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Chapter Text

Year One: Denial - Shang Qinghua

Knowledge of Shen Qingqiu's passing reached Shang Qingqiu before it reached the rest of the sect. He knows the moment it happens, really. They never tell you that no matter how far away you run after setting an array, once it activates you'll always be able to feel the tug, the draw to that point miles away where hope lives. 

When he feels that tug on his qi Shang Qinghua laughs–-a small, quiet huff. "Cucumber-bro, you crazy bastard. You really managed it." 

Shang Qinghua has been in this world for longer than he lived in the modern one. He's seen his fair share of death. Growing up in a pre-industrial world, no matter how many people fly on swords and heal grievous wounds with only qi, there are three times as many people who succumb to illness and famine, or simply starvation. Not to mention all that he's seen as a cultivator or as Mobei-jun’s spy. So yes, Shang Qinghua is intimately familiar with death and all that it means. 

Shang Qinghua’s familiarity with death, however, is irrelevant. Shen Qingqiu is not actually dead.

Well, okay, yes, he is dead but he's not going to stay dead. Sure, the plan they made was derailed completely when his son—Luo Binghe—came back from the Endless Abyss two years too early!! 

(Seriously, how did he do that?) And maybe the Sun-Moon Dew mushroom body was woefully underdeveloped for a soul transplant, but the fertilizer fixed that! Sure, he almost rotted the whole thing but it's fine. Shen-bro still got to it in time. 

Cucumber-bro is going to wake up.

Shang Qinghua is not going to be alone in this awful internet-less world for long. Sure, Cucumber bro is crass, and would rather eat a Golden-Agony Lemon than verbally admit they are friends, but Shang Qinghua knows that they are friends. Just like he knows how Cucumber-bro is going to dig his way out of the dirt bitching and moaning about whatever crime against storytelling he thinks Shang Qinghua committed this time. 

Shang Qinghua believes this whole heartedly. He believes this when he feels that gentle tug on his qi telling him that the array activated, he believes this when he flies to the borderlands with a pair of clothes and a get-away bag containing everything Cucumber-bro will need for rogue cultivating. 

He believes this when all that greets him is an undisturbed patch of dirt covered in glowing white mushrooms.

He continues desperately to believe this as the weeks tick by one after another with no sign that mushroom patch being anything other than a very sparkly mushroom patch. 

As the weeks turn to months turn to years, Shang Qinghua believes that Shen Qingqiu will wake up.

Chapter Text

Year Two: Anger - Liu Qingge

His sword arm burns when he raises it to slash at the enemy in front of him, and the beast hisses as Cheng Luan draws blood. An inch of ground gained only to be lost just as fast as the beast rushes him head on.

Heedless of every wound he had managed to inflict, Liu Qingge manages to raise his sword just barely in time to guard against the blow. The clang of metal on metal reverberates through his bones; all of his joints ache from the strength of the blow and his muscles scream from the strain. 

There’s a face right in front of him. It smiles a humorless smile at him, as demonic energy boils the air around him. Cheng Luan screams as Xin Mo's qi lashes out, and Liu Qingge is forced to retreat, breaking their blade lock.

He growls as Luo Binghe lets him, not even bothering to push his advantage. He should concede this fight; it's been who-knows-how-long and they’re both running in spite and little else at this point. But Liu Qingge cannot give up on Him and Luo Binghe cannot let him have Him.  Luo Binghe looks bored and it infuriates him. He yells and throws himself back at the man, putting the last of his strength into a blow they both know is pointless.

A blast of demonic qi hits him in the stomach, and he’s sent flying through an already crumbling wall. Pain lances through his body, and it's all he can do to brace himself for the fall. Still his shoulder makes a painful crunch as it connects to the stone pavement outside the Huan Hua palace. He lays there dazed from the blow, the sun beating down on his burning sweat soaked skin.

He has lost this fight. 

He had lost the last fight, and the fight before that. 

He has lost every fight he's fought for the last two years. 

He lost when he wasn’t able to keep Shen Qingqiu safe from Luo Binghe and the Old Palace Master. 

He lost when Shen Qingqiu self-detonated to stop that beast from qi deviating. 

He lost when he let the beast take Shen Qingqiu’s body back to his gilded palace and do god-knows-what with it.

He has lost every fight since Shen Qingqiu Died.

But he cannot bring himself to stop fighting. 

Liu Qingge forces himself to stand back up. Casting one last pained, angry look towards the gilded palace, he leaves. For now. 

He doesn't bother glancing back to see if his enemy is pursuing him; he learned a long time ago that Luo Binghe won't follow him. Luo Binghe only cares when Liu Qingge is actively attempting to take Shen Qingqiu from him. The Beast won't even bother finishing the fight, won’t put them both out of their misery and end this endless cycle of unwinnable fights. Liu Qingge drags himself as far from Huan Hua Palace as he can get, his emotions boiling under his skin. Flying as fast as Cheng Luan will let him, he burns through whatever qi he has left and all but collapses at the door of the first inn he sees. 

Dumping a handful of coins on the innkeeper's desk without looking he says he'll take whatever room they have. The shorter man’s eyes go wide as saucers and he starts babbling about something. Liu Qingge can’t be bothered to listen—he cuts him off with one word. Demands the key with his hand out and the innkeeper scrambles to hand it over. 

Key in hand he turns sharply, going to his room without another word. The door slams shut behind him and the whole frame rattles with the force of it. He takes care to set Cheng Luan on the sword rack by the door with the last of his restraint.

He has burned through all his resources and yet it still feels like he’s being burned from the inside out. 

Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing has made sense for a long time. 

Nothing has made sense since Ling Xi Caves when the man he thought hated him saved his life. 

It didn't make sense when rivalry became affection, when he found himself seeking out Shen Qingqiu’s attention instead of avoiding him. 

It didn't make sense when Shen Qingqiu lost his disciple and became a living ghost.  

It didn't make sense when Luo Binghe returned from the dead with nothing but anger and accusations for the man they had all watched grieve himself sick for him.

It didn't make sense when Shen Qingqiu threw his life away to save that ungrateful beast. 

It didn't make sense when Shen Qingqiu's body fell from that building and Luo Binghe cradled it like it was the most precious thing in the world, only to steal away with it and deny his Shizun the peace and dignity of a proper burial.

Liu Qingge is sick and tired of things not making sense. 

He heads to the washbasin in the corner of the room, stripping off his soiled robes like they are burning him. Blood, sweat and dirt are mixed together, soaked into the fabric already—deep ugly stains that cannot be removed. He didn't understand why Shen Qingqiu grieved like he did for his disciple; it seemed unnecessary at the time, wallowing. What good was it to sit at a sword mound for hours everyday thinking about what was already gone?

Liu Qingge submerges his face in the washbasin, the water freezing cold and stinging his hot skin. Stripped down to just his trousers he can still barely feel the cool air past the boiling heat of his sweat soaked body. He wants the pain of the icy water to quench the relentless burning inside him, but it does nothing. It just hurts. Pain cannot be soothed with more pain and hurt is not healed burying it. 

