Work Text:
Luo Binghe was a terrifying little boy.
Shen Qingqiu was a Peak Lord of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect and a Golden Core immortal cultivator, a beacon of elegant strength in his own right. Yet he still felt a frisson of fear drip down his spine when he touched Luo Binghe’s wrist. A quiet, prickling fear, akin to the headrush anticipation of watching a lit fuse burn down.
Several months had passed since the newest disciple joined Qing Jing Peak. Shen Qingqiu was currently conducting his yearly review of his students’ progress, starting with the aforementioned new disciple. The sun swam slowly upwards through the cold sky.
Luo Binghe shifted his weight. Shen Qingqiu must have held his wrist for a little too long; he swiftly withdrew his hand, looking down at the boy. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind at once.
Shen Qingqiu was fairly sure that Ming Fan had given Luo Binghe some sort of outdated or misprinted cultivation manual, and he knew that Ming Fan gave Luo Binghe far too many chores for him to spend the same amount of time practicing as the other disciples. Less than three months had passed. And yet, Luo Binghe’s meridians—while somewhat wobbly—were at the level of someone who had been cultivating diligently and properly for a year or more.
It was a surprise, but not entirely. Shen Qingqiu had felt the potential in Luo Binghe on the day of the Cang Qiong entrance test; he was practically brimming with it, and any decent cultivation practice would allow it to bloom. Holding his wrist, Shen Qingqiu had felt that development of potential like a long fuse stretching into the future, burning and burning and burning. He knew not when the explosion would come, only that it would. Glorious and grand. A thing of legends.
Shen Qingqiu stared down at Luo Binghe’s nervous face, a pit of bitterness seething darkly behind his implacable demeanor. Hatred roared through him so intensely that his limbs must’ve been trembling with it—but no, he knew they weren’t. If there was one thing he had mastered, it was the paper-thin facade of a cold, untouchable immortal. And of course, the wretched emotions beneath.
The first time he had felt such hatred, it had ended with fire and death. Perhaps it had never ended and he’d simply carried it with him ever since, through dirt and smoke, through blood and the silver clashing of steel, through each cursed day. To this day.
Cutting the fuse, Shen Qingqiu knew, would be as easy as cutting a throat. It was bared even now, as blessed little Luo Binghe lifted his head to peer up at him with anxious eyes. Living was hard. Dying was easy. Killing, it seemed, was even easier.
Shen Qingqiu had never, ever had it easy.
“Not bad,” he said at last. He paused, then added curtly, “Keep working hard.”
He turned towards the next disciple in line, but if he had waited just a moment he would have seen Luo Binghe’s eyes light up like spring fireworks, a renewed energy surging through his body. “Yes, shizun!”
Several years passed on Qing Jing Peak. Luo Binghe improved three to eight times as fast as his martial siblings, swiftly joining Ming Fan in the middle stage of Qi Condensation. Soon enough Shen Qingqiu had him leading the low level martial arts practice sessions, leaving Ming Fan to lead only the upper two sessions. If Luo Binghe’s growth continued at this pace—which surely it would—it wouldn’t be long before he took over more and more of Ming Fan’s duties.
Before Luo Binghe, Ming Fan hadn’t had any real competition for the still vacant position of Qing Jing head disciple. Now he did, and everyone knew it. As a result, Ming Fan threw himself into working hard… as well as into bullying Luo Binghe.
Shen Qingqiu couldn’t quite blame him; the jealousy inside his own heart burned just the same. But Ming Fan lacked the crucial foresight that Shen Qingqiu held. Mistreating Luo Binghe would get him nowhere, except maybe an early grave.
There was nothing in this world that could soften Shen Qingqiu, make him appear kind or good. But perhaps he could lower his own blade and instead command that of another. Perhaps he could be the one to light the fuse—and thus control the blast.
