Chapter Text
By the time he arrived to the Emperor’s rooms on the Imperial Peak of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, Yue Qingyuan’s headache had worsened into a throbbing migraine. The Xuan Su sword was never quiet, always humming a single held note through his core, but for once it wasn’t to blame.
Liu Qingge greeted him at the door, and whatever relief Yue Qingyuan could have experienced seeing such a capable guard by Su Xiyan’s rooms was instantly crushed by the slight shake of the Bai Zhan War God’s head.
“Is she…?” Yue Qingyuan asked, against hope.
“The Emperor has ascended,” Liu Qingge confirmed.
A thread whose existence Yue Qingyuan hadn’t acknowledged until now snapped, leaving part of his soul to drop into a bottomless pit. Despite the sinking, rushing feeling of that endless fall, he spoke evenly. “So she has.”
“Sect Leader.” That was Mu Qingfang, exiting the room; further proof, if needed be, of what had happened. Cang Qiong’s master physician never left a patient’s side before death had come and gone. “My apologies for pulling you out of bed.”
“Thanking Mu-shidi for his diligent efforts,” Yue Qingyuan answered absently. “Will he permit this Sect Leader to pay his respects?”
“Zhangmen-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang said respectfully, stepping back. As they crossed paths, he reached out to squeeze his Sect Leader’s wrist, an extremely unusual gesture which cracked through Yue Qingyuan’s glaze of shock for a moment. A moment later, he realized that had been the physician’s intention.
“Thank you,” he managed past the tightness in his throat.
Inside the darkened room, Su Xiyan’s body lay supine, hands folded on her stomach, a white veil over her face. Her dark hair had been combed out over the pillow to fan out around her head. Yue Qingyuan sat by her side and attempted to meditate, to connect with her lingering spirit for a last impression, some advice, a farewell.
Immediately he found himself thinking instead about the logistics of the work ahead. First, to gather the peak lords. Then the seclusion. Then the vote, though the results were known already. He had had time, at least, to get accustomed to the thought. It hadn’t always been the certainty it was now. He might have died before Su Xiyan’s ascension—had in fact strongly believed in that possibility, with his broken core leaking lifeblood. But he could not, would not, precipitate his own end, and his own ascension was centuries ahead, assuming he would be able to ascend at all. As Su Xiyan prepared her departure from this world, he had come to terms with the inevitable.
He would be Emperor.
Centuries ago, the position had been conquered through violence, demons and humans engaged in a ruthless battle for the crown. But after the massacre of most Heavenly Demons, the Demon Realm had dissolved into infighting which had ensured the Immortals’ rule over the rest of the world. From that day, the Emperor had been forevermore human, forevermore a cultivator. Sect hierarchy at least prevented similar violent squabbles among humans: like a peak lord chose a head disciple, an Emperor chose a Sect Leader to succeed them on the throne, long before the moment came.
This choice was made among the Great Sects, ostensibly with their unified support, hence the vote; but the actual decision was settled in informal political plays over the decades preceding the ascension. The confirmation itself was just a formality, which usually wasn’t well-attended. Su Xiyan herself, for instance, had been voted onto the throne by only seven cultivators; most of the Great Sects hadn’t bothered to send their representatives, saving their wealth, time and effort for the crowning ceremony.
At least this time, because the new Emperor was from Cang Qiong Mountain Sect and the vote taking place in their Ling Xi crypt, all twelve peak lords would be expected to attend—though, in practice, a number as small as three would be sufficient, including Yue Qingyuan himself. His actual rise to power would be underwhelming, a quiet, pointless procedure underground, unlike the weeks of gaudy celebration that would follow.
Yue Qingyuan left that thought to drop at the bottom of the well for now.
He reopened his eyes and gazed upon Su Xiyan’s serene face, just barely visible under the white veil. She was at peace, her work done. For a moment, he could not repress his envy.
He exhaled. Then he stood.
*
Xiao Jiu was scrupulously on time.
It would have been a toss-up, Yue Qingyuan mused privately, between arriving first, the better to signify his superiority as the Qing Jing Peak Lord, or last, just to make his sect leader wait. Either way, his presence would have felt the same: a hot poker pressed to Yue Qingyuan’s skin, the only source of heat in an otherwise frozen world.
“Shen-shidi,” Yue Qingyuan greeted him.
Xiao Jiu was perfect, as always, green robes rippling in his wake, hair ornament flashing in the setting sun. He appeared to ignore his sect leader completely, walking into the crypt without a bow, a word, or even a glance; but as he took his first step down the stairs he said, “Zhangmen-shixiong must be thrilled that his efforts have borne fruit, despite some personal hindrances within his own sect.”
Yue Qingyuan could not protest that he had never vied to become Emperor, or that the man named Shen Qingqiu had never been a hindrance to him—both blatantly untrue statements. If he tried anyway, Xiao Jiu would feign surprise and offense, then gleefully cut him deeper. Sometimes Yue Qingyuan bared himself for the knife on purpose, since he would get no other point of contact with him.
“This Sect Leader is grateful for his shidi’s support,” Yue Qingyuan murmured—waiting until just before Xiao Jiu vanished, the better to let him pretend he hadn’t heard; otherwise his Xiao Jiu would have had to take offense at that remark, too.
