◎Junior Sister, that is not how kisses are done◎
The ring and the little finger were a blur of blood and flesh—more nightmarish than any peril Yan Rushi had met in all these hundred years.
Shaking, she gathered them up, not knowing whether to throw them away or keep them—and abruptly remembered nights of childhood: her mother scolding her for playing too late, urging her to bed, frowning and grumbling a few words before smiling helplessly at herself. Yan Qingjue, stroking her daughter’s hair, murmuring Tales of Mountains and Seas in a low voice until the child calmed—and on that little finger of hers, just such a Plain Jade Ring of the Sect Master.
“Rushi, between these mountains and seas there is its own Daoist Art. Clouds and moon have no master; the idle claim them for their own. In cultivation, first is name, second is form, third is Dao, fourth is idleness, fifth is…”
“Fifth is what? Mother, don’t stop there!”
Yan Qingjue tapped the bridge of her daughter’s nose. “Sleep properly. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
And tomorrow always brought a new story, a new cliffhanger. First Sword Cultivator since antiquity, Yan Qingjue had traveled beyond counting; she never lacked for wonders and lore.
Mother…
It had been the same before, too. Solitary Mountain’s hunt, leisurely and bloody: they had let Yan Rushi flee, then sent a severed bone, and then news of her father’s death.
And now, Yan Qingjue.
Yan Rushi knew what Solitary Mountain wanted. They held Yan Qingjue’s life and wanted Yan Rushi to probe You Fusang’s depths—above all to see the Devil Tattoo on the back of her neck, wherein might lie hidden the key to understanding, and breaking, the Pagoda Token.
But now Yan Rushi could barely protect herself in Pagoda—how was she to take the offensive?
In a blink, the little finger in her arms melted into a mist of blood and was gone.
Yan Rushi drifted, dazed.
As she stood lost, someone pushed open the door.
A rush of clean wind swept in, scattering the blood-smell in the room.
Brown-streaked hair, white robes, pupils of crimson gold, framing a pale and gorgeous face—and a plum branch blooming on her sleeve.
Yan Rushi stared at her. Barely awake, her tears had not yet dried, the corners of her eyes still wet and flushed.
You Fusang paused too. “…Why are you crying? A nightmare?”
In memory, the Little Peacock had indeed been a weeper—a centipede not half-grown dropping onto her desk could wring tears from her by the handful. But her tears came fast and left fast; a little coaxing, and she was again her idle, untroubled little-immortal self.
Yan Rushi shook her head, wiped the traces away, said nothing. After a long moment she raised her eyes and asked, small-voiced, hopeful: “Will the Venerable Lord help me save my mother?”
You Fusang’s gaze slid across Yan Rushi’s face, and she said with a sneer: “Young Sect Master Yan, I had meant to tell you that Yan Qingjue and I severed all bonds long ago—so why would I save her? But on second thought, I found that between her and me there was never kindness, and certainly never bond—so even those four words are too generous.” As she spoke, she took down from the tower-shelf an incense burner no bigger than a palm, an Xiezhi Incense Burner, and turned it over idly in her hands. “If Young Sect Master Yan still nurses any dream of restoring the Yan Sect, my advice is: spare yourself. Solitary Mountain plainly means to grind the Yan Sect’s foundations to dust. As the Young Sect Master of the Yan Sect, you may thank heaven and earth if you can merely keep yourself alive. Should you take up a sword against Solitary Mountain… I roughly foresee that a lifetime bedridden on a sickbed would be the Young Sect Master’s best possible ending. With worse luck… what manner of robes and jewels does the Young Sect Master prefer? In gratitude that you thought of me in your desperation and came to me for help, I will see a cenotaph raised for you as well.”