Elder Tian Chui’s body crashed down, shaking the ground. Luo Binghe stood battered but victorious, back straight and chin lifted as he turned to look directly at Shen Qingqiu. His eyes seem to pierce him with expectation.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then the surrounding disciples burst into thunderous cheers. Shouts of Luo Binghe’s name echoes against mountain peaks while the demons booed and spat. Amidst the raucous noise, Luo Binghe—hiding a slight limp—walked towards Shen Qingqiu and bowed.
Shen Qingqiu’s knuckles whitened on his fan. Such power. And the boy had done nothing to earn it—nothing that Shen Qingqiu hadn’t done, that countless other determined cultivators hadn’t bled and fought for. All he’d done was be born with it.
Still, Shen Qingqiu had to praise him. As the saying went: a teacher for a day is a father for life. Shen Qingqiu had no use for a son, but rather for the obedience of one.
“You fought well,” he said to Luo Binghe, who was rising from his bow. Their gazes met. Luo Binghe’s eyes were black and brightly fierce, like two shards of the Ling Xi Caves’ ancient rock.
“It is all due to Shizun’s guidance,” Luo Binghe responded. The exertion of the match made his voice breathlessly eager.
“Your wrist,” Shen Qingqiu said. He extended a hand, and Luo Binghe obediently turned up his wrist. It was as Shen Qingqiu had thought. During the match, Luo Binghe had broken into the last stage of Qi Condensation. He was now only a single step away from becoming a Foundation Establishment cultivator.
By the time Shen Qingqiu had reached Foundation Establishment, he had already been crowned an adult.
He swallowed the everpresent bitterness in his throat and turned to the young demoness. “Cang Qiong Mountain Sect has won two out of the three matches. As agreed, the demonic contingent will now withdraw from the sect.”
Sha Hualing harrumphed at his words. “Immortal master, I can’t possibly agree. It wasn’t fair that—”
“What exactly is fair,” came a damnedly familiar voice, “about trespassing in our mountains, destroying our bridges, and attacking our cultivators?”
It was Liu Qingge, throwing off the steadying hands of the disciples who had gone to drag him out of the Ling Xi Caves. He looked wan and haggard with blood splattered across his robes, but his qi thrummed with power as he drew his sword.
Sha Hualing began to whine, “Ah, immortal master—”
“No excuses,” Liu Qingge said harshly, forming a hand seal. Ten thousand glimmering swords appeared in the sky and rained down on the demons, who began to turn and run.
“Retreat!” Sha Hualing cried.
The demons fled in waves, and were felled in waves by Liu Qingge’s rain of swords. Shen Qingqiu clutched his fan, seething. He was always seething.
“Shizun.”
“What?” Shen Qingqiu snapped sharply, turning his head to glare down at Luo Binghe. Then he forcibly calmed his expression, taking a silent breath. He could never be kind, but he mustn’t be cruel. Not to this powerful child.
“Shizun…” Luo Binghe’s eyes were really too bright. His gaze was penetrating, like he could see all the anger and hatred festering behind Shen Qingqiu’s lofty facade. “Thank you.”
“Why don’t you thank your shishu instead?” Shen Qingqiu remarked coldly, eyeing Liu Qingge as cheers broke out in relieved celebration. “It seems like he’s saved the day.”
“Shizun, I want to thank you,” Luo Binghe insisted. Had he blinked once? “For believing in me. For believing I could win.”
It wasn’t exactly difficult to believe in Luo Binghe—or rather, his offensively precocious cultivation. Shen Qingqiu wanted to roll his eyes in exasperation but showed nothing on his face, simply replying, “You are my disciple.”
Luo Binghe’s dark eyes shone.
Shen Qingqiu turned away. Dark eyes followed him, as did the rhythm of a fervent heart. The sun sank like a coin.
The next day, Shen Qingqiu named Luo Binghe head disciple of Qing Jing Peak.
“There is currently a shortage of carriages,” Luo Binghe reported apologetically to Shen Qingqiu. “If we fill ours to full capacity, there will still be one person too many. As head disciple, I’ll take responsibility and simply ride alongside.”
