沈清秋 | Shen Qingqiu (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
peerlesscucumber) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
prismatica2019-11-13 12:05 am
peerlesscucumber) wrote in prismatica2019-11-13 12:05 am
webnovel post | chapter one
[ Posted on a popular webnovel site for Lunatia, a new cultivation novel has appeared, titled "The Legend of the White Lotus Milu." It is entirely not fix-it fic for a certain someone's life. It's all original content, do not steal!!! It is driving this player mad!
The first chapter goes exactly like this... ]
In all of Prismatica, there was no sect of the Immortal Realm with greater prestige and honour in the modern age than that of White Cloud Sect, nestled high in reaches of the Black Fang Mountains. Between the three greatest sects, it was not the largest, but it had the oldest history, and the highest standards and expectations of its disciples, in the inner and outer circles. Being accepted as a disciple to White Cloud Sect was an honour in and of itself, and those with talent and the dedication necessary to pursue their cultivation with all their focus and heart would rise through their ranks, regardless of which individual cultivation path they followed within the sect. This was known to all those with any understanding of the Immortal Realm, and far and wide in the Mortal Realm, even into the more informed reaches of the Demon Realm. To say it was known to even the youngest of mortals and demons would be no exaggeration.
To the star bright eyes of the dirty, bruised young child scampering from shadow to shadow along the streets of a border town by the meandering banks of the Qing Crystal River, dividing the Northernmost reaches of the Demon Realm from the Southernmost reaches of the Mortal Realm.
The town was little more than a stop for trade, built up around the docks in the harbour tucked up next to the sheer cliff framing the Eastern side. Scraggly, determined trees reached skyward in the weak soil, their leaves turning into a profusion of bright colours every autumn that lined the top in living flame.
Xin Mo had little time to view the leaves that autumn day, his arms holding day-old bread to his chest in cloth barely cleaner than his dirt-smeared limbs. Black hair pulled back into a bun at the spilled out in unruly tendrils, evidence of the fighting scrap he'd emerged victorious from some half hour earlier. His vigilance as Sanguis waxed in the sky, turning the fading light of day into the red-tinged glow of early Sanguis cycle night.
Light filtered past poorly fit doors hanging heavy in their frames, stretches of fabric and woven mats weighed down by stone and bone to keep out the evening's chill as it flowed in off the river. He heard snatches of conversation, laughter, shouting, sounds that meant rutting, sounds that meant fighting, sounds that meant nothing at all. He was used to them all, and he only cared about the ones that meant his precious cargo might be threatened, and so he ignored most of them in the quick, darting progress he made from shadow to shadow, winding his way to a familiar, worn door and the warmth that slipped past the hanging door.
He waited across the way, listening to the sounds of the night around him, tense. With no indication of pursuit, he eventually exhaled, putting on a burst of more than childish speed to bound across the open road and slip into the door without so much as disturbing the hanging material for more than a heartbeat.
Coming home to this simple space of packed dirt floors and its single, open room left warmth spreading through his chest, warmth that blossomed further at the sight of the woman who sat next to the flickering fire, needle in hand, small spools of coloured threads collected in a careworn basket that looked as well loved as her robes.
She was older, more silver than black in her hair where it was pulled back and knotted at the base of her neck, kept out of her way as she worked. Her black, lupine ears hung down behind her shoulders, one missing most of its lower half in a long healed, ragged tear. Wrinkles touched the corners of her eyes, deep, just as the laugh lines around her mouth betrayed her willingness to smile over the smallest of joys in life and made her all the more beautiful in her young son's eyes.
"Mo'er, what happened to you?" Her brow knit in worry, he simply shook his head, sending more tendrils of hair escaping the bun she'd so carefully coaxed his hair into that morning. He trotted forward, holding out the cloth containing his hard fought for bread, attempting to look shamefaced and managing nothing of the sort. He was too proud in his way, and too worried in his childish manner, to present any properly apologetic face.
