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Chapter Text

The sect had grown quiet. The gentle rustle of the bamboo forest surrounding Qing Jing Peak carried the only sound as Shen Qingqiu—no, Shen Jiu—carefully placed the finishing touches on the letter he intended to leave behind. His usually impeccable calligraphy was uneven, the strokes more hurried than he would ever have allowed in any other situation.  

But tonight, he didn’t care about appearances. Tonight, he cared only for freedom.  

He set the brush down, staring at the characters etched onto the parchment.  

“Do not look for me.  

Qing Jing Peak can thrive without me.  

Live well.”

Short. Simple. Detached. Just like how he wanted to sever himself from this miserable life.  

For years, Shen Qingqiu had cultivated the image of an untouchable peak lord, calm and elegant, as if unshaken by the chaos of the sect or the disdain of his so-called peers. But Shen Jiu knew better. The sneering faces, the whispered barbs, the endless expectations, and the suffocating traditions—they had all grown unbearable.  

He’d thought freedom lay in strength, in cultivation, in becoming the master of his own destiny. He thought he had escaped the cage of his youth. Yet here he was, once again trapped. Only this time, it was not the iron bars of slavery—it was the weight of duty, reputation, and the suffocating mockery of his fellow peak lords.  

They weren’t chains, but they might as well have been.  

The moon hung low as Shen Jiu stepped outside his bamboo house. For a moment, he hesitated. This place had been his home for years, the one space where he allowed himself to lower his guard even slightly. The scent of bamboo leaves, the rustling of the wind, and the soft glow of moonlight on the pale green stalks—it was a sight he knew he’d miss.  

But it wasn’t enough.  

He glanced back at the small, dim room. The note sat perfectly in the center of the desk, its stark simplicity glaring back at him. He made sure there were no personal traces left behind—nothing that might prompt anyone to pursue him.  

No one would care for long, anyway. The sect would thrive without him, and Shen Jiu had made peace with that. 

For years now, he had grown more exhausted and numbed every single day he spent in this sect. He knew he wasn't welcomed, he knew he wasn't appreciated nor respected. So why stay? 

The image of Ning Yingying came into his mind and his steps faltered, can he really abandon the girl just like that? He promised her mother that he would take care of her, but was he really doing a good job at it? He was rotten to the core and he was afraid it might seep into the girl’s innocence (and her reputation was in danger considering all the rumors circulating about them).

“Enough.” he muttered, almost to himself. Lingering would only make it harder. She will be fine, everything will be fine because Shen Jiu will no longer be a part of it. 

With a deep breath, Shen Jiu adjusted his robes—simple and modest compared to his usual ones, and stepped onto the path leading down the mountain.  

The night air was cold and damp as he made his way through the dense forest. He avoided the usual routes, carefully skirting around any areas where his presence might be detected. His spiritual energy was carefully suppressed, rendering him practically invisible to any passing cultivators.  

It felt strange to leave without a destination in mind. In the past, he had always worked toward something: survival, vengeance, strength. Now, for the first time, he was simply… leaving.  

The thought should have scared him. Instead, it felt like a release.  

Shen Jiu walked for hours, the landscape shifting as he descended further away from Cang Qiong Mountain. His sword was strapped to his side with qiankun pouches tied to his waist. His focus was on moving forward, each step taking him further from the suffocating expectations and contempt of the sect.  

The sun was beginning to rise when he finally paused, taking refuge in a small, overgrown clearing. He couldn't entertain the thought of relief, as long as they were under the same sky, he knows he'll find him. But for the first time in years, he felt like he could breathe.  

Sitting beneath an ancient tree, Shen Jiu let out a shaky breath and allowed himself a rare, unguarded moment. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to start over. Somewhere far away from the sect, he could live quietly, maybe even find peace.  

His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his fan. No one would miss him—not truly. They might call him a deserter, a coward, but what did their opinions matter anymore? He had given them enough of himself.  

For now, this was enough.  

Tomorrow, he would decide where to go. Tomorrow, he would begin again.  

But tonight, under the shelter of the trees and the fading light of dawn, Shen Jiu allowed himself the first taste of freedom he’d known in years.  

Shen Jiu tugged at the plain dark green robes he had chosen to wear during his departure. They were leagues beneath the multiple layers of fine silks and golden embroidery he is used to, but it suited his current purpose. He needed to blend in, to be no one of consequence.  

The journey had been long and grueling, with no comforts or luxuries to ease the miles of wilderness and scattered towns he traversed. Still, as he approached the breach separating the higher cultivation realm from the lower one, a strange sense of anticipation bubbled beneath his exhaustion.  

He had considered many options—remaining in the higher realm, retreating to a remote mountain, or even venturing into the demon realm where power reigned supreme and rules were scarce. But he wasn’t foolish. The demon realm was too dangerous for any human to live in, even for Shen Jiu.  

The lower cultivation realm, on the other hand, offered a promise of anonymity. No one there would know of Qing Jing Peak’s Shen Qingqiu or care about the politics of sects far beyond their reach. It was a land of simpler methods and slower progress, where cultivation techniques were rudimentary, and spiritual beasts rarely grew beyond the strength of a low-level cultivator. For someone like Shen Jiu, it was the perfect place to disappear.  

When he crossed the border between the realms, the resistance was weaker than he expected. A faint, tingling pressure rippled against his spiritual energy, testing him, but he pushed through with ease. His cultivation, while shaky, was still far above the threshold needed to breach the divide.  

The air shifted the moment he stepped through, feeling heavier, denser, and more alive. The higher cultivation realm was ethereal, its landscapes pristine and vibrant, almost too perfect. By comparison, the lower cultivation realm was rougher, more grounded. The mountains were jagged and imposing rather than majestic; the rivers carved their paths with wild abandon instead of flowing in serene harmony.  

Shen Jiu paused to take it all in, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The lower realm wasn’t beautiful in the way he was accustomed to, but there was something refreshing about its rawness. The villages he passed were humble, their buildings simple structures of wood and stone. There were no extravagant palaces, no towering sect halls that gleamed with spiritual energy.  

And yet, despite its lack of refinement, the lower realm felt… real.  

In the higher realm, everything was polished to perfection. The impact of the sects extended to the common people there, they spoke with honeyed tongues, their words laced with hidden meanings and carefully calculated intentions. Here, the villagers greeted each other with hearty laughter and open gestures, their lives unburdened by the suffocating expectations of cultivation hierarchies.  

The spiritual energy in the air was thinner, far less potent than what he was used to, but that too was a relief. It no longer felt like the world was constantly pressing down on him, demanding more, more, more.

As he walked down a dusty road leading to the next town, Shen Jiu allowed himself to relax slightly. No one gave him a second glance, treating him as nothing more than another wandering traveler. There was no whisper of “Peak Lord Shen” or sidelong glances filled with judgment.  

For the first time in years, he was invisible.  

Shen Jiu adjusted his robes, his fingers brushing against the fan hidden in his sash. His cultivation might not be stable, but he was still powerful enough to handle any threat this realm could throw at him.  

The simplicity of the lower realm was jarring, but it was also freeing. No sect politics, no constant comparisons, no endless cycle of struggling to prove his worth. Here, he could start over. No more masks. No more expectations.  

Finally, Shen Jiu thought as he continued down the road, the scent of fresh earth and distant cooking fires filling the air.  

A new start.

For the first few years, Shen Jiu lived quietly, adopting the life of a rogue cultivator. With his sharp senses and calculated approach to everything, it didn’t take long for him to find a rhythm in the lower cultivation realm. His wealth—both in gold and rare spiritual crystals—ensured he never needed to worry about coin, and he used this advantage to carefully maneuver through the world, never drawing attention, yet always learning.  

He wandered from city to city, each one more different than the last. Some were bustling metropolises where cultivators lived among merchants and common folk, while others were smaller towns, barely on the map. But no matter the size of the settlement, there was always one thing in common: rumors. Shen Jiu was careful to filter them, knowing that in this realm, the common people didn't have access to news about the cultivation world and therefore information wasn’t always reliable. He kept his ears open but never trusted too readily.  

He had to familiarize himself with the world, with the power structures, the sects, and their politics. The higher realm had long been a world of grand schemes, but this world? It was far more brutal in its simplicity. Each sect fought for dominance, each one ruled by its own code and its own ambitions.  

Over time, Shen Jiu began to understand the lay of the land, learning the names of the five major sects that defined this cultivation realm:  

Qishan Wen—The largest and most powerful of the five, Qishan Wen’s influence stretched across vast territories. Their cultivation techniques were terrifying, and their methods even more so. It was said that they controlled the fate of many smaller sects, either through open conflict or subtle manipulation. Their brutal reputation, especially among rogue cultivators and smaller sects, had earned them both fear and respect. Shen Jiu had visited their lands once, staying at a distance, and he couldn’t help but note the stark, imposing architecture and the cold, calculating demeanor of their people. Their spiritual energy was thick, suffocating even, as if the land itself had been soaked in blood and power.  

Qinghe Nie—Slightly less dominant than Qishan Wen, but still a force to be reckoned with, the Qinghe Nie Sect had a reputation for its focus on battle prowess and martial arts. From the reports he heard and the people he spoke with, the Nie sect was led by those who valued strength above all, often using it to earn respect from the surrounding areas. Their stronghold was located in a sprawling mountainous region, and while they were not as politically influential as the Wen sect, their strength on the battlefield was unquestionable. Their weapon of choice? Sabers. 

Yunmeng Jiang—One of the more neutral sects, known for their hospitality and strong sense of duty to protect those weaker than themselves. They were more straightforward in their ways, with an emphasis on righteous cultivation and the defense of the innocent. Their lands were filled with beautiful rivers and lakes, tall mountains, and valleys, providing a serene backdrop for their simple yet strong practices. Shen Jiu hadn’t spent much time in Yunmeng Jiang’s territory, but he couldn’t help but respect their straightforwardness, even if their idealism was a bit naïve for his taste.  

Gusu Lan—A sect that leaned heavily on tradition and discipline, their methods of cultivation were precise, almost clinical. The Gusu Lan people were highly disciplined, with a calm and composed demeanor that could be unsettling to those who were unaccustomed to it. Shen Jiu found their territory to be quiet and peaceful, with clean, orderly halls and serene landscapes. There was an odd sense of power in their stillness, but one that he could never quite place. They were not as physically imposing as Qishan Wen, but their strength was in their control and wisdom.  

Lanling Jin—The most politically astute of the five, the Lanling Jin sect was known for its wealth and influence in trade and commerce. Their cultivation techniques were potent, but it was their power in politics and connections that truly made them dangerous. Lanling Jin’s lands were the most opulent, with grand buildings and manicured gardens that screamed luxury and excess. Shen Jiu had spent some time there, observing the endless social events, negotiations, and the careful dance of power that the Jin clan orchestrated. Their strength came not only from their cultivation but from their deep ties to other powerful families and sects. They reminded Shen Jiu of Huan Hua palace, and he didn't like that. 

As he traveled between these territories, Shen Jiu couldn’t help but be impressed by the contrast between the sects. Each had its own strengths, its own weaknesses, but all shared the same goal: power. The cultivation techniques in this realm were crude compared to what he had known, yet they were still potent enough to shape the world around them.  

Shen Jiu spent months, sometimes years, observing and learning, never staying in one place too long. He wanted to understand how the power structures operated—how a sect could rise and fall, what motivated them, and how he could navigate these waters without ever being caught. He couldn’t trust any one sect, and he didn’t want to involve himself in their endless conflicts, but he needed to know their strengths, their leaders, and their potential weaknesses.  

In the quiet hours of his travels, Shen Jiu would sit beneath the stars, the cool winds brushing against his face, and think about what came next. He had chosen the lower realm for its anonymity, for the chance to live as no one, to be free. But now that he had begun to understand its players, he could feel the tension building, the undertones of inevitable conflict that shaped everything here.  

And still, the thought of returning to Cang Qiong Mountain… It was a distant one, a memory he had locked away, but one he was never fully rid of. For now, though, the lower realm was his home. And in this world of power plays and forgotten secrets, Shen Jiu was just another traveler, still searching for a place where he could finally be free.

Chapter Text

Shen Jiu had heard whispers of the Burial Mounds in the villages he passed through—tales passed along with hushed tones, warning of the place’s eerie reputation. Yiling was a peculiar territory, a neutral one that no sect had laid claim to. It was a strange and barren place, a land teeming with low-grade monsters, but nothing truly dangerous like the demonic beasts or the spiritual plants found in higher realms. Here, the real threat came from the fierce corpses that roamed the land, twisted remnants of long-dead cultivators or warriors, whose only purpose was to kill.  

Still, something about the place intrigued him. He had spent enough time in the lower cultivation realm to notice that there was something almost too orderly about the way things operated here. The lack of high-level spiritual or demonic threats felt suffocating. Cultivators fought with crude weapons, relying more on brute strength and the simplest techniques. It was a world far removed from the perfect display of refined techniques of the higher realm. But there was something about Yiling’s unclaimed nature that caught his interest.  

He made his way through the impoverished villages scattered across Yiling. The people here lived simple lives, but there was a certain melancholy about them, a weariness in their eyes that he couldn’t ignore. They whispered tales of the Burial Mounds with an apprehension that could almost be touched in the air. No one dared to venture too close to the place, and those who did often never returned. It seemed as though the land itself held a kind of invisible pull, one that kept the people at a distance, too terrified or too tired to challenge it.  

Only one city in all of Yiling could be considered anything close to decent—a small, run-down hub that catered to the rare travelers and rogue cultivators who found themselves wandering through. It wasn’t much, but it was a place where goods were traded, and some semblance of civilization remained.  

From there, Shen Jiu made his way to the Burial Mounds. The path was long, and as he neared the place, the air grew denser, the chill heavier. The land was dead, the ground cracked and barren, with no plants or wildlife in sight. There was a subtle yet unmistakable tension in the air, a thick, oppressive energy that coiled around his senses. It was the residue of years, perhaps centuries, of resentment and anguish. The Burial Mounds were what remained of a time long past, a place steeped in curses and regret.  

But it was nothing like the more notorious places of power he had studied in the higher cultivation realm—nothing like the endless abyss, where despair and darkness lingered so thick it could suffocate a cultivator, or the demon realm, where corruption tainted everything. The resentment here was potent, but its power was contained, almost mild in comparison. Still, it was unmistakable, and it lingered in every corner of the place, as if the very ground was soaked with the hatred of the dead.  

Shen Jiu stood at the edge of the Burial Mounds, gazing at the dark, twisted land before him. The air was heavy with resentment, with countless spirits trapped in a place they could not leave. But he couldn’t help but think that the lower cultivation realm's inability to cleanse such a place spoke volumes about its weakness.  

This was a land of half-done work. The cultivation techniques here were crude and unfinished, and the very idea of purifying such a place was beyond their capabilities. They couldn’t even rid themselves of the miasma that clung to the land. It was a reminder of how far removed they were from the higher realms. It was the lower realm, after all—where those who had no place in the higher world, came to exist.  

As he stood there, breathing in the bitter air, Shen Jiu’s gaze sharpened. The Burial Mounds weren’t a place of immediate danger, but they were a reminder of the realm’s stagnation, a place where power could never grow beyond a certain point.  

And yet, the darkness that seeped from the Mounds was not entirely devoid of promise. The energy here, though mild, was thick, far denser than the empty, diluted spiritual air of the surrounding lands. It was a land where power could be found, if one was willing to dig deep enough, if one was desperate enough. But Shen Jiu didn’t come here for that. He had no intention of allowing himself to be swept into the remnants of a world so far removed from the world he had once known.  

For now, though, he would leave the Mounds be, understanding them only for what they represented: a dead land, as much a reflection of the weak, stagnant world around him as it was a place of ancient grudges. 

The cold wind bit at Shen Jiu’s face as he walked through the quiet streets of the small city of Yiling. Snow covered the ground, turning the world into a monochrome blur of white and grey. The middle of the cold season had driven most people inside, leaving the streets eerily silent save for the crunch of snow beneath his boots. He had a purpose tonight, to find a place to rest and gather his thoughts before continuing his journey.  

His pace was steady, his mind focused, when suddenly, the faint sound of crying cut through the stillness. It was a soft, pitiful wail, followed by the sharp, guttural barks of dogs. Shen Jiu halted, his senses sharpening as he instinctively turned toward the noise. The faint cries were unmistakable—a child in distress.  

His eyes narrowed, and he followed the sound down a narrow, snow-covered alleyway. As he rounded a corner, he froze. There, in the middle of the street, a small child was surrounded by a pack of stray dogs. The creatures growled and snapped, hungry and aggressive, closing in on the child. The young child, no older than eight, was trembling in fear, their back pressed against the cold stone wall of a nearby building, helpless as the dogs circled them.  

Without thinking, Shen Jiu’s hand shot out, his spiritual energy condensing into a sharp wave that sliced through the air, sending the dogs skittering backward with yelps of pain and confusion. They retreated, fearful of the force he had unleashed, scattering into the shadows where they would return to their scavenging.  

Shen Jiu’s heart beat faster as he approached the child. Their wide, tear-streaked silver eyes met his gaze, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to still. They blinked at him, their small frame shaking from both the cold and fear, but instead of continuing their wails, they broke into a smile, an expression so innocent and pure it stopped Shen Jiu in his tracks.  

“Thank you, kind sir!” they exclaimed, their voice high and sweet. The child (he thinks it's a girl?) looked at him as if her life was not about to be cut short moments before. 

Shen Jiu stared at her, blinking in disbelief. The soft smile on her face, the gratitude in her eyes, melted something deep inside him. He could feel his heart soften, the cold weight of the world he had grown accustomed to momentarily lifting. There was something about her—her innocence, the way she looked at him with such trust—that drew him in, reminding him of his favorite disciple, Ning Yingying, and the memory of another girl in a far away past that used to smile at him with the radiance of a million suns as she called his name. 

Without a second thought, Shen Jiu knelt down, his gaze softening even more as he assessed the child. She was so small, dirt and scratches covering her face and limbs, and from the state of her clothes—worn and ragged, not fit for this frigid weather—it was clear she was a beggar. She had no one else, no one to protect her.  

“Are you hurt?” he asked gently, his voice surprisingly tender.  

The girl shook her head, the smile never leaving her face. “I'm not, thanks to kind sir the dogs left without biting me this time.” she said, her voice soft but tinged with an unmistakable sadness.  

Shen Jiu’s heart clenched, the sight of her so vulnerable, alone in the snow, reminding him too much of the pain he had felt during his own lonely days. He couldn’t leave her out here like this, not in this cold, this was no place for a little girl like her.

“Do you have anyone with you?” he asked, it wasn't uncommon for beggar children to form groups to protect themselves and survive, but he had a feeling this girl was on her own. 

The girl shook her head, “I'm alone?” she said, her words ending like a question as if not understanding why Shen Jiu was asking her. 

Shen Jiu observed the girl with keen eyes for a while, he didn't know what had come over him, but for some reason he found himself saying the next words. “Do you want to come with me?”

The girl tilted her head, as if urging Shen Jiu to elaborate on his words and that he did. “I can take care of you, buy you food and clothes, a roof over your head and a warm bed?”

The girl’s eyes widened and she stood on two shaky legs, Shen Jiu reached his arms to stabilize her as she clutched at his sleeves with teary eyes. “Really? Truly? Kind sir would do that for me?”

“Yes.” Shen Jiu replied quickly, his jade-green eyes determined as they stared at the girl’s silver ones. The girl nodded her head furiously, her plump little hands grabbing at Shen Jiu’s sleeves with surprising strength.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She repeated as her eyes welled up with tears but she willed herself not to cry, instead she flashed Shen Jiu the biggest and brightest smile she could muster, and Shen Jiu felt himself melt. 

With a sigh, he reached out, his arms moving with a fluid grace to lift the small child into his embrace. She was light in his arms, her body trembling with the cold, but he could feel her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her clothes. Without hesitation, he wrapped her tightly under his outer robe, his hands keeping her close to him as they began walking toward the nearest inn.

She nestled into him, and his mind kept wandering to Ning Yingying—his precious disciple, the one he had doted on with every ounce of his affection, always so eager to please him, always so innocent in her trust. The way this girl smiled so brightly, so innocently, without a shred of fear after everything she had been through, reminded him so much of Ning Yingying when she was younger.  

Shen Jiu shook his head slightly, as if to dispel the sudden wave of nostalgia, but he couldn’t help himself. His soft spot for women, especially little girls, had always been his weakness. He carried the girl in his arms without a second thought, a flicker of warmth spreading through his chest, a fleeting moment of kindness that was far too rare in his life.  

As they walked through the cold streets, the little girl leaned her head against his chest, her small body relaxing as the warmth of his robe enveloped her. She was safe, at least for tonight, and Shen Jiu, in that moment, was certain of one thing: he'll protect this girl with everything he got, he'll shower her with affection and love so that she'll continue to smile without any burden. 

Yes, Shen Jiu thought, I was getting kind of lonely, anyway. 

Shen Jiu carried the child through the snow-covered streets, his steps purposeful as he made his way toward the inn he had spotted earlier. The little girl, still nestled under his robe, seemed to relax as the warmth from his body began to seep into hers. Despite the roughness of her clothes and the ragged state she was in, she still held onto that strange, radiant smile, as though nothing could truly break her spirit.

The inn was a modest establishment, its wooden exterior weathered by time and its flickering lanterns casting soft pools of light into the snow-covered streets. Shen Jiu entered, nodding curtly to the innkeeper as he approached the front desk. He requested a private room, and the innkeeper, eyeing the child in his arms, quickly arranged for a bath, a change of clothes, and a warm meal to be sent up.  

Once they had received their room key, Shen Jiu ascended the stairs to the second floor, his movements slow and deliberate. He was careful not to jostle the girl who was still trembling from the cold but seemed to relax with each step they took.

Shen Jiu entered the room, the fire in the hearth crackling softly, casting a warm glow. He placed the child gently on the bed, his eyes scanning her small frame, looking for any signs of injury. The girl still smiled at him, that same bright, innocent expression that seemed out of place given the circumstances.  

“Does it hurt?” Shen Jiu asked, noticing the multiple bite and wound scars on the girl’s small body, his voice soft but sharp with concern. The girl simply shook her head, still smiling.  

“Why do you keep smiling like that?” Shen Jiu asked, his tone more curious than harsh. It wasn’t natural, this constant smile, especially for someone who had been through so much.  

The girl blinked at him, her silver eyes wide. “My mother told me that no matter what hardships we face, we should always keep a smile on our face.” she replied, her voice light and almost sing-song in its innocence.  

Shen Jiu’s lips curled into a small sneer. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he muttered. “Smiling all the time just makes you look like a fool. It’s not healthy, either. Sometimes, when things are too hard, it’s okay to stop smiling.”

The child’s smile faltered, but only for a brief moment before it returned, as if she were too afraid to let it slip. Shen Jiu sighed and crouched down, his eyes softening as they met hers.  

“You should only smile when you're happy and feel truly like” he told her, his voice unusually tender. “It's okay to stop smiling sometimes. When you're mad, you can scream and shout, when you're annoyed, you can scowl and frown, and when you're sad…you can cry.”

The words seemed to hit the girl in a way that caught Shen Jiu off guard. Her small silver eyes widened even further, and before he could react, she let out a sharp, choked sob. It wasn’t much at first—just a soft hiccup of a cry—but it quickly grew, turning into a full-on wail.  

Shen Jiu remained still as the child’s cries filled the room, her sobs raw and desperate. It was as though all the pain and loneliness she had endured in her short life came rushing to the surface all at once. The little girl threw her arms around Shen Jiu’s neck, burying her face into his chest as the tears flowed freely.  

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he gently wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she cried. There was nothing more he could do but let her cry, let her release the weight of everything that had built up inside her.  

In the silence of the room, only the sound of the child’s wailing echoed, but for the first time in a long time, Shen Jiu didn’t feel quite so alone.  

He let her cry for as long as she needed, his fingers lightly stroking her back, the gesture a strange but comforting rhythm. She had finally let go, and for now, that was all that mattered.

Shen Jiu sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his hand awkwardly patting the small child’s trembling back. The girl—at least, he was sure she was a girl—continued to cry into his chest, her sobs muffled by the thick outer robe he’d wrapped around her to shield her from the cold. Her small hands clung to his sleeve as if afraid he might disappear if she let go. 

Between hiccups and sobs, the child began to wail, her words pouring out in a tangled mess. “I’m scared! I-I’m so scared and alone! My parents—they left me! They’re gone, and no one wants to help me! It’s not fair! I-I’m cold and hungry, and I want my parents back!” Her small body shook with the force of her cries, her voice cracking as she screamed her anguish into the silent room.

Her words hit something deep within Shen Jiu, stirring a pang of sympathy he didn’t quite know he was capable of. He sighed and softened his voice, though it still carried a sharp edge, emotional confrontation was his weakness after all. “It must’ve been hard.”

She kept crying, her sobs growing louder, and Shen Jiu grimaced. He was notoriously terrible at comforting others, but seeing her like this twisted something in him. She reminded him far too much of Ning Yingying—small, fragile, and far too trusting.

“The dogs were scary!” She cried, shaking her head as if expelling a bitter memory. “They wouldn't leave me alone, they kept chasing me and biting me. And no matter how much I screamed for help, no one came. I was all alone.”

Shen Jiu blinked, caught off guard by the intensity of her words. “It's alright, now.” he whispered softly as he rubbed circles into her back. “You're not alone any more, you have me. I'll protect you.”

The child wrapped her arms around him tighter and buried her face into the crook of his neck. “Thank you! Thank you! I’ll be good! I promise I’ll be good!”

Shen Jiu awkwardly patted her head, feeling both awkward and strangely touched. He glanced at the door as a knock interrupted the moment. The inn’s servants had arrived to set up the bath he’d requested. They quickly brought in a wooden tub, filled it with warm water, and left a set of clean, simple clothes for the child before departing.

Once the door was closed, Shen Jiu turned back to the child. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice clipped but curious. He realized he hadn’t even asked earlier. 

The child sniffled, her tears finally slowing. “Wei Ying.” she said, her voice soft and shy. 

Shen Jiu nodded. “Wei Ying, huh? I’m Shen Jiu.”

Wei Ying tilted her head, considering. “Shen-gege.” she offered hesitantly. 

Shen Jiu froze, the title was too intimate and plucked at the strings of his dead heart, breathing it into life. He grunted in acknowledgment. “Now, do you need me to help you bathe?”

Wei Ying nodded shyly, and Shen Jiu sighed, standing up. He guided her behind the privacy screen and began undoing her outer robe. She was so small, so frail, that it made his movements gentler than usual. He worked silently, undoing the ties and sliding the layers off her thin shoulders. 

And then, as he removed the last layer and Wei Ying stood there, completely bare, Shen Jiu froze.

His mind came to a screeching halt as his gaze landed on the unmistakable boy parts that proved, beyond any doubt, that Wei Ying was not a girl. 

Wei Ying blinked up at him innocently, completely unaware of the existential crisis happening before him. 

Shen Jiu’s eye twitched. His face twisted through a series of expressions—shock, horror, disbelief, and finally, sheer outrage. “You’re a boy?!”

Wei Ying tilted his head, confused. “...Yes?” he said uncertainly. 

Shen Jiu staggered back, clutching his chest as if struck. He felt his qi ripple dangerously, his cultivation trembling under the strain of his spiraling thoughts. A boy! This entire time, I’ve been treating him like a delicate flower because I thought he was a girl! I even promised to take care of him! A boy!

He felt like screaming. His dignity, his pride, his very sanity teetered on the edge of collapse. “You—! Why didn’t you say anything?!” 

Wei Ying blinked again, looking genuinely confused. “You didn’t ask.” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Shen Jiu staggered again, his hands twitching. He felt as if the heavens themselves were mocking him. He had promised—a promise he couldn’t take back—to look after this boy. A boy! His hatred for the male gender flared like a dying ember stoked back into a roaring flame. 

“Calm down, Shen Jiu,” he muttered to himself, his voice trembling. “It’s just a child. He’s just a child. You can handle this. You’ve dealt with worse. This is fine. This is fine.”

Wei Ying, oblivious to Shen Jiu’s internal meltdown, tugged on his sleeve. “Shen-gege? Can I get in the bath now? It looks really warm.” 

Shen Jiu stared at him, his eye twitching uncontrollably. “...Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice tight. “Get in the bath.” 

As Wei Ying happily climbed into the tub, Shen Jiu leaned heavily against the wall, muttering darkly under his breath. “What did I just get myself into?”

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of the inn room, warming the space with a soft glow. Wei Ying stirred beneath the heavy blankets, yawning as his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he was disoriented, his small hands clutching at the unfamiliar fabric of the bed. Then he remembered—the bath, the warm food, and the man who had taken him in.

“Shen-gege?” Wei Ying called softly, sitting up and glancing around the room. It was empty. The chair by the window where Shen Jiu had been sitting the night before was vacant, and there was no sign of him anywhere. Wei Ying’s heart began to race, panic setting in as he slid off the bed. He left me. He left me just like A-Niang and A-Die.

The boy ran to the door, his bare feet padding against the wooden floor. His hands fumbled with the latch, and he flung the door open, only to collide with something solid. He stumbled back, clutching his nose, and looked up to see Shen Jiu standing there with an annoyed expression, a tray of food balanced in his hands.

“What are you doing?” Shen Jiu demanded, his tone sharp as he stepped into the room. “Do you want to freeze to death running around barefoot?”

Wei Ying stared at him, his silver eyes wide and glassy. “You… you didn’t leave?”

Shen Jiu’s expression flickered, but he quickly masked it with a scoff. “Why would I leave? You think I’d go to all the trouble of dragging you out of the snow just to abandon you now? Don’t be stupid.”

The boy’s face lit up with relief, and he smiled brightly. Shen Jiu avoided his gaze, focusing instead on setting the tray down on the table. “Sit,” he ordered, motioning for Wei Ying to join him.

Wei Ying hurried over, perching on the edge of the chair as Shen Jiu poured tea into a small cup and handed it to him. The breakfast spread was modest but warm and filling—steamed buns, porridge, and pickled vegetables. Shen Jiu sat across from Wei Ying, deliberately ignoring the boy’s earlier distress and instead focusing on the food.

“You should eat more,” he said, his words sharp despite the underlying concern. “You look like you’ll keel over if the wind blows too hard.”

Wei Ying hesitated, watching Shen Jiu with a mix of relief and awe. The man’s tone was sharp and his words biting, but Wei Ying didn’t care. This was the person who had saved him, who had taken him in and promised to care for him. In Wei Ying’s eyes, Shen Jiu was the best, sharp tongue and all. His grin unwavering, he began eating. “Thank you, Shen-gege! This is so good!”

Shen Jiu rolled his eyes but didn’t comment, silently sipping his tea as the boy devoured his breakfast with unbridled enthusiasm. After a while, Shen Jiu cleared his throat, drawing Wei Ying’s attention.

“We’re leaving Yiling today,” he announced, watching the boy’s reaction. “The winters here are too harsh. We’re heading to Qishan territory—it’s warmer there.”

Wei Ying tilted his head, curious. “Qishan? What’s it like?”

“Hot,” Shen Jiu replied curtly. “But at least you won’t freeze your little toes off.” He gestured at Wei Ying’s bare feet, muttering, “Honestly, do you have no sense of self-preservation?”

Wei Ying giggled, moving his legs under the table. “As long as I’m with you, Shen-gege, I’ll be fine!”

Shen Jiu clicked his tongue, turning away to hide the faint twitch at the corner of his lips.

...Don't let him get to you Shen Jiu, he's a boy! A very cute, charming and endearing boy—Goddamn it!... 

“Finish your food,” he said brusquely. “We have a long journey ahead, and I’m not stopping every time you whine about being hungry.”

Wei Ying nodded enthusiastically, shoving another steamed bun into his mouth. Shen Jiu shook his head, sipping his tea as he wondered—for perhaps the hundredth time—what he had gotten himself into.

But as he watched Wei Ying’s bright smile, he found it difficult to be truly annoyed.  

The city of Qishan was alive with noise and activity, even in the winter. Brightly colored stalls lined the streets, their wares on display for the bustling crowd. Vendors shouted over one another, advertising everything from silks to steaming bowls of soup. The air was crisp but warmer than Yiling, the faint scent of roasted chestnuts and spices drifting through the market.

From above, Shen Jiu descended gracefully on his sword, Wei Ying cradled securely in his arms. The boy wore a thick fur coat Shen Jiu had bought for him before they left, the soft material dwarfing his small frame. His wide silver eyes sparkled as he took in the sprawling city below, barely able to suppress his awe.

“That was so exciting,” Wei Ying whispered once Shen Jiu landed, his voice shy but laced with wonder. “Flying on a sword… it’s like a dream.”

Shen Jiu clicked his tongue, his expression neutral as he set the boy down. “It’s nothing special. Keep walking.”

Wei Ying nodded, clutching the edges of his coat as he followed Shen Jiu, his head swiveling to take in the sights around them. The crowd surged and flowed, a chaotic river of movement, but Shen Jiu held the boy’s hand firmly, ensuring he didn’t get lost in the throng.

As they made their way through the market, Shen Jiu felt a tug on his sleeve. Glancing down, he saw Wei Ying staring intently at a vendor’s stall where rows of tanghulu glistened like jewels on their sticks. The bright red candied fruits gleamed in the sunlight, the sweet syrup catching the boy’s attention.

Shen Jiu sighed but stepped toward the stall, muttering under his breath about how easily distracted children were. He purchased two tanghulu, handing one to Wei Ying, who hesitated for a moment before accepting it with both hands.

“Thank you,” Wei Ying said softly, a small, genuine smile spreading across his face as he bit into the sweet treat. His expression lit up, and he looked up at Shen Jiu with a mixture of gratitude and delight.

“Eat it before it gets sticky,” Shen Jiu said, his tone gruff but not unkind as he bit into his own tanghulu. He resumed walking, still holding Wei Ying’s hand, guiding him through the maze of the city streets.

The boy followed obediently, occasionally glancing up at Shen Jiu with a quiet admiration. Shen Jiu pretended not to notice, focusing instead on weaving through the crowd as they headed toward their next destination.

After the long journey, Shen Jiu had found a decent inn nestled in the heart of the city. He and Wei Ying finally had a chance to rest in a quiet room, the warmth of the building a welcome change from the chill of the outside. Wei Ying, ever eager to stretch out after the long hours spent riding with Shen Jiu on the sword, sprawled across his bed, his small body curling comfortably into the blankets. His silver eyes traced the unfamiliar surroundings, and every now and then, they flicked over to Shen Jiu, who was busy unpacking the various books and scrolls he had acquired earlier that day.

Shen Jiu’s mind was too sharp to rest, his thoughts a swirling mass of questions about this new world he threw himself in. His knowledge of this realm was sorely lacking according to his standards, he can't rest properly without him knowing everything he needs to know about this realm, he would have to remedy that as quickly as possible. Thankfully the past three years were more than enough for Shen Jiu to learn all he needed to know so that he would seem as if he was born and raised here.

And honestly, Shen Jiu found himself interested in learning the culture of the people here, the traditions were similar to that of the higher cultivation realm but things such as folklore, legends, myths and literature works were vastly different, and the scholar inside of him roared with excitement. As he spread out the scrolls and began to study, he muttered quietly to himself, absorbed in the texts that detailed the world he had so recently entered.

Wei Ying shifted slightly on the bed, his eyes fixated on the elegant strokes of Shen Jiu's brush as he quickly made notes in the margins of one of his scrolls. The boy had never seen someone write like that before. The fluidity of Shen Jiu’s calligraphy seemed almost mesmerizing to him, each stroke of the brush a work of art in itself. 

Shen Jiu paused, his brush hovering over the paper for a moment before he looked up at Wei Ying. With a slight raise of his brow, Shen Jiu set the brush down and glanced at Wei Ying, who was still watching him with wide, admiring eyes. “What are you staring at?” his tone was sharp as he asked. 

Wei Ying froze, startled by the question. He hesitated for a moment, caught between his shyness and his desire to speak his thoughts. Finally, he willed himself to respond. “Your writing… it’s pretty.” he said quietly, his silver eyes wide with genuine admiration.

Shen Jiu blinked, taken aback for a moment, before his usual sharp expression returned. He didn’t think much of it. “Pretty?” he scoffed lightly, rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing special. Just some quick notes.” 

Still, his pride in his skills remained, and he continued scribbling in the margins of the scroll. He noticed Wei Ying didn’t move, still watching the brushstrokes. The boy looked almost entranced.

An idea crossed Shen Jiu’s mind. He set the brush down and turned to face Wei Ying. “You can’t read or write, can you?” He didn’t phrase it as a question—more of an observation.

Wei Ying immediately lowered his gaze, embarrassed but unable to deny it. He had never been taught such things. His life on the streets had left no room for learning anything beyond survival.

Shen Jiu eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s something we can fix. If you’re going to tag along with me, you might as well learn the basics.” His tone was indifferent, though there was a faint flicker of something like responsibility in his words.

Wei Ying’s eyes brightened at the offer, and without thinking, he asked enthusiastically. “You’ll teach me?”

Shen Jiu didn’t think too deeply about it. Teaching Wei Ying would be an easy distraction from his otherwise frustratingly free schedule. Besides, if the boy was going to follow him, Shen Jiu might as well ensure he wasn’t lacking in anything important. 

“Isn't that what I said?” Shen Jiu muttered, one eyebrow raised. “We’ll start with the basics. Reading, writing. You’d better pay attention, though.”

Wei Ying’s smile widened, and he scrambled off the bed, sitting eagerly at Shen Jiu’s feet. “I’ll try my best! Thank you, Shen-gege!”

Shen Jiu’s gaze softened just a fraction, but he quickly shook it off. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t even learned a single character.”

Wei Ying nodded eagerly, his earlier shyness faded as he looked up at his would-be teacher, a spark of hope igniting in his chest. Shen Jiu would teach him—he would learn how to read and write, and he’d be one step closer to standing on his own two feet. 

As Shen Jiu began to prepare the next scroll, Wei Ying sat quietly, ready to absorb every bit of information Shen Jiu was willing to impart. For the first time in a long while, Wei Ying felt a small flicker of warmth in his chest—a warmth he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Shen Jiu would be the best teacher ever!

Shen Jiu is the worst teacher ever! 

Wei Ying had thought that learning to read and write would be a simple, straightforward task. How hard could it be to draw a few characters and memorize their meanings? But Shen Jiu had quickly disabused him of that notion. The man was relentless, his standards impossibly high, and his patience razor-thin. 

“No, that’s wrong again,” Shen Jiu snapped, his sharp gaze fixed on the crooked character Wei Ying had painstakingly written. “The stroke order is wrong. Do it over.”

Wei Ying groaned, his small fingers aching from gripping the brush for so long. “But it looks the same!” he protested, only to immediately regret it when Shen Jiu narrowed his eyes.

“If it looks the same to you, then you’re blind as well as ignorant,” Shen Jiu retorted coldly. “Do it again. And this time, stop making excuses.”

Wei Ying huffed and dipped his brush in ink, carefully rewriting the character. His hand trembled slightly, and he had to fight the urge to throw the brush across the room. I want to cry, he thought miserably.

But reading and writing were just the beginning. What started as a simple attempt to make Wei Ying literate had somehow evolved into a full curriculum fit for the most privileged young masters in the cultivation world. Every morning, Shen Jiu would haul him out of bed at sunrise, ignoring Wei Ying’s groggy protests, and begin the day with a grueling series of lessons.

Math came next, with Shen Jiu drilling him on everything from basic arithmetic to more advanced calculations. “If a merchant sells three bolts of silk at six silver taels each, but offers a discount of one tael for every two bolts purchased, how much does the merchant earn in total?” Shen Jiu would demand, his tone as sharp as his gaze.

Wei Ying would stare blankly at the numbers, his head spinning. “Why does it matter how much the merchant earns?” he muttered under his breath.

“It matters because I said it matters,” Shen Jiu snapped, thwacking the table with his fan. “Focus.”

After math came history, with Shen Jiu recounting the rise and fall of dynasties, the feats of legendary cultivators, and the politics of the current era. He would quiz Wei Ying mercilessly, and woe to the boy if he forgot a name or date. “How can you possibly expect to navigate the world if you don’t understand its history?” Shen Jiu would demand, his voice dripping with disdain.

Philosophy and literature were no easier. Shen Jiu would assign long passages of text for Wei Ying to read and then demand that he explain their meaning. “What does this poem tell you about the impermanence of life?” Shen Jiu asked one day, pointing to a stanza about falling leaves.

Wei Ying squinted at the scroll, trying to think of an answer that wouldn’t get him scolded. “Uh… that leaves are pretty?”

Shen Jiu closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly restraining himself. “You’re hopeless,” he muttered before launching into a lecture about metaphor and symbolism that left Wei Ying’s head spinning.

Even lessons in etiquette and ethics were grueling. Shen Jiu would demonstrate the proper way to bow, to hold chopsticks, to address elders and peers. Wei Ying would practice until his legs and back ached, only to be told he still wasn’t doing it right. “Your posture is atrocious,” Shen Jiu barked. “Stand up straight. No one will take you seriously if you slouch like that.”

By the end of each day, Wei Ying was exhausted, his brain overflowing with facts, his body sore from sitting still for hours. And yet, he couldn’t deny that he was learning. Despite Shen Jiu’s harshness, the man was an excellent source of knowledge, and Wei Ying found himself picking up new skills and knowledge at an astonishing rate.

Still, the intensity of the lessons was grueling, and Wei Ying often found himself longing for the freedom of the streets, where he could run and play without a care in the world.

“Get up,” Shen Jiu said, nudging him lightly with his foot. “We still haven’t gone over the whole lesson plan for the day.”

Wei Ying was sprawled face-down on the floor, completely drained. His calligraphy was improving, his math skills had sharpened, and he could recite several historical texts by heart, but his energy was at rock bottom.

Wei Ying groaned aloud this time, muffling it against the floor. “I’m dying.” he whined.

“No, you’re not. If you can still talk, you can still learn.”

“But Shen-gege—”

“No buts,” Shen Jiu interrupted, crossing his arms. “If you have enough energy to complain, you have enough energy to sit up.”

Wei Ying sighed deeply but pushed himself upright, rubbing his eyes. Despite his exhaustion, he didn’t hate Shen Jiu. The man was harsh, yes, but there was something strangely reassuring about his strictness. It felt like Shen Jiu genuinely wanted him to do well, even if his methods were grueling.

Still, as Wei Ying picked up his brush for yet another lesson, he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath, “Shen-gege is scarier than any ghost…”

“What was that?” Shen Jiu said sharply.

“Nothing!” Wei Ying squeaked, sitting up straight.

And so, the cycle continued, with Shen Jiu pushing Wei Ying to his limits and beyond. Though the lessons were hard and the punishments harsher, Wei Ying found himself learning faster than he’d ever imagined. For better or worse, Shen Jiu was determined to mold him into someone capable—and there was no escape.

And when Wei Ying looked up at Shen Jiu, his sharp features softening just a little as he carefully corrected Wei Ying’s mistakes, he felt a flicker of gratitude. He’s doing this for me, Wei Ying reminded himself, clinging to the thought as he bent over his scroll and tried once again to get the strokes just right.

Chapter Text

Two years had passed since Shen Jiu had taken Wei Ying under his wing, and the transformation in the boy was nothing short of astounding. The shy, tearful child who had once clung to Shen Jiu’s robes was now a bundle of energy, bouncing around like a puppy and chattering incessantly about everything and nothing. At ten years old, Wei Ying had become a force of nature—one that Shen Jiu both admired and occasionally wanted to throttle.  

“Shizun, look at this! Did you see how I hit that target? It was perfect!” Wei Ying beamed, running up to Shen Jiu with his wooden practice sword in hand. The boy had taken to calling Shen Jiu Shizun after learning more about cultivation hierarchies. Shen Jiu hadn’t corrected him—mostly because he didn’t have the energy to argue. 

“It was decent,” Shen Jiu replied with a critical eye, though his lips twitched upward for a fleeting second. “But your stance was sloppy. If you fought a real opponent, they’d knock you flat on your back.”

Wei Ying pouted, clutching his practice sword dramatically. “You’re always so harsh! Can’t you just say I did well for once?”

“I’ll say you did well when you actually deserve it,” Shen Jiu retorted, flicking his fan open with a snap. “Now stop whining and practice your footwork. Or do you plan to let a Yao devour you because you were too slow to dodge?”

Wei Ying groaned but complied, hopping back to the training area they had set up in a clearing. Shen Jiu watched him with a keen eye, noting how much the boy had improved. Wei Ying’s spiritual veins were astonishingly strong, and his aptitude for cultivation far exceeded Shen Jiu’s expectations. Over the past two years, Shen Jiu had taught him the basics: how to meditate, how to feel his meridians, and how to distinguish spiritual energy from yang energy.  

Wei Ying had taken to cultivation like a fish to water. Not only was he quick to grasp the foundational concepts, but his enthusiasm and curiosity were boundless. He absorbed knowledge about nefarious creatures, spiritual plants, and talismans with an eagerness that sometimes made Shen Jiu’s head spin.  

“Shizun, did you know there’s a flower called the Blood Orchid that only blooms under a red moon?” Wei Ying asked one evening, his eyes sparkling with excitement as they sat around a campfire after a successful night hunt.  

“Yes, I know,” Shen Jiu replied, sipping his tea. “And do you know what happens if you handle it without proper precautions?”

Wei Ying nodded vigorously. “It secretes a toxin that can paralyze you! But if you refine it properly, it can be used to create a powerful elixir!”

“Good,” Shen Jiu said with a small nod of approval. “At least you’re retaining some of what I teach you.”

Their travels had taken them across various regions, from bustling cities to remote villages, where they often dealt with minor night hunts to pass the time. Shen Jiu handled most of the dangerous work, though he occasionally allowed Wei Ying to assist in dealing with weaker creatures. It was part of his training, after all, and Wei Ying seemed to thrive on the excitement.  

“Shizun, Shizun!” Wei Ying called, running back to him after finishing his drills. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, and his bright smile was infectious. “Can we go on another night hunt tomorrow? Please? I promise I’ll be extra careful!”

Shen Jiu sighed, closing his fan with a snap. "We’ll see," he said, though he already knew he’d relent. Wei Ying’s enthusiasm was difficult to resist, and truthfully, Shen Jiu had grown fond of their nightly excursions.  

The boy had become a constant in his life—a whirlwind of energy and light that made Shen Jiu’s days far more chaotic and far less lonely. And though he’d never admit it aloud, Shen Jiu found himself looking forward to the adventures they’d share, even if it meant enduring Wei Ying’s endless chatter.

Their travels had led them to Yunping, a lively city nestled within the Yunmeng region, its streets brimming with vibrant market stalls, the hum of merchants haggling, and the tantalizing scent of freshly cooked food wafting through the air. It wasn’t Shen Jiu’s first choice for a resting point, but the sheer convenience of its bustling trade and accommodations made it ideal for a brief respite during their travels.  

After checking into a modest yet comfortable inn, Shen Jiu turned to Wei Ying, who was practically vibrating with excitement as he peeked out the window at the busy streets below.  

“Take this,” Shen Jiu said, handing him a small pouch of coins. Wei Ying’s eyes widened, and he clutched the pouch like it was a priceless treasure. “Go explore the market. Don’t spend it all on sweets, and don’t get into trouble.”  

“Yes, Shizun!” Wei Ying chirped, already bouncing toward the door. “I’ll find something really cool to show you later!”  

"Come back before sunset," Shen Jiu waved him off, rolling his eyes at the boy’s unbridled enthusiasm. Once Wei Ying was gone, the room fell silent—a rare and welcome occurrence. Shen Jiu settled himself on the floor, legs crossed, and began to meditate.  

Since arriving in this realm, meditation had become a far more peaceful endeavor. Shen Jiu hadn’t experienced a single qi deviation in years, something that felt almost miraculous considering how frequent and debilitating they had been back in Cang Qiong Mountain. His progress in cultivation was slow but steady, and for the first time in decades, he felt like he was on a path to actual stability.  

As his breathing evened out and his spiritual energy flowed smoothly through his meridians, Shen Jiu reflected on the changes in himself since leaving his old world behind. Without the constant barrage of rumors, insults, and jabs at his unstable cultivation, he no longer felt the crushing pressure to prove himself. The tangled mess that had been his spiritual veins—a constant source of pain and frustration—seemed to be gradually unraveling, as if the absence of his old burdens was allowing them to heal naturally.  

He hadn’t realized how much of his struggle had been tied to the weight of expectations, the disdain of others, and his own relentless self-loathing. Here, in this strange new realm, those chains had loosened. It wasn’t freedom, not entirely, but it was something close to it.  

Shen Jiu let out a slow breath, allowing his thoughts to fade as he focused on the rhythm of his energy flow. Time slipped away, the outside world forgotten as he immersed himself in the quiet solace of meditation.

As Shen Jiu meditated in the quiet of the inn, the world outside was alive with color and sound, and Wei Ying was at the heart of it, darting through the bustling market streets of Yunping like an excited little whirlwind.  

His first stop was, of course, the food stalls. The moment the scent of candied fruits reached his nose, he zeroed in on a vendor selling skewers of tanghulu, the glistening sugar coating catching the sunlight. He exchanged a few coins for one, taking a bite and savoring the sweet and sour crunch.  

Next, he passed by a stall selling steaming buns and couldn’t resist grabbing one, happily munching as he walked. The stall owner chuckled at his enthusiasm, offering him a second bun for free, which Wei Ying eagerly accepted with a bright grin.  

With his snack in hand, Wei Ying continued exploring, pausing every so often to admire street performers or gaze at trinkets displayed by merchants. At one stall, a small rattle drum caught his eye. The drum’s bright red surface was adorned with painted flowers, and its tiny beads clicked against the sides when it spun. He handed over a coin and immediately started twirling it, giggling at the cheerful clatter it made.

Wei Ying walking down the streets twirling the drum rattle, its cheerful sound blending with the laughter and chatter around him. He soon stumbled upon a group of children gathered in an open square, their kites soaring high in the sky.  

One of the boys, noticing Wei Ying’s curious gaze, called out, “Hey! Want to join us?”  

Wei Ying hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Sure!”  

The children handed him a spare kite—a bright yellow one shaped like a bird. With a bit of guidance and a lot of cheering, Wei Ying sent the kite into the air, its tail fluttering as it climbed higher and higher.  

He laughed as he ran alongside the others, his drum rattle tied to his waist, bouncing and clattering with every step. The sun warmed his face, the wind tugged at his hair, and for a moment, it felt like he had known these children forever.  

As they played, a faint memory of running with other children across the wooden boards of a dock flickered in his mind—brief and blurred, like a dream he couldn’t quite remember. But Wei Ying didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he focused on the present, on the joy of flying kites and the sound of his own laughter blending with the others.  

