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The ascension is barely more than a ripple. You feel it under your skin the way you feel all of heaven.
The bell chimes, and gods gather in the square to gawk at the new arrival. Even the remnants of the dead under your feet stir in reaction to the ascension; resentment, instead of the excitement of your court.
Ascensions are never anything interesting. You have witnessed the birth and death of countless gods for over two millennia, and all have been trite and uninteresting.
(All except for his. An ascension that rocked all of heaven like yours once did. The only one worthy of being your equal.
Body in abyss, heart in paradise, he had said, in the last moments he was still a mortal. He had defeated your ghost remnant and then greeted his Emperor, unkneeling, in the same breath. Despite your rage, there was euphoria. You wanted to laugh and laugh. There was joy to be found in the meeting of an equal, an ecstasy you have forgotten, if it ever existed before him. Even if he did not know yet, the two of you were the same. Now, it was your privilege to teach him.)
It is your duty to greet the new infant god. To welcome them into your court and introduce them to their new, petty responsibilities. The gods kneel to you first, because whatever sphere they believe they have jurisdiction over, they are beholden to you.
You bring them before you, dole out amity and geniality. Sometimes you are disgusted by them, sometimes you almost pity them. Rarely, they surprise you with their competency. But most often, you do not care enough about them to elicit any feeling.
It used to please you, to see them groveling, but now they are tedious. One cannot watch over ants for long without growing bored.
They would be of much better use decorating your floor.
The new god stands before you, unremarkable. He bows before his Emperor, and introduces himself as Lang Qianqiu, Crown Prince of Yong’An.
And strapped to his waist is your sword.
A flash of rage rocks through you, a fresh anger. Heaven responds to it– the dead under your feet stir in excitement and–
(and the power you exert to keep us suppressed slips momentarily.
no matter how much you stamp us down, you can never purge yourself from us.
the sword, look at the sword.
do you remember taking our lives with that sword? a sacrifice that amounted to nothing.
do you remember–)
You compose yourself, the rage settling down to a low simmer.
How dare this nothing god wield your sword, the sword you gave Xianle. How dare Xianle give it away or allow himself to be separated from it. Wasn’t this part of his lesson, carrying Zhu Xin like he carried the weight of his other sins? Torturing himself over it until he realized there was nothing worth agonizing over? That the common people, the ants, were only fit to be crushed under his feet, under your feet.
“Welcome, General Tai Hua, Martial God of the East,” you bare your teeth in a warm smile, thinking about killing this god, ripping the divinity out of him, and sending his corpse falling down to earth. Or stamping him down until he becomes part of the foundation of heaven, all the other gods' feet treading over him.
Lang Qianqiu rises to his feet, his poise the effortless grace of a Crown Prince.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I promise to bring honor to the heavens,” he promises, solemn in his vow the way only naive children are capable.
You want to laugh. What honor can this little thing bring you?
You remember his ancestor, Lang Ying. He was easy to manipulate, but then again all grief-stricken men are. Beyond that, he was headstrong and hardworking, a revolutionary. This little god is a spoiled, naive prince, coddled since birth. Nothing exceptional save for his birthright, given to him by a common man who became king by your hand.
“Only the best ascend to godhood, Tai Hua. I have no doubts that you will comport yourself in a manner befitting such.”
You pause, waiting for Tai Hua to solemnly take in his responsibilities.
“I am curious, however, about your sword, General. It is undoubtedly an evil and resentful blade.”
Lang Qianqiu stiffens. His hand jerks out towards Zhu Xin, but he stops, fingers brushing the hilt, as if he can’t bring himself to actually touch it. “My apologies, My Lord, for disrespecting you by bringing such a weapon into your palace.”
“This sword belonged to my Guoshi.”
Interest curls inside you. “And why would an illustrious prince such as yourself be taught by such a Master?”
You see in Lang Qianqiu’s face that you have identified his open wound and twisted your fingers into it.
“My Guoshi–,” Lang Qianqiu begins, emotion choking his voice. It always irritates you when your infant gods hold tightly to their mortal lives. “Saved me from assassins when I was young. He was a skilled swordsman, and after learning of his skills and bravery, my parents appointed him to be my teacher. He taught me for many years, but on my seventeenth birthday,” Lang Qianqiu takes a deep, steadying breath.
“He massacred the entire court, my family, my parents, after all they had done for him. I was only spared because I arrived late to the banquet. ”
A vicious, savage thrill runs through you. Your interest in Xianle and Yong’An had waned once Xie Lian faded into obscurity, but Ling Wen had informed you of an incident in which the Yong’An royal court had been slaughtered by an unknown mercenary.
It seems your little prince–for it must have been Xie Lian– learned something after all. You ache to know the details– did he finally grow resentful of playing subservient to the people who took away everything from him?
“ I killed him myself,” Lang Qianqiu continues. “Sealed his body away in three layers of coffin. He won’t be able to harm my people, or anyone anymore.” There’s a childish flash of hurt, quickly suppressed.
This little god truly cared for his teacher. He warrs between that love and hate, like Xie Lian once did. The struggle is delicious to watch, but this prince is of no interest to you.
You think of Xie Lian, locked in a coffin, dying over and over again. You could go to him now, free him; from the coffin and his inhibitions. Place the cry-smile mask on him, the acceptance of the absurd, and allow two calamities to walk the earth.
Or you could leave him there. Let the hate fester and marinate. Let the fragile threads of sanity fray and snap. Sanity is so fragile, and hate is so easy. You know this better than anyone.
(stamped into the dirt, swords piercing you,
the people were ungrateful, they turned on you,
spat on you,
Xianle is still learning.
the bridge you could not hold up, the smell of flesh as it burned, the screams
He is still so stubborn, and naive,
that didn’t stop, even after they all died.
later you wondered why your own throat was so raw.
A flower to be nurtured by your hand.
He needs a better teacher than–
you are angry again. is it because you thought of– )
You compose yourself. Lang Qianqiu is still awaiting your judgment.
“No doubt the heavens recognized you for your honor. To protect one’s people is the burden of a Crown Prince. I take it you cared for your Guoshi–” Lang Qianqiu begins to protest, but you quiet him with a smile. “It’s alright if you did, however the evil aura around his sword is not befitting a virtuous martial god. Many gods choose to forge their own spiritual weapons. You may do so as well if you wish.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
You dismiss Lang Qianqiu. He bows to you one last time before leaving. You remember Xianle’s refusal to bow. You wonder what, if anything, this little god learned from him.
You will allow him to keep his life and the sword for now, but you will not allow him to wield it. It will return to its rightful master in due time.
In the meantime, you are comforted by knowing Xie Lian is pinned in place, waiting for you to find him.
You smile to yourself, seated on your throne, all of heaven in your grasp.
(it is more of a pained contortion than anything else.)