I Love My Class It's So Chaotic.

the sumeru concept of the academic family was criminally under explored. you’re telling me cyno and tighnari and collei consider themselves an academic family? kaveh and alhaitham got academically divorced and that’s basically the same thing as getting maritally divorced in sumeru? unreal.

So from my understanding all of Lotus Pier was razed to the ground and Jiang Cheng has to rebuild it. But he was all alone. Do think he rebuilt his family rooms? The shared places in the same way?

meow meows

what wimmin, why walmon, who whoman…

So.

According to @demiace-wen-ning​‘s iconic post, every MXTX novel has:

A red/black, morally ambiguous, all-powerful bastard man

A fan wielder who is much more than meets the eye

And a fucking Jiang Cheng

Now we, as a collective fandom, have decided with our communal braincell that in SVSSS, the “fucking Jiang Cheng”™ character is Liu Qingge. And on the surface, this seems Right and Good:

HOWEVER! I posit that these aspects are only the most superficial and external aspects of the vast and multi-layered Dagwood sandwich that is fundamental “fucking Jiang Cheng”™yness. “fucking Jiang Cheng”™ has LAYERS. And for all that I love Liu Qingge, I love him in the same way I love the Sonic franchise’s Knuckles the Echidna:

This is emphatically NOT how I love Jiang Cheng. Furthermore, this is demonstrably NOT the sort of character that a fandom becomes viciously divisive about. This is the sort of character you either like or dislike and move on with your life because he is not deep and complex enough to Die On This Hill for defending. (This is a Feng Xin or Nie Mingjue sort of character.)

So what makes for a “fucking Jiang Cheng”™ character? What are the quintessential “fucking Jiang Cheng”™ characteristics that result in a complex and divisive character? I propose:

ambiguous/unexplained actions

refusal to explain motives

canon selfless actions missed or negatively interpreted

socially over-conscious while still socially detested

harsh and contemptuous outward behavior

honestly, naturally is an asshole, but holds back just enough to get away with it

hard-working but overshadowed by upstart prodigy

childhood trauma that fundamentally affected behavioral patterns

aggressively focused on their cultivation and consequent social status

secretly heartbroken about a perceived betrayal regarding the protagonist

yay, war crimes!

These attributes all describe Jiang Cheng. All but the last one describe Mu Qing, with the second-to-last applying in a way where HE is perceived as the betrayer. None of these attributes describe Liu Qingge. But you know who they DO describe in SVSSS?

Shen Jiu.

The ORIGINAL Shen Qingqiu.

An undeniable asshole who nevertheless gets punished for every good deed he ever did, who clawed and scraped his way to the top of the cultivation world and ensured he stayed there no matter how many bridges he had to burn or enemies he had to make along the way, who acts like a bitter tsundere to the person who matters most to him because said person broke their promise and never explained why, whose childhood was a never-ending parade of trauma and abuse that molded him into a harsh and suspicious individual, who (though we don’t find out until the extras) shows no sexual interest in anyone, whose own path to cultivation was so difficult and traumatic that they could not stop themselves from jealously lashing out at the heaven-blessed prodigy standing right next to them.

Shen Jiu is the TRUE “fucking Jiang Cheng”™ of SVSSS, and I cordially invite any haters to bring it on because this is My Hill and I am ready to fight for it.

xie lian: mu qing, are you still undressed? you've been in your room for hours now.

mu qing: *breathless* I just... I just can't find any nice clothing... to wear.

xie lian: what do you mean? your closet has a lot of nice things.

*xie lian opens up the door to the closet*

xie lian: see? shirts, pants, hi fengxin, shoes...

"I need to do this. Zuko, Z-zuzu you know, you understand. He will find this amusing. Father will give me more time." Her eyes were blown wide with fear, silent tears streaming down her checks. He remembers when she would come crying to him like this when they were children.

She had been tiny then, still whole, but oh so very strong. Head held high, she would wait until the servents cleared his rooms before collapsing into sobs. There had been precious little that could make her cry even then, and Father had started desensitizing them to death early. But Azula, so small, so young, hadn't taken well to the lessons, not yet.

Zuko's family was filled with monsters. He wasn't the exception. He had stared at her, with all the love an older sibling could give to a little sister, and broken her so Father couldn't, like he had done to him.

He remembers comforting her, fixing her crown and wiping her face, before taking her small hand into his and sneaking into the prison. He remembers bribing the guards at the end of every lesson with silk cloth, leather shoes, and embroidered bags of rice, and teaching her how to hurt humans so Father wouldn't have to.

His fingers curl on top of hers-so old, already fourteen and her hands are still so small-like they use to, giving her strength, guiding her blade. He leans forward, grunting a little as the blade slides all the way to the hilt, to whisper advise in her ear.

"Twist the blade until the edge faces up. A hole will be harder and more painful to heal then a tear."

Her breath hitches in the next inhale, but she does not sob like she use to. He feels so proud of her, of her strength and at her resolve when the pain in his abdomen flares white hot. Zuko stumbles, but he catches himself before he can fall on Azula because he refuses to let his little sister deal with more then what she has to before she needs to. He hates to break her even more at all but he needs to.

Father had broken him with his love, and raged and stomped on him when his sharp edges didn't poke out to hurt anyone but himself. Father had picked and prodded at him until his insides were glass sand, not big enough to break free but sharp enough to hurt with each step, to tear his lungs with each breath and scrap at his bones.