As he ran with his kite, he watched as the string snapped, and sent the bright yellow bird-shaped kite fluttering down to the ground a few feet away. He quickened his pace, eager to retrieve it. But as he reached the spot where it landed, two delicate hands appeared before him, catching the kite in mid-air.  

Looking up, Wei Ying was met with the smile of a girl, a little older than him, with her hair styled in two neat braided buns. She wore a lavender-colored hanfu embroidered with graceful lotus motifs, giving her an air of elegance. Her smile was warm and kind as she handed him the kite.  

“Here you go.” she said softly.  

Wei Ying blinked, momentarily struck by her beauty, before he grinned and said, “Thank you, Jiejie!”  

It was then that his eyes fell on the boy standing behind her—a boy around his own age, his features sharp and his expression dark. He wore a top-knot, and his robes were a vibrant shade of purple, with a silver bell attached to his belt that chimed faintly as he moved. The boy looked decidedly unamused as he urged the girl to move along.  

“A-jie, let’s go. We’re wasting time here.” he said in a low, irritated voice.  

Wei Ying couldn’t help but notice the furrow in the boy’s brow, a deep-set frown that seemed all too familiar. The boy reminded him of someone he knew—someone sharp and a little too serious for his own good. A smirk tugged at Wei Ying’s lips.  

“Hey, you’re a little grumpy, aren’t you?” Wei Ying teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.  

The boy’s frown deepened, and for a moment, he glared at Wei Ying, clearly annoyed. “What’s it to you?” he muttered.  

“Nothing, nothing!” Wei Ying quickly said, his grin widening. “But if you’re so grumpy, why not join us and play?” He gestured back at the group of children still flying their kites.  

The girl, giggling at the exchange, lightly nudged her brother with her elbow. “A-Cheng, come on. It’s just a game. You could use a little fun.”  

A-Cheng hesitated, his brows still furrowed, but the look from his sister—and the fact that Wei Ying was looking at him expectantly—seemed to soften him just enough. He sighed, rolling his eyes, but he finally relented.  

“Fine,” he muttered. “But only because A-jie says so.”  

Wei Ying, satisfied with his teasing, laughed and handed him the kite. “Alright then! Let’s play!”  

And so, with A-Cheng begrudgingly joining the other children, and his sister and her two maids following them in a measured pace, they began their game, the sound of laughter and the wind filling the air as the kites danced and soared high above the bustling streets of Yunping.

Wei Ying and A-Cheng continued to play with the other children, their kites weaving through the air, chasing each other in an intricate dance of twists and loops. The other kids laughed and cheered as they ran around, but A-Cheng remained grumpy, barely tolerating the game. He barely smiled and seemed more focused on making sure his kite didn't crash than actually enjoying himself. Wei Ying, however, was determined to get the boy to join in, the way he had with so many others.

As they ran, Wei Ying shot him a playful glance. “A-Cheng, you're doing it all wrong! Your kite’s about to fall!” he teased, his voice light. “You gotta run faster, come on!”

A-Cheng scowled, his grip tightening on the string of his kite. “Who told you you could call me that?” he snapped, the irritation clear in his voice.

Wei Ying grinned widely, completely unbothered. “Well, the kind jiejie—” Wei Ying pointed to the girl sitting on a nearby bench, “—called you A-Cheng, so I thought it was okay for me to call you that too!” he replied, his tone full of mischief. He leaned closer and, in a mock-serious voice, added, “You can call me A-Ying in exchange.”

A-Cheng huffed, clearly annoyed at Wei Ying’s persistence. But after a moment of glaring at him, he sighed heavily. “You're ridiculous.” he grumbled.

Wei Ying's smile grew wider, he grabbed Jiang Cheng’s arm and pushed him to run with the children.

“Hey!” Jiang Cheng yelled, stabilizing himself and preventing his fall as he ran alongside Wei Ying.

“Come on! Let's run as fast as we can!” 

With Wei Ying's infectious enthusiasm and playful teasing, Jiang Cheng's rigid demeanor slowly softened, and he was soon laughing along with the other children, if only a little.

From the bench, Jiang Yanli watched with a soft smile, her gaze lingering on her younger brother. She giggled quietly at the sight of him finally getting along with other kids. She had always worried about Jiang Cheng’s standoffish nature and how he often distanced himself from others, but today, seeing him play like this, it made her feel relieved.

The two maids stood silently by her side, occasionally exchanging glances, but for the most part, they seemed content to let their young mistress enjoy the sight before her.

Jiang Yanli’s smile widened as she observed Wei Ying’s antics, silently grateful that the boy had managed to coax Jiang Cheng out of his shell, even if only a little. “It seems like A-Cheng has found a new friend.” she murmured softly, her voice filled with warmth.

The maids, noticing the look of contentment on their young mistress’ face, simply nodded in agreement. There was something special about the way Wei Ying interacted with Jiang Cheng, something that made them feel that maybe this day would be the start of something good.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the streets of Yunping in warm orange and pink hues, the children began to disperse, their kites packed away and the day’s games coming to an end. Wei Ying turned to Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli, smiling brightly as he waved. “Bye, A-Cheng, Yanli-Jiejie! I had a lot of fun today!”  

Jiang Cheng huffed, crossing his arms and turning slightly away. “Why should I care?” he muttered, though his tone lacked the sharpness it usually carried.  

Wei Ying just laughed, undeterred by the gruff reply. “Well, if you do care, I’ll be here for a while! So, if you ever want to play again, you know where to find me!”  

Before Jiang Cheng could retort, Jiang Yanli stepped in with a gentle smile. “Thank you for saying that, A-Ying,” she said kindly. “I’m sure A-Cheng would love to play with you again.” She glanced at her younger brother, her tone encouraging. “Isn’t that right, A-Cheng?”  

Jiang Cheng grumbled under his breath but didn’t outright deny it, which was as much of a confirmation as anyone could hope for.  

Wei Ying waved again as the Jiang siblings climbed into their carriage, the two maids helping Jiang Yanli settle in. The wheels creaked, and the horses began to trot, carrying the siblings away from the lively streets. Jiang Yanli leaned out of the carriage slightly, waving back at Wei Ying until they disappeared into the distance.  

As Wei Ying turned to leave, a familiar voice called out behind him. “Wei Ying.”  

Wei Ying spun around to see Shen Jiu standing nearby, his sharp gaze fixed on the boy. “Didn’t I tell you to be back before sunset?” he asked, his tone calm but pointed.  

Wei Ying scratched the back of his head, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, Shizun! I got carried away, but it was such a fun day!” He ran over to Shen Jiu, falling into step beside him as they began to walk back to the inn.  

As they moved through the bustling streets, now quieter in the dimming light, Wei Ying chattered happily about his day. “I met these two siblings, Yanli-Jiejie and A-Cheng! They were really nice, and A-Cheng is super funny when he’s grumpy. We played with kites, and I think he started to like me by the end! I hope I can play with them again!”  

Shen Jiu listened silently, his expression neutral but his steps steady. Wei Ying’s chatter filled the space between them, a mix of excitement and innocence that seemed to lighten the air.  

When they reached the inn, Shen Jiu finally spoke. “If you keep this up, you’ll be running around all day and neglecting your studies.”  

Wei Ying grinned. “I won’t! I promise I’ll do all my lessons tomorrow, Shizun!”  

Shen Jiu gave a small, unimpressed hum but didn’t press further. As they entered the inn, the boy’s energy and stories about his new friend lingered in the air, a comforting warmth that seemed to follow them both into the evening.

Chapter Text

The carriage rocked gently as it traveled the winding roads back to the Lotus Pier. Inside, Jiang Yanli sat gracefully with a soft smile on her face, glancing at her younger brother. Jiang Cheng sat across from her, staring out of the window with his arms crossed, his expression an unconvincing mix of irritation and thoughtfulness.  

“You seemed to have fun today,” Jiang Yanli said, her tone warm and teasing.  

Jiang Cheng scoffed, though his ears tinged red. “I didn’t. That boy was so loud and annoying.”  

Yanli chuckled, her delicate fingers adjusting her lavender sleeves. “Oh, A-Cheng, there’s no need to be shy. It’s good to have friends your age. I think A-Ying was a very kind boy, wasn’t he?”  

“He’s not my friend,” Jiang Cheng snapped, but his grumble lacked conviction. “He just wouldn’t stop talking.”  

“And yet, you played with him all afternoon,” Yanli replied with a knowing smile. “It’s nice to see you getting along with someone so well.”  

Jiang Cheng huffed, crossing his arms tighter, though he didn’t offer any further rebuttal. Yanli’s giggles filled the carriage as the warm orange glow of the sunset bathed the fields outside their windows.  

When the carriage finally arrived at the grand gates of Lotus Pier, the siblings stepped out into the courtyard. The peaceful atmosphere was shattered almost immediately by the sound of raised voices coming from the main hall.  

“You’ve humiliated me enough, Fengmian! Do you care about your family at all?” Yu Ziyuan’s sharp, furious voice echoed through the air, sending servants scurrying to avoid the brewing storm.  

“San-niang, I’ve explained this before,” came Jiang Fengmian’s measured tone, calm but weary. “Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze were my friends. Helping their child is the least I can do.”  

Yu Ziyuan’s voice rose, filled with anger and frustration. “Your friends! That woman has already ruined my reputation even in death! And now, with these rumors—rumors that you’re looking for her son because he’s yours—they’re making a mockery of me, of this sect!”  

“I’ve never had an affair with her,” Jiang Fengmian replied firmly. “The boy is their son, nothing more. Whatever others think or say doesn’t matter.”  

“It matters to me!” Yu Ziyuan screamed. “You may not care about your reputation, but I refuse to stand by and let you drag mine through the mud!”  

The siblings exchanged a glance, both uneasy and reluctant to approach the source of the argument. Jiang Cheng’s face was dark with frustration, and even Yanli’s soft features were marred with sadness.  

The argument continued to escalate, Yu Ziyuan’s voice trembling with fury. But Jiang Fengmian offered no further retorts. Instead, he stepped away in silence, his expression unreadable as he walked out of the hall.  

“Fengmian! Don’t you dare walk away from me!” Yu Ziyuan shouted after him, her voice echoing through the courtyard.  

Jiang Fengmian did not respond, his figure disappearing into the quiet night.  

Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng watched the entire scene unfold, their small faces tight with discomfort and sadness. Jiang Yanli’s hand found her brother’s, squeezing gently. “A-Cheng,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of determination, “let’s go see the puppies.”

Jiang Cheng blinked, his brows furrowing. “The puppies?”

“Yes,” she said with a small smile. “Jasmine, Princess, and Love must be missing you. Let’s go play with them for a while.”

Reluctantly, Jiang Cheng nodded, allowing his sister to lead him away from the heavy atmosphere of their parents’ argument.

In the small courtyard where the puppies were kept, the three furry little creatures bounded up to them, tails wagging furiously. Jasmine yipped excitedly, while Princess tried to climb into Jiang Cheng’s lap. Love, the smallest of the three, flopped over for belly rubs, drawing a soft giggle from Jiang Yanli.

Jiang Cheng slowly relaxed as he petted Jasmine, his grumpy expression easing as the puppies’ antics distracted him. For a moment, the weight of the argument, the whispers, and the tension in their home faded into the background, replaced by the comforting presence of his sister and their playful companions.

Life in Yunping settled into a steady rhythm for Shen Jiu and Wei Ying. Their rented room at the bustling inn became a temporary haven, a quiet retreat for Shen Jiu’s meditations and Wei Ying’s diligent studies. Despite the city’s liveliness, Shen Jiu maintained his strict teaching schedule, ensuring Wei Ying kept up with every lesson. 

Wei Ying, now accustomed to Shen Jiu’s demanding methods, diligently completed his homework each day. His motivation was clear—finishing his work meant he could run off to play with the children he had befriended in the city.  

“Done,” Wei Ying declared proudly one afternoon, holding up his neatly completed worksheets for Shen Jiu’s inspection. His eyes sparkled with anticipation, already halfway out the door in spirit.  

Shen Jiu barely looked up from the book he was reading. “Not so fast. Did you double-check your answers? I won’t tolerate sloppy work.”  

Wei Ying groaned but dutifully sat back down, meticulously reviewing his work while stealing glances at the window. The faint sounds of children laughing and calling out to one another drifted in, teasing him.  

Satisfied with his corrections, Wei Ying thrust the papers toward Shen Jiu again. “Here! Everything’s perfect now, Shizun!”  

Shen Jiu gave the papers a cursory glance, then waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Go. But if I find mistakes later, you’ll redo everything twice over.”  

Wei Ying didn’t need to be told twice. With a bright grin and a quick “Thank you, Shizun!” he darted out of the room, the sound of his excited footsteps echoing down the hall.  

Shen Jiu sighed and leaned back in his chair, watching the sunlight stream through the window. The boy’s energy was boundless, his ability to make friends effortlessly enviable. It was a pattern Shen Jiu had come to expect—no matter where their travels took them, Wei Ying always managed to charm his way into the hearts of children and adults alike.  

In Yunping, it was no different. The children of the market greeted him like an old friend, and even the stall vendors were amused by his antics. One elderly fruit seller had taken to giving Wei Ying an extra peach or plum whenever he passed by, and a potter had shown him how to shape clay. Shen Jiu had seen the same thing happen in every town they stopped in—Wei Ying leaving behind fond memories and warm smiles wherever he went.  

As for Shen Jiu, his days were more solitary. He rarely interacted with the city’s inhabitants beyond polite necessities. Instead, he focused on his own cultivation, meditating in the privacy of their inn room. He had found a strange sense of balance in his meridians. The tangled mess he had struggled with for decades seemed to be gradually unraveling. It was a slow process, but it was progress nonetheless.  

Every few days, he took on simple night hunts to hone his skills and earn a bit of coin. The creatures he encountered were rarely a challenge, and the routine became almost meditative in itself. He relished the quiet moments, the stillness of the night broken only by the soft hum of his sword or the faint cries of subdued spirits.  

Occasionally, as he returned to the inn after a hunt, he would catch a glimpse of Wei Ying laughing with his newfound friends in the fading evening light. The sight was oddly soothing, a reminder that despite everything, the boy was thriving.  

For Shen Jiu, Yunping was just another stop in their journey. For Wei Ying, it was a new adventure. And so, their lives continued in this temporary yet oddly harmonious balance, both teacher and student finding their own forms of peace in the bustling city.

The warm glow of the full moon filled the small room as Wei Ying brought the dizi to his lips. The black bamboo instrument gleamed in the light, its red tassel swaying gently with his movements. Shen Jiu sat nearby, his posture relaxed but his sharp gaze fixed on the boy.  

The first notes floated through the room, soft and tentative, as Wei Ying carefully adjusted his breath. His small fingers danced over the holes, coaxing a melody from the flute. The sound was not perfect—there were moments where the notes wavered, a bit too sharp or flat—but there was undeniable potential in the music he created.  

Shen Jiu’s expression remained impassive, though his ears caught every mistake, every hesitation. Wei Ying, oblivious to his master’s scrutiny, played on with enthusiasm, his face alight with concentration.  

When the song ended, Wei Ying lowered the flute and looked expectantly at Shen Jiu, his eyes shining with pride. “What do you think, Shizun?” he asked eagerly.  

Shen Jiu raised an eyebrow, his tone sharp as ever. “If you intend to summon spirits with that mess, you’d better hope they’re deaf. Your breathing is uneven, and your transitions between notes are sloppy. Did you even practice the scales I assigned you, or did you waste your time playing with those market brats again?”  

Wei Ying’s face fell for a moment, but then he grinned sheepishly. “I practiced! Really, I did! But maybe not enough,” he admitted.  

Shen Jiu clicked his tongue. “Not enough indeed. If you keep playing like that, don’t bother naming your dizi something as grand as Chenqing. Call it Kū Māo instead.”

(Kū Māo 哭猫=Crying Cats.) 

Wei Ying bit back a laugh, his grin widening. He had long since learned to decipher the true meaning behind his master’s words. Shen Jiu rarely offered outright praise, but Wei Ying had caught the way his gaze lingered on the dizi, the faint nod of approval he gave at the beginning of the performance.  

“Got it, Shizun. I’ll practice more,” Wei Ying said earnestly, holding the flute close. “But isn’t Chenqing a nice name? It’s elegant, don’t you think?”  

“Hmph. We’ll see if it’s deserving once you stop butchering the notes,” Shen Jiu replied, but there was no real bite in his words.  

Wei Ying beamed, undeterred. “I’ll make it worthy! Just wait, Shizun. One day, I’ll be even better than you!”  

Shen Jiu scoffed, though his lips twitched ever so slightly. “Bold words for someone who can’t even hold a note properly. If you want to surpass me, you’d better be prepared to work harder than you’ve ever worked before.”  

“I will!” Wei Ying promised, his excitement renewed. He stood straighter, gripping the flute with determination. “You’ll see, Shizun!”  

As the boy launched into another round of practice, Shen Jiu leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He listened as the notes slowly improved, each mistake corrected with careful effort.  

He’s a long way off from being able to use musical cultivation, Shen Jiu thought. But he’s close to forming his golden core, far sooner than most. Once he does, this boy might truly live up to his ridiculous ambitions.

For now, Shen Jiu kept his thoughts to himself, content to listen as Wei Ying filled the room with the beginnings of what might one day become something remarkable.

Wei Ying stood near the edge of the forest, his brows furrowed in concentration as he nocked an arrow and pulled the bowstring taut. The target, a crude bullseye drawn onto a tree trunk, was riddled with marks from previous shots. He exhaled steadily, releasing the arrow. It hit near the center but not quite on target.

Before he could ready another arrow, a familiar voice broke through the quiet, “There you are. I was starting to think you ran away or something.”

Wei Ying spun around, his eyes lighting up as he spotted Jiang Cheng standing a short distance away, his servant lingering a step behind him. For a moment, Wei Ying stared, almost disbelieving, and then he rushed over with a huge grin.

“You really came back!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around Jiang Cheng in an exuberant hug.

Jiang Cheng stiffened, his ears turning bright red as he spluttered, “W-What are you doing?! Let go!”

Laughing, Wei Ying pulled back but kept grinning at him. “I didn’t think you’d actually come back to play with me! Where’s your jiejie?”

Jiang Cheng’s pout deepened. “It’s just me today.”

Wei Ying’s teasing tone was immediate. “Ohhh, so that means you really missed me, huh? You couldn’t even wait for your sister to come with you?”

Jiang Cheng’s face burned with embarrassment, and he crossed his arms. “Don’t flatter yourself! I was just... bored.”

Wei Ying’s laugh echoed in the clearing. “Whatever you say, A-Cheng!”

Jiang Cheng grumbled but quickly changed the subject, gesturing at the bow Wei Ying was holding. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Practicing archery!” Wei Ying declared proudly. Then, with a curious tilt of his head, he asked, “Do you know how to shoot?”

Jiang Cheng huffed indignantly. “Of course I do! Archery is one of the first lessons we learn in the Jiang Sect.”

Wei Ying’s eyes widened in excitement. “You’re part of a sect? The Jiang Sect?!” His excitement was palpable, and he began bouncing on his toes. “That’s so cool! The Jiang Sect is one of the major sects! Do you live on Lotus Pier? Is it as beautiful as they say? Do you—”

“Stop yelling! Yes, I’m from the Jiang Sect,” Jiang Cheng cut in, trying to maintain his composure despite Wei Ying’s boundless enthusiasm.

“Wow, that’s amazing!” Wei Ying gushed, completely ignoring Jiang Cheng’s attempt to downplay it. He grabbed a spare bow from the ground and tossed it to Jiang Cheng. “Come on, A-Cheng, let’s have a competition! Let’s see who’s the better archer!”

Jiang Cheng caught the bow with ease, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to lose,” he warned.

“We’ll see about that!” Wei Ying shot back with a grin.

They set up targets on the trees and began to take turns shooting. Wei Ying was fast and daring, often attempting trick shots, while Jiang Cheng was precise and steady, aiming for consistent accuracy. Wei Ying teased Jiang Cheng relentlessly whenever he missed a shot, but Jiang Cheng fired back with sharp retorts that only made Wei Ying laugh harder.

By the time the sun began to dip in the sky, their competition ended in a tie, though neither was willing to admit it.

“You got lucky,” Jiang Cheng muttered, slinging his bow over his shoulder.

Wei Ying just grinned at him. “Sure, sure. Then you should come back another time so that we can determine a winner, right?”

Jiang Cheng scowled, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. He had spent the entire afternoon playing and laughing more than he had in months, and despite himself, he had enjoyed every moment.

“We'll see about that!”

As the servant reminded Jiang Cheng that it was time to return home, Wei Ying waved enthusiastically. “Come find me whenever you want to play, A-Cheng!”

Jiang Cheng hesitated, his lips forming a frown even as he glanced back at Wei Ying. “Next time…I'll be the one to win!” he grumbled, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Wei Ying simply laughed at his reaction, waving him off. “I'd like to see that!”

With that, Jiang Cheng turned and headed back toward the city where the carriage was waiting for him with his servant in tow, his expression neutral but his heart just a little lighter than before.

Wei Ying walked back toward the inn, humming happily to himself. His bow was slung over his shoulder, and his quiver jostled with each step. He was still thinking about the fun he’d had that afternoon with Jiang Cheng when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar figure in the bustling marketplace.

“Shizun!” Wei Ying called, waving enthusiastically. Shen Jiu, dressed in his usual simple but high-quality robes, turned his head, his sharp eyes landing on the boy immediately.

Wei Ying sprinted over, practically bouncing with excitement. “Shizun! A-Cheng came back to play with me today!” he announced proudly, tugging on Shen Jiu’s sleeve like a child showing off a prize.

Shen Jiu raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt, letting the boy continue. “We spent the whole afternoon shooting arrows! Did you know he’s from a sect? The Jiang Sect! Isn’t that so cool? We had a competition, and guess what? We tied!”

Shen Jiu’s lips curled into a faint scoff. “You tied? You need more practice if some random brat managed to match you,” he said, though his tone was light.

Wei Ying pouted at the remark, but before he could reply, Shen Jiu’s gaze shifted, his sharp eyes scanning something behind Wei Ying. Without a word, Shen Jiu crouched slightly, slipping his hands under Wei Ying’s arms and lifting him up in one smooth motion.

Startled, Wei Ying instinctively wrapped his legs around Shen Jiu’s waist and his arms around his neck. “Shizun?” he asked, confused.

Shen Jiu didn’t answer immediately, holding Wei Ying securely against his chest as he resumed walking through the marketplace. It wasn’t until Wei Ying heard a sharp bark that realization dawned on him. His body stiffened, and he quickly buried his face in Shen Jiu’s shoulder, gripping the fabric of his robes tightly.

The stray dog wandered lazily along the street, paying them no mind, but Shen Jiu kept his pace steady, his expression calm. He rubbed Wei Ying’s back in soothing circles, his other arm keeping the boy snug against him. “It’s gone now,” he said, his voice low and even. 

After a moment, Wei Ying peeked up cautiously. “Really?”

“Yes,” Shen Jiu replied, not stopping. “You can lift your head now.”

Wei Ying relaxed, his fear melting away as quickly as it had come. He shifted slightly to look at Shen Jiu’s face, a sheepish grin forming. “Thanks, Shizun,” he mumbled before his smile brightened again. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, right! A-Cheng and I tied, but I think it’s because he’s really good! He even said archery is one of the first lessons they learn in his sect—"

Shen Jiu tuned out part of Wei Ying’s chatter, focusing instead on navigating the bustling streets. The boy’s voice was cheerful and animated, and despite the noisy marketplace, Shen Jiu found it easy to pick out every word.

“... and next time, I’m going to beat him for sure!” Wei Ying declared confidently, grinning as he looked at Shen Jiu for approval.

Shen Jiu scoffed again. “You’d better. I didn’t spend all this time teaching you for you to lose to some random sect brat.”

Wei Ying just laughed, the sound carefree and bright. He didn’t even ask to be put down, and Shen Jiu made no move to set him on the ground. Instead, he continued carrying the boy as they made their way back to the inn, Wei Ying happily recounting his day and Shen Jiu listening with a mix of patience and his usual acerbic remarks.

Chapter Text

The quiet hum of the inn room was filled with the faint rustling sounds of Shen Jiu as he moved through the space, carefully setting protective talismans on every corner of the room. His movements were precise, efficient, a practiced routine. Wei Ying, already in his nightgown, was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Shizun, are you really going out again tonight?” Wei Ying mumbled, his voice thick with drowsiness.

Shen Jiu paused for a moment, giving the boy a brief glance. “Yes. I’ll be back later. Don’t open the door to anyone until I return.” His voice was calm but firm, a tone Wei Ying was accustomed to by now.

Wei Ying nodded obediently, the sleepiness in his eyes growing stronger. “Okay, Shizun…”

Shen Jiu lingered for a second, his gaze softening for just the briefest moment as he looked at Wei Ying. With a small sigh, he turned and walked toward the door, giving one last glance to the boy before stepping out.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed in the otherwise silent room. Wei Ying, already half asleep, didn’t think much of it. It had become routine in recent weeks. Shen Jiu had been going out on night hunts every night for the past couple of weeks, a shift in their usual patterns. Wei Ying would beg him to take him along, but Shen Jiu would always refuse, much to his confusion.

It was strange, because in the past, Shen Jiu had never hesitated to let Wei Ying join him on night hunts he deemed safe, wanting him to watch and gain experience. But lately, there had been a noticeable shift, and it was starting to nag at Wei Ying. He shrugged it off though. Perhaps Shen Jiu just had other matters to attend to.

With a yawn, Wei Ying snuggled deeper into the bed, his eyelids fluttering shut. He could hear the soft wind rustling through the window and the distant sounds of the city as his exhaustion took over. In no time, he had drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Outside, Shen Jiu’s figure was already walking through the quiet streets of Yunping. However, instead of heading toward the outskirts of the city for his usual night hunt, he turned toward a more familiar, albeit unexpected, destination.

The famous brothel of Yunping awaited him. The Madam, who was no stranger to Shen Jiu, greeted him warmly as he entered. “Ah, Master Shen, I see you're back again,” she said, her voice dripping with practiced politeness.

Shen Jiu simply nodded, his face calm and unreadable. “Prepare the usual,” he said, and she swiftly led him to one of the rooms, the kind of room that was only reserved for certain kinds of visitors.

While on their way, Shen Jiu noticed small, curious eyes peeking at him from behind a corner, he stopped and stared at them as they hid behind the wall the moment they made eye contact. 

This was something Shen Jiu had gotten used to ever since he started frequenting this brothel, there was a little girl here who would always keep on following and watching him from a distance, and even though Shen Jiu had caught her on multiple occasions, she never stopped. 

The Brothel Madam told him they were the child of one of their workers here, and it wasn't very uncommon for prostitutes to have one child or two during their careers, so Shen Jiu didn't think much of it, at least the mother didn't sell them for slavery. Shen Jiu had reached into his sleeve and fished out a milk candy, waving the girl to come over. 

The girl came out from behind the wall, slowly approaching Shen Jiu with caution. She had a beautiful set of honey-colored eyes that gleamed in the lantern light, with chestnut hair that looked as soft as silk, small nose, pink cheeks and small plump lips, if given time, she would grow up to become a stunning lady.

He already had an idea as to who the mother is. 

...How adorable... 

The girl hesitated but still accepted the candy with a polite bow and a murmured "Thank you" before she ran away to disappear behind the wall again, Shen Jiu just stared after her before he sighed in fondness and followed after the Madam again to his room. 

Once inside, Shen Jiu sat down at the low table in the center of the room, pouring himself a cup of tea as he waited. The clinking of the tea pot against the cup echoed through the room, the only sound breaking the stillness.

Not long after Shen Jiu had settled into the room, the door creaked open and in walked a woman with an air of grace that seemed to fill the room. Her chestnut hair cascaded down her back, and her dark eyes gleamed with a soft warmth, framed by long lashes. Her lips were painted a vivid red, complementing the seductive yellow and pink hanfu that clung to her figure. As she entered, her smile was kind, yet held an understanding that only came with experience.

“Master Shen,” she greeted with a bow, her voice smooth and respectful as she took a seat beside him at the low table. Shen Jiu gave her a nod, his expression neutral as always.

“You're late tonight,” Meng Shi remarked playfully as she poured herself a cup of tea, her gaze flickering over to Shen Jiu, who remained calm and silent.

Shen Jiu's response was as expected. “I had a few things to attend to,” he said simply, his tone polite but detached.

Despite the nature of their meeting place, the two shared a rather comfortable silence as they sipped their tea. Contrary to the expectations of many, their conversation was not filled with anything lascivious or suggestive. Instead, Meng Shi spoke of her son—how much she loved him, how proud she was of his intelligence and sharp wit. Her voice softened when she mentioned his potential, speaking of her hopes for him to learn cultivation, so that one day he could join his father's sect. 

Every time she mentioned him, her words seemed to carry a more tender weight, her tone light, but there was an undeniable warmth in it—a soft, protective glow that only a mother could possess. Though Shen Jiu couldn't understand why the women never talked about her daughter before. He didn't voice his confusion and listened to he anyway. 

They continued to exchange polite conversation, with Meng Shi regaling Shen Jiu with tales of her kid’s antics and her attempts to guide him toward the path of cultivation. Shen Jiu simply nodded, offering small bits of commentary now and then, but mostly allowing her to speak as she pleased.

After a while, the conversation naturally slowed, the warmth of the tea and the quiet of the room settling in around them. Meng Shi's tone grew softer, and she stood to draw the curtains, the dimming light casting a soft glow over the room.

Shen Jiu did not speak, nor did he seem to mind. He had been here enough times to know the usual routine. As they both moved toward the bed, he lay down, his head coming to rest on Meng Shi's lap, his posture still graceful despite his seemingly relaxed position.

Meng Shi, with gentle fingers, began to card through his hair, the soft brush of her fingers soothing him in a way that few things could. She hummed a soft lullaby as she did so, her hand tracing through the strands with practiced ease, every motion delicate, every movement calm.

The rhythmic motion of her fingers through his hair and the sound of her lullaby soon lulled Shen Jiu into a tranquil sleep. His usual walls were lowered in this quiet, peaceful moment, and for once, his mind was quiet, at ease in the softness of the moment.

Meng Shi continued to sit there, keeping her hand through his hair, her gaze tender. She, too, was content, finding comfort in their quiet companionship, it was a welcome respite from the other clients that demanded her services. As the night stretched on, the only sounds were the quiet rustling of the room and the soft lullaby that carried through the air, a subtle reminder of the peace Shen Jiu had found in this place.

Meng Shi had always been the most famous courtesan in Yunmeng, her beauty renowned across the region, drawing powerful men and wealthy clients alike. It was said that the demand for her services was insatiable, and that she could command prices that other courtesans could only dream of. Her appeal was legendary—with a gentle beauty that could steal the heart of a man in seconds, her talent in music, dance and even poetry, made her the darling of the city. She had a presence that seemed to captivate anyone who came into her presence, a magnetic allure that could not be ignored.

But behind the façade of seduction and charm, there was a woman struggling with a life of unspoken sorrow. Meng Shi was no stranger to the realities of her world, but lately, her health had been deteriorating. The constant demand for her services, combined with the toll that time had taken on her, left her feeling weak, fragile. Despite her illness, the demand for her had only risen. There were those who took pleasure in her vulnerability, those who found it a thrill to indulge in their perversions with a sickly, fragile woman—an object to be used in her decline.

Her son, Meng Yao, was the one piece of solace she held close to her heart. He was a child born out of an affair with Jin Guangshan, the sect leader of the Jin sect, and though he carried the blood of a powerful man, he was a child born out of wedlock. Meng Shi had raised him alone, telling her son stories about his father’s greatness and importance, promising him a chance to join him in his sect if he worked hard enough. And despite all her struggles, Meng Yao had grown up to be a brilliant and talented kid. She could not help but be proud of him, even as the reality of their situation loomed over them.

But tonight, it was not Meng Yao who occupied her thoughts, but the strange, quiet man who had begun visiting her recently.

Shen Jiu was unlike any client she had ever had before. When he first arrived at the brothel, she had expected the usual. The typical treatment for such high-paying clients was always predictable—quick satisfaction, little more. But Shen Jiu was different. He did not demand her attention or try to engage in typical indulgences. Instead, he simply sat with her over tea, his gaze calm, his manner polite, even respectful. He urged her to speak freely, encouraging her to share whatever thoughts she wished to, offering her an ear without any expectation of reward or manipulation.

When they retired to the bed, there was no lust in his touch, no hurried passion. Instead, he held her carefully, with tenderness she was not used to. It was as if he sought comfort just as much as she did, a need for quiet connection rather than physical release. Shen Jiu's touch was gentle and respectful, like a man who understood the fragility of a person, and when he fell asleep, his body curled close to hers as if he too found solace in the warmth of her presence.

His behavior reminded her of her son. During stormy nights, he would run to her, trembling in fear of the thunder, and she would hold him close, comfort him with her warmth. It was the same sense of safety that Shen Jiu seemed to seek from her, and though he never spoke of it, she could feel the weight of unspoken grief in his quiet moments.

Night after night, Shen Jiu returned. He asked for her company, for the comfort of her presence. It was a ritual now, one she found herself anticipating. She no longer expected him to be like the others. He was not here to use her; he was here to find peace. Slowly, she found herself growing comfortable around him. His visits became something she looked forward to, a balm for her tired soul.

For the first time in what felt like years, she could relax. Shen Jiu’s silent presence and quiet companionship gave her a sense of calm. He never asked for anything more, never pushed her beyond what she was capable of giving.

She had never expected to find such solace in the arms of a man who, by all rights, should have been just another client. And yet, here she was, finding comfort not only in his physical presence, but in his silent understanding of her pain, his gentleness that soothed the weariness in her heart.

She no longer saw Shen Jiu simply as a client, and in his presence, she found herself wishing that she could offer him more than just comfort, something in return for the peace he had brought into her life.

The night was quiet, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight and the sound of Meng Shi’s soft, melodic voice as she spoke. It had become a regular routine, and each time, it felt as though she revealed a little more about the world that shaped her.

Shen Jiu lay quietly on her lap, his eyes half-closed as her fingers combed through his hair. The comfort of her presence was something he had grown used to, though her words suddenly pulled him from his haze when she mentioned something peculiar.

“I don’t understand why my son isn’t making any progress with cultivation,” Meng Shi said with a soft sigh. “I bought him all these manuals, and he spent so much time studying them, but… nothing happens. I’m starting to think he just doesn't have the talent for it.”

Shen Jiu’s brow twitched. Manuals? Bought? He opened his eyes and glanced up at her. “Where did you get these manuals?”

Meng Shi looked down at him, surprised by his sudden interest. “A rogue cultivator who passed through the city sold them to me. He promised they were high-quality and would help my son build a foundation. I paid quite a bit for them.”

A heavy sigh escaped Shen Jiu as he buried his face into her belly, his arm looping around her waist to press her warmth closer. “They’re probably fake.”

“What?” Meng Shi blinked in shock. “How would you know that?”

Lifting his head slightly but not moving his arm, Shen Jiu explained, “Cultivation manuals are treasures. Sects guard them like their lives depend on it, whether they’re from the higher or lower cultivation realms. For a rogue cultivator to just sell them in a small city like Yunping? Highly unlikely. Most of the time, these so-called manuals are nothing but fake garbage sold to scam unsuspecting people.”

Meng Shi stared at him, her mouth slightly open, unable to refute his logic. “How do you know so much about this? Are you a cultivator?”

Shen Jiu nodded, his expression unreadable.

Her eyes lit up with a mix of hope and urgency. “Then… would you be able to tell if the manuals are fake if you read them?”

He nodded again, though his face remained impassive.

Meng Shi didn’t waste a second. She gently shifted him off her lap, ignoring the quiet huff of protest he made as he leaned away, and moved to the chest in the corner of the room. She rummaged through it, muttering to herself, until she fished out a handful of manuals and returned to him. She placed them on the low table before them, her eyes wide with anticipation. “Can you take a look?”

Shen Jiu sat up and grabbed the first manual off the stack. He barely opened it before letting out another sigh. “Fake.”

Meng Shi’s face fell, but she quickly pushed another one toward him. He took it, skimmed the contents, and shook his head again. “Fake.”

One by one, he went through the stack, his expression growing darker with each turn of the page. While the manuals didn’t seem harmful, they were nothing more than collections of meaningless drivel strung together to appear credible. No proper guidance, no real knowledge—they were useless. He almost scoffed at how transparent the scams were.

“Unlike the faulty manuals in the higher realm, these don’t even try to mimic real cultivation knowledge,” he muttered, half to himself. “At least studying them won’t kill anyone. They’re harmless.”

Meng Shi blinked, leaning closer. “Faulty manuals in the higher realm?”

Shen Jiu’s lips curled into a bitter smile as he placed the last manual down. “The ones in the higher realm are more dangerous. They mix half-truths with lies to make them harder to spot. People there have a basic understanding of qi, so they wouldn’t fall for something this amateur. But if a faulty manual isn’t detected and discarded in time, it can lead to deadly qi deviations.” His voice dropped, laced with quiet venom. 

He should know, Shen Jiu’s Shizun—the previous Qing Jing peak lord—had given Shen Jiu a fake manual on his first day as a disciple, wanting to get rid of the filthy slave that was forced upon him. 

Meng Shi’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. “That’s awful…”

Shen Jiu scoffed, his expression unreadable. Instead, he leaned back into the cushions, closing his eyes again. “Don’t waste your money on things like this anymore. They’re useless.”

Meng Shi’s hands trembled slightly as she picked up one of the fake manuals, staring at it as if it had betrayed her. “I… I just wanted to help him. I thought this would give him a chance to—”

“You did your best,” Shen Jiu interrupted, his voice softer now. “It’s not your fault. People like that rogue cultivator prey on good intentions.”

Shen Jiu’s words hit Meng Shi like a blow. As he proved the cultivation manuals were fake, her hopes crumbled before her eyes. She had placed so much faith in these promised paths for her son’s future, only to have everything exposed as a lie. But the conversation didn’t end there.

For the first time since they met, Shen Jiu seemed genuinely curious. He turned toward her as she remained still, her face crumpling in quiet regret, and asked, “Why are you so obsessed with teaching your son cultivation?”

Meng Shi hesitated, the answer pulling painfully at her heart. “I… I want to send him to his father,” she finally admitted, her voice wavering. “He promised me, if I sent him, he’d take him in. He even left me a pearl button as proof of his sincerity…”

Shen Jiu stared at her, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately, but the shift in his gaze was palpable. His eyes narrowed, and there was an unmistakable flicker of disgust in his face.

Meng Shi swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice small.

Shen Jiu sighed heavily and rolled over in bed, his back to her. “Is the father… Jin Guangshan?” he asked in a tone that was almost weary.

Meng Shi’s breath caught in her throat as she nodded, hesitant but truthful. “Yes…”

Shen Jiu’s eyes flashed, a coldness creeping into his voice. “There’s no way in this world or any other that Jin Guangshan is going to take in your son.”

Meng Shi’s heart skipped a beat at the harshness of his words. She shook her head, the denial almost automatic. “You don’t know that. He promised. He left a button, he said—”

“Jin Guangshan has multiple illegitimate children scattered all over the world,” Shen Jiu interrupted bluntly, his voice biting with truth. “And he doesn’t recognize any of them. You think he’s going to make an exception for your son?”

The truth stung more than Meng Shi could have prepared for. “But—”

“No,” Shen Jiu cut her off, rolling over to face her now. He gave her a long, knowing look, his gaze piercing through her denial. “He already has a legitimate heir. Why would he take in a bastard?”

Meng Shi opened her mouth, her voice trembling as she tried to refute him, but the words caught in her throat. Shen Jiu’s expression softened with a touch of pity, but his voice remained firm and unyielding.

“I’m familiar with people like him,” he continued. “They want a little bit of everything—the pleasure, the power, the legacy—but when it’s time to take responsibility, they run. They deny. They kill, even. Your son doesn’t stand a chance with someone like that. For his sake, you better give up on the idea of sending him there.”

The words hit her like a cold wind. The truth she had tried to shield herself from shattered her fragile hopes. She felt a sinking sensation in her chest, as though her dreams for her son’s future were slipping through her fingers like sand.

Shen Jiu turned his face away, his voice quieter now. “You’re only setting him up for heartbreak. Trust me, I know.”

Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating. Meng Shi felt her throat tighten, and her vision blurred with the weight of everything she had been avoiding.

The moment the first tear slipped down Meng Shi’s face, Shen Jiu froze, his heart sinking. It took him half a breath to realize what was happening, and then he sprang into action.

“Ah—wait, wait! Don’t cry,” he stammered, sitting up straight and waving his hands awkwardly as though he could physically stop the tears from falling. “Was I too harsh? I didn’t mean—if I said something that upset you, I’m sorry, alright? I... I didn’t mean to—’

Meng Shi shook her head, her hand coming up to cover her trembling lips as sobs escaped her. Shen Jiu’s panic only grew. If there was one thing he hated more than arrogant, self-serving men, it was women in distress—especially crying women. He never knew what to do in situations like this. Comfort wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

“I—um—okay, uh—” He hovered uncertainly beside her, his hand twitching like he wanted to place it on her shoulder but didn’t know if he should. “It’s… not that bad, right? You’ll… figure something out?”

But Meng Shi only shook her head again, tears streaming freely now as her chest heaved with suppressed sobs. Finally, her voice broke through the silence, soft and raw with pain.

“It’s not you,” she whispered, her words hitching with emotion. “It’s not you, Master Shen.”

Shen Jiu blinked, startled, and stared at her helplessly. “Then why…?”

Meng Shi wiped at her tears, though it was a futile effort as they kept falling. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers trembling as they clutched at her lap.

“I’m dying,” she admitted, her voice barely audible.

Shen Jiu froze, his breath catching in his throat.

“I have an incurable disease,” she continued, her voice shaking with each word. “The physicians say I don’t have long. Maybe a few years, if I’m lucky. I—I’ve known for a while now, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell my son. I couldn’t bear to see the pain in his eyes.”

Shen Jiu sat there, silent and stunned, as Meng Shi’s words poured out in a torrent of grief and regret.

“I filled his head with fantasies,” she said, her hands gripping her skirts tightly. “Fantasies of a life with his father. I told him that if he worked hard and learned cultivation, his father would accept him. He believes it with all his heart, and it’s his only dream—to prove himself, to make his father proud.”

Her voice broke, and she pressed a trembling hand to her chest as though to steady herself. “I thought… I thought that if I could just get him to his father’s sect, he wouldn’t be alone after I’m gone. I thought it would be enough. But now… now I realize I’ve done nothing but set him up for heartbreak. Not only will he lose me, but he’ll lose his dream, too. He’ll feel betrayed, abandoned, and hurt. How could I…? How could I do this to him?”

"I've doomed him! What should I do now!? How can I ever rectify this mistake!?" Meng Shi buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Shen Jiu sat beside her, frozen in place. He had no idea what to say, what to do.

He wasn’t good at comforting people. He never had been. But as he watched this woman—a mother weighed down by guilt and sorrow—fall apart before him, something inside him twisted uncomfortably.

As Meng Shi broke down further, clutching her chest as though the weight of her sorrow was physically crushing her, Shen Jiu sat there stiffly, his fingers twitching on his lap. He hated this—hated seeing her cry, hated feeling so utterly useless in the face of her despair.

The words came out before he could stop them. “Would… would you feel better if your son had someone with him?”

Meng Shi paused mid-sob, blinking at him with wide, teary eyes. “What do you mean?”

“If your son had someone to take care of him even after your…” Shen Jiu trailed off, not sure how to say it so he decided not to. “Would that ease your burden?”

“Yes,” Meng Shi said, her voice shaky and small. “I just don't want him to be alone, I want at least one person to stay with him.”

Shen Jiu stared at the floor, his jaw tightening as he forced the next words out, each syllable tasting like soap on his tongue. “I… I could take him in. Your son.”

The room went silent.

Meng Shi stared at him, her tears momentarily forgotten as her mouth fell open in shock. “You’d… you’d do that?”

Shen Jiu immediately regretted saying anything. He was already wincing internally at his own offer, but Meng Shi’s reaction made him feel like there was no backing out now. He bit his tongue, his fists clenching in his lap, and gave a reluctant nod.

“Yes,” he said stiffly, the word nearly catching in his throat.

In an instant, Meng Shi sprang forward, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. Shen Jiu froze, his back straight and his hands hovering awkwardly in the air as she clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she cried, her voice filled with so much hope and gratitude that it made his stomach churn uncomfortably. “Thank you so much. If my son has someone like you—someone kind and trustworthy—he won’t be alone. I can die in peace knowing he’ll be safe.”

Shen Jiu’s eye twitched, and a vein visibly bulged on his forehead. Kind and trustworthy? If only she knew. He didn’t think of himself as either of those things, and her words only made him feel worse. Still, he awkwardly patted her back, his movements stiff and robotic as he tried to endure the overwhelming situation.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, glaring at a random spot on the wall as though it had personally wronged him. “Don’t… don’t mention it.”

But internally, he was cursing himself to high heaven. Damn women and their tears. They were too powerful a weapon, one he had no defense against.

As Meng Shi continued to thank him, Shen Jiu sat there, his face locked in a grimace and his thoughts spinning in circles. What had he just gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

The sun was barely a faint glow on the horizon when Shen Jiu stepped out of the brothel, the chill of dawn biting at his skin. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, the events of the previous night replaying in his mind like an unwanted echo. He tugged his cloak tighter around himself, grimacing as he glanced back at the woman standing in the doorway behind him.

Meng Shi, despite the redness of her eyes and the faint pallor in her cheeks, smiled softly as she watched him. “Master Shen,” she called, her voice gentle but laced with the remnants of emotion from the night before. “You’ll come back later today, won’t you? To… to meet him?”

Shen Jiu nodded, his expression unreadable. “I said I would, didn’t I? I don’t go back on my word.”

Her smile widened, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She took a small step forward, folding her hands nervously in front of her as she continued. “He’s… he’s a good boy, my son. His heart is so delicate—he feels everything so deeply, just like me.” Her voice softened, filled with warmth as she spoke. “But he’s so smart, too. He notices things others don’t. And he’s diligent. When he sets his mind to something, he doesn’t stop until it’s done.”

Shen Jiu glanced at her, his expression faintly skeptical. “Is that so? Sounds like a lot for someone so young,” he muttered, though there was no bite to his tone.

“It’s true,” Meng Shi insisted, clasping her hands tighter. “He’s always been that way. He’s so hardworking, even when things are difficult for him. I’ve… I’ve always been so proud of him.”

Shen Jiu made a noncommittal noise, his gaze drifting toward the dimly lit street. “Well, we’ll see how he handles things, I suppose,” he said dryly, though there was a hint of something softer beneath the words.

Meng Shi stepped closer, her eyes filled with gratitude. “Master Shen,” she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. “Thank you. For everything. You’ve given me a peace of mind I didn’t think I could have.”

Shen Jiu shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze. “Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered, adjusting the collar of his cloak. “You'll probably regret it when you see how bad I am with children.”

Meng Shi smiled at him, a mix of sadness and hope in her expression. “I really doubt it,” she said softly.

Shen Jiu didn’t respond, his lips pressing into a thin line as he turned to leave. “I’ll see you later,” he said over his shoulder, his tone curt but not unkind.

As he walked away, the soft sound of Meng Shi’s farewell followed him, lingering in the cold morning air. He didn’t look back. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh, his mind already bracing for the next step in this unexpected and unwelcome turn of events.

Wei Ying fidgeted in his seat at the tea house, his curious gaze darting around the room. “Shizun, why are we here? Are we meeting someone important? Ooh, are they a cultivator? Are they powerful? Are they—”

“Shut up,” Shen Jiu snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned back in his chair. “You’ll find out soon enough. Just stop making noise.”

Wei Ying pouted but obeyed, though his foot began tapping against the floor instead, his energy clearly bubbling under the surface. Shen Jiu resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why is this brat so energetic all the time? Can’t he sit still for five minutes?

Before Wei Ying could break the silence again, the tea house door creaked open, and Shen Jiu turned his head. Meng Shi entered, her presence as graceful as ever despite the pallor of her complexion. Beside her was a child, no older than eleven, clutching her sleeve with a timid grip. Their head was slightly bowed, chestnut hair falling into their honey-colored eyes as they glanced around nervously.

Shen Jiu's gaze flicked to the child’s eyes, a soft familiar golden hue that was clearly not inherited from Meng Shi. Probably from the father, Jin Guangshan. 

...Ew... 

Shen Jiu kept on staring at the child, recognizing them as the girl he kept on seeing in the brothel, but that was weird, wasn't Meng Shi supposed to bring in her son today? Why did she bring her daughter, instead? 

Meng Shi approached, her soft smile snapping him out of his thoughts. “Master Shen, thank you for meeting us here.”

Shen Jiu cleared his throat, sitting straighter. “Of course,” he said curtly, though his eyes betrayed a lingering glance at the girl.

"I thought you said you'll be bringing your son," Shen Jiu said with a raised brow, looking between the pair of mother and daughter. "Why bring your daughter?" 

There was silence, Meng Shi stared at Shen Jiu for some time as if she didn't understand what he was saying, while the little girl looked down at the floor with flushed cheeks, avoiding Shen Jiu's eyes. 

“Master Shen, this is my son, Meng Yao,” Meng Shi said, nudging the boy gently forward. “Yao-er, greet Master Shen.”

Shen Jiu’s brain screeched to a halt. The word "son" playing in an endless loop. At this moment, his mind could conjure one thought. 

...The fuck!?... 

Meng Yao stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Greetings, Master Shen,” he said quietly, his voice soft and polite. When he straightened, he gave a shy, dimpled smile, his eyes glancing nervously at Shen Jiu.

Shen Jiu stared at him, his brain once again grinding to a halt. Oh Gods! Oh my fucking gods!!! He's her son! He's not a girl!!! Is this some sort of cosmic joke!? How the fuck is this supposed to be a boy!!!!? 

He stared blankly at Meng Yao, who started to grow a little bit uncomfortable. He’s the spitting image of her. Why the fuck does he look exactly like her!? His chest tightened in panic, and his mind spiraled. Why does he have her face?! Why does this have to happen to me?! And the dimples! She has those dimples, too! Oh, I’m doomed. This is going to be hell.

Wei Ying leaned over the table, his curiosity bubbling over. “Hi! I’m Wei Ying! Are you the one we'll be meeting today? Shizun, who is he?”

Shen Jiu blinked, tearing his gaze away from Meng Yao and rubbing his temples. “I was getting to that,” he muttered. He glanced at Meng Shi briefly before turning to Wei Ying. “This is... He’ll be your shidi.”

He tried to calm himself, but the thoughts kept coming. Well, it’s better than looking like Jin Guangshan, that piece of trash—but I also hate it! He’s still a boy! How am I supposed to be mean to him if he has her face? Damn it, this is so unfair! Why couldn't he just be born as a girl!!! 