Shen Qingqiu frowned. “That won’t do.”
How would Qing Jing Peak, and by extension Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, look in front of the other sects if their head disciple arrived sweaty on horseback? Moreover, Luo Binghe would wear himself out before the competition even began.
Shen Qingqiu’s frown deepened as he considered the issue, and at last he said with great reluctance: “Come.”
As he strode over to the carriage he was to share with Qi Qingqi, Luo Binghe obediently followed him. “Shizun?”
The morning sun traced its fingertips over the mountains, casting the peaks aglow. Shen Qingqiu released a silent sigh. “You will ride with me.”
Luo Binghe tilted his head. “With Shizun?”
“No, the other ‘me’,” Shen Qingqiu scoffed. “Hurry up and get in.”
Sunlight gleamed over Luo Binghe’s eyes, and he smiled. “As Shizun says.”
Fire reflected in Luo Binghe’s pupils. Shen Qingqiu stared at him, a storm of emotion raging inside his chest—a mirror of the infernal flames howling around them.
Of course there was fury, for Shen Qingqiu’s disciple had turned out demonic. Fear, for that dangerous spark was racing faster and faster now down the fuse. And funnily, a gleeful sort of vindictiveness. Luo Binghe wasn’t the perfect little cultivator after all, no perfect noble youth. He was a demon. Filthy and wretched, just like Shen Qingqiu.
“You’re going to die,” he said to Luo Binghe.
“Shizun—” Luo Binghe choked on his words, tears welling in his eyes. He threw himself to the ground and kowtowed before him. “Please, Shizun—this… this disciple—have mercy—”
“Almost certainly,” Shen Qingqiu added, and was taken aback by the laugh that burst from his own throat. He covered his face with a hand—his fan was lost in who knows what ditch—and laughed and laughed.
“Shizun…”
Struck by an strange impulse, Shen Qingqiu crossed the two steps of distance to Luo Binghe and bent down to seize him by the shoulders. The boy’s eyes widened, his body stone-stiff. “Listen. Listen. You mustn’t die.”
Luo Binghe trembled. “Shizun… won’t kill me?”
Shen Qingqiu shook him harshly. “Idiot, why would I kill the disciple I raised?”
“But I’m…” Luo Binghe’s voice cracked.
“Do you want me to kill you?!” Shen Qingqiu hadn’t spent five years swallowing his bitterness and coddling this terrifying little boy just for all to come to naught. “Did you hear me? You must not die.”
Luo Binghe stared up at him with bright, fearful eyes, frozen silent. So young. So stupid.
Shen Qingqiu said quietly and swiftly, “If you stay here, other cultivators will discover you and you will certainly die. If you take ten steps in that direction and jump, you will probably die. Do you understand?”
“In that direction—” Luo Binghe turned his head and went white as he understood. The Endless Abyss gaped there like a maw, miasmic with evil and dark grasping claws. “… No… Shizun, please—have mercy—” He flung his head down against the ground once more, trembling uncontrollably. “I’ll hide it, I’ll never use demonic qi again, I—I—”
“Foolish brat, you weren’t listening!” Shen Qingqiu seized Luo Binghe once more, this time to drag him up and push him backwards, towards the wound in the world.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe gritted out, tears spilling over, but he did not resist as Shen Qingqiu dragged him to the edge of the Abyss.
“Luo Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu gripped him hard. “Don’t die. Grow stronger. And…” Well, what was the use of tempering a sword if he wasn’t the one to wield it? “… And come back to me.”
Luo Binghe took a shuddering breath.
“Will you go yourself,” Shen Qingqiu asked sharply, “or must I throw you down?”
Luo Binghe’s teary gaze hardened, brilliant, like steel. “I’ll go. Shizun… don’t worry. I’ll definitely return to your side.”
Saying this, he stared Shen Qingqiu desperately in the eye, then stepped back and leapt into the forge.
His figure seemed to fall slowly into that dark deep. Like a petal. Like a tear. Like the white winter sun, setting too soon.