"The big kids had a disagreement with me," he said, bouncing the bread in his hands. He stared at her with such hope that she could do nothing but accept the offered bread, her half ear twitching forward as she chuckled helplessly. Her worry was written into her features, along with a hint of resignation in her eyes.
"Oh? Over this?" She accepted the bread nodding her head toward it.
Xin Mo scratched at his cheek, smudging the dirt there, and tried not to dig one bare, dirty toe into the ground. His tail twitched as he ducked his head and looked to the side, trying to hide his smile. He was smaller than all the other kids, but he was smarter, too, and fast. When the baker gave away their old bread to the town's needy, he was always quick enough to snatch at least a loaf for his mother. It was the least he could do for the woman who'd taken him in, an orphan left to the streets with the passing of his adoptive grandfather. She was the reason he didn't still sleep tucked up against buildings or in door-stoops out of the winds and weather, or even in the small temples with their small gods and offerings that he ferreted away in guilt and with prayers of gratitude for meals he suspected none of the Immortals being prayed to would ever come eat themselves.
"Yes," he said, admitting to the truth of it, "They said an Iris blessed shouldn't fight like I do. That I should play nice, and have one of the bigger Sanguis or Cordis blessed fight for me, but why would I do that?" He lifted his chin, expression fierce and derisive in the way any child confronted with an absurdity is. "I'm better than any of them, and the next best wrestler is an iris blessed anyway. It's dumb!"
His mother's helplessly concerned expression softened, her heart aching at a young and yet old complaint poured off his tongue. "It is," she said, setting the bread her son had won down on the small wooden plank that held her old tea pot and the two cracked mugs she retained for drinking their over-brewed, weak tea. "They're young, and don't understand the world half as well as they think they do. The moons bless all of us equally, and differently. Even the Dragons and the Foxes are influenced by the moons in their own ways." She patted the ground by her side, shifting the mass of cloth she'd been embroidering into her lap proper.
Xin Mo dutifully sat as indicated, looking up at her with a malcontent expression lingering in his eyes. There was a hurt there, too, buried under every other emotion that tugged at his too feeling heart. Not for the first time, she wished there was more she could do when facing this world for the sake of her son, but she also had chosen to have faith in what man he'd grow into in this world. For a woman who never had children of her own, only to adopted a foundling, faith informed much of her relationship with a world that has been equal parts cruel and uncaring with her, as well as achingly beautiful in times deeply surprising.
Like now, in her aging years, to be blessed with such a filial son, one who held close such beautiful dreams.
"I know. Everyone knows, but they say it doesn't matter." He wrinkled his nose, staring down at his hands in his lap, dirty fingernails pressing into marginally cleaner palms.
She reached out, running her hand over his head, smoothing back a few of those errant tendrils. "Mo'er, what is it I always tell you about the moons?"
He leaned into her touch, eyes lifting enough to glance toward their doorway. The red light of Sanquis was barely more than a suggestion around the frame, but he stared at it, looking older and wiser than his six years. "That Sanguis is red like the blood in our veins, and Cordis is blue like the waters that give us life, but only Iris is the blending of them both."
He turned his face toward her, the beauty of his features softened in the shadows of their fire-lit home. The delicate tips of his slightly elongated ears, the small swelling of the nubs of horns that had yet to break past skin, buried in the ink-black was of his hair, were part of the delicate, lovely whole of this child; in no small part, she suspected that his peers responded so poorly out of jealousy, a jealousy that would bloom into admiration as they aged. People worked in predictably ways, and her Mo'er was a beautiful child, who would grow into a beautiful man.
And who would, she hoped, follow his dreams far from this dusty town with its small goaled people, looking out for little more than how to fit into the roles their parents and grandparents and grandparents before them have filled, eking out a life here on the fringes of the Mortal Realm. He was too brilliant a star to stay earthbound, and much as she'd miss him, she wanted to see him soar away from her to the places she was certain he was destined for.