Wei Ying’s mouth fell open in surprise before it was replaced with a wide grin. “Really?! I’m getting a shidi? That’s amazing!” He turned back to Meng Yao, his enthusiasm practically radiating off him. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you everything I know, and we’ll have so much fun!”

Meng Yao’s lips twitched into another shy smile as he glanced at his mother, unsure of how to respond. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Wei Ying tilted his head, frowning slightly. “But Shizun, Meng Yao is older than me, right? Shouldn’t he be my shixiong instead?”

Shen Jiu gave Wei Ying a withering look. “It’s not about age, you little fool. It’s about experience. You’ve been under my tutelage longer, so you’re his senior.”

“Ohhh!” Wei Ying said, grinning again. “That makes sense! Don’t worry, Meng-shidi, I’ll take good care of you!”

Meng Shi chuckled softly at the interaction, then turned her gaze back to Shen Jiu. “Master Shen, you never mentioned you had a disciple already. Are you sure this won’t be too much?”

Shen Jiu snorted, crossing his arms. “I’ll manage,” he said stiffly, his tone making it clear that further questions were unwelcome.

Meng Shi’s smile softened as her gaze shifted to her son. “Yao-er is a good boy. I know he’ll do well under your guidance.”

Shen Jiu nodded tersely, though his thoughts were in turmoil. Great. Now I’m stuck with this boy who looks exactly like his mother and probably has her personality, too. How am I supposed to survive this?

Meng Shi reached out, placing a hand over his. “Thank you, Master Shen. Truly. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Shen Jiu grunted, uncomfortable with her gratitude. He pulled his hand back and stood abruptly. “Meng Yao will be starting his lessons immediately, Let’s go,” he said to the two boys, who immediately hopped to their feet.

Meng Shi followed them to the door. As they parted ways, Meng Shi’s gaze lingered on Meng Yao, her eyes filled with tender love.

Shen Jiu’s lips pressed into a thin line as he gave Meng Shi a long look. “I'm not planning on leaving Yunmeng any time soon, so I'll be sending him back to you at the end of each day,” he said curtly before turning away. 

Meng Shi inclined her head in gratitude, “Yes, Master Shen.”

Having Meng Yao as a disciple wasn’t as dreadful as Shen Jiu had initially feared. The boy was polite and soft-spoken, far from the noisy, reckless type that gave Shen Jiu headaches (read: Wei Ying). He behaved well, rarely needed to be scolded, and, as Meng Shi had promised, was perceptive and hardworking. To Shen Jiu’s mild surprise, Meng Yao already knew how to read and write, had a decent foundation in literature and philosophy, and was proficient in etiquette and even music. Shen Jiu figured that must have been his mother’s doing, her desperate effort to make her son as knowledgeable and prepared as possible.

Meng Yao’s eagerness to please was glaringly obvious. He was always quick to complete his assignments and paid close attention during lessons, his honey-colored eyes watching Shen Jiu carefully as if searching for even the smallest hint of approval. It reminded Shen Jiu uncomfortably of Ming Fan, who had shared that same trait. That desperate, eager look—seeking validation, fearing failure—grated on his nerves. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand it; he just hated the idea of someone looking at him that way.

Still, Meng Yao had his flaws. His foundation in cultivation was pitiful, as expected from someone who’d been learning from fake and poorly written manuals. But that was easy enough to fix under Shen Jiu’s strict tutelage. 

What surprised Shen Jiu more was how quickly Meng Yao bonded with Wei Ying. Despite being the shidi, Meng Yao’s quiet and mature demeanor made Wei Ying take to calling him “Yao-ge,” refusing to address him as shidi. “It’s too awkward to call someone older than me shidi,” Wei Ying declared with a grin. At Wei Ying’s insistence, Meng Yao dropped the formalities and called Wei Ying by his name as well, though he did so with a hesitance that quickly faded under Wei Ying’s endless cheer.

Shen Jiu tried, half-heartedly, to enforce the proper titles. “It’s shidi and shixiong. Not… this nonsense you’ve come up with,” he muttered, rubbing his temples when he overheard Wei Ying teasingly calling Meng Yao “Yao-gege.”

“But Shizun, it is weird!” Wei Ying argued. “I mean, look at him! He’s taller than me already, and he’s older! How am I supposed to call someone like that shidi?”

Meng Yao, always eager to avoid conflict, had quickly jumped in to appease the situation. “It’s fine, Shizun. I don’t mind if Wei Ying calls me Yao-ge.”

Shen Jiu narrowed his eyes. “It’s not about what you mind. It’s about proper decorum.”

But despite his efforts, the habit stuck. No matter how many times he corrected them, they reverted to their informal ways as soon as he wasn’t looking. It grated on Shen Jiu’s nerves, but, in the end, he decided it wasn’t worth the headache. Damn brats, he thought, resigned to their stubbornness.

Meng Yao was determined—relentless, even—to prove his worth to Shen Jiu. From the moment the man took him in as a disciple, Meng Yao resolved to ensure that Shen Jiu never regretted his decision. For the first time in his life, he had a proper Shizun, someone who could teach him not just the basics of cultivation but the kind of knowledge and skill that would one day allow him to enter the Jin Sect. He wouldn’t let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

Shen Jiu’s short temper, grumpiness, and sharp, scathing remarks had been a surprise at first. The man was prickly and unpredictable, his tone often cutting in ways Meng Yao hadn’t anticipated. But Meng Yao refused to let it deter him. He had faced worse, endured harsher environments. Shen Jiu’s biting words were no match for his determination. And as Meng Yao observed more closely, he realized that under that thorny exterior, Shen Jiu was… softer than he seemed. Not kind, per se, but fair in his own way. He rewarded hard work and didn’t lash out without reason. That alone set him apart from most people Meng Yao had encountered.

What truly amazed Meng Yao was Shen Jiu’s vast breadth of knowledge. The man seemed to know something about everything, whether it was cultivation techniques, ancient texts, history, or even obscure trivia about monsters and healing arts. Every lesson revealed another facet of Shen Jiu’s expertise, and Meng Yao couldn’t help but admire him for it. The more he learned from Shen Jiu, the more his respect grew. If this man—short-tempered and cutting as he was—could achieve so much, then surely Meng Yao could as well. He simply had to work harder.

During one particular music lesson, Meng Yao found himself with a rare opportunity to showcase his own skills. Shen Jiu had paired him and Wei Ying together: Wei Ying with his black dizi, and Meng Yao with his pipa. It was a hobby Meng Yao’s mother had encouraged when he was younger, and he had never thought it would prove useful in a situation like this. But as he played, weaving his melody with Wei Ying’s spirited tune, he noticed Shen Jiu watching closely. There was no smile, no overt acknowledgment, but the subtle shift in his Shizun’s expression—just the barest flicker of something that wasn’t outright disapproval—sent a wave of satisfaction through Meng Yao.

To be at Wei Ying’s level, even in just one aspect, was a small triumph. In that moment, he thought that perhaps this was the closest thing he would ever get to approval from Shen Jiu. And that was enough. He would keep working, keep proving himself. One day, he vowed, Shen Jiu would look at him and see someone who was more than just another disciple—someone worthy of being taken seriously.

As for Wei Ying, Meng Yao wasn’t sure what to make of him at first. The boy was bright, almost overwhelmingly so, with an energy that seemed boundless. Cheerful, quick-witted, and brimming with confidence, Wei Ying was unlike anyone Meng Yao had ever encountered. Even Shen Jiu’s sharp remarks and biting insults seemed to roll off his back, met not with sulking or resentment but with humor and an easy grin. It was almost unbelievable, watching Wei Ying accept every criticism without taking it to heart, brushing off Shen Jiu’s sharper jabs as if they were nothing more than playful teasing.

It wasn’t long before Wei Ying took it upon himself to drag Meng Yao along during their rare moments of free time. Whether it was a trip to the market to haggle over sweets, a game of tag or blind man’s bluff with the other children, or a spur-of-the-moment dash into the forest to hunt pheasants, Wei Ying made sure Meng Yao was always included. At first, Meng Yao didn’t know how to respond to the boy’s relentless enthusiasm, but before long, he found himself amused by it. Wei Ying’s energy was infectious, and it was difficult not to smile when he was around.

Of course, that same restless energy grated on Shen Jiu more than anything else. Wei Ying couldn’t sit still for more than a moment, always fidgeting, wandering off, or getting distracted during lessons. And his chatter! Endless streams of it about anything and everything, ranging from cultivation techniques to the most absurd observations about their surroundings. It was obvious that Shen Jiu’s patience was tested daily, and yet, for all his scolding and exasperated sighs, the man tolerated Wei Ying’s antics in a way Meng Yao found surprising.

Meng Yao couldn’t help but admire Wei Ying’s ability to make the best of any situation. The boy was exceptionally smart, with a knack for solving problems in ways Meng Yao never would have considered. He was resourceful and quick to adapt, always thinking on his feet. In some ways, Wei Ying reminded Meng Yao of the kind of person he aspired to be: confident, capable, and unshaken by the opinions of others. Yet, unlike Meng Yao, Wei Ying’s confidence came effortlessly, like it was a part of him rather than something hard-earned.

The boy’s kindness, too, took Meng Yao by surprise. Though he could be mischievous and teasing, there was a genuine warmth to Wei Ying that made it clear he wanted Meng Yao to feel welcome. It was a small thing, perhaps, but for someone who had spent much of his life being overlooked or dismissed, it meant a great deal. Slowly, Meng Yao began to think of Wei Ying not just as a fellow disciple but as something closer to a friend. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he truly belonged somewhere.

The inn room was quiet, save for the soft scratching of quills against parchment as Shen Jiu stood at the head of the table, lecturing his two disciples. The air in the room was thick with the weight of politics, history, and the intricate webs of power that held the cultivation world together.

Shen Jiu’s voice was steady, unwavering, as he imparted the knowledge he had gathered over the years—an understanding of the sects and their internal dynamics. Wei Ying and Meng Yao listened intently, their gazes fixed on him, absorbing every word.

“Now,” Shen Jiu continued, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he turned to face the two, “there is one sect you must understand the most—because it holds the greatest political and economical power, but also the most dangerous secrets. The Jin sect.”

At the mention of the Jin sect, Meng Yao’s eyes twinkled with curiosity. His fascination was apparent, and even Wei Ying couldn’t help but glance at him, wondering what was going through his mind. But Shen Jiu, ever perceptive, caught the flicker in Meng Yao's eyes and gave him a pointed look.

“Do you think it’s a place of honor and opportunity?” Shen Jiu asked, his voice cold as ice. Meng Yao hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden question.

“I—” Meng Yao started, but Shen Jiu didn’t wait for him to finish.

“A place of power, yes, but one that’s rotten to the core,” Shen Jiu said, his tone darkening. “The Jin sect, as much as it appears to be a shining example of success, is nothing more than a den of backstabbing bastards. It’s full of bootlickers and corrupted officials who only rise through bribery and nepotism. Everyone there is for sale, and no one truly has any honor. The sect is built on lies and manipulation, and everyone with real power is too busy covering their crimes behind silk and gold to care about anything else.”

Meng Yao’s face fell as Shen Jiu’s words washed over him, the romanticized version of the Jin sect he had harbored crumbling in an instant. Wei Ying, however, simply watched the exchange with interest, not fully understanding the depth of what Shen Jiu was saying but noting the bitterness in his voice.

“And don’t even get me started on the internal politics,” Shen Jiu went on, the disdain evident in his voice. “The corruption runs deep. Nepotism at its finest. If you’re not born into the right family, you’re nothing. If you don’t know the right people, you’ll be trampled on. The bullying and racism based on status are rampant. It’s a cesspool where only the strongest survive, and that’s not always the most deserving.”

Meng Yao’s expression shifted to something between disbelief and horror. He had imagined the Jin sect as a place where talent was recognized, where it was possible for someone of his ability to rise to the top with hard work and merit. But now, the veil had been ripped away, and all that remained was the ugly truth.

“The Jin sect is nothing but a masquerade. A facade of grandeur built on blood money and false pretenses. They pretend to be paragons of virtue, but underneath, they’re as rotten as the most decrepit of cultivators. There's no honor in the Jin sect,” Shen Jiu concluded, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s a place where you’re either used or discarded. And if you’re not careful, you’ll end up one of the discarded.”

Wei Ying tilted his head, looking at Shen Jiu with curiosity. “Shizun,” he said, his tone light as ever, “Jin Guangshan, the head of the sect, he’s got to be something, right? He’s smart, he controls all the political and economic power. He has to know what he's doing.”

Shen Jiu’s lips twisted into something resembling a sneer, his disdain for the likes of the Jin sect’s leader evident. “Jin Guangshan is capable, no doubt. But his capabilities end where his desires begin. He’s a lecher—will sleep with anything that wears a skirt. He’s made a mess of his own bloodline, and his illegitimate children? He doesn’t acknowledge any of them, as if they were mere stains on his reputation.” Shen Jiu stopped to take a sip of his tea, letting the boys mull over his words. “What kind of leader does that? A man who values power over everything else, including his own family.”

“Then, even though Jin Guangshan might be capable, he's also a coward.” Wei Ying added his own observation, “He’s spent so much time hiding his dirty laundry behind a veil of wealth and status that it’s impossible to trust him.”

Meng Yao’s brows furrowed, and for a moment, his mind seemed to work at full speed, piecing together the fragments of information. He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated, unsure of how his words would sound.

“There’s… there’s a chance he might accept a child, if they proved worthy enough,” Meng Yao said quietly, his voice soft and uncertain. His gaze flickered toward Wei Ying, almost as though seeking some form of reassurance.

Wei Ying blinked in confusion before shaking his head, his grin not faltering for a moment. “No, no, no. Jin Guangshan won’t accept anyone like that, no matter how skilled they are. He already has a legitimate heir. If anyone else tried, it would ruin his image. Not to mention, Madam Jin—she's notorious for kicking out every illegitimate child that dares to knock on the gates of Koi Tower.”

The words hit Meng Yao like a blow, and he fell silent, his gaze distant and his thoughts swirling in a maelstrom of uncertainty. His earlier hopes, the small flicker of belief that perhaps there could be a place for him in the Jin sect if he worked hard enough, now seemed like a distant, unreachable dream. His mouth went dry, and he had no response to Wei Ying’s words, the weight of reality settling heavily on his shoulders.

Shen Jiu, who had been listening quietly, glanced between his two disciples and said nothing more. He knew this would be a hard lesson for Meng Yao, but it was one that needed to be learned. There was no place for illusions in the cultivation world, only the harsh truths that shaped it.

And now, as Meng Yao absorbed the harshness of those truths, the room was filled with an uncomfortable silence.

“Now,” Shen Jiu cut the silence with a sharp snap of his fan. “Onto the Wen Sect.”

Chapter Text

The early afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, casting soft golden rays across the room. Shen Jiu sat on the couch, his legs stretched out before him, the book in his hands barely registering in his mind as his eyes wandered back and forth between the pages and the two boys seated at the table. Wei Ying and Meng Yao were diligently working on their homework, occasionally glancing at him for guidance, but mostly focused on their tasks.

Shen Jiu’s gaze kept flicking back to Meng Yao, and for some reason, his thoughts seemed to shift and cloud with every glance. The boy's soft, delicate features—the curve of those eyes and the gentle smile—reminded him too much of Meng Shi. Meng Yao’s face held the same calm and composed expression, the same slight dimple on his cheek when he smiled, and the same quiet demeanor.

It was as though Meng Shi herself was sitting there in his place, and the thought, for reasons Shen Jiu couldn’t fully understand, filled him with a strange sense of safety, a comforting warmth in the midst of his otherwise sharp and cynical thoughts. The sunlight, so gentle and hazy in the afternoon, made the moment feel dreamlike, and Shen Jiu felt the tendrils of sleep slowly creeping over him. His eyelids grew heavier, his attention slipping away from his book, and before he could stop himself, he drifted into sleep.

His book slipped from his fingers, his head tilted back against the couch, and his eyes closed completely. The exhaustion from his constant vigilance and the strain of pretending to be the perfect master finally caught up with him, and he fell asleep.

Neither Wei Ying nor Meng Yao noticed at first. The two were too absorbed in their work, and the stillness in the room was only broken by the occasional scribble on paper or a sigh. It wasn’t until Wei Ying lifted his eyes that he noticed something amiss. His eyes widened, and he quickly whispered, “Yao-ge!”

Meng Yao looked up, startled by the sudden call, his gaze following Wei Ying’s pointing finger to Shen Jiu. At first, he didn’t understand why Wei Ying’s face was so surprised. He saw his shizun resting there, his head tilted to the side, eyes shut in peaceful sleep. Meng Yao, however, didn’t share the same sense of astonishment. He had never seen Shen Jiu sleep before, but it wasn’t alarming. He simply assumed the man had decided to rest.

Wei Ying stood up and walked over to Shen Jiu’s sleeping form, curiosity written all over his face. Meng Yao followed quietly, still unsure of why Wei Ying was behaving so oddly. When they both stood over Shen Jiu, Wei Ying couldn’t help but marvel at the contrast before him. The sharp, harsh angles of Shen Jiu’s face softened in his sleep, the lines of irritation and scorn that usually marred his features gone. His lips, usually pressed into a thin, disapproving line, were relaxed, and his brow—usually furrowed in perpetual annoyance—was smooth. He looked so... peaceful.

There was something almost beautiful about the way Shen Jiu looked in sleep—like a predator resting after a long hunt. His beauty was fierce and untamed, like a wild animal in its prime, always alert and dangerous. But now, as he slept, he looked so tender, vulnerable in a way that was completely foreign to the stern, sharp master the boys knew.

Meng Yao stood beside Wei Ying, his eyes tracing Shen Jiu’s features with an intensity that he rarely allowed himself. He had always thought Shen Jiu was beautiful, but this... this was something different. His beauty was no longer the fierce, dangerous allure that reminded him of a storm, untouchable and full of wrath. Now, as he slept, Shen Jiu’s beauty was soft, like a delicate flower after a rainstorm, tender and unguarded.

Wei Ying broke his quiet reverie, his voice a hushed whisper. “Shizun never sleeps,” he said, as though it were some secret. Meng Yao turned to him, confused.

“What do you mean?” he whispered back. “He sleeps now, doesn't he?”

Wei Ying nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Shen Jiu’s sleeping form. “He practices inedia,” Wei Ying explained quietly. “He can go for long periods without eating or sleeping. I don’t know how long, but he still eats sometimes. It’s just... he never sleeps. Not really. He usually spends the nights either meditating or going on a night hunt. This... is the first time I’ve ever seen him sleep since he took me in two years ago."

Meng Yao was silent for a moment, digesting this information. He had heard of inedia before—cultivators who could train their bodies to survive without sustenance—but he had never realized that Shen Jiu practiced it so strictly. To go without sleep for so long... that seemed almost impossible, yet here he was, asleep before them, so uncharacteristically human.

The weight of that realization settled heavily on Meng Yao. He glanced back down at his shizun, still unable to tear his eyes away. Shen Jiu had always seemed untouchable, almost like a god of sorts, unshakable in his authority and his relentless nature. But now, watching him sleep so peacefully, Meng Yao felt a new layer of understanding—of vulnerability. He could finally see, for the first time, just how much Shen Jiu kept hidden beneath that prickly exterior.

As they stood there, staring at the master who had never allowed himself to rest, it dawned on Meng Yao that there was more to his shizun than he could ever have imagined. And, for the first time, he wondered if maybe Shen Jiu needed rest more than he let on.

The two of them stood there in quiet awe, the homework forgotten, their attention entirely consumed by the peaceful sight of Shen Jiu’s resting face. Time seemed to stretch, and neither of them could pull themselves away, caught in the strange stillness of the moment.

Shen Jiu’s eyes fluttered open, the soft light of late afternoon filtering through the window, casting a gentle glow on the room.He was groggy, still caught in the haze of sleep, but as his senses sharpened the first thing he noticed was the warmth pressed against his chest. He blinked, confusion clouding his mind as he tried to make sense of the situation. His gaze drifted downward, and to his surprise, he found Wei Ying—his overly energetic, endlessly talkative disciple—snuggling against him, his head resting comfortably on Shen Jiu's chest. The boy’s breath was soft, steady, and utterly unbothered by the fact that Shen Jiu was his master.

That alone was enough to leave Shen Jiu bewildered. But as his eyes moved further, he saw Meng Yao, crouched by the edge of the couch, his head tilted against it as he slept. His posture was awkward, but his expression was peaceful, far too innocent to be confused with anything malicious.

Shen Jiu’s mind screamed in horror as he realized he had fallen asleep, of all places, on the couch with them in the room. His face flushed with embarrassment as he froze. 

For a moment, Shen Jiu just stared, his thoughts swirling. Should he wake them up? Scold them for invading his space so brazenly? Tell them they should be working, not slacking off in such an undignified manner? The words rose on his tongue, but then they faltered as his eyes drifted back to Wei Ying, his small form pressed so innocently against his chest. Shen Jiu’s fingers twitched, but he resisted the urge to push the boy away. Wei Ying’s presence felt... strangely comforting. And then his gaze turned back to Meng Yao, whose face was so peaceful, so reminiscent of a face he came to associate with comfort. 

Shen Jiu sighed, the sound escaping him before he could catch it. He was too tired to care, too exhausted to muster the energy to chastise them. The tension in his shoulders loosened, and his body sank back into the couch. He didn't move, not yet. He could feel the warmth of Wei Ying's head against his chest, the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of the boy’s breath, and it was oddly soothing. Meng Yao’s presence, despite his stillness, was comforting in its own bizarre way. 

As the moments passed, Shen Jiu’s lips did something that was as uncharacteristic as it was unintentional. His mouth curved, ever so slightly, into a fond smile. A smile that no one would see, a smile that even he himself couldn’t quite understand. The boy in his arms, and the one beside him, were both irritating and endearing in their own way. Wei Ying, with his endless chatter and boundless energy, had wormed his way under Shen Jiu’s skin in a way no one ever had before. Meng Yao, too, was proving to be a puzzle—so much like his mother, yet so different. 

But for now, Shen Jiu let them sleep. They could remain undisturbed, letting the quiet serenity of the moment linger, at least for a while longer. Once they wake up, a proper punishment shall be dealt. 

The sunlight filtered through the dense canopy above as the clack of wooden swords echoed in the clearing. Meng Yao and Wei Ying sparred, their movements sharp but not without the occasional stumble. Shen Jiu stood a short distance away, arms crossed, his piercing gaze following their every step.

“Too slow, Wei Ying. You’re leaving your left side open,” Shen Jiu barked, his tone sharp. “Meng Yao, your grip is weak. Do you intend to throw the sword at your opponent?”

Meng Yao flushed but adjusted his stance immediately, determined not to falter. He swung at Wei Ying with renewed focus, their wooden swords clashing in a satisfying rhythm. But as Meng Yao stepped back to dodge a swing, his foot caught on an uneven patch of ground. His ankle twisted sharply, and he collapsed with a cry of pain.

Wei Ying dropped his wooden sword instantly, rushing to Meng Yao’s side. “Yao-ge! Are you okay?” he asked, his voice high with worry.

Shen Jiu strode over briskly, his face impassive as he knelt to inspect Meng Yao’s ankle. Meng Yao winced, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched at his leg. “It hurts, Shizun,” he said softly, his voice tight with pain.

“Stop whining. It’s not broken,” Shen Jiu muttered, carefully pressing around the swollen area. Meng Yao hissed but didn’t pull away. After a moment, Shen Jiu stood. “It’s a minor sprain. Wei Ying, run back to the inn and grab the ointment from my bedside table. Bring it here immediately.”

Wei Ying didn’t need to be told twice. “Got it!” he shouted, taking off in a blur of motion, his usual energy fueling his sprint back toward the inn.

Shen Jiu sighed as he bent down, scooping Meng Yao up effortlessly. The boy’s eyes widened, but he didn’t protest as Shen Jiu carried him over to a nearby rock and set him down. “Stay put and stop squirming. Wei Ying will be back soon.”

Meng Yao nodded, his cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. Shen Jiu leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the forest edge as they waited.

Wei Ying raced through the city streets, darting around merchants and weaving through bustling crowds. His mission was clear, and his focus was sharp as he avoided a moving cart with a nimble sidestep. But in his haste, he collided with a man, falling backward onto the dusty road.

“Are you alright?” a calm voice asked.

Wei Ying looked up to see a man in vibrant purple robes, a silver bell hanging from his belt. The man extended a hand to help him up.

Wei Ying grinned brightly, brushing himself off. “I’m fine, thanks! Sorry about that!”

As he turned to continue his dash toward the inn, he froze when he heard the man call out, “Wei Ying?”

There was a note of shock and something deeper in the man’s voice. Wei Ying stopped in his tracks, spinning around with confusion written across his face. “How do you know my name?”

The man’s expression softened, though pain flickered in his eyes. He knelt down to Wei Ying’s level, placing his hands gently on the boy’s shoulders. “Do you… not remember me? I… I used to know your parents.”

Wei Ying’s eyes widened. “My parents?” he echoed, his voice breathless.

The man nodded, his voice thick with emotion. “Yes. My name is Jiang Fengmian. Your parents and I… we were friends. You even visited my home in Lotus Pier when you were little. You used to play with my children there.”

Wei Ying’s mind raced, fragments of hazy memories surfacing—a dock, children laughing, the smell of lotus flowers. His hands clutched Jiang Fengmian’s arms. “I… I think I remember playing by a dock. Are you serious? You really knew my parents?”

Jiang Fengmian’s gentle smile trembled at the edges. “I did. And I’ve been looking for you ever since I heard the news about… about their deaths. I never stopped searching, and I can’t tell you how relieved I am to have finally found you.”

Wei Ying’s chest felt tight with overwhelming emotions. His voice wavered between excitement and disbelief. “Can you tell me more about them? What were they like? Please, I want to know everything!”

Jiang Fengmian stood, his hands still resting on Wei Ying’s shoulders. “I’ll tell you everything, Wei Ying. But… why don’t you come with me to Lotus Pier? I can show you the place your parents used to bring you, and we can talk as much as you like.”

Wei Ying hesitated only for a moment before nodding eagerly. “Yes! I’ll come with you!”

With that, Wei Ying followed Jiang Fengmian, his heart racing with curiosity and hope. In his excitement, he completely forgot about the two people waiting for him back in the forest.

Lotus Pier was like nothing Wei Ying had ever seen before. The waterways glistened in the sunlight, adorned with blooming lotuses that floated gracefully on the surface. Disciples dressed in purple robes moved with purpose through the sect, practicing their sword forms or chatting animatedly. The air was filled with the faint scent of lotus flowers and the sound of water lapping against the docks. Wei Ying’s eyes were wide with awe as he followed Jiang Fengmian through the winding paths, taking in every detail of the beautiful sect and its towering structures, a testament to the Jiang Sect’s power. 

“This is amazing!” Wei Ying exclaimed, his voice filled with wonder. “I’ve never been to a place like this before. It’s so… grand!”

Jiang Fengmian chuckled softly, pleased by the boy’s enthusiasm. “I’m glad you like it. Come, there’s something I want to show you.”

He led Wei Ying to a dock overlooking the calm waters, where a cluster of lotus pods floated lazily. Jiang Fengmian gestured to the spot. “This used to be your favorite spot. You would sit right on this dock, dangling your feet in the water. You loved it here.”

Wei Ying stared at the dock, a faint glimmer of a memory stirring in his mind. He crouched down, touching the wood as if it held some secret connection to his past. “My parents… What were their names?”

Jiang Fengmian’s expression softened. “Your mother was Cangse Sanren, a remarkable woman. Free-spirited and brilliant. And your father… Wei Changze. He was my childhood friend. He lived here, in Lotus Pier, before leaving to travel with your mother.”

Wei Ying’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “My father… lived here? Really?”

Jiang Fengmian nodded. “He did. This was his home before he met your mother.”

Wei Ying’s mind whirled with the revelation. He looked at Jiang Fengmian, a spark of hope lighting up his face. “Did you know them well? Can you tell me more about them?”

Jiang Fengmian smiled gently. “I will tell you everything, Wei Ying. But… would you like to stay here? To become a disciple of the Jiang sect? You could learn and grow here, just as your father did. This could be your home.”

Wei Ying opened his mouth to respond, but hesitation flickered across his face. His thoughts darted back to Shen Jiu and Meng Yao, waiting for him in the forest. Before he could say anything, a sharp, angry voice cut through the peaceful moment.

“So this is the boy you’ve been looking for!”

Wei Ying turned to see a woman striding toward them, her expression thunderous. Dressed in fine robes, she radiated authority and anger. Behind her followed two children—a boy and a girl—both looking apprehensive.

Yu Ziyuan stormed toward them, her robes billowing behind her, Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng following close behind. Her tone was dripping with venom as she continued, “Congratulations, Jiang Fengmian. You’ve found the boy you’ve neglected your family for! The one who’s made us the subject of every gossip in the cultivation world!”

Jiang Yanli tugged at her mother’s sleeve, her voice soft but pleading. “A-Niang, please…”

Jiang Cheng’s expression was unreadable, though his eyes flickered with unease.

Jiang Fengmian placed a protective hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder. “San-niang, you’re frightening him. He’s just a child.”

Yu Ziyuan’s sharp gaze shifted to Wei Ying, her lips curling in disdain. “A stray! And you dare to bring him here? We don’t need him!”

Wei Ying shrank back slightly under her glare, but his attention was drawn to Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng. His face lit up in recognition, and he waved. “A-Cheng! Yanli-jiejie!”

It was then that Jiang Cheng’s and Jiang Yanli’s eyes fell on Wei Ying. Recognition dawned, their expressions shifting from shock to uncertainty. Both siblings froze. Jiang Yanli’s eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth, while Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightened.

Jiang Fengmian noticed Wei Ying’s excitement and asked, “Do you know them?”

Wei Ying nodded eagerly. “Yes! We’re friends. Jiang Cheng comes to Yunping sometimes, and we play together.”

Jiang Fengmian’s smile returned. “That’s good. It’s wonderful that you already know each other—”

But before he could continue, Yu Ziyuan’s glare turned icy as she looked down at her son. Jiang Cheng flinched under her scrutiny, panic and anger flashing across his face.

“Shut up!” Jiang Cheng’s sudden outburst startled everyone. He pointed at Wei Ying, his voice trembling. “Don’t call me that! We’re not friends! I don’t want to be your friend! Get lost!”

Wei Ying blinked, stunned into silence. The words hit him like a slap. Before he could respond, Jiang Cheng turned and bolted, running toward the inner sect.

“A-Cheng!” Jiang Yanli called, torn between staying and following her brother. She glanced at Wei Ying, guilt flickering in her eyes, before hurrying after her brother.

Yu Ziyuan turned back to Jiang Fengmian, her voice rising in anger. “Do you see what you’re doing to this family? Instead of focusing on your own son, you’re bringing this boy here and causing chaos! Throw him back where you found him!”

Jiang Fengmian’s voice was calm but firm. “How could you say that to him? He’s a child who lost both his parents. Who knows how he’s been surviving all this time?”

Yu Ziyuan scoffed, her eyes raking over Wei Ying’s appearance. “Judging by how he looks, he’s been doing just fine without your interference!”

Jiang Fengmian sighed, his patience wearing thin, while Wei Ying stood frozen, his heart heavy with the chaos his presence seemed to cause.

Before Jiang Fengmian could say anything or Yu Ziyuan could throw another retort, a commotion from the gates of the sect had stolen their attention. 

Chapter Text

The forest clearing had grown quieter, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Shen Jiu stood with his arms crossed, glaring toward the path Wei Ying had taken, his patience wearing thin. Meng Yao, sitting on a rock nearby, shifted uncomfortably under Shen Jiu's withering stare, though the man wasn’t looking directly at him.

“That brat,” Shen Jiu muttered under his breath, taking a few steps forward to glare at the empty path. “How long does it take to fetch a simple ointment? If that boy got distracted again—” He sighed irritably, his fingers twitching as though itching to pull Wei Ying’s ear.

Meng Yao hesitated before speaking. “Shizun, perhaps something delayed him?”

“Of course something delayed him!” Shen Jiu snapped, turning on his heel. “Knowing him, he probably found some stray animal or started juggling fruit for coins in the market.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'm not waiting any longer, let's go.”

Without another word, Shen Jiu bent down, lifted Meng Yao effortlessly, and began walking toward the city. Meng Yao, unused to such gestures, stiffened for a moment before relaxing in Shen Jiu’s surprisingly steady hold.

By the time they reached the inn, Shen Jiu was simmering with irritation. He pushed the door open and immediately scanned the room. Empty. The bed was neatly made, the ointment still sitting exactly where it had been left.

“He didn’t even make it here,” Shen Jiu muttered darkly, setting Meng Yao down on the bed with surprising care and retrieving the ointment. With quick, precise movements, he applied the medicine to Meng Yao’s swollen ankle and wrapped it tightly in clean bandages he found nearby.

“This should take about an hour to heal, don't move unless you want to make it worse,” Shen Jiu said curtly, standing back and brushing off his hands. “You stay here and don’t move. I’m going to find that wayward little brat and drag him back myself.”

Meng Yao nodded obediently, though his eyes betrayed worry. “Be careful, Shizun.”

Shen Jiu only snorted as he strode out of the room, heading toward the market with a storm brewing behind his cold expression.

The bustling market was alive with activity, vendors calling out to passersby and the air filled with the scent of fresh produce and spices. Shen Jiu moved with purpose, his sharp gaze cut through the crowd like a blade, scanning for any sign of Wei Ying. His patience wore thinner with every passing moment, and his irritation turned to unease. Wei Ying had disappeared before, but this felt different.

As he passed a stall laden with colorful fruits, an elderly vendor sitting behind the counter perked up.

“Ah, you’re the one always with Xiao Ying, yes?” the man said.

Shen Jiu stopped in his tracks, turning sharply toward the old man. “Xiao Ying?”

“The lively boy,” the vendor clarified with a chuckle. “Dark robes and red hair ribbon. He’s always darting around here like a little sparrow. Are you looking for him?”

“Yes,” Shen Jiu replied, his tone clipped. “Did you see him?”

The old man nodded. “Not too long ago. He was with a man—dressed in purple, with a silver bell on his belt. Looked like someone important. If I had to guess he was most probably from the Jiang Sect, they left together.”

Shen Jiu’s expression darkened instantly, a cold fury settling over his features. “Are you sure?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The vendor nodded, “Other people must have seen him too, you can ask around if you want but they'll tell you the same thing,” he stroked his beard thoughtfully, oblivious to the storm brewing in Shen Jiu’s eyes.

For a moment, Shen Jiu didn’t move, his face utterly unreadable. Then, his expression twisted into something cold and furious.

His mind raced, piecing together the little information he had, and all his conclusions pointed to one thing: Wei Ying had been taken.

Shen Jiu clenched his fists, his mind racing. Memories of Ning Yingying’s constant kidnapping attempts flashed in his mind—the frantic searching, the sickening dread, the rage. He’d always been forced to clean up those messes, and now it was happening again, only this time with Wei Ying.

“Kidnapping,” Shen Jiu spat under his breath, his tone venomous. Without another word, he summoned his sword, stepping onto it with an ease born of practice.

If these so-called cultivators thought they could steal what belonged to him, they would soon learn the weight of their mistake.

The locals stared in awe as Shen Jiu shot into the sky like a streak of light, his destination was clear—Lotus Pier in Yunmeng. His eyes burned with anger, his grip on his fan tightening. Whoever dared take Wei Ying was about to learn that Shen Jiu was no savior.

He was a predator. And he would get the boy back.

Jiang Cheng stormed into his room and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. He flopped onto his bed, sprawling on his belly, burying his face into the pillow to stifle his frustration. He had spent the better part of his life resenting the boy for all the troubles he had caused between his parents, he hated the name Wei Ying that he would constantly hear shouted during heated arguments and couldn't help but feel that even with the absence of this boy he had managed to steal his father’s affection from him, and he hated that much more. 

And to think that the only person that Jiang Cheng had genuinely enjoyed his company and made friends with turned out to be the same boy he hated for years, his heart stung with conflicting feelings of betrayal and guilt. 

His hands clenched at the soft fabric as he replayed the harsh words he had shouted at Wei Ying. The memory of the boy's hurt expression lingered, cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

Jiang Yanli quietly opened the door after picking the lock with practiced ease—a skill she'd acquired after years of dealing with her stubborn younger brother's tantrums. She stepped inside, her soft footsteps barely audible against the floor. Seeing Jiang Cheng sprawled on the bed, hiding his face like a sulking child, she sighed gently and sat down beside him.

“A-Cheng,” she called softly, patting his back. “Are you going to stay like this all day?”

Jiang Cheng groaned but didn’t move or answer. Jiang Yanli didn’t push him; she knew better than to force words out of him when he was like this. Instead, she kept her voice calm and soothing as she spoke.

“I know you didn’t mean those words you said to A-Ying. You were angry and under a lot of pressure, but that doesn’t make it okay to take it out on him,” she said gently.

Jiang Cheng stiffened slightly but still refused to look at her.

“I know it’s not easy, A-Cheng,” Jiang Yanli continued. “With everything that’s been happening—the arguments between A-Die and A-Ning, the revelation that A-Ying is actually Wei Ying, the boy A-Die has been searching for all this time—it’s a lot to handle. But it’s not his fault. There’s no way he could have known.”

Still, Jiang Cheng said nothing, but his grip on the pillow loosened slightly. Jiang Yanli smiled faintly, knowing she was getting through to him.

“You’ve always liked playing with Wei Ying,” she said, her tone light and reminiscent. “I remember how excited you were every time we went to town and you got to see him. Whether you admit it or not, you like Wei Ying. You want to stay his friend, don’t you?”

At that, Jiang Cheng finally moved. He turned his head just enough to look at her, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t think he’ll want to be my friend anymore, A-jie,” he muttered, his voice trembling. “Not after what I said to him. He looked... so hurt.”

Jiang Yanli’s heart ached at her brother’s expression, but she reached out to gently pat his head. “You should still apologize,” she said firmly. “Tell Wei Ying how you truly feel. He’s a good kid, A-Cheng. I’m sure he’ll understand and forgive you. After all,” she added with a small smile, “I can tell he likes you a lot too.”

Jiang Cheng sniffled and sat up, leaning against his sister’s side for comfort. Her words soothed him, and though he still felt a pang of guilt, a glimmer of hope stirred in his chest.

Before he could say anything, however, the faint sound of shouting reached their ears. Both siblings froze, their heads snapping toward the window. The noise outside grew louder, more chaotic, and Jiang Yanli’s expression turned worried.

“What’s happening?” Jiang Cheng asked, his voice laced with alarm.

“I don’t know,” Jiang Yanli said, standing quickly. “Come on, let’s go see.”

The two siblings rushed out of the room, their earlier conversation momentarily forgotten as they hurried toward the commotion.

The sounds of shouting and clashing weapons echoed through Lotus Pier, alarming Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan. They hurried to the gates, robes billowing behind them. As they reached the entrance, they were met with a startling sight: a lone figure in green, sword in hand, defeating their disciples with an effortless precision.

The figure moved with the grace of a predator, his strikes precise and unrelenting. The guards tried to block him, but they were no match. With each swing of his sword, another disciple fell, and the figure strode closer to the heart of the sect, his fan flicking open in his other hand as though mocking their efforts.

Yu Ziyuan's face twisted in fury. With a crackling sound, she summoned Zidian, the lightning whip materializing in her hand with a snap of electricity. “The audacity of this man,” she hissed.

The commotion had drawn Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli, who rushed over just as Yu Ziyuan prepared to act. Jiang Cheng's eyes widened at the sight of the intruder cutting through their disciples, and Jiang Yanli held her brother's arm as if to steady herself.

“A-Die, A-Niang, what’s happening?” Jiang Yanli asked, but Jiang Fengmian raised a hand, his gaze locked on the advancing figure.

“Stay back,” he ordered, his voice calm but firm. “Both of you, behind me.”

As the figure stepped into clearer view, Jiang Fengmian’s expression tightened. It was a man wearing simple robes and his hair tied neatly with a green ribbon, his eyes were sharp, they looked at him and the jade color combined with that cold glare made a shiver run down his spine. With Shen Jiu’s spirit sword, Xiu Ya, gleaming in his hand and a paper fan in the other, he exuded an air of effortless arrogance, as though he had every right to storm one of the major sects.

Yu Ziyuan wasted no time. “How dare you!” she bellowed, her voice cutting through the chaos. “You dare attack the Jiang Sect like this?!”

Shen Jiu scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. “The Jiang Sect has the audacity to take what’s mine. I’m simply here to retrieve it.”

Yu Ziyuan’s face darkened with rage. “You dare!? Insolent fool!” Zidian lashed out with a crack of thunder, streaking through the air toward Shen Jiu.

With a fluid motion, Shen Jiu raised Xiu Ya and deflected the whip. Sparks flew as the sword and lightning whip clashed, and Yu Ziyuan’s strikes became faster and more precise, each lash aimed to subdue him. Yet Shen Jiu met every attack with a sharp swipe of Xiu Ya, deflecting her blows with practiced ease.

The disciples who had managed to scramble to their feet looked on in stunned disbelief. Zidian was a high-level spiritual weapon, feared throughout the cultivation world, and Yu Ziyuan wielded it with deadly precision. To see someone not only stand against it but deflect it so easily was almost unbelievable.

Jiang Fengmian opened his mouth to intervene, but before he could step forward, a small voice cut through the tension.

“Shizun!”

Wei Ying darted out from behind Jiang Fengmian, running toward Shen Jiu.

Shen Jiu's sharp eyes snapped toward the boy, and his scowl softened just slightly. “Wei Ying.”

Yu Ziyuan, infuriated that her opponent’s attention had shifted, lashed out with Zidian once more. Shen Jiu, thoroughly annoyed now, caught the tip of the whip with his hand, ignoring the sparks of electricity that danced along his fingers. With a sharp tug, he wrenched it from Yu Ziyuan’s grip.

Zidian reverted to its ring form, clinking to the ground, and Shen Jiu tossed it aside without a second glance.

He strode forward, meeting Wei Ying halfway and pulling the boy into his arms. Turning his glare toward Yu Ziyuan and Jiang Fengmian, he spat, “Truly shameless. For a sect of such supposed grandeur and prestige to kidnap other people’s disciples so casually—have you no honor?”

Jiang Fengmian finally stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “There must be a misunderstanding. The Jiang Sect does not kidnap children.”

“Misunderstanding?” Shen Jiu snapped. “Then why is my disciple here, in your sect?” His grip on Wei Ying tightened as though to shield him.

Jiang Fengmian frowned. “Your disciple?”

Shen Jiu straightened, his expression cold and unyielding. “Yes. Wei Ying is my disciple. I am his shizun.”

The tension inside the hall was palpable, the air thick and stifling despite the cool breeze drifting in from the open windows. Shen Jiu sat calmly in his seat, his green robes pristine and his expression composed, though the tension radiating from him was palpable. Across from him sat Jiang Fengmian, his usual mild demeanor tempered with a wry edge, while Yu Ziyuan perched beside him, arms crossed and face set in a scowl.

Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng stood to the side, shifting uncomfortably. Meanwhile, Wei Ying was firmly planted behind Jiang Fengmian, doing his best to disappear from sight. His head was bowed, and his hands gripped the back of Jiang Fengmian’s chair, as though that would shield him from the storm he knew was coming.

Shen Jiu’s voice broke the silence first. It was calm and measured, yet it carried a weight that made everyone sit up straighter. “I must offer my most profound apologies for my earlier actions,” he began, standing from his seat and bowing deeply toward Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan. “My assumptions and lack of clarity led to an inexcusable misunderstanding, and I trespassed upon your sect. I ask for your forgiveness, Jiang-zongzhu, Yu-furen.”

Yu Ziyuan’s lips thinned, her knuckles whitening as her fingers gripped Zidian’s ring form tightly. Though she clearly had more to say, she remained silent, glaring at Shen Jiu. Clearly still shaken from the previous confrontation with the rogue cultivator. 

Jiang Fengmian, on the other hand, waved the apology away with a faint chuckle. “There’s no need for such formality, Master Shen. If anything, I should have considered that Wei Ying might have someone looking after him. I didn’t think to ask, and for that, I must take responsibility.”

With that, the matter between the Jiang leaders was resolved, leaving the only loose thread in the form of a certain boy trembling behind Jiang Fengmian.

Shen Jiu’s icy glare turned toward Wei Ying, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Jiang Yanli shivered despite herself, and Jiang Cheng crossed his arms tightly, trying to suppress the urge to step back. Even Yu Ziyuan, though outwardly composed, clenched her jaw in annoyance at the rising tension.

Jiang Fengmian laughed awkwardly, but it did little to break the thick atmosphere.

“Wei Ying,” Shen Jiu finally addressed, his voice calm but dripping with unmistakable fury. “How many times have I told you to use your head?”

Wei Ying peeked around Jiang Fengmian, his eyes wide with guilt. “Shizun, I—”

Shen Jiu didn’t let him finish. “Not only did you ignore my orders, but you followed a stranger without so much as a word to me or anyone else. Because of your carelessness, I attacked a major sect under the assumption that you’d been kidnapped! And now here we are.” His voice grew sharper with every word, and Wei Ying flinched. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Wei Ying hesitated, his mind racing for a defense. “I only got distracted,” he said weakly. “Uncle Jiang mentioned my parents—”

“So what?” Shen Jiu cut him off, his tone sharper now, laced with disbelief. “If someone mentions your parents, does that mean you’ll just follow them like a clueless fool?”

Wei Ying’s voice died in his throat, and he ducked his head, unable to meet his Shizun’s gaze.

Shen Jiu laughed, though it was devoid of humor. “Do you want to die, Wei Ying? Or are you trying to send me to an early grave with a qi deviation because of your stupidity?”

The words hit hard, and Wei Ying flinched, his trembling worsening as he ducked further behind Jiang Fengmian. Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng exchanged nervous glances, while Yu Ziyuan tsked loudly, clearly irritated by the entire situation.

“Master Shen,” Jiang Fengmian said, raising a hand in a placating gesture. “Let’s not escalate things further. The boy understands his mistake—”

“Be quiet!” Shen Jiu barked, and for a moment, even Jiang Fengmian was stunned into silence. Shen Jiu couldn't help it, the Jiang sect leader reminded him too much of Yue Qingyuan, and the fact both had the same temperament and soft voice only irritated him more. “We’ll see how well he understands it,” Shen Jiu said, his voice low and dangerous.

Finally, Wei Ying peeked out from behind Jiang Fengmian, his voice small and trembling. “I’m sorry, Shizun. I won’t do it again.”

Shen Jiu stared at him for a long moment before letting out a tired sigh. “We’ll deal with this later,” he said, his tone quieter but no less firm. “Rest assured, Wei Ying, you will face the consequences of your actions.”

Wei Ying’s heart sank, but before he could dwell on it, Jiang Fengmian took the opportunity to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Perhaps we should take a moment to calm ourselves. Children, why don’t you step outside?”

Wei Ying blinked, his wide eyes darting between Shen Jiu and Jiang Fengmian. Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli quickly ushered him out of the room, the latter shooting a sympathetic glance over her shoulder before the door slid shut, leaving the three adults alone.

Chapter Text

The hall was steeped in tension, the kind that weighed on the air and made every sound seem louder than it was. Jiang Fengmian folded his hands in front of him and broke the silence with a polite, yet firm, tone.

“Master Shen, I would like to ask your permission to accept Wei Ying as a disciple of the Jiang sect,” he began, his words slow and deliberate.

Yu Ziyuan was on her feet before he could finish, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “You dare? After what I said earlier? Do you truly intend to disregard my wishes, Fengmian?”

Jiang Fengmian didn’t even look at her, his calm demeanor only serving to fuel her ire further.

Shen Jiu, still seated, answered before Jiang Fengmian could. His voice was cool and unyielding. “No.”

Jiang Fengmian didn’t flinch. Instead, he nodded slightly, as though he’d expected the answer. “I understand that it might be difficult for you to part with your disciple, Master Shen. But I urge you to consider the bigger picture—Wei Ying’s future.”

Yu Ziyuan scoffed, her voice laced with venom. “What future? I don’t want some damn stray in my home, let alone that woman’s son!”

Jiang Fengmian’s gaze flicked to her at last, a warning in his quiet, “San-niang.”

Shen Jiu’s expression didn’t change, but his voice turned sharper, colder. “I suggest you choose your words carefully, Yu-furen. That is my disciple you’re speaking of.”

The room fell silent, Yu Ziyuan’s lips pressing into a thin line as she glared daggers at Shen Jiu. Jiang Fengmian gave a nervous chuckle, trying to ease the tension, but Shen Jiu’s icy demeanor didn’t falter.

“Jiang-zongzhu, I fail to see how joining the Jiang sect would benefit Wei Ying,” Shen Jiu continued, his tone cutting.

“With all due respect, Master Shen,” Jiang Fengmian replied, his voice gentle yet resolute, “A life of a rogue cultivator isn’t suitable for a child so young. Wei Ying needs stability, a place to call home. Lotus Pier can be that place for him. The Jiang sect can provide him with the resources, teachings, and protection he needs to thrive as a future cultivator.”

Shen Jiu scoffed, the sound sharp and derisive. “Protection? With all due respect, Jiang-zongzhu, I hardly think you’re in a position to talk to me about protection when you barely managed to defend your sect against me just now.”

Jiang Fengmian’s words caught in his throat, his face tightening. Yu Ziyuan’s hand clenched into a fist as she seethed. “You dare insult our sect—”

“I’m simply stating facts,” Shen Jiu cut her off with a dismissive shrug, his calm voice only fueling her frustration further.

The silence that followed was heavy. Shen Jiu took a measured sip of his tea, unbothered by the storm brewing around him. When he finally spoke again, his tone was thoughtful. “That being said, Jiang-zongzhu, your words are not entirely without merit.”

Jiang Fengmian perked up slightly, a hopeful light in his eyes.

But Shen Jiu’s next words extinguished it. “However, I still have no intention of handing Wei Ying over to you. Not only because I’m unwilling to part with my disciple, but because I know that staying here won’t be good for him.”

Jiang Fengmian leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowed in concern. “And why do you say that?”

Shen Jiu set his teacup down with a soft clink, his gaze steady. “Over the years, Jiang-zongzhu, your actions—or rather, your inaction—have caused countless rumors about your family situation to spread far and wide. Those rumors are not only affecting your reputation but also the reputations of your children and your wife, what do you think people will say when you accept the child that is rumored to be your illegitimate son into your sect?”

Yu Ziyuan’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her lips curled in intrigue. She crossed her arms and muttered, “At least one person here is thinking straight.”

Shen Jiu inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment of her words, while Jiang Fengmian gave a strained smile, feeling as though the two were teaming up against him.