Back then, Liu Qingge did not understand why Shen Qingqiu sat at that sword mound everyday for three years. Now, as he washes the blood and sweat from his face, cleaning off the remnants of a fight he has fought and lost everyday for two years... he wishes he still did not understand. Pulling his hair from ponytail and washing it in the rapidly muddying water he wishes Shen Qingqiu had never made him understand. He wishes Shen Qingqiu did not destroy himself for that ungrateful beast and force him to understand, did not lock him in this endless cycle of unwinnable fights. 

A never ending vigil is held between him and the man who killed his only friend, his own sword mound for a person he will never see again. 

Leaning against the basin, his wet hair clings to his skin and the face in the mirror looks tormented and tired. Liu Qingge has never cared overly about his appearance but he thinks he looks worse then he used to, like you can see the boiling thing that's eating him from the inside out. Tension in his whole body that he cannot free himself from. 

This is always the hardest part of his vigil, when the rush of fighting is no longer there to drown out the beating of his own heart. It always hurts, there is no natural transition into silence. 

The sun sets and the moon rises, the stars gleam and none of it means anything because no matter how much space you hold for the dead; no matter how much you cannot understand the choices they made. No vigil can bring the dead back to life. No matter how long you wait or rage or fight, your dedication will forever be for no one but yourself. The dead will never know what the living do for them, nor can they know what the memory of them does to the living.

The floor creaks as Liu Qingge turns from the mirror, perching on the edge of the bed while he pulls his hair into a braid for sleep. He hates that he's trapped in this cycle, that he's not strong enough to pull himself from it. He hates that he cannot win, cannot stop that beast from defiling his friend's body. 

Liu Qingge wants his peace back, but something tells him he will never get it. Shen Qingqiu robbed him of his peace when he destroyed himself for that beast. Maybe he will find it again when he brings Shen Qingqiu’s body back to Cang Qiong, back to where it belongs. The thought should comfort him. Finally winning, finally saving him, but it's two years too late and Liu Qingge fears that once this vigil ends he'll just find a new one. Build his own sword mound to sit by day and night. What will he do when he cannot vent these feelings he does not understand on the only person who deserves to feel the full brunt of his anger? What will this loss do to him when he cannot hide from it anymore? When the world moves on from the man that was Shen Qingqiu but he cannot? He does not know. 

Laying back in the too soft bed Liu Qingge closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep. When the sun rises some hours later, he cannot say if he really slept or if he just drifted silently in that rolling ocean of hurt and rage but still, he gets up with the high sun in the sky. 

He fishes out a new set of robes from his qiankun pouch, stuffing the old soiled set back in while he does. He is running out of clean robes, which means he will have to return to Cang Qiong soon. He will have to face his fellow peak lords having failed again; will have to face Zhangmen-Shixiong's sad smile, Shang Qinghua’s poorly concealed pity,  Mu Qingfang’s suffocating concern. 

He cannot take their pleas for his health, cannot listen to them tell him that Shen Qingqiu would not want him to destroy himself like this. It makes the painful simmering under his skin turn into a roaring that he cannot control. He'll have to leave again–sooner than last time–maybe better to leave fast than to subject the rest of them to his twisted grief. Better to fight and lose, break and bruise himself beyond reason than lash out and inflict his grief on the others. 

He's made that mistake before, snapped at them, lashed out and said things he did not mean. The rush of it was overwhelming and the regret nearly choked him where he stood. He left the mountain before his broken ribs had mended and had not returned for months. 

He's only just finished dressing but the itch under his skin is already making him restless. He is granted no reprieve from this burning grief. After pulling his hair back, in the same high tail as always, Liu Qingge stalks out of the inn. 

As the sun beats down on his already burning skin, Liu Qingge pulls his sword from its sheath and mounts it without thought, heading back in the direction of Huan Hua Palace once more.

Chapter Text

Year Three: Bargaining - Yue Qingyuan

“Under no circumstances will Huan Hua Palace surrender the body of Xiu Ya Sword Shen Qingqiu to Cang Qiong Mountain. 

- Huan Hua Palace Master, Luo Binghe” 

Seventy-five. That is the number of requests, treaties, and politely worded demands Yue Qingyuan had written and rewritten and then re-rewritten so that no word was out of place on this specific issue in the past three years. Each request offered more and more concessions if only Luo Binghe would relinquish Shen Qingqiu’s body to be rightfully returned to Cang Qiong Mountain and given the proper funeral rites befitting a peak lord. Three years of begging and pleading to be allowed to grieve this loss properly. 

Yue Qingyuan flicks through the response letter from Huan Hua dully. He knew deep down that nothing would change with this new proposal. But hope is fickle like that, even when you think you've smothered every last bit of it. It creeps back into your heart, lying quietly where not even you can see it until it's too late and you are suddenly overwhelmed by the crushing pain of the hope you hadn’t known you'd started carrying again getting stomped into the ground. 

He wishes to be done with this already, to move on. The thought crosses his mind with a painful twist. A wave of guilt pours over him in a split second. He has no right to think like that, no right to move on. He knows this. He's known that he would never deserve freedom from the past, not since the day he let impulse triumph over caution. Since the darkness of Ling Xi Caves pressed down on his broken body, since he stood before the cold and charred remains of the Qiu Manor... since he stood face to face with the boy-turned-young man he thought long dead and beheld nothing but betrayal and hatred in his eyes.  

He sets the rejection aside, placing it at the edge of his workspace, where he can still see it. Later, he will put it in the drawer with all the others but for now, it will sit there at the edge of his vision, keeping him company, a finger in the wound keeping it from ever healing shut. A constant reminder of failure. The only penance he will ever be able to complete now that Xiao-Jiu is well and truly gone. 

Sometimes Yue Qingyuan feels that he's been grieving Xiao-Jiu longer than he ever truly knew him. Lost him more than he ever had him. It's shocking really, to learn that you can lose someone again and again without ever actually getting them back in the first place. 

He lost Xiao-Jiu when he left him the first time, then lost him once more when he finally managed to return, and although he did find the man himself once more at that Immortal Alliance Conference, it had felt more like losing him all over again. Again and again and again he lost him. Leaving, failing, finding, forgetting. Four lives, four deaths, four different kinds of grief and mourning. Never lifting, only compounding, layers upon layers that culminate at one final grand death. 

Even in true death, Xiao-Jiu will not let him move forward. Forever far away in the hands of the boy he had inexplicably mourned for three years over, who had betrayed him much like Yue Qingyuan had, who he had sacrificed his life for regardless of that fact.

The comparison pricks as harshly as it had the first time he'd made it. Luo Binghe, the demon boy, was more worthy of forgiveness in Xiao-Jiu’s mind than Yue Qingyuan could ever be. 

Even after the qi deviation, there had been a wall of some kind between them, a gap he could not bridge, as if even without knowing why, Xiao-Jiu could never bring himself to trust him again. His crimes are so great that not even forgetting everything that happened could allow Xiao-Jiu to let him back into his life in any true meaning of the word. In the way that Yue Qingyuan craved so deeply, but could not allow himself to even dream of. 

