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Sometimes, Mao Liang rather wishes that the North simply just did not interact with the South, within any capacity, ever.
“You’re letting your servant talk to this lord in such a manner?” Qianhuai-jun, lord of the South, demands of Mobei Jun, amusement and insult coloring his tone dark. His words make all expression slide off of Lord Shang’s face, leaving it blank and altogether frightening.
The northern demons all go still, and the amused tittering of their southern counterparts dies off in the face of their abrupt silence.
Lord Shang releases a quiet sigh, leaning back in his seat as Mobei Jun stands up from his throne. Honestly, Mao Liang would like to stand up too! Lord Shang hardly deserves this offense! They can spot their upset and rage reflected back to them in the eyes of all their fellow northern brethren who are currently present.
But His Majesty’s ire is paramount.
The king’s face is near murderous, as much as it could be — it’s not so much the expression, always flat and unaffected, as it is the light in his eyes that promises death and retribution.
“Qianhuai-jun comes into this king’s own home, and says such a thing to his host?” Mobei Jun says, his voice a quiet tenor that is immediately belied by the steely undertone that rests just beneath it. “Is the South so crude, so uncivilized, that they spit in the faces of those that shelter them and attend to their visit?”
Qianhuai-jun smiles. It’s one full of teeth, malicious and ignorant. Mao Liang watches with wide eyes as he opens his mouth to speak further, despite the clear warning.
“As expected of one who never finished his sovereign education. This lord pities his majesty, for having it cut so short by the tragedy of his family.”
Does he want to die? Mao Liang wishes for a fan, they feel a little faint.
Mobei Jun has gone stiff. His face expressionless, eyes like shards of ice. There is fury in the line of his shoulders.
Suddenly, Lord Shang climbs to his feet. He places a hand on His Majesty’s arm, and the king barely glances down at him before he sits back on his throne in silence, and his advisor steps forward to pin Qianhuai-jun with a sharp smile.
Oh.
Mao Liang holds back from reaching for the hilt of their hidden sword. It’s rarely needed, where Lord Shang can resolve a conflict with his words alone, but it’s the principal of the matter. When Lord Shang shows genuine anger, that’s when the instincts of all demons within vicinity who know what the cultivator is like go haywire. A flight or fight response. But Lord Shang would never give his opponent an opening to flee, and his methods hardly allow for a fight.
It’s enough to make any demon twitchy.
“Qianhuai-jun presumes too much from the gracious hospitality of the North.” Lord Shang says, honeyed words pleasant to the ear, calm, almost gentle.
Mao Liang watches as the tone makes Qianhuai-jun and his attendants take a slight step back, confusion forefront in their faces. They understand — the instincts are never wrong, but even so, Lord Shang is so small, so unassuming. It can’t possibly be him over which their senses scream of danger, can it?
Oh, ho. Mao Liang almost wants to smile. Little do these miscreants know!
“That his insult would not be taken in kind?” Lord Shang shakes his head almost sorrowfully. “Qianhuai-jun is hereby excused from the Northern court. He may return in five months for the continuation of this conference.”
Qianhuai-jun surges up from his chair, scowling. He faces Mobei Jun, ignoring Lord Shang entirely and —
Well. Does that not say everything about how this will end?
It never does anyone well, to underestimate Lord Shang. That is, after all, exactly what the man wants.
“To think that the Northern king allows servants, less than servants, to make decisions for him!” Qianhuai-jun sneers. “An atrocity! This lord pities the Northern ancestors! He and his retinue will be glad to leave!”
“Then go,” Mobei Jun intoned gravely, from where he lounges almost carelessly on the seat of his throne. There’s a frigid glare on his face, making his young features look older than he is. “That a lord of the South would insult this king’s own royal advisor, in the presence of his entire court, no less. The South has clearly overstayed their welcome.”
Qianhuai-jun hesitates at that, a startled look appearing faintly beneath his incredulous expression.
Mao Liang sighs. Confrontations like this could all mostly be avoided, perhaps, if only Lord Shang were to agree to wear the braids that announce his high station. But he has refused each time it’s brought up! Perhaps the braids mean something entirely different in human culture? Or maybe it’s a cultivator thing? Who knows.
In any case, the lack of any identifying braids has led to many occurrences of foreign and even native Northern lords sticking their feet into their mouths and angering His Majesty.