“Yu-furen’s... lack of enthusiasm for the boy’s presence only cements my decision,” Shen Jiu continued, his tone as polite as it was sharp. “While I appreciate your sentimentality and sense of responsibility towards your late friends’ son, your lack of insight into the consequences this decision would bring—for your family and for the boy—makes it impossible for me to accept.”

Yu Ziyuan huffed in agreement, while Jiang Fengmian sighed, clearly struggling to find a counterargument.

After a brief pause, Shen Jiu spoke again, his tone lighter but no less firm. “Be that as it may, I’m not unreasonable. I won’t deny Wei Ying the chance to learn about his parents, especially since this place used to be his father’s home.”

Jiang Fengmian’s brow lifted slightly, his curiosity piqued. “What do you suggest, Master Shen?”

Shen Jiu’s lips quirked into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “You may send for the boy to visit every now and then. His stay will be temporary, which will prevent unnecessary gossip. This way, he can learn about his parents without disrupting the balance of your household or enduring any... unnecessary hostility.”

Jiang Fengmian sat back, considering the proposal. Yu Ziyuan gave both men a critical look, but for once, said nothing.

After a moment, Jiang Fengmian nodded. “Very well. I accept your terms, Master Shen.”

The gazebo stood gracefully over the tranquil waters of the lotus lake, its structure supported by sturdy wooden beams that seemed to rise from the lake itself. The floor, crafted from dark wood, was broad and spacious, offering an open view of the serene water below, where the lotuses bloomed in quiet elegance. The structure had a traditional yet graceful design, with curved eaves and delicate railings that framed the space. The roof, thatched with bamboo, created a harmonious blend with the surrounding landscape.

A long wooden bridge, weathered but well-maintained, stretched from the mainland to the gazebo, guiding visitors over the water. The path was bordered by small, gently swaying reeds, and the soft creak of the wooden planks underfoot added to the peaceful atmosphere. The entire space felt like a secluded haven, standing in perfect balance with the natural world around it, offering a quiet retreat above the shimmering surface of the lake. The view of the lotus flowers below seemed to blend with the sky, creating a dreamlike, almost ethereal quality to the place.

Jiang Yanli, Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying sat side by side at the edge of the wooden floor, gazing down at the vibrant lotuses that dotted the surface of the lake. Wei Ying’s usual playful energy was subdued today. He sat in silence, his wide eyes taking in the scene before him, the wonder clear in his gaze. In contrast, Jiang Cheng’s hands fidgeted nervously, twisting the fabric of his robes as he kept his focus downward, avoiding any unnecessary attention.

For a moment, the atmosphere was quiet, save for the soft sounds of nature around them. Then, breaking the stillness, Wei Ying spoke, his voice quiet and laced with sincerity. “I never meant to hide my identity from you two,” he began, his gaze shifting between Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng. “I’m sorry if it made you feel like I was lying to you. That was never my intention.”

Jiang Yanli turned to him, her expression gentle and understanding. She smiled softly, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Wei Ying, it wasn’t your fault,” she reassured him. “How could you have known? There’s no blame here.”

Wei Ying nodded sheepishly, the weight of his earlier words easing just a little. His eyes fell back to the lotuses, his fingers absentmindedly picking at the edge of his robe as he pondered her words.

Noticing her brother’s unease, Jiang Yanli gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow. Jiang Cheng looked up at her, confusion and hesitation written across his face. She tilted her head subtly toward Wei Ying, signaling for him to speak.

With a deep breath, Jiang Cheng finally cleared his throat. His voice was tight with embarrassment as he glanced at Wei Ying. “Wei Ying... I— I’m sorry for what I said before. I didn’t mean it. I was angry, and... and I shouldn’t have said those things.” His words tumbled out in a rush, his cheeks burning with shame. “But, if you don’t want to be friends anymore, I understand. I really do.”

Before Jiang Cheng could say anything more, a sudden movement startled him. Wei Ying, who had been lost in his thoughts, flung himself at him, his arms wrapping tightly around Jiang Cheng in an unexpected embrace.

“There’s no way I’d want to stop being friends with you!” Wei Ying exclaimed, his voice a mixture of relief and joy. “I’m happy you don’t hate me, Jiang Cheng. Really!”

Jiang Cheng’s face turned a deeper shade of red, his mouth opening and closing in a sputter of confusion. “B-but... you should be the one hating me,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wei Ying shook his head vigorously, a wide smile on his face. “There’s no way I could ever hate you, Jiang Cheng. You’re my friend, and nothing will change that.”

As the boys exchanged their apologies and reassurances, Jiang Yanli couldn’t help but chuckle softly. She reached out, pulling both of them into a gentle hug, her arms wrapping around their shoulders as she held them close. “You two should always get along and never fight, okay?” she said, her voice warm and filled with love.

The boys nodded in unison, their bond growing stronger as they sat together, their earlier tensions now replaced with the comfort of understanding.

As they sat on the wooden floor of the gazebo, the peaceful atmosphere of the lotus lake surrounding them, Jiang Cheng couldn’t help but glance over at Wei Ying, his curiosity piqued.

“Hey, Wei Ying,” Jiang Cheng said, his tone a little hesitant, “Why is your Shizun so scary like that?”

Wei Ying simply shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “He’s always been like that,” he answered nonchalantly. “But... he’s not a bad person, really. He just... has his ways.”

Jiang Cheng raised an eyebrow. “He must be really strong, though. I mean, he fought against our disciples and even my mother, and didn’t get shocked by Zidian. He even took the weapon from her without a scratch!”

Wei Ying nodded, looking a bit more thoughtful now. “Shizun is really strong,” he agreed. “And smart, too. He’s a strict teacher, but he’s so efficient. There’s almost nothing he doesn’t know how to do.”

Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli exchanged small looks, their curiosity growing.

Wei Ying continued, growing animated as he spoke of his shizun. “Once, when we were out on a mission, we were ambushed by a group of bandits. Shizun just... calculated everything, planned the whole fight out in his head, and made sure I was safe while taking them down one by one.” He grinned at the memory. “And he even fixed my sword technique without me asking. It was like he knew exactly what was wrong, and I didn’t even have to tell him.”

Jiang Yanli nodded thoughtfully, her voice gentle. “It sounds like he really looks after you, Wei Ying.”

Jiang Cheng, still processing everything, chimed in again, “If he’s so strong and smart, why hasn’t he joined a sect yet? I mean, with all his abilities, he’d be a huge asset to anyone.”

Wei Ying paused for a moment, his smile fading slightly as he considered the question. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I never asked him. I think... he just doesn’t want to?”

There was a brief silence as the three of them pondered that. The lotus lake rippled gently beneath them, and the cool breeze rustled the leaves around the gazebo.

Jiang Cheng nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. “I guess some things just stay a mystery.”

Wei Ying looked at him, his expression softening. “Yeah. But, if you ever need him, he’s always there. Even if he’s scary, you can trust him.”

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the gates of the Jiang Sect, Shen Jiu and Wei Ying stood ready to leave. The air was calm, filled with the gentle rustle of leaves as Jiang Fengmian, Yu Ziyuan, and their children gathered to see them off.

Shen Jiu stood tall, his posture formal as he bowed low to the two Jiang leaders, a respectful gesture that Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan returned with a nod, their eyes briefly meeting his. Yu Ziyuan’s gaze lingered on Shen Jiu a little longer than necessary, and there was something different in her eyes, something far less dismissive than before, as if she was seeing him in a new light.

Jiang Fengmian looked down at Wei Ying, offering him a small, ornate box with a gentle smile. Wei Ying took the box hesitantly, confusion evident in his expression as he glanced between Jiang Fengmian and Shen Jiu.

“It's a gift,” Jiang Fengmian explained, his voice warm. “A Jiang Clarity Bell, as a token of sincerity. You are always welcome at Lotus Pier. We hope you will visit whenever you like.”

Shen Jiu nudged Wei Ying gently, his voice calm yet firm. “You should thank him properly, Wei Ying."

Wei Ying blinked a couple of times before bowing politely to the sect leader, “Thank you, Uncle Jiang!” Turning to Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli, who had been standing quietly behind their parents, he said with a cheerful tone, “I’ll come to Lotus Pier soon, and we’ll play together, just like we promised, Jiang Cheng.”

Jiang Cheng, his usual gruffness softened, smiled awkwardly. “Yeah, you better. I’ll hold you to that promise,” he said with a hint of a smile.

Jiang Yanli smiled kindly, her eyes warm. “I’ll make sure to prepare soup for you both. Take care of yourself.”

With that, Shen Jiu and Wei Ying turned to leave. As they walked toward the gates, Wei Ying gave one last look at the Jiang family, feeling a bit of warmth in his chest at their genuine smiles and farewells. When they reached the threshold, Shen Jiu lifted Wei Ying onto his sword, the familiar motion swift and practiced. Wei Ying settled comfortably in his arms, the wind rushing past them as Shen Jiu flew them away from the Jiang Sect and back toward Yunping.

As they soared through the skies, Wei Ying couldn’t help but glance down at the box he still held tightly in his hands. His curiosity got the better of him, and with careful hands, he opened the box to reveal a delicate silver bell, its surface etched with intricate patterns. A purple tassel dangled from the top, signifying the Jiang Sect.

The sight of the bell brought a feeling of warmth and gratitude rushing through him. “Shizun,” Wei Ying said quietly, looking up at Shen Jiu, his voice soft. “It’s beautiful.”

Shen Jiu glanced down at him, his expression unreadable. “It’s a gesture of kindness,” he said simply. “And a reminder that you are always welcome.”

Wei Ying nodded, holding the bell close as he settled into the comfort of Shen Jiu’s embrace, feeling a sense of peace he hadn’t realized he needed. He didn’t know what the future held, but in this moment, with the wind in his hair and the warmth of his Shizun’s presence, he felt a small spark of hope for what might come next.

Chapter Text

The small inn room in Yunping was quiet when Shen Jiu and Wei Ying returned, the setting sun casting long shadows across the wooden floor. As they entered, the faint sound of rustling paper caught Wei Ying's attention. Meng Yao sat at the modest desk, a stack of neatly arranged scrolls in front of him, his brush poised as he glanced up at their arrival.

“Shizun, Wei Ying,” Meng Yao greeted politely, setting the brush aside and rising to his feet. He had been waiting for them, though his sharp eyes flickered briefly to Wei Ying, noting the odd box tucked under his arm.

Shen Jiu barely spared Meng Yao a glance as he moved toward the small couch under the window, his movements deliberate. He sat down with a grace that belied the tightness in his posture, his arms crossing as he gazed out into the fading light. The air grew tense, the silence heavy enough to press against Wei Ying's chest.

Sensing something amiss, Wei Ying hesitated, glancing between his shizun and Meng Yao. Deciding to play it safe, he shuffled over to his bedding and carefully tucked the box Jiang Fengmian had given him under his pillow. The soft rustle of fabric seemed deafening in the strained quiet.

Then Shen Jiu’s sharp voice cut through the stillness like a blade. “Wei Ying.”

The boy jolted upright, his heart racing as he spun to face his shizun. He stood straight, his hands clenched at his sides, an instinctual need to appear as obedient as possible. “Y-Yes, Shizun?”

Meng Yao sighed softly, leaning back in his chair as if resigned. He recognized that tone in Shen Jiu’s voice—Wei Ying had clearly done something to warrant punishment, though what it could be, Meng Yao didn’t know. Still, he could already guess the outcome.

Shen Jiu’s gaze was icy as it pinned Wei Ying in place. “You disobeyed me. Forgot about your shidi’s injury. Made me lose face, and most importantly, worried me sick.”

Wei Ying opened his mouth to defend himself but faltered, knowing better than to argue. He lowered his head instead, biting his lip. “I… I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Shen Jiu snapped. “You are my disciple, and I will not have you behaving recklessly or stepping beyond the bounds I’ve set for you.”

Wei Ying swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes, Shizun.”

“Good.” Shen Jiu’s voice softened ever so slightly, though his eyes remained cold. “Your punishment is as follows: you are to be struck by the bamboo ruler fifteen times and grounded for one week. No cultivation. No practicing your techniques. You will only study and complete the assignments I give you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Shizun,” Wei Ying repeated, though his heart sank at the thought of being barred from cultivation. It was his favorite thing to do, but he didn’t dare argue.

Satisfied, Shen Jiu dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Wei Ying shuffled back to his bedding, his head low.

Meng Yao watched the scene unfold silently, his expression carefully neutral. When Shen Jiu’s attention shifted back to the window, Meng Yao glanced at Wei Ying and offered him a small, sympathetic smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind Wei Ying that someone understood his plight.

Wei Ying let out a soft sigh, plopping onto his bedding with a resigned thud. It was going to be a long week.

After a while, and as the sky grew darker, Shen Jiu turned his sharp gaze to Meng Yao, who had been quietly observing the exchange. “Your ankle must have healed by now,” he said briskly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Come here and let me see your work.”

Meng Yao stood immediately, collecting the papers he’d been working on before moving to stand in front of Shen Jiu. He handed them over with practiced precision, clasping his hands behind his back as Shen Jiu began reviewing them in silence.

The room was still save for the faint rustle of paper. Wei Ying, who had curled up on his bedding with a forlorn expression, peeked over curiously but quickly averted his gaze when Shen Jiu shifted slightly.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Meng Yao broke the silence. “Shizun, may I ask where you’ve been?”

Shen Jiu didn’t look up from the papers, his fingers flipping through the sheets methodically. “Lotus Pier.”

Meng Yao blinked in surprise, glancing over his shoulder at Wei Ying, who was miserably fiddling with the edge of his blanket. His curiosity deepened. “Lotus Pier? May I ask why?”

Shen Jiu’s eyes remained on the papers as he replied, his voice edged with sarcasm. “You should ask Wei Ying. He got himself dragged there because of his foolishness.”

Meng Yao’s brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t press further, his sharp mind piecing together the general picture. He turned his gaze to Wei Ying, who immediately shrank under the weight of it, looking guiltier than ever. It wasn’t hard to imagine what had transpired—Wei Ying must have gotten distracted while running through the city, somehow gotten involved with Lotus Pier, and Shen Jiu had been forced to retrieve him. Judging by Shen Jiu’s foul mood, the trip had been far from pleasant.

Sighing internally, Meng Yao shook his head. Trust Wei Ying to ensure not a single day was dull.

After several minutes, Shen Jiu finally set the papers down on the small table beside him. “Your work is sufficient,” he said curtly. “You’re free to leave. Go home.”

Meng Yao bowed deeply. “Thank you, Shizun.” He retrieved his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and turned toward the door. Before leaving, he glanced at Wei Ying, offering a subtle but knowing smile. “Good night, Shizun. Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying mumbled a soft goodnight, still looking pitiful, and Shen Jiu simply inclined his head in acknowledgment, already reaching for another scroll.

As Meng Yao closed the door behind him, the inn room fell silent once more. The warm glow of the lanterns cast flickering shadows on the walls, and Wei Ying, for the first time that day, felt a sliver of relief knowing there’d be no more scolding—at least for tonight.

The following days passed in a routine of sorts, with Wei Ying's calves aching from the bamboo ruler, he obediently served the rest of his punishment, his frustration mounting with each passing day. Shen Jiu, as expected, kept him occupied with long hours of study, ensuring that Wei Ying did not slack off despite the restrictions placed on him. Wei Ying begrudgingly complied, though his eyes would always follow the windows, longing for the chance to break free.

Meanwhile, Shen Jiu poured his attention into Meng Yao's lessons. He pushed the boy to refine his skills, focusing on cultivation, martial arts, and sword techniques. Every lesson was a challenge, and Meng Yao met each one with determination. Though Shen Jiu was strict, he couldn’t help but be impressed by Meng Yao’s progress. He had a sharp mind, and his discipline was unyielding. Shen Jiu often found himself thinking about the boy’s potential, both as a disciple and an individual, though he never voiced these thoughts aloud.

At last, the week passed, and Wei Ying's punishment was finally lifted. His first request was immediate and unrelenting.

“Shizun,” Wei Ying piped up the morning his punishment ended, his eyes bright with anticipation, “Can we go to Lotus Pier now?”

Shen Jiu, who had been gathering his papers to begin the day's work, paused. “Lotus Pier?”

“Yes! Jiang Cheng wrote me a letter inviting me to play. I had to write back and tell him I was grounded, which was honestly so embarrassing,” Wei Ying groaned, rolling his eyes. “He even made fun of me for it! Can you believe it?”

Shen Jiu gave a dry, noncommittal hum. “Well, it is your fault you were grounded.”

Wei Ying shot him a look, but Shen Jiu couldn’t suppress the faint curve of his lips. Despite the reprimands, Shen Jiu had grown used to Wei Ying’s antics. He sighed, “Fine. But Meng Yao comes with us.”

Wei Ying jumped to his feet, eyes shining with excitement. “Of course! I want him to play too!”

Thus, Shen Jiu, Wei Ying, and Meng Yao found themselves once again traveling to Lotus Pier, the familiar sight of the Jiang Sect welcoming them as they flew across the skies on Shen Jiu’s sword.

When they landed, the mood was light. The family was already gathered in the courtyard, the air filled with the sounds of laughter and gentle conversation. Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying wasted no time in running off to play, their energy boundless. Jiang Yanli and Meng Yao settled nearby, quietly conversing while enjoying the serenity of the surroundings.

Shen Jiu, however, was caught off guard when Yu Ziyuan—who had been quietly observing from a distance—invited him to join her for tea.

“Would you like some tea, Master Shen?” she asked, her expression neutral. Though her eyes glimmered with quiet anticipation. 

Shen Jiu hesitated for a brief moment before nodding and taking a seat across from her. He had expected to be politely sent away until the children’s playdate ended and it was time for him to take his disciples, but not this—tea, with just the two of them. Despite his wariness, he found himself settling into the conversation with a sense of ease. He had no reason to decline; it was not as if he was uncomfortable with her company. Yet, it was still surprising. After all, their first meeting was far from pleasant, but their second meeting in the heat of battle during a night hunt can be considered adequate. 

That night, Shen Jiu had ventured into Yunmeng’s depths in search of a ferocious monster. He had encountered Yu Ziyuan during the hunt, something he hadn’t anticipated. Though she was known for taking part in such hunts, he hadn’t imagined their paths would cross. But they did, and in that moment, they worked together seamlessly, their efforts synchronized like two parts of a whole.

The night hunt had ended with the monster dispatched, but it was during the aftermath, while they stood together in the quiet of the forest, that Shen Jiu had realized how much they had in common. Both of them were strict and calculated, driven by the same sense of duty and responsibility. In the heat of the hunt, they'd found a mutual understanding—a bond that, despite their differing backgrounds, felt natural.

And now, sitting across from her in the serene surroundings of Lotus Pier, Shen Jiu could see that same understanding reflected in her eyes. Yu Ziyuan was calm, composed, and unpretentious as she sipped her tea. She was not the unapproachable figure he had once perceived her to be, and if he looked hard enough, he can also see a part of himself in her eyes. 

He doesn't know whether he likes it or hates it. 

As they both sat, enjoying the crisp and cool air, and the quiet sounds of nature. Their tea cups were almost forgotten as the conversation took a more familiar, heated turn.

One of the things that the two enjoyed doing while in the presence of the other, is complaining. 

Shen Jiu, who had been nursing his tea with a detached air, suddenly slammed his cup down on the table, his sharp gaze turning toward Yu Ziyuan, frustration clearly written on his face.

“That Wei Ying,” he muttered under his breath, barely controlling his irritation. “How does he even manage to get through the day without causing some sort of disaster? He’s so wild and unpredictable, it’s like trying to tame a storm! He doesn’t listen to a word I say, and then, when he finally decides to do something, it’s always the exact opposite of what I instructed.”

Yu Ziyuan’s eyes narrowed, the very mention of troublesome disciples striking a chord with her. She had always expected things to go her way, especially when it came to training the disciples of the Jiang sect. With a deep sigh, she responded, her tone tinged with a mixture of exhaustion and irritation.

“Don't even get me started on my disciples,” she began, voice low and sharp. “They’re undisciplined, and it’s infuriating! I swear, no matter how many times I tell them, they never seem to understand the importance of strictness in training. They think that a few weak smiles and pats on the back will make them great cultivators. It’s nonsense!” She scoffed, clearly disgusted by the very thought. “And then—then—my husband always has to step in and question my methods in front of them, telling me that I need to show more leniency, more understanding. The audacity!” Her grip on her tea cup tightened, a vein of frustration showing at the corners of her eyes.

Shen Jiu’s frown deepened in agreement. “Leniency and understanding? What good will that do? If you pamper them, they’ll be weak, they’ll be useless. I’m not in this to make friends or to cater to their fragile egos.” He scoffed, echoing Yu Ziyuan’s frustration. “The only thing that matters is mastery. If they want to be true cultivators, they need to strive for perfection in every move, every step. Anything less, and it’s a waste of time. A complete waste. How can they become strong if they aren’t pushed to their limits? How can they protect themselves—protect others—if they don’t learn to face real challenges?”

Yu Ziyuan’s lips curled into a sneer. “Exactly! But no—my husband wants me to coddle them, to make them feel comfortable while they’re learning. Comfortable? Comfort leads to stagnation. It leads to death. If you’re not pushing them, if you’re not ensuring they reach their maximum potential, what’s the point of even having disciples? They’ll be nothing but dead weight.” Her eyes flicked to the distant horizon, her voice turning colder. “The world is cruel. If they can’t withstand the harshness of training, how can they possibly withstand the cruelty of the world? How?”

Shen Jiu’s lips curled into a sneer, his sharp features tight with tension. “Exactly. Perfection, that’s the only thing I accept. Anything less is failure. What do we do in this line of work if we don’t demand the very best from those we’re teaching?” He exhaled through his nose, his irritation mounting. “They’re too soft. They lack discipline. How do they think they’ll survive in a world filled with monsters, scheming cultivators, and endless dangers if they can’t even handle a single day of real hardship?”

Yu Ziyuan clicked her tongue, agreeing fully. “If they can’t take a little pressure now, how can they expect to stand strong when the world’s trials come crashing down on them? My disciples need to be sharp, focused, uncompromising. And that’s the only way they’ll be worthy of the Jiang sect’s name.” Her hands tightened on her tea cup, her expression turning even more severe. “But no. I’m constantly being undermined by that man.”

Shen Jiu gave a short, derisive laugh. “He's too naïve. I tell Wei Ying that there’s no room for mistakes. Perfection is the only acceptable standard,” He scowled, crossing his arms. “I don’t have time for games, and neither should he. If I could just get him to understand that, things would be much simpler.”

Yu Ziyuan’s gaze softened, a glint of understanding flashing between them as they both shared the same sentiment, the same frustration. Their harsh expectations, their uncompromising standards—they were burdens they both bore in their own ways, the weight of responsibility and leadership pressing on their shoulders. There was a strange comfort in finding someone who understood that.

She leaned back, letting out a breath of relief. “It’s exhausting, isn’t it? To constantly push them, to never relent, only to be questioned by everyone around you.” She paused for a moment, her lips twisting into a half-smile. “But it’s the only way to make them strong. And if they can’t handle it, then they don’t deserve to be cultivators.”

Shen Jiu’s voice was cold but resolute as he nodded. “Yes. Weakness isn’t an option. They’ll either rise to the challenge, or they’ll fall. It’s as simple as that.”

Yu Ziyuan gave a brief, approving nod, and for the first time in a long while, they both shared the same sharp, grim smile—a silent agreement that they were cut from the same cloth. And despite the frustrations, despite the tension, they both knew that this was the only way forward.

With a deep sigh, Shen Jiu leaned back slightly, allowing himself a rare moment of peace. No matter the obstacles, no matter the complaints from the sidelines, they would never compromise. That was their duty as teachers, as cultivators. Nothing less than perfection would do.

Yu Ziyuan’s eyes softened, her posture stiffening again as she turned to look at the children playing nearby, her voice quieter now. “At least you understand. I can't say that about anyone else.”

“Likewise,” Shen Jiu replied softly. His tone remained sharp, but there was a subtle note of camaraderie in it. They were, after all, kindred spirits in the ways of discipline.

The conversation trailed off, both lost in their thoughts, but for once, neither of them felt the need to explain themselves further. They understood each other perfectly.

And perhaps, for the first time, Shen Jiu felt…seen. 

Jiang Yanli sat comfortably on a stone bench nearby, her hands resting gracefully in her lap as she watched the two adults converse. She could hear the sharp, heated words exchanged between Yu Ziyuan and Shen Jiu, and though the topics were serious, the way they spoke was almost... amusing. She glanced at Meng Yao, who sat beside her with a bemused expression, his shoulders a bit more rigid than usual, as if anticipating the next sharp remark from Shen Jiu.

Meng Yao, for his part, was quietly relieved that Shen Jiu wasn’t ranting about him—yet. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, how long that would last. As much as Shen Jiu had managed to keep his anger directed at Wei Ying, he knew that his own slip-ups could easily send him into another scolding session. He fidgeted slightly, keeping his eyes on the ground, hoping that their conversation wouldn’t take a sudden turn in his direction.

“Well,” Jiang Yanli said softly, her smile warm and knowing, “It looks like they're getting along well.”

Meng Yao awkwardly glanced up, blinking in confusion. “Getting along?” He chuckled nervously. “Is that what this is?”

Jiang Yanli’s smile only widened, and she glanced toward the two adults. “It might seem heated, but they're agreeing on something important. It’s rare to see adults who can bond over something like this, isn't it?”

Meng Yao raised an eyebrow, unsure if it was safe to laugh. “I suppose. It’s... surprising.”

At that, both of them couldn't help but glance over at Shen Jiu, whose sharp voice had softened just a touch as he exchanged views with Yu Ziyuan. The way their conversation seemed to flow was almost... comfortable. As if they were two sides of the same coin. 

Meng Yao breathed a sigh of relief, glancing at Jiang Yanli. “I’m just glad... he hasn’t decided to direct all that frustration at me.”

Jiang Yanli giggled softly. “I’m sure you’re safe for now, Meng Yao.”

Meng Yao gave her a side-eyed glance, his expression uncertain. “For now…”

Jiang Yanli chuckled and patted his shoulder, her smile warm and reassuring. “You’re not as bad as Wei Ying, are you?” she teased gently.

Meng Yao smiled awkwardly, his hands shifting slightly in his lap. “Well, I suppose not,” he muttered, his tone wry. “But I wouldn’t put it past him to suddenly turn his attention to me one of these days.”

Jiang Yanli shook her head lightly, her tone teasing. “As long as you don’t get too carried away with unpredictable antics like Wei Ying, you should be fine.”

Meng Yao chuckled nervously, glancing at the adults again, still unsure whether to relax just yet. “I’ll do my best.”

Meanwhile, Yu Ziyuan’s voice carried over to them as she continued to argue her point with Shen Jiu. The pair was so passionate in their exchange that it almost felt as if no one else was around. To Jiang Yanli, however, it felt familiar, like watching her mother teach and correct her own disciples. But now, with Shen Jiu’s presence in the conversation, it seemed like a rare moment of unity, one she wasn’t sure anyone could have anticipated.

“Well,” Jiang Yanli said after a moment of quiet reflection, “as long as they’re both enjoying their tea…”

Meng Yao nodded, leaning back slightly. “I guess all we can do now is hope they don’t turn the entire conversation into a debate about punishment methods.”

Jiang Yanli laughed softly, “I think we're safe for now.”

Chapter Text

The sun hung low in the sky, casting the bright light of early morning over the streets of Yunping. In front of the brothel, Meng Shi clung to her son, her face wet with tears as she murmured reassurances into his hair. Meng Yao stood stiffly in her embrace, his own expression carefully schooled, but his hands trembled slightly as he clutched the fabric of her robes. To the side, Wei Ying shifted awkwardly, scratching his nose as he waited for Shen Jiu, who had yet to emerge from the brothel.

Shen Jiu had informed them of their departure from Yunping a couple days ago, he had stated that they stayed in the city for more than he was comfortable with and it was time they hit the road again. And now on the day they were supposed to leave, Meng Shi and Meng Yao are saying their goodbyes with one crying her eyes out while the other is trying to hold them in as much as possible. 

Wei Ying couldn't fault them, according to what Meng Yao had told him, he had never been separated from his mother and they both don't know when they will be able to see each other again. 

When the doors of the brothel finally creaked open, Shen Jiu stepped out into the street, his sharp eyes scanning the trio before him. Meng Shi’s face was blotchy with emotion, her hands stroking through Meng Yao’s hair, while her son bit his lip, struggling to keep himself composed.

Shen Jiu watched them silently before stepping forward and extending a neatly rolled scroll to Meng Shi. She blinked in confusion, hesitating before taking it with a questioning glance.

“Open it,” he instructed, his voice as sharp as ever, though lacking its usual bite.

Meng Shi carefully unrolled the scroll, her hands shaking as she read the words on the page. The moment the meaning sank in, she gasped, staggering as though struck by lightning. Her eyes went wide, her breath catching in her throat. The parchment nearly slipped from her fingers.

Meng Yao, alarmed, immediately turned to her. “A-Niang? What is it?”

Shen Jiu, meanwhile, ignored them both, stepping over to Wei Ying and roughly tightening his ponytail. Wei Ying squawked in protest but didn't dare move, still somewhat wary after his recent punishment.

Meng Shi finally found her voice, though it came out as little more than a whisper. “This… this is my contract…”

Meng Yao’s head snapped toward Shen Jiu, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Shizun… why do you have my mother’s contract?”

Shen Jiu, expression unreadable, merely shrugged. “I bought her freedom.”

Meng Shi choked on a sob, her legs giving out beneath her. She collapsed to her knees, staring at the document that had dictated her life for as long as she could remember. It was over. Just like that.

She lifted her head, her eyes shining with disbelief. “Why…?”

Shen Jiu crossed his arms, scowling as if offended by the very question. “Isn’t it obvious? You’re dear to me. And you’re my disciple’s mother.” His gaze flickered to Meng Yao briefly before returning to Meng Shi. “I can’t just leave you to this fate when I have the means to change it. What kind of person do you think I am?”

Meng Shi let out a broken sound, half a laugh and half a sob, as she pressed the contract to her chest.

Before anyone could say anything more, a sudden shout rang out from inside the brothel. “Meng Shi—! Meng Shi, look!”

A woman rushed outside, breathless, holding a similar scroll in her hands. Her eyes were wide with disbelief as she turned to Meng Shi. “My debt—it’s gone! Cleared! Someone paid it off!”

Meng Yao, who had barely processed what was happening, turned toward the woman. “Sisi… my mother’s contract was bought too.”

Sisi turned, her gaze landing on Shen Jiu, who stood there impassively. As realization dawned, she sucked in a breath. “You…”

Shen Jiu rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed with the dramatics. “Meng Shi seemed fond of you. I bought yours too.”

That was all it took.

With a strangled cry, Meng Shi and Meng Yao launched themselves at Shen Jiu, clinging to him with tearful gratitude. Sisi, still too stunned to move, could only stare before she bowed deeply, her voice shaky as she thanked him over and over.

Shen Jiu stood stiffly in their embrace, his expression unreadable, though there was the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes. He didn’t push them away, nor did he acknowledge the warmth that spread through his chest at their gratitude.

When he was the Qing Jing Peak Lord, he could never do something like this. The sect would have scrutinized his every move, and rumors would have spread like wildfire. People would have assumed he had taken a concubine, that he had bought a woman for his own selfish desires.

And when he left he had to be wary of people recognizing him so he didn't have the chance to stop by the Warm Red Pavilion and maybe buy the freedom of some of his sisters. 

But now? Now, he had no reputation to protect. No sect to appease. No expectations weighing him down. He could do whatever he wanted.

And looking at the mother and son before him, sobbing in both joy and relief, Shen Jiu thought—for the first time in a long while—that this was something he didn’t mind doing.

Just as the last of Meng Shi’s sobs quieted, the sound of creaking wheels approached from down the road. A sturdy cart pulled by a brown horse rolled into view, driven by a middle-aged man with tanned skin and a weathered but kind face. He pulled the reins, slowing the horse, and inclined his head toward Shen Jiu in greeting.

“Master Shen,” the man greeted respectfully.

Shen Jiu barely acknowledged him with a curt nod before turning to Meng Shi and Sisi, his tone brisk. “Pack your belongings. He’ll take you to the house.”

Meng Shi blinked, her tears still fresh as she wiped them away with shaking fingers. “The… house?”

Shen Jiu huffed impatiently. “I bought a plot of land. A courtyard house with a small farm attached. You’ll be living there.”

The silence that followed was almost suffocating. Meng Shi and Sisi stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. As if what he had already done wasn’t enough, now he was giving them a home? A place to truly belong, away from the brothel? It was overwhelming. Too much.

They barely had a moment to process before both women dropped to their knees, lowering themselves into a deep kowtow.

“Master Shen, we—”

Shen Jiu clicked his tongue, scowling as he stepped forward to stop them, grabbing Meng Shi and Sisi by the arm and pulling them upright before they could fully bow. “Enough of that,” he snapped. “I didn’t do this just for you.”

Meng Shi and Sisi looked at him, confused.

Shen Jiu crossed his arms and sniffed, as if the explanation was an afterthought. “I was going to buy a house anyway. I needed a place to return to if I ever got sick of traveling. And Yunping just so happens to be near Lotus Pier, which is good for the boys.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You two can live there. It’s convenient.”

Meng Shi let out a breathless laugh, while Sisi chuckled, wiping at her damp cheeks. “Convenient, huh?”

Shen Jiu rolled his eyes. “That’s what I said.”

Still, the two women’s eyes shone with unshed tears as they smiled at him with gratitude so intense it made Shen Jiu shift uncomfortably.

“Thank you,” Meng Shi said, her voice thick with emotion.

“Truly,” Sisi added. “We won’t ever forget this kindness.”

Shen Jiu turned away as if brushing off their words, but he reached out and grabbed Wei Ying and Meng Yao by the back of their collars.

“Enough. Let’s go.”

Wei Ying yelped as he was yanked forward, while Meng Yao stumbled slightly before catching his footing. The two boys had just been watching in stunned silence, but now they had no choice but to follow as Shen Jiu strode away.

And just like that, Shen Jiu found himself back on the road—not just with a new disciple, but with connections he never expected to have.

Shen Jiu resumed his travels, with Wei Ying and Meng Yao in tow. They had spent their time journeying across many regions, training rigorously, fighting against beasts and bandits alike, and sharpening their skills under Shen Jiu’s relentless instruction.

Meng Yao had changed the most. At the start, he had been careful, overly polite, and hesitant, as if he feared one wrong move would make everything crumble. But Wei Ying, with his loud, fearless personality, had chipped away at Meng Yao’s cautious walls. Over time, the boy had begun to laugh freely, to voice his thoughts without weighing every word, to argue with Wei Ying over trivial things without fear of overstepping.

Shen Jiu had noted the change—most importantly, that fake, well-practiced smile of Meng Yao’s was nowhere to be seen when he was around them. Instead, his expressions were genuine, his laughter unforced. It was a good change.

Wei Ying, on the other hand, had learned a very different lesson. After realizing how much he angered Shen Jiu, Wei Ying had started to think before acting. It wasn’t that he stopped being reckless—Shen Jiu doubted that would ever happen—but at least now, he paused to consider the consequences. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

To acknowledge Meng Yao’s growth, Shen Jiu commissioned a spiritual pipa for him. Crafted from rich, dark rosewood, giving it a deep, warm tone both in sound and appearance. The wood is polished to a smooth, glossy finish, enhancing its natural grain while exuding an air of elegance and refinement.

Delicate butterfly motifs, symbolizing transformation and fleeting beauty, adorn the instrument. These intricate designs are inlaid with shimmering mother-of-pearl and silver filigree, creating the illusion of butterflies in mid-flight, their wings catching the light as the pipa is played. The headstock features a gracefully carved butterfly, its wings extending slightly outward, as if poised to take flight.

The strings, stretched taut over the body, resonate with a clear, ethereal sound, each note carrying the grace of fluttering wings. The tuning pegs, shaped like slender butterfly wings, add to the instrument’s harmonious aesthetic, making it not just a musical masterpiece but also a symbol of ephemeral beauty and artistry.

When he handed it over, Meng Yao had been speechless, running his fingers reverently over the smooth wood. After a long moment, he whispered, almost to himself, “Dieying.”

Shen Jiu raised an eyebrow. “A fitting name.”

Meng Yao smiled, the kind of smile Shen Jiu had come to recognize as real. Dieying (Butterfly’s Shadow)—a name that suited him well.

One of the most noticeable things that had changed was the relationship between Wei Ying and Meng Yao, the two boys who were at first cautious, awkward and cordial with each other had unfortunately grown closer and more comfortable over the time they spent traveling and learning under Shen Jiu. 

If someone had told Shen Jiu five years ago that he would end up traveling with two brats and raising them into proper cultivators, he would have laughed in their face. And yet, here he was.

Over the past few months, Meng Yao and Wei Ying had developed what could only be described as an infuriatingly close sibling dynamic—one that, much to Shen Jiu’s dismay, involved constant bickering, endless banter, and occasional near-physical fights over the pettiest things.

To be fair, their personalities were like night and day.

Wei Ying, now a eleven year old boy, was reckless, loud, and stupidly righteous. He threw himself into trouble headfirst without a second thought, always talking about justice, saving people, and being a hero. It was as if he had some deep-seated belief that it was his personal responsibility to fix the entire world.

Meng Yao, on the other hand, was calculating, cautious, and pragmatic. He didn’t believe in heroism—at least, not the way Wei Wuxian did. He helped those he loved, and anyone else? Not his problem. In his mind, people who stuck their necks out for strangers were idiots who would only get themselves killed.

Watching the two of them interact was like watching an unstoppable force meet an immovable object.

And, like clockwork, they were arguing. Again.

Shen Jiu leaned against a tree, fixing the tassel on his fan as he watched the scene unfold like it was some cheap play performed for his amusement.

They had just finished dealing with a minor bandit attack on a small village when the argument started.

“I’m just saying!” Wei Ying gestured wildly, his training sword strapped to his back. “If we didn’t step in, those people could have died! How could we just walk away knowing that?!”

Meng Yao rolled his eyes, wiping his hands clean with a silk cloth. “We could walk away because it wasn’t our problem. That’s how.”

Wei Ying gaped at him. “Not our—not our problem?! Meng Yao, they were innocent people!”

Meng Yao let out a long-suffering sigh, as if he were dealing with a particularly stupid child. “Yes, and if we spent our time helping every single ‘innocent person’ in distress, we would never have time to do anything else. You can’t save everyone, Wei Ying.”

“That’s a horrible way to live!” Wei Ying shot back, exasperated.

“And your way of living is going to get you killed.” Meng Yao narrowed his eyes. “What will you do when you help the wrong person? When someone uses your kindness against you? Will you still be so righteous then?”

Wei Ying scoffed. “At least I’ll still have a conscience! What about you? How do you sleep at night knowing you could have helped someone and didn’t?”

Meng Yao gave him a flat look. “Very comfortably.”

“You heartless bastard.”

“You naive fool.”

Shen Jiu sighed, finally setting down his fan. “Enough.”

The two boys immediately straightened but continued to glare at each other.

Shen Jiu crossed his arms, gaze flickering between them. He actually agreed with Meng Yao’s logic. Wei Ying’s hero complex was exhausting, and that level of self-sacrifice was only going to end in tragedy.

But, at the same time, Wei Ying’s heart wasn’t necessarily wrong. Just… misguided.

With a huff, Shen Jiu flicked his fan open and smacked Wei Ying on the forehead. “You. Stop acting like you’re some grand hero. The world doesn’t care about your self-sacrificing ideals.”

Wei Ying pouted, rubbing his forehead. “But Shizun—”

“No buts.” Shen Jiu turned to Meng Yao next. “And you—try not to be so damn cold all the time. This is no way for a future cultivator to be thinking.”

Meng Yao blinked before looking away, grumbling something about how “coldness is necessary for survival.”

Shen Jiu sighed. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

Wei Ying grinned. “Nah, Shizun, you’re too stubborn to die. You’ll just keep living out of pure spite.”

“…That is possibly the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.”

Through their travels, Shen Jiu found himself unwillingly entangled in their ridiculous antics. And yet, despite their constant troublemaking, there was a warmth to it—a feeling of belonging he hadn’t expected.

Even if they were absolute menaces.

It was a bright morning when Shen Jiu decided to take Wei Ying and Meng Yao to visit Meng Shi and Sisi at their new home. The house wasn’t extravagant, but it had a warm charm—a cozy courtyard surrounded by farmland and small gardens. The walls were painted a soft shade of blue, and the roof had a little wooden overhang, perfect for sitting under on warm evenings.

When they arrived, Meng Shi was waiting outside, her eyes lighting up in joy as she saw them. Sisi, still adjusting to the new life of freedom, stood to the side, but her gaze softened as she saw the familiar faces.

“Shen-lang, Yao-er, Ying-er!” Meng Shi exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron as she rushed forward to greet them. She hugged Meng Yao first, then Wei Ying. “I’m so glad you’ve come! Please, come inside.”

As they walked into the modest home, the scent of freshly baked buns and herbs filled the air. It was quiet here—peaceful in a way that made Shen Jiu almost forget the world outside.

He sat down at the low table, observing the two women bustle about preparing tea. Wei Ying, eager to do something, immediately wandered over to the garden to inspect the crops with Meng Yao following behind. Shen Jiu had bought alongside the house a bunch of animals that he thought would be helpful for the two women, some chickens, goats, rabbits, a donkey and a horse. 

Wei Ying had weirdly gotten attached to the donkey, even naming it “Little Apple”, since the animal liked eating apples. The boys would always take turns riding the stubborn donkey and make it a competition on who can stay on top of it longer before they got flung. 

He observed the women, noting the new life they had here—free from the chains of their past. They were happy, which was rare to see, and it warmed Shen Jiu’s heart more than he cared to admit.

The receiving room was quiet, save for the occasional clatter from the kitchen where Sisi was preparing lunch and the distant sounds of laughter outside. Shen Jiu sat beside Meng Shi who had come back with tea and snacks, his head resting against her shoulder, exhaustion weighing heavily on his body.

Meng Shi glanced down at him, her gentle features creasing with concern. She lifted a warm palm to his cheek, pressing lightly. “Shen-lang, how long has it been since you last slept?”

Shen Jiu let out a quiet hum, not opening his eyes. “I don’t remember.”

She sighed, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “You should take a nap after lunch.”

He nodded, too tired to argue.

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the sounds of the household filling the space around them. Laughter rang from outside—the delighted peals of Meng Yao followed by Wei Ying’s frustrated yelp.

“You little bastard! Come back here!”

More laughter. Then a loud thud and a groan.

Meng Shi chuckled softly. “Little Apple won again?”

Shen Jiu smirked. “Serves Wei Ying right. He needs to learn that not everything in this world bends to his will.”

The quiet settled again, and after a moment, Shen Jiu broke it with a question.

“Your last visit to the doctor—what did he say?”

Meng Shi stilled briefly before sighing. “He prescribed a new medication. But there’s no guarantee it’ll work.”

“What about the herb I brought you?” Shen Jiu asked, his voice muffled under Meng Shi’s robes. Meng Shi just shook her head slowly, looking dejected. 

In the past year, Shen Jiu had not been traveling the lower realm aimlessly, he had been actually searching for medicinal herbs, spiritual monsters and well known doctors in order to help Meng Shi. Of course, the boys didn't know about this and only thought their Shizun was journeying around because he couldn't stay in one place for too long. 

Shen Jiu hummed, eyes half-lidded. “There’s a doctor in the Wen Sect—hailed as a genius in the medical field. I want to bring them to you.”

Meng Shi turned to him, lips parting slightly as if to protest, but then she hesitated. She had learned long ago that arguing with Shen Jiu over things like this was pointless. He did what he wanted—not out of obligation or pity, but because he chose to.

So she exhaled softly and said, “Thank you, Shen-lang.”

He nodded, satisfied. Then, after a moment, he asked, “When do you plan to tell Meng Yao?”

Meng Shi looked out the window, watching her son doubled over in laughter as Wei Ying lay sprawled in the dirt, glaring at the victorious Little Apple. She smiled faintly. “Not yet. I don’t want to burden him.”

Shen Jiu understood. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of home—the clinking of dishes as Sisi prepared the meal, the boys’ laughter, the stubborn donkey’s victorious snort.

When Wei Ying and Meng Yao returned, Wei Ying was proudly showing off a bunch of freshly picked flowers. “I found these, Shizun! You like flowers, right?”

Shen Jiu gave a brief nod. “It's not bad.”

“See!” Wei Ying grinned, holding the flowers out to Meng Shi. “A gift for you, Aunt Meng Shi!”

Meng Shi’s face softened as she accepted the flowers. “Thank you, Ying-er. This is very kind of you.”

Shen Jiu, observing the simple joy in their exchange, felt a sense of peace settle in his chest. He hadn’t seen the two women this content and happy before, and he's glad that he was the reason behind it. 

Chapter Text

They had stopped in a small farming village for the night, where an old woman kindly let them stay in her barn in exchange for Shen Jiu repairing a broken talisman protecting her field. The arrangement was simple—until Wei Ying decided that fresh goat milk would be a wonderful breakfast idea.

Which would have been fine, except instead of asking for them, he tried to milk the goats himself.

By the time Shen Jiu realized what was happening, the entire village was in chaos. Wei Ying was running in circles, arms outstretched, as a furious goat chased after him. Meng Yao, unhelpfully, was doubled over laughing while a few village children cheered.

“NO, I’M SORRY, STOP CHASING ME!” Wei Ying yelped.

Shen Jiu sighed, massaging his temple. “What did I say about behaving?”

“You said not to cause trouble, but this isn’t trouble! This is training! You always say I should improve my reflexes—”

“I meant dodging attacks in battle, not getting outmaneuvered by a goat.”

In the end, the old woman simply handed them a jar of milk while shaking her head in amusement. Shen Jiu forced Wei Ying to apologize, then made him spend the rest of the evening helping the old woman tending to her animals.

Meng Yao, who had never laughed so hard in his life, teased Wei Ying for weeks.

They had been warned that the inn on the outskirts of town was haunted, but Shen Jiu, having dealt with actual ghosts, wasn’t concerned. Still, in the middle of the night, a loud shriek echoed through the halls.

Meng Yao and Wei Ying shot up from their beds, eyes wide.

“What was that?” Meng Yao whispered.

“A ghost!?” Wei Ying gasped, eyes sparkling with excitement.

Shen Jiu, deadpan, stood up. “There are no ghosts here.”

The three of them crept into the hallway, where another shriek rang out. At the end of the corridor, a shadow moved. Wei Ying gripped his training sword. Meng Yao reached for talismans. Shen Jiu merely sighed.

Then the shadow lunged at them.

Wei Ying and Meng Yao yelled, ready to fight—only for Shen Jiu to snatch the attacker out of the air by the scruff of its neck.

A cat.

A very fat, very grumpy cat.

The innkeeper appeared seconds later, apologizing profusely and explaining that his cat, Gou Dan, had a habit of knocking over furniture and scaring guests.

Shen Jiu turned to his disciples, unimpressed. “You were about to fight a cat.”

Meng Yao huffed. “It could have been a ghost.”

Wei Ying, unfazed, reached out to pet the cat, only to get swiped at. “Okay, maybe it’s a demon instead.”

They spent the rest of the night listening to Gou Dan knocking things over while they tried to sleep.

During one particularly hot summer afternoon, they came across a crystal-clear river. Wei Ying immediately stripped off his outer robes and dove in, splashing around excitedly.

Meng Yao hesitated. “I… I don’t know how to swim.”

Shen Jiu, who had been about to scold Wei Ying for jumping in recklessly, paused. He turned to Meng Yao. “You don’t?”

Meng Yao looked embarrassed. “I never had the opportunity to learn.”

Wei Ying popped up from the water. “Shizun can teach you! Right, Shizun?”

Shen Jiu clicked his tongue but gestured for Meng Yao to step closer. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

At first, Meng Yao was hesitant, flinching at the water lapping at his ankles. But Shen Jiu was patient, guiding him into the shallows, showing him how to float, how to move his arms.

Meng Yao concentrated hard, determined not to disappoint.

Then Wei Ying, the menace that he was, splashed them both.

Shen Jiu turned to him slowly. “Wei. Ying.”

Wei Ying cackled and swam further away. “You can’t catch me, Shizun!”

Shen Jiu grabbed Meng Yao by the back of his collar and threw him forward—directly at Wei Ying.

Meng Yao yelped, latched onto Wei Ying, and both of them went under with a loud splash.

When they surfaced, coughing and spluttering, Shen Jiu crossed his arms. “There. Lesson over.”

Meng Yao, wiping water from his face, looked at Shen Jiu with wide eyes. “That… that actually helped. I didn’t panic.”

Shen Jiu raised an eyebrow. “You see? My methods work.”

Wei Ying muttered under his breath. “More like your methods are violent…”

Still, they spent the rest of the afternoon splashing around, and by the end of it, Meng Yao could swim.

Shen Jiu had always been particular about his meals. He preferred simple but well-cooked food, and after months of travel, both Wei Ying and Meng Yao had picked up enough cooking skills to contribute. Or at least, that was the idea.

Wei Ying, ever the troublemaker, had taken it upon himself to "improve" the evening stew by adding an entire pouch of spices he had bought at a market stall. The result? A dish so fiery that Shen Jiu, upon the first bite, nearly spat it back into the pot.

Meng Yao, ever the diplomat, had hesitated before taking a bite—only to start coughing violently, his face turning red.

Wei Ying, for his part, had proudly taken a whole spoonful. His eyes widened, his face broke into a large smile, and he ate more with relish. 

“You little brat!” Shen Jiu barked, his own mouth burning as he grabbed the water jug away from Wei Ying and took a deep drink. “What did you put in this? Poison?”

“Shizun! I thought it would taste better with some extra seasoning, and I was right!” Wei Ying beamed, finishing his bowl in no time and reaching for seconds. 

Meng Yao, recovering first, let out an exasperated sigh. “Please tell me you didn't use the whole jar of spice?”

“Of course not,” Wei Ying pouted. "I used three."

That night, they had to hunt for extra food because the stew was rendered completely inedible. Shen Jiu made sure Wei Ying scrubbed the pot until it was spotless.

One evening, after setting up camp, Meng Yao sat down with his pipa, plucking a soft melody while Wei Ying sprawled on the ground, staring up at the stars.

“Shizun,” Wei Ying suddenly said, propping himself up on his elbows, “you're really smart, right?”

Shen Jiu, polishing Xiu Ya, gave him a skeptical glance. “Where is this going?”

“If you're so smart, then tell us something wise!” Wei Ying grinned. “Like, a saying we can remember for later.”

Meng Yao looked mildly interested, though he clearly suspected Wei Ying was trying to stir up trouble.

Shen Jiu thought for a moment before saying dryly, “Don’t trust idiots.”

Wei Ying immediately sat up. “Hey! That’s not a saying, that’s just an insult!”

“It’s wisdom,” Shen Jiu corrected, smirking.