The sun moves through the sky inch by inch as paperwork and people flit in and out of his sight. Budget requests, complaints, trade treaties, there and then gone. Time ticks by agonizingly slowly, and yet he is surprised when a disciple knocks gently and startles him from his quiet work march. He looks down at his desk and is surprised to realize that he has completed a vast amount of work while locked in rumination.  

Quietly the disciple informs him that Liu Qingge has returned to the sect clearly worn out and injured and is currently being herded towards Qian Cao with much protest. 

Yue Qingyuan is surprised at this news; he had not anticipated his martial brother’s return so soon, considering his last parting with the sect— but he maintains his calm even smile as he nods to the disciple, affirmation and a dismissal both and stands from his desk as the disciple takes turns to leave.  

Yue Qingyuan does not have the energy to deal with Liu Qingges’ blunt brashness today but unfortunately, it seems he has no choice.

He uses the sword flight down to Qian Cao to try and recenter himself. Firm up the walls of his gentle sect leader mask. Pull back every frazzled thread of emotion and hide it carefully behind a gentle smile. He has just about managed it as he descends towards the medical complex of Qian Cao when a rough voice booms out through the courtyard. The sound scrapes over his skin so harshly he feels raw once more. 

He tries to center himself again quickly, but never gets the chance as Liu Qingge storms out of the main medical building followed by a harried looking Qian Cao disciple holding a broken splint in their hands and Mu Qingfang looking genuinely angry for once.

“Liu-Shixiong, you can't fight like this! You're going to get yourself killed!” 

Yue Qingyuan looks around and spots the disciple that had carried his summons earlier standing nervously beside him. 

“Shizhi, what's going on?”

The boy's eyes flick from him to Liu Qingge to Mu Qingfang and the disciple with the broken splint. “Ah, Sect Leader, from this one's understanding, Liu-Shibo has a leg injury of some kind that he is refusing to let Shizun treat.”

Yue Qingyuan turns his gaze back to the scene before him and examines his sect sibling with a new eye. He sees what the young disciple is talking about almost immediately; while to an untrained eye, Liu Qingge probably looks no different, any cultivator worth his salt would be able to catch the subtle way he is favoring his right leg. A serious injury for sure and yet, the man is refusing treatment? 

Yue Qingyuan is once again filled with worry for his martial sibling. Sure he has always been rather impulsive and bullheaded, but since Shen Qingqiu’s death it seems what was once just stubborn bullheadedness has morphed into a self-destructive free fall. 

“I DONT FUCKING NEED YOUR HELP! I'M FINE! KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME!” Liu Qingges voice booms through the courtyard once more. The poor disciple following him shrinks back on themself, Yue Qingyuan suppresses his own subconscious flinch at the sound. Even the oldest bravest of disciples would falter when yelled at by Cang Qiong’s War God, and while Qian Cao disciples are hardy. this one is still comparatively young and not prepared to withstand the full force of Liu Qingges misdirected anger. He looks to be on the verge of tears which means it is unfortunately time for Yue Qingyuan to step in. 

He puts on his most gentle placating voice as he steps smoothly between Liu Qingge and the young disciple. “Liu-Shidi, please calm yourself. What seems to be the issue here?” 

Liu Qingges attention snaps onto him with an intensity that feels like a physical blow. Years ago such intensity would have made him shrink and cower much like the disciple behind him. He doesn't though, he's grown now, and a sect leader, cowering is not an option anymore. So he clings to his placating mask with all his strength as he attempts to talk his martial sibling down from this newest ledge. 

He has lost count of how many times he's had to do this over the past three years; when he does actually manage it, it never seems to last for very long before Liu Shidi is worked up again, running off to throw his life and body against the impenetrable wall that is Luo Binghe. But more often than not he fails and bears the brunt of Liu Qingges anger as a result. Liu Qingge is lost so deeply in his grief that oftentimes not even his sister can pull him back from it much less Yue Qingyuan whom he believes holds much of the blame for what happened to Shen Qingqiu. He’s made that clear on numerous occasions. Though if anyone must take the hits of Liu-Shidi’s anger over the loss of Shen Qingqiu, then no one is more deserving than he himself.

He braces himself for what is to come as Liu Qingge’s angry gaze burns into him. ”I refuse to be confined in Qian Cao for six entire months,“ he growls. 

Mu Qingfang is suggesting six months of confinement? For a cultivator of Liu Qingge’s strength? Just how serious is this injury…? Dread and exhaustion begin to crawl over Yue Qingyuan, but he nods in what he hopes is an understanding manner. 

”Ah, yes Shidi, that is quite a long time to be confined. Especially for one such as yourself, but Mu-Shidi would not suggest something so long if he didn't consider it necessary. Please come back inside so we can discuss it properly?“

Liu Qingge’s intense gaze burns into him as he growls. “There is nothing to discuss.” 

His turn is sharp. Once again turning away to no doubt vanish for months on end, Liu Qingge visibly flinches as his weight comes down too hard on his injured leg. 

Yue Qingyuan speaks without thinking, “Liu-Shidi, please! Shen-Shidi would not wish for you to neglect yourself like this!” 

Liu Qingge freezes mid-step. So suddenly and fully that Yue Qingyuan instinctually braces himself for a blow. 

"Do not. Speak of him. To me" 

Yue Qingyuan tenses but soldiers on, they really can't afford for another peak lord to throw his life away for no reason. 

"Please, Liu-Shidi. I know you want him back as much as any of us, but it would hurt him to see you throw your life away so carelessly for him."

The words are barely out of his mouth before Liu Qingge is on him, gripping the front of his robes and all but shaking him like an angry child with a doll. 

"What makes you think you have any right to speak on what he would want?! You barely fucking knew him!!?" anger radiates from Liu Qingge as he yells. 

Yue Qingyuan is taken off guard by the sudden aggression. He grips Liu Qingges wrists on his ropes to keep himself steady.

Yue Qingyuan’s skin crawls at the contact, but Liu Qingge’s words rip at his carefully held mask, shreds at his carefully mastered calm. His already frayed nerves snap momentarily, as the angry words escape him before he can stop them “I knew him better than anyone else ever did!”

Liu Qingge looks at him like he’s lost his mind, and this time his anger is so overwhelming that he actually shakes Yue Qingyian as he yells. "He spent years hating you as much as anyone!? Even after the qi deviations you barely fucking spoke to each other!"

Liu Qingge’s words dig into Yue Qingyuans heart. The fight leaves him and allows him to regain some semblance of composure; he knows in his heart that Liu Qingge is right. He had not really known the man named Shen Qingqiu. Xiao-Jiu had died a long time ago, and Shen jiu had never let him get close enough to know Shen Qingqiu or what he would have wanted.

He cannot allow the Sect to lose another peak lord so soon though.

"Liu-Shidi! Calm yourself!" Yue Qingyuan’s voice booms. Liu Qingge looks at him like a wild animal, before stiffly letting go of his robes. 

Yue Qingyuan squashes the tremor that threatens to taint his voice mercilessly, and begins.

"Liu-Shidi, you are not the only one grieving Shen Qingqiu’s loss. Your grief does not give the leave to act with such disrespect towards your sect siblings, and especially not your Sect Leader. You are out of line; I cared about Qingqiu-Shidi more than you know, and I do not appreciate you speaking on things you possess no knowledge of." 