There was nothing Yue Qingyuan could say anymore that wouldn’t offend him.
“Yikes,” said someone, making him flinch slightly. “Aha, sorry, Sect Leader, didn’t mean to startle you!”
“Shang-shidi,” Yue Qingyuan said. “Welcome.” It was perhaps not surprising that the An Ding Peak Lord had come second. He would have never risked Xiao Jiu’s wrath by arriving early if Xiao Jiu had decided to take first place, but he would otherwise attempt to expedite the process as much as possible. The man was always running around to put out fires, always complaining there weren’t enough hours in the day.
“You know, I’d never actually been to the Ling Xi crypt before? I only entered the caves once, for my sword, of course, but otherwise I’d rather leave the dead business to Ling Mu Peak, haha…” He trailed off when Yue Qingyuan just smiled politely at him. “How are you, ah, feeling, Zhangmen-shixiong? Excited? Nervous?”
“It is an immense honor,” Yue Qingyuan answered blandly.
“Of course, of course. We’re all super honored by your… being honored. Ah… I’ll just, then…” He scurried past and disappeared into the crypt as well, with a mixture of nervousness and relief, tossing a “See you later, Zhangmen-shixiong!” over his shoulder.
Silence settled back over Yue Qingyuan, the leaves rustling over his head as darkness descended. It was a full moon, an auspicious sign. An owl hooted in the distance, piercing and plaintive. He felt like he was holding vigil, and he was, for the late Emperor Su Xiyan; but he couldn’t quite fight the feeling that he was the one they were going to bury. That he would never make it back out once he stepped underground.
He hadn’t returned to the Ling Xi Caves since he had acquired the Xuan Su sword, either.
He expected Wei Qingwei next, or perhaps Qi Qingqi; he expected Mu Qingfang to be last, trying to tend to his patients until the last minute. He had no other particular expectations for the rest of his peak lords.
Or so he believed until Liu Qingge arrived, surprising him greatly and therefore proving him wrong.
“There you are,” said the Bai Zhan peak lord, gruffly. “You know, there’s still time to run.”
For the first time that day, Yue Qingyuan’s smile very nearly reached his eyes. “Would Liu-shidi cover for me?”
“Isn’t it my duty to protect the sect leader? You look like death.”
It occurred to Yue Qingyuan that, perhaps, Liu Qingge was this surprisingly early—when he couldn’t possibly have been eager to enter seclusion—because he wanted to support him. The thought warmed him by a fraction, a brief exhale in his frozen world.
“Liu-shidi’s duty is to protect all of us,” he corrected graciously. “Nevertheless, his concern is appreciated.”
“I still remember what you told me when we made head disciple, you know.”
Yue Qingyuan remembered, too.
“Qingyuan. What’s the matter?” Liu Qingge had asked him, concern evident in his voice.
Being made head disciple of Qiong Ding Peak meant he was on track to become the next Qiong Ding Peak Lord, meaning the next Sect Leader, meaning the next Emperor, if she smiled upon him. Yue Qingyuan, to his shame, held tighter onto Liu Qingge for support, trying and failing to breathe evenly. The Xuan Su sword was sabotaging his efforts at circulating his qi to calm down, turning his golden core into a black hole, warping his cultivation.
“I am not worthy,” Yue Qingyuan had gasped.
“That’s nonsense—”
“I am telling Liu-shidi,” he had insisted, “that I know myself to be unsuitable.”
But the next moment he had finally mastered his breathing, and they had never talked about it again. That had been almost twenty years ago.
“This sect leader cannot say he recalls the incident,” he answered now.
Without a word, Liu Qingge clapped his shoulder and entered the crypt. Yue Qingyuan tried not to feel that his last hope of escape was following him down into the dark. It was a ridiculous thought: there had never been any such hope at all.
And then, just as the Bai Zhan War God vanished down the stairs, a terrible explosion shook the entire mountain.
*
Wei Qingwei arrived minutes later, slicing through the air on his spirit sword. His robes smelled of fire and smoke, and there was a wild look in his eyes. “Has Liu-shidi already descended?”
“He just did. Wei-shidi, what happened?”
“Demons,” was the succinct answer. “It looks to be an incursion from the Northern Realm. Hoping to take advantage of the peak lords’ absence, maybe? Thank goodness not all of us had entered the crypt already.”
Seclusion wasn’t just a word when it came to Ling Xi: it was impossible to exit the crypt again before the new Emperor was chosen, a well-known fact. Too well-known, clearly.
Yue Qingyuan could feel Xuan Su’s energy beat in time with his heart. He stepped lightly on top of the sheathed sword, tying back his sleeves. “Lead the way, please, Wei-shidi.”
“No.” Wei Qingwei put an urgent hand on his arm. “Zhangmen-shixiong, listen to me. What if something happens to you? The crypt couldn’t open again.”
The thought of condemning Xiao Jiu to the darkness for a second time washed over Yue Qingyuan so strongly he had to step off his sword.