Meng Yao coughed to hide his laugh.

“Fine! Then I won’t trust you!” Wei Ying declared dramatically, rolling onto his back again.

Shen Jiu threw a twig at his head.

It started with Wei Ying laughing.

“Shizun! Yao-ge! Look at this dumb rabbit!”

Shen Jiu turned just in time to see a white rabbit staring at Wei Ying, completely still, ears twitching. It looked harmless enough.

Meng Yao, standing beside Wei Ying, frowned. “Wei Ying, maybe you shouldn't—”

Too late. Wei Ying lunged to grab it, but the rabbit sprang into action. It darted between his legs, tripped him, and then, with surprising agility, kicked him in the face before dashing away.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Meng Yao started laughing.

Wei Ying, sprawled in the dirt, sat up with a betrayed expression, rubbing his nose. “It—It attacked me!”

Shen Jiu, arms crossed, sneered. “You got bested by a rabbit.”

“It kicked me, Shizun!” Wei Ying protested. “What kind of evil creature does that?!”

Meng Yao, still giggling, helped Wei Ying up. “It looked normal to me,” he said, voice teasing.

Wei Ying scowled and dusted himself off. “I'll remember this.”

Shen Jiu rolled his eyes. “Try remembering to think before you act next time.”

Wei Ying huffed, but later that evening, while they set up camp, Shen Jiu caught him carefully placing a few scraps of vegetables near the trees, muttering about “making peace with the enemy.”

Meng Yao just shook his head, smiling.

“Shizun, I have a great idea!”

Shen Jiu immediately regretted waking up that morning. “That’s concerning.”

Wei Ying grinned, holding up a bottle. “Yao-ge and I found this herb paste that repels insects, but I thought—what if we put a lot of it on? Then we’d never have to worry about mosquitoes again!”

Meng Yao, who had clearly been forced into this, sighed. “I told him it wasn’t a good idea.”

Shen Jiu pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you still let him do it?”

Meng Yao shrugged. “You know how he is.”

Wei Ying, already slathered in an excessive amount of paste, beamed. “See? No bugs biting me at all!”

Shen Jiu opened his mouth to scold him—

Then the bees arrived.

It started with one. Then two. Then a swarm.

Meng Yao took one look at Wei Ying's horrified expression and bolted.

“WHY?!” Wei Ying screamed as he ran after him. “WHY ARE THEY ATTACKING ME?!”

Shen Jiu smirked as he walked after them at a much calmer pace. “I suppose it was a brilliant idea. If your goal was to make yourself a walking beehive.”

Wei Ying yelped as he leaped over a fallen log, bees in pursuit. “SHIZUN, HELP ME!”

Shen Jiu just twirled his fan idly. “No.”

Meng Yao, hiding behind a tree, muffled his laughter behind his sleeve.

Shen Jiu didn't bother hiding his amusement.

It was a simple mission—escort a merchant through dangerous terrain. Shen Jiu had let the boys practice their tracking and navigation skills, watching their progress with sharp eyes.

It had been fine. Until Wei Ying fell.

One moment, he was carefully climbing down a steep hill, the next, the ground gave way beneath him.

He tumbled down, hitting rocks and roots before landing hard at the bottom.

Shen Jiu was there in an instant.

“Are you stupid?!” he snapped, kneeling beside him, checking for injuries. “Why weren’t you paying attention?!”

Wei Ying groaned, rubbing his head. “I was paying attention…”

Meng Yao, pale with worry, crouched beside them. “Wei Ying, does anything hurt?”

“Everywhere,” Wei Ying mumbled.

Shen Jiu clicked his tongue, reaching into his sleeve for medicine. His hands were steady, but his mind was racing. He had seen worse injuries, had been through worse himself, but the fear that had flashed through him when he saw Wei Ying fall had been real.

Meng Yao noticed. He didn’t say anything, but the way he quietly handed Shen Jiu bandages spoke volumes.

After dressing Wei Ying’s wounds, Shen Jiu flicked his forehead. “Next time, be more careful.”

Wei Ying grinned, despite the pain. “Aww, Shizun, you do care!”

Shen Jiu scowled and stood. “If you have the energy to be annoying, you can walk.”

Meng Yao sighed in relief and helped Wei Ying up.

That night, as they sat around the fire, Shen Jiu found himself watching them bicker and laugh like nothing had happened. And for the first time, he admitted to himself:

He really, truly cared about these brats.

They had stopped at a roadside inn for a meal after a long day of traveling. Shen Jiu sat at the head of the table, sipping his tea while Meng Yao carefully picked at his food, always mindful of his table manners. Wei Ying, on the other hand, was devouring his bowl of chili-covered dumplings with an almost unholy enthusiasm.

Meng Yao wrinkled his nose. “Wei Ying, are you even tasting the food, or are you just trying to set your insides on fire?”

Wei Ying grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You wouldn’t understand, Yao-ge! This is the taste of life!”

Shen Jiu, already used to this, didn’t even look up. “Wei Ying, if you burn your stomach lining, I’m not wasting money on a doctor.”

Meng Yao scoffed. “Let him suffer. Maybe then he’ll learn restraint.”

“Never!” Wei Ying declared dramatically, shoving another spicy dumpling into his mouth.

A few minutes later, another traveler at a nearby table, seeing Wei Ying eat without breaking a sweat, challenged him to a spice-eating contest. Shen Jiu sighed and waved a hand. “Fine. Do whatever you want. Just don’t vomit in my vicinity.”

Meng Yao muttered under his breath, “At this point, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t accept the challenge.”

Wei Ying won, of course. And then spent the next hour bragging about it while Meng Yao looked on in exasperation and Shen Jiu rubbed his temples.

After finding an inn for the night, they realized there were only two beds available.

Shen Jiu immediately claimed one for himself, leaving the two boys to figure out the other.

Meng Yao folded his arms. “Wei Ying, as the elder, I should be the one taking the bed.”

Wei Ying flopped onto the bed dramatically. “Wow, Yao-ge! I didn’t know you were so delicate!”

Meng Yao huffed. “It’s called having standards.”

Wei Ying waved his hand dismissively, “But aren’t I your shixiong? Shouldn't the shidi be the one to sleep on the floor?”

Shen Jiu, already lying down with his back to them, sighed. “Then share the bed and stop arguing.”

The boys exchanged a look before Meng Yao sighed in resignation and got under the blankets.

After a few moments of silence, Wei Ying muttered, “You kick in your sleep, don’t you?”

Meng Yao smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Wei Ying pouted, “If you kick me I'll put firecrackers in your tea.” he threatened. 

As they settled in their places, the cloudy night sky had slowly shifted into a raging storm, the wind howling and the heavy rain pounding against the windows, but the most unsettling sound was the thunder. Each crack of it was deafening, followed by the blinding flash of lightning that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension, as if the storm had infected the room itself.

Meng Yao’s eyes snapped open, his breath quick and shallow, his body trembling. The thunder, loud and sharp, echoed through his mind. Meng Yao’s heart raced with terror, his body froze from where he was laying on the bed. 

He couldn’t lie still anymore. His body moved before he could think, his hands shaking as he pushed the blanket away and crawled quietly to the side of Shen Jiu’s bed.

Shen Jiu had not been sleeping, his posture still and composed. He had sensed Meng Yao’s disturbance the moment it started, though he didn’t move.

Meng Yao, desperate for comfort and seeking safety, quietly crawled under the covers and laid next to him, his head resting against Shen Jiu's arm. He didn’t speak, not wanting to disrupt the silence, but his presence there was clear. The storm raged on, but with Shen Jiu near him, Meng Yao felt an odd sense of calmness creep over him.

Shen Jiu continued his fake sleep, but there was a rare moment, just before he was about to decide not to do anything, that something stirred within him. He felt a pull—an urge to reach out. His fingers hovered near Meng Yao’s hair before he finally let them fall gently on his head, carding through it with a tenderness he didn’t often show. It was the same way Meng Shi had done to him, as though offering solace without words.

The gentle motion seemed to soothe Meng Yao, his trembling gradually fading as he let the warmth of Shen Jiu’s touch lull him into sleep. Within moments, his breathing slowed, and his body relaxed.

The storm still howled outside, but inside the room, it was as if time itself had paused. Wei Ying, oblivious to the quiet exchange, slept soundly in the bed, his peaceful expression a stark contrast to the storm’s fury.

Shen Jiu continued to run his fingers through Meng Yao’s hair, his gaze softening for a moment as he felt the boy’s fear dissipate into the quiet safety of sleep. The storm outside could rage on, but for now, they were sheltered from it, together in this strange, fleeting peace.

One evening, after a long day of travel, they camped under the stars. Meng Yao sat by the fire, quietly plucking at his pipa, while Wei Ying chewed on a skewer of roasted rabbit.

Shen Jiu sipped his tea, glancing at them. After a year, he had grown used to their presence, to their constant chatter, to their bickering.

A thought struck him, unbidden.

They were his.

Not just as disciples—but as something more.

Shen Jiu wasn’t the sentimental type, but watching Wei Ying laugh as he tried to steal Meng Yao’s skewer, and Meng Yao scolding him while trying to keep his pipa safe, he realized something. 

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone.

And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t so bad.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, save for the distant sound of wind rustling through the trees. Wei Ying and Meng Yao had been sent to Lotus Pier with Sisi. Inside, Meng Shi set aside her embroidery as Shen Jiu stepped through the front door, his expression as unreadable as ever, though there was a slight tension in his jaw that Meng Shi caught immediately. Behind him, a young girl of fifteen followed closely, her back straight, her chin lifted with quiet confidence. She wore the red and white robes of the Wen clan, the blazing sun emblem stark against the fabric.

Meng Shi stood from her seat, her eyes flitting between the girl and Shen Jiu. Then, she offered a polite smile. “Welcome,” she greeted.

The girl bowed respectfully. “My name is Wen Qing. I am the doctor Shen-xiansheng has requested.”

Meng Shi glanced at Shen Jiu, who only nodded in silent confirmation. She turned back to Wen Qing, offering a gentle smile. “Thank you for coming all this way.”

Wen Qing stepped forward, studying Meng Shi with sharp, assessing eyes. “Shen-xiansheng has told me of your condition. If you’ll allow it, I would like to examine you before making any conclusions.”

Meng Shi exhaled slowly and nodded. “Of course.”

The examination took place in Meng Shi’s bedroom, where the morning sunlight filtered through the wooden lattice windows, casting warm, dappled patterns across the modest furnishings. Shen Jiu stood by the doorway, arms crossed, his sharp gaze never leaving Wen Qing as she worked.

Meng Shi sat on the edge of her bed, her outer robe folded neatly beside her.

Wen Qing conducted the examination with practiced efficiency. She took Meng Shi’s pulse first, her fingers pressing against the delicate skin of her wrist, brows knitting slightly in concentration.

“Your pulse is weak, and the rhythm is irregular,” Wen Qing murmured. She shifted closer, examining Meng Shi’s complexion—her skin, though still fair, had lost much of its vitality, a faint sallowness underlying it. “Have you experienced persistent fatigue?”

Meng Shi nodded. “Yes. Some days, it feels as if just walking to the kitchen is enough to leave me breathless.”

Wen Qing hummed in acknowledgment. “Any pain in the joints or limbs?”

“Yes, especially in the mornings and when the weather is cold,” Meng Shi admitted.

Wen Qing carefully rolled back Meng Shi’s sleeve, revealing faint scars along her forearm, remnants of lesions that had long since faded but never truly healed. The physician’s fingers hovered over them briefly before she gently pressed at a spot near Meng Shi’s elbow.

Meng Shi winced.

“Does the pain extend to your chest?” Wen Qing asked.

“Sometimes,” Meng Shi confessed. “There are moments when my heart beats too fast, and I feel dizzy, as if I might collapse.”

At that, Wen Qing’s expression turned solemn. She withdrew her hands and sat back on her heels, deep in thought.

“It is as I suspected,” Wen Qing finally said, her tone carefully measured. “You have Mei Du—Plum Blossom Poison.”

Meng Shi’s breath caught. Shen Jiu’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Wen Qing continued, her voice steady but not unkind. “It is a disease passed through the blood, often contracted in brothels or from untreated wounds. In its early stages, it presents as rashes, fever, and sores that heal quickly but leave behind unseen damage. If left untreated, the poison seeps deeper into the body, affecting the muscles, the heart, and eventually the mind.”

Shen Jiu’s jaw tightened. “Can you cure it?”

Wen Qing hesitated, then shook her head. “Had it been caught earlier, there might have been treatments to halt its progression. But at this stage…” She exhaled. “There is no cure.”

Meng Shi remained quiet, absorbing the words. Then, slowly, she reached her hand towards Shen Jiu who had walked closer and placed it over his clenched fist. “It’s alright,” she said softly. “I’ve known for a long time that something was wrong.”

Shen Jiu did not look at her, his gaze fixed on the floor.

Wen Qing’s voice was gentle but firm. “I can prescribe medicine to ease the pain and slow the fatigue. It won’t stop the disease, but it will make the remaining years more comfortable.”

Meng Shi smiled, eyes glistening. “Thank you, Doctor Wen. That alone is a blessing.”

Wen Qing inclined her head, observing the scene before her, quietly filing away the emotions playing across their faces. It had not been long since Shen Jiu first sought her out, asking—no, demanding—her aid.

Initially, she had intended to refuse. Ever since Wen Ruohan discovered her talent for medicine, she had been placed under strict surveillance, only allowed to treat those of the Wen sect and travel between the Nightless City and the small Wen village where she and her family lived. No other sect would dare request her help—not unless they wished to invite Wen Ruohan’s scrutiny upon them. She had long since resigned herself to this confinement, to being nothing more than a tool of the Wen sect.

But Shen Jiu was… different. The moment she met him, she recognized something in him—The way he carried himself, the sharp edge to his presence, the sheer force of his will, the quiet but undeniable authority in his voice—it was uncomfortably reminiscent of Wen Ruohan himself. She had not dared to refuse him.

And now, here she was, sitting in a quiet home, drinking tea with a dying woman and a man who had clearly staked too much of himself on trying to save her.

Shen Jiu finally exhaled, his expression unreadable. “Give me the prescription,” he said. “I’ll make sure she takes the medicine regularly.”

Wen Qing nodded.

A year had passed, and in that time, Shen Jiu had settled into an unspoken routine. Every week, he brought Wen Qing to examine Meng Shi, sending Wei Ying, Meng Yao, and Sisi to Lotus Pier under the excuse of training. It was easier that way—Meng Shi still hadn’t told her son the truth, and Shen Jiu saw no reason to let the boys witness her slow decline.

His days were spent teaching Wei Ying and Meng Yao, both of whom bickered endlessly as if their arguments were a vital part of their cultivation practice. But when Shen Jiu left alone on his journeys—retrieving rare herbs, spiritual ingredients, and anything Wen Qing might need for the medicine—Meng Yao took notice.

Meng Yao had always been perceptive, sharp-eyed in ways that sometimes unsettled Shen Jiu. The boy didn’t ask outright, not yet, but Shen Jiu saw the way he watched him. How he tilted his head whenever Shen Jiu returned covered in dust, sleeves singed from a too-close encounter with a spirit beast. How he carefully filed away the information that Sisi had to absolutely take them to Lotus Pier once a week. 

Shen Jiu knew Meng Yao was piecing it together, though the full picture still eluded him. And that was fine. It would be better for everyone if it stayed that way.

Shen Jiu adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves as he stepped into the receiving room, his robes carrying the scent of damp earth and crushed herbs. A fine layer of dust clung to the edges of his clothes, a testament to yet another solitary journey to retrieve ingredients for Wen Qing. His muscles ached from the trek, but he paid it no mind as he settled into his usual seat across from Meng Shi.

He exhaled, fingers drumming idly against the low wooden table.

“You’re late,” Meng Shi observed, her voice warm but laced with quiet concern. She poured tea into his cup, watching him with those warm, round eyes that saw far too much. “Sisi had taken Yao-er and Ying-er to the market.”

Shen Jiu hummed noncommittally and took a sip. The bitterness settled on his tongue, grounding him.

Meng Shi sighed. “How far did you go this time?”

Shen Jiu swirled the tea in his cup, his gaze flickering toward the doorway. “Mount Song.”

Meng Shi stilled, her grip tightening around her own cup. “That’s dangerous territory.”

“Obviously,” he muttered, setting his tea down. “But Wen Qing needed an herb that only grows there, and I needed her to keep making your medicine.” His tone was clipped, as if he were merely discussing logistics rather than the risk of traveling alone into unpredictable terrain.

Meng Shi lowered her gaze to her lap. “Shen-Lang…”

“Don’t start,” he warned, rubbing his temple. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you.” She smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I was going to thank you.”

Shen Jiu clicked his tongue, looking away. “Hmph. Just focus on getting better.”

Meng Shi didn’t argue. She never did when it came to this.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint rustling of fabric as she adjusted her position.

Then, quietly, she said, “Yao-er is beginning to notice.”

Shen Jiu stilled.

She continued, voice gentle but firm. “He’s sharp. My condition isn't exactly getting any better and it shows, he sees how often you leave, how you avoid coming with them to Lotus Pier even though you normally wouldn’t miss a chance to pester Yu Ziyuan.”

Shen Jiu scoffed. “I do not pester her.”

Meng Shi gave him a knowing look. “Oh?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “That’s beside the point. Meng Yao is always overthinking things. I'm sure he figured out something was wrong long ago.”

Meng Shi shook her head. “I should tell him, but everytime I see his face I hesitate.”

Shen Jiu exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation prickling at the back of his mind. “If you continue like this, the boy will only find out when he attends your funeral.”

Meng Shi’s expression twisted, the words were harsh but she knew Shen Jiu didn't say them to be mean. “I know. But how could I possibly tell him that his mother is going to die, it’ll break him.”

Shen Jiu leaned back, arms crossed. “Meng Yao is more resilient than you give him credit for.”

Meng Shi studied him for a long moment, then simply nodded.

Outside, the wind rustled through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, the faintest echoes of laughter could be heard—Wei Ying’s bright, boisterous voice mingling with Meng Yao’s quieter, exasperated tone.

Shen Jiu closed his eyes and listened, letting the familiar sounds wash over him.

For now, everything remains the same.

The summer heat was relentless, the kind that stuck to skin and made even the shade feel suffocating. Meng Yao sat under the pavilion at Lotus Pier, a slice of watermelon in hand, but he hardly touched it. His fingers idly traced the rind as his thoughts wandered.

He already knew. Had known for a long time. His mother was sick.

At first, it had been subtle—the occasional wince when she thought no one was looking, the way her hands trembled slightly as she poured tea. But then it worsened. She tired too easily, her body growing frail, and no matter how hard she tried to hide it, Meng Yao saw. He saw the way Sisi hovered, always nearby, as if ready to catch her should she stumble. He saw the way Shen Jiu fretted—Shen Jiu, who was usually sharp-tongued and impatient, now softer in ways Meng Yao never expected.

And then there was the weekly trip to Lotus Pier. It had once been an exciting thing, a chance to train with the Jiang siblings and explore the lively sect. But now, it was routine—Shen Jiu sending them off with Sisi, always staying behind, always ensuring they were out of the house for hours.

At first, Meng Yao thought nothing of it. But then he noticed the scent of herbs lingering in his mother’s room, the faint medicinal bitterness clinging to her clothes. He noticed how Shen Jiu would return from his “journeys” exhausted, his robes dirtied, his hands sometimes bandaged. And he noticed how no one said anything. No explanations. No reassurances. Just silence.

He was not a fool. His mother was unwell, and no one was telling him.

A sharp thwack against his forehead yanked him out of his thoughts.

Meng Yao blinked, stunned, as a watermelon seed slid down his face.

Across from him, Wei Ying grinned mischievously, another seed already poised between his teeth. “Oi, what are you spacing out for?”

Meng Yao scowled, flicking his discarded seed at Wei Ying in retaliation. “Do you have the brain of a child?”

Wei Ying only laughed, dodging easily as Jiang Cheng burst into laughter beside him, and even Jiang Yanli giggled behind her hand. Wei Ying grinned wider, looking far too smug. “You were spacing out so hard you didn’t even notice! Thought I had to bring you back to the land of the living.”

Meng Yao huffed, rolling his eyes, but the momentary irritation grounded him, pulling him out of the spiral of worry that had taken hold of him. For now, at least, he let himself be distracted by their laughter.

The dinner table was lively, as usual. Wei Ying was talking animatedly, his hands waving around as he raved about something ridiculous that had happened earlier in the day. Across from him, Sisi stared at his bowl with sheer horror, watching as the once-normal meal had turned an unnatural, simmering red from the absurd amount of chili sauce he had drowned it in.

“How are you eating that?” she finally asked, aghast.

Wei Ying swallowed another mouthful with a grin. “Huh? Oh, this? It’s barely spicy!”

Sisi visibly shuddered.

Meng Yao, sitting beside him, snorted. “I’m fairly certain you burned all your taste buds off before you could even form a sentence as a child.”

Wei Ying shot him a look. “That’s not how it works.”

Meng Yao smirked. “I think we should check. I’m sure we can find a medical text about it somewhere.”

Meng Shi chuckled at their bickering, while Shen Jiu merely rolled his eyes and continued eating. It was… nice. The kind of warmth that made it easy to forget the weight of their world, even if just for a moment.

As they ate, Shen Jiu finally decided it was time to bring up the topic he had been meaning to discuss. He set his chopsticks down and looked at the two boys. “You’re both close to forming your golden cores.”

Wei Ying and Meng Yao snapped their heads toward him, wide-eyed.

“With another year of training, your cores should fully develop,” Shen Jiu continued.

Wei Ying grinned excitedly. “Does that mean we’ll finally get our spiritual swords?”

Shen Jiu nodded. “Once your cores are stable, you’ll be able to form a bond with a spiritual sword.”

Wei Ying practically vibrated with excitement. Sisi, amused, asked, “Have you thought of a name for your sword yet, Wei Ying?”

Before Wei Ying could answer, Meng Yao smirked and cut in, “How about Chili Overlord? Given your terrifying ability to eat poison, it seems fitting.”

Wei Ying scowled and immediately lobbed an olive at Meng Yao’s forehead. Meng Yao yelped and reached for a carrot to throw back, but before he could launch it, Sisi smacked both of them over the head.

“Don’t waste food!” she scolded.

Meng Yao rubbed his head and grumbled, “Wei Ying started it.”

Sisi gave him a sharp look, and both boys mumbled a quick, “Sorry.”

Shen Jiu watched from the head of the table, sighing in exasperation. Children.

Then Meng Yao turned to him with a curious expression. “Shizun, can I ask you something?”

Shen Jiu, assuming it was about their training, nodded. “Go ahead.”

Meng Yao glanced at his mother, who looked confused at his sudden scrutiny, then turned back to Shen Jiu and—

“Are you sleeping with my mother?”

Shen Jiu spat out his tea.

Meng Shi turned crimson. “Yao-er!”

Wei Ying blinked. “Wait, what?”

Sisi, meanwhile, was wheezing into her hand, trying and failing to contain her laughter.

Shen Jiu coughed and composed himself as best as he could. “Where did you get that idea?”

Meng Yao was completely serious as he explained, “I’ve seen you going to my mother’s room at night. Every night. And you only leave at dawn.”

Wei Ying tilted his head, then gasped. “Shizun! Are you dating Aunt Meng Shi?”

Shen Jiu felt an oncoming headache. “No.”

Meng Shi was still too flustered to speak, and Sisi was red-faced from laughing so hard.

Seeing the growing amusement on Meng Yao’s face, Shen Jiu sighed and clarified, “If by ‘sleeping’ you mean anything more than literally sleeping under the covers, then no. Nothing is happening between me and your mother.” He made sure to look at Wei Ying as he said it, since the boy’s confusion was starting to spiral.

Meng Yao hummed, looking almost disappointed, but nodded. “I see.”

Shen Jiu exhaled. Meng Shi gave him an apologetic glance, while Wei Ying, satisfied with the explanation, went back to eating. Meng Yao pouted, and Sisi coughed violently, still barely holding back laughter.

Shen Jiu pinched the bridge of his nose. These brats were going to be the death of him.

Later that the night, and in the dim glow of the lanterns, Meng Yao opened the door to Wei Ying’s room and immediately let out a sigh of exasperation. The room was a disaster—robes were stuffed haphazardly into the closet, some sleeves and hems sticking out as if trying to escape. Trinkets, wooden swords, and small toys were scattered across the floor, and the bed was a complete disaster—unmade and tangled, the blankets half on the floor. It was a stark contrast to his own meticulously kept room, where everything had its place and disorder was unthinkable.

Suppressing the urge to start tidying, Meng Yao stepped carefully over a stray ink brush and entered inside and closed the door behind him. At the vanity, Wei Ying sat cross-legged in front of a bronze mirror, struggling to braid his own hair. His arms were bent at an awkward angle, fingers fumbling as he tried to twist the strands together, only for them to unravel immediately. He huffed in frustration, sticking his tongue out in concentration.

Meng Yao sighed, walking over and plopping down behind him. “Give me that before you turn yourself bald,” he said, snatching the hair from Wei Ying’s hands.

Wei Ying grinned but didn’t protest, letting Meng Yao gather his long strands with expert ease. "You just wanted an excuse to play with my hair," he teased.

Meng Yao scoffed, fingers moving deftly as he started weaving the strands into a neat, even braid. “Hardly. I just can’t bear to look at the disaster you were about to create.”

Wei Ying laughed, swinging his legs lazily. “You sound like Sisi-jie. Next, you’ll be telling me to clean my room.”

Meng Yao cast a critical look around. “Yes, because you should. This is a crime scene.”

Wei Ying turned to stick his tongue out at him, only for Meng Yao to yank on his hair, making him yelp. “Ow! That was uncalled for!"

“Then stop moving so much,” Meng Yao said smugly.

Wei Ying whined but settled down, allowing Meng Yao to deftly weave his hair into a long, neat braid. They chatted idly as he worked, their conversation naturally slipping into their usual pattern of playful bickering. Wei Ying, as restless as ever, kept shifting and fidgeting, and each time he did, Meng Yao yanked at his braid just enough to make him wince.

“Stop moving,” Meng Yao scolded.

“Then stop being a tyrant,” Wei Ying shot back.

“Then stop being insufferable,” Meng Yao countered smoothly.

By the time he finished, Wei Ying’s hair was perfectly braided, neat and tight with not a strand out of place. Wei Ying examined his reflection in the mirror and whistled. “Wow, you’re wasted as a scholar. Have you considered a career in hairdressing?”

Meng Yao gave him a withering look. “If I had, you’d be my first customer—for the sole purpose of yanking your hair out strand by strand.”

Wei Ying laughed, flopping onto his messy bed. “Alright, alright. So, what brings you here, oh mighty braider?”

Meng Yao smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Tomorrow is our scheduled visit to Lotus Pier.”

Wei Ying nodded, but when he caught the glint in Meng Yao’s eyes, he immediately perked up. “And?”

Meng Yao’s smirk widened. “I have a plan.”

Wei Ying sat up straight, eyes shining with mischief. “Tell me everything.”

Chapter Text

The halls of the Sun Palace were suffocating, the air thick with the ever-present burn of incense and the oppressive weight of Wen Ruohan’s power. Wen Qing kept her gaze steady as she walked, the heavy red and gold tapestries lining the corridors almost seeming to pulse with the heat of the glowing braziers. The Wen sect leader never summoned anyone without purpose.

As she reached the grand doors of the audience chamber, the guards stationed outside only glanced at her before stepping aside. No introductions were needed—Wen Ruohan always knew who approached his domain.

Wen Ruohan sat atop his throne, a figure of terrifying grace, draped in robes the color of fresh blood. His long, ink-dark hair cascaded over his shoulders, the golden embroidery of his robes catching the dim light. His presence was absolute, filling the room as though he were its beating heart.

She lowered herself into a deep bow, her head bent, her posture flawless. “Wen Qing greets Zunshang.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Then—

“You have grown bold, Qing-er.”

His voice was smooth, slow—measured. The kind of voice that could soothe or strike fear, depending on his whim.

Wen Qing kept her breathing even. “I would not dare, Zunshang.”

“Oh?” Wen Ruohan’s fingers tapped lazily against the armrest of his throne. “And yet, you have been leaving the sect’s territory without my express permission. You have been tending to a stranger. A rogue cultivator.”

Wen Qing suppressed the urge to swallow. To show fear in front of Wen Ruohan was to invite destruction.

She lifted her head slightly, keeping her expression composed. “A man sought my help for a dying acquaintance. As a physician, I only did what was required of me.”

Wen Ruohan hummed lowly, his dark gaze piercing into her.

“I do not recall granting you the right to act as you please.”

A chill coiled in Wen Qing’s spine, but she forced herself to remain still, to maintain the control she had been taught since birth. Wen Ruohan thrived on submission. On fear. If he sensed weakness, he would sink his claws in.

She lowered her gaze just slightly, a perfect balance between respect and defiance. “It was never my intention to overstep, Zunshang. But this man is nothing more than a rogue cultivator, an inconsequential existence.”

Wen Ruohan chuckled. Slow. Cold. Like embers smoldering in a dying fire.

“Inconsequential?” He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “A man who so effortlessly evades my forces while making use of my physician is not inconsequential, Qing-er.”

She said nothing.

“You seem to forget,” he continued, his voice darkening, “that nothing happens within my domain without my knowing.”

Wen Qing’s fingers curled imperceptibly within her sleeves. She forced herself to inhale slowly. Steadily.

A rogue cultivator like Shen Jiu should have been beneath Wen Ruohan’s notice. He should have been nothing more than a minor inconvenience at most. And yet…

“The last time a green-clad cultivator caused a stir, it was within the Jiang Sect,” Wen Ruohan mused. “A cultivator who overpowered Yunmeng Jiang, humiliating them in their own territory. The rumors were suppressed quickly, of course, before they could spread too far.” His gaze flickered over her. “But I hear everything.”

The brazier flames seemed to flicker, as though responding to the weight of his words.

Wen Qing resisted the urge to shift where she stood. The air was getting thinner.

“You have nothing to say?” Wen Ruohan’s voice was soft, almost mocking. “Tell me, Qing-er—what do you know of this man?”

Wen Qing bowed her head deeper, hiding the tension tightening her jaw. “Nothing more than what I have already stated, Zunshang.”

The silence stretched.

Wen Ruohan smiled—a slow, terrible curve of his lips.

“You are an excellent liar.”

She felt the weight of his spiritual pressure, an oppressive force pressing down upon her shoulders. A warning. A test.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, but she remained upright, her breath steady. She would not break.

After a long moment, Wen Ruohan exhaled, the pressure receding as he waved a hand in dismissal.

“Very well,” he said lazily. “The next time he seeks you, I want you to bring him to me.” His dark eyes glinted in the dim light. “If he is useful, he may yet serve a purpose. If he is a threat… I will decide how to handle him.”

Wen Qing lowered herself into a deep bow. “As you command.”

She did not move until he turned his attention away from her. Only then did she rise and walk towards the exit, her footsteps careful and measured.

As she passed through the grand doors and into the darkened corridors beyond, her breath finally escaped her lips in a slow, controlled exhale.

Wen Ruohan’s interest in Shen Jiu was dangerous—far too dangerous.

And Wen Qing did not know what she feared more—Wen Ruohan’s suffocating scrutiny, or Shen Jiu’s disturbing indifference. 

The day of the scheduled trip to Lotus Pier arrived, but instead of following the usual route, it was time for Meng Yao’s plan to unfold. After bidding a hasty goodbye to Meng Shi and Shen Jiu, Sisi led the two boys to the city where she would rent a carriage to take them to Yunmeng. Meng Yao gave Wei Ying a meaningful glance, one that spoke volumes of their shared plan. With a quick nod, Wei Ying wasted no time, sprinting away, disappearing into the bustling streets, leaving Meng Yao and Sisi behind.

As Sisi busied herself talking to the carriage driver, she was oblivious to Wei Ying’s absence until Meng Yao tugged at her skirt. Sisi turned, startled by his calm expression.

“What's wrong A-Yao?” Sisi asked, looking around searching for Wei Ying. “Where is Wei Ying?”

Meng Yao, his face a picture of innocence, explained, “He ran after a stray cat and didn’t come back.”

“What!? What do you mean, ’ran after a stray cat’!?” she asked, her voice rising in alarm. “Where did he go!?”

Meng Yao lifted his hand and pointed towards the market with one finger, “He went that way, I tried to stop him but he wouldn't listen.”

Sisi paled instantly. She was well aware of Wei Ying’s tendency to get distracted, especially by things like stray animals, but the boy had been remarkably well-behaved lately. “That boy…” she muttered under her breath, feeling the weight of impending disaster. Shen Jiu was going to kill her if anything happened to Wei Ying—he’d never admit it, but he was so overprotective of his disciples, and Sisi knew that if Wei Ying were lost or harmed, Shen Jiu would raise hell.

“Wait here,” Sisi ordered, already turning toward the marketplace to search for Wei Ying. “I’ll find him.”

Meng Yao nodded, his expression unchanged as he replied, “I won’t move an inch.”

Sisi, her steps frantic, dashed toward the market in the direction Meng Yao had pointed, praying to find Wei Ying quickly.

Meanwhile, Meng Yao stood in the same spot, his demeanor cool and composed, his eyes fixed on the market’s entrance. A few moments passed before Wei Ying emerged from behind a hay cart, grinning sheepishly.

“Did she leave yet?” Wei Ying asked, his voice tinged with excitement.

Meng Yao nodded, confirming the success of their plan. “She’s looking for you. Now let’s get to work.”

The two boys wasted no time, moving toward their detour. Instead of heading straight for the carriage, they turned back toward their courtyard house, taking care to avoid detection. The mid-sized house stood silent and still in the morning heat. They crouched behind a low stone wall, peeking over it to assess the situation. From there, they could hear the faint sound of Meng Shi’s voice, humming a soft tune as she worked on some embroidery in the receiving room.

Meng Yao whispered to Wei Ying, his voice low. “Shizun must have left. This is our chance.”

Wei Ying’s face lit up with mischief as he looked around, his eyes scanning their surroundings for a place to hide. Then, with a sudden grin, he pointed toward a large banyan tree nearby. “We should climb that tree,” he said, his voice bubbling with excitement. “The leaves will hide us, and the height will give us a perfect vantage point to see everything.”

Meng Yao hesitated for a moment. The tree was tall, its branches thick with leaves, and the idea of hiding up there didn’t sit completely comfortably with him. But he couldn’t deny the logic. With a shrug, he nodded, giving in. “Fine, let’s do it.”

Together, they scaled the tree, finding a comfortable spot hidden deep within the foliage. From their perch, they could see the entire courtyard, the kitchen, and even the receiving room where Meng Shi was sitting. They exchanged a quiet, triumphant look, both grinning as they settled in to wait for Shen Jiu to return.

“We’ll have the perfect view,” Wei Ying whispered, shifting to get more comfortable. “Now we just have to wait.”

Meng Yao nodded, crossing his arms and leaning back against the tree trunk. “This is it. We just have to watch everything carefully, and then we’ll know what’s really going on.”

The two boys waited, their patience growing as the minutes passed. It would only be a matter of time before Shen Jiu returned. 

They waited for half a shichen, sitting silently in the tree as the sunlight began to shift and the air grew warmer. The hours felt slow, stretching out longer than expected. But finally, they saw him. Shen Jiu landed from his sword, his usual quiet grace evident in every movement. Behind him was a young girl, a little older than them, perhaps around fifteen. She was dressed in robes of red and white, intricate sun motifs embroidered across her sleeves. Wei Ying and Meng Yao both recognized the insignia immediately—the robes of the Wen sect.

Shen Jiu had made sure to teach them about all the sects, and their distinctive clothing. Wei Ying glanced at Meng Yao and whispered, a question bubbling in his mind. “Why did Shizun bring a Wen with him?”

Meng Yao didn't have an answer, his mind too preoccupied with the unfamiliarity of the situation. They stayed silent, watching as Shen Jiu and the girl entered the house. Meng Shi slowly stood, her health visibly lacking, but the Wen girl stopped her gently, insisting that she remain seated.

“Please excuse me, Doctor Wen,” Meng Shi said, and to Wei Ying and Meng Yao’s surprise, the girl was actually a doctor. They exchanged glances, their minds racing.

Meng Yao felt a sudden knot tighten in his stomach. Why would Shen Jiu feel the need to send them away and bring a doctor? Was Meng Shi's condition more serious than he'd thought?

Shen Jiu, ever composed, nodded at the girl, “Please sit, Wen Qing.” It was then that they learned her name. Wen Qing sat down gracefully, setting aside her tools. The examination began, her hands deftly moving as she checked Meng Shi’s pulse, her expression serious but calm. Wei Ying noticed how tense Meng Yao seemed and wisely stayed quiet, understanding that his friend was feeling the pressure of this moment.

The small talk that followed between Shen Jiu and Wen Qing was about Meng Shi's health, the latest herbs Shen Jiu had managed to procure for her, and even the latest ingredient discoveries. But despite the chatter, the atmosphere grew heavier as Wen Qing continued her examination.

Finally, Wen Qing stopped, her face grim. “Her condition is deteriorating faster than we anticipated,” she said quietly, though her words seemed to echo through the room. “I believe she has about a year left to live.”

Meng Shi’s eyes filled with sorrow, and she nodded slowly. Shen Jiu, always composed, asked, “What can be done?”

Wen Qing took a deep breath, and continued, “The only reason she hasn’t been bedridden yet is because of the high-quality spiritual herbs you’ve been retrieving, but her body has reached its limit. She is already living on borrowed time.”

Before Shen Jiu could speak, a familiar voice suddenly called from the yard.

“A-Niang!” It was Meng Yao.

They all turned, and Wei Ying watched as Meng Yao appeared at the door, breathing heavily, his eyes wide and teary. The sight made Wei Ying’s heart skip a beat, Meng Yao had slipped from his side without him noticing. Shen Jiu’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed into a frown.

“Meng Yao! What are you doing here!?” Shen Jiu growled, his voice dark with irritation, but Meng Yao was too frantic to pay attention. He rushed inside, his words tumbling out in a rush.

“A-Niang... is it true? Are you really going to die?”

Meng Shi froze, caught off guard by her son’s question. Her face paled as she tried to stand, her body betraying her weakened state. She leaned heavily against the low table, unable to gain her footing. Her eyes locked with Meng Yao’s, wide with panic and guilt.

She realized that Meng Yao was waiting for an answer. She could see the desperation in his gaze. The silence stretched for a moment before she whispered, her voice full of regret, “I’m sorry, Yao-er.”

The words struck Meng Yao like a blow, and his composure shattered. He lunged forward, ignoring Shen Jiu’s sharp bark of protest. With a sob, he threw himself into his mother’s arms. Meng Shi instinctively wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close as he began to cry.

“I don’t want you to die!” Meng Yao cried, his voice breaking. “I can’t live without you, I love you, A-Niang! Please, don’t leave me!”

Meng Shi’s heart shattered as she held him tighter, her own tears mingling with his. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I never wanted this... I’m sorry, Yao-er.”

Wei Ying, who had followed Meng Yao and had been standing quietly in the doorway, took in the scene. He felt a heaviness in his chest as he slowly walked into the room, his steps slow and cautious. He understood now, the unspoken truth that had been hanging in the air. Meng Shi was going to die. He looked at Wen Qing and Shen Jiu, his face reflecting the same fear and confusion that had been eating away at him.

Wen Qing looked uncomfortable, unsure of how to handle the raw emotion filling the room. She glanced at Shen Jiu, but he only shook his head, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. Then, he stood up and gestured toward the door.

“Let them have some privacy,” Shen Jiu said quietly, his voice calm but firm. “You two, out.”

With a quick glance at the crying mother and son, Wei Ying nodded and followed Wen Qing as Shen Jiu ushered them out of the receiving room. They walked into the side room, and silence fell between them.

Before anyone could speak, the sound of hurried footsteps approached. Sisi appeared at the gate, out of breath, sweat dotting her forehead. She slumped forward, relief evident in her eyes when she saw that Meng Yao and Wei Ying were both safe.

“You... you’re not lost!” Sisi exclaimed, breathless.

Shen Jiu, however, turned his critical gaze on Wei Ying. He snapped open his fan with a sharp flick, his eyes narrowing. “Explain yourself,” he demanded, his voice sharp with irritation.

Wei Ying swallowed audibly, caught off guard by the sudden attention. He could already tell this wasn’t going to go well.

After Meng Shi and Meng Yao had calmed down, and Wei Ying had finally told Shen Jiu and Sisi about his and Meng Yao’s plan, it was time for Wen Qing to leave. Shen Jiu stood on his sword, hovering a few inches above the ground, with Wen Qing holding onto him from behind. His eyes were locked onto Wei Ying and Meng Yao as they walked out with Sisi and Meng Shi to see the doctor off.

Meng Yao still looked miserable, his eyes swollen and puffy from crying, and Meng Shi, though slightly steadier, mirrored the same guilt and sorrow. Shen Jiu, seeing his disciple in such a fragile state, couldn’t bring himself to glare at him. Instead, he focused all his intensity on Wei Ying, his gaze so sharp it made the boy instinctively dip his head in submission, unable to bear the weight of Shen Jiu’s stare.

Shen Jiu sighed, his voice cold as he addressed both of his disciples. “We will talk when I return,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.

Both Wei Ying and Meng Yao nodded timidly, sensing the seriousness of their master’s words. Shen Jiu took a deep breath and then ascended into the sky, disappearing into the distance.

As they watched him leave, Meng Yao looked up at his mother, who was still struggling to stay on her feet. She leaned heavily on him, her frail form barely able to support her own weight. Gently, he guided her back to her room, his voice soft and comforting as he insisted, “You should rest, A-Niang.”

Meng Shi looked down at him, her face full of guilt and regret. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” she murmured, her voice cracking with emotion.

Meng Yao smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Please don't apologize, I understand,” he said, leading her inside and making sure she was settled before he left to tend to the other matters.

Sisi and Wei Ying lingered by the door, the silence stretching between them. Sisi eyed Wei Ying, who had been unusually quiet the entire afternoon, and gave his head a soft tap.

Wei Ying looked up at her, his expression a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

She smirked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Come on, Wei Ying. Help me prepare dinner. We’re going to make something special today,” she said, her tone lighthearted.

Wei Ying perked up at the mention of food. “What are we making?” he asked eagerly, his mood instantly lifting.

Sisi’s smile widened as she leaned in closer and lowered her voice, “We’re going to make some tasty tangyuan today. Sweet, warm, and perfect for this time of year.”

At the mention of the sticky rice balls filled with sweet sesame or red bean paste, Wei Ying’s eyes sparkled with excitement. He jumped up from where he had been standing and followed Sisi eagerly to the kitchen, his smile wide and genuine. The promise of tangyuan was enough to chase away the weight of the afternoon’s events, even if just for a moment.

Chapter Text

As Shen Jiu and Wen Qing soared through the skies on Xiu Ya, the wind whipping against them, Wen Qing found herself mulling over the scene she had just witnessed. Her initial shock had faded, leaving only curiosity in its place. She had never seen Shen Jiu act with such… underlying kindness and patience before.

She turned her head slightly, peering at Shen Jiu’s face, which remained impassive as he guided the sword forward. His posture was rigid, his hands steady, his eyes fixed on the horizon as though she wasn’t even there.

After a moment of hesitation, she spoke. “Those two… boys?” she trailed off, leaving her question open. 

Shen Jiu exhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line before he gave a curt response. “My disciples.”

Wen Qing waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Just as she expected. She glanced away, watching the vast landscape pass beneath them.

“I wouldn’t have thought you the type to take in children,” she mused, keeping her tone light but respectful. “Especially not one as mischievous as that Wei boy. He reminds me of my own younger brother, too full of energy for his own good.”

Shen Jiu scoffed. “He’s a headache,” he muttered, his voice dry.

Wen Qing chuckled at that. “And the other?” she pressed. “He seems… different. More reserved.”

Shen Jiu gave another short nod. “Smarter. Quieter. But just as much of a headache.”

Wen Qing hummed in thought, casting another glance at him. “You live with his mother.”

Shen Jiu’s hands tightened slightly into a loose fist, but his expression didn’t change. “I do.”

Wen Qing debated whether she should push further, but something in the way his jaw tensed told her it wasn’t a subject he welcomed. She knew enough of Shen Jiu to recognize when to back off—though she couldn't help but wonder. It was strange, after all. She had never taken him for the kind of man to care for a family, yet there he was, raising two disciples in a quiet house with a sickly woman. Even though Shen Jiu likes to refer to Meng Shi as a simple acquentice, she observed enough now to know their relationship was deeper than that. 

Instead of prying, she shifted the conversation. “Meng Shi… she’s been hiding her illness from him.” it wasn't a question, and Wen Qing could understand. It is hard to break the news of a family member dying to someone, let alone a child. But if she were to comment on it, she would say Meng Yao handled it better than most people she knew. 

Shen Jiu’s grip loosened just a fraction and nodded slightly, “Mn.”

Wen Qing pursed her lips. “She doesn’t have much time left,” Wen Qing said after a moment, her voice softer than before. She wasn’t one to sugarcoat things, and she knew Shen Jiu wasn’t the type to want that, either. “If she continues to consume those spiritual herbs you're bringing then she'll have a little over a year, but…”

“I know,” Shen Jiu interrupted, his tone flat.

Wen Qing hesitated. This was the part where most people would offer some form of comfort, but she knew Shen Jiu wouldn’t appreciate it.

Instead, she sighed. “Meng Yao will take it hard.” she didn't know why she said that, the boy was only two years younger than her. 

Shen Jiu scoffed. “Of course he will. He’s a child.”

“You say that like it’s a flaw.” Wen Qing tilted her head, watching him. “You’re raising them. You should know that children grieve differently from adults.”

Shen Jiu’s eyes darkened. “They shouldn’t have to grieve at all.”

The bitterness in his voice caught her off guard. For a brief moment, Shen Jiu’s carefully maintained mask cracked, revealing something raw underneath. Wen Qing didn’t comment on it, but she took note.

She had seen too many people lose loved ones to illness, had seen too many families torn apart by it. It never got easier.

Shen Jiu exhaled. “You’ve done enough.” he said, catching Wen Qing by surprise. 

For Shen Jiu, that was as close to gratitude as she was going to get. Wen Qing let the conversation lapse into silence, watching as the mountains of Qishan came into view.

Shen Jiu had always been a difficult man to understand, but Wen Qing had learned one thing today:

He cared.

He might be cold, sharp, and distant, but somewhere in that guarded heart of his, there was space for two mischievous disciples and a dying woman.

And Wen Qing thought that was very, very interesting.

Once they reached their destination, Shen Jiu descended gracefully, the hem of his pale robes fluttering as he and Wen Qing landed in front of her clinic. He didn’t step off his sword, instead he turned to her with his usual impassive expression.

“I’ll be leaving now.”

He was already preparing to fly off, when Wen Qing spoke up.

“Shen-xiansheng, wait.”

Shen Jiu paused, brow arching in question as he glanced over his shoulder.

“I just finished a new batch of medicine,” Wen Qing explained smoothly, her face unreadable. “I’d like to give you some before you leave.”

Shen Jiu considered her for a moment, searching her expression for anything out of the ordinary, but found nothing unusual. He knew Wen Qing well enough—she wasn’t someone who wasted words or played unnecessary games. They had spent more than a few afternoons in this very clinic discussing treatment methods and new medicinal concoctions. This wasn’t outside the realm of normalcy.

With a short nod, he followed her inside.

The clinic smelled of herbs, incense, and something faintly medicinal, a scent Shen Jiu had long since grown accustomed to. It was tidy, the shelves meticulously arranged with rows of labeled jars and bundles of dried plants hanging from the walls. The warm, dim light filtering through the windows gave the place an air of quiet diligence.

A young boy, dressed in the red and white robes of the Wen Clan, was crouched in the corner, carefully organizing bundles of herbs. He was around Wei Ying’s age, though nowhere near as boisterous—the boy had a calm presence, his movements precise and practiced.

“Wen Ning,” Wen Qing called, making the boy jolt.

Shen Jiu watched with mild amusement as Wen Ning stiffened, his hands fumbling with the herbs. When his eyes finally lifted to Shen Jiu, his entire face turned bright red, and he stammered an awkward greeting.

“G-Greetings, Shen-xiansh-sheng…”

Wen Qing sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Leave those herbs and go prepare some tea.”

Wen Ning stood and hurried off to prepare the tea for their guest, Shen Jiu took a seat without being asked, used to the rhythm of this place. Not long after, Wen Ning came back with a tray balanced on both hands and set it on top of the table. 

Shen Jiu nodded in gratitude and Wen Ning bowed again, his face still red. 

Wen Qing waved Wen Ning off. “Go pick some herbs from the mountain. I’ll finish up here.”

Wen Ning hesitated for only a second before bowing and hurrying out the door, sparing one last nervous glance at Shen Jiu before disappearing outside.

Wen Qing worked efficiently, moving to a cabinet and pulling out a pouch of ground herbs.

“This should be brewed into tea, twice a day,” she instructed, placing the medicine on the table. “It helps with circulation and stabilizing blood pressure. have her take it with warm honey water—it will go down easier.”

Shen Jiu accepted the pouch without comment, watching as she moved to pour the tea. His gaze drifted, taking in the space with a neutral expression.

When she finished, she handed him a porcelain cup filled with steaming tea, her fingers tightened slightly around it. “Here,” she said, her voice steady—but her eyes didn’t quite meet his. Shen Jiu took it, his fingers brushed the porcelain. A familiar tension coiled low in his spine, still he raised it to his lips, taking a slow sip, the warmth spreading through his chest. The taste was a little off—not bad, but… different.

Wen Qing watched him, her face unreadable.

Shen Jiu lowered the cup, setting it on the table with a quiet clink. He exhaled through his nose, eyes briefly closing.

Then he moved.

A sharp gasp rang through the clinic as a hand shot forward and wrapped around Wen Qing’s throat.

Wen Qing’s eyes went wide with shock as she was lifted off the ground, her feet dangling as Shen Jiu’s fingers tightened around her neck.

The air in the room turned suffocating.

Shen Jiu’s expression was cold, utterly devoid of emotion, but his eyes—his jade-green eyes burned with something violent. A quiet, simmering fury that promised nothing short of destruction.

“You must take me for a fool,” he murmured, his voice quiet but heavy with disdain.

Wen Qing gasped, hands clawing at his wrist. “Shen—”

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” Shen Jiu continued, tilting his head slightly, his grip unwavering. His voice was soft, almost gentle, but his fingers dug in with bruising force. “How bold of you, Wen Qing. Did you really think I wouldn't notice you drugged the tea?”

He had felt the tingling sensation immediately—the slow numbing in his limbs, the strange heaviness creeping into his fingers. It was subtle, meant to lull him into complacency, a paralysis drug, but Shen Jiu knew his own body better than anyone. He had spent too long around far more powerful poisons and drugs than this realm had to offer to fall for something so simple.