Liu Qingge's face creases with disbelief as if he can barely stomach looking at Yue Qingyuan. 

"You say you care about so much. And yet you do nothing to get him back from that beast?!”

“I am doing everything in my power to have his body returned to us. Some of us are not given leave to brute force our way through every conflict. Some of us must use diplomacy.” Yue Qingyuan levels Liu Qingge with a cold flat unimpressed stare. 

He is much too close to actually losing his temper for his liking, but Liu Qingge will not let up. 

“ Diplomacy ?! It’s been three fucking years. Three years of that demon desecrating Shen Qingqiu’s corpse and you still insist that we should be diplomatic?!!” Liu Qingge makes a gesture like he wants to grab Yue Qingyuan again but stops himself. Instead, he spits his next words out with vitriolic disdain. “First you let them imprison him on nothing but rumors, and now you let that beast defile his corpse for years—all for your diplomacy.” 

The implication makes him sick. He has never fully been able to look the truth of what Luo Binghe is rumored to have done to his old friend's body in the eye. The thought makes his skin crawl but he cannot reckon with the whole of it.

He thinks considering it to the full extent of what it implies will break what semblance of stability he has left. 

“Liu Shidi—” he tries, but Liu Qingge cuts him off.

 “You could have ended this for good at any point, but you continue to refuse to do anything of meaning. And you have the gall to still try to insist that you cared for him!” 

Yue Qingyuan reaches for anything he can say, any explanation he can make to get Liu Qingge to understand. He cannot find any; the fact that it has been three years and he has not made an ounce of progress in recovering Shen Qingqiu’s body from the grips of Luo Binghe is just one more thing in the long list of ways that Yue Qingyuan has failed and continues to fail Xiao-Jiu. He has no good rebuttal for this, all he can think to do is deflect away from the sickening thought. 

“Please Shidi, we cannot afford to lose you too. Not if we want to have any hope of recovering Shen Qingqiu from... that place. Let Mu-Shidi treat you at least. Perhaps we can find a compromise for how long you need to stay in recovery.”

 He knows that Liu Qingge sees through the deflection. but he can see the younger man’s resolve to storm away begin to falter. His injury must truly be severe, and as much as he insists he is fine, the Bai Zhan War Lord knows the danger and foolishness of choosing to fight while grievously injured when you have a choice not to. 

“Liu-shimei would surely be heartbroken to lose you too after all that has occurred.” 

Anger flares in Liu Qingge’s eyes once more, but it is weaker, doused partially by the reminder of his little sister. She may not rely on him as much as she did when they were younger, but she has still used every opportunity she had over the last three years to make it painfully clear to him that she would never forgive him if he let his grief get him killed.

Liu Qingge says nothing for a long moment. The anger radiating off him was very pointedly directed at Yue Qingyuan. But eventually, he lets out a low growl of frustration and stalks past Yue Qingyuan, back toward the medical building. 

“I will stay for two months,” is all he says as he passes by Mu Qingfang. The man seems to age ten years at that one sentence, muttering to himself that two months is not nearly enough time to heal such an injury, but he bows his thanks to Yue Qingyuan and turns to follow Liu Qingge back into the medical center with no other comment.

 They have all done this song and dance before, after all. Pushing will only make it worse. Mu Qingfang knows this as does Yue Qingyuan. 

The sun is low in the sky as the courtyard clears slowly, and Yue Qingyuan is left alone with only Liu Qingge’s accusations and his own guilt for company. He leaves as well, but the accusations still dog him all the way back to Qiong Ding. The guilt is a blanket draped over his shoulders, weighing him down heavier than ever before as he returns to his workspace. 

The setting sun has pulled the shadows from the depths of the room, the night pearls alone are not enough to push back the encroaching night. There on the corner of the desk sits the letter from Huan Hua, right where he left it, another item poised so perfectly to send a stab of guilt through him. This time at least, it was set by his own hand. 

The ink of the letter stares up at him, a burning reminder of every way he has failed at every moment in his life that it mattered most. How he is still failing, failing because he cannot look the truth in the eye, failing because he cannot bring himself to act. To make a choice or live with the consequences of the choices he has already made. 

Yue Qingyuan walks over to his desk and picks up the rejection letter, reading through it once, twice, thrice more, taking in each carefully written character and burying them so deep into his heart it begins to physically hurt. 

Perhaps if he had made another choice, perhaps if he had not allowed his fear of the past to color his actions of the present. Maybe Shen Qingqiu would still be here today. Maybe Shang Qinghua would not have retreated back into his skittery shell, maybe Liu Qingge would not be spiraling into self-destruction, maybe Qing Jing would not feel like a graveyard full of disciples trapped in a perpetual state of mourning, and well, maybe Qi-ge would never have lost Xiao-Jiu in the first place.

Yue Qingyuan carries the letter with him to a cabinet in the far corner of the room and lays it to rest in a small nondescript drawer stacked full of other letters. Every single letter he has received from Huan Hua Palace in the last three years, preserved carefully out of sight. 

At some point since he returned the sun had set completely, the shadows stretched out, blanketing every inch of the room, the soft golden glow of the night pearl on his desk the last bastion of light in the whole room.

He is exhausted, the weight of his entire life is pressing down upon his shoulders, heavy as ever, as he sinks down to sit at his desk. The night stretches out before him, heavy and endless as he pulls out his ink and brush and begins to draft yet one more letter, one more plea to Huan Hua palace and Luo Binghe. 

Let it never be said that Yue Qingyuan was not amongst his harshest of judges and not the most dedicated in his penance. 

Chapter Text

Year Four: Depression - Ming Fan

In the years after his Shizun's death Ming Fan became almost a ghost of himself.

There is something to be said about what watching the person he looks up to the most in his life destroy themselves for someone else does to a young man. Someone wholly ungrateful for that life given up for them.

In the heroic tales, when a young man watches his teacher die unjustly at the hand of a fellow disciple, the young man is filled with grief and righteous anger. He spends years training, gaining power and fame, and he kills the beast that took from him what it had no right to take.

He avenges his beloved teacher and sets right the scales of justice.

This is not a heroic tale.

When His Shizun died, Ming Fan fell to his knees in anguish and did not stand back up.

There was anger, yes. Anger at Luo Binghe for betraying their Shizun. Anger at the other Peak Lords, for not protecting his Shizun. Anger at himself, for not being strong enough to stop Luo Binghe.

But it was not righteous anger.

It did not move mountains.

It did not change the world or set the scales right.

It choked him.

It drowned him with such weight that he could do nothing but fall to his knees and sob like child.

Ming Fan's grief was not righteous.

It didn't drive him forward unto action.

it clawed at him,

It Gripped him in place.

It Dragged him down.

Dragged him deep into an abyss. Where the dark pressed in on him and the sun could not find him.

At the worst of it, Ning Yingying would find him passed out on the floor of his room, having cried himself sick.

He had no appetite, no strength to fulfill his duties as head disciple.

At first, Ning-shimei would try to cajole him out of his heartbreak. Would beg and plead that Shizun wouldn't want to see him waste away like this.

She learned very quickly that such reminders only made the tears start up once more.

