Chapter Text
Liu Qingge hadn’t gone out of his way to confront Binghe’s demonic heritage, nor the activities he got up to when he reluctantly left to return to the demon realm. He didn’t care to, really. He knew Binghe is a demon lord and that involved a lot of killing. Killing other demons, which was fine. If he didn’t think too hard about it all, he could ignore it and pretend it wasn’t really happening. But to be steeped in it, well, bitterness stubbornly lingered at the back of Liu Qingge’s throat. He was overlooking an expansive battlefield, both sides shedding blood without a care for their new spectator, too caught up in the drunken haze of kill kill kill. The juts of ice around the landscape were telling enough about who was fighting on the winning side, but those were easily missed in favor of the familiar feeling - the warlord would swear he could practically taste it - of Binghe’s spiritual energy soaking the air. He’d developed that energy in long training sessions in the midst of the night away from prying eyes, he’d be a fool if he didn’t recognize it.
Upon a glance around the battlefield, he’s thankful he doesn’t spot any white robes standing out amongst the sea of reds and blues and blacks. The feeling doesn’t last though, quickly replaced by that bitterness again. Binghe is a smart man, even if he plays the part of a dumb puppy around his shishu, it would be easy to forget if Qingge hadn’t often seen the way Binghe’s expression changed some days. Hell, it’s a moot point looking for those robes because Binghe stands out amongst the crowd anyways. His robes - are they new? He didn’t recognize them but they resembled those from his peak - matching those of his own forces do nothing to mask his presence, especially not the regal detailing here and there. Binghe, Qingge discovers, looks good with a fur trim and silver armor pieces.
None of it matches the cool, distant expression that puppy-eyed disciple wears. Rich red compounded with blood splatters and viscera do nothing to take away from his beauty, but he looks as if the world does nothing to sway him. A traitorous shiver climbs Liu Qingge’s spine for reasons he cannot name, part of this feels distantly familiar, as if he’d seen it in another life or some distant dream, but he can’t place it. Normally he’d jump at the chance to fight, but…. Should he truly interrupt this battle? Binghe seems to be doing fine, if uncaring about the losses in his own forces. He hates it . Liu Qingge decidedly ignores the disgusting feeling in the pit of his gut that makes him want to retch and cry and simply mounts his sword to leave.