been working to put a dent in his forehead. Granted, it’s likely he’ll need to investigate that to confirm, but a Crown Prince being nearly kidnapped in the streets of the capital is very much a human concern, a thing separate from gods and ghosts.
The mutilated bodies of Yong’an soldiers that have started to appear every month since that kidnapping attempt, on the other hand, most likely are not the work of human hands. The living soldiers know it, and their nervous prayers have been coming in like a stream swollen with spring meltwater.
It’s the latter thing that has Feng Xin’s attention, and not the former. The Crown Prince can get a bodyguard like every other Crown Prince before him has done if he’s concerned about kidnappings—Feng Xin will leave that recommendation if the opportunity arises.
“Unless you consider the timing itself a sign,” Jun Wu suggests. “You shouldn’t discount it, Nan Yang. Nor should you feel guilty about taking advice and assistance when I offer it, but let’s save that discussion for another day, shall we?”
“As you wish.” Feng Xin takes another small sip of the jasmine tea.
How annoying that Jun Wu has such skepticism—Feng Xin will have to prove him wrong.
It’s been hundreds of years, but the Yong’an capital really isn’t so different from the old Xianle capital in Taicang. Some of the buildings stand a little taller, but a little less ornate; Xianle’s wealth dissipated rather than concentrating into the hands of the Yong’an nobles, a fact that Feng Xin isn’t actually spiteful enough to care about and cheer over.
Hundreds of years have passed. Millions of rain droplets have fallen and journeyed into the vast sea. The deepest wounds are still raw around the edges, but the people responsible are collecting paper money in the Ghost City now. If they grow teeth and come back out, then Feng Xin can kill them again, but revenge doesn’t raise the dead or set wrong to right—for the moment, he isn’t thinking about killing.
Winter has turned the trees and gardens dry and brown, but there’s an attempt to keep the streets lively despite it. Paper lanterns hang outside of the shop fronts and market stalls, fluttering in a breeze that isn’t bitterly cold, and Feng Xin spares a few glances for the painted signs to see what kinds of names these places favor lately. A poetic line here, a pun there, surnames that look the same as the ones he’s seen in the capital city before.
Feng Xin and his deputy officials make their way along the main avenue in the east market, blending into the crowds with their dark colored robes. They’re playing the role of traveling merchants for now; Feng Xin has a cover story prepared about making sure his goods will be safe in the capital before attempting to sell them, which should excuse his prying questions about the soldiers in the city. They’ll spend some time in the markets using that disguise, but there’s a place he wants to visit first, before he has to pretend to care about commerce.
The first temple they pass is a Martial Goddess temple, small but with a stream of visitors coming and going from the entrance. There was a time when General Lan Chang was worshipped as a secondary figure to General Ju Yang, her smaller divine statues placed behind his inside the temples, but no one had particularly liked that arrangement, least of all the lady herself.
He supposes she’s lucky to have freed herself before that incident with his name happened. That wouldn’t have done her reputation any favors.
The General Nan Yang temple occupies a place higher on the hill on which the capital city perches. A modest assumption would say it’s five times as large as the Martial Goddess temple; a reasonable assumption would call it ten. During last year’s Lantern Battle, this temple alone had provided eighty-eight lanterns, a significant portion of the total he’d received.
Not that he typically cares for those games, but it’s not far from his mind that this is a temple with a lot of gold and a lot of influence. Not a lingering relic of an ancient and fallen kingdom, like some of the abandoned temples along the roads…
But today, this temple seems to have built up enough influence to have stationed guards around the perimeter?
Hundreds of years later, and the sight of gathered Yong’an soldiers still makes Feng Xin’s shoulders tense and the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He feels their gazes flickering towards their group as they pass through the outer gate, and before they can reach the threshold of the temple building, one of the soldiers lining the pathway silently extends a hand to halt their entry.
“The Guoshi is praying inside,” another soldier warns, presumably their captain. “You’re advised to return another time.”
Advised not to enter his own temple. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so annoying—and if it didn’t mean treading around the royal family and their attendants sooner rather than later, since a Guoshi can only be operating on their behalf.