Ming Fan had never cried this much before; he didn't know people could cry this much. Crying was exhausting. Everything he saw, every flash of green, every ink filled brush stroke brought the tears crashing down on him. A weight so strong he could do nothing but let himself be swept along in the savage current of his own grief.

The first few years after his Shizun’s death are a blur. Four years of life lost. Reduced down to only a handful of still frames in his mind. He doesn't remember when the grief began to transform from a giant heavy animal that lived in his chest and pinned him in place, to a thick winter cloak that hung over his shoulders as he drifted through the motions of his life.

Sometimes his cloak weighs nothing at all and he can barley tell it's there. Oftentimes it sits heavy on his shoulders and the weight is a constant companion as he carries out his duties as head disciple.

Today, though. Today the morning sunlight streams into his window and falls over his skin and its warmth does not reach him. Today his cloak has become that animal once more and crawled back into his chest.

The light makes his head pound but he cannot muster up the effort to roll away from it. He is weighed down. Ming Fan runs the rough linen of his blankets between two fingers. Tries to let the buzzed sensation along the pads of his fingers ground him in the here and the now like Ning-shimei taught him. It only helps so much.

Ming Fan doesn't know how long he stays there, curled on his side in bed running the blanket through his fingers. The sun inches higher into the sky and the light drifts from his eyes at some point. He thinks he falls back asleep at some point, but he cant tell for sure. He's not sure he even woke up in the first place.

"Ming Fan?" a soft knock before his door creaks open and the quite voice washes over him. Ming Fan doesn't move—he wants to, he doesn't want to worry is Ning Yingying more then he already has—but he can't work up the strength. Can't push the weight off his chest long enough to face her.

After a long moment of nothing, a gentle hand settles onto his shoulder. "Shixiong, It's late. You need to get up. Breakfast is going to be over soon."

Ming Fan still can't raise his gaze to meet hers. He hates himself a little, he thinks. For making her worry, for making her take care of him. For not being strong enough to take care of himself. He's the older one; he should be the one taking care of her. It should be her crying on his shoulder, not the other way around.

Ning Yingying has always been the stronger of the two of them. The more self-assured, the more confident. He wonders why she even bothers with him in the first place.

A hand closes over his, stopping him from running his hands over the rough sheets, breaking the trace. Fingers intertwine with his, and then he is being pulled up. He doesn't fight her, not anymore. Sitting up like this lets his gaze land on her shoulder; he doesn't raise his head to meet hers'.

He doesn't want to see the way worry is digging new lines into her soft face. Doesn't want to add more guilt to his endless well of grief.

"You need to eat something. Can you get dressed?" Ning Yingying is using that soft cajoling voice she uses for the youngest shidi. "And then we'll go down to the mess hall together, okay?"

It makes what's left of his tattered pride ache, but he only rubs his face with his free hand and nods. She means well.

Her face splits into a blinding smile when he does, squeezing his hand in hers.

The smile makes the weight on his chest lighten ever so slightly, and he squeezes her back. The ghost of a smile on his lips, "Okay. Lets go."

The mess hall is mostly empty by the time they arrive, the prepared breakfast mostly picked clean. At Ning Yingying's urging, Ming Fan grabs misshapen scallion pancakes and two disconcertingly dry marbled eggs for himself. Just enough enough food to sate his Shimei's worrying glances. Ning Yingying grabs the remaining scallion pancake, along with swiping a pot of over brewed tea and two cups.

Ming Fan trails behind her as she finds them a table, settling into the seat across from her quietly. Ning Yingying pours them tea. The Scallion Pancakes are long cooled, too chewy to be pleasant, but they balance the dry texture of the eggs enough to keep him from choking.

He eats slowly, taking small deliberate bites under his Shimei's watchful eye, even as his stomach roils in protest. He washes down the unpleasant flavors with bitter tea—in a vain hope to quell his growing nausea from forcing food into a body that hates the very idea.

Neither of them speak again until his plate is picked through; half an egg and one of the the scallion pancakes are ripped into little pieces and piled on the side of his plate when he finally gives up.

Shizun would scold him for not eating properly.

Ming Fan tells himself that he cannot stand the texture enough to eat more, but the bitter nausea tells the truth of an exhausted mind that would shun even the most inviting of delicacies.

Ning Yingying sets her cup down carefully; she has something to say to him, but he can tell from the way she's watching him like he's made of glass that she's afraid whatever it is will break him.

"Zhangman-shibo and Shang-shishu have requested my presence for the next couple of days. To help with some of Qing Jing's paperwork." She fidgets with the cup as she speaks. "I'm not sure how long it's going to be—probably at least a week—if not more of running back and forth between here and Qiong Ding."

Ming Fan blinks, mouth opening and closing in quick succession as he tries to come up with the proper words.

"That's, that's a very big honor, Ning-shimei," he forces himself to smile for her, to show that he's happy for her. He is, he is happy for her, of course.

Ning Yingying is probably the most competent disciple left on Qing Jing these days. She deserves this recognition.

Still, he feels guilty.

Guilty that she has to be the competent one, guilty that he wasn't strong enough to keep up the burden of work that should have fallen on him after Shizun's death as the older of them, as the former head disciple.

He's a failure in every sense of the word.

Ning Yingying smiles nervously, "It is, yes… but, uh, it means I need to assign some of my regular duties to others for the time being."

Ming Fan nods solemnly, Helping with this is the least he can do for his Shimei after everything she's done for him. "I can help, what do you need?"

"Hah, well, um, Li-shixiong already agreed to help the younger disciples with their studies, and he said his partner would be willing to run morning drills and martial practices for the time being."

Ming Fan raises a brow her words. Li-shidi is rather unsocial, preferring books and his studies over other people. Ming Fan is a bit surprised that he ever agreed to help. As for Li Liangxi's partner… part of Ming Fan balks at the idea of outsourcing their martial training to a Bai Zhan disciple, but from what he knows of Zhu Xiaojian, he's less of a brute than most of them. Probably thanks to the time he spent on Qing Jing before moving to Bai Zhan, Ming Fan muses.

Ning Yingying fidgets. "I was um, hoping you could do me a favor and clean up the bamboo house. I know you really don't like going up there, and normally I wouldn't ask and just leave it till I have more free time but it's almost the anniversary and I really wanted to get it cleaned up before the anniversary and—"

And the words rush out of her all at once, catching herself and forcing her to slow down only at the last moment.

"And. I don't really trust anyone else with this."

Her voice softens as she says it, averting her eyes from his.

Ming Fan swallows dryly. He hasn't been inside the bamboo house since before Shizun died. He barely goes near that area of Qing Jing if he can help it. Just the sound of the Bamboo forest is enough to make him feel like he's drowning all over again.

His body rejects the idea, cold seeping into his joints at just the thought. Ning Yingying holds herself completely still aside from the subtle way she plays with the ring on her hand.

The ring had been a gift from Shizun when she was fifteen, a simple silver thing comprised of two bands stacked in just the right way to allow the top band to spin freely with a only a bit of force. The perfect thing for her to use to calm her ever moving hands and focus her perpetually scattered mind.

"Right, of course. I can handle it Shimei, don't worry," he squeezes out a confidence that he does not feel.