"That's right," she said, smiling and looking toward the bucket of clean water kept near the door. He should wash up before they ate, since there was no point holding onto the bread when food eaten now meant energy they'd both have for later. Especially him, a child growing in the fits and starts of all children. He was barely fitting into his trousers again, the hems creeping higher up his calves as the months flew by. "You're even more in tune with the life inside you, and inside the world around us. Just as any good cultivator needs to be, right?"
He nodded his head, expression firming into one of determination. She coaxed him into moving to clean himself up, using her strong hands aching from hours and hours of embroidering that day to tear into the loaf as if it were fresh, handing him a portion with a serving of thin gruel from the pot kept warm by the fire when he returned to her side, face and hands scrubbed free of dirt.
"I'll be a cultivator, a good one," he said, "One of the best. Then I'll make sure you're taken care of and don't have to work on anything but what you like to ever again."
"Yes, yes," she said, smiling as she ate his hard won bread.
"I'll definitely pass the test when the White Cloud Sect takes new disciples in five years." He nodded his head, shoving his piece of bread into his bowl to punctuate his statement. He almost spilled, going immediately still with a look of horror crossing his features so quickly that she almost laughed, watching his shoulders relax when the gruel didn't spill after all.
"Yes, yes."
"You believe me, right?"
She looked up, meeting his starry gaze with her own dark eyes. "Yes," she said, giving him that regard and serious response that he so dearly wanted from time to time, "I do, and you will, Mo'er."
He held her gaze, the smile that blossomed on his face a slow, determined, beautiful event. "Yes," he said, "I will."
--
Five years later, dark eyes took in the gathering of people at the gates to the lower White Cloud Sect, where the testing grounds for the new disciple hopefuls opened once every five years. Hundreds of individuals of all walks of life and all different features milled in the open space, talking with others, stopping by stalls set up by vendors eager to make a sale under the sect's blessing, a riot of colours and scents and sounds that his gently pointed ears took in and tried to sort out, soon overwhelmed. It didn't matter.
Xin Mo stood at the top of the low hill coming in from the West, jet-black hair pulled into a ponytail, travel clothes dusty and wrinkled, surveying the site of his destiny.
Then he strode down the hill, a slight and straight back figured soon swallowed by the crowd, winding his way toward the registration tables and whatever the following days would bring.
--
The Author has something to say:
I'm so excited to be sharing this story with you! o(〃＾▽＾〃)o Please join me on this adventure with Xin Mo through the cultivation world of fantasy Prismatica! Please leave Crystal Bombs as encouragement if you feel so inclined, this author will be very thankful! Three cheers for Xin Mo! ヾ（〃＾∇＾）ﾉ♪ What will he face during his disciple trial?
[ Probably not digging. Probably he will not write the same fucking trial as actually is true in his own world, where digging shows your potential and you are just. Digging. A hole. For a day. ]
The first chapter goes exactly like this... ]
The Legend of the White Lotus Milu
by Peerless Cucumber
Chapter 01: By the shores of Qing Crystal River
In all of Prismatica, there was no sect of the Immortal Realm with greater prestige and honour in the modern age than that of White Cloud Sect, nestled high in reaches of the Black Fang Mountains. Between the three greatest sects, it was not the largest, but it had the oldest history, and the highest standards and expectations of its disciples, in the inner and outer circles. Being accepted as a disciple to White Cloud Sect was an honour in and of itself, and those with talent and the dedication necessary to pursue their cultivation with all their focus and heart would rise through their ranks, regardless of which individual cultivation path they followed within the sect. This was known to all those with any understanding of the Immortal Realm, and far and wide in the Mortal Realm, even into the more informed reaches of the Demon Realm. To say it was known to even the youngest of mortals and demons would be no exaggeration.
To the star bright eyes of the dirty, bruised young child scampering from shadow to shadow along the streets of a border town by the meandering banks of the Qing Crystal River, dividing the Northernmost reaches of the Demon Realm from the Southernmost reaches of the Mortal Realm.
The town was little more than a stop for trade, built up around the docks in the harbour tucked up next to the sheer cliff framing the Eastern side. Scraggly, determined trees reached skyward in the weak soil, their leaves turning into a profusion of bright colours every autumn that lined the top in living flame.
