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During his second year of university, Shen Yuan sells his soul to the devil.
Before you judge him— please —hear him out, okay??
He was tired. He was stressed. He had just had his third midterm in a row and hadn’t eaten anything but half a protein bar and two spoonfuls of yoghurt in thirty-six hours. And he had always been a sickly child. The kind of child that doctors looked at and went, “Well, he’s trying his best.”
He’d grown up with a body that betrayed him at every turn—chronic fatigue, sensitive stomach, allergies to everything, including, somehow, happiness. He’d missed field trips, summer camps, and once even his own birthday party (he watched it over video call from a hospital bed, waving weakly while his cousins sang off-key).
So when, one unholy night during his second year of university, a bowl of the most divine food he had ever smelled appeared in front of him?
Listen. What’s a man to do?
It was a bowl of pork bone broth, gently simmered for twenty-four hours, the fat glistening like liquid gold. Slivers of ginger floated on top like delicate ships of healing. The noodles were chewy perfection. The egg was jammy. The flavour profile? Illegal in most countries. It cured him. It fixed his soul. He wept into that bowl. He achieved transcendence.
And in the post-broth glow of that culinary orgasm, with tears on his cheeks and oil on his lips, he did what any reasonable, emotionally unstable young man might do.
He whispered, “I would sell my soul for another bowl.”
It was meant to be a joke. Obviously .
Like. What kind of idiot actually sells their soul in real life?? What is this, some kind of shojo manga where the male lead accidentally gets engaged to the devil because he was hungry and dramatic?
(Yes. Apparently it is.)
He forgets about it. Because of course he does—he was joking. Mostly. Besides, he had bigger things to worry about. Like the 10-page essay due in five hours, and the growing suspicion that his professor was a sadist.
Then, around 4:22 a.m., there's a soft thud beside him.
He startles. There’s a tray . A whole tray of steaming food on the table. Roast duck, fragrant rice, vegetables sautéed to perfection, soup that smells like someone boiled comfort and put it in a bowl.
“What the—?”
“I took the liberty of preparing it myself,” says a voice like melted velvet dipped in sin.
Shen Yuan looks up. And then up further.
The man standing beside him is… not human. No way. Nobody that beautiful is human. He’s tall, dressed in black robes that shift like shadows in candlelight, and there’s a faint glow behind him like he’s backlit by eternal damnation itself. His smile is sharp enough to cut contracts.
Which is exactly what he places next to the tray: a long, blood-red scroll.
SOUL CONTRACT
Recipient: SHEN YUAN
Donor: LUO BINGHE, VENERABLE LORD OF THE NINTH HELL
Terms: 1 (one) eternal soul in exchange for an indefinite number of hot meals of exceptional quality. Additional services to be negotiated pending further development.
"Wh—what is this?!" Shen Yuan yelps, shooting out of his chair so fast it nearly flips.
Luo Binghe’s smile softens. He looks genuinely pleased, which is terrifying .
“You called. I answered. That’s how it works. But don’t worry—there’s no rush. I’m very patient when it comes to soul-bonded matters.”
“Soul-bonded— matters?! ” Shen Yuan screeches.
He backs into a bookshelf. A very judgmental-looking copy of Faust drops onto his head. The irony is not lost on him.
Shen Yuan has a plan. It’s a terrible plan, but it’s the only one he has.
He’s going to ignore it all.
The food? Coincidence.
The velvet-voiced, terrifyingly hot demon lord? A figment of sleep deprivation.
The soul contract in his backpack? He doesn’t look at it. It doesn’t exist.
He even draws a little smiley face on a sticky note and puts it over the “INFERNAL BINDING CLAUSE” part. See? Everything is fine.
Until he opens his fridge.
There’s more food in there than he’s had all semester. Every Tupperware is neatly labelled in looping, romantic script:
- “For when you’re stressed <3”
- “No onions, I know :)”
- “I made this while thinking of your hands. I hope that’s not weird.”
It’s so weird.
He slams the fridge shut.
“Okay. Okay. This is fine. I’m just being stalked by Hell’s Gordon Ramsay. Happens to everyone during midterms, right?”
“Okay. So let me get this straight.”
Shang Qinghua pushes up his glasses.
“You sold your soul for a meal.”
“It was a joke!” Shen Yuan hisses, glancing around the dining hall like a demon might pop out of the salad bar.
“And now a 10/10 eldritch himbo is bringing you homemade lunches and writing you love letters in infernal calligraphy.”
“They’re threatening letters, ” Shen Yuan corrects, clutching his forehead. “There was one that said ‘our union will rend the heavens and scorch the earth.’”
“That’s just Hell-speak for ‘let’s get coffee sometime.’” Shang Qinghua waves a hand. “God, I wish that were me.”
Shen Yuan stares.
Shang Qinghua shrugs. “What? He’s hot. He cooks. He writes poetry! Have you seen the guy?! I saw him last night standing in the quad petting a black goat while whispering into a crystal skull. Romantic. ”
“That’s not romantic , it’s illegal! I think I’m being spiritually stalked!”
“And yet, he’s hot. Could be worse, bro.”
Shang Qinghua is sitting cross-legged in a half-assed salt circle surrounded by Monster cans and microwave pizza crusts. He’s holding a beaten-up grimoire from the library’s “Occult Studies” section and muttering something in what sounds like Duolingo-level Latin.
"...No." Shen Yuan says immediately. "No, absolutely not."
"It’s not a summoning ritual," Shang Qinghua says. "It’s an application."
"For what?!"
“My own hot demon boyfriend. I put in a request for one with an eight-pack and low emotional intelligence.”
“...”