Ning Yingying gives him a small relieved smile, "Thank you, A-Fan."

Ming Fan bids his Ning Yingying a quiet goodbye as they step out of the mess hall together. She smiles and thanks him once more before heading towards the rainbow bridge leading to Qiong Ding. Ming Fan fidgets with the key in his hand, eyes landing on the winding path, leading up the steep hill deep into the bamboo forest.

The familiar walk to the bamboo house from the mess hall takes barely a ke, but it still feels like the longest journey of Ming Fan's life.

The place as barely changed at all in four years. Sunlight streams through the towering bamboo forest, and every step he takes feels heavier than the last.

When Ming Fan reaches the door, he instinctively raises a hand to knock before catching himself. Habit takes over where understanding fails.

The pit in his stomach returns with a vengeance.

There is no reason to knock, no matter how much he feels like he has too. Shizun will not appear behind the door when he does.

He will not open the door and greet him with a gentle smile while asking him what he can help him with. There's no point in knocking.

Ming Fan lets out a heavy sigh before fitting the worn metal key into the lock. The lock clicks once, twice before releasing. The door swings open without resistance, still in good shape despite the prolonged disuse.

All that greets him an empty house; cool morning sun streaming in through the large windows, keeping the otherwise unlit front room from being too dark, but not enough light to believe that anyone might actually reside here.

The floor is coated in a thick layer of dust; footprints follow him deeper inside the silent house.

Being here feels wrong, like every new footprint is a trespass through some long forgotten ancestral hall. Every moment of him being in this house a desecration of a space that should stay undisturbed.

The lump in Ming Fan's throat grows worse.

He steels himself against the tide trying to pull him under, and makes his way to the old storage closet where Shizun always kept the cleaning supplies.

It's both painfully similar and horribly different from the last time he looked in there. Back before that traitor Luo Binghe took over as head disciple. Back when Ming Fan's worst pain was the pain of losing his mentor's ultimate favor for the scrawny rat of a boy the man had despised barely an year earlier.

All the supplies are still there.

They've been moved though. Rearranged to fit a different person's preferences. A new system replacing the old.

He breaths out, quickly tying his sleeves back out of the way before grabbing the duster and getting to work.

Ning Yingying has done good work over the last four years. Despite the disuse, the Bamboo house is still in very good shape. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs cling to all the furniture, but the space is still cared for.

Ming Fan's heart aches at the thought of his little shimei coming here alone every year, keeping this haunted place perfectly preserved for a man that will never come home to see it.

He passes the door to the side room without looking. Even in tombs of haunted memories, there are some places too cursed to disturb. No one has stepped foot in that room since the Immortal Alliance Conference. Not even Ning Yingying. The door is locked up tight. Even with Shizun gone, no one wants to open it and let out those particular memories. Wants to stir the living ghosts of betrayed grief.

Ming fan lets himself fall back into old muscle memory. The hours tick by slowly as he works his way through each and every room, meticulously wiping clean the past year of their Shizun's absence, until the room shines once more. Until the Ghosts are sent away once more, leaving only a quiet comfortable home.

The kind of quiet that leaves you expecting, for the owner to walk through the door at any minute carrying an armful of students' papers in need of grading.

He leaves Shizun's work room for the very end.

It's worse off than the rest of the house. The dust is thicker, the cobwebs heavier, old papers laying scattered over the low desk, and sun bleached almost beyond legibility. It seems even Ning Yingying has not been able to bring herself to touch this particular room over the last 4 years.

Ming Fan decides to leave the desk for last.

He starts by cleaning out all the cobwebs. They stick to the duster in large clumps, and he has to stop multiple times to clean off the duster when it gets too heavy.

Then the dust. It's so thick every pass of the cloth sets up a thick wave that makes Ming Fan's nose itch. He manages, after a while.

Wiping each and every book, each and every fan down until they all but sparkle.

Next the fabrics. He pulls everything down, taking the few pillows from the couch, the soft seats as well, and dragging them outside.

Beating all that dust from them makes his arms burn.

After hanging everything up to air out, Ming Fan grants himself a break. Grabbing himself a drink from the well out back, he settles down on the ground, back pressed against the cool stone.

The wind blows through the towering bamboo, the forest singing out that same low hollow song it always does. For the first time in years the song doesn't hurt, doesn't feel like drowning on dry land. The warm sun streams through the forest leaves. The breeze feels nice against his work-warmed skin.

Ming Fan lets himself breath.

When the moment ends, Ming Fan feels more himself then he has in four years.

He makes his way back inside. The desk in the corner is a weight on his mind as he gets to work on the floors. The water is a dark grey by the time he finishes, years of abandonment suspended in dust and water. He pours it out into the dirt beside the well, letting it seep back into the earth for good.

The fabrics are brought back inside, rehung and replaced. Once everything is back exactly where it belongs, a perfect snapshot of what it was the last time someone stepped into this room, Ming Fan turns his gaze to the low desk.

Settling himself on the soft cushion he begins to sort through the scattered papers. Old budget reports, repair requests, a handful of ungraded papers — assignments long forgotten about by the people who wrote them, A dusty bestiary left open with Shizun's elegant handwriting decorating the margins, and finally — much to Ming Fan's surprise — tucked under everything else, a cheap yellow paged romance novel. Shizun's hand writing is scattered though this one too, but it's less neat and the comments are not at all scholarly.

Instead, the inside of the book is scribbled with page after page of biting critiques of everything under the sun, from the main character's description to the name of the towns featured.

Ming Fan's heart clenches as he pages though the worn book. Gaining access to whole new side of his Shizun even all these years later…

He can hear Shen Qingqiu's scathing voice in every comment, every harsh critique. Vulgar words he didn't even know that his Shizun could say written out in that ever familiar script...

The Choking feeling is back.

Tears sting at his eyes, but he forces them back. Carefully he tucks the book into his sleave. A selfish choice maybe, but he can't bring himself to let this new piece of Shizun go.

His hands shake as he sorts through the last of the papers. First into piles, then beginning to stow everything away where it belongs.

Luckily Shen Qingqiu never changed how he organizes his drawers. Ming fan still knows where everything belongs.

He pulls open the drawer Shen Qingqiu always stored their assignments in, only to stop dead. There, on top of everything else is a small pile of graded assignments; evidently Shizun had been planning on handing them back after he returned from Jinlan city.

He'd never gotten the chance.

What makes Ming Fan pause is not the assignments in and of themselves. Instead it's the name scrawled out on the corner of the assignment at the very top of the pile.

"明帆"

His name, in his own familiar handwriting.

Hands shaking, he stows the other papers away before picking up the long forgotten assignment. He had been so proud of this at the time, had been so excited to get it back from Shizun.

After Shen Qingqiu died, Ming Fan had not even thought about it. Never even considered that Shizun had finished grading it before his death.

The tide comes rushing in once more, battering at him with more force than it had in months. Trying to drag him back under once more. His breath hitches as the tears threaten to fall again.

The thing is that, for a moment he can do it. Can keep himself afloat in the ocean of grief as he pages through the booklet; after all these years, surely he's strong enough.

Ming Fan makes his way through the booklet slowly.