Lord Shang himself typically never cares about insults directed at him and his station, but it’s times like this, when an insult is brought against Mobei Jun himself, that the Royal Advisor enacts his own vengeance.
Qianhuai-jun sniffs. “Perhaps the North has forgotten itself, to not announce the station of its own officials while in court! Practices have been put in place for thousands of years! A further insult—!”
“If the South is so insulted, to be in this Northern court,” Mobei Jun grits out, sigil flashing in warning, “then they should leave it.”
“To be so presumptuous as to leave behind ancient tradition—”
“Perhaps this king should rephrase his words,” His Majesty says, voice soft, as gently looming as a breaking wave of the arctic sea. The Southern demons go still.
Mobei Jun bears his teeth. “Get out.”
Lord Shang leaves for his duties in the human realm early, this season.
Mao Liang knows, and has heard from other agents and attendants and servants who have all operated under the advisor, that his work concerning his sect peak is grueling and almost as intensive as His Majesty’s duties concerning the North in its entirety. It’s altogether understandable, that the Royal Advisor himself regrettably cannot spend as much time as would surely benefit the North in the demon realm itself, personally overseeing its operation.
The kingdom always runs so much smoother, when Lord Shang is actually present within it.
How odd, though. Perhaps An Ding has a sudden influx in work for it’s Peak Lord, that demanded he return sooner than is typical?
Mao Liang doesn’t pay it much mind, aside from making sure that Lord Shang’s favorite teas are in stock just before the advisor’s return.
Maybe they should have, if only for their own amusement.
The Southern delegation returns on the eve of the next conference, nearly half a year later.
There is a marked difference on their bearings, compared to when they’d last come. Instead of the usual haughtiness and upturned noses, the southern demons look almost as pale as their northern counterparts. Their tans are unsaturated, their cheeks look hollow, their hair brittle underneath the oils. Their eyes are dull, almost as if they are collectively too tired to even scoff at the differences in their customs.
Mao Liang sits across from one of the southern officials, themself. Up close it’s obvious how, despite the thick fur cloaks that are surely lined with warmth talismans and runes, the Southern delegates are still shivering.
“Hmm,” Lord Shang hums, halfway into the conference, and the demons arranged at the base of the throne go abruptly quiet. “Through observation, this one has noticed that the South seems to have encountered some trouble this winter season. Food-wise, that is.”
At this, the entire hall falls into silence. The southern lord Qianhuai-jun has stopped in his tracks, and now stares at the royal advisor with a blank face that slowly contorts into something pale and shocked.
“Lord Shang is most knowledgeable,” the demal manages to grit out, clenching his hands into fists at his sides.
Mao Liang withholds a snort. Quite a way to state the obvious. Qianhuai-jun’s pale face slowly reddens at the amused looks his weak comeback has garnered. Behind him, the lords’ attendants remain sheet-white and uncertain and they exchange glances with one another.
“This one has his ways,” Lord Shang agrees blithely. He folds his hands behind his back, spine straight and unbent. Strong, unbreakable, like the eternal ice of the depths of the mountain Jue Ding.
Qianhuai-jun shifts uneasily at the advisors’ noncommittal reply. He glances up to where the king lounges back in his throne, but His Majesty Mobei Jun does nothing more than raise a sardonic brow at him before returning to his favorite pastime — watching Lord Shang work in his element.
Mao Liang does not blame his king. To watch Lord Shang navigate politics and ruthlessly cut down his opponents all while barely raising a finger to do so, it is certainly a breathtaking show to be audience to.
Qianhuai-jun clears his throat. “Since Lord Shang is so knowledgeable,” he presses out, “then he must have advice for this Lord, or surely he would not have brought the matter to this council.”
Mobei Jun sits up in his throne at this, face thunderous, and the gathered Northern demons present in the court all begin whispering with one another, tones of shock, incredulity, and foremostly amusement coloring their hushed words.
After all, to covet their king the greatly sought-after advice of the Northern Royal Advisor himself is not uncommon. But to actually attempt to take said advice for oneself?
Qianhuai-jun’s list of offenses in the face of the North has only grown longer.
Typically, Lord Shang is likewise insulted whenever someone outside their kingdom requests his opinion on any matter. After all, everyone knows his words are for Mobei Jun’s benefit alone.
However, Lord Shang only leans back against the throne, crossing his legs over the arm on which he perches. He raises an eyebrow and releases a light huff of amusement.