Wen Qing struggled, her nails biting into his skin, her chest heaving for air. Her body fought against his grip, her legs kicking weakly as she tried to loosen his hold.

Shen Jiu only stared.

The betrayal wasn’t surprising—he had always known Wen Qing was loyal to her sect above all else. But still, there was something deeply, deeply insulting about it.

“I—” Wen Qing wheezed, eyes wide with something almost like panic.

Shen Jiu narrowed his eyes. “You underestimated me.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. “That was your first mistake.”

A loud bang shattered the tense silence. The doors burst open, and a dozen swords pointed at him. 

“Drop the healer!” a voice barked.

Shen Jiu turned his head slightly, his eyes landing on the group of Wen disciples pointing their swords at him.

The leader of the group—a man with an obnoxiously loud voice and an equally obnoxious stance—stepped forward.

“I said, drop her.”

Shen Jiu didn’t move. He simply stared at them, unbothered, as if they were nothing more than insects buzzing around his ears.

The soldier hesitated under his glare, the initial confidence wavering. There was something in Shen Jiu’s expression—something dark, something feral.

Then, slowly, he released Wen Qing.

She dropped to the ground, coughing violently, hands flying to her throat. Shen Jiu paid her no mind, eyes still locked on the soldiers before him.

The air was thick with tension.

Then, Shen Jiu smiled.

A slow, razor-sharp smile that sent a shiver down the soldier’s spine.

The Wen cultivators hesitated, their swords still raised but their stances faltering. They had not expected Shen Jiu to react like this. This—this was not the meekness they had come to expect from rogue cultivators, someone who could be easily manipulated and bent to their will. Shen Jiu wasn’t trembling or begging for mercy; instead, he exuded an aura that made their blood run cold, an unspoken power that radiated from him with every measured breath. He wasn't even using spiritual energy. 

His demeanor was almost… familiar. Cold, calculating, dangerous. Too reminiscent of Wen Ruohan, their sect leader. The thought lingered in the air like a dark cloud, and it unnerved them.

Wen Chao, the leader of the group, was the first to falter. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. He couldn’t help it—he took a half step back, his eyes wide with surprise, feeling the pressure of Shen Jiu’s gaze bearing down on him. It was like being in the presence of a predator—one that could strike at any moment.

But Wen Chao was nothing if not proud. He snapped out of it almost immediately, forcing himself to stand taller, his arrogance flaring back to life like a shield.

“Don’t think for a moment you’re in control here,” Wen Chao growled, raising his sword higher. “Surrender your weapon and come with us, quietly. Or we’ll make you.” His voice was an attempt at regaining some authority, but his words faltered under the weight of Shen Jiu’s icy stare.

Shen Jiu didn’t even glance at the sword pointed at him, nor did he acknowledge Wen Chao’s command. His eyes remained steady, unwavering, like the calm before a storm. With deliberate slowness, he dusted off the hem of his robes, smoothing out any creases with the practiced motions of someone who had long mastered the art of composure. His movement was almost serene, his face impassive, but his presence alone was enough to send a chill down their spines.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and even, but it carried the weight of unshakable confidence.

“Stop wasting time trying to intimidate me, Wen Chao,” he said, his words calm but laden with a quiet venom. “We both know you won’t actually harm me. You’ll take me to your father, just as you were ordered to.”

Wen Chao’s mouth went dry. The fact that Shen Jiu knew their objective—knew they were here to take him to Wen Ruohan—made something cold curl in the pit of his stomach. How had he known? What sort of person was this?

Shen Jiu’s smirk deepened as he took a step forward, the atmosphere thick with a strange tension. Wen Chao’s grip on his sword tightened, but his confidence wavered, and his voice caught in his throat.

“Move,” Shen Jiu ordered, his tone sharp, as though he were speaking to a servant rather than an opponent. He took another step forward, not waiting for Wen Chao to process what had just been said. The Wen cultivators surrounding him instinctively shifted, moving to form a loose ring around him, their swords still raised, though their previous bravado had begun to crack under Shen Jiu’s unrelenting calm.

Shen Jiu didn’t flinch, nor did he attempt to fight back. He simply walked, letting them guide him toward the exit. But as they neared the door, his pace slowed, and he looked back over his shoulder.

His eyes found Wen Qing, who had just managed to get back on her feet, her face pale and shaken. For a fleeting moment, something like regret flickered in Shen Jiu’s gaze, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold smirk.

Wen Qing, still clutching at her throat, tried to steady herself, but her eyes never left Shen Jiu, her expression a mix of disbelief and fear. She had thought the situation was under control, but Shen Jiu’s actions had turned it on its head.

“I want both Wen Qing and her brother to come with us,” Shen Jiu said, his voice smooth, as if he were discussing something trivial, like the weather.

"You think you're in any position to make demands?" Wen Chao’s jaw tightened. He had been expecting some form of resistance, but not this—this demand. He hesitated, and the brief pause was all Shen Jiu needed to press further.

“Do you want me to follow willingly?” Shen Jiu continued, his voice as sharp as a blade. “Then you better do as I say.”

Wen Chao’s eyes flashed with indignation, and he opened his mouth, ready to retort, but one look from Shen Jiu stopped him in his tracks. It was a look so cold, so devoid of mercy, that for a moment, Wen Chao wondered if he had just crossed some invisible line he couldn’t undo. Years of serving under his father had taught him not to press any further when he is faced with that look. 

Wen Qing, meanwhile, had paled further. She opened her mouth to protest, but Shen Jiu’s stare silenced her immediately. It was not a warning—it was a promise of what might happen if she dared to defy him further.

For a long moment, Wen Chao stood there, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword, struggling to decide what to do. He had never expected Shen Jiu to be like this—so calm, so unflappable. There was a danger in him, a quiet fury that was far more terrifying than anything Wen Chao had anticipated.

Finally, Wen Chao turned to one of his men, snapping out an order.

“Go fetch the boy,” he barked, though his voice was noticeably strained.

One of the soldiers hurried off, his footsteps echoing in the quiet clinic as he disappeared to wherever Wen Ning is. Shen Jiu allowed himself a moment to glance at Wen Qing, watching her expression carefully. Her face had drained of all color, but her eyes were still burning with a fierce resolve, even if she knew she had no real choice now.

Shen Jiu couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction at her reaction. It was a small, fleeting thing, but it was enough to stir something dark and twisted inside of him.

He didn’t explain why he wanted them to come, and no one dared ask. Maybe it was punishment. Maybe protection. Maybe both. But one thing was for certain, If they were going to use him, he’d use them right back. A healer. A hostage. A pair of knives pressed to the right throats.

With Wen Qing’s brother on his way, Shen Jiu allowed himself to be escorted out of the clinic, his every step a quiet promise of what was to come. As the Wen cultivators surrounded him, moving in tight formation, he walked calmly, his robes flowing like smoke behind him, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

The journey to the Sun Palace wouldn't be long, but Shen Jiu wasn’t worried. After all, he was used to being in the lion’s den. He would face whatever Wen Ruohan had planned for him, just as he always did.

After all, it was only a matter of time before he caught the interest of Wen Ruohan. And honestly, he was a bit curious, he wanted to see what the strongest cultivator in the lower realm and the closest one to achieving immortality is like. 

Chapter Text

The journey to the Sun Palace was short, the weight of silence pressing heavy against them despite the number of people present. The Wen cultivators surrounded Shen Jiu in a loose but firm formation, their hands gripping their swords, their eyes flickering with unease whenever they dared glance his way.

Shen Jiu walked at an unhurried pace, his back straight, his expression unreadable. He did not fidget, did not strain against the invisible cage they had built around him. Instead, he moved with an air of nonchalance, as if he were simply taking a stroll through Qishan rather than being escorted like a prisoner to its ruler.

Ahead of him, Wen Chao led the way, his posture stiff, his shoulders squared in an attempt to regain control over the situation. The younger Wen master had not spoken much since they left the clinic, and Shen Jiu knew why. The boy was rattled—he had not expected Shen Jiu to act as he had, to wield his words and presence like a weapon. Wen Chao had tried to intimidate him, and it had backfired spectacularly.

Still, the fool clung to his arrogance, his chin raised high as if pretending to be in control would make it so.

Behind Shen Jiu, Wen Qing and Wen Ning walked in tense silence. Wen Qing’s face was composed, but there was no mistaking the rigid line of her shoulders, the way her hands curled into fists at her sides. Wen Ning, on the other hand, was visibly nervous, his eyes darting around, his movements hesitant, as though he wished to be anywhere but here.

Shen Jiu could feel their eyes on him, could almost hear the turmoil swirling in Wen Qing’s mind. She must have been wondering what he was planning, why he had insisted on bringing her and her brother along.

He smirked to himself.

The Sun Palace loomed before them, its red walls bathed in the dying light of the evening sun. It stood like a beast waiting with its jaws open, a monument of power, of fear. The sight of it sent a sharp, bitter taste to the back of Shen Jiu’s throat, but he did not let it show.

As they crossed the threshold, the Wen cultivators flanking him tightened their formation. It was unnecessary.

Shen Jiu wasn’t planning to run.

Shen Jiu walked through the Sun Palace with an impassive face, taking in its towering walls and gilded halls without a flicker of interest. It was grand, certainly—high ceilings adorned with golden carvings, lacquered pillars engraved with twisting dragons, large crimson banners hanging like waves of fire. The floors gleamed with polished stone, and the air was thick with the scent of incense, rich and oppressive.

To anyone else, it might have been awe-inspiring, intimidating.

To Shen Jiu, it was nothing new.

He had spent years in Cang Qiong Mountain, walked through the cold majesty of the Twelve Peaks, stood before the sect leader’s great halls, and been a guest in the most powerful sects of the higher cultivation realm. He had seen grandeur built not just on wealth, but on history, on legacy, on the backs of those who carried their sects forward for generations.

The Sun Palace was grand, yes. But it was also excessive—a display of power meant to cow those who entered it.

It did not impress him.

The Wen cultivators led him through the vast halls, their grip on their weapons tightening the closer they got to their destination. None of them dared speak. The only sound was the echo of their boots against the polished floor, and the distant flickering of flames from the braziers lining the corridors.

At last, they arrived before the great doors of the throne room.

The guards pushed them open, revealing a massive chamber bathed in the golden-red light of the large braziers lining the sides of the room, their flames casting long shadows across the tiled floor. A long, carpeted path led up to an elaborate throne, carved from deep crimson wood and raised on a platform.

And there, lounging on that throne like a king surveying his domain, was Wen Ruohan.

The Wen cultivators immediately fell to the ground in full kowtow, their foreheads pressed against the cold stone. Even Wen Qing and Wen Ning lowered themselves. 

Wen Chao, ever arrogant, did not prostrate himself fully. Instead, he gave a deep bow, stepping forward to stand ahead of the kneeling cultivators. He straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and raised his voice in an attempt to impress his father.

“Father, I have succeeded in the mission you assigned me. The rogue had been brought before you, as you commanded.”

At those words, Shen Jiu, who had been standing at ease, finally raised his eyes to meet the gaze of the man before him.

Carmine-red eyes locked onto jade-green ones.

Shen Jiu took in the sight of Wen Ruohan—his sharp, regal features, the long dark hair spilling over his shoulders, the opulent robes of red and white embroidered with golden flames. His fingers, adorned with sharp rings, rested lazily against the armrest of his throne, and his chin was propped up on the back of his hand.

The edge of his lips was curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. Amusement.

Shen Jiu felt the weight of his gaze, but did not falter. He had spent years facing people like this—men who thought themselves above others, who wielded power as if it was their birthright.

He had no interest in playing their games.

Then, Wen Ruohan’s gaze flickered past him.

“Oh?” The sect leader made a quiet, intrigued sound. His deep voice rumbled through the hall, commanding without needing to raise it. His eyes settled on Wen Qing and Wen Ning, still kneeling behind Shen Jiu.

“And why, pray tell, have you brought those two with you?”

Wen Chao straightened at the question, opening his mouth to answer—

Only for Shen Jiu to cut him off before he could speak.

“I told them to come.”

A sharp silence fell over the throne room. The Wen cultivators paled. Horrified. 

One does not speak to Wen Ruohan without being addressed first. One does not interrupt his son.

Wen Chao turned to Shen Jiu, eyes wide with outrage.

“You—!” He seethed, voice rising in indignation. “How dare you interrupt—”

“Enough.”

The single word, spoken with absolute authority, sliced through the air like a blade.

Wen Chao froze, his mouth snapping shut instantly.

Wen Ruohan raised a single hand, his expression unchanged, but his presence heavy—so heavy that the room itself seemed to breathe with it.

For a moment, no one dared move.

Then, the sect leader spoke again, his voice slow, deliberate.

“Everyone else—leave.”

There was a hesitation—a flicker of reluctance from some of the cultivators. But then Wen Ruohan’s red eyes swept over them, and they scrambled to obey.

Wen Chao, though clearly frustrated, did not dare disobey his father’s command. He clenched his fists, stiffly bowed, and turned on his heel, following the other Wen cultivators as they filed out of the hall.

The grand doors closed behind them.

Silence.

There were only four people left in the throne room now. 

The siblings remained kneeling, their heads bowed low, hoping to make themselves as unnoticeable as possible.

Shen Jiu did not kneel.

He stood tall, his back straight, his expression unreadable.

Across from him, Wen Ruohan regarded him with keen interest, the amusement in his gaze deepening.

A silent staredown began between the two men, each assessing the other in the heavy stillness of the hall.

The throne hall, despite its gilded walls and monstrous grandeur, had turned still as death. The candlelight flickered like frightened spirits along the tall columns, shadows dancing over the silent witnesses: two bowed siblings, one monarch, and a jade-eyed man who stood like he had carved himself out of the world’s spine.

Wen Ruohan tilted his head with the ghost of a smile curling his lips, the only movement in a space that dared not breathe without his will.

“So.” His voice was low, drawn out like the hum of a blade unsheathed. “We meet at last, Shen Jiu.”

Shen Jiu didn’t answer. He stood there with arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable, carved in marble.

Wen Ruohan’s smile deepened. “There is nothing—nothing—that stirs in my territory without my notice, especially when it involves one of my healers.” He turned his eyes briefly to the siblings bowed behind Shen Jiu, like a man glancing at insects.

Shen Jiu’s lips twisted faintly, his tone a lash. “Then I suppose your control isn’t as absolute as you’d like to think if it took you this long to approach me.”

Wen Qing tensed. Wen Ning flinched. Silence dropped again, thick and choking.

Wen Ruohan, to his credit, only chuckled. “I like your fire,” he said. “Most men cower when they stand here. But you… You’re as composed as if this were your palace and I your guest.”

“I’ve had my fill of thrones and empty palaces,” Shen Jiu said simply. “Yours is no different. Just another golden cage with a corpse at its heart.”

A beat.

Wen Ruohan leaned back, draping one arm along the carved length of his throne. “Do you know how curious it was, when tales began to rise among the people? A green-clad cultivator, never giving his name, cutting through resentful creatures with precision but leaving before the blood had dried. No sect. No clan. A ghost in flesh.”

He let the silence stretch before he continued, voice soft but sharp. “The only tie—tenuous—was to the Jiang sect. A disciple, perhaps? Or something more personal?”

Still, Shen Jiu didn’t blink.

Wen Ruohan’s eyes narrowed. “Breaking into their compound in broad daylight… was bold. Quite the entrance. You have a habit of not hiding your trail as well as you think.”

Shen Jiu, at last, exhaled through his nose, slow and unimpressed. “Are you done?”

That hit like a slap. The tension in the room became unbearable. Wen Qing pressed her forehead harder to the floor, teeth clenched. Wen Ning looked like he might stop breathing entirely.

Wen Ruohan’s fingers curled over the dragon armrest of his throne. “Do you not care, even a little, about what I’ve discovered?”

“I didn’t come here to be read a report about myself,” Shen Jiu replied, icily calm. “If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time.”

A long silence.

Then—

Wen Ruohan straightened, tone velvet-wrapped steel. “Very well. I’ll be direct. I want you to join my sect. Serve under me.”

A blink.

And then laughter. Low, dry, dark. Shen Jiu tilted his head, a thin smirk on his lips.

“Why,” he asked, every syllable dripping with scorn, “in the name of the Heavenly Emperor would I ever want to join your sect?”

Wen Ruohan’s eyes glittered like rubies under a forge. But instead of fury, he chuckled.

“I expected resistance,” he said, smooth as oil. “But let me sweeten the offer.”

And then, casually, too casually: “You’re from the higher cultivation realm, aren’t you?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Wen Qing’s head snapped up before she could stop herself. Her mouth opened in horror, eyes wide with unfiltered realization.

...Higher realm? He’s from—oh, no... 

She quickly dropped her head again, face pale, heart hammering.

No wonder. No wonder nothing she used worked on him. That pressure. That clarity. That knowledge. That poise—! She tried to drug someone who’s been cultivating longer than their grandparents have been dead! 

Shen Jiu raised a brow, his body language relaxed, amused.

“And what of it?” he asked.

That sealed it.

Wen Ruohan laughed, long and slow. “I wasn’t sure. Until now. When I released my spiritual pressure earlier and you didn’t so much as blink… that was when I knew. Your cultivation is far too advanced for it to belong to this realm.”

Earlier when Wen Ruohan ordered the others to leave, he had experimentally released a wave of spiritual pressure in order to assess Shen Jiu and was pleasantly surprised to find the man wasn't fazed in the least bit. 

He leaned forward, folding his hands. “You misunderstand me, Shen Jiu. I don’t seek to bind you. I seek to protect you.”

“Oh?” Shen Jiu’s tone was mocking. “Is that what you call it?”

“It's quite ridiculous, honestly. For someone to descend from the higher realm and restrict themselves here, only an insane person would do such a thing, insane or... on the run. A criminal maybe? A traitor? It doesn't matter.” Wen Ruohan chuckled, watching Shen Jiu's expression closely. “You think your little nightly wanderings and faceless deeds go unnoticed. But word travels. Slowly, yes, but surely. From the lower realm to the higher—it would only take one letter. One scroll. And they would come for you. You know this.”

Shen Jiu stared.

Wen Ruohan’s voice dropped, persuasive, conspiratorial. “But under my protection? I can erase you from every tongue. Hide your presence. Burn your name from the scrolls. You’d never need to live like a ghost again.”

Behind them, Wen Qing and Wen Ning were trembling. A rogue immortal. A criminal. A fugitive from the higher realm—

“So join me,” Wen Ruohan said smoothly, holding out his hand. “While I am still offering it with goodwill. Refuse me… and I’ll be forced to consider other methods.” He paused. Then smiled with slow cruelty. “How are your disciples? And those women you live with?”

Silence.

Then—something shifted.

Shen Jiu’s fingers slowly unfolded from their cross, falling to his side, Wen Ruohan thought he had him.

Shen Jiu stepped forward.

Wen Ruohan smiled as he extended his hand further, expecting submission.

Shen Jiu’s hand met his—

And then crushed.

A sharp crack echoed through the hall. Wen Ruohan let out a strangled gasp, eyes going wide as pain lanced up his arm.

Shen Jiu didn’t flinch. He towered over the throne, jade green eyes lit with quiet, lethal fury.

“You,” Shen Jiu said coldly, “are far too arrogant for your own good.” He leaned down slightly, his grip unrelenting. “Don’t ever presume to reach down to me again. For someone to reach down, the other has to be beneath them. And I am not beneath anyone.”

His voice cut like frozen fire.

“You sit on your little throne thinking yourself powerful. But I’ve walked where the stars crack the sky and bled on mountains higher than your comprehension. I was cultivating before your ancestors knew how to spell their names.”

He let go. Wen Ruohan clutched his wrist, gasping, face flushed with humiliation and fury. 

“I chose to come to this realm,” Shen Jiu continued. “I wasn’t chased. I wasn’t exiled. I came because I wanted to. And you—” his lip curled, “—have nothing to offer me.”

Wen Ruohan looked up at him, stunned.

Shen Jiu turned, his robes billowing behind him like the wing of a storm dragon.

“I’ll warn you once,” he said. “If anything happens to my disciples… to the women I live with… I will not just burn your sect to ash. I will salt the earth beneath your bones.”

He walked away without waiting for a response.

“Wen Qing. Wen Ning. We're leaving.” The siblings hesitated at first, not moving from their position, Shen Jiu stopped and turned towards them with a cold glare. 

“Move.” he snapped, they scrambled to their feet and followed him, terrified but obedient. One look at his face was all they needed.

As the doors of the throne room slammed shut behind Shen Jiu and the Wen siblings, silence reclaimed the grand hall like a creeping tide. Wen Ruohan remained on the throne, his hand cradled to his chest, face pale with cold fury. Slowly, he raised his wrist and twisted it, bones cracking back into place under a golden pulse of healing spiritual energy. The pain ebbed, but the burn of humiliation did not.

He flexed his fingers once, twice, until sensation returned, then closed them into a tight fist.

“A man like that… cannot be allowed to roam free,” he muttered, voice low, venomous. “He’s not a rogue cultivator. He’s a storm dressed in human skin.”

His eyes narrowed, burning like twin embers under the shadowed edges of his crown. “If I let him be, he’ll swallow me whole—and then the sect with me.”

Wen Ruohan exhaled through gritted teeth, the humiliation washing into hatred, cold and sharp.

“He is a threat,” he whispered to the empty hall. “And threats must be eradicated… at all costs.”

The grand, oppressive halls of the Sun Palace fell away behind them, golden red light dimming as they headed towards the gates that separated the sect proper from the boundless, feverish heart of the Nightless City. Shen Jiu walked ahead with the calm precision of a blade sheathed in silk. His fan, closed and clasped behind his back, tapped rhythmically against his palm, an elegant warning with each step.

Behind him, Wen Qing and Wen Ning followed like shadows with guilty feet, silent since their departure from Wen Ruohan’s inner court. The longer they walked in silence, the tenser their movements became—like birds bracing against the coming storm. The black lacquered gates of the outer sect loomed before them, carved with the sun insignia, twisted in arrogant, triumphant strokes. Beyond them, the Nightless City sprawled in veins of red lantern light and sin.

Only once they had crossed through the final threshold into the open evening air did Wen Qing stop. Her hand shot out, fingers brushing lightly against her brother’s sleeve. Wen Ning paused beside her, wide-eyed and hesitant.

Then, together, they fell to their knees. 

Civilians watched, some pausing to stare, others moving quickly along. The siblings bowed low to the earth, foreheads pressed to the stone, robes fanning like wilted petals.

“Immortal Master Shen,” Wen Qing began, voice steady despite the cold stone biting into her skin, “what I did… there is no excuse. Please, accept my deepest apologies.”

“W-W-We beg yo-your forgiven-ness,” Wen Ning echoed, softer, uncertain.

Shen Jiu turned, expression unreadable beneath the cascade of lantern lights. His gaze swept over them, cutting through their kneeling forms like frost along a blade.

“Kowtowing again?” he murmured. “How tedious. If you keep this up, the stone might start to pity you.” he walked a slow, deliberate circle around them, fan still closed in his fingers, tapping with quiet menace. “You say you apologize,” he said, stopping beside Wen Qing. “But you don’t actually feel guilty.”

Wen Qing froze.

He leaned down slightly, voice low, intimate, poisonous. “It’s written all over your face.”

She lifted her head in protest—only to find herself unable to speak. Because he was right.

He straightened again, and his eyes drifted toward Wen Ning.

A flicker of something—sharp and knowing—passed through Shen Jiu’s gaze as he gave a soft scoff, more amused than angry. “It wasn’t personal,” he said, more to himself than to them. “It never is, is it?”

He waved a hand then, brisk and imperious. “Stand up. You’re making a scene. Or would you prefer for all of Nightless City to see you grovel at the feet of a foreign cultivator?”

They rose at once, though their heads remained bowed, shame and tension clinging to them like wet cloth. Shen Jiu spoke, voice carrying cool and sharp like winter air.

“I know where your loyalties lie, Wen Qing,” he said. “And I do not expect them to shift for my sake. Nor do I ask it. What you did was unpleasant, yes. Drugging me. Leading me into a trap. But I don’t hold it against you.” he paused. “I’ve suffered worse.”

Wen Qing looked up at him, mouth parting as though to speak, but Shen Jiu lifted a hand and silenced her with a look.

“Of course,” he added, “that does not mean I trust you. I never did. I was simply… tolerant. Now, I’ll be cautious. You brought me to your master like a lamb to slaughter—except this lamb knows how to bare its fangs.”

They stood in silence for a time, the sounds of the city swallowing them—laughter, haggling, music. Oil lamps swung above the streets, casting strange shadows across Shen Jiu’s features. His expression was unreadable again.

Then, without warning, he snapped open his fan with a sharp flick, the sound crisp and slicing. He fanned himself lazily, eyes distant, as if weighing some unseen equation.

When he turned to them, the siblings flinched, backs straightening, breath held.

“From now on,” he said, “Wen Ning will accompany you during your visits, Wen Qing. Every examination. Every consultation.”

Their eyes widened in unison. “But—” Wen Qing began.

“No objections,” Shen Jiu interrupted. “You will come together. Always. No exceptions.”

They exchanged a glance. But whatever argument might’ve bloomed in their throats withered under his gaze. Wen Ning nodded. Wen Qing followed suit a heartbeat later.

Shen Jiu turned away and began walking again, his steps soft but inexorable. The siblings followed, trailing behind him like guilt-bound ghosts.

In truth, Shen Jiu hadn’t made the decision on a whim.

He needed a leash.

A blade to hold to Wen Qing’s throat—not out of spite, but strategy. Wen Ning was beloved. Gentle. Loyal. Wen Qing’s greatest weakness, and therefore the perfect shield. As long as the boy was with him, she would not dare cross him again. And more importantly—Wen Ruohan would understand what the gesture meant.

He rules through fear, Shen Jiu thought. Not respect.

And people ruled by fear… are so easy to manipulate, you just have to give them something else to fear more. 

Behind him, the siblings trudged on, subdued and solemn. The moment they turned into a less crowded street, Shen Jiu halted again. This time, he did not turn to face them.

His voice dropped, low and quiet, yet sharp enough to carve bone. “One more thing.” Wen Qing stiffened. Wen Ning swallowed. “What happened today,” Shen Jiu said, “every word that was spoken in the palace—never reaches another pair of ears.”

They nodded immediately.

“Not even a whisper,” he warned, closing his fan with a snap. “If word of it escapes, if I so much as suspect you’ve spoken out of turn…” he turned, and for the first time, his smile surfaced. It was cold. Cruel. Beautiful. “I will show you just how much more monstrous I can be than Wen Ruohan.”

He let that hang in the air like the edge of a guillotine.

Then, with no further words, he turned once more and strode into the city, his robes trailing like dark waves behind him, his presence cutting through the Nightless City like a silent storm.

And the siblings followed—quiet, obedient, and afraid.

Chapter Text

[One Year Later] 

The swordsmith’s workshop smelled of metal and burning coals, the air thick with the scent of freshly forged steel. The walls were lined with rows of swords, each gleaming under the flickering light of lanterns. Wei Ying’s eyes sparkled as he took it all in, bouncing on his feet in excitement.

“This place is amazing!” he exclaimed, reaching out toward a particularly flashy blade before Shen Jiu smacked his hand away.

“Don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” Shen Jiu snapped.

Jiang Cheng huffed beside them, arms crossed. “Of course it’s amazing. It’s my family’s workshop. Our sect’s swordsmith is the best.”

Meng Yao, ever observant, watched the blacksmiths at work. His gaze lingered on the way they hammered the glowing metal, carefully shaping each blade. His fingers twitched slightly, as if committing every motion to memory.

Jiang Fengmian stepped forward, offering a polite greeting to the old swordsmith who stood before them. The man, despite his gray hair and weathered skin, still carried himself with the strength of someone who had spent a lifetime working steel. His arms were thick with muscle, his hands rough from years of labor.

“Ah, Jiang-zongzhu.” The swordsmith bowed respectfully. “You’ve come for the boys’ swords?”

Shen Jiu gave a short nod in greeting. Jiang Fengmian inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Master Lian, I trust everything is ready?”

After both Wei Ying and Meng Yao had formed their golden cores, it was time for them to finally have a spiritual sword of their own. Jiang Fengmian had suggested their sect’s swordsmith make the boys’ swords alongside Jiang Cheng and Shen Jiu accepted, it would save him the trouble of searching for a good craftsman that his work was worthy of Shen Jiu’s standards. 

Master Lian chuckled. “Of course, Jiang-zongzhu. I made these blades with their cultivation in mind. They’ll serve them well, so long as they treat them properly.”

He turned to a young apprentice and gestured with his hand. “Bring them out.”

The boy scurried to the back and returned with three swords wrapped carefully in cloth. He presented them to the swordsmith, who took them and held them up for the three disciples to see.

“Before you unwrap them,” he said gruffly, “let me remind you of something important.”

The boys, already eager, paused at his serious tone.

“A sword is a cultivator’s lifelong companion. Once you form your bond, the first name you speak will be carved into the blade, remaining for all to see. I’ve seen men curse their luck for naming their swords something foolish in a moment of excitement like ’Dumpling Cutter.’” He glanced at Wei Ying who snorted. 

Wei Ying grinned. “I won’t mess up!”

Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes. “Of course you won't.”

Meng Yao simply nodded in understanding, gripping the wrapped sword in his hands a little tighter.

“Good,” the swordsmith said. “Then unveil your swords.”

The boys unwrapped their weapons carefully.

Jiang Cheng’s sword is a long, slender blade with a refined yet deadly appearance. The blade itself is forged from the highest-quality spiritual steel, polished to a mirror sheen. It is optimized for swift, precise strikes, and exudes a faint purple aura when spiritual energy flows through it. The hilt is wrapped in deep violet silk, with the Jiang clan’s emblem engraved at the base of the blade. The guard is shaped like coiling lightning, reflecting Jiang Cheng’s aggressive and relentless fighting style. He ran his fingers down the blade, testing its weight with a gleeful expression.

Wei Ying’s sword is slightly broader than Jiang Cheng’s but still well-balanced for both offense and defense. The blade was sharp, polished to perfection, and reflected the workshop’s dim light with an elegant gleam. It catches the light in a way that makes it appear almost liquid, shifting between shadow and steel. The hilt is wrapped in dark leather, ensuring a firm grip. The guard is modest, simple yet elegant, shaped like a flowing wave, reflecting Wei Ying's adaptability in battle. Unlike Jiang Cheng’s sword, which hums with contained power, Wei Ying’s blade is unnervingly silent, almost like it’s waiting to reveal its true strength.

Meng Yao’s is a soft sword, its blade highly flexible yet sharp enough to cut through steel. It has a golden sheen, not overly bright but warm and regal, a testament to its refined craftsmanship. The blade can bend fluidly in combat, allowing for unpredictable and intricate movements. The hilt is inlaid with delicate engravings of butterflies and scholarly scripts, a reflection of Meng Yao’s intellect and precision in battle. The guard is a subtle honey-colored arc, elegant yet unobtrusive, allowing for smooth transitions between techniques. When drawn, the sword emits a faint, ringing note, like the lingering sound of a pipa string, a tribute to Meng Yao’s spiritual instrument.

Each of these swords is uniquely tailored to its wielder, reflecting not only their personalities but their combat styles and potential.

The three boys stared down at their weapons, the weight of the moment settling over them.

Shen Jiu watched from the side, arms crossed. This was a significant step for both his disciples. A cultivator and their sword were bound for life, and in this moment, they were taking the first step toward their futures.

“Now,” the swordsmith said. “Name them wisely.”

Jiang Cheng furrowed his brows, thinking deeply before he finally spoke.

“Sandu.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the characters burned into the metal of his sword, glowing briefly before settling into a sharp engraving. Jiang Fengmian gave a small approving nod, and Jiang Cheng, despite his best efforts, blushed slightly at the acknowledgment.

Shen Jiu turned his gaze to Meng Yao, who stood quietly by his side, eyes thoughtful as he traced his fingers along the blade of his soft sword. He was deliberate in his decision, taking his time before he finally whispered, “Ansheng.”

(安生 / "Peaceful Life")

The moment the name was spoken, the same phenomenon occurred—golden characters seared into the metal, embedding themselves into the sword for eternity.

Shen Jiu gave the boy’s shoulder a light squeeze, a silent show of approval. Meng Yao’s eyes flickered toward him, and he offered a small, pleased smile.

The only one left was Wei Ying.

Unlike the others, who had taken their time and carefully selected their names, Wei Ying tilted his head from one side to the other, clearly undecided. He hummed, twirled the sword in his hands, and acted as if he had all the time in the world.

Shen Jiu’s patience snapped. “Stop messing around and choose already!”

Wei Ying opened his mouth to respond—

“Wait!”

Panic spread through the room. Jiang Cheng looked horrified. Meng Yao’s eyes widened. The apprentice nearly dropped his tools.

Master Lian, thinking quickly, clamped a hand over Wei Ying's mouth before he could say something disastrous.

“Think carefully, you little menace,” Shen Jiu scolded, fanning himself aggressively. “You do realize whatever nonsense you blurt out will be on your sword for the rest of your life?”

Wei Ying nodded sheepishly, still muffled under Master Lian’s palm.

Jiang Fengmian sighed. “Do you really not have a name in mind?”

Wei Ying shook his head.

Jiang Fengmian chuckled. “Well, what about one of the names Master Shen and I helped you come up with?”

Wei Ying stared long and hard at the sword in his hands before shaking his head again. Then, with a bright grin, he declared, “Whatever, Shizun can choose a name for me.”

Silence.

Then, the characters “Suibian” engraved themselves onto the sword.

A long, stunned pause filled the workshop.

Wei Ying blinked at the name on the blade, realization slowly dawning on him. He sweatdropped, suddenly feeling the seething rage radiating from Shen Jiu.

“You absolute—” Shen Jiu looked like he was five seconds away from wringing his neck.

Jiang Fengmian, stepping in quickly to prevent disaster, let out a good-natured chuckle. “Unconventional, yes, but… it suits him, doesn’t it?”

Shen Jiu shot him a withering look. “Don’t enable him.”

Jiang Fengmian, feeling all too familiar with this feeling—strangely reminiscent of dealing with his wife—sighed and rubbed his temples. He really was getting too old for this.

Wei Ying, in a weak attempt to defend himself, laughed. “It’s not that bad! Like Uncle Jiang said, it suits me!”

Jiang Cheng muttered, “Idiot.”

Meng Yao simply sighed, shaking his head in exasperation.

Deciding to ignore Wei Ying's antics, the two boys turned their attention back to their swords, comparing their choices with pride.

Meanwhile, Shen Jiu, still fuming, smacked Wei Ying over the head with his fan, determined to drill some sense into him—though, at this rate, he knew it was a lost cause.

As soon as they stepped foot back into Lotus Pier, they were met with Jiang Yanli’s warm smile and Yu Ziyuan’s sharp, expectant gaze.

Shen Jiu, still exhausted from the ordeal, made a beeline straight for Yu Ziyuan, grabbing onto her shoulders dramatically before nearly slumping against her.

“I’m going to die,” he whined, head tilting back with exaggerated suffering. “That menace of a disciple is going to be the death of me!”

Yu Ziyuan, instinctively steadying him by grabbing his arms, narrowed her eyes dangerously at Wei Ying. “What did you do to your Shizun this time?!”

Jiang Fengmian, standing to the side, raised an eyebrow as he observed the scene, but didn't comment on it. 

Jiang Cheng huffed and crossed his arms. “He named his sword ‘Suibian.’”

For a moment, the words hung in the air.

Then, Yu Ziyuan seethed.

“You reckless, careless, foolish child! Do you even think before you act? Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused your Shizun?!”

Wei Ying looked sheepish but entirely unashamed. He had long since grown used to being ganged up on by both his Shizun and Madam Yu, and at this point, their lectures rolled off him like water off a duck’s back.

Yu Ziyuan, seeing that Wei Ying was beyond help, turned back to Shen Jiu and huffed. “Don’t waste your energy on him. Come with me—I prepared tea and snacks.”

With that, she firmly pulled him away from the scene, taking him inside for some well-deserved peace and quiet.

The moment they were out of sight, Jiang Cheng and Meng Yao exhaled deeply, as if they had just survived a battlefield.

Jiang Yanli giggled behind her sleeve, shaking her head.

Jiang Fengmian sighed and, sensing the need to shift focus, clapped his hands together. “Alright. Now that that’s over with, let’s go to the training grounds. I want to see how well your new swords perform.”

At once, the boys perked up, eager to test their blades.

And so, with Wei Ying still grinning despite the scolding, they followed Jiang Fengmian toward the training grounds, ready for the next challenge.

The walk back from Lotus Pier was filled with the smug kind of silence boys wore when they were proud of themselves but too dignified to admit it. The evening sun had begun its descent, casting golden hues over Yunping’s fertile outskirts. The gentle hum of cicadas, the occasional crow of a rooster from a nearby farm, and the lazy rustle of wind in tall grass welcomed them home like a familiar lullaby.

The courtyard house stood quiet as always, the lanterns not yet lit, shadows climbing the wooden walls like creeping ivy. Shen Jiu stepped through the threshold first, boots tapping against the stone with the weary finality of a man resigned to domestic chaos. Behind him, Wei Ying nearly tripped over his own feet in excitement, while Meng Yao walked with practiced grace, the lacquered scabbard of his new sword gleaming against his side.

In the inner room, where the light dimmed into something more gentle and sacred, Meng Shi lay propped on silken cushions, her form delicate under layers of blankets. She no longer sat upright on her own these days, her body too frail to fight gravity, but her eyes were bright and warm with welcome.

“Ah, my boys have come home,” she said with a laugh the moment the boys entered, her voice thinner than it used to be, but no less melodic. “And their swords.”

Wei Ying lit up like firecrackers at the New Year. “Auntie Meng shi! You should’ve seen it! I picked the best name—"

“He picked the worst name,” Meng Yao interrupted with a sniff.

“That’s what you think because you’re blinded by your own smugness!”

“Oh please, I chose mine in ten seconds and the sword liked it back immediately. That’s not smugness, that’s talent.”

“Boys,” Sisi chided from her stool beside the bed, swatting the air. “At least pretend to act like proper cultivators, not hungry ducks.”

Meng Shi’s laughter mingled with the boys’ bickering, a tender balm over a tired day. Seeing the two boys bicker like this made her heart swell with emotions, both for her son and the boy she adopted into her affections. “Come closer. Let me see these precious things.”

With great ceremony, the two boys stepped forward, drawing their swords just enough for the ornate hilts to gleam in the muted lamplight.

“This is mine,” Meng Yao said, lifting his with reverence. “I named it Ansheng.”

Meng Shi exhaled softly, like the name had brushed her ribs. “That’s beautiful,” she murmured, reaching a trembling hand to touch the blade. “May it bring you the life I couldn’t.”

Sisi nodded in approval. “It sounds expensive,” she added brightly.

“Mine is better,” Wei Ying declared.

Meng Yao rolled his eyes. “Wait till you hear it.”

“I named it Suibian!” Wei Ying announced proudly.

A pause fell over the room.

Sisi blinked. “You… named your sword Suibian?”

“Whatever?” Meng Shi asked, blinking again.

Shen Jiu, seated at the low table in the center of the room, let out a long-suffering sigh. “It was an… unfortunate accident,” he said dryly, accepting the cup of tea Sisi poured for him.

“Not an accident!” Wei Ying insisted. “It’s fate! It was the only one that felt right, and the moment I picked it up, it named itself. Suibian. That means we’re of the same mind.”

“It means your brain is made of porridge,” Shen Jiu said, lifting the cup to his lips. “Lukewarm porridge.”

Wei Ying clutched his chest theatrically. “You wound me, Shizun!”

Meng Shi chuckled again, her hand still resting lightly on Ansheng’s hilt. “I think it suits him,” she said. “Wei Ying has a heart too wild to name things the usual way.”

“Exactly!” Wei Ying beamed. “Thank you, Auntie, for having taste.”

“You’re welcome, dear. Though I still think you could’ve at least named it Freedom or Sky-Breaker.”

“Those sound like fancy chicken names,” Wei Ying muttered.

“Suibian,” Meng Yao repeated with a dramatic scoff, one arm draped across Wei Ying's shoulder. “It sounds like you couldn't be bothered. Like you asked your sword what it wanted to be called and it shrugged.”

“Exactly! That’s the spirit of it!” Wei Ying grinned. “Carefree and untethered by worldly concerns.”

Meng Yao groaned, eyes heavenward. “You’re unbelievable.”

As the boys began teasing each other anew, Shen Jiu tuned them out. His eyes lingered on the rim of his teacup before sliding to the paper laid flat before him. With deliberate slowness, he reached for the brush, dipped it into the inkstone, and began to write.

The world faded beneath the quiet scratch of brush against paper. Names had power. He had been taught that as a child, back when names were either cages or weapons. These boys deserved neither. They deserved... something else.

In the higher cultivation realm, a courtesy name is not a birthright but a prize. Earned only by status—a title, a role. They give it to you when you matter. When you’re useful. When you prove yourself worthy. Unlike the lower realm, where it is either a birthright or a passage rite. More commonly used among the cultivators here that it carried a different weight than what Shen Jiu was used to. 

By the time he was done, the boys were chasing each other around the table like errant fox spirits. Meng Yao was poking Wei Ying in the ribs, while Wei Ying had taken to brandishing Suibian like a ladle.

“Come here,” Shen Jiu said, voice low but firm.

They froze, and shuffled toward him with the sheepishness of puppies who knew they were about to get scolded. Sisi followed, wiping her hands on her apron before leaning over to peer.

On the parchment, two names gleamed in freshly dried ink:

魏无羡 (Wei Wuxian)

孟无言 (Meng Wuyan)

Wei Ying leaned in. “That’s… me?”

Shen Jiu inclined his head. “Your courtesy names. From now on, you will answer to these.”

Meng Yao’s breath caught. “Wuyan…”

Sisi made a small noise in her throat. “So pretty,” she whispered.

Wei Ying traced the strokes with a calloused finger. “Wuxian,” he repeated slowly, tasting the syllables like honey.

“Without envy,” Shen Jiu nodded. “A heart unburdened. A spirit unwilling to be chained. That name suits you, as much as your ridiculous sword does.”

Wei Ying beamed. 

“Wuyan,” he continued, voice slower, more pensive. “Without words. Still waters. A name for someone who speaks with action, who guards his truths closely. I thought it fitting.”

“Because Yao-ge is so quiet and calm?”

“Because he isn’t,” Shen Jiu said flatly.

Wei Ying burst into laughter. Shen Jiu glanced at Meng Yao who tilted his head in confusion, he had noticed long ago the boy’s talent with words, he can flip any type of situation into his favor with a couple of well placed words, a talent that will bloom into something more cunning in the future. Hopefully, this name will guide him into using this talent appropriately. 

“Courtesy names are given after the formation of one’s golden core and the claiming of one’s spirit sword,” Shen Jiu went on, tone shifting into something more formal. “It marks the beginning of one’s path as a cultivator. These names represent who you are and, more importantly, who you ought to become. Carry them with dignity. Do not shame them, or me.”

The boys nodded solemnly, the weight of it all making them straighten their backs like soldiers.

“Here,” Shen Jiu handed them blank sheets of paper. “Write them yourselves.”

They knelt beside him, heads bent, copying the characters with clumsy strokes. Suibian clattered softly as Wei Ying adjusted his grip. Beside him, Meng Yao was more precise, tongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth in focus.

Once they finished, they rushed to Meng Shi's side to show her. She smiled at the names and pressed their faces to her cheeks.

“So grown up,” she whispered. “My little cultivators.”

Sisi whistled behind them. “You’re very good at this, Shen-lang.”

Shen Jiu grunted.

“If it's tradition,” she mused, moving to sit beside him. “Then you must’ve also got your courtesy name when you formed your golden core, right?”

Shen Jiu blinked, caught off guard. “Yes,” he said simply. Though he got it after succeeding the position of a peak lord, but they didn't need to know that. 

The boys turned sharply. “You do?”

“Of course,” he replied with a sigh. “I simply never use it.”

“Why?” Meng Yao asked.

“Because I hate it.”

“That's not fair! You're our Shizun and yet we don't know what your courtesy name is!? ” Wei Ying protested.

“It doesn't concern you.”

“Please? Just once? We'll never call you by it, promise.”

A stillness overtook the table. Even Meng yao tilted his head with a pleading look, “Please, Shizun.”

Shen Jiu let out a perpetually tired sigh, “Qingqiu,” he said after a moment. “That was the name I was given.”

“Clear Autumn?” Meng Yao wondered. 

Wei Ying looked up. “It sounds elegant.”

“Too elegant,” Shen Jiu said, eyes flicking toward the window. “Names like that hide a lot of ugly things.”

A quiet hush fell over the room.

Meng Shi broke it. “Doesn’t matter, jiu or Qingqiu. You’ll always be my Shen-lang.”

Sisi nudged his arm with her elbow. “Aiyo, no wonder you’re so temperamental—so much qing, so little qiu! It sounds like a tragic love poem waiting to happen.”

Shen Jiu gave her a flat stare. “It means ‘clear autumn’, not ‘melancholy disaster’.”

She waved a hand airily. “Let's be honest, ’clear autumn’ is too elegant for someone who beefs with chicken and throws dumplings at his disciples.”

“Don’t you have soup to stir or something?” Shen Jiu muttered.

“I do,” she said brightly. “But this is so much more nourishing for the soul.”

“Keep talking,” he said, deadpan. “I will poison your tea.”

Sisi burst into laughter, reaching over to swat his sleeve lightly. “Too late, Shen-lang. I’ve built immunity. Years of drinking your bitterness.”

“But Auntie Meng Shi is right,” Wei Ying piped up. “Shizun is Shizun! Forever!”

Meng Yao nodded, smirking. “Even if he’s grumpy and old.”

Shen Jiu glared. “You’re both idiots.”

“High-class idiots with spirit swords!” Wei Ying declared, holding his paper aloft.

“Idiots with courtesy names,” Meng Yao added, following suit.

Meng Shi laughed until she coughed. Sisi quickly passed her a cloth, and Shen Jiu’s gaze softened, barely, before he reached out to straighten the boys’ crooked strokes with a knuckle.

And for a moment, it didn’t matter that the world outside was cruel or that names were often masks for pain.

In this small house on the edge of Yunping, names were gifts. And maybe, just maybe, they could be promises too.

Chapter Text

The sun hung heavy in the summer sky, beating down on Yunping like a glowing forge, but the creek behind the house offered sweet, shallow reprieve. It gurgled through the woods like a song, dappled with sunlight and the soft green shimmer of moss on stones. And in its cool embrace, three boys waded ankle-deep, trousers rolled and laughter echoing like birdsong.

“Wen Ning! Did you see the size of that one?! I swear it was bigger than my head!” Wei Ying declared, hopping from stone to stone as water splashed around him. His hair was coming loose from its tie, his shirt half untucked, but his grin was so bright it might’ve rivaled the sun.

Wen Ning nearly tripped over a rock, arms flailing. “I—I saw it! I think.”

“That thing blinked at me with evil intent.”

“P-probably just... startled?”

Meng Yao, perched on a flat rock with immaculate posture and not a drop of mud on him, adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves with a snicker. “Hah! It fled the moment it saw your face.”

Wei Ying gasped dramatically. “Yao-ge! Have you no heart?!”

Meng Yao didn’t even blink. “Not where aesthetics are concerned.”

Wei Ying turned to Wen Ning, clutching his chest. “Wen Ning, did you hear that? He’s slandering my looks!”

Wen Ning flinched at being addressed so directly, ducking his head and twisting his fingers together. “I—I think… I mean, you’re very... expressive…”

“Ha! See? Wen Ning says I’m expressive, not ugly!”

“But he didn't deny you're ugly.” Meng Yao shut back with a toothy smirk. 

“I didn’t mean—!” Wen Ning stammered, horrified. “Not that you are! U-um—I just meant, you have a... a lot of... um, presence?”

Wei Ying beamed. “That’s a compliment I’ll take! You’re too sweet, Wen Ning.”

Wen Ning went pink down to his collarbones, unsure if he was being teased or thanked, but the smile on Wei Ying’s face made his nerves settle just a bit.

They were supposed to be having a toad-catching contest—an idea, naturally, of Wei Ying’s invention. Whoever caught the biggest toad would be declared victor, though the prize was never quite specified beyond “bragging rights” and perhaps the dubious honor of naming a frog.

Meng Yao had declared it juvenile but joined anyway, rolling up his pants with a look of long-suffering acceptance.

Wen Ning hadn’t intended to participate at first. He usually stood quietly during Wen Qing’s visits, hands folded in front of him, eyes low. But Wei Ying had clapped a hand on his shoulder and grinned, declaring him “an essential member of the party” and insisting he come too. And so he’d gone—nervous and trailing behind—but he’d gone.

And now…

“A-Ah!” Wen Ning yelped as something slimy brushed his ankle.

Wei Ying turned sharply. “Wen Ning?! Did it bite you?! Was it that toad?! Did it have teeth?!”

“N-No! I think it was j-just… a weed.”

Meng Yao raised a brow. “Are you certain you’re not hallucinating from heatstroke?”

“I—I don’t think so? Maybe…”

Wei Ying laughed and waded over, reaching down to tug a long strand of water weed from the creek and drape it over his head like a crown. “There. Now I am the Toad King. All frogs must bow to me. Yao-ge, kneel.”

“I’m not a frog!”

“You look like one.”

“You little—!”

Wen Ning giggled, then immediately covered his mouth like he’d said something forbidden.

Wei Ying’s eyes softened. “Wen Ning, that was the cutest laugh I’ve ever heard. You gotta do it more.”

“I—it was n-not on purpose,” Wen Ning mumbled, face burning.

“Even better!”

Eventually, to Wei Ying’s dismay and Meng Yao’s reluctant awe, it was Wen Ning who managed to scoop up the biggest toad—an ugly, squat beast the size of a rice bowl that blinked slowly in Wen Ning’s shaking hands.

“Wh-what do you… think…?” he said, holding it out with uncertain pride.

Wei Ying leaned in and let out a theatrical gasp. “That’s not a toad, that’s a swamp spirit! You’ve summoned the god of frogs!”

“I—I didn’t—!”

“I think you win,” Meng Yao said, glancing at the creature with a resigned sigh. “Wei Ying’s dramatic flair aside, that is objectively the largest amphibian here.”

“I—I do?” Wen Ning blinked. “O-oh…”

“Come on, Wen Ning. Act more excited!” Wei Ying laughed. “You’re the champion! You get to name it.”

“I… uh…” Wen Ning stared at the toad. “Lu Ba?”

(绿霸/Lǜ Bà–“Green Boss”/绿 = green, 霸 = overlord) 

There was a beat of silence.

“I support him,” Meng Yao said firmly, before Wei Ying could make fun of the name. 