The sun begins to dip down in the sky as he reads. Reabsorbing every word he wrote, by the time he reaches the end his eyes are damp.

The work room is cast in deep shadows when he reaches the final page. A piece of parchment is tucked carefully against the back cover as always. Ming Fan runs a shaking hand over it, and the wave washes over him one final time as he reads his Shizun's last words to him though blurry eyes.

"Excellently written, Ming Fan. Your understanding of military strategy and battle tactics is very impressive, You have a real talent for it. This is some of your best work to date. You have a very bright future ahead of you."

His back breaks against the crashing waves and he is pulled under once more. He's choking on his own grief once more.

"You have a very bright future ahead of you."

Ming Fan lets out a pained gasp, holding onto the page like a final lifeline in a raging storm. Tears fall heavy on his cheeks as he struggles to breath through the weight of these final words.

A bright future—Ming Fan doesn't feel strong enough for this bright future Shen Qingqiu saw in him all those years ago. Not when he's still here, still crying like a child over the death of his mentor. Not when he needs his Shimei to come and bully him into eating half the time.

Ming Fan curls in on himself, stifling his breathless crying as he drowns himself once more.

He doesn't know how long he has been crying for when Ning Yingying comes to find him. A while, he thinks. The workroom is dark now, no sunlight left to cast shadows along the floors or up the walls.

"…Ming-shixiong?"

Her voice is tinged with worry.

Ming Fan feels a hand rest gently against his back, running soothing circles over his cloths automatically. He tries to pull himself together, to keep from worrying her anymore, but he can't catch his breath long enough to respond.

"A-Fan, what happened?" Ning Yingying coaxes.

The too familiar name cracks what little resolve of propriety Ming Fan has left. He sniffles a little before pushing the old booklet towards her. Still open to Shizun's final message.

"Oh, A-Fan…" her voice goes impossible soft, imbued her own familiar grief. She slips the assignment into her own sleeve. "Come on, it's late. Lets get you to bed."

Ming Fan wipes his eyes quickly before nodding. He takes her proffered hand. Lets her pull him up to standing.

He doesn't let go while they walk back to the dorms, and she doesn't comment. When they make it back to his room, he wordlessly slips behind the changing screen. Unhurriedly changes into his sleeping robes, trying to ignore how his head pounds with every movement.

When he steps out from behind the changing screen, Ning Yingying is sitting on his bed wearing a too big sleeping robe stolen from his wardrobe. She scoots over to give him room and he crawls into bed.

He doesn't comment when she lays down too, curling up against him.

Only wraps his arm around her, tucking his face against her neck before falling into a deep dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Year Five: Acceptance - Ning Yingying

"Step one, two. Step one, two. Step one, two. Switch!"

The clack of twenty polished wood swords colliding in near perfect time follows the sharp calls.

"Step one, two. Step one, two. Step one, two. Again!"

Ning Yingying's voice rings out loud and clear above the sword songs. She keeps time as she walks the drill lines, a critical eye on everyone's forms.

"Step one, two—" Voice unwavering, she pauses her rounds to push one young boy's foot back into form."

"Step one, two—" To raise a girls arm back to the proper guard position.

"Step one, two—" Her cadence is strong and steady as the young shidi and shimei work.

Ming Fan walks the opposite side of the the drill lines. His voice does not accompany hers' in keeping time; his stops are longer, stooping down next to the disciples that struggle more.

"Switch!" Ning Yingying's voice rings out again as he guides a struggling Shidi through the forms, not moving on until the young boy can keep up with the timing.

"Step one, two. Step one, two. Step one, two. Again!"

They circle each other like a dance: her leading voice clean and sharp, his following hands gently and steadying.

"—one, two. Switch!" Ming Fan catches her eye as they pass each other. He shoots her an encouraging smiling that she returns in the pause between drills.

"—Again!"

The sun crawls thought the sky slowly.

Ning Yingying stops them on occasion to rotate form's before the drill song picks up once again.

By the time the bell rings for morning break, the sun is beating down on her back, and even the best disciples are lagging behind the time. She bring the group to a stop. Twenty small well-worked faces stare up at her, waiting impatiently to be released.

"Very good work today," she says with a smile. "Everyone dismissed. Put your practice weapons away and go get yourselves lunch."

With that, the gaggle of hungry twelve to fourteen year olds disperse like a den of rabbits, all rushing to put their wooden swords away and make it to the mess hall as fast as their little legs can carry them.

Ning Yingying giggles to herself as she watches Ming Fan wrangle and drag back a handful of older Shidi who had attempted to escape to the mess hall without putting away their equipment. They wilt under his scolding almost Immediately, trudging over to pick up the discarded practice weapons and stow them back where they belong.

Ning Yingying turns to gather her own stuff when a small voice sounds from behind her.

"Uhm, excuse me… Shizun…?"

Even after five years the title still startles her a little, make her want to look over her shoulder to see the ethereal pale green form of Shen Qingqiu standing behind her, just out of sight. She's managed to stop actually looking, at least, even if the urge might never fully go away.

She does her best to stop the younger disciples from calling her such things. Really, even Laoshi felt like too much when she'd always been Ning-shijie. Even though those honorifics don't make her chest ache so badly she feels she might suffocate on grief alone anymore, she still corrects them five years later.

Even if some are more stubborn than others. "Who?"

The boy blushes deeply, casting his head down, abashed. "Sorry— Uhm, Excuse me, Da-Shijie…"

Turning around, she flicks her gaze down to one of the students, a young boy—maybe fourteen—with bright, knowing eyes and silky black hair pulled half up.

She smiles down at him sweetly. "Yes Jia Yuan, how might this Shijie help you?"

"Um, this one is having trouble getting the second set of sword forms right.. this Disciple was wondering if, maybe, Da-Shijie would be willing to help him with them?"

Jia Yuan can't quite meet her eyes as he asks, fidgeting restlessly as he speaks.

Ning Yingying sighs a little internally. She'd been really looking forward to her own lunch but… her soft heart melts at that bashfully face.

She nods her agreement. "Sure, this Shijie has some time. Go grab your practice sword."

She goes to grab a wooden sword for herself and Ming fan gives her a knowing look as she passes him. She rolls her eyes at him, making sure he sees before returning to the sparring area with Jia Yuan.

Ning Yingying holds her practice weapon in a loose guard in front of her. "Show me your forms."

Jia Yuan takes his stance; Ning Yingying notes a slight tremor in his sword hand. He moves through the forms with textbook accuracy, but his stance is too wide for his frame and swings too stiff.

"Move your feet in closer together," she instructs, pushing his foot in with hers. "Loosen up your shoulders—shidi's guard is going to shatter like glass if you're that stiff in combat." She moves behind him, setting her hands over the boy's shoulders, trying to force fluidity into his movements, but her touch makes his face turn bright red and his shoulders hike up to his ears. Ning Yingying suppresses a chuckle, stepping back.

"Da-Shijie—?"

"Don't worry, let's try it this way instead." She raises her guard, "I will strike, you defend. Remember to keep your shoulders braced—but don't let them lock up."