Xin Mo had little time to view the leaves that autumn day, his arms holding day-old bread to his chest in cloth barely cleaner than his dirt-smeared limbs. Black hair pulled back into a bun at the spilled out in unruly tendrils, evidence of the fighting scrap he'd emerged victorious from some half hour earlier. His vigilance as Sanguis waxed in the sky, turning the fading light of day into the red-tinged glow of early Sanguis cycle night.
Light filtered past poorly fit doors hanging heavy in their frames, stretches of fabric and woven mats weighed down by stone and bone to keep out the evening's chill as it flowed in off the river. He heard snatches of conversation, laughter, shouting, sounds that meant rutting, sounds that meant fighting, sounds that meant nothing at all. He was used to them all, and he only cared about the ones that meant his precious cargo might be threatened, and so he ignored most of them in the quick, darting progress he made from shadow to shadow, winding his way to a familiar, worn door and the warmth that slipped past the hanging door.
He waited across the way, listening to the sounds of the night around him, tense. With no indication of pursuit, he eventually exhaled, putting on a burst of more than childish speed to bound across the open road and slip into the door without so much as disturbing the hanging material for more than a heartbeat.
Coming home to this simple space of packed dirt floors and its single, open room left warmth spreading through his chest, warmth that blossomed further at the sight of the woman who sat next to the flickering fire, needle in hand, small spools of coloured threads collected in a careworn basket that looked as well loved as her robes.
She was older, more silver than black in her hair where it was pulled back and knotted at the base of her neck, kept out of her way as she worked. Her black, lupine ears hung down behind her shoulders, one missing most of its lower half in a long healed, ragged tear. Wrinkles touched the corners of her eyes, deep, just as the laugh lines around her mouth betrayed her willingness to smile over the smallest of joys in life and made her all the more beautiful in her young son's eyes.
"Mo'er, what happened to you?" Her brow knit in worry, he simply shook his head, sending more tendrils of hair escaping the bun she'd so carefully coaxed his hair into that morning. He trotted forward, holding out the cloth containing his hard fought for bread, attempting to look shamefaced and managing nothing of the sort. He was too proud in his way, and too worried in his childish manner, to present any properly apologetic face.
"The big kids had a disagreement with me," he said, bouncing the bread in his hands. He stared at her with such hope that she could do nothing but accept the offered bread, her half ear twitching forward as she chuckled helplessly. Her worry was written into her features, along with a hint of resignation in her eyes.
"Oh? Over this?" She accepted the bread nodding her head toward it.
Xin Mo scratched at his cheek, smudging the dirt there, and tried not to dig one bare, dirty toe into the ground. His tail twitched as he ducked his head and looked to the side, trying to hide his smile. He was smaller than all the other kids, but he was smarter, too, and fast. When the baker gave away their old bread to the town's needy, he was always quick enough to snatch at least a loaf for his mother. It was the least he could do for the woman who'd taken him in, an orphan left to the streets with the passing of his adoptive grandfather. She was the reason he didn't still sleep tucked up against buildings or in door-stoops out of the winds and weather, or even in the small temples with their small gods and offerings that he ferreted away in guilt and with prayers of gratitude for meals he suspected none of the Immortals being prayed to would ever come eat themselves.
"Yes," he said, admitting to the truth of it, "They said an Iris blessed shouldn't fight like I do. That I should play nice, and have one of the bigger Sanguis or Cordis blessed fight for me, but why would I do that?" He lifted his chin, expression fierce and derisive in the way any child confronted with an absurdity is. "I'm better than any of them, and the next best wrestler is an iris blessed anyway. It's dumb!"
His mother's helplessly concerned expression softened, her heart aching at a young and yet old complaint poured off his tongue. "It is," she said, setting the bread her son had won down on the small wooden plank that held her old tea pot and the two cracked mugs she retained for drinking their over-brewed, weak tea. "They're young, and don't understand the world half as well as they think they do. The moons bless all of us equally, and differently. Even the Dragons and the Foxes are influenced by the moons in their own ways." She patted the ground by her side, shifting the mass of cloth she'd been embroidering into her lap proper.