The next moment, it was chased away by disgust at having thought only belatedly of Liu Qingge and, with even more shameful tardiness, of Shang Qinghua. “They wouldn’t remain trapped forever,” he reasoned. “Upon realizing something must have gone wrong outside, they…”
“Would elect a different Emperor?”
Yue Qingyuan trailed off. This would indeed be the only choice left to the unwitting prisoners of the crypt, but the idea of any two of these people agreeing to crown the third as Emperor simply beggared belief.
No matter how he tried to turn the matter in his mind, nothing worked. Wei Qingwei, eyebrows raised, seemed to be thinking along the same lines. There was also the small matter of the cultivation world’s reaction to ending up with an entirely different Emperor than originally planned, but that matter felt exceedingly distant at the moment.
“…I cannot in good conscience enter the crypt myself while Cang Qiong is under attack,” Yue Qingyuan said eventually.
“Shixiong, you must. Go, take the vote, come back out. Has Liu-shidi really already descended?” Wei Qingwei asked again, incredulous, almost pleading. Of all times for the Bai Zhan War God to enter seclusion early. This, too, was Yue Qingyuan’s fault. “Never mind. Eight of us should be more than sufficient to fight back this invasion. The Northern King is obviously attempting to interfere with the crowning of a new Emperor; we mustn’t let him. Expediting the process is the only answer.”
To leave the sect undefended and voluntarily enter seclusion while it burned? To risk abandoning three fellow peak lords—abandoning Xiao Jiu—to either endless darkness or an impossible choice? Neither of these options were acceptable. But Yue Qingyuan’s presence was indispensable for only one of them.
He exhaled. “Of course, Wei-shidi is right. I… will enter the crypt and seal it behind me. Hopefully the seclusion won’t last more than an hour.” Neither of them said that in an hour it would all be over, one way or another. “In my absence, Wei-shidi is Acting Sect Leader.”
Wei Qingwei bowed, then fled without even another word as another explosion boomed in the distance. The sky over Cang Qiong Mountain was turning red. Yue Qingyuan repressed the violent impulse to follow him, a physical wrench; then he spun on his heel and, before he could think again, went into the dark.
*
Despite the urgency of the situation, having sealed the doors behind him, Yue Qingyuan hesitated a moment before the stairs.
Made of pale stone, they disappeared into unnatural, solid blackness after only a few steps. Strange, animal noises were coming up from under the earth, chittering and chirping, mournful calls, incomprehensible whispers. What they were exactly was not known; some said they came from the Abyss which gaped under the mountain, others attributed them to the murmuring shades of the dead, others yet said they were echoes from everywhere in the world, traveling over waves of qi. Many a Ling Mu Peak Lord had attempted to discover their origin, but the most they had been able to observe was that picking a whisper and following it around ultimately meant walking in circles.
Yue Qingyuan began his descent and watched the darkness, like a gaseous pool of ink, rise over his body—past his ankles, his knees, his waist, his torso—until he was fully under.
For long, long minutes, he could see nothing at all. It was a relief when he came upon the first glowing vines, a fragile blue-green breaking through the perfect darkness. In that dim light, he began seeing his body again, his feet; until then, he had tried to keep walking without thinking about it, so he wouldn’t absurdly trip down the stairs.
As he went, the vegetation grew thicker, glowing green and blue, gold and pink flowers blooming away from the sun, feeding on the qi saturating the caves. All of them together outlined the arches and the pillars of the massive Ling Xi crypt, only barely softening its cavernous echoes. It would have been an enchanting spectacle if not for the rows of skulls in the alcoves, peeking through the gloom with empty sockets. The chitters and clicks seemed to be coming from them.
Finally Yue Qingyuan arrived in the great hall, where the ceiling was twice as high than the tallest building on Cang Qiong. A great round table of smooth obsidian stone took up almost all the space. Under the arches floated the glowing orb of the Imperial Crucible.
That was the source of all imperial magic, the seal that bound the candidates underground and demanded a vote to release them. Under its influence, no violence could take place, only solemn debates and a final decision. Papers and ink had already been placed on the table, not magical in the slightest, probably brought there by a nervous Ling Mu disciple a few hours ago.
The three peak lords should have been sitting in their designated seats, ignoring each other—in the best case scenario—until their Sect Leader deigned to join them.
They were not.
*
“How nice of Zhangmen-shixiong to join us,” Xiao Jiu bit out.
The Xiu Ya sword was out of its sheath, along with the Cheng Luan sword, a most distressing outcome in any circumstance: for it meant that either Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge were fighting each other, or that they had found themselves faced with an enemy so hateful they had entered a temporary truce.
This was the second option.
At the black stone table was seated a massive ice demon, obviously delighting in the effect his presence was having on the cultivators. He appeared indifferent to the twin radiance of their immortal blades. He had a thin, well-tailored beard, a sharp and sneering face, and a vivid blue mark on his forehead. Behind him stood another demon in dark blue robes, younger, impassive and silent.
“Sect Leader, finally,” said the demon at the table, with every appearance of affability. “It is my great honor to meet you. My name is Linguang-Jun, brother to the Northern King.” He rose, placing his hands on the table, and said with a hungry spark in his eye: “I have come to present my candidacy for the throne.”