The tears Yan Rushi had barely stopped threatened to fall again. She knew You Fusang’s tongue was cruel, and she knew that a hundred years of war between righteous and heretic had worn their Martial-Sister bond down to nothing—yet back and forth she still could not understand: It was Mother who pulled Senior Sister out of that savage land of chaos. It was Mother who took her in as a student at the trials’ end, who kept her away from the filth of the Outer Mountain, who even gave her so glorious a name as First Disciple of Sect Master. It was Mother who properly, rigorously taught her breathing and sword work—
How can it be “no kindness, no bond”?
Yan Rushi could not comprehend it, and so she wept all the more wretchedly. Her mother’s little finger had dissolved before her eyes, but its blood-mist still hung in the air, clogging her mouth and nose, her heart and lungs, pressing down on her thoughts and her soul, wringing heart’s blood from her and tears of blood after.
You Fusang simply watched her cry, neither coaxing nor asking, toying with the little burner, wondering idly how much coral powder and white aloeswood it wanted.
A long, long while later, Yan Rushi lifted her soaked eyes and looked straight at her. “I understand.”
“Mm.” You Fusang weighed the burner in her hand. “If Young Sect Master wishes to live in peace in the Pagoda Palace, do not speak Yan Qingjue’s name.”
“…I understand.”
Only then did You Fusang’s face ease into a smile. She tossed the burner onto the bed and gestured to Yan Rushi. “This thing will shield you from the Devil Qi. Ordinary folk fall into devilhood after long enough in Pagoda even so. If Young Sect Master Yan wishes to preserve her righteous dignity, carry this hand warmer with you.”
The hand warmer landed, rolled across the bed, and leaked a little scented powder.
The scent of aloeswood.
Yan Rushi took it, dazed. “Thank you… thank you, Venerable Lord.”
“Don’t mention it.”
You Fusang turned to go.
Then came the abrupt sound of someone collapsing behind her—a tumble of quilts and covers—Yan Rushi had pitched to the floor, dragging down a swath of silk.
She looked up, gaze traveling from below to meet You Fusang’s, breathing quick, as if kneeling beneath her.
“Big Sister Fusang…”
Kneeling half-prostrate on the floor, Yan Rushi reached out from behind and caught You Fusang’s sleeve. “Big Sister Fusang. I have no home left.”
Her voice was faint, piteous, threaded with fawning and pleading—like a cat extending its claws to give the tip of You Fusang’s heart a light scratch, and she could not help but stop.
Crouched low beneath You Fusang, Yan Rushi reached up and toyed with her sash—seduction, utterly unpracticed, trembling and held in check.
A sighing sorrow flashed through You Fusang’s eyes.
Of course she could guess: Yan Rushi peddled her beauty for one reason only—her mother, Yan Qingjue.
You Fusang knocked her hand aside, sharp nail tipping up Yan Rushi’s chin. “Junior Sister Yan, if your mother knew you debased yourself so for her sake—bowing and scraping—what do you suppose she would think?”
Yan Rushi faltered.
What she would think comes second. First, one has to live.
So she shook her head. “What has it to do with Mother? She hangs between life and death on Solitary Mountain; I turn to Pagoda to keep myself alive, dwelling beneath another’s roof. Whether she sighs or rages, she cannot blame me overmuch.” She raised her eyes and held You Fusang’s gaze. “Venerable Lord. I only want to live.”
“…Beneath another’s roof?” You Fusang stared at Yan Rushi a long moment, the fist in her sleeve clenching and loosening. At last she said, “As for living—Young Sect Master Yan could live safe and sound in the Pagoda Palace without doing any of this. I told you: I will not take your life.”
Yan Rushi shook her head. “The Venerable Lord may not want it. But I cannot fail to repay.”
“…”
You Fusang watched Yan Rushi crouched low before her and nearly laughed with vexation: All this beating around the bush, and in the end it’s still for Yan Qingjue? So the sect’s crumbling years really did teach the little peacock something. Her heart used to be clear as a mirror—now she’s learned feints and misdirection!
Yan Rushi lifted her eyes ingratiatingly: “Before me, Venerable Lord—how many Bed Attendants have there been?”
“Many. Though I played them all to death.”