Xin Mo dutifully sat as indicated, looking up at her with a malcontent expression lingering in his eyes. There was a hurt there, too, buried under every other emotion that tugged at his too feeling heart. Not for the first time, she wished there was more she could do when facing this world for the sake of her son, but she also had chosen to have faith in what man he'd grow into in this world. For a woman who never had children of her own, only to adopted a foundling, faith informed much of her relationship with a world that has been equal parts cruel and uncaring with her, as well as achingly beautiful in times deeply surprising.
Like now, in her aging years, to be blessed with such a filial son, one who held close such beautiful dreams.
"I know. Everyone knows, but they say it doesn't matter." He wrinkled his nose, staring down at his hands in his lap, dirty fingernails pressing into marginally cleaner palms.
She reached out, running her hand over his head, smoothing back a few of those errant tendrils. "Mo'er, what is it I always tell you about the moons?"
He leaned into her touch, eyes lifting enough to glance toward their doorway. The red light of Sanquis was barely more than a suggestion around the frame, but he stared at it, looking older and wiser than his six years. "That Sanguis is red like the blood in our veins, and Cordis is blue like the waters that give us life, but only Iris is the blending of them both."
He turned his face toward her, the beauty of his features softened in the shadows of their fire-lit home. The delicate tips of his slightly elongated ears, the small swelling of the nubs of horns that had yet to break past skin, buried in the ink-black was of his hair, were part of the delicate, lovely whole of this child; in no small part, she suspected that his peers responded so poorly out of jealousy, a jealousy that would bloom into admiration as they aged. People worked in predictably ways, and her Mo'er was a beautiful child, who would grow into a beautiful man.
And who would, she hoped, follow his dreams far from this dusty town with its small goaled people, looking out for little more than how to fit into the roles their parents and grandparents and grandparents before them have filled, eking out a life here on the fringes of the Mortal Realm. He was too brilliant a star to stay earthbound, and much as she'd miss him, she wanted to see him soar away from her to the places she was certain he was destined for.
"That's right," she said, smiling and looking toward the bucket of clean water kept near the door. He should wash up before they ate, since there was no point holding onto the bread when food eaten now meant energy they'd both have for later. Especially him, a child growing in the fits and starts of all children. He was barely fitting into his trousers again, the hems creeping higher up his calves as the months flew by. "You're even more in tune with the life inside you, and inside the world around us. Just as any good cultivator needs to be, right?"
He nodded his head, expression firming into one of determination. She coaxed him into moving to clean himself up, using her strong hands aching from hours and hours of embroidering that day to tear into the loaf as if it were fresh, handing him a portion with a serving of thin gruel from the pot kept warm by the fire when he returned to her side, face and hands scrubbed free of dirt.
"I'll be a cultivator, a good one," he said, "One of the best. Then I'll make sure you're taken care of and don't have to work on anything but what you like to ever again."
"Yes, yes," she said, smiling as she ate his hard won bread.
"I'll definitely pass the test when the White Cloud Sect takes new disciples in five years." He nodded his head, shoving his piece of bread into his bowl to punctuate his statement. He almost spilled, going immediately still with a look of horror crossing his features so quickly that she almost laughed, watching his shoulders relax when the gruel didn't spill after all.
"Yes, yes."
"You believe me, right?"
She looked up, meeting his starry gaze with her own dark eyes. "Yes," she said, giving him that regard and serious response that he so dearly wanted from time to time, "I do, and you will, Mo'er."
He held her gaze, the smile that blossomed on his face a slow, determined, beautiful event. "Yes," he said, "I will."
Five years later, dark eyes took in the gathering of people at the gates to the lower White Cloud Sect, where the testing grounds for the new disciple hopefuls opened once every five years. Hundreds of individuals of all walks of life and all different features milled in the open space, talking with others, stopping by stalls set up by vendors eager to make a sale under the sect's blessing, a riot of colours and scents and sounds that his gently pointed ears took in and tried to sort out, soon overwhelmed. It didn't matter.