“His wife is ill,” Feng Xin’s deputy official speaks up before he can reply, giving a pleading look as she lightly touches Feng Xin’s arm. “We won’t disrupt the Guoshi. We only wish to make an offering, for this young master’s wife’s sake—and for the baby’s! She’s very sick, you see.”
“Very well,” the captain agrees. “In that case, we won’t stop you, but please be mindful.”
There are more soldiers inside the temple when they enter. It’s one of the first things Feng Xin notices, before his gaze settles on the devotional statue that bears more resemblance to his true form than most. His shoulders aren’t as broad as the sculptor has imagined, and even in his worst moods, his eyebrows can’t reach that angle, but they’ve otherwise captured the appearance of a young and handsome man bearing a bow as a spiritual device.
Beneath this statue and standing next to the altar are two more figures, neither dressed in armor like the guards.
The taller of the two is wearing black robes, and their black hair falls over their wide shoulders as they stand straight-spined, one arm folded behind their back. Their face is obscured—not only by the loose locks of hair framing their face, Feng Xin realizes, but also by a gilded mask that hides their features above their nose and cheekbones. This figure is presumably the Guoshi.
Next to them is a child, resplendently dressed in shades of white and scarlet and gold.
For a moment, the scene in front of Feng Xin’s eyes bleeds away, and he sees Xianle again. He’s at the Crown Prince’s side, excitedly discussing sword techniques and ghost stories and planning all the adventures they’re going to have once they’re old enough.
A Guoshi. A Crown Prince.
If appearances are enough to go by, then the smaller individual must be the Crown Prince of Yong’an—that explains the soldiers outside the temple, Feng Xin realizes. The Guoshi alone wouldn’t need so many men following him, unless the situation in the capital is much worse than the prayers would indicate.
Fuck. So much for staying out of royal affairs.
The entry of three newcomers hasn’t gone unnoticed, and the Guoshi and the Crown Prince both turn their heads. Feng Xin is quick to give the appropriate greeting, with his deputies copying his actions at his side.
“Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness,” he says, as if they aren’t standing in a temple devoted to him, making prayers for his ears. “Guoshi,” he adds after another moment, after seeing the preceptor’s lips part in indignation and then close just as quickly.
“Don’t apologize,” the Crown Prince answers before he can continue, his dark eyes widening. “This temple belongs to all the people of Yong’an. It’s just… en… right now…”
“There is a need for precautions,” the Guoshi finishes his halting sentence for him.
His voice… there’s tension in it. It gives the impression of a coiled snake judging its prey before the strike.
Feng Xin tries to bury the thought that enters his mind—a face to go with the voice. It’s the sight of the Yong’an prince making him grasp at shadows, nothing more—there’s no need to look at the slope of the Guoshi’s jawline and his lips, trying to fill in the features of someone who’s already lost to him.
There’s something about what’s visible in his face, though, that makes Feng Xin hesitate. It’s clear that the Guoshi is a handsome man, and that isn’t necessarily rare to find, but those lips, that pointed chin, they really do look like someone Feng Xin used to know.
Not that he thinks Xie Lian, former Crown Prince of Xianle, would be hiding in Yong’an and serving as a Guoshi, but maybe a relative, a descendant… hadn’t Xie Lian had a cousin that looked a little like him? How many grandsons would it take for one to bear a passing resemblance?
“One hears rumors these days,” Feng Xin acknowledges, wondering to what extent he should try to keep up pretenses. It’s his temple, after all, and he’d be permitted to declare his true identity before the Guoshi without trampling over the rules set by heaven. But the young prince’s presence complicates things. “Are they true, Guoshi?”
The Guoshi tilts his head. Feng Xin imagines kind eyes, long eyelashes blinking beneath the mask. “What an odd question. How often does a rumor spread nothing but the truth?”
“What rumors?” the Crown Prince interrupts. “Guoshi, is he talking about the ghost?”
“Why ask me? Ask him directly,” the Guoshi chides, which causes the child’s face to flush red.
