Chapter Text
Shen Qingqiu is an early riser. It's one of the few constants in his life—his wariness on the streets shifts and transforms, carries him through his life with the Qius and beyond. His current position doesn't make his paranoia any less necessary, being just as vulnerable to power shifts as anything else.
And yet, he remains. Fighting past bottleneck after bottleneck, Shen Qingqiu's determination in this stage of life isn't to run away, but to stay instead. If asked, Yue Qingyuan would make up some nonsense about sentiment and talk about how he's so happy Qingqiu-shidi found a place to belong. The truth, however, is much simpler.
Shen Qingqiu likes being a Peak Lord.
He likes the prestige, how only a few are capable of looking down on him. He likes the fame, how the Xiu Ya sword isn't easily forgotten. He likes the distance, how he can sit on his peak, interact with others very little, speak even less, and everyone will look up in awe at the untouchable immortal.
In his bamboo hut, deceptively simple with an open air and arrays hidden in its foundations, things are as perfect as they can get. So naturally, it's his duty to maintain that.
When Shen Qingqiu wakes, the sky is still dark outside, quite some time before dawn. He heats the water for his bath as he strips out of last night's robes, folding them away carefully to be washed. He pours the water out not long after, heated enough for the worst of the chill to subside but not much more. He scrubs himself down as he shivers, the few minutes he spends on his hair the only luxury he'll allow.
After he's dried himself, fresh new inner robe worn—his teal silk one layered on top, perfumed pouches (amongst other things) tucked inside—he sits on the floor and begins to meditate. Clearing his mind isn't easy, intrusive thoughts and fears bang at the walls every time he gets close to relaxing, but he pushes himself forwards nonetheless.
Before long, it is dawn. The sun peeks through the curtain and the silence is interrupted a series of quick knocks. “Breakfast is here, Shifu.” Ming Fan says behind the door, only entering with Shen Qingqiu's express permission. He doesn't stay for long, places his master's tray on the table, and bows, hands clasped, before leaving.
The congee is light, more water than rice, with little in the way of seasonings. For an esteemed Taoist, this is ideal. For someone like himself, this is the closest he can get to happiness.
Shen Yuan doesn't remember the moment he dies. He remembers the hospital—the smell of disinfectant and thrum of machinery—remembers his frustration at being stuck there, stupid stupid how can he be so stupid, remembers his anger peaking because once again he couldn't put that goddamn novel down.
To think there really was writing so bad it literally could drive one into an early grave! Shen Yuan vowed that if he ever ran into the author in the afterlife, he would beat him up until he died all over again. That talentless son of a bitch–
Fortunately or unfortunately, Shen Yuan's thoughts of impending murder are interrupted as his senses suddenly come to life.
There are blaring alarms, police sirens piled on top of each other, multiplying in a frenzy of sensation. He's pretty sure he stopped having a head a while back but even then, the sheer amount of pain is a fucking nightmare.
[ERROR] [ERROR] [ERROR]
The words pop up in front of him—flashing between colors so bright he's sure that if he weren't dead, he'd be in throes of a seizure—fading like fireworks, replacing themselves with a slightly more readable message.
[̵w̶e̷l̴C̵O̸M̴E̵ ̶t̵o̷ ̶t̶h̵E̴ ̷s̴y̸s̵T̴e̴M̴.̴ ̸t̷h̷i̴s̴ ̵S̴Y̷S̷t̷E̷M̷ ̸W̸A̷S̶ ̵D̴E̷s̶I̸g̵N̶E̵D̸ ̸T̸o̶ ̵F̸o̷L̷l̷O̶W̶ ̷I̷N̵P̴u̵T̸ ̷p̴R̵o̴t̴o̵C̷O̵l̸ ̴"̵d̸O̷ ̸i̸T̵ ̷y̸o̸U̵R̵S̴E̷l̸f̴,̴ ̶A̴S̸s̴H̸o̵L̷E̶.̷"̸ ̶O̵U̸R̵ ̷P̶r̶O̴D̷u̶c̴t̴ ̴A̸i̸m̷s̸ ̵t̸o̵…̸]̵
Just slightly.