Xin Mo stood at the top of the low hill coming in from the West, jet-black hair pulled into a ponytail, travel clothes dusty and wrinkled, surveying the site of his destiny.
Then he strode down the hill, a slight and straight back figured soon swallowed by the crowd, winding his way toward the registration tables and whatever the following days would bring.
The Author has something to say:
I'm so excited to be sharing this story with you! o(〃＾▽＾〃)o Please join me on this adventure with Xin Mo through the cultivation world of fantasy Prismatica! Please leave Crystal Bombs as encouragement if you feel so inclined, this author will be very thankful! Three cheers for Xin Mo! ヾ（〃＾∇＾）ﾉ♪ What will he face during his disciple trial?
[ Probably not digging. Probably he will not write the same fucking trial as actually is true in his own world, where digging shows your potential and you are just. Digging. A hole. For a day. ]
text | un: meiyouren (it's beautiful ;;)
You're truly a skilled storyteller. I'm certain that everyone reading is cheering for Xin Mo. How did you come up with the idea of this story?
And how do you leave a Crystal Bomb?
un: peerlesscucumber (laughing, thank you)
You are too kind! (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و But we can all cheer for Xin Mo together!
Ideas, ideas, they're like fish in a sea, but this one is a bit like a wish a heart makes. So who's to say? Inspiration came from many placed and experiences! ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و ✧
Crystal Bombs are accessed from the comment screen, as part of "Other Options." Select that, and you should have that choice! There's also a button near the top of the main screen for the story. (‘∀’●)
[ if only he knew that none of those emoticons is meaning a thing ]
no subject
Is that really so? Then I'm not much of a fisherman, as I fear I don't have one bit of creativity in me. I never heard stories like this before, only stories recounting actual events not long ago.
[So mostly boring, tragic, or anticlimactic.
A wish the heart makes, hm. Even trying to make a story like that would probably just feel embarrassing for himself-- not that he'd judge others! Certainly not!]
More Options Crystal Bomb Leave Crystal Bomb Oh, I don't know if it worked. Let me try again. More Options
[Repeat a few times there until he finally gets out of the text field and succeeds in leaving one.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
un: lian
Good luck, Xin Mo!
[And for once, he figured out enough to leave one of those crystal bombs!]
un: peerlesscucumber
Add oil, Xin Mo! ✮⃛( ◞´•௰•`)✮⃛
Lianlian, there will be many fights in this story, maybe even as soon as next chapter! (๑ゝω╹๑) We all have our challenges to face in life, and Xin Mo will have many fights to weather on his chosen path. (✿´ ꒳ ` ) Please cheer for him along the way! He'll cheer for you, too!
[ ... yeah he's definitely using a fight as part of the disciple test, okay, potential isn't about winning so much as seeing the desire and dedication to learn and adapt to the situations that arise! that's the way of things! can't have thighs be too golden at the start! m...maybe!!! ]
no subject
Also: Lianlian.......]
That's great to hear! I'll be looking forward to his future battles then, and cheering for his victory! ('w')
[He's trying.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
un: airplaneshootingtowardsthesky
But he can't even mind too much, and why is that? That's because today, Airplane gets to live out one of his greatest fantasies! Today he gets to snipe. Cucumber. Bro. ]
It's hard to say much with just a beginning, but the plot line already feels familiar, as if I've read stories like it multiple times.
The introduced backstory attempts to tug on the heartstrings but fails to really make an impact. I'm neither pitying nor in awe of this character at the start: a weak initial impression.
As for the main character being an Iris... let's leave the thoughts there unstated.