“Have you heard about the ghost?” The Crown Prince tries again, this time addressing Feng Xin. He’s all wide eyes and a determined expression, but his flushed cheeks are still childishly round. If Feng Xin’s memory serves, the boy can’t be older than thirteen, that dangerous age where confidence begins to take over.
“The ghost is killing soldiers,” Feng Xin answers, gaze flickering between the child and his mentor. “Every month, one huo, sometimes more. There are signs that it may be…”
He hesitates, but the Crown Prince’s eyes glimmer with recognition before he glances up at his Guoshi. “It eats the soldiers, doesn’t it, Guoshi?”
The Guoshi appears to be biting back a sigh. “Until the ghost is found and dealt with, we can’t be certain what it does. I suppose you know that already, though.”
The last part is directed to Feng Xin and his deputies, with only the subtlest of inflections. He can’t see the Guoshi’s eyes through the mask, but he can feel the force of his gaze nonetheless, and he does his best to hold it—has the Guoshi guessed already? Can he look past the merchant disguise to see something of the divine aura around him and his deputies?
“Who are you?” the Guoshi asks. “What do you know about the problem plaguing this city?”
“My family name is Feng,” Feng Xin answers after a pause, and watches for a reaction; he’s met with the blank impasse of the Guoshi’s mask. “My name is Feng Xin. And I know very little about it, except that people are frightened and looking for help.”
Even the Crown Prince seems to be burning incense; Feng Xin wonders how many other temples the boy has visited with his Guoshi, hoping for heaven’s assistance for his soldiers.
“I see.” The Guoshi’s voice remains neutral. Stiff. It reminds Feng Xin of actors in a play who put on voices that are not their own. “The palace would welcome the efforts of anyone who can help; the creature keeps evading us.”
He clearly isn’t shy about admitting to the shortcomings of the royal guards; Feng Xin bites back a snort of laughter, although the situation isn’t really funny when the bodies of the soldiers speak far louder than the Guoshi’s words.
“Nan Yang is listening to your prayers,” he says after a moment, glancing at the divine statue. “That may help.”
The Crown Prince blinks his sparkling eyes, perking up at the comment. “General Nan Yang cleared all the ghosts out of the old Xianle capital when he ascended,” he announces, excitement bleeding into his voice. “He could chase this ghost out of our city, too. Maybe even all the ghosts, just like he did back then.”
A living city is nothing like a ruin filled with ghosts, and the Crown Prince seems to have forgotten who had put those ghosts there in the first place. It’s hard to fault his enthusiasm, though, and Feng Xin finds himself biting the inside of his cheek to stop a rare smile. “Is there more than one ghost here? What kind of city have I found myself in?”
“All cities have ghosts,” the Guoshi answers in the same chiding tone he’s been using for the Crown Prince.
But he has a point. A ghost is only a human that hasn’t let go of its resentment, or its unhealthy attachment. Pick a thousand heads in the city right now, and Feng Xin imagines there would be no less than a hundred sparks for eventual ghost fires.
Feng Xin supposes he’s fortunate. Sometimes he thinks that if he hadn’t found his place in heaven, he could have found himself taking that other path instead.
There have been three people in Feng Xin’s life that he has loved enough to memorize the angles of their face and of their body.
One is Jian Lan, the Martial Goddess Lan Chang, who was his friend before she was his lover. They served Xie Lian together, guarded him together, trained together, and then slept together after ascending to the junior court together. That intimacy hadn’t lasted through the Yong’an rebellion, but she remains his friend, even if she’s since found other companions in the heavenly court.
Another is Xie Lian. The Crown Prince of Xianle, the Flower-Crowned Martial God, the God-Pleasing Crown Prince. It’s been such a long time, and Feng Xin misses him like a hole in the chest.
The last time Feng Xin had seen him, he’d been gaunt and hollow-eyed, with rough hair and stained, fraying robes. It’s the image that lingers in his mind the most, but he can remember Xie Lian in his splendor, too, a youthful fullness in his cheeks and his strong muscles filling out his court finery. That was the Xie Lian who had an answer for everything, solutions beyond what anyone else could see.
The three of them had been good together—Xie Lian, Jian Lan, Feng Xin. He really misses those days, when he thinks back to them. Even when it was bad, just before it turned worse, they still had each other to lean against.