They let the toad go shortly after, watching it plop back into the water and disappear among the reeds. The competition turned instead into a gentle game of splashing and conversation. Wei Ying tried to get them to wade all the way to the other bank, while Meng Yao grumbled about dirty water, and Wen Ning stammered apologies every time he brushed shoulders with either of them.

“By the way, what's your sword’s name, Wen Ning?” Wei Ying asked after a while, flopping down on a rock and kicking his feet in the water.

Wen Ning looked startled. “M-my… sword?”

“Yeah! I saw you holding it back at the house. Mine’s Suibian, because I said ‘whatever’ and the sword sealed it. funny, right?”

“We tried to stop him,” Meng Yao added dryly.

Wei Ying waved him off. “Didn’t work.”

Wen Ning twisted his fingers in the hem of his damp tunic. “I… I named mine… um… Yuhe…”

“Yuhe,” Wei Ying echoed, then smiled. “Jade Harmony, right? That’s so cool!”

“I-it’s n-not really…” Wen Ning started, but Meng Yao spoke before he could backpedal.

“It’s a strong name,” he said gently. “Very poetic.”

Wen Ning’s eyes widened. “Y-you think so?”

“It suits you,” Meng Yao said, then added, “Unlike someone else, you took naming seriously.”

“I said it was an accident!” Wei Ying wailed.

“You should be lucky Shizun didn't whip you for that.” Meng Yao muttered.

Wen Ning blinked, blanching. “W-whip…?”

Wei Ying slung an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Wen Ning. He's just joking.”

Wen Ning gave a nervous laugh, but he didn’t pull away.

For the first time in a long while, Wen Ning felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest. It was warm. Lighter than air. He didn’t have a name for it yet, but maybe it was what people called belonging.

… Is this what having friends feels like?... 

And for a boy used to silence, this creek-side laughter, these silly names, these quiet, careful kindnesses—they were more magical than any sword or spell.

Back in the house, it was quiet, save for the faint rattle of wind chimes that hung just outside the windows, swaying gently in the late summer breeze. The stillness felt sacred, the sort that made one speak in hushed tones as if louder voices would make the truth more unbearable.

In the main room, the floorboards creaked faintly as Wen Qing finished placing her tools back into their cloth roll, her movements precise but subdued. She had just completed her examination of Meng Shi, whose small form lay propped against a carefully folded bolster on the bed.

There was little Wen Qing could do—Meng Shi’s sickness had festered too long, and no array of golden needles or magical elixir could undo the steady erasure of her life from her fragile body.

Behind her, Shen Jiu leaned against the carved frame of the doorway, arms crossed tightly. He didn’t speak, but his jaw clenched at every pause in Wen Qing’s breath. Sisi sat on a low stool beside the bed, her hands trembling where they clutched the edge of her robes, fingers white-knuckled.

Finally, Wen Qing lowered Meng Shi’s wrist and tucked it back under the threadbare blanket.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, rising to her feet. “The medicine has slowed the progression... but only slightly. Judging by the deterioration in her pulse and color—”

“Spare us the formalities,” Shen Jiu said, his voice a low murmur, brittle and sharp.

Wen Qing hesitated, then met his gaze with quiet honesty. “She may not last the winter.”

Sisi gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes instantly brimming with tears. She turned away to muffle the sound of her sob, her body trembling.

Shen Jiu didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only stared ahead, his eyes hard, but the muscle in his jaw twitched with silent tension. 

Meng Shi, ever serene even in suffering, exhaled slowly and gave Wen Qing a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Doctor Wen,” she said, voice raspy but kind. “You’ve done what you can. I’m grateful for your efforts.”

Wen Qing nodded, bowing slightly. “I’ll continue bringing herbs to manage the symptoms. They may not cure, but they’ll ease the pain.” She raised her head and looked at Meng Shi again, “I’ll return in three days to check your lungs.”

At that moment, the soft thudding of feet and the distant squeals of children’s laughter filtered in from outside. The boys had returned from the creek—muddy, dripping, loud. A welcome contrast to the oppressive stillness indoors.

Sisi rose abruptly. “I’ll get their bath ready,” she murmured, wiping her cheeks as she turned from the room. “Those little brats better not have brought frogs back into the house again.”

Her eyes still shone with tears, but she managed a tight smile and slipped out of the room just as the back door opened with a thud.

Laughter came first. Then wet footprints.

“Wei Ying, stop splashing!”

“You’re just mad your hair isn't as long as mine!”

Sisi’s voice drifted down the hall, “Stop tracking mud all over the floors! I'm preparing your baths, don’t go near the furniture!”

Wen Qing exchanged a glance with Shen Jiu, then stepped outside to begin preparing tea. Leaving the two alone. 

Shen Jiu stood there for a moment, unmoving. Then he walked slowly to her bedside and lowered himself to sit beside Meng Shi. The afternoon sun shone through the curtained window, casting soft amber light across Meng Shi’s face. Her features looked even more delicate. Her skin, once warm with color, was pale and drawn. The sharp hollows under her eyes deepened the haunting beauty of her face. And her eyes... her eyes, once dazzling like stars scattered across night skies, now shimmered like the last embers in a hearth struggling against the dark.

One hand gently brushed aside the hair from Meng Shi’s damp forehead.

She reached for it, and he let her take it, gently threading her fingers through his. Her grip was loose—feeble—and yet he held on as though she might vanish entirely if he let go.

“You’re frowning,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“I’m always frowning,” he said softly, eyes scanning her face like he could memorize it into permanence. “You know that.”

She gave a breathy laugh, a small sound that turned into a cough. Shen Jiu’s other hand moved to cradle her cheek, and she leaned into the touch like it was the only warmth in the world.

“Shen-lang,” she whispered. “I... I don’t want to die yet.” she said suddenly, the words cutting through the room like a blade. “Not yet. My son is still young. He still needs me. I want to see him grow. See what kind of man he becomes.”

Her voice broke on that last word. The tears fell soundlessly down her cheeks.

Shen Jiu’s throat tightened. He swallowed against the ache and leaned in, resting his forehead against her temple, thumb stroking over her knuckles.

“He will be alright,” he said, voice low and tender. “I promise you, Meng Shi. I will care for him. I will keep him safe. I will make sure he’s fed, educated, dressed well. I’ll fight the world itself if it tries to hurt him. I promise you.”

She turned her face slightly toward him, tears escaping the corners of her eyes. “I’m so lucky,” she whispered. “To have met you.”

Shen Jiu moved his head and kissed her damp eyelids with the reverence of a prayer. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “As long as my heart keeps beating, as long as I still breathe, nothing will happen to him. I won’t allow it.”

The words were simple. But in that moment, they were scripture.

Her fingers tightened around his, frail but fiercely grateful. “Thank you.”

They sat like that in silence, holding onto the moment with quiet desperation. Outside the room, life went on. The boys were noisy in the outer courtyard, stripping off soaked robes and tossing them in heaps, arguing and bickering. 

In the kitchen Wen Qing stood with her sleeves rolled up, preparing a pot of calming tea. She glanced toward the inner room, then back at the herbs in her hand, her jaw tight with unspoken frustration.

In the bathing room, Sisi fussed over a small copper stove, boiling water while shouting at the boys to behave.

“Wei Ying, if you dump another bucket on Wen Ning’s head I will chase you with a broom!”

“But Wen Ning said it was refreshing!”

Wen Ning’s voice came immediately after, soft and flustered. “I–I–it’s o-okay…”

“You see?” Wei Ying said brightly. “He’s fine!”

“Wei Ying!” Sisi barked. “Get in the tub!”

“Aye, aye, General Sisi!”

From his place beside Meng Shi, Shen Jiu closed his eyes and let the sounds of life fill the hollowness inside his chest. The world was cruel. But for now—just for now—there was peace. And he would fight tooth and nail to preserve it.

For the small flicker of warmth left in his cold heart.

True to Wen Qing’s words, Meng Shi passed quietly in her sleep in the stillness of a winter dawn.

Sisi had been the one to find her, limbs gone cold, breath stilled, her face as serene as snow resting on mountain stone. There had been no struggle, no pain—just stillness. The kind Meng Shi had always chased in a life far too restless for peace.

The mourning was wordless and deep.

Meng Yao, a child still, had thrown himself over his mother’s frail frame, weeping so violently it shook the air around him. He begged her to wake up, to stay just a little longer, to not leave him behind. Wei Ying clung to his friend and wept too—he had already lost a mother once. Losing Meng Shi, a woman whose presence was the closest thing he got to a mother's love, opened that wound anew.

Shen Jiu grieved differently. He stood still beside the doorway, jaw clenched, unmoving. Loss wasn't unfamiliar for him. It no longer made him cry; it simply hollowed him out further.

The cremation happened by dusk. They built a pyre in the field behind the house, shielded from the people's curious eyes. It was Meng Shi’s wish—not to rot beneath the earth, she had said once, smiling bitterly as Sisi folded linen beside her. 

“I spent too much of my life in boxes,” she murmured. “Rooms with no light, houses I couldn't leave, coffins of circumstance. If I die, don’t put me in another. Let the fire take me.”

And so they had. They gathered her ashes gently into an urn Sisi had chosen for her and placed it upon a small wooden altar within the home, surrounded by incense and white chrysanthemums, a wooden tablet with her name on it displayed there. It was simple, but full of love. The neighbors, when they heard the news, came in small waves—offering bundles of joss paper, food, and quiet condolences.

They bowed before the altar, offered kind words, and left with whispers trailing behind them.

“They say she was his wife,” one woman murmured, not unkindly, to another as they walked back down the snowy path. “And the other too. No wonder no man dares to bother them. That one—what was his name? Shen? Frightening fellow.”

Sisi heard most of it. She didn’t mind. Let them believe what they wanted. The lies they let live were easier than the truth. It kept strangers away, especially those who might come with unwanted interest. After all, no one in Yunping and maybe even Yunmeng didn't know their previous profession—so the village gave them space, and after one run-in with Shen Jiu’s cold glare, careful respect. 

… Let them gossip. It's easier this way… 

The Jiang family arrived the next morning, just as frost dusted the trees and thin sunlight crept along the rooftops. Jiang Fengmian walked ahead with quiet dignity, his hands clasped before him. Yu Ziyuan followed in solemn silence, expression unreadable. Jiang Yanli, delicate and kind-eyed, carried a small wrapped box of tribute food, and Jiang Cheng—awkward in posture—stood close behind, shifting his weight like he didn’t know where to place his feelings.

They were ushered in by Sisi. “The cremation was yesterday,” she said quietly, leading them into the main room where Meng Shi’s urn rested on the altar. “She passed peacefully.”

Jiang Fengmian bowed deeply before the altar, lighting an incense stick and placing it upright in the small brass holder. He stood there for a moment, gazing at the urn as though seeing the person it once held. Then he stepped back, silent.

Yu Ziyuan bowed next, her expression tight. She lingered a second longer than her husband had, but said nothing. Her eyes drifted over the modest surroundings, over the boys sitting quietly in the corner—Meng Yao with his head lowered, Wei Ying beside him, shoulders stiff with swallowed grief. For once, she chose not to speak. 

Jiang Yanli knelt, her eyes already brimming with tears. She whispered a prayer, one hand lightly touching the wooden table the urn rested on, her face open in gentle mourning.

Jiang Cheng stood stiff and awkward, unsure if he should bow or say something or stand still. Wei Ying gave him a small, sad look, and that was enough to make him bow in silence, then move to sit beside his friends.

Wen Qing and Wen Ning arrived later that day. They looked travel-worn, snow clinging to their hems, but composed. Wen Qing’s eyes flicked immediately to Meng Yao, then to the altar. She didn’t speak, just stepped forward, took incense from the box, and lit it. Her bow was deep, precise, respectful.

Wen Ning hesitated, fumbling with the incense, his hands trembling slightly. He knelt with a soft thud, his head touching the floor in a clumsy kowtow.

“S-She was… kind,” he whispered, voice cracking like thin ice.

Shen Jiu stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He hadn’t moved much since the night before. But when Wen Ning’s words filled the room, he blinked, slow and hard.

The house was quiet. The only sound was the incense hissing faintly, the wind brushing against the windows, and Meng Yao wrapped in a group hug by Wei Ying, Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli as he started crying again. 

Grief settled differently on each of them—like snowfall, heavy in some places, gentle in others, but cold all the same. Meng Shi was gone, but the home she made remained. Her laughter still echoed faintly in the beams, in the threadbare cushions, in the careful crease of the curtains she’d sewn herself. And in the boy she left behind, whose tears had not yet stopped.

They stayed a while longer, drinking the tea Sisi brewed in silence, offering soft condolences that didn’t try to soothe too much. Then, as the sun climbed higher, they left the way they came—quietly, respectfully, leaving behind their presence like warm footprints in snow.

And in that house, where grief lived but love lingered longer, life continued—tender, trembling, but still breathing.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed since Meng Shi’s ashes were placed into the clay urn, resting on the family’s makeshift ancestral altar. A small, simple lacquered table had been brought in from storage and cleaned with care by Sisi. There, nestled among sprigs of winter plum and thin wisps of incense that never stopped burning, sat the urn, polished and serene. A wooden memorial tablet bore her name, written in Shen Jiu’s hand—delicate, calligraphic, heartbreakingly final. A small bowl of her favorite sweet chestnuts sat before it, untouched.

Though Yunping’s winter sun filtered softly through the frost-dappled windows, it felt like nothing but dull light, pale and cold. The house was quiet—too quiet. The fire still crackled in the stove, the kettle still whistled when it boiled, and the scent of incense still clung to the air. Life went on, but it went on limping.

Sisi kept the house running with the grim efficiency of a woman carrying three grieving hearts on her back. Her eyes were always swollen, her shoulders taut as iron wire, but she bore it all without complaint. Her hands were always busy—tending to the stove, changing incense sticks, folding Meng Yao’s forgotten robe, coaxing the boys to eat one more bite. It was the only way she knew how to survive this.

Meng Yao had not moved from the altar, it had become his second bed.

He rarely left it now, sitting curled at its base like a shadow that had forgotten how to lift from the floor. His knees were pulled to his chest, his forehead resting on them as he wept in silence. His eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks streaked with salt. Sometimes he cried until his body trembled, then cried more when he couldn’t breathe through it.

Wei Ying sat with him, hugging him fiercely whenever Meng Yao began to tremble. He’d long given up trying to be “the strong one.” They ended up crying together more often than not.

“I should’ve... I should’ve stayed by her side,” he whispered for the hundredth time. “I shouldn’t have left her alone, I shouldn’t have—” He hiccupped, tears sliding down his face in angry, endless streams. “I couldn't even say goodbye.”

Wei Ying flinched, and then, instead of trying to argue—knowing it was a futile effort—just hugged him harder.

“Yao-ge,” he sniffled as he tried to tug Meng Yao upright from his huddled posture, “you need to eat. Sisi said we should eat something, your mother would hate to see you like this.”

Meng Yao didn’t reply. He bowed low, resting his forehead against the wooden edge of the table.

Wei Ying tried to blink the tears away, but he sniffled loudly, wiping his sleeve over his eyes in frustration. It didn’t help. The tears were hot and heavy and refused to be willed away.

Sisi, passing through the hall with a folded blanket in her arms, paused at the doorway and sighed quietly. She went to them, kneeling down and wrapping the blanket around their shoulders.

“There now,” she said softly. “Don’t sit on the cold floor like that. You’ll make yourselves sick, and then who’ll light incense for her, hm?”

Meng Yao gave a choked sob and pressed his face into her sleeve like he used to when he was five. Wei Ying wiped his eyes on the corner of the blanket.

Sisi wrapped one arm around each boy, pulling them close. “It’s alright. Cry if you need to. But you still need to eat. And wash. You’re both sticky and miserable, and Meng Shi would rise from the dead just to scold me if I let you turn into dried dumplings.”

Meng Yao let out a choked noise that might’ve been a laugh. Wei Ying clung to her sleeve.

From the other side of the house, Shen Jiu sat like a statue at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup of tea he hadn’t sipped in over an hour. His eyes were shadowed, and a muscle in his jaw had been ticking nonstop. He listened to the sounds of his crying boys in silence, invisible behind the grief that filled the room like smoke.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care.

He did. God help him, he cared so much it scared him.

But what was he supposed to say? That grief was a cruel teacher? That the world never stopped for mourning children? That death had no fairness, no logic, no justice?

He had never learned how to give comfort. Only control. And it had never been his strongest suit, either.

The last time he had tried—

That night was still burning in his mind.

Sisi had come to him with those soft, pleading eyes and whispered, “Meng Yao and Wei Ying are crying again. You should go say something. Anything. They needs their Shizun.”

And Shen Jiu had gone. He’d sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, watching Meng Yao curled into a ball, trembling under a blanket that used to smell like his mother, and Wei Ying sitting beside him, trying to muffle his sobs as he ran his hand through Meng Yao's back. And he’d said—

“No one ever promised life would be fair,” Shen Jiu had said, too sharp, too fast. “If you're old enough to carry a sword, you're old enough to understand that people die. You should be grateful she didn’t suffer.”

There had been a silence. A sharp, cruel silence that cracked like thin ice. Sisi had stared at him like he’d grown fangs.

Then Meng Yao had started sobbing even harder, clutching the blanket tighter like it was all he had left.

“How could you say that?!” his voice cracked, “Shizun, you're mean!”

And Wei Ying had just looked at Shen Jiu like he’d punched a puppy. “Shizun, you're awful!” he shouted. 

Sisi had thrown the dishcloth at his head and kicked him out of the room.

He still hadn’t been allowed back in.

He stood outside that night in the falling rain, staring up at the grey sky, feeling like a stranger in his own skin. What did he know about comfort? About grieving children? About mothers?

Nothing. All he knew was that he hated this feeling. The raw ache in his chest that he couldn’t name.

Now, three days later, Shen Jiu sat there, useless. The words he could speak—the ones he knew—were swords, not silk. And everything inside him that was soft had long been buried under too many layers of scorn and defense.

At one point, he made the mistake of rising from his seat and approaching the altar. Meng Yao noticed and immediately flinched, his eyes wary and wet.

Shen Jiu crouched beside him, hesitating. Wei Ying glanced over, nose red and eyes puffy, cautious.

Shen Jiu stared at the urn. The elegant glaze. The faint scent of sandalwood curling from the incense.

He didn't know what to do, at times like this he wished Meng Shi was here, she always knew what to say with her soft words and gentle touches. A stark contrast to Shen Jiu. 

He ended up lighting incense and leaving without saying a word. 

Sisi noticed his awkwardness, his hesitance as he waited outside the room when she comforted the boys. She lifted her chin and walked to him. “I wasn't serious when I banned you from entering the room, you know.”

“I know,” Shen Jiu said stiffly.

She gave him a look.

He sighed. “They’re... still crying?”

“They’re children. Their mother died.” She walked slowly. “Of course they’re still crying.”

Shen Jiu rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know what to say to them.”

“Then don’t say anything,” she said. “Just be there. Sit down. Let them know you’re not made of ice.”

Shen Jiu narrowed his eyes. “That's surprisingly good advice?”

Sisi gave a short laugh. “You're not the only wise one in this house.”

At that, something—small and tight—twitched in the corner of Shen Jiu’s mouth.

Sisi left, and he stood in the corridor, feeling completely wrung out.

Grief was not a sword to be fought. It was not a demon to be slain. It was a long, low ache that wore away at everything over time. It was silence. It was eyes red from crying. It was the smell of incense and the sound of someone whispering a name to an urn.

He looked over his shoulder, watching his two disciples weep into a blanket curled protectively around each other.

He didn’t know how to be what they needed.

But he was here.

And he hoped that, for now, that was enough.

A week had passed since Meng Shi’s passing, and though the first piercing sorrow had dulled, the house still wore its grief like a heavy winter cloak. The air was quieter, as if the walls themselves held their breath in mourning. But life, no matter how reluctant, kept moving forward.

Wei Ying had taken to shadowing Sisi now, trailing behind her like a lively spirit clinging to the last sparks of warmth in the cold season. He helped chop vegetables, fetch water, even tried his hand at washing clothes—though he soaked himself more than the garments. His jokes were louder than ever, his laughter more insistent, not because he wasn’t sad, but because he was. And Sisi can't be the only one to try.

It was only through those efforts—through Sisi’s soft encouragement and Wei Ying’s unwavering presence—that Meng Yao began to find air again. Slowly, he stopped locking himself inside his mother’s room for hours. He no longer knelt through the day before her altar until his legs gave out. He began eating again, if only in small bites. And he joined them at the table, even if he spent half the meal picking at his rice.

Some days, Wei Ying would tug him outside, insisting the sunlight was good for him—even in winter, even when it was weak and pale. They would walk along the riverbank or climb a nearby slope just to sit under the bare trees. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. And though nothing felt “better,” something was changing. The wound was still open, but it had stopped bleeding. That, they decided, was progress.

Then one morning, Shen Jiu was gone.

He left without a word—no note, no remark about when he'd return. At first, they assumed he had gone to buy supplies. But as the day wore on and the sky bled orange and then blue, the house began to fill with a gnawing, uncertain silence. It unsettled everyone.

Wei Ying and Meng Yao sat cross-legged in the main room, their unfinished dinner cooling in their bowls. Meng Yao kept fiddling with his sleeves, while Wei Ying stared at the door as if he could summon their shizun by sheer force of will.

“What if...” Meng Yao started, then hesitated, biting his lip. “What if he’s angry with us?”

Wei Ying blinked and turned toward him. “What?”

“I mean... what we said that day. When he tried to talk to us before. We were... cruel.”

“He was the cruel one,” Wei Ying muttered, then paused. “But yeah. Maybe we were a bit too much.”

“Shizun has a temper,” Meng Yao said softly, eyes darting toward the shut door. “And he's not the type to take disrespect lightly... What if he doesn’t want to be our teacher anymore?”

Wei Ying didn’t answer immediately. He thought of Shen Jiu’s sharp words, his short fuse, his icy stare—but also his consistency, his harsh honesty, his strange, rigid care. He was a man who didn’t coddle, but never once had he turned his back on them.

“What if we crossed a line that night?” Meng Yao finished, and the dread started creeping into Wei Ying’s heart too. 

“That can't be,” Wei Ying defended, waving a hand around. “I always talk back to Shizun and call him names and he has never been mad about it.”

“That's because you were obviously joking.” Meng Yao reminded, his brows set in a tense frown. “But that day, it was serious. We know Shizun is bad with feelings and yet we yelled at him and Sisi even kicked him out of the room.”

Wei Ying fell silent, his hands started trembling. The meaning behind Meng Yao’s words finally settling. 

“When was the last time we talked to Shizun?” Wei Ying asked, and Meng Yao lowered his head. They both knew the answer to that question. 

… Four days ago… 

… Is Shizun… is Shizun going to abandon them?... 

Sisi entered the room then, wiping her hands with a cloth. “Whatever you two are thinking about, you better stop it.”

“Sisi-jie,” Wei Ying greeted.

“He’s not mad at you,” she said immediately. “Nor is he going to abandon you, either.”

Meng Yao looked up, surprised. “How do you know?”

“Because Shen-lang isn’t the kind of man to abandon people he considers his own,” Sisi said gently. “He might be hot-headed, and cold in all the wrong ways, but he’s loyal. Fiercely. You’re his disciples. That means something to him.”

That helped. Not enough to erase the knot in their stomachs, but enough to loosen it.

When it was early evening, the door finally creaked open, all three of them perked up.

“I’m home,” came Shen Jiu’s voice, flat and tired.

“Shen-lang!” Sisi called first, rising from her seat. The boys scrambled out too, shoes slapping against the wooden floor as they rushed to greet him.

“Shizun, welcome back.” they both said in unison. 

Shen Jiu looked worn, snow dusting his shoulders, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His gaze swept over them, lingering for a beat too long on their hesitant expressions. Then he sighed through his nose, a long exhale that held too many unspoken words.

“Come,” he said shortly, pulling a qiankun pouch from his sleeve. “Follow me.”

They obeyed without question.

He led them to Meng Shi’s room, where the altar stood. The scent of sandalwood lingered faintly in the air.

Shen Jiu sat at the low table with his back to the bed, gesturing for them to sit across from him. Sisi lingered at the door but said nothing.

He placed the pouch on the table and stared at it for a long moment, then lifted his eyes to them. His gaze flicked to the tablet behind them. For a moment, he said nothing, and the boys sat still, breath held.

“Since I was a child, I’ve seen too many people die,” he said. “People I loved. People I hated. People I didn’t even know well. And after a while, it all starts to blur. You stop reacting to death. You stop feeling the way others do.”

His voice was almost emotionless, but his eyes—there was something deep and hollow in them.

“And I’m... lacking,” he added, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Emotionally. So I suppose it’s no surprise that my attempt to comfort you last time was... a disaster.”

Meng Yao’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Beside him, Wei Ying looked pained with guilt. 

“I can’t offer kind words,” Shen Jiu said. “But I can do other things.”

He reached into the pouch and pulled out a scroll. Unrolling it with delicate hands, he revealed the contents.

Gasps filled the room.

It was Meng Shi. Painted in delicate ink strokes, dressed in her signature pink and yellow hanfu, half-turned, holding a rose in her fingers, smiling with gentle amusement as if she were watching over them still. The likeness was so vivid, it took their breath away.

Meng Yao reached out with trembling fingers, grazing the paper. “A-Niang...”

Wei Ying’s voice broke the silence. “Did you... spend the whole day painting this, Shizun?”

Shen Jiu shook his head. “Not exactly.”

He reached back into the pouch and withdrew one more scroll. This time, he looked at Wei Ying.

“I went to Lotus Pier today.”

Wei Ying blinked. “Huh?”

“I had the idea to paint Meng Shi so you’d never forget her,” Shen Jiu said to Meng Yao, then looked back at Wei Ying. “But it felt... wrong. That you’re the only one without a memorial to your parents.”

Wei Ying stilled.

“So I asked Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan about your parents,” Shen Jiu continued. “And I painted them too. I can’t promise they’re perfect—I never met them—but I tried.”

With slow, deliberate motions, he unrolled the second scroll.

There stood a man in Jiang sect robes—stoic and kind silver eyes—and beside him a woman in white, bamboo hat in hand, red ribbon woven through her hair, eyes bright with mischief.

Wei Ying choked on a breath. He stared, wide-eyed, the edges of memory cracking open. He remembered a donkey. Laughter. Shoulders high in the air. A woman's teasing voice. A man smiling.

“Mama... Baba...” he whispered.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, silent and unbidden. He never admitted it to anyone before, but the more years passed the more blurry his parents’ faces became in his memory, and the idea of forgetting how they looked terrified him. 

But to think Shizun would go out of his way to paint a portrait of his parents, a portrait that helped refresh his memory, had made his heart ache with both guilt and gratitude. To think he had been mean to this man a few days ago when he was only trying his best, Wei Ying felt like an asshole. 

Beside him, Meng Yao was already crying, clutching his mother’s portrait like a lifeline. They both turned, arms trembling, and placed the scrolls carefully back on the table.

Then they lunged.

Shen Jiu jolted as the two boys threw themselves onto him, arms wrapping around his chest and shoulders. They held tight, faces buried in his lap.

“We're sorry, Shizun,” Meng Yao choked. “We didn’t mean to—”

“We were so harsh,” Wei Ying sniffled. “You were just trying to help. Please forgive us!!”

Shen Jiu looked at Sisi, silently asking what to do. She gave him a single, firm nod.

He sighed and rested a hand on each boy’s head, fingers brushing their hair in a rough, unfamiliar show of affection.

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “You’re grieving. I understand.”

They cried for a while, and he let them.

Shen Jiu didn’t flinch this time. He just sat there, letting the boy soak the fabric. Wei Ying leaned on the other side of him, sniffling loudly and smearing snot all over Shen Jiu’s shoulder.

“Well,” Shen Jiu muttered. “This is disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting,” Wei Ying mumbled tearfully.

“Brat!” Shen Jiu smacked Wei Ying on his head, making Meng Yao giggle through his tears. 

Sisi sighed, content, and a bit tearful. She walked forward and kneeled down to wrap the three in her arms. 

When it was all done, the portraits were placed carefully beside the altar. Meng Shi’s urn remained at the center, surrounded now by three wooden tablets. Two mothers. One father. Three lives remembered.

And beside them, in reverent quiet, two paintings kept the warmth of their smiles alive.

Chapter Text

[Two Months Later – Yunping, Early Spring] 

The winter snow had long since melted, revealing the rich, damp earth beneath. In the back garden of the small courtyard house, shy crocus buds pushed through the soil, as if unsure whether it was truly safe to return. The house was quieter now. There was no hum of Meng Shi’s voice, no soft coughs or creaks from her room, no fragrance of the herbal salves she used to rub on her wrists when the pain grew too much.

But the living, they continued on.

And the dead… the dead lingered in memory, in shadow, in the quiet of night, in the echo of laughter.

There were no loud sobs in the house anymore. No all-consuming despair. But grief remained, curling like incense smoke—thin, always present, hard to pin down.

“Are we almost done?” Wei Ying's voice came from the garden.

Sisi, kneeling near the vegetable plot, looked up. “Almost. Did you finish hanging the laundry?”

The boy puffed his chest. “Of course! Yao-ge helped too.”

Meng Yao, sitting cross-legged on the stone steps, gave her a quiet nod. He had dark smudges under his eyes still, but his smile came easier these days. Lighter. Not so fragile it might shatter if you touched it.

“He tried to wring out the pants with a sword move,” Meng Yao muttered, lips twitching.

“It worked!” Wei Ying protested.

“No, it splashed water in my face.”

“That was part of the technique!”

They bickered like they always did, and Sisi sat back on her heels, brushing her hands on her skirt and smiling. This was good. This was healing.

Still, there were moments.

Late at night, Sisi would wake to the sound of the floor creaking, and find Meng Yao kneeling in his mother’s room, the scent of old blankets and her hairpin oils still lingering faintly in the air. He wouldn’t cry loudly anymore—just sit there, one hand gripping the edge of her bedding as if to anchor himself. Sometimes he muttered apologies. Sometimes he said nothing at all.

Sisi never disturbed him. She would wait near the door, then guide him gently back to bed. He always followed, always quiet, always with eyes that seemed too old for his age.

One morning, as they all gathered for a modest breakfast, the sun slanting gently through the bamboo blinds, Sisi placed a fresh bowl of rice in front of Meng Yao.

“You’ve been waking up early,” she said casually.

“I… I help A-Ying with the morning chores,” Meng Yao replied, a bit defensively.

Wei Ying spoke with his mouth full. “He even beat me today. Finished cleaning the dishes before I woke up.”

Meng Yao smiled faintly, but Sisi could see the tired lines around his mouth.

She reached over and smoothed his hair, gentle as a breeze. “I’m proud of you, you know. Your mother would be, too.”

The boy’s lips trembled, but he didn’t cry. Instead, he nodded. “I’m trying.”

Sisi nodded back. “That’s all anyone can do.”

Grief wasn’t linear.

Sometimes Meng Yao laughed too loudly—then stopped abruptly, as if remembering something he shouldn’t. Sometimes he said “I’ll tell A-Niang—” and fell silent halfway through the sentence, eyes wide. Sometimes, he would grip his sword like a lifeline, muttering his courtesy name under his breath like a vow.

Sisi caught him one day in the garden, alone, whispering, “Wuyan… Wuyan. Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget what you promised.”

She didn't ask. But later, she left a bowl of warm soup on his windowsill, and a folded blanket with a sprig of plum blossom tucked inside.

Of course, Wei Ying helped in his own way. He dragged Meng Yao out to play when he sulked. He brought back weird bugs from the market to gross him out. He declared martial arts contests with ridiculous rules—“You can only block with your elbow!”—and made sure Meng Yao won half the time.

And when none of that worked, he just sat beside him.

One evening, Wei Ying found Meng Yao staring at his mother’s altar. The house was quiet. The tea on the altar had gone cold again.

Wei Ying didn’t say anything. He simply pulled out a stool and sat with him, swinging his legs.

“Do you think she’s watching?” Meng Yao asked, voice small.

Wei Ying tilted his head. “Maybe. But probably not all the time. I think the dead deserve some rest too.”

That got a breath of laughter out of Meng Yao.

“You really think she’d rest? With you causing trouble?”

They grinned.

“Anyway,” Wei Ying said, leaning forward, “she knows you're trying. She’d be happy, Yao-ge. Really.”

Meng Yao’s eyes stung again. He blinked fast. “Thanks, A-Ying.”

“Anytime.”

The house in Yunping still bore the weight of loss—but spring was seeping back in through its windows, settling in like new breath.

The dead were remembered, but the living continued.

And slowly, with aching steps and shared warmth, they walked forward together.

The hour was deep, past midnight. In the quiet room tucked at the far end of the courtyard, a single candle flickered atop a wooden desk, casting long shadows that danced on the paper-thin walls. Meng Yao’s brush moved slowly, deliberately, each stroke precise—too careful, too hesitant. The paper before him held the weight of parting words: a farewell note written with the false ease of someone trying not to cry.

When the last character was written, he sat back, staring at it.

“I’m sorry.”

The whisper left his lips like a breath he’d been holding in for years. He blew out the candle, darkness swallowing the room in an instant. He stood up. His movements were soundless, practiced. His qiankun pouch—hand-stitched and gifted by Shen Jiu—hung at his side. His sword was sheathed and strapped to his waist.

He slid the door open without a creak. The courtyard was asleep, shrouded in moonlight. Cold wind rustled the bare branches. Quietly, carefully, Meng Yao padded to the outer gate, his heart thundering behind his ribs.

When he reached the whitewashed wall, he hesitated. The house behind him—humble, lived-in, warm even in winter—seemed to look back at him.

He stood still for a moment, frozen in indecision. This was the only home he had ever known, the only family that had ever taken him in—not as a favor, not as a duty, but out of love.

His fingers trembled around the latch.

“Where do you think you're going?” a voice drawled lazily from above, clear as crystal and sharp as a sword unsheathed.

Meng Yao’s breath caught. He jerked his head up—and there, perched on the banyan tree branch like a waiting falcon, was Shen Jiu.

… Shit… 

Shen Jiu landed soundlessly before him, robes rippling like silk cut through wind. In one hand, he held the letter Meng Yao had left on his desk.

“I asked you a question,” Shen Jiu repeated, his voice deceptively calm. 

Meng Yao swallowed, throat dry. “...Shizun,” he murmured, his voice small, uncertain.

Shen Jiu held up the note between two fingers. "I’m okay. Please don’t worry. I just need time to figure some things out on my own." He read out loud, his tone mocking. "This isn’t goodbye—just see you later. I love you all more than I can say. I promise I’ll come back when I’m ready." He finished, his expression unimpressed. 

“You put a lot of effort into making your handwriting look neat. I’m touched.”

Meng Yao said nothing, his gaze fixed on the letter.

Shen Jiu’s gaze didn’t soften. “Don’t leave trash around my house.” With a flick of his wrist, the letter burst into pale blue flames and vanished, reduced to ash and smoke.

Meng Yao flinched. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. Shen Jiu didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His silence was a blade all on its own—sharp and surgical. Meng Yao felt the weight of it pressing into his chest, slicing into his resolve.

“You’re going to Lanling,” Shen Jiu finally said, tone neutral—but not indifferent. “Specifically Koi Tower.”

It wasn’t a question.

Meng Yao’s head jerked up. “How did you—?”

Shen Jiu scoffed. “It’s a master’s job to know his students. Wei Ying might be a walking disaster, but he wears his mischief on his sleeve. You, on the other hand…” He stepped forward, slowly, with the grace of a predator. “You wrap your intentions in silk and smile through your teeth. You use your wit to manipulate people into giving you what you want—and you don’t mind hurting others if it means getting ahead.”

Meng Yao’s shoulders tensed.

Shen Jiu’s eyes narrowed. “Case in point. The day you made Wei Ying help distract Sisi, so you could sneak back and spy on your mother’s diagnosis. You knew Wei Ying would get scolded for it. You knew I had a soft spot for you, so you used him as a shield.”

Meng Yao’s breath caught.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Shen Jiu said coldly. “You’re clever. But you’re not subtle.”

Meng Yao dropped his gaze, shame curling inside him like smoke. He had thought he was discreet. He had thought he was careful.

“I’m not wrong,” Shen Jiu pressed, voice hard as ice. “Am I?”

Meng Yao clenched his fists. “...No.”

“Then go back inside.”

That was an order. Softly spoken, but with a steel edge.

But Meng Yao didn’t move.

Shen Jiu’s brow rose.

“I… if you know where I’m going, then you must also know why, Shizun.”

“I do.”

“Then why are you stopping me?” Meng Yao asked, voice cracking. “I’m not doing this for myself—” He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a pearl button, round and faded with age.

“This was my mother’s,” he said. His voice shook. “She always said one day she’d send me to meet my father. She worked herself to the bone dreaming of that. I—this is for her. I want to do this for her.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

The words cut like a whip.

“You’re doing it precisely for yourself,” Shen Jiu snapped. “You think I don’t see it? You’re using your mother’s death as an excuse to chase something you still want.”

Meng Yao flinched.

“She stopped insisting you go to Koi Tower. She gave up on that dream years ago. You’re the one who clung to it. You’re the one still desperate to be acknowledged by a man who threw her away like trash.”

Meng Yao’s eyes stung.

“She died,” Shen Jiu said, voice quieter, cruelly gentle. “And her last wish was for you to stay. Here. With me. With your home.”

Silence.

Then Meng Yao whispered, brokenly, “What’s wrong with wanting to know my father?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Am I not allowed to want it? To want to be seen by the man who fathered me? Am I not allowed to demand something from him?”

Shen Jiu’s eyes softened—just a fraction. “It’s not wrong to want. But it’s a waste to hope.”

“I still want to try,” Meng Yao said hoarsely. “I have to see him. Just once.”

Shen Jiu’s eyes remained cold. “And what do you expect to find?” he asked. “March up to Koi Tower, show them this button, and they’ll embrace you with open arms? Paint your name in gold?”

Meng Yao’s throat clenched. He looked down. “I… I know the risk. I know it’s unlikely. But…”

Shen Jiu’s face was like a blade—beautiful and merciless. “If you actually believe Jin Guangshan is worth meeting, then I’ve failed as a teacher.”

Meng Yao looked like he’d been slapped.

Shen Jiu looked at him—truly looked at him. Not as a master. Not as a surrogate father. But as a man who had spent his life trying not to want things he couldn’t have.

Then his voice fell like a guillotine.

“If you go,” he said, “you’re no longer my disciple.”

Meng Yao’s eyes widened. “Shizun…”

“You will not return here. You will not call me Shizun again. This house will no longer be your home. You will have chosen your path, so walk it alone.”

His tone was so final it shattered something inside Meng Yao’s chest. “Please—”

“It’s your choice, Wuyan,” Shen Jiu said, already turning away. “Me. Or Jin Guangshan. Choose wisely.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Meng Yao stood frozen, trembling, under the pale silver of the moonlight. His qiankun pouch felt too heavy. His sword, too sharp. His heart, too loud.

The dream, the fantasy—it all felt thin and pale next to Shen Jiu’s cold voice and the warmth of the home behind that gate.

Minutes passed.

Then slowly, legs numb and soul heavier than stone, Meng Yao turned back toward the house and stepped inside.

The next morning, the soft clatter of ceramic bowls and the gentle scent of warm congee with pickled radish filled the modest dining room. The house had stirred early with the sun, chasing off the long fingers of winter’s chill still clinging to the corners of the walls. Sisi moved about the table with practiced ease, her sleeves rolled, hair pinned, her voice light as she gently chided Wei Ying for trying to sneak a salted plum before breakfast was served.

Shen Jiu sat at the low table, back straight, sleeves immaculate, eyes distant but not inattentive. His cup of tea steamed delicately in his hand, untouched.

“Wuxian, sit properly,” he said to Wei Ying without opening his eyes. “You’re not in a barn.”

“But if I were raised in a barn,” Wei Ying muttered as he shifted into a cross-legged seat, grinning toothily. “I’d be the handsomest goat in the pen.”

Sisi snorted behind her hand.

The mood was light, buoyed by the faint warmth of the hearth and the comfort of routine. That was, until Sisi’s eyes flickered toward the newcomer in the hallway. 

Meng Yao stood just inside the doorway, shoulders curled inward, his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes still wet, though he tried to keep his expression carefully neutral.

Sisi was the first to speak. “A-Yao! Good morning.” She moved to prepare his bowl. “Come, sit. The radish came out nicely today.”

He murmured, “Good morning,” in return, quiet and hoarse. His steps were soft as he settled beside Wei Ying.

But Sisi paused halfway through scooping rice into his bowl, her brow furrowing. “Were you crying again?”

Meng Yao froze. He didn’t respond.

Sisi’s face softened immediately. She set the spoon down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders without hesitation. “Oh, sweetheart…”

Wei Ying’s playful grin vanished. He looked at his friend with eyes full of sympathy, his own chopsticks stilled.

“I’m fine,” Meng Yao whispered, though the tremble in his voice betrayed him.

“I know,” Sisi said gently, rubbing his back in slow, circular motions. “But you have the right not to be.”

Shen Jiu watched the scene with unreadable eyes, his expression cold to the uninformed, but Wei Ying had known him long enough to notice the tightness in his jaw, the way his thumb pressed against the cup just a bit too firmly.

... Something had happened... 

Sisi pulled back, brushing Meng Yao’s hair from his forehead, then placed the bowl gently in front of him.

“Eat first,” she said with forced cheer, “then you can cry some more, alright?”

That earned a small huff of laughter from Meng Yao and Wei Ying, but the latter was still watching their master with narrowed eyes.

“Shizun,” he said, peering over his bowl. “Did something happen between you and Yao-ge?”

Meng Yao stiffened. Sisi looked up, blinking curiously.

Shen Jiu took a slow sip of his tea, eyes closed, utterly calm. Then, without preamble, he said flatly, “He tried to run away last night.”

Sisi dropped her chopsticks. Wei Ying choked.

“You what?” she exclaimed, grabbing Meng Yao by the shoulders and shaking him. “Are you out of your mind? Where were you going? Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to travel alone at night? Do you know how worried I'd be!?”

Meng Yao flinched under the onslaught, his mouth opening and closing, searching for words. “I—I didn’t—I just thought—”

Wei Ying, still coughing, finally got his breath back and stared at Meng Yao. “Were you leaving because of us? Did I say something again?! Yao-ge, I swear I didn’t mean anything—”

“No!” Meng Yao said at once, voice rising with desperation. “No, it wasn’t because of you. It was never because of you. You guys are… are the best thing that happened to me. I just…”

He trailed off, eyes dropping to his lap.

Shen Jiu set his cup down with a soft clink. “He was going to Lanling,” he said simply. “To Koi Tower.”

Sisi’s eyes widened with realization. “...Your father.” The boy's true heritage wasn't exactly a secret in the brothel her and Meng Shi used to work in, and she's pretty sure the rumors had traveled around some parts in Yunping, too. 

Meng Yao said nothing, but his silence was enough.

Wei Ying blinked. “Wait—your father lives in Lanling? Who is he?”

Shen Jiu tilted his head toward him. “Wuxian, you're not stupid, use that head of yours and guess.”

Wei Ying made a face. “How am I supposed to—Wait. Wait, wait. Lanling. Koi Tower. That’s the Jin Sect. You wouldn’t be going there unless… unless… There are a lot of Jin cultivators who go to brothels, I mean—” he paused, squinting at Meng Yao, “—but the one everyone talks about is… The one who is infamous for promiscuity and fathering a lot of illegitimate children is…”

He trailed off.

Meng Yao looked up at him, just briefly.

“…Is it Jin Guangshan?” Wei Ying asked, almost timid.

Meng Yao nodded.

“Oh.”

Oh. 

The table fell quiet.

Everything suddenly clicked for Wei Ying—the questions, the way Meng Yao seemed so interested in Jin sect affairs, the way he bristled when people criticized their ethics.

"I see,” Wei Ying whispered.

Shen Jiu picked up his fan and snapped it open, the sound sharp in the silence. He waved it lazily once, twice, then said, “Finish your food. We leave today.”

That snapped Wei Ying out of his daze. “Huh? Where? Wait, we’re traveling again?! Really?! Where to?”

Shen Jiu didn’t look at him. “Lanling.”

Meng Yao looked up so fast it looked like he’d been yanked by invisible strings. “What?”

Shen Jiu didn’t repeat himself.

Wei Ying blinked. “Why Lanling? Wait, we’re going to—oh.”

“I met with Jiang Fengmian some days ago,” Shen Jiu said, fanning himself again. “I asked him to arrange a private audience with Jin Guangshan. He obliged. We’ll be gone for three days at most.”

Meng Yao’s mouth opened, then shut. “But—Shizun, why—”

“Is it strange,” Shen Jiu said softly, lifting his eyes to the boy, “for a master to fulfill the wish of one of his disciples?”

The question hung in the air like incense smoke.

Meng Yao’s throat closed. His eyes filled with tears again, but he bowed his head to hide them.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I—I’m sorry… for last night.”

Shen Jiu stood.

Then, without ceremony, he reached out and laid his hand gently atop Meng Yao’s head. The touch was brief, almost too fleeting to be real, but the weight of it made Meng Yao’s eyes squeeze shut.

And then Shen Jiu turned and left the room, robes trailing behind him.

Sisi sighed and leaned into her palm. “I was going to scold him, but I can’t even do that now. That man makes it very hard to stay mad at him.”

Wei Ying leaned across the table, nudging Meng Yao’s shoulder. “So dramatic, Yao-ge. If you wanted to go sightseeing, you could’ve just said so.”

Meng Yao gave a teary chuckle.

Sisi tapped his bowl. “Finish your breakfast, Young Master Jin.”

Wei Ying gasped. “Oooh, do we have to bow now?”

“Don’t you dare—” Meng Yao groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

Sisi winked at Wei Ying. “I mean, we should get used to calling him Young Master if he’s gonna inherit that fancy golden tower someday.”

“Sisi, please—”

“Young Master Wuyan,” Wei Ying intoned with mock reverence, pretending to salute him with his chopsticks. “May your golden robes be ever wrinkle-free and your nose always upturned.”

Meng Yao groaned louder, and Sisi and Wei Ying broke into snickers.

It was chaotic, messy, familiar —just like always.

And somehow, that laughter made the sting in Meng Yao’s heart hurt a little less.

Chapter Text

The sky above Yunping was as soft and pale as silk when the three swords lifted off from the courtyard house, cutting through the morning mist with barely a sound. Shen Jiu, standing tall atop Xiu Ya, his pale robes fluttering like white banners in the wind, looked entirely at ease—like a man carved into the sky itself. Xiu Ya glided with graceful precision, smooth and elegant, as if it needed no guidance at all.

Behind him, Wei Ying stood atop Suibian with his arms spread like wings. “Look at me!” he shouted with a laugh, spinning his body midair and causing Suibian to tip precariously to one side. “Yao-ge, I bet I can fly upside down!”

“You’ll break your neck,” Meng Yao deadpanned, guiding his own sword, Ansheng, with calculated control. His posture was straight, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he kept a respectful distance from Wei Ying’s aerial theatrics.

"Not if I land on you first!" Wei Ying called over his shoulder, cackling as he flipped into a somersault.

“Shizun is going to throw you off a cliff someday,” Meng Yao muttered, guiding his sword a few paces lower to avoid another of Wei Ying’s impromptu spins.

Shen Jiu said nothing—didn’t even turn around. He simply exhaled slowly through his nose and muttered, “Idiots.”

The flight lasted an hour and a half, the scenery below shifting from the green-wet farmlands of Yunmeng to the vast, manicured terrain of Lanling. The city rose in the distance like something out of a painting—shimmering rooftops, grand paved roads that gleamed like polished silver, trees in perfectly trimmed rows, and citizens moving with purpose in rich, layered robes.

As they descended near the city gates, Wei Ying whistled. “Yao-ge! Look! It’s even bigger than last time!”

“You’ve been here before?” Meng Yao asked, tone mildly accusing.

Wei Ying puffed his chest. “Only once. With Shizun. But he didn’t let me go anywhere interesting.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Meng Yao said.

Shen Jiu walked in the main street without looking back to check if his disciples followed. He walked like he belonged there—as though every road had been laid down for his feet, every door built for him to pass through. His posture demanded space, and even the city dwellers, well-dressed and dignified, stepped aside instinctively.

The boys tried to take it all in—the wide, clean roads, the sweeping second-floor balconies lined with painted silk curtains, the distant chiming of silver bells, and the scent of freshly brewed tea wafting from fine tea houses. The people here didn’t walk—they glided. No muddy hems or frayed sleeves in sight. Even the children wore embroidered robes.

“It’s like another world,” Meng Yao murmured, hands tucked behind his back like a proper scholar, though his eyes couldn’t stop drinking in the wealth.

Wei Ying hummed, remembering the sweet red bean pastry he once devoured here. “Mm, wait till you see the food stalls. They have fried hawthorn balls and candied plums and —"

“Over there,” Shen Jiu interrupted mildly, not breaking stride.

They arrived at a stately inn with golden lacquered doors and a calligraphy plaque overhead that read: Jade Harmony Pavilion. Without pause, Shen Jiu entered. The interior was dim and cool, fragrant with sandalwood. A decorative waterfall flowed down one side of the main hall into a shallow pool filled with koi. Wei Ying tripped over the threshold trying to look at everything at once.

Once the room was ready, a servant guided them to the upper floor and opened the sliding screen with a bow. The room was a luxurious suite—spacious and tastefully decorated. There were three beds arranged in a crescent, each with embroidered silk covers in soft, muted hues. Pale golden lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a gentle light. A low table with ink, paper, and a tea set sat near the window. There was even a partitioned bathing chamber behind a carved screen.

Wei Ying flopped dramatically onto the bed under the window. “Dibs on this one!”

“You always pick the one with the best view,” Meng Yao said, already moving to the bed furthest from the door.

“That’s because I have the best view—my handsome face in the reflection.”

“Shizun, A-Ying is being ridiculous again,” Meng Yao said in his most formal tone.

“Then ignore him,” Shen Jiu said. He sat on the edge of his own bed, long legs crossed and fan tapping absently against his knee. “Now listen.”

Both boys straightened instinctively.

“The meeting with Jin Guangshan is scheduled for tomorrow. At noon. Only Wuyan will accompany me.”

Wei Ying made a wounded sound. “What! Why not me?”

“Because I said so,” Shen Jiu said dryly. “You’ll stay here.”

Wei Ying slumped dramatically. “Fine…”

Shen Jiu turned to Meng Yao. His tone lost its edge, becoming firmer. “Prepare yourself. Speak only when addressed. Hold your tongue and hold your posture. You will behave as my disciple—which means with grace, not groveling. Understood?”

Meng Yao bowed his head. “Yes, Shizun.”

With a nod, Shen Jiu reached into his sleeve and pulled out two pouches. He tossed them lightly. “Here.”