At the sound, His Majesty glances at his advisor. Whatever he sees there makes the king relax and settle back into his throne.
Content to allow Lord Shang to deal with this insult.
As if he’d ever do anything else, outside of Lord Shang’s behooval.
Their king is a kept demal, after all.
Mao Liang smothers another whispering laugh, quietly horrified at themself. They thank their ancestors that there are no demons present with the gift of mind reading. They would be executed for their blasphemous thoughts post-haste.
“This advisor always has advice,” Lord Shang agrees, his pleasant smile on full blast. The sight of it, and the overly friendly tone that accompanies it, sends shivers down many a demons’ spine. “Typically, however, that advice is for his king alone. To what extent is Qianhuai-jun willing to reach for, to repay this one for his help?”
Qianhuai-jun trembles in rage at the word ‘help’. A slap in the face to return for his earlier insult, no doubt. However, Lord Shang is not finished.
He always repays all things a hundred times over. Kindness or insult, grievance or aid.
Qianhuai-jun bows his head, but Mao Liang’s sharp eyes catch the way that his fists still shake.
“This lord’s people starve,” the demal admits, voice hushed in shame, words quaking with the force of his anger at having to say them aloud. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares up at the throne, red eyes gleaming harshly. “As is this lord’s sworn duty, he is prepared to offer his respects to the seat of the North in reparation for any aid given.”
Despite the scorn they feel toward the southern lord for insults given, Mao Liang can’t help but feel their opinion of the demal rise in the face of Qianhuai-jun’s adherence to his own people’s well-being. That alone is worth respecting.
Lord Shang tilts his head down in acknowledgement, that pleasant smile still present on his face. It curls his lips up at the corners attractively, causing his gem-like eyes to shine in the cool-tint of the night pearls affixed to the ceiling of the throne hall. Lord Shang is beautiful, that is uncontested fact, and it makes the true danger that he presents all the more compelling to any demon — demal, demai, or any gender in between.
Mao Liang themself must admit, if only quietly in the back of their mind, that there have been times even they are struck speechless by the siren call that is Lord Shang’s very existence.
Lord Shang has never been interested in receiving any affections, however. Mao Liang can respect his wishes, and so can everyone else — no matter how much Mao Liang has seen some demons struggle with holding themselves back.
His Majesty, the paramount. Mobei Jun’s self control is legendary and something to be revered, certainly.
“A vassalage?” Lord Shang comments idly, sounding almost impressed. “From the South? How very generous. To what end does Qianhuai-jun ask of this one’s advice?”
Qianhuai-Jun’s head is still bowed. “For centuries, my lands have relied on the Topaz Tortoise of Flight to saturate our winter hunting and sustain the people until spring. The creatures have always been punctual in their migration pattern, never once changing in the hundreds of years they have been under observation.”
“The South would surely benefit from food stores. It would serve them well to put away part of their autumn harvests to bolster themselves for the winter months.” Lord Shang smiles benevolently. “The South should put this method into practice going forward. Just in case the Topaz Tortoise of Flight flocks were to change their migration patterns again.”
“Lord Shang’s advice is greatly appreciated,” Qianhuai-jun growls out, glaring at the floor. “However, this does nothing to help my people in this current season. Should Lord Shang have any advice that could be used to soothe wounds left by the famine that plagues my lands sometime this year, it would be much welcome.”
There’s a sarcastic tone to the latter words, and it makes His Majesty sit up and glower.
“Qianhuai-jun should take care how he speaks in the halls of this king, where he has been welcomed so hospitably until now.” Mobei Jun deadtones.
Lord Shang lays a hand on the back of the king’s, and it’s very telling how Mobei Jun’s reaction is to immediately sit back again, relaxed, all of his attention turned toward the advisor who doesn’t even look away from where he stares down at Qianhuai-Jun’s bowed head like he’s surveying his prey.
“Qianhuai-jun knows where he stands in this court, my king,” Lord Shang says, amusement coating every word. There is something very pleased in the way he sits back on the arm on the throne. Almost like he’s already won, despite the fact that Qianhuai-jun and his retinue still plague the Northern palace.
“However, that was half up front.” Lord Shang continues, sympathetically. “If Qianhuai-jun wishes for this one to advice on immediate relief efforts, then he must make true on his earlier offer to repay.”