He really misses those days sometimes, and he mostly blames that sense of longing for the way he imagines himself knocking the mask from the Guoshi’s face and seeing Xie Lian’s face looking back at him. The lower part of his face had really looked similar, although the shade and lantern-light inside the temple may have worked to blur any distinct features, obvious tells to indicate a different man.
“Lin Yue.” Feng Xin turns to his deputy after they reach the marketplace; it feels good to be outside in the sunlight again after the haze of incense in the temple. “Those soldiers must have had wives and mothers and sisters. Do you think you can learn anything from them?”
Women trust other women to talk to—this is something he’s learned from Jian Lan.
“If I can find them, General.” Lin Yue salutes and slips into the crowd, and Feng Xin looks at Song Qiao, his remaining assistant.
“Try the teahouses,” he suggests. “... Don’t start any fights.”
“I won’t if you won’t,” Song Qiao agrees.
With his two deputies gone, Feng Xin finally turns to scour the east market on his own.
“They don’t seem to be random killings,” Lin Yue agrees later that evening as she picks a piece of crab meat off of a plate.
They’ve settled into a busy restaurant near the main avenue. It’s a selection based in part on the hope that the laughter of the other patrons and the competing musicians on the upper and lower levels will drown out their discussions of gods and ghosts, and in part a last-ditch effort to collect more relevant gossip from patrons ordering one too many bottles of wine for their table.
“What did you find?” Feng Xin asks.
“Most of the men that were killed had bad reputations,” Lin Yue explains. “Many of them spent their time and money on drinking, gambling, and brothels. Some would pick fights. One woman said one of the soldiers often pestered her, and even tore her dress one night.”
“Some of the men I spoke to thought the first incident wasn’t the work of a ghost at all,” Song Qiao adds. “Lin Yue is right; many of these soldiers were disliked. So the first killing was initially investigated as a murder, but the man they accused was in prison when the second killing happened, and they let him go. The arguments about it are still lively.”
“So it’s some personal quarrel with the Yong’an guards,” Feng Xin pieces together, frowning over the plate of fish in front of him. Part of him can sympathize; Yong’an soldiers betraying the trust of the people they’re meant to protect? It’s shameful, and yet not surprising to hear, given his own memories. “If a soldier killed someone and that spirit wanted revenge, but didn’t know exactly who was responsible…”
His voice trails off. There’s a problem with that theory; that would make it too easy.
“What did you learn, General?” Lin Yue asks.
“The spirit that eats people doesn’t only attack soldiers,” Feng Xin answers, and notices the way Lin Yue takes a quick and wary glance at the piece of meat between her chopsticks. “Last month it entered a noble’s home and ate a guard, a mistress, and a servant before it fled. There have been other incidents, but even if the majority of deaths are soldiers, it isn’t all of them.”
“So perhaps there are two ghosts,” Song Qiao proposes. “One that kills soldiers. Another that eats nobles.”
“Appearing at the same time?” Feng Xin sighs. “They could be working together. Or even working under orders from another entity.”
Two ghosts rather than one is hardly an ideal situation; it’s twice the work, after all, and a muddy trail to follow. But it also might mean that they’re each weak enough to have to hide in the other’s shadow—and to find one would surely lead them to the other, with the right kind of interrogation.
“Tomorrow, I want you two to follow the leads you had today,” Feng Xin continues, glancing between his two deputies. “Find anything that can indicate who these ghosts are, or what they want.”
There’s not much more they can learn from Yong’an’s people in the dead of night, especially once the gates between the districts are all sealed; there’s also no lead as of yet to indicate where they should wait for the ghost to strike.
Finding out what it wants would be a good first step towards intercepting its next move, though.
“What are you going to do, General?” Song Qiao asks.
It’s a little indulgent, but there’s another puzzle that he means to solve while he’s here. It may not be related, just like the matter of the young Crown Prince’s kidnapping may not be related, but Jun Wu is right: the timing is suspicious.
“I’m going to talk to the Guoshi,” Feng Xin answers, and again imagines himself removing the gilded mask from the man's face.