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Good news! Enough of Mu Qing's worshippers had contemplated his dick that he had finally woken up with one between his legs. Yet another benefit of haunting the dreams of sculptors and artists across the land until they put in the effort to portray him with a sufficiently accurate degree of handsomeness.
To be more accurate, he woke up in the middle of the change, gasping for breath as a hot prickling sensation squeezed his body impossibly tight, moulding him like clay. Hundreds of invisible hands pressed and smoothed his body into shape, squeezed his muscles and traced reverentially over his face and jaw. Others pulled at his fingertips and toes, encouraging them to grow. A particular gap in his armor, so to speak, was safely closed up; his legs were parted to make room for a new set of family jewels; his clit stiffened and swelled enormously. As it lengthened it tented his underclothes and rubbed hard against them, and his hips twitched involuntarily, seeking the friction. He bucked up again, chasing the instinct, until the friction intensified into pleasure and the pleasure into orgasm, along with a grunt in a distinctly deeper vocal register.
He lay still again and hummed long and low with satisfaction, feeling the vibrations in his chest and the slow pulsing of his cock as it spurted its seed. He had done his research and knew the transformation wouldn't be a gradual thing, but it was still strange for it to be over in a few minutes.
Well, in another sense it had taken him a lifetime, hadn't it? Years forcing himself through the indignities of being a servant and the hardships of cultivation. Holding his ambitions tight to his chest even as the world fell to pieces and his old life with it. All that still wouldn't have been enough if he hadn't managed at last to leave Xie Lian behind.
He forced his mind away from the memory of Xie Lian's hate-filled stare. His actions back then had been necessary, like amputating an infected limb. Even so, he knew all too well what the rest of the world thought: that someone as callous as himself had no right to be a god. But it wasn't like his suffering in obscurity would somehow make the world a better place - frankly, it was the opposite. He did a hundred times more good up here in a single day than he ever had down there.
If ascending also happened to align with certain other desires he had in life, like having thousands of people praise his good name, changing his body into the form he'd always envisioned for it, or simply spiting the haters, well, that was nobody's business but his own.
All right, that was enough time spent contemplating. He shut his eyes against the morning light, took a deep breath to dispel his thoughts, and extended his awareness, wanting to know exactly what had happened to him. He felt everything he could, from the way his weight settled differently onto the bed, to the new texture of his skin against the sheets, to the thing in his chest that felt suspiciously like joy, beating feebly against the iron bars of his actual personality.
And yes, he felt his cock, which was already standing to attention again. Undergoing a godly transformation for the first time was meant to induce an extended period of arousal. Yang energies and what not.
As much as he was looking forward to touching himself all over and enjoying this body's inaugural masturbation session, it wouldn't do to have it while lying in a tangle of bedsheets. Where would be the aesthetic pleasure in that? Speaking of which, if his worshippers had dared to envision him with anything less than a flawless, perfectly symmetrical, proportionate dick and balls, he was going to have to invent a new genre of nightmare for them. He wasn't sure what would be appropriate. Perhaps a pointed lecture on the virtues of the middle way.
Thankfully, after getting up, what he saw in the mirror was satisfactory. It would take a fewer number of brush strokes to depict his naked figure than before. (Not that any of his worshippers were doing that.) (He would tell them to hurry up and get on it, but again, he was not sure what kind of prophetic dream would be appropriate.) Overall he still looked like himself, which was... good, obviously, because his existence was a blessing upon the Three Realms and changing in any significant way would be a downgrade. The look wasn't perfect, but that was what clothes were for.
--
Mu Qing was an old hand at hiding his treasured possessions to stop them getting trashed or stolen. He still hadn't quite broken the habit of it, although he'd left behind such petty mortal squabbles when he ascended. These days he only needed to hide things because they were private. He activated the array at the back of his closet and stepped through into a concealed room.
Bright candles flickered to life on the walls. The room was filled with hoarded rolls of fabric and half-finished garments on mannequins. On a desk were laid out the four tools of calligraphy and a reference book from which to copy, as well as a box of sweets for motivation (spite couldn't get him everywhere). Ignoring all this, he headed to one of the chests at the back of the room. Inside, buried carefully under more fabric, was—
—not the genuine article. The ceremonial robes the Crown Prince of Xianle had worn at the Shangyuan Festival had either been burned or long since rotted away. But Mu Qing had spent so long dressing his prince up in them, then undressing him again, washing them, mending them, and touching them all over that he was confident he'd recreated them accurately. All seven layers. This was the closest to the genuine article yet remaining in the world.
