Character study: Nie Huaisang
I wrote this a few weeks ago and I didn’t share it here, I’d rather show it before Fatal Journey premieres. Imagery based on CQL’s first episode.
Liquor pours into the small cup. Beyond the closed curtains, in a hall buzzing with activity, an old man tells a story to a young and quite easy to impress audience.
Nie Huaisang takes the cup he just filled and, as if he was drinking to honor someone, he raises it to the empty seat across his own. He downs the wine and its taste is surprisingly bitter. Fond of refined sweet flavors, he finds it mediocre at best. Too disgustingly similar to the metallic taste of blood, in fact, to dare take another sip.
“Well,” he mutters, smirking. “Isn’t it ironic? Adequate, even.”
No one answers because no one is there, but if there was, he suspects the answer could be a smack that would make him taste blood in his mouth for real. Or, rather, a deafening roar first, one that would make everyone around cower in fear.
“Honorless! Coward! Is this what the QingheNie sect comes to be in your hands? A swindler’s den, backstabbing, plotting in the shadows? Is this what’s left of my teachings?!”
He can almost see him, red in the face, veins popping in his temples, sitting across the table with the poise of the ruler of heaven and hell. He can almost hear him, shattering his eardrums with his furious, hurtful words.
But in reality, he is not here anymore, is he? And the thing is, Huaisang will never forgive those responsible for that.
“… a man whose deeds are so cruel, it makes this old man’s skin crawl, I’m telling you!” says the voice of the storyteller opening his tale, and Huaisang’s lips curve again, this time into a cold grin.
If the unfair story the man’s telling taught him anything, it’s that cruelty comes in many forms. From the powerful oppressing the weak, and from the wronged weak seeking revenge. Cruelty naturally gives birth to more cruelty, in an endless cycle of pain. But also, cruelty can be born from something as pure as love, too.
He knew that already. After all, Nie Mingjue loved him, and yet, he was incredibly cruel to him.
His brother, who only knew the way of the blade, was devoted to it with a passion that could probably impress even their most strict ancestors. He owed them nothing– if anything, they had to thank them for dooming them to inherit the gruesome fate of this cursed line of cultivators, all dead by qi deviations– but still, Mingjue carried the weight of the entire sect and the risky path of their clan’s cultivation with utmost dedication until the end.
A man like him would hardly find any appeal on subtle arts like literature, painting or music. Of course, to a man like him, a brother inclined towards those things was an utter disappointment.
“Playing all day with those useless brushes instead of training with your sword! How much longer will it take you to develop your golden core? You are behind your peers for at least four years! I will not stand for you making the Nie clan into the laughing stock of the entire cultivation world!”
And yet, it was Mingjue himself who provided him with the means to play around. It was just the two of them since the beginning, and Huaisang’s fragile life was entirely in his hands– still, even against his own harsh words that more often than not brought tears to his little brother’s eyes, he never denied him any of his whims. For every object he broke and every slap he gave him, he’d always find a way to compensate him later, be it with gifts he’d deny ever giving to him, or any superficial entertainment he’d judge to his little brother’s taste.
Now, none of these actions were any less cruel in Huaisang’s eyes. The act of awkwardly rubbing the wounds he inflicted didn’t make him feel any less frustrated or scared. Simply, at some point, he got resigned to the fact that his brother really didn’t know any better. And as time went by, he also understood it had to be the same for Nie Mingjue; both wanted something from their brother that the other couldn’t provide, and yet… At the end of the day, they still were the only family the other had.
And, regardless of anything, Nie Huaisang knew, from the bottom of his heart, that his brother would die for him without hesitation if needed– after a good fight, that is. Huaisang liked to think he’d do the same. He wasn’t that confident in his own guts but yes, indeed, he would at least have the intention.
He never thought it possible, but he had the chance to confirm it. That day, when his heart tore apart as his feet propelled him forward without hearing reason, having to be forcefully restrained by treacherous arms that kept him away from Nie Mingjue as his qi deviation turned him into a formless, bloody mess.
What hurt the most was that, no matter what, the great Chifeng-Zun, the rightful Nie Mingjue, his dear, only brother didn’t deserve that. Righteous, honest Nie Mingjue deserved a dignified end.
Nie Huaisang cried, and mourned, and searched, and despaired, and then… he decided.
He could never, ever rule their sect like his brother, so he wouldn’t even try to. After all, all that hard work led him to the same miserable end their ancestors met, why would he follow that? Why try to be a pathetic imitation under the long shadow his brother left? Why stay in the rightful path, offering his back to the same surreptitious knife that stabbed him in cold blood?
If his love of literature and human understanding in general left him something that the blade certainly couldn’t provide, it was a good eye for deceit. And oh, there was so much of it in this whole image. The mastermind? An artist. His hand, relentless yet soft, made itself the god that decided the fate of so many people. Nie Huaisang could never stand when good art was underappreciated. He was a generous patron of the arts– how could he not give the artist all the credit he deserves?
“…and so, who could say for sure that the Yiling Patriarch… will never walk among us again?”
As if to give the storyteller the perfect climax for his tale, a strong wind makes the curtains of the shop flutter and the crowd gasps audibly. It ended in such a terrifying note, but luckily, it was just that: a tale!
Nie Huaisang, however, chuckles softly. After reconsidering, he takes the wine bottle and pours himself another cup. Once again, he raises it to no one.
“I know you won’t enjoy it, but your own story of revenge is about to unfold. Please forgive your younger brother… You know he could never resist a well-written tragedy,” he says in a low voice that gets lost in the crowd’s noise. He drinks, then scrunches his nose. It still tastes like swill, but he downs it in just one gulp, and then stands up.
That disgusting taste like blood would last just a fleeting moment. In fact, by the time he tosses the gold piece to the storyteller and leisurely walks down the street, fanning himself, it’s almost gone.
The sensation of having his hands sullied by blood, though, will last longer, but he is fine with it. The pieces have been carefully set into motion. He stares into his fan, one of his favorites. He painted it himself long ago. He smiles at it.
He’s a bit rusty, but he is actually a pretty good painter. In fact, he’s sure he can be even better than the other master who provided the right inspiration. Inspiration, just like cruelty, comes in many forms.
Nothing says he can’t shape it into a beautiful masterpiece, painted with sorrow and love.