Jia Yuan frowns in thought, miming small swings for a moment before nodding. As soon as he takes his stance, Ning Yingying strikes out with the first form in the drill.

Her blow lands directly along the center of Jia Yuan's guard. She uses maybe a tenth of her strength, yet Jia Yuan's guard breaks and he falls backwards to the ground as she predicted.

"You're holding yourself too rigidly still. Shidi is focused on literal precision, not practical precision. Proper form important, but it can only take you so far without the will to back it up."

"Try again," Ning Yingying finishes, pulling the boy back to his feet—though maybe with a bit too much power—as he ends up overshooting his balance, and falling into her with enough force that he has to wrap his arms around her waist to keep from hitting the ground again.

He pulls himself back, a bashful look on his face. "Sorry, Da-Shijie."

Ning Yingying can't help but want to coo over that sad little face he gives her. Luckily, she has some restraint, so she just gives him an indulgent smile instead. "It's alright, just be careful."

Before she even registers what she's doing, her hand comes down on the top of his head for two soft pats that make the young boy's eyes light up like a million little stars.

"I will, Da-Shijie! I promise!"Jia Yuan scrambles back into position, guard raised as Ning Yingying processes what she had just done.

She stares at her still raised hand, at the layered pale green sleeve of her robes resting lightly on her wrist. A warm familiar feeling crashes down over her heart, and for a moment the world sharpens into such aching clarity that Ning Yingying thinks time itself must have stopped.

Then, just like that, the moment ends.

The world turns again; Ning Yingying raises her wooden sword and strikes out at Jia Yuan's guard once more. This time when her strike connects, he doesn't fall—only stumbles back a little. He recovers quickly, shaking himself off and resuming his stance without a word. Ning Yingying raises a brow at him and he nods. She strikes out again, and again, again.

She's holding back quite a lot, but still, each strike she lands Jia Yuan meets with growing confidence. Less stumbles, no falls.

Again and again, Ning Yingying slashes forward, and again and again, Jia Yuan's guard holds.

They spar like this for nearly a quarter shichen. Ning Yingying does not relent even as the younger boy begins to lag. The sun beats down on them, and Ning Yingying can see Ming Fan watching amused from the sidelines.

As Jia Yuan begins to reach the limit of his stamina, Ning Yingying strikes out one final time. His guard buckles and then breaks, but this time from pure exhaustion instead of rigid form. His knees bend and the training sword falls from his hand as he falls forward into her. Ning Yingying catches him easily, holding him up till he gets his legs back under him.

He pulls back, still leaning into her hold, a sour look on his youthful face. "I failed again."

Ning Yingying smiles softly, patting his head once more. "You didn't fail. You got the form down well. Shidi just hit his limit. Next time we do drills, you'll remember what it feels like."

Ning Yingying lets go of his shoulders, confidant that he won't immediately tumble to the ground without her support. "I think that's enough for today? You should go wash up before your next class."

A thoughtful look crosses the boy's face before he nods, pulling away from Ning Yingying and stooping down to pick up the fallen sword.

Jia Yuan bows deeply to her, face flushed from exertion and perhaps a little embarrassment. "Thank you for the lesson, Da-Shijie. This one will continue to study his forms as best he can."

With that, he runs off towards the ringing bell calling out the end of the lunch period. He makes sure to stop and put his practice weapon away properly before disappearing though the gates of the training grounds.

Ning Yingying smiles indulgently after him, that strange nostalgia washing over her like the gentle waves lapping at a lake shore. Ming Fang comes up behind her, slipping his arm around her waist loosely. She leans into his touch automatically, all the stress from running the lesson ebbing away in the quiet.

"You know he definitely has a crush on you right?"

Ning Yingying snorts loudly at the comment.

"I'm serious! You saw the way he kept falling into your arms? Classic crushing on your pretty senior behaviour!" Ming fang says, handing her a water-skin.

Ning Yingying takes the water from him, the fresh sun warmed flavor a balm on her overworked throat. "Oh. and you would know all about that, would you?"

"Of course I would." Ming Fan retorts, "I had to watch more then enough of it back with Shizun and— and you- know-who." his voice falls off a little at then end, a flicker of the grief they both share in his eyes, For their Shizun, and maybe even for their lost shidi.

"Yeah, well, at least I'm not as oblivious as Shizun was." She giggles, taking another sip of water.

"Maybe not, but you're just as indulgent." He pulls her in closer with a squeeze, tucking his chin over her shoulder as she laughs. "And just as stunning in Qing Jing green, if I do say myself."

"Do you now?"

"I do," he hums, pressing his face into her neck.

"Who am I to argue with my seniors?" she sighs dramatically, leaning her head into him.

Silence falls over the pair as a cool breeze rushes though the bamboo forest, cutting the sun's warmth pleasantly. Ning Yingying lets herself bask in the beautiful afternoon weather, her eyes falling shut.

They stay there for a while, enjoying each others' company without the hyper, chattering voices of the younger disciples, or the rowdy calls of the older ones. It's quiet, yes, but it's peaceful too. Happy even, the gloom that had hovered over Qing Jing for years having dissipated into something more akin to wistful acceptance than the heart wrenching grief it had been for so long.

"He'd be proud of you, you know?"

"You really think so?" she asks, swaying into him slightly.

"I know so." Ming Fan insists, letting himself sway with her. "You've done so much. You stepped into his shoes when no one else had the strength to. Hells, you did more to help then the other Peak Lords managed in as much time. He'd be very proud."

Ning Yingying sighs, "I hope so."

Ming Fan presses a kiss to her temple, giving her waist a little squeeze before pulling back. "Come on, the kitchens should be pretty empty by now. Let's go get some food."

"Gods, yes please. I'm starving."

Ming Fan laughs at her enthusiasm, deep and without restraint. The sound makes her heart soar just like it always does. Ning Yingying takes his hand in her own and begins dragging him off towards the kitchens.

They make it to the kitchens without issue, all the children stowed away in their various classrooms. Just as they're about to slip inside back entrance a disciple in Qiong Ding grey comes flying over the hills, flagging them down. The young woman all but crashes to a halt in front of them, moving so fast that Ning Yingying has to catch her to keep her from ramming into the kitchen door.

"Shijie! What's going on?! Are you okay!?"

The girl pants winded from the flight. Ming Fan hands her the last of their water, and she downs it in an instant, still leaning heavily against Ning Yingying.

"It's— It's Luo Binghe! He's he's attacking the Sect—We're under siege!"

"He's what!?" Ming Fan's angered voice rings out along with Ning Yingying confused shout. They exchange looks quickly, a silent conversation that takes barely an instant before they agree on what needs to be done.

After helping the Qiong Ding disciple into the mess hall and making sure she has enough water while she recovers, they slip back outside.

Ming Fan gives Ning Yingying's hand a tight squeeze as she mounts her sword. She returns the gesture with a tight smile. She sees him wait for a moment, watching her as she flies off, before mounting his own sword and racing towards the the classrooms.

The wind whips against her face as Ning Yingying flies through the peaks at top speed, mien hard and pale, green robes lashing around her.

The faces of her students flash in her mind as she races to meet her old Shidi—to fight him if she must. To protect her friends, her students, her peak till the last.

Fin~