A lie, of course. You Fusang only wanted to see her reaction.
Sure enough, the Little Peacock’s eyes shivered at the words. Her five fingers clenched hard on You Fusang’s sleeve; she drew her bent knees forward a little, rasped wordlessly for a moment, then lifted her eyes, timid: “Venerable Lord… could you… hold me?”
“Not afraid?” You Fusang pressed. “Young Sect Master Yan, a Devil Cultivator’s bed-sports may very well cost a life, you know.”
“However the Venerable Lord wishes to play, Rushi will play however the Venerable Lord wishes. Think nothing of me”—a white peacock, plucking her own feathers, pitiable of her own accord; that downcast, submissive look was more chilling still—”only I beg the Venerable Lord’s mercy.”
You Fusang faltered a breath—then smiled.
Fine. She did, in truth, want to see her come undone. Wanted to see just how far this Young Lord of the Righteous Path would go, all for Yan Qingjue.
—How did we come to this?
The instant she was pressed back onto the bed, wrists pinned, Yan Rushi still could not understand.
An unfamiliar situation, an unfamiliar Senior Sister. Everything around her was foreign to the point of dread. Fleeing into Pagoda, she had naively believed her Senior Sister would indulge her as of old, kind to her as before.
But she had been wrong.
A hundred years of seas becoming mulberry fields—more than enough for people and things to change beyond knowing.
What pressed her down now was the seventeenth City Lord of Pagoda City, the Heretic Path Sovereign whom even the strongest, coldest Devil Cultivators revered.
Not her Senior Sister Fusang.
The hand warmer toppled to the floor; white aloeswood incense spilled and dispersed.
Her wrists, bent behind her, ached dully; her neck was seized and hauled up, forced to arch back, throat bared like a swan’s. Yan Rushi’s eyes reddened and welled with pain—she felt as if she were drowning, that unbearable suffocation beneath dark water.
And yet, even so, she stumbled forward with lips and teeth, trying to take the lead in this sudden courtship.
Futile, of course.
You Fusang was no longer the Junior Sister who fell short of her at every turn. In cultivation she now stood level with Yan Qingjue, a flick of her finger worth ten thousand men and horses—let alone what it took to bind one small, frail white peacock.
You Fusang captured the body beneath her and gathered in that soft, easily broken waist.
“Is this Junior Sister’s first time doing such things?”
Yan Rushi didn’t answer; trembling, she turned her head, and her lips struck hard against the corner of You Fusang’s mouth. She saw stars from the knock—and heard a soft laugh above her. “Junior Sister Yan, that is not how kisses are done.”
Mocking. Indolent. She caught her by the chin.
Before Yan Rushi’s eyes the world flickered bright and dark; the scent of sandalwood crashed over her—You Fusang’s lips and teeth closed on the tip of her tongue, branding her with a kiss so domineering it bordered on a bite.
Yan Rushi tasted blood. She wanted to push away and could not, wanted to flee and had nowhere to go. Forced to arch up, her tongue caught like a small snake lured from its hole; the back of her skull pinned fast so she could not move. You Fusang’s assault was fierce, and Yan Rushi felt, with terrible clarity, wetness sliding down from the corner of her mouth.
How humiliating… Head bent back, Yan Rushi burned with shame, and an ache rose at the bridge of her nose she could not name. Her strength gave out; she closed her eyes, pushing weakly at her, unable to guard the soft sounds in her throat or stop the clear tears at the corners of her eyes.
You Fusang held her tighter. The teasing of lips and teeth seemed bent on setting her alight—her whole body fever-hot and steeped in cold water at once, tortured by fire and ice, until she went limp.
Breath grew short; her lower belly began to ache dully. She suspected You Fusang’s Devil Qi had already slipped inside her.
Yan Rushi had never done such things before; she did not even know how to kiss. Worst of all was knowing that this was no lover’s kiss—more a chastisement, steeped in vengeance, or simply the amusement of toying with a plaything.