He began putting it on; he had never worn it himself before, neither the original nor his own creation. There was something sacrilegious about letting the cool silk slide all over his body, and he wanted to indulge in it more, to deal with the arousal that jutted out and disturbed the clean lines of the robes, but he forced himself to put on each layer and make sure it sat just right before moving on to the next. If he was going to do something, he'd do it properly. His vision filled with virginal white and the red, gold and silver embroideries which had taken him a whole year to complete.
For a moment, slipping back into old muscle memories, he imagined that the arm he pulled the sleeve onto was not his own; that the glossy hair he brushed away from the shoulder was not his own. His hands slowed in their work, gentle with the affection that he would have liked to show to his prince, if it had ever been possible. If it would not have been so terribly degrading, if it would not have been half-mockery.
That was stupid. He was the one dressed as the prince at the moment. He tied his hair back, and for the final touch slipped the hero's mask over his eyes.
He still remembered how the demon's mask - the second-best - had weighed on his face during the procession. The crowd's loathing of him, just because of that mask, had been terrifying. If they saw him now they'd love him, wouldn't they? That was just typical.
He regarded his finished work in this room's much larger mirror. The garment was cut to counterbalance his new figure, endowing him with an androgyny composed of long, confident curves. The white fabric almost made it seem like there was some colour to his cheeks. He looked proud and regal, nearing on divine; as he should, being a god.
He tilted his head and gave himself a small smile as thanks for making another of his childhood dreams come true. That smile really did make him look like someone else.
If he were the prince, he wouldn't worry about taking his clothes off correctly. He'd just tug at things till they came off. He watched as the masked figure in the mirror untied his belt and threw it to the side with a jingle of beads. The sashes around his waist fell to his hips, catching lewdly against his erection: his silhouette was ruined. He delved into the overlapping layers of fabric at his throat, yanking them aside to expose a prominent collarbone and sliver of pectoral muscle.
A few outer layers of robes slipped off his shoulders and pooled around his feet, but the inner ones would not budge at his single-minded tugging. The figure in the mirror was stuck, useless when it came to the little things. Mu Qing sighed. With a practiced hand, he found the crucial ties holding the outfit together and loosed them one by one. Not wanting to take the robes off quite yet, he merely pulled them apart to expose a lithe shoulder and sculpted chest. Hot damn! Being a martial god was better than ever.
He loosed the ties on the trousers next and let them crumple to the ground, immediately seizing himself and trying a few quick strokes. Obviously it felt great. The texture in his hand was luxurious, as was the swish of fabric against his bare legs. Underneath the hero's mask, the face in the mirror flushed pink and the lips parted to pant for breath... like something from his seventeen-year-old dirty fantasies. He smirked at the thought despite himself, ruining the illusion.
He stepped up to the mirror to examine himself more closely. A firm jaw, long neck, torso held in a proud stance. He knelt, flicking the robes behind him to expose toned thighs and calves. His cock stood as the centerpiece. He stroked it again, reached down to play with his balls too. That felt dangerously good. Vulnerable. He squirmed and was gratified further by the sight of muscles and fat shifting smoothly under his skin.
The only thing missing was his face, still obscured by the mask. He traced his finger along its smooth golden edge, shivering at the gentle brush against his cheek. It might be picturesque to frame himself as the hero, but in the end that was just a stock character, irreproachable and unchanging. Surely Mu Qing himself was more compelling. To himself.
Taking off the mask, he was arrested by his own stare: pitch black and simmering with aggression. What was with that attitude? He growled and grabbed at the edge of the mirror. Breath misted the silver-backed glass as he pumped faster with his other hand, forcing pleasure out. He recognised this face too well, even the sharpened, perfected version of it, and could see every bitter ugly thought beneath the surface.
Lucky for him that he was also endlessly sympathetic, irresistibly handsome and could get lost in those dark eyes forever. He relished the way his mouth twitched and brows lowered as he worked himself towards climax. There was something sincere in that gaze too; he just had to climb into the mirror, pin himself down, and kiss and fuck all the bitterness out. Although if he met himself they'd both be having that thought, so they'd have to fight over it, and in the end there was just as good a chance he'd be the one getting fucked—
—but that'd be fine too, he'd be so good to himself, know exactly what he wanted and show no mercy in giving it, and—
—well, that had been a nice orgasm, much better than the first one. His heart was pounding, but he felt calm and clear. He sat on the floor to catch his breath and didn't even worry about specks of dust touching his ass.
He shared another look with the Mu Qing in the mirror, who was completely red and could not stop smiling either. They understood each other perfectly. The look said, We're just getting started.