Xie Lian’s Monologue: The Weight of Eight Hundred Years

Xie Lian’s Monologue: The Weight of Eight Hundred Years
(Word Count: 1,498)

Part 1: The Ghost in Red

I used to think he was just another restless spirit—elegant, dangerous, draped in crimson like a warning. When he first appeared under that tattered umbrella in the blood rain, I braced for betrayal. “All ghosts lie,” the heavens whispered. But his eye—that single dark star—held no deceit. Only quiet devotion, as if he’d waited centuries just to stand in my shadow.

He called me “Gege.”
A stranger’s term of endearment.
Yet it felt like coming home.

Part 2: The Statues in the Dark

I found his shrine beneath Mount Tonglu—a cave carved with ten thousand stone faces. My faces. My smile as a prince. My scars as a beggar. My tears when heaven exiled me.

“Why?” I asked him later.
He traced my jaw with ash-stained fingers:
“I forgot the sound of your voice. I feared I’d forget your smile next.”

For 800 years, he worshipped a ghost of me—a god no one else remembered.

Part 3: The Boy Who Died Thrice

(Memory 1: The Little Soldier)

A child knelt in the mud, ropes biting his wrists. I halted his execution on a whim. “Live,” I said. He stared like I’d hung the moon.

(Memory 2: The Ghost Fire)

When I lay broken after Bai Wuxiang’s torture, a blue flame hovered by my cheek. It brushed my wounds—cool as a tear. I didn’t know it was him burning his soul to soothe me.

(Memory 3: Wu Ming)

He wore a white mask when he died for me the final time. “Your Highness,” he choked through blood, “don’t look back.” I never learned his name.
Until Hua Cheng whispered: “I was that believer.”

Part 4: The Ashes in My Palm

He gave me his life’s core—a small grey urn—like offering a flower.
“Crush it if you wish,” he said lightly.
“Why?” My voice shook.
“My existence began for you. Let it end by your hand.”

I clutched it to my chest.
His trust terrified me more than any curse.

Part 5: The Fear of Being Loved

For centuries, I believed love was a debt.
My parents died for my ideals.
Feng Xin and Mu Qing left when my light faded.
My own people stabbed me with the swords I gave them.

So when Hua Cheng said: “I am your most devoted believer,” I waited for the price.
When will he realize I’m not worth this?
When will he see the cracks beneath this godhood?

He caught me hiding my scarred hands once.
“Gege,” he murmured, kissing each knuckle,
“Your brokenness is my holy text.”

Part 6: The Ghost King’s Secret

He thinks I don’t notice.
How he tenses when my fingers graze his eyepatch.
How he masks his pain with laughter when “misfortune” makes me trip.
How he collects every ridiculous trinket I touch—a dented cup, a crumpled leaf—as if they’re sacred relics.

Once, drunk on mortal wine, I asked:
“San Lang, what do you desire?”
He smiled against my hair:
“To be the soil beneath your feet. The air in your lungs. The silence between your heartbeats.”

Part 7: Learning to Accept

I’m still unlearning loneliness.
Old habits whisper: “Push him away before he abandons you.”

But when nightmares shake me awake, he’s already there—humming a lullaby from Xianle.
When heaven mocks my tattered robes, he weaves me garments from starlight.
When I mourn the past, he says: “Show me your wounds. I’ll kiss them into blessings.”

He loves like the tide—inevitable, relentless, eroding every wall I build.