She cried until she nearly broke apart, cursing inwardly all the while: You Fusang. You—you’re ruthless.
At last, the instant before true suffocation, You Fusang slowly released her.
Rising from the bed, she looked down at Yan Rushi from on high, blood-lustful satisfaction in her golden eyes.
“Junior Sister Yan. That is a kiss.”
You Fusang’s eyes curved as if in the best of moods, and she laughed again. “You couldn’t bear a single kiss—whatever will you do hereafter?”
Walking out through the palace gates, You Fusang watched the Golden Crow sink drunk into the horizon and heard the bells of the festival.
She felt a moment’s vertigo: it was already the Pagoda Festival of the 24th of the Second Month. Yan Rushi’s affairs had tangled her so thoroughly she’d forgotten it entirely. Fortunately, a City Lord need prepare nothing—attendance was enough.
Spying Qingluan outside the gates, You Fusang said: “Find Young Sect Master Yan something to do. Don’t let her sit idle, brooding.”
“Yes.”
And so You Fusang strode toward the festival.
The daylight cast a little warmth, cutting small crisp shadows beneath her boots—and reminded her of a hundred years ago, beneath the Wutong trees of Yan Mountain, where such trembling clear shadows used to gather too.
That had been the place where she and Yan Rushi practiced their swords.
Yan Rushi had most likely forgotten long since: in the Pagoda just now was not their first intimacy.
Beneath just such clear shadows, Yan Rushi had clung to You Fusang and already pawed over her from head to toe.
“You Fusang, you’re supposed to be this Young Sect Master’s Senior Sister—looking so hopeless, you embarrass me by association!” She shook You Fusang by the shoulders, denouncing her with all her strength. “Fourteen students in the Inner Sect and you placed thirteenth—and last place only stayed because he was sick, fainted mid-exam, and forfeited… You Fusang, are you trying to worry Mother and me to death!!”
Shaken until her back pressed against the tree trunk, You Fusang had no strength to argue. “Junior Sister Yan… I don’t seem to have a gift for the sword…”
“Anyone might lack a gift for the sword, but not you! And likewise, Senior Sister Fusang may lack every other talent, but not the sword!” Yan Rushi fumed. “You Fusang—your aptitude! The aptitude even Mother and Elder Cheng praised!”
“And what of it? I still can’t hold a sword properly, and I still can’t find a sword technique that fits me…”
“You Fusang! Must you belittle yourself? My mother is the foremost Sword Cultivator under heaven, and even she values you!”
“She… values me?”
“If she didn’t, why take you as her student? The name of First Disciple of Sect Master sounds grand enough!” As if she couldn’t bear it. “You Fusang! You’ve disappointed me so much!!”
The angrier Yan Rushi got, the louder she shouted, each cry higher than the last, until You Fusang’s heart fluttered with alarm. The Little Peacock was lively enough on ordinary days, but she’d never been such a clatter of noise…
You Fusang looked up, gaze skimming past her Junior Sister’s red-tipped ears, and finally noticed something off.
“Junior Sister Yan… did you sneak the Teacher-Mother’s clear wine?”
Yan Rushi froze, exactly as suspected.
“Shh. Don’t tell Mother.”
Yan Rushi blinked, eyes full of the particular cuteness of being caught—then suddenly gripped You Fusang’s shoulders, sprang upward with all her might, and bit down hard.
Two pairs of lips knocked clumsily together. A sting at the edge of her mouth—You Fusang flailed in a flustered panic: “Yan Rushi—y-you—what are you doing!”
“Big Sister Fusang’s lips looked so soft. So kissable…” Yan Rushi’s voice went sweet and slurred. “I’m sorry—was Rushi too fierce just now? Rushi didn’t mean to be… it’s only…”
Before she finished, she crumpled, thud, straight down.
You Fusang watched her collapse into her arms, her whole face flushing red to the ears—red enough to rival the sunset clouds at the sky’s edge.
—So that kiss, in the end, was hers alone to remember.