[̶p̵r̸O̴V̶i̷d̵E̷ ̵u̸s̸E̴r̴s̵ ̸W̵I̸t̶H̴ ̸T̴H̸e̶ ̸I̸D̶e̸a̸L̶ ̸T̶r̵A̷n̸s̸m̴i̸g̶r̴A̷T̸i̵O̷N̷ ̵e̴X̸p̶e̵R̶I̵e̷n̶C̶E̶ ̵A̴n̸d̷ ̴A̷l̶T̸e̸r̸ ̶A̸]̷ [ERROR] [ERROR] [ERROR]
Shen Yuan's wince turns into surprise as the words disappear before he gets the chance to parse them—for fucks sake put a timer on this shit—and then the darkness takes over again, the sirens replaced by a singular voice.
“...Shidi? Shidi, are you alright?”
He's dead and clearly suffering in what he's sure is an amalgamation of multiple hells so yeah, just peachy! Please drop your condolence money in the box by the door.
To his surprise his body (holy shit he has a body) slowly lifts itself up, eyes fluttering open.
He's lying on a bed, an expensive one he guesses from the hints of handmade labor and the canopy hanging overhead. His throat bobs as it clears itself (which, honestly speaking, gross) and then, just as involuntary, his mouth moves.
“Fine,” a voice says, a shade huskier than his own. His head slowly tilts left, facing a rather handsome man, dressed traditional black robes. The stranger's bearing implying someone out of a period piece or a particularly enthusiastic cosplayer. Given the obvious supernatural aspect to this situation, it's most likely the former.
His own hand, undettered by Shen Yuan's musings, reaches down—drifting sleeves implying similar dress—and clasps a fan, lightly stroking the wood before pressing it to his own face.
He doesn't know what expression this body is making, only feeling the facial muscles twist, but it's enough to stop the other man in his tracks.
“Sect Leader,” the voice continues. “It was unnecessary for you to come down just to see this shidi.”
Ah. Now, Shen Yuan realizes. This person he's haunting? A real asshole.
His shoulders stiffen for a second but they're back to normal before Shen Yuan can question the action. Instead, he directs his attention to the previously identified Sect Leader.
“Qingqiu-shidi,” the man says carefully. “You fainted from fever. We were unable to wake you for the past three days.”
“Hmm,” is all the voice gives. Something clicks in Shen Yuan's mind. Qingqiu-shidi? Like Shen Qingqiu? Scum villain extraordinaire?
Oh no. Oh shit. He wants to cry. This is the second time he's been screwed over by this novel! Fuck you Proud Immortal Demon's Way!
FUCK! YOU!
Wasn't it enough to just kill him?? Why would you stick him back in a body because, whoops! You missed out on the torture!
And then, because the universe decides that yes, it can be crueler, the voice pipes in. “Shut up,” it says with a groan, hand clutching his head.
In retrospect, Shen Yuan would admit he was being a bit hysterical but right now–
No, you shut up! He knows it's impossible to scream inside one's mind but he hopes the expected volume was understood. You–you piece of shit! Couldn't you be a little less of a dick? Now I'm going to end up dying with you!
Shen Qingqiu, the dick that he is, doesn't listen. Instead, he raises his hand, channeling qi through his fan and swipes. Shelves break. Books, torn to pieces, fall to the ground, shreds of their pages following.
“Where are you?” he demands. “Face me!”
[ERROR RESOLVED], the System says walking in late, impervious to the chaos around it, a hint of cheer in it's automated voice. [ACCOUNT BOUND: WELCOME SHEN QINGQIU, LORD OF QING JING PEAK AND MASTER OF LUO BINGHE. WE HOPE YOU HAVE A WONDERFUL EXPERIENCE.]
The man he's now identified as Yue Qingyuan grabs his hand, snatching the fan out of its grip. He reaches for the other, pinning them down together. His voice edging into desperate, he calls for a healer.
So, Shen Yuan addresses his new mind mate an hour later. We may have gotten to a bad start.
Silence. His host doesn't even flinch.
But we should try again. It'll be better for the both of us, I think.
“No.” Shen Qingqiu says. He doesn't even bother to keep his voice quiet. “It's my body, why should I have to play nice?”
His head turns, glaring at the Immortal Binding Rope that holds his wrists together and ties his feet to the bed.