“Lord Shang calls into question the honor of this lord?” Qianhuai-jun asks incredulously, head snapping up to stare heatedly with furious eyes. “To assume this lord would go back on his word?”
“When that word has not yet been given,” Lord Shang admonishes gently, “and the lord himself has insulted this court on multiple occasions? Yes.”
Qianhuai-jun grits his teeth with such force that the sound is audible. It makes Mao Liang wince. The Southern lord bows at the waist, face twisted with reluctance and rage.
“The South swears vassalage to the North, within reason, for the next year, upon receiving the esteemed Lord Shang’s advice concerning relief efforts toward the current famine.”
“For the next decade, upon contract,” Lord Shang says. “In return, this advisor will lend his advice and personal aid in the relief efforts of the Southern famine, until spring returns.”
How extremely generous. Mao Liang studies the royal advisor closely, taking note of the way that his pleasant smile is borderline smug. Just a hint, but Mao Liang has had copious time to learn the many layers in the expressions of Lord Shang Qinghua. The man looks nearly triumphant behind the kind mask.
Qianhuai-jun’s shoulders slump. He’s trapped. To refuse such a gracious offer is tantamount to sheer, absolute idiocy. He would be mocked right out of the court, and for what? Preserving his own image while his people starve?
“Agreed. So mote it be.” Qianhuai-jun grits out, shoulders tense.
“So mote it be,” Mobei Jun says, baritone reverberating in the cavernous ceiling above their heads. It feels final, like someone has just been sentenced, even beyond the sharp and thunderous snap of qi that is a vow being set in place.
Judging by the way that Lord Shang’s smile has evolved into a genuine grin, happiness crinkling at the corners of his eyes endearingly — that might not be too far off the mark.
“Did Qianhuai-jun know,” Lord Shang wonders cheerfully, “that the migration patterns of the Topaz Tortoise of Flight can be artificially influenced?”
A deathly silence descends upon the court. Mao Liang stands alongside his kinsdemal, still as a statue and ice in their spine as they watch in awe as Lord Shang finally pounces upon his prey.
“It’s such a shame, that the Southern kingdom has such slim pickings for their winter bounty. Perhaps they should better safeguard it in the future, in case any of their enemies happen upon this rare and destructive knowledge.”
Qianhuai-jun’s head snaps up, face white in horror, teeth bared in incredulous fury.
“Tricked,” the foreign lord whispers. In the silence of the hall, it echoes.
His attendants have gone silent in their terror, and the dawning realization that has eclipsed the visage of every Southern guest, from lord to servant, is sweet. Mao Liang can’t help but smile.
“This advisor is happy to share this helpful knowledge with Qianhuai-jun, now that the South has declared such close ties with the North,” Lord Shang continues happily. “After all, family should help family, should they not?”
There’s victory in the line of his spine, and why shouldn’t there be? He’s won. Everyone here knows it.
“A trick.” Qianhuai-jun gets out, weakly, and then bows at the waist once again, entire countenance that of shame-faced defeat.
“The South welcomes Lord Shang Qinghua’s aid.” He says, voice one tone short of spitting.
“This advisor thought that they might,” Lord Shang accepts.
Merciless. Cheerfully merciless. Truly magnificent.
Mao Liang is glad that Lord Shang is on their side.
“The North is pleased to welcome the vassalage of the South.” Mobei Jun says, his smugness far more transparent than his advisor would ever allow his own to be.
Lord Shang turns to the king, who is watching him with bright eyes and — Oh. Is that a slight upward tilt of the lips? What a rare occurrence! One that only occurs in the presence of Lord Shang.
Truly, it’s such a shame that Lord Shang is apparently not interested. He would make a breathtakingly dependable and much-beloved prince.
“Shall this one go and prepare the writing of the contract, my king?”
“Go,” Mobei Jun says, so audibly fond. Ah, Mao Liang can hear the Southern demons gritting their teeth and breathing through their fury.
Lord Shang beams, and slips off the arm of the throne. He dips into a bow — not too deep, not too shallow. Perfect and proper, as everything else about the royal advisor is.
“This one excuses himself from the court, to return in due time.”
Mao Liang sighs after him. How they wish they could be in the room that Lord Shang drafts the contract in. It would be such a treat to see the man’s cunning and slyness at work in documentation.
They’ve heard stories.