The nightly memories of death, was usually a slow and agonizing affair, it was a cruel think that frequently played upon Jiang Lang. Each dawn, he would awaken in his maroon silken sheets, the memory of the previous night's would demise a bitter taste on his tongue, knowing full well he was fated to endure it again with the setting sun.
This endless cycle of death and rebirth was his greatest torment, an eternal shackle forged by the heavens themselves.
He ran his tongue across his teeth, a bitter sensation like of steel was lingering there. How he wished his teeth were a sharpened knife he could easily use against the throat of his tormentor. The day had already begun its slow bleed, each silent tick of the water clock was a poisoned whisper of his fleeting mortal existence and the inevitable pain to come.
Within the span of an incense stick, the first icy tendril of agony would pierce his abdomen, a familiar violation. No plea, no struggle, could avert its course. Death, was his unwanted companion, it would arrive as it always did.
"Damned heavenly court," he grumbled, the words a low growl as he pressed against the heavy training pole.
"Vile deities, every last one," echoed a voice he knew too well, cutting through the quiet of his training chamber.
Jiang Lang's movements remained unbroken by the unwelcome intrusion of Lin Fan. Up. Down. Up. Down. For the better part of the morning, he had sought to exorcise his simmering rage against the weighted pole, the padded dummy, the endless lengths of the training grounds. Sweat slicked his bare torso and arms, tracing the corded muscles in glistening paths. He should have been as weary in spirit as he was in body, yet his emotions only festered, growing darker and more potent.
"You should not be here," Jiang Lang stated, his voice flat.
Lin Fan sighed, a sound like wind rustling through dry leaves. "Look, I did not intend to interrupt your… catharsis. But something has occurred."
"Then attend to it."
"I cannot."
"Whatever burden it is, bear it. I am in no state to offer aid." These past weeks, a mere whisper could ignite a killing fury within him, turning those around him – even his sworn brothers – into his potential targets. He never desired it, never intended it, yet he was often powerless against the savage urges that clawed at his control, demanding violence.
"Jiang Lang—"
"I'm at the edge , Lin Fan," he rasped, his throat tight. "I would inflict more harm than good, I will kill without mercy."
Jiang Lang understood his limitations, a knowledge etched into his very being over centuries he'd uncounted.
It began on that ill-fated day when the Jade Emperor had chosen a woman to undertake a task that should have been his birthright.
She had been formidable, yes, the fiercest female warrior of their age. But he had been stronger, more skilled. Yet, he had been deemed too volatile to guard the Xuanhuang Box, a sacred vessel containing demons of such malevolence that even the deepest pits of Yunnan dared not hold them.
As if Jiang Lang would have allowed such a treasure to be defiled. A bitter resentment had bloomed within him, an anger felt by every warrior who knew him and lived with him in their secluded fortress. They had served the celestial court with unwavering loyalty, their blades were forever swift and their defenses impenetrable; they should have been the chosen guardians. Their rejection was an insult that could not be borne.
In their arrogance, they had sought only to teach the gods a lesson that night they snatched the Xuanhuang Box from her , releasing that legion of devils upon an unsuspecting world. How foolish they had been. Their audacious plan to prove their worth had crumbled, the box vanishing amidst the chaos they had created, leaving the warriors powerless to recapture a single malevolent spirit.
Destruction and pandemonium had swiftly followed, plunging the mortal realm into shadow until the Jade Emperor, in his divine wrath, finally intervened, binding each warrior to a demon, a living cage for the escaped evils.
A fitting retribution. The warriors had unleashed the darkness to salve their wounded pride; now they would be its eternal wardens.
And so, the Lords of the Shadowed Earth were born.
Jiang Lang had been bound to Kuang Bao, the spirit of Violence, a being now as intrinsic to him as his breath or his beating heart. Man could no longer exist without demon, and demon could no longer function without man. They were two halves of a fractured whole.
From their first joining, the creature within had whispered insidious desires, urging him toward acts of malice and hatred, and he had been compelled to obey. Even when it led him to slay a woman – to slay the keeper of xuanhuang box . His grip tightened on the training pole, his knuckles protesting the strain. Over the long centuries, he had learned to handle some of the demon's more savage compulsions, but it was a constant, exhausting battle, and he knew he could shatter at any moment.
What he would have given for a single dawn of tranquility. Was something he hadn't figured out yet.
He wanted something that would give him enough peace with; no overwhelming urge to inflict pain. No internal conflicts that tore at his soul. No worries, no death. Just… peace.
"It is not safe for you here," he told his friend, who still lingered in the doorway. "You must leave." He carefully rested the heavy pole on its supports and straightened. "Only Luo Chen and Bai Long are permitted near me during my… outbreak." And only because they played a part in it, unwilling though they were. They were as much prisoners of their own demons as he was of his.
"About the span of an incense stick until that occurs, so…" Lin Fan tossed him a damp cloth. "I will risk it."
Jiang Lang reached behind his back, catching the white cloth, and turned. He wiped the sweat from his brow. "Water."
An ice-cold gourd hurtled through the air before the second syllable left his lips. He caught it with practiced ease, droplets splashing his chest. He drained the icy contents and studied his friend.
As always, Lin Fan was clad in midnight blue, and soft leather gloves concealed his hands. Ink-black hair cascaded to his shoulders, framing a face that mortal women often deemed ethereally beautiful. Little did they know the man was a demon cloaked in an alluring guise. Perhaps they should have suspected, for an aura of irreverence clung to him, and a wicked glint in his jade eyes hinted at a soul that would sooner laugh in your face while carving out your heart than offer a word of comfort. Or laugh as you carved out his.
Survival demanded a twisted sense of humor. They all possessed it.
Like every resident of this secluded mountain fortress, Lin Fan was cursed. He might not face death each night as Jiang Lang did, but he could never touch a living being, skin to skin, without afflicting them with sickness.
Lin Fan was the vessel for Bing Mo, the spirit of Disease.
He had not known the touch and feeling of having a woman in centuries beyond counting. He had learned his lesson with brutal finality when he had succumbed to a moment of weakness and caressed the cheek of a beautiful woman, he had ended up unleashing a plague that had swept through villages, leaving a trail of lifeless bodies in its wake.
"Five breaths of your time," Lin Fan said, his resolve unwavering. "That is all I ask."
"Do you think we will be punished for insulting the celestial court today?" Jiang Lang retorted, deliberately ignoring the request. If he did not allow himself to be asked a favor, he would not have to grapple with the guilt of refusal.
His friend offered another weary sigh. "Our very existence is meant to be a punishment."
True. Jiang Lang's lips curled into a slow, sharp smile as he lifted his gaze to the intricately carved ceiling. Vile deities. Inflict further torment, I dare you. Perhaps then, finally, he would fade into oblivion.
He doubted the celestial court would even be able to notice he was missing. After bestowing the death-curse upon him, they had cast him aside, feigning deafness to his pleas for forgiveness and absolution, ignoring his desperate promises and futile bargains.
What more could they possibly do to him?
Nothing could be worse than dying again and again. Or being stripped of all that was good and righteous… or harboring the spirit of Violence within his very being.
With a sudden surge of movement, Jiang Lang pushed himself to his feet, tossing the damp cloth and empty gourd into a nearby woven basket. He strode to the far end of the chamber and braced his hands above his head, leaning into the semicircular alcove of stained-glass windows, gazing out at the twilight through the only clear pane.
He saw paradise.
He saw Yunnan.
He saw freedom, imprisonment, everything and nothing.
He saw… home.