[ There, that's enough for a start. How does your own medicine taste, Cucumber Bro?! ]
un: peerlesscucumber
snipe at him, bro? shoot yourself in the foot! hop around bleeding, you fool! ]
🙈🙉🙊
[ see no, hear no, speak no fucking evil! ]
Thank you, thank you, thank you for sharing your thoughts! They're very sad ones, but if you're the sort to prefer stories with empty pageantry, lots of springtime activities, endless parades of conquests on vertical surfaces, near infinite magical items, inconsistent cultivation, paper thin characters with simplistic thoughts motivating their scum villainy, and more plot holes than dark alleys in Caihong... this is not the novel for you! I can make a few recommendations!
[ hey airplane GO READ YOUR OWN NOVEL, PANDERER ]
But don't frown, Airplane! Give yourself a chance to see why Xin Mo needn't come from abject misery, face countless cruelties from every corner, and be of the most violent tendencies and blessings to succeed. This Author is very sad you'd imply that an Iris blessed is less worthwhile as a protagonist than Cordis or Sanguis! Are you okay, Airplane? Pat pat pat, a hand on your shoulder, things will get better!
no subject
I'm sure you can write a story where the hero succeeds without difficult or interesting trials, but the satisfaction will be much lower. The higher a mountain to climb, the more beautiful a view from the top.
Readers appreciate tension, but there's a sense of peace when they realize that their own struggles are not nearly so great. If you believe in a character who can overcome obstacles worse than yours, can't you overcome your own as well? They want to see themselves as the main character, and they want the main character to achieve what they want to achieve!
Regarding Iris, you are reading too much into it. Thoughts remain unstated for a reason. [ He's still very confused about Binghe being an omega, alright! How did his amazing OP stallion protagonist become an omega?! ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
voice to text function; un: xinmo
He's not forgotten her. But Shen Yuan, his own Shen Qingqiu, has become his whole world such that all else had fallen away like sleep from newly woken lids. But the talk of maternal love, of a tale that whispers almost like an echo of his own childhood from years long since passed by, it revives these thoughts for so long he forgets to reply at first.
Only when that tight-chested nostalgia melts away with the dawning of revelations, one after the other, does this seem too much like a tale he knows the words to by heart.
Xin Mo is the most obvious point of all. Yet despite all within him that rails about his own accursed weapon's name, against all logic or odds, seemingly passed across the Universes down to an innocent fictional child who surely doesn't deserve to be called something Binghe relates with pain and suffering and the death of his beloved- That's not the first thing he replies with. ]
In this story, the boy's mother- [ The weight is heavy, even if not on his tongue. ] Does she live a long and happy life?
[ Binghe tells himself this is not his story, despite the eerily familiar points. It can't be possible. But that doesn't mean he isn't drawn to it, like the other novels he's read here. And the heft of it all curbs his attention and his words, at least for a while, until he cannot resist blurting out one particular thorn in his side about this work. ]
Where I come from, Xin Mo doesn't mean anything good.
That's a harsh name for a child.
[ The ironic fact it is his chosen username speaks volumes. ]
un: peerlesscucumber
But if he was going to linger over such mysteries, he'd never stop lingering, so he makes himself answer the two questions: ]
A Xinmo asking about Xin Mo! Names are meant to be reclaimed, aren't they? This Author believes such to be true! So let's cheer on my Xin Mo that he finds a new meaning to his name than the one you've given yourself, reader Xinmo. ✮⃛( ◞´•௰•`)✮⃛
As for spoilers, spoilers, on his mama: she lives! Her end, when it comes, is peaceful and in a place of good things. Her life since taking Xin Mo in has not been one of endless suffering, but of small happinesses, and her life ever after will be too.
no subject
[ If something which had once been a cause of strife and despair could somehow be reforged into a character of innocence, born within a story full of such hope for good endings, then who is he to complain? ]
Although I like the idea. Reclaiming things, making them better.
[ So far his sword bearing the same name may not be so easily reworked into a harbinger of similarly good ends. But many things Binghe had believed impossible have taken shape in front of his very eyes in this world.
If the scourge of the cultivation world can make a whole new life for himself, better and more humble than before on an alien world, then anything seems possible. ]
It's only a story but I'm relieved. Somehow, I didn't want his mother to meet a bad end.
