Chapter Text
“You turned in multiple scrolls late, Qinghua.”
Shang Qinghua nods, and lets his head hang as he says an apology for the millionth time.
“Yes- I know. This servant is very truly sorry, my king. I’ve had a lot to do with the peak lately, and I know that it is no excuse, bu-”
Smack!
Shang Qinghua gasps quietly as he reaches up to his now throbbing cheek. He looks up at Mobei-Jun’s eyes, but seeing his king’s expression, he immediately hangs his head once more. His king must be tired of him. He will most likely suffer beatings more often after this, at least until he redeems himself.
Maybe he’ll turn in so much paperwork before the due date so Mobei-Jun knows he can be reliable. Maybe he’ll go on so many missions that his limbs don't work for three days because of how hard he’s worked? How can he make this up to his king?-
A sharp, deep voice cuts him out of his thoughts.
“Don’t make the same mistake again, or the consequences will be great.”
Mobei-Jun’s voice cuts worse than his nails, Shang QInghua would know this statement the best.
Shang Qinghua’s cheek is bleeding due to those nails, but the cut is numb in contrast to the disappointment and anger lacing his king's voice. With a scoff, his king is shadow walking away, leaving him alone in his dark leisure home at An Ding.
Most people wouldn’t be able to tell how his king is feeling from just his voice, but Shang Qinghua is. He’s studied the way his king bares his teeth more when angry, how he speaks slower when he’s thinking, or when he’s happy.
And Mobei-Jun doesn’t sound happy.
He doesn’t get to apologize once more for his wrong doings before Mobei-jun is gone. He’ll have to apologize again next time.
Shang Qinghua doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. He has no energy, he feels like he could fall asleep standing if he tried hard enough.
But he doesn’t have time to sleep through the night as everyone else does, He has paperwork to do.
So many assignments to grade, too many Northern Desert scrolls and analytics to complete, too much work to do for other people. He wishes he could say no, he wishes he knew how to order people around and stand up for himself, but he never seems to have the courage.
He reluctantly drags his body over to his desk, and slumps down in the chair. He grabs a scroll to his left and lays it out, getting his ink and brush ready. But as soon as he stares down at the scroll, his vision blurs.
He hasn't slept in around three months, hasn't eaten in a while either. Even though his cultivation practices make him not need things like sleep, food, and water as a mortal would, it seems his karma has come to bite him in the ass anyway.
He wishes he could eat, or sleep, or even have the time to stargaze. But that's asking too much, he deserves this. This suffering.
He deserves this for writing a tragic story, for being forced to turn it into a shitty porno novel for money, for writing all these terrible backstories for his characters, for making them go through such shitty things.
He watches as blood from his cheek and tears from his eyes wet the scroll in front of him. His gaze is unwavering as the ink gets blotchy with red, watches as the characters are molded together under his tears.
His eyes don't move when he drops his brush, splashing ink all over the scroll, his desk, and himself.
He gives up, and allows his body to sink onto the floor, and underneath the desk.
And he sobs.
He sobs for the scroll he just ruined with his own weakness. He sobs for his ruined robes. He sobs for his future self who has to clean this mess up.
He sobs for his future self, who is most likely going to be beheaded sooner or later by his king. He sobs for his past self, being so lonely as to make an entire world full of people just to not feel lonely.
He sobs for his heart, who has never known the love of another person. He sobs for the parents he only knew briefly, the ones who threw him out when he was still a kid. He sobs for his childhood, which got stolen from him.
He sobs for his dream of being an astrologist, he sobs for the stars, they seem as lonely as he is.
He sobs for the people he wasn’t able to save, he sobs because he knows he’ll never get a happy ending. He sobs because he not only got himself stuck in this world, but another innocent person as well. He sobs for Shen Yuan, who didn’t get to live past his twenties because of him.
He sobs because who the hell could ever love him? Who would hold him tight and make sure he was safe? Who would bandage him up and give him kisses on his cheek outside of his dreams?
He sobs alone, just as he's always done.
He holds himself, and whispers to himself how he can’t be this weak right now, how he needs to get up. How will he prove to his king that he's worthy if he can’t even stop crying?
That usually works, but it just doesn’t seem to pull him out of it this time.
His sobbing turns into disgusting gasps as he hyperventilates. Snot is coming out of his nose, tears are pouring out of his eyes, he truly is a pitiful sight.
He wishes someone would just end him already. No one would be losing much, he’s just some random orphan turned peak lord who does some paperwork. He's so easily replaceable, sometimes he can’t help but wonder why they haven’t replaced him yet.
It's a true statement to say no one likes him, no one keeps him around because he's fun, or because he's cool. They only tolerate him because he's useful.
He’s only alive because he’s useful. But what if he doesn’t want to live anymore? What if he thinks death could be a release from this hell he wrote for himself?
He grasps at his hair as his breathing gets faster, no air has time to get to his lungs. He feels like he's choking. He feels pressure on his shoulders, but the pain on his cheek and from pulling his hair makes it feel like a phantom touch.
Is he so far gone that he's imagining someone holding him? Is he so lonely that he has to pretend someone isn’t so disgusted by him just to live another day?
He feels something in his mouth, did he breathe in something? He hopes it’s not poisonous. Or maybe he does hope it's poisonous, maybe that would be able to save him from his misery.
He feels his eyelids getting heavy, and just as he’s about to succumb to sleep, he feels arms wrapping around him, and for once, maybe he can allow himself to feel a little delusional if it means being surrounded by the arms of another person. Pretending he’s loved.
Maybe the arms are death, taking him away so he can just be a rotting corpse.
He doesn’t have time to think about it before he’s fast asleep, it feels safe.