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Only a fool would look at Shen Qiao’s Azure Waves sword technique and call it anything short of beautiful.
Certainly his current form is still laughably weak. Qi Fengge must truly be turning in his grave, knowing each of his disciples is more pitiful than the last.
But how can a gentleman dismiss a delicate porcelain vase, simply because it’ll break with one careless movement? How can an artist hate a rice paper painting because it could be ripped apart with one hand?
Yan Wushi disengages and takes a step back, absentmindedly keeping up with their spar with quick hand movements. It’s not that his own qi has faltered, but that this is a moment worthy of admiration.
Shen Qiao flows like water under the moonlight, even blind, even though only a whiff of his old power remains. His pale robes are stained again with clumps of coughed blood and still he never falters. Night after night he fights on, and each night his body reacts a little more swiftly than the last.
What a difference true qi makes; he's witnessing a man recover in months what would take others decades to achieve. It isn't just a matter of power, however. Even the greatest tool would be wasted on a feeble spirit.
Shen Qiao’s body may be weakened, but his spirit is forged in pure steel.
He’s truly like the distant eastern sea that so inspired his late old master. A calm surface hiding deadly currents. A vast mind, stunted as it had been by a life spent high in the clouds. Alluring in a way that sends lesser men to their knees, that would have them destroy themselves against the hidden rocks of the shore, fruitlessly reaching towards him.
Perhaps, Yan Wushi finds himself thinking, perhaps he ought to track Mu Tipo down and destroy him for daring to reach so far beyond his station. Perhaps he should challenge Yu Ai tomorrow and humiliate him as he humiliated his dear shixiong.
“Sect Leader Yan seems distracted this evening,” Shen Qiao says. Wariness keeps his spine straight, but exhaustion makes his hands shake.
“Is A-Qiao feeling jealous? Don’t resent this venerable one, even if his attention wanders.”
Shen Qiao’s lips twitch down; the discomfort over the familiar form of address is the most reliable show of emotion Yan Wushi has managed to extract from him ever since they started traveling together.
It’s as amusing as it is addicting. What good luck it was that he and his disciple happened to wander the base of Xuandu Mountain at the right moment, months ago. There has been little cause for boredom since then.
It would have been different if Shen Qiao had claudicated back when he first regained consciousness, but he’s a man that defies understanding. Everytime Yan Wushi thinks he has unraveled part of what makes him tick, every subtle test he gives, only reveals new and tantalizing depths.
What passions lie under the surface, at the very core of Shen Qiao’s being?
How far can the Zhuyang Strategy take him? What can Yan Wushi learn from his struggles?
What would it take to make him break?
If he learns how to truly fan Shen Qiao’s anger and poke at his resentment like a wound rubbed raw, would he rise like a violent tempest, destroying everything in his path?
What a beautiful sight that would be. To see his eyes flash with fury and his fine features twist to reflect the ugly nature that makes up the human heart. To see him grind dynasties under his heel, all compassion discarded as a foible of more innocent times.
Yun Washi presses the attack, still keeping a reign on his power lest he divests himself from this quandary of a man too soon.
Their qi clashes. Shen Qiao is blown away. Though he gets back to his feet, his knees are trembling with the effort and what little color was on his cheeks at the start of the night has long since drained, making him look pale as a corpse, as if a breeze would blow him away.
And yet, as always, he endures.
Against his better judgement, Yan Wushi can’t help but wonder. What if he continues to endure, despite it all? Like Mount Taimu, what if he remains steadfast against the waves of betrayal and greed and pain that are humanity’s prerogative?
Shen Qiao tilts his head, reacting to the sound of the robes swishing as Yan Wushi lets his arm fall to his side.
"Should we stop for today? I wouldn't wish to tire you in excess,” Yan Wushi says, masking his indulgent mood under a mocking tone.
Shen Qiao scoffs, visibly restraining himself from rudely rolling his eyes. Slowly he moves out of a battle stance, resting a bit more weight on his cane than what would be advisable.
That unlikely scenario, the Daoist staying forever true to his ideals, wouldn’t be an unwelcome sight either.
Not if it’s Shen Qiao, who fights like he’s dancing, who debates with beggars as if they’re worthy scholars, who blushes so prettily when Yan Wushi deigns to act towards him as a lover would, and allows him liberties that no other has been allowed to take, however begrudgingly they're accepted.
Yan Wushi marches forward and wraps an arm around his slender waist. Shen Qiao only stiffens for a moment, before allowing him to bear most of his weight.
“Daily spars are surely not necessary,” he complains half-heartedly as they walk back to the inn. “This one doesn't wish to disappoint Sect Leader Yan with his meager showings.”
Every word is a silent censure. The trappings of polite conversation are layered with a level of disrespect that no one else dares to show around Yan Wushi. It makes him want to smile, so he does.
"I shall not tire of you that easily, A-Qiao.”
The only answer is a quiet, disbelieving huff of air. His smile widens; Shen Qiao remains as amusing as ever.
So there’s surely no harm in keeping him around for a while longer.