[ People have asked so many questions, but the one Binghe comes up with is slightly different than the rest because he's taken to consuming the novels here and now has a chance to speak to an author on things that he's wondered about. ]
Is it enjoyable, writing a story for others to read?
Everyone here seems to like it, but it must be difficult for the author. To make a world out of your ideas and writing things the way you want them to be.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
text | un : lanjingyi
xianxianovels of this genre, but the familiar setting certainly piqued his interest, and he couldn't stop reading until the end. This is only the first chapter, but Jingyi is already hooked to the story. ]This is an excellent work in the making, Mister Peerless Cucumber! I'm looking forward to reading more of Xin Mo's journey to being a disciple of the White Cloud Sect. Will there be ghosts and monsters? Walking corpses?
[ Jingyi, not every cultivation world has them. But he has to ask, despite being afraid of them. Either way... ]
I don't have Crystal Bombs though, and isn't it dangerous?
un: peerlesscucumber
Hello, Reader Yiyi! This Author can promise ghosts and monsters, but isn't sure what you mean by walking corpses? Do you mean the restless dead, or the necromanced dead, or some different kind of dead? ∑(´ﾟωﾟ｀*)
Crystal Bombs are all purely safe! Bombs of pure affection! (❁´▽`❁)*✲ﾟ*
text: un : professorshenwei
Which begs the question.]
This literature is available for free for the time being, is that right?
un: peerlesscucumber
[ everyone. literally everyone is being inflicted with terrible nicknames. gotta love online platforms, even if he's not sure he missed his, really. ]
This Author doesn't require their writing to provide an income, so most likely, all this literature will remain free. ೭੧(❛▿❛✿)੭೨ This Author cannot speak for other novels on this site! Each author has the right to earn what they can from their hard work and creative efforts!
[ some mocking inner notice to AIRPLANE BRO up above, since pandering to an audience is what shen qingqiu has set himself up not to do if it doesn't fall in line with his
fix it ficwriting goals. ]un : professorshenwei
I would be interested if you ever decide to expand on the world building of this tale. Have you been inspired by a particular lore, perhaps? Or are you going in a more traditional route, perhaps?
(no subject)
text; un: ilikebigboats
( Isabela, asking the important questions. )
un: peerlesscucumber
In Xin Mo's adulthood, yes, but not a harem scenario!
[ fuck harem politics and fuck having to write that much sex, he's not got the face for it like airplane bro! ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
text | un: chuwanning
He'd enjoyed the story so far. He was sure no one back home would think that the Yuheng Elder would possibly like reading something like this but he's soft-hearted and felt strongly for the protagonist.
...not that he's going to say any of that. His face couldn't take it.]
It is good that Xin Mo has such a caring and wise mother and just as well that he appreciates her. Hopefully he will have the chance to make her proud.
[He may or may not be thinking of another child who'd lost his mother young...actually, he knew too many people like that.]
But what are Crystal Bombs?
[And yes, his un is just his name which he probably would have given if introductions had happened last time (assuming we're making it game canon anyway).]
un: peerlesscucumber
(Coincidence rates seem perpetually high. That's why. That's fucking why, okay?!)
He's... glad, on the other hand, for the appreciation for Mama Mo. And how no one from certain ancient not-China-but-maybe-actually-China realities have no idea what crystal bombs are. Even he, from a modern age in a past life, at least had a basis of comparison! ]
Thank you, Ningning! This Author believes he will, but it might not be easy, and it won't be as quickly as he might wish. Besides, do you think Mama Mo isn't proud even now? Her Xin Mo made it to the disciple testing grounds on his own! Even if he waited another five years, he would not quite be too old to learn properly, though on the older end. He strives for much at a young age! (*´・ｖ・)
A Crystal Bomb is what you can leave with a comment, using the button you see near "post" or on the title page of the novel! It's like a small explosion of encouragement and glitter on the screen! Like fireworks that fall instead of rise into the skies!
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
UN: anisotropic
un: peerlesscucumber
un: overlord
un: peerlesscucumber
If you like novels like these, there's a few on this site I can recommend to you!