He couldn't have left Azula with Father. But he also couldn't leave her with Mother who picked up and dropped her glass children equally and without warning, disgusted by the shards they left behind. Or Uncle, who sanded down his edges for them, but who's shaving floated in the air to cut bite and sting nor their cousin who's molten glass center ran so hot that his sheer presence fixed him and unavailablity left a void so cold he broke all over again. He had broken her so Father wouldn't feel the need to, so Mother's love and indifference wouldn't leave her desperate to please and hurting, so Uncle's careless words wouldn't cut into her skin and bury into her heart, so she would keep herself at a distance with their cousin and not break at his very absence.

Azula, better then him at everything, had broken in a way to hurt others, she learned to fit the pieces of herself to walk without hurting, had lived under Father's approval without falling victim to it as he had. When Father had burned half of his face and cruelly given him hope in the form of an impossible task, he had chased even whispers of it, not to come back to his sister or people, nor had he after a twisted sense of loyalty to the Fire Lord but out of nessercery. He had needed to go back home to the fire and pain, where burns and words and exhaustion would melt the glass whole again and grant him rest until the next time Father had him shattered.

Blood slipped through his fingers and reached hers despite his best efforts. He hoped his glass wouldn't sting her too badly or for too long.

"Good," he praised. She had always needed praise when she got like this when they were little. She was still so small. "Now run the knife up and stop before the heart."

He refused to leave her without instruction, to leave her alone while she was still so frail. He had always imagined himself a quick death, earth on the battlefield, the jumping in front of the blade of an assassin, tasting poison and warning his family before he passed, but for her he would hold on as long as he could. He curls up as metal tears his insides, muffling his scream on her shoulder to try to give her more time. Briefly, he stares at the ceiling and its glowing green stalactites and wonders when he ended up on the ground.

Her face is there, lips parted in shock, eyes bright with unshed tears. She won't let them fall again but he thinks it might of been nice for someone to publicly mourn him. He figures it won't matter to him for much longer anyway.

Her hand, still on the knife, shakes so he musters up the strength to lift his to hold to hers, but he forgets to factor in gravity and his vision goes white when he accidently shifts the knife inside him. Her eyes are dead when he comes back to, and part of him is comforted by the fact that in their three years apart, this part of her still hasn't changed. But his time is running out and he needs to tell her how to sell this to Father.

"Tell him... tell him-" his throat is dry and he can't shallow but he needs to finish this. Azula, so smart, so old, so small, sees and leans to hear better. He hears the screams and booms of battle but they sound far away from their little bubble. He wonders why the Avartar and his teachers haven't yet left.

"Tell him what knife you used. He'll ... he'll find it funny if you tell ... Uncle." It would hurt him to learn that the knife he gifted him would be the thing to kill him but-

"It will be enough to excuse my lack of fire," her eyes widen as realization sets in.

Azula was p e r f e c t; Uncle had betrayed their country, he could suffer the consequences.

The edges of his vision darken. He needs to hurry.

"Do," he tastes blood in the back of his throat. It feels like shards. "Do what you need to . . . to survive." Lie, steal, kill. Kill Father or the Avatar.

"You were always better the second time." These words come out like a whisper but by the widening of her eyes he knows she heard, can tell she understands. He hates doing this to her but the sounds of fighting are getting closer. They're almost here now.

"Lala, you're perfect."

Her face blanks. Azula isn't perfect, not yet, but she will tear herself and anyone opposing her apart for the next hour trying to be. As long as she gets out of this alive he doesn't care. Ty Lee and Mai have always been able to put her back together.

She stands smoothly, taking the knife with her. He barely feels it.

Blue eyes and dark skin replace her. He doesn't know his name but he can see him panicking. He wonders why. Pain flares up as he applys pressure to his wound and he no longer cares. Water Tribe can go die.

The scene starts moving and pain flares up periodically. Azula screams words. He doesn't know what she said but he wants to stay. He claws at blues and trys to summon fire but his inner fire is just dying embers now. He gets pulled in tighter. He wonders if the blue will let him go if he pukes.

Suddenly there is wind and stars and he is oh so very cold. Water smothers the last of his inner flames and agonizingly knits him back together. It hurts less as it continues. Zuko knows it is not a good thing. Water can heal but it cannot replace blood. He will die and Azula will be safe because of it.

Faces surround him with worry but he doesn't want them. He wants the sister he raised, the uncle that tried, the girls who already mourned him once and shouldn't have to again. He don't want enemies and strangers. But he never gets what he wants. He used up all his luck being born.

He looks at the stars and trys to will the sunrise. He knows it will not come. Zuko had been born at night away from Agni' presence. He was probably destined to die away from it too. He still hopes for the warmth of His rays.

His breath shallows. He hears Lu Ten's voice humming a song loud and clear and his mind fills in the lyrics of a soilder coming home from war. In the distant he notices the warm laughter of his lady grandmother, the grumbling voice of his grand sire, the quacking of turtleducks and the overwhelming sent of fire lilies. He briefly wonder about the whereabouts of Mother.

The sounds get louder. Home.

Over the sky of Ba Sing Se, the sound of sobs get muffled into warm bodies as faces turn to hide away from the glare of the rising sun.

Better late than never

Endou Yuu versus the cosmic unknown 

When Zuko apologized to uncle Iroh in the tent cause he was so ashamed of his actions and what he’d done to the only person who unconditionally believed in his ability to do good >>>>>