Wei Ying caught his with both hands, blinking. “Money?”

“You are not to gamble,” Shen Jiu warned, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t gamble!” Wei Ying huffed.

“You made a man cry last time you played cards.”

“That was different! He deserved it!”

“I don’t care, it's still gambling.” Shen Jiu said and stood, beginning to untie his outer robe. “Back before sunset. Especially you, Wuxian.”

Wei Ying laughed nervously and scratched his neck. “Eheh… got it…”

Meng Yao shot him a look that said “what did you do?”, and Wei Ying gave him a wink in return.

With the money pouches in hand, both boys stood and bowed. “Thank you, Shizun!” they chorused, already halfway to the door in their excitement.

As the door closed behind them with a thud and a laugh, Shen Jiu exhaled and finally laid back on the bed, one arm over his eyes.

“Finally. Peace.”

Lanling was loud.

That was the first thing Wei Ying noticed as they stepped into the city streets, shoulders brushing in the bustle of the late morning crowd. He nearly tripped on a passing cart loaded with straw baskets and let out a laugh, eyes squinting against the bright spring sun that shimmered off painted signs and lacquered roofs.

"Lanling really is alive, isn’t it?" Wei Ying grinned, looking up at Meng Yao, who was a few steps behind, more reserved in posture but smiling faintly.

“That is usually how cities work,” Meng Yao replied dryly.

Wei Ying elbowed him playfully. “Don’t be like that! It’s exciting! You know the last time I was here I was ten and all I remembered was getting separated from Shizun and crying next to a steamed bun stall. This time I get to actually explore!” He spun in place, arms wide. “With you! And I don’t plan on getting lost. Probably.”

Meng Yao shook his head, a little amused, a little resigned. “That was not very reassuring.”

But he allowed himself to be pulled along anyway, Wei Ying half-skipping beside him, talking too loud and too fast, already getting distracted by everything—the hawkers shouting out their wares in crisp regional accents, the curling tendrils of steam rising from food stalls, the swirl of colorful silks in shop windows.

They made their way slowly down the main market street, weaving between vendors and travelers.

“Look! Look at that one!” Wei Ying pointed eagerly at a stall selling candied hawthorn skewers, red and glossy like lacquer beads. “Yao-ge, I bet you haven't eaten anything proper yet, huh?”

Meng Yao followed his gaze, lips twitching. “You call sugar on a stick proper?”

“I call it ‘breakfast.’” Wei Ying was already making a beeline for the stall.

Meng Yao sighed but reached into his sleeve and handed over a few coins. “Don’t get the ones with nuts. You always forget you hate them.”

They ended up buying three kinds—plain hawthorn, hawthorn with osmanthus syrup, and a rare winter plum version that even Meng Yao was intrigued by. Wei Ying happily licked syrup off his thumb, cheeks red, and looked around with wide, shining eyes.

Everything smelled like smoke and spice and roasted things. Vendors were grilling flatbreads stuffed with scallions and pork; one corner had a whole stall of soup dumplings steaming in stacks of bamboo baskets; somewhere down the street, a man was pouring sugar into delicate flower shapes on paper.

It was overwhelming and wonderful.

They ducked into a few shops—one that sold paper lanterns (Wei Ying bought a small golden lotus one for Sisi), one that sold carved wooden hairpins (Meng Yao found a delicate peony pin that reminded him of his mother and purchased it with barely a word), and one with cheap little porcelain figurines that looked like immortal sages but with comically large heads.

“I’m buying this one,” Wei Ying declared, holding up a figure with one hand on his hip and the other holding a scroll. “He looks like Shizun, don’t you think?”

Meng Yao eyed the figure. “If Shizun had a head three times too large and the personality of a drunk rooster.”

“Exactly!” Wei Ying grinned and bought it, wrapping it carefully in cloth before tucking it away to present to Shen Jiu later.

They wandered through the main square, where musicians were playing flute and erhu in soft, lilting harmony, and old men with long beards played weiqi at stone tables under ginkgo trees. A vendor was painting calligraphy on fans, offering to write blessings. Wei Ying dragged Meng Yao over.

“What should I get?” Wei Ying pondered, squinting at the ink samples. “Longevity? Prosperity? No… Too boring…”

“What about 'May you finally shut up for five minutes'?” Meng Yao offered politely.

“You’re cruel to me,” Wei Ying sighed dramatically, then pointed to one that read “Tranquility in Chaos.” “That one! It’s ironic. I like it.”

Meng Yao, who found the sentiment a little too fitting, quietly paid for it.

When the sun was at its highest, they sat down on the steps of an old temple to rest, watching people pass with arms full of parcels, children laughing and tugging on sleeves, a few cultivators striding through in immaculate robes.

Wei Ying leaned back on his elbows, legs stretched out before him, expression softened by the spring light.

“You think Sisi will like her gifts?” he asked, quieter now, more pensive.

“She’ll love them,” Meng Yao replied gently.

“And… do you think my mom would like this one?” Wei Ying pulled a simple little jade comb from his sleeve, wrapped in blue silk.

Meng Yao paused. “I think… she’d be very touched. It’s lovely.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the rustle of footsteps, the bells from the temple behind them, the distant echo of laughter.

There was something tender and real between them.

Then Wei Ying, being Wei Ying, ruined it.

“So… how about we go to that puppet theatre next?” he asked, pointing down a side street leading to a square where they saw a wooden stage had been erected and colorful fabric figures danced behind a curtain.

Meng Yao narrowed his eyes. “If it turns out to be like the last time, where you tried to climb onto the stage because you thought the puppet master needed help—”

“That was three years ago! And he did need help!”

“He did not. You broke his crane.”

Wei Ying just laughed, grabbed his hand, and yanked him up. “Come on, Yao-ge, we should hurry or else we won't find any seats.”

And before Meng Yao could resist—or smile too fondly—they were running again, two boys in a golden city, hearts a little lighter, arms full of gifts for ghosts and loved ones alike.

The day was not yet over. But it was already full.

In the far corner of the square, a puppet stage had been set up. Bright silk banners fluttered in the wind, the painted puppets resting in stillness behind the curtain. Children crowded the makeshift rows of benches, their laughter and chatter a lively buzz in the cooling air.

Wei Ying and Meng Yao had managed to snag two open spots toward the middle of the second row. Wei Ying flopped down dramatically, kicking his feet excitedly.

“I'm so excited!” Wei Ying beamed, nudging Meng Yao with his elbow. “We haven’t seen one since the last festival in Yunmeng.”

Meng Yao gave a soft smile, hands folded neatly in his lap. “They’re not exactly common in Yunping.”

“That’s because Yunping is boring,” Wei Ying said without a beat, then grinned when Meng Yao rolled his eyes.

“Excuse you,” Meng Yao said dryly. “Not everyone is entertained by dancing socks on strings.”

Wei Ying snorted. “Socks?! You dare insult the ancient art of puppetry!”

As they exchanged jabs, the surrounding chatter dimmed. A hush rolled over the crowd, the kind that spreads without words. Wei Ying blinked and turned, noticing that everyone around them had shifted their gaze to a single point. Even the children had fallen quiet, craning their necks.

A group of boys, all robed in unmistakable golden silks, strode through the crowd like they owned the square. Their posture was proud, expressions full of haughty boredom. The onlookers parted to let them through, some bowing slightly, others whispering among themselves.

Wei Ying felt the change in atmosphere immediately.

“Jin sect disciples,” Meng Yao murmured, his voice low.

Wei Ying looked to his side. Meng Yao’s back was rigid, his fingers curled tightly around the hem of his robes. Wei Ying glanced back at the group, then at Meng Yao again. He didn’t say anything—but he didn’t need to.

An older boy with a particularly punchable face stepped forward, arms crossed and nose high in the air. His voice was sharp and grating. “You lot. Get up. These seats are needed.”

The crowd shifted uneasily. The people sitting around Wei Ying and Meng Yao immediately rose, stepping back without protest. All except for the two of them.

The boy’s expression darkened. “Are you two deaf? Or just slow?”

Meng Yao inhaled slowly, calm but tense. Wei Ying smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Neither,” he said. “We’re just not getting up. Thanks for asking though.”

Gasps rippled around them. The Jin boy’s face flushed beet red. He pointed a trembling, furious finger at them. “You dare—! Don’t you know who you're speaking to?”

“I don’t know,” Wei Ying said, cupping his ear. “All I know is that you're too loud.”

“You stand in the presence of descendants from the Jin’s main clan!” the boy puffed out his chest. “Show respect!”

Meng Yao’s head turned slightly, his voice quieter but cold. “Main clan?”

“That’s right,” the boy sneered. “Born and bred Lanling nobility. Not like you roadside commoners.”

Meng Yao was about to say something when the boy beat him to it to continue his rambling, “And not only that, but among us is none other than the Young Master of the Jin Clan, heir to the sect, successor of Koi Tower and son of the sect leader himself, Jin Zixuan.”

Both boys turned their eyes toward the center of the crowd, where the boy from earlier stood, tall, dignified and utterly disinterested. Hair tied in a high ponytail, the golden guan shimmering lightly under the sun. A vermilion mark on his forehead is stark against fair skin. His robes were more elaborate than the others. And his sword gleamed with unmistakable quality.

Wei Ying didn’t miss the way Meng Yao stared. His eyes locked onto the boy with a strange mixture of longing and wonder—like he’d been waiting for this moment, but didn’t know what to do with it now that it was here. Wei Ying reached out and placed a hand on Meng Yao’s shoulder. A silent reassurance.

Jin Zixuan, still looking away, called over his shoulder, “Zixun, hurry up.”

“Zixuan!” the other boy barked. “These two—these brats—are refusing to stand. What should we do?”

Only then did Jin Zixuan glance at them. And Wei Ying shivered at the painful familiarity in those amber colored eyes. His gaze was flat, unreadable, like they weren’t even worth the air it took to acknowledge them.

“Just give them coin. That should be enough.”

Jin Zixun smirked. He dug into his sleeve and pulled out a jingling pouch. With a dramatic toss, he hurled it at their feet. “There. Take it. Go stand in the back like the rest of the riffraff.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Meng Yao picked up the pouch. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, then tossed it to the side with a loud clink. His voice, though soft, was cold and clear, “We are not beggars,” he said calmly. “Keep your… trivial change.”

The crowd murmured. Jin Zixun’s jaw fell open. “You dare—!”

“Enough,” came a bored voice behind him. Jin Zixuan finally stepped forward, finally deigning to look at them. His eyes were dismissive, half-lidded, the expression of someone forced to look at dog droppings on the road.

“You’re obviously not from here,” Jin Zixuan said, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve.

Wei Ying smiled wide. “And what of it?”

“It explains your ignorance,” Jin Zixuan replied, his tone clipped. “Whoever raised you clearly failed in teaching you how to show proper respect.”

Meng Yao’s jaw twitched. Wei Ying's smile died and his fist was halfway raised to punch that smug face when Meng Yao placed a hand on his sleeve.

“It’s not worth it,” Meng Yao murmured.

Wei Ying grit his teeth but stayed his hand. “But—”

Meng Yao stood, slow and deliberate, then turned to Jin Zixuan, gaze calm but laced with contempt. “It is rather concerning,” he said. “That the heir of the Jin Sect finds himself stealing seats from children to inflate his ego.”

Gasps erupted around them. Jin Zixuan’s eyes narrowed. Jin Zixun roared.

“You dare insult—!”

“Your heir insulted himself,” Meng Yao cut in coolly. “We simply observed.”

Wei Ying snorted. “A puppet show, really. What’s next? Elbowing toddlers out of the way at the candy stall?”

Swords left sheaths in a chorus of metal. Wei Ying and Meng Yao stood, hands on their hilts, their gazes locked and unflinching. Parents pulled children away. The puppeteer ducked behind the curtain.

“Zixun!” Jin Zixuan raised his hand, and everyone froze. “Forget it. Let them rot on their peasant bench. This show isn’t worth our time.”

He turned, golden robes swishing behind him like silk fire. One final glare over his shoulder and he walked off, the others trailing him like well-trained dogs.

Jin Zixun paused long enough to snarl, “We’ll be watching you,” before storming after his cousin.

“Be sure to take notes,” Wei Ying quipped, waving mockingly.

The hush remained for a moment longer. Then slowly, the sounds of children’s voices returned.

Wei Ying let out a low breath. “What a bunch of walking mosquito bites.”

Meng Yao was still staring after the Jin heir. There was something cold in his eyes, and something sad too.

They exchanged a look, shared a nod, and turned away from the now-tense plaza.

As they made their way through the side streets, Wei Ying nudged him gently. “You okay?”

Meng Yao paused. “That was… the first time I’ve ever seen him.”

Wei Ying nodded, not pushing.

“I’m glad you were there,” Meng Yao added softly.

Wei Ying grinned. “Of course. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

Meng Yao offered a small, tired smile.

Their footsteps faded down the path, the sounds of puppets and applause echoing faintly behind them as they made their way back to their inn with the sun still high in the sky. 

Chapter Text

The morning air in Lanling was perfumed with wisteria and wealth.

Golden sunlight filtered through the filigree screens of the teahouses lining the main avenue, glinting off rooftops of glazed jade tile. The city, always dressed in grandeur, seemed to breathe opulence into every corner. And within that living breath of gold and silk, Yunlu Pavilion stood proudly at the heart, its curved eaves adorned with phoenix motifs, its entrance guarded by bronze lion statues polished to a mirror shine.

Inside, even silence felt expensive.

Shen Jiu stepped through the grand lacquered doors with his usual effortless grace, his pale robes catching the light like the whisper of snowfall against porcelain. He moved as though the world was always supposed to part before him—and perhaps, for a man like him, it had.

Beside him, Meng Yao walked in quiet tension, shoulders drawn, fingers twisting at the inner seams of his sleeves in a gesture of restraint. He didn't look around, though everything inside him screamed to. The towering crystal lanterns, the golden koi swimming beneath glass walkways, the servers in soft brocade robes—it was a far cry from Yunping's muddy streets and paper lantern brothels.

But today wasn’t about the extravagance.

It was about the man behind it.

Shen Jiu strode directly to the reception counter, the receptionist bowing so low his forehead nearly kissed the desk.

“Private room reserved under the name Jiang” Shen Jiu said, not sparing the attendant a glance.

“Yes, honored guest. Please follow.”

They were guided past rows of elaborately partitioned booths until they arrived at a sliding door lacquered in black, inlaid with silver lotuses. Zijin Hall, read the engraving on the side. Private rooms for elite guests, far removed from the noise and smell of the common floors.

Meng Yao followed his master inside, legs like stiff wood. His breath came slow, measured, rehearsed. This was the place. The one they’d agreed upon. The space where Meng Yao would finally meet the man his mother had only spoken of in tearful reverence, the man whose name she had taught him to pronounce before he could even write his own.

His father.

His heart pounded violently in his ears.

Shen Jiu took a seat at the low red rosewood table, elegantly folding his robes beneath him, then gestured for Meng Yao to sit beside him. The room was quiet but opulent. Carved lotus screens blocked the windows, delicate incense curled in the air, and the table was already set with a fine celadon tea set.

For a while, the only sounds were the rustling of robes and the faint clink of ceramic.

Then Shen Jiu began speaking—not gently, not harshly, but with the exacting patience of a man who expected to be obeyed.

“You are to speak only when you are spoken to,” he once again repeated his words from yesterday, eyes watching the steam rise from his cup. “You will answer clearly, concisely, and with dignity. Not too much, not too little. Hold your head high, Wuyan. Lower it only in respect, never in shame. Do you understand?”

Meng Yao nodded once. “Yes, Shizun.”

“Good. You are not here to beg, remember that.”

Meng Yao was nervous, but not scared. Because he knew if things went south today he would still go back to a warm house with people he considered his family. 

Maybe in another life, he would be desperate enough to beg and grovel for Jin Guangshan’s approval and acceptance because he had nowhere else to go. 

But not this life, because in this life, he had Shen Jiu, Wei Ying and Sisi. 

Shen Jiu’s presence beside him, calm and composed like a blade sheathed in silk, was a silent comfort for his nerves.

Then, after a couple of hours of waiting, the moment arrived.

The sliding doors opened with a whisper of wood on wood, and in stepped the man who had haunted Meng Yao’s dreams for fourteen years.

Jin Guangshan.

Draped in golden silk robes embroidered with dragons and blooming peonies, his hair gleamed with oil and status, held in place by a crown of twisted gold. His forehead bore the vermilion mark of the Jin clan, and at his hip, a fan flicked lazily open, revealing a painted peony in full bloom.

Two Jin cultivators flanked him like golden shadows.

He stepped inside slowly, his eyes scanning the room like a predator surveying a cage before entering. His gaze passed over Meng Yao without a flicker of recognition and landed on Shen Jiu with a glint of interest.

A smile—smooth and too wide—graced his face.

“Ah, Shen-daoyou,” he greeted warmly, folding his fan with a lazy flick and gesturing for his guards to wait outside. “Thank you for your patience.”

Shen Jiu rose with a bow, shallow but perfectly respectful.

“Jin-zongzhu. The pleasure is mine.”

Meng Yao scrambled to rise as well, delayed by awe and disbelief. He bowed deeply, hands shaking at his sides, and caught the flicker of his father’s glance only in passing—an absent, unbothered flicker of amber eyes.

His mother was right, Meng Yao does have his father’s eyes. 

Jin Guangshan seated himself across from them, lounging like he owned the world and expected it to thank him.

“Forgive my delay,” he said as he adjusted his sleeves, “I had more... pressing matters to attend to.”

“Of course,” Shen Jiu said smoothly, folding his fan on the table. “I understand. A man of your position is always in demand.”

But inside, Shen Jiu’s mind was already cataloging the move.

… Late on purpose. Dominance play. Positioning himself as the more valuable party… 

He’d seen it all before.

Fine, he thought, his lips curling ever so slightly. Let the peacock think he rules the room. Feed his vanity. And he’ll be too busy admiring his feathers to notice the blade aimed at his neck.

“I am grateful you still made time for us,” Shen Jiu continued, voice syrupy smooth. “This meeting means more than I can express.”

Jin Guangshan puffed up like a rooster.

“Well, well, don’t thank me too much. I wouldn’t have agreed if it weren’t Jiang-zongzhu,” he said, chuckling. “Jiang-xiong’s quite persistent when he wants to be. And I don't have the heart to refuse him.”

Shen Jiu’s smile didn’t waver. “Even so, you could have declined.”

That struck the bait. Jin Guangshan leaned back and launched into a self-aggrandizing monologue about his generosity, how rare it was for him to grant audiences, how unbearably full his schedule had become in recent months—how kind, how benevolent he was to squeeze them in.

Shen Jiu nodded politely, all the while imagining how satisfying it would be to break that fan in half.

The servers arrived with small lacquer trays of fruit and duck slices, quietly setting down the meal as Jin Guangshan took a long sip of tea and finally steered the conversation in a new direction.

“So,” he said, “Jiang-xiong tells me you’re a rogue cultivator. Interesting. You’ve... grown close to his sect somehow?”

Shen Jiu inclined his head gracefully. “One of my disciples developed a friendship with his son. Through that connection, we’ve become acquainted.”

“Curious,” Jin Guangshan said, swirling his tea. “A rogue cultivator with such presence. And I must admit... I’ve never heard of you until recently. How strange.”

“It’s only natural,” Shen Jiu replied, still smiling. “Not every name echoes through the halls of prestige.”

Meng Yao had remained silent, head slightly lowered, hands pressed to his lap. But he could feel the shift—could sense, like birds before a storm, the tightening of Shen Jiu’s posture, the sudden sharpened glint in his gaze.

He knew what was coming.

Shen Jiu set his tea down again, his fingers resting lightly on the rim of the porcelain cup. His gaze was unreadable, dark lashes casting shadows beneath cold eyes.

“Forgive me,” he said, eyes now locked onto Jin Guangshan’s with unsettling clarity. “I must clarify something before we continue. This meeting... is not for me.”

Jin Guangshan raised a brow, lips curling with amusement. “Oh?” he said, fanning himself lazily. “Then who is it for?”

Shen Jiu tilted his head towards the quiet figure seated beside him.

“For my disciple.”

Only then did Jin Guangshan turn his eyes on Meng Yao, properly, truly. They flicked over his face with the casual interest one might afford a street painting. Measured. Dismissive.

He turned back to Shen Jiu. “And what, pray tell, does this disciple of yours have to do with me?”

“Fourteen years ago,” Shen Jiu began, “you paid a visit to Yunping Town in Yunmeng. There was a woman at a local brothel—she went by a name you might recall. The Flower of Yunping.”

There was a brief pause. Jin Guangshan tilted his head, tapped his fan against his cheek, then suddenly chuckled. “Ah. That one. Yes, yes—I remember now.” His grin was unrepentant. “Charming woman. Pretty, I think. Pity I can’t recall her name.”

Shen Jiu opened his mouth, but—

“Meng Shi,” Meng Yao blurted, unable to stop himself. His voice was sharper than intended, and as soon as it left him, he realized his mistake.

Jin Guangshan’s eyes slid toward him with mild annoyance.

Shen Jiu’s sharp eyes cut to Meng yao who ducked his head immediately. “My apologies, Shizun.” he murmured.

But his voice trembled, and the apology tasted like bile. He hadn’t meant to speak—but how could he stay quiet when that man couldn’t even remember his mother’s name?

Jin Guangshan didn’t even blink. “Ah, yes, that was her name,” he said with a dismissive nod. “Meng Shi.”

He said it like he was remembering a dish he once enjoyed. As if she were nothing more than a flavor.

“Why bring her up?” he asked, lazily twirling his fan.

Shen Jiu, smooth as still water, replied, “Because she bore a child. A son. After your visit.”

Jin Guangshan’s brow twitched. No words, but the tension in his shoulders was answer enough. He saw the line being drawn.

“Jin-zongzhu, I must apologize. For I have yet to properly introduce my disciple,” Shen Jiu stated, glancing toward the boy. “Go on.”

Meng Yao sat stiffly, knees pressed together, voice caught in his throat. But he obeyed. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Jin-zongzhu. My name is Meng Yao, courtesy Wuyan,” he said. “My mother was Meng Shi. She passed away this winter.” His hands trembled as he reached into his robes and pulled something out. “She left this.”

He placed a pearl button carefully on the table. The light caught on its polished surface. Jin Guangshan peered at it with vague curiosity, as if someone had handed him an old receipt.

“A pearl button... one you gave her as a promise.”

Jin Guangshan’s fan stopped. He leaned in, studying the small ornament, then let out a thoughtful hum. “Hm. Well. That certainly looks like something I’d give a whore.”

Meng Yao flinched. His nails dug into his thighs and his head dropped further.

There was a long silence, then Jin Guangshan looked up, straight at Shen Jiu.

“So?”

The single word was enough to make Meng Yao recoil like he’d been slapped.

Jin Guangshan leaned back, scratching the back of his head with the tip of his closed fan. “You dragged me out of my day for this?” he asked, tone dry with disbelief. “I’ve got business to run, sect matters to handle, not to mention that birthday banquet to plan—and I get called in for what? A bastard child? A whore’s keepsake?”

Meng Yao’s eyes widened, breath catching in his throat.

“I mean really,” Jin Guangshan chuckled, “you’re a man too, Shen-daoyou, surely you understand. These things happen. She was… a pleasant night. But I’m not in the business of taking in every child born from a good time, you understand. What use do I have for a bastard?”

Shen Jiu said nothing.

Meng Yao looked down at his hands, at the tiny pearl button between them. His mother had clutched it like a promise—like a hope. All these years she had believed… And he had believed her. He had believed in him.

“You—” Jin Guangshan went on, looking at Shen Jiu again, “you’ve raised him, haven’t you? Good. That’s enough, isn’t it? You’re a teacher. You should be proud of the role you played. But this?” He waved his hand toward Meng Yao like dismissing a stain. “This isn’t my problem. That pearl button you got there? I used to pass these around to… smooth things over. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Meng Yao didn’t cry. He wanted to. But there wasn’t room. Only shame. He bent his head lower, tried to breathe through the nausea rising in his gut.

The silence that followed was deafening.

And Shen Jiu... smiled.

But it was the kind of smile a wolf gives before it sinks its teeth into bone.

“I see.”

Jin Guangshan smirked, fanning himself again. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”

“…Are you done?”

Jin Guangshan blinked. “Pardon?”

Shen Jiu stood up slowly, smoothing out the folds of his robe. “You said your piece. I asked if you were done.”

“Well, yes, I—”

“Wonderful.”

And then he moved.

Before Jin Guangshan could lift his fan in defense, Shen Jiu snapped his own fan shut and laid it gently on the table. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he grabbed the back of Jin Guangshan’s head and slammed it forward into the wooden surface.

Hard. 

Crack.

Meng Yao gasped.

“—AH—!” Jin Guangshan’s cry was cut off by the second slam.

And the third.

Blood bloomed across the polished wood, a red flower soaking into gold grain. His nose was shattered, lips split, teeth likely loosened. He choked on the pain and confusion.

He reached for the call rope near the wall—but it didn’t ring.

Meng Yao, still frozen in place, noticed the glowing charm placed at the base of the door. 

… A silencing talisman. When did Shizun—?... 

The Jin Sect Leader groaned, eyes wild. He pointed at Shen Jiu, “What is the meaning of this—!” but his words died in his throat the moment he met those glowing, jade-green eyes.

Shen Jiu stood over him, cold as ice, sharp as a dagger drawn across skin. Light spilled behind him, turning his form to shadow, but his eyes—those burning, jade-green eyes—shone through like embers in the dark.

“I’ve held my tongue all evening,” Shen Jiu said softly. “being patient. Can you imagine?”

He tilted Jin Guangshan’s face up by the chin, forcing eye contact. “I could’ve cracked your skull open the moment you called that woman a whore. I didn’t. I was advised to try and practice restraints.”

Jin Guangshan, blood leaking from his nose, tried to inch away. But Shen Jiu’s hold on him prevented him from doing so .

“You think I brought my disciple here to beg for scraps?” Shen Jiu’s voice was low now, deadly. “No. I brought him here so he could see what kind of scum you are.”

Shen Jiu didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “Try that again,” he whispered, “and I will not stop at your face.”

Jin Guangshan’s instincts, dulled by arrogance but not gone entirely, screamed at him to run. For the first time in a long time, Jin Guangshan truly felt that his life was in danger. 

“You insulted my disciple. You insulted his mother. A woman who had more honor in her toe nail than you have in your entire sect.”

He leaned down to Jin Guangshan’s level, and his next words fell like ice.

“I do not forgive.”

Jin Guangshan trembled.

“You think yourself powerful? A sect leader? I’ve broken stronger men than you without lifting a finger. Jin Guangshan, do not delude yourself into thinking you're absolute, you—” he enunciated “—are nothing more than a bloated toad perched on a borrowed throne.”

He released Jin Guangshan’s hair and straightened back. Calm returned to his face like a mask being lowered.

“Mind yourself. Next time, I won’t be visiting under Jiang Fengmian’s name.”

Then he stepped back, turned to Meng Yao, and picked up the small plate of sweets from the table.

“Jin-zongzhu must forgive this one, but I seem to have grown quite the liking for these desserts, so we're taking them,” he said simply. Then, gentler, “Come.”

Meng Yao nodded numbly. Shen Jiu took his hand without hesitation.

The two walked out, slow and calm. The guards outside didn’t blink—they hadn’t heard a thing.

Inside the room, Jin Guangshan stayed slumped at the table for several long moments, blood still dripping from his chin. He glared venomously at the door.

Then he swallowed, the taste of copper thick in his mouth, and whispered, “…That man… just who the hell is he!?”

And he understood—Shen Jiu was not the kind of man to be underestimated. In all his life, he had only felt true fear against one person and one person only; Wen Ruohan. 

To think some random rogue cultivator managed to make him feel the same fear the Wen sect leader did. 

… Jiang Fengmian, just what kind of person have you aligned yourself with?... 

The walk back to the inn was quiet.

Not a peaceful kind of quiet. It was the kind that rang heavy—awkward, aching. Shen Jiu walked in front, his steps sharp and crisp, as though cutting through the still air with every movement. Behind him, Meng Yao followed with his head down, shoulders tucked in like a folding fan, too weary to maintain poise.

Not a single word passed between them.

By the time they reached the inn and entered the room, the air was thick with unsaid things.

Wei Ying sat cross-legged at the low table in the middle of the room, brush in hand, surrounded by calligraphy sheets and ink pots. His brow furrowed in intense concentration as he copied some elaborate character strokes—until he heard the door slide open.

He looked up instantly. His eyes flicked between Shen Jiu and Meng Yao, then widened at the sight of faint red speckles on Shen Jiu’s sleeve. Not much, but enough to notice.

“Shizun—! Are you bleeding?” he asked, springing to his feet.

Shen Jiu didn’t reply. He merely gave Wei Ying a tired look and made a beeline for the screen in the corner of the room.

“It’s not my blood,” he said flatly before disappearing behind the divider.

“...Oh.”

Wei Ying blinked.

Behind him, Meng Yao sat down gingerly on the edge of his bed, still quiet, posture too straight, too stiff. Wei Ying padded over and plopped beside him without hesitation.

“So... what happened?” Wei Ying asked, leaning in close, curious eyes scanning his friend’s face. “How did it go? Why did Shizun come back with blood on his sleeves? Wait, did someone die? Who died? Was it—"

“A-Ying.”

The tone was soft. A smile, bright and practiced, tugged at Meng Yao’s lips. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?” Wei Ying’s face scrunched with concern. “I don't like it when you look like that, it means something bad happened.” He waved vaguely at Meng Yao’s expression.

“I met him,” Meng Yao said, his voice even, calm, precise—as though reciting a report. “I told him about myself. About my mother. About the pearl button. He... did not receive it well.”

Wei Ying winced. “So he rejected you?”

Meng Yao chuckled. His dimple showed. “Of course. What else could I have expected?”

"What did Shizun do?" Wei Ying asked despite himself, knowing the man isn't the type to stand by in these types of situations. 

"He smashed Jin Guangshan's face on the table," Meng Yao mentioned casually.

"What!?" 

Meng Yao nodded, "Three times." 

"Oh my god," Wei Ying covered his mouth with one hand, feeling a new kind of respect for his Shizun. "That's so cool, I wish I could see that." 

"Yeah..." Meng Yao trailed off, his voice losing spontaneity. 

Wei Ying frowned. “Still, I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“No,” Meng Yao said quickly, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s alright. Shizun warned me, more than once, about the kind of man he is. I was just... too stubborn. Too hopeful.”

Wei Ying stared at him for a long moment. Then leaned closer, squinting suspiciously. “Why are you smiling?”

“Hm?” Meng Yao blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re obviously upset. So why are you smiling like that?”

Meng Yao faltered.

His lips twitched.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.

“I—I’m not—”

But Wei Ying didn’t let him fumble for excuses. “You know,” he said, sitting back with a grin. “The first time I ever met Shizun, he told me something I never forgot.”

Meng Yao turned to him, curious, and relieved for the change in subject. “What was it?”

Wei Ying cleared his throat and then straightened his back in a mockingly regal pose. His voice dropped a pitch and took on an exaggeratedly disdainful drawl.

“Smiling all the time just makes you look like a fool,” he intoned, affecting a perfect Shen Jiu impression. “It’s not healthy, either. Sometimes, when things are too hard, it’s okay to stop smiling. You should only smile when you're happy and feel truly like it. It's okay to stop smiling sometimes. When you're mad, you can scream and shout. When you're annoyed, you can scowl and frown. And when you're sad…” his voiced softened suddenly, “... you can cry.’”

Silence.

Meng Yao stared at him, wide-eyed, then something in his expression cracked. Just slightly.

A shimmer. A flicker.

Then the dam burst.

Tears fell silently at first—delicate, trembling lines carving tracks down his cheeks. Then came the sobs, small and broken, leaking out from behind clenched teeth. His shoulders shook violently, and his hands curled into fists in his lap as the sobs grew louder.

“I don’t understand,” Meng Yao whispered between breaths. “Why do I feel like this? I knew he’d reject me. I knew it. He’s a man like that... I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t need him. I don’t want him—he’s a scumbag, a coward. He’s nothing to me.”

Wei Ying slid an arm around him, pulling him in gently.

“But why,” Meng Yao choked, “does it still hurt so much?”

He buried his face in Wei Ying’s shoulder, fingers clinging tightly to the front of his robes. “Why does it feel like I lost something I never even had? Why did I ever believe... that I mattered?”

“You do matter,” Wei Ying said quietly.

“I’m just a whore’s son,” Meng Yao sobbed. “What value do I have? I shouldn’t feel this broken. I should be fine. I should be proud. I am proud. I have Shizun. I have you. I have a family now, don’t I? So why—why does it still ache like this?”

Wei Ying didn’t answer. He just held him tighter, letting him cry it all out.

And then—

A rustle of fabric.

A familiar scent of bamboo and white tea drifted into the air.

Shen Jiu emerged from behind the screen, now in clean robes of deep green and silver. His eyes flicked over the scene—the tear-streaked Meng Yao, the quiet Wei Ying—and he didn’t say anything right away.

He walked over slowly, then sat beside Meng Yao on the bed.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, but clear. “It’s natural to feel sad.”

Meng Yao hiccupped.

“You’re not shattered because he turned you away. You’re shattered because the man you clung to—the last thread of your blood—turned out to be a husk. A man so empty, so small, he speaks of women like wares to be weighed. A man who couldn’t see worth even if it screamed from his marrow.”

Shen Jiu looked down at him, and his gaze—so often cold and distant—held something warmer now. Something hard-won and bitter.

“You’re grieving not him, but the fiction you built around him,” he said. “It’s the sorrow that comes when illusions die—more painful than hatred, because some part of you still clung to the hope that I was wrong. That he might be better.”

Meng Yao stared at him, tears still falling.

“Let him go,” Shen Jiu said. “He’s not worth your thoughts, not worth your pain. His approval is a currency worth nothing. He may have given you blood—but I gave you everything else. I am your Shizun—and I would never leave you to need someone like him again.”

Silence.

Then Meng Yao leaned forward, hesitating, and gently rested his head against Shen Jiu’s shoulder. His movements were tentative, uncertain—like a child seeking warmth for the first time.

Shen Jiu stiffened, surprised.

But after a moment, he exhaled and lifted his arm to drape it over Meng Yao’s shoulders.

Soft. Protective. Present.

Wei Ying grinned at the sight, and after a beat, he launched himself from behind and wrapped his arms around Shen Jiu’s neck.

“Awwww,” he cooed. “Look at you, Shizun, being all sweet and comforting! Who knew you had it in you?”

Shen Jiu sighed and tried to pry him off with one hand. “Get off me.”

“Nope!”

“Wuxian, I swear to god—”

Wei Ying laughed louder and nuzzled into his back. “I'm so proud of you, Shizun. You finally managed to grow a heart.”

Shen Jiu thwacked at his hands with his fan. “You insufferable brat—”

Meng Yao, still pressed to his side, let out a soft laugh. Then a louder one. Then he was giggling through the tears, his chest hiccuping from the remnants of his crying fit.

Shen Jiu gave up. He looked at the two boys clinging to him—one sniffling and one teasing—and sighed again.

But this time, he didn’t shake them off.

Instead, a small, reluctant smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Just a little.

Just enough.

When the laughter had quieted, and the traces of tears on Meng Yao dried on his cheeks and his smile was more genuine.

Shen Jiu sighed and simply sat there, letting the quiet settle. Letting the moment breathe. But Meng Yao’s words from earlier continued to echo in his mind.

I’m just a whore’s son. 

He frowned faintly.

Those weren’t words spoken with pride. They were spoken like a curse—like an unchangeable sentence hanging over the boy's head. And Shen Jiu… knew that tone. Knew it far too well.

After a moment, Shen Jiu tapped lightly at Wei Ying’s knuckles with his fan.

A silent signal.

Wei Ying blinked. “Hm?”

He followed Shen Jiu’s glance—a slight tilt of the head, a faint shift in posture—and something in his expression changed. He finally peeled himself off of Shen Jiu’s shoulders and scooted back to his original spot, suddenly aware that their teacher was no longer in a mood for play.

Meng Yao straightened too, more out of instinct than thought.

Shen Jiu cleared his throat once, elegantly into his hand, and then let his gaze fall on them both.

There was a stillness to him now—not the eerie, calculating silence he showed to enemies, but something slower. Measured. Introspective.

“Let me ask you both a question,” he began, voice calm and even. “If someone offered you a gift, and you didn’t accept it—who does it belong to?”

The boys blinked at him.

Meng Yao tilted his head in that little thoughtful way he did when he was trying to read between the lines. Wei Ying, on the other hand, looked utterly baffled for a second.

Then he ventured a guess. “To… the person who offered it?”

Shen Jiu smiled. Just a little. The corner of his mouth quirked up like a teacher pleased with a clever pupil.

“Correct,” he said. “And the same is true for criticism, anger, and contempt. If you do not accept them—they do not become yours. They remain with the one who offered them.”

He stood, slowly, his robes rustling faintly with the movement. He stepped forward, stopping just in front of the two sitting boys, folding his hands behind his back as he looked down at them. His figure, tall and composed, seemed to carry a weight larger than the room—like a towering pine tree casting long shadows over young saplings.

“What you do not accept, you do not carry.”

The words struck deeper than either of them expected.

He tapped his closed fan against Meng Yao’s chest lightly. “Son of a courtesan.”

Then at Wei Ying’s head. “Son of a servant.”

They both flinched, faintly, but didn’t look away.

“This is how the world will see you,” Shen Jiu said. “They will whisper it behind your backs. They will laugh it in your faces. And someday, they might try to use it to drag you down.”

He paused, letting the truth settle in their bones.

“But do not let them,” he said quietly. His eyes glinted, sharp and unyielding. “You cannot control where you come from. But you can control who you become. And when their voices rise, let yours be louder. Let your success drown out every insult they dare to throw at you.”

The room was so quiet, the sound of a single candle crackling became thunderous.

“Let them sneer,” Shen Jiu said. “Let them spit. Let them throw mud. It means nothing unless you stoop to pick it up.”

Meng Yao’s breath caught in his throat.

Wei Ying’s fingers curled into the blanket beneath him.

“You two are mine,” Shen Jiu finished, his voice a soft and resolute thing. “And I do not raise weeds. I raise mountains.”

There was a long silence.

Then—two sharp motions, in perfect unison.

Both boys stood, eyes shining with something fierce and reverent, and cupped their hands in front of their chests, bowing low.

“These disciples thank Shizun for his wisdom,” they said together, almost breathless with devotion. “We will never forget your teachings.”

Shen Jiu inclined his head slightly, accepting their gratitude without fanfare.

Then, as though nothing had just happened, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“Now,” he said over his shoulder. “This is our last day in Lanling. We’ll not waste it sitting in a room full of dried ink and self-pity.”

Wei Ying’s head snapped up. “Wait—does that mean—?”

“Yes,” Shen Jiu sighed. “We’re going out. All three of us. Together.”

He had barely finished the sentence before the boys exploded into cheers.

“YES!”

“Ahh—Shizun, you’re the best!”

“Wait till I show you the fried chestnut stand! Shizun, I need three of those!”

“I heard there’s a sugar candy stall near the lotus pond! And—and roasted duck buns! And—"

“Stop shouting,” Shen Jiu muttered as he opened the door. “I already regret this.”

But the faint curve of his lips betrayed him.

Wei Ying and Meng Yao were already tugging at his sleeves from both sides as they dragged him out into the early afternoon light, each one determined to wring every last coin out of Shen Jiu’s purse before sunset.

And as they stepped into the glow of the streets and the smell of sweet pastries and spiced meats, with laughter in their throats and shadows of grief falling behind them—

Shen Jiu thought, perhaps, that there was still something worth saving in this world.

Even if only for these two.

Chapter Text

Two years passed like the slow turning of a page, though for Wei Ying and Meng Yao, the days had been anything but slow. Under Shen Jiu’s relentless tutelage, they had grown taller, sharper, steadier. Wei Ying at fifteen was all restless energy, mischief glinting in his eyes even when he bowed respectfully. Meng Yao at sixteen was grace refined into steel, every smile polished but never insincere.

And yet, here they were—two boys from humble beginnings—dragged up the endless stone steps of Gusu by circumstance.

The invitation had come from Jiang Fengmian, and Shen Jiu had nearly shredded it in front of the messenger.

“Send my disciples to Gusu? To be taught by those self-important, stone-faced Lan fossils?”

The nerve.

But Jiang Fengmian had pressed—he worried for Jiang Cheng’s lack of friends outside Lotus Pier, he wanted his son to have familiar faces in the crowd, and it would be a valuable opportunity for Wei Ying and Meng Yao to make connections among the gentry’s young heirs.

Shen Jiu had agreed in the end, but not before dragging the conversation out until Jiang Fengmian was ready to throttle him. The way the man’s composure cracked, the twitch in his jaw as he tried to argue—ah, Shen Jiu slept peacefully that night.

And so it was that Wei Ying, Meng Yao, and Jiang Cheng now climbed the steps to the Lan Sect’s main gate, robes swishing as the line of disciples in front of them slowly shrank.

The wait stretched long enough that Wei Ying grew restless. He and Jiang Cheng began bickering—sniping, really—while Meng Yao occasionally interjected with subtle jabs that made both boys glare at him.

“You walk too slow, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Ying complained. “If you can’t keep up, maybe I should carry you.”

“Shut up, Wei Wuxian. No one asked you.”

Meng Yao smirked from the side. “You know, A-Ying, I think Jiang Cheng might actually enjoy being carried. You’d make a very sturdy sedan chair.”

Jiang Cheng turned red. “Shut both of you!”

Their voices bounced against the stone walls until a soft, tranquil voice slipped into the air behind them.

“Jiang-xiong?”

The three turned.

A youth approached—olive-green robes, short hair brushing his neck, wide dark eyes that seemed perpetually gentle. In his hand, he fanned himself lazily with a paper fan painted with bamboo stalks. He was handsome in that unassuming, scholarly way—not breathtaking, but undeniably pleasant to look at.

Jiang Cheng straightened immediately, the corners of his lips tugging into a rare smile. “Huaisang.”

“It's good to see you again, Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang greeted warmly, stopping just a few steps away. His voice was soft, his posture relaxed, but there was a friendly familiarity to it that made it seem like the two had spoken yesterday.

Wei Ying blinked, intrigued. He leaned toward Meng Yao and whispered loudly enough that both could hear, “Who’s this?”

Meng Yao raised a brow. “Someone important, clearly.”

Nie Huaisang chuckled softly and bowed. “Nie Huaisang, of Qinghe. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

Both Wei Ying and Meng Yao immediately understood. The Nie Huaisang. Younger brother to the fearsome Nie Mingjue.

Wei Ying’s eyes widened. “Ohh, Nie-er-gongzi!?"

Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to sound so shocked.”

Wei Ying grinned. “Of course I do. You two know each other?”

The answer came with surprising ease.

“Of course,” Jiang Cheng said. “Huaisang used to visit Lotus Pier when we were kids.”

Wei Ying’s brows shot up. “He what?”

Nie Huaisang nodded, his fan flicking open with a quiet snap. “My brother worried that I was too… how should I put it… withdrawn. He sent me to Gusu, but, well—” he gave a sheepish smile, “Lan kids are not the easiest people to handle for a boy like me. I spent more time hiding.”

Wei Ying snorted. “I can imagine.”

“So my brother tried sending me elsewhere, to find playmates. Lotus Pier was… unexpectedly welcoming.” Nie Huaisang’s smile turned fond. “Jiang-xiong was the only one I really got along with. He even let me paint with him sometimes.”

Jiang Cheng coughed into his fist, embarrassed. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Wei Ying, of course, looked scandalized. “And you never mentioned this to me? Or Yao-ge?”

“Why would I?” Jiang Cheng muttered.

“Because it’s important! You were hoarding a friend!” Wei Ying jabbed a finger accusingly. “Selfish!”

Meng Yao chuckled softly, his eyes bright with amusement. “Truly, Jiang Cheng, you’ve betrayed us.”

“Shut up.”

Meng Yao chuckled, then turned to Nie Huaisang and introduced himself, “My name’s Meng Yao, courtesy Wuyan. Nice to meet you, Nie-er-gongzi.”

Wei Ying chimed in, “I'm Wei Ying, courtesy Wuxian. Let's get along, yeah?”

But Nie Huaisang’s expression shifted when he heard Wei Ying’s name. He blinked, then snapped his fingers lightly. “Wei Ying? As in that Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying raised his brows. “Which one?”

“The Wei Ying everyone talks about,” Nie Huaisang said with a grin. “The one who stirred up the cultivation world a few years ago. Guest disciple of Lotus Pier, the son of Jiang-zongzhu’s friend. That Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying laughed. “Ah, rumors travel fast.”

Young people cared little for background; connections formed quickly. Nie Huaisang wasted no time addressing them as “Wei-xiong” and “Meng-xiong,” to which they responded in kind, their voices slipping into easy camaraderie.

By then, the crowd began to shift—the Jiang sect’s turn had come. The three boys stepped forward, presenting their invitation to the Lan guards before being waved inside.

Only… there were more stairs. Endless stairs.

Wei Ying bounded up them with ease, Jiang Cheng following with steady determination. Meng Yao, however, faltered. He pressed forward, breath coming heavier with each step, sweat beading his forehead. His legs screamed by the halfway point.

But he wasn’t alone. Behind him, Nie Huaisang looked equally miserable. Their eyes met, and both shared the same silent acknowledgment—scholars are not made for this nonsense.

By the time they reached the top, Wei Ying looked like he’d just taken a casual stroll. Jiang Cheng’s breathing was faintly quickened but otherwise steady. Meng Yao dragged himself over the last step and muttered a heartfelt, “Never again.”

He barely noticed the grand stone wall before them—engraved top to bottom with the infamous Three Thousand Lan Rules.

Wei Ying skimmed the first few lines and grimaced. “Ugh. No laughter after sundown? No running in corridors? No unnecessary noise? I’d rather die.” He turned away before his brain could rot. “Is the last rule gonna be ‘No breathing after midnight?’”

Jiang Cheng suppressed a luagh then coughed and told Wei Ying to be serious. 

Soon, a Lan disciple appeared, guiding them to their rooms.

“Guest disciples are encouraged to share quarters,” the Lan boy explained as they walked. “For camaraderie.”

Which was how Wei Ying and Meng Yao ended up in one room, while Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang shared another.

“Bye-bye, Wei-xiong, Meng-xiong,” Nie Huaisang said cheerfully as he waved, following Jiang Cheng down the hall.

Wei Ying and Meng Yao darted inside their room immediately, both making a beeline for the bed by the window.

“I call this one!” Wei Ying shouted.

“No—you always take the bed by the window!” Meng Yao protested, throwing himself across it with dramatic flair.

“I need the good view!” Wei Ying grabbed his ankles and tried to drag him off. “You can’t just hog it!”

Meng Yao flopped backward, kicking uselessly. “Take the one by the wall, Wei Wuxian!”

Their bickering echoed loudly until the poor Lan disciple coughed delicately into his hand.

“Meals are served at fixed times. Curfew begins at sundown. Lights out after evening bell. Punishment follows disobedience,” he recited in a monotone voice, clearly unimpressed. Then he left before he lost more brain cells.

By the end of the night, Meng Yao lay peacefully by the window, his fan resting on the sill. Wei Ying sulked on the wall-side bed, muttering under his breath.

“Unfair. So unfair.”

Meng Yao smiled faintly in the dark. “Goodnight, A-Ying.”

Wei Ying huffed. “…Goodnight.”

And so their first night in Gusu began—with petty wars, new bonds, and the promise of chaos yet to come.

There was a highly respected and reputable elder in the Lan Clan of Gusu, named Lan Qiren. Among the distinguished clans, three words followed him everywhere: pedantry, pertinacity, and proficiency.

The first two traits kept many at a respectful distance—indeed, made some secretly abhor him. But the third ensured that parents of every respectable sect would beg, bribe, or barter for their children to study under him. After all, Lan Qiren had raised countless exceptional Lan disciples. Even the most hopeless fledgling, after two years in his Orchid Room, would emerge with improved bearing, better etiquette, and at least the illusion of cultivation worth. Some parents wept openly when they came to fetch their sons, overcome with joy at their child’s transformation.

Wei Ying, naturally, had to ruin the reverence.

As the boys walked toward the Orchid Room the next morning, robes brushing over the pristine white stone paths, he stretched his arms above his head, grinning. “Do I not appear decent enough already?”

Jiang Cheng didn’t even blink. “You will definitely become a mark of shame on his teaching career.”

Meng Yao chuckled softly into his sleeve, enjoying the jab far too much. Nie Huaisang giggled too, fanning himself and thinking Jiang Cheng was exaggerating. But Jiang Cheng wasn’t joking. Not at all.

In his heart, he truly believed that no one in the world—except Shen Jiu—could handle Wei Wuxian. He had seen the way his friend bent under Shen Jiu’s cold gaze, the way Shen Jiu could rein him in with a single flick of his fan. Even Yu Ziyuan, fierce and uncompromising as she was, could not command Wei Ying the way Shen Jiu did. That alone spoke volumes.

Among the crowd of disciples streaming toward the lecture hall, someone asked curiously, “The Lotus Pier of the Jiang Clan must be so much more fun than this place, right?”

Wei Ying laughed, bright and unrestrained. “Whether something’s fun or not depends on how you play. But you’re right—there aren’t nearly as many rules there. And we don’t have to wake up so early.”

Meng Yao sighed in memory of the morning ordeal. He had nearly dragged Wei Ying out of bed by the ankles, the boy clinging to the bedding like a stubborn ox. Lan sect’s rise at mao, rest at hai schedule was merciless, and Wei Ying had fought it tooth and nail.

Another disciple asked, “Then what do you usually do every day? When do you get up?”

Jiang Cheng huffed and jerked his thumb at Wei Ying. “Him? Rise at si, rest at chou, and not a hint of sword practice or meditation. He’s either boating, swimming, stealing lotus pods, or chasing pheasants.”

Wei Ying gasped in mock outrage. “Jiang Cheng, how dare you slander me in front of our new friends! I’ll have you know I am very diligent with my studies.”

Jiang Cheng deadpanned, “I’ve never seen you study in my life.”

“That’s because I only play at Lotus Pier,” Wei Ying shot back, puffing his chest a little. “But with Shizun, I take my studies very seriously.”

That gave Jiang Cheng pause. He considered it, then nodded reluctantly. “…That may be so. Master Shen would never let you get away with your nonsense.”

Nie Huaisang leaned dramatically on his fan, sighing. “I’m going to school at Yunmeng next year. Don’t anyone stop me.”

The other boys burst out laughing. Someone called out, “No one’s stopping you, Huaisang. Except your brother, who’ll break your legs.”

The mention of Nie Mingjue’s name made Nie Huaisang’s shoulders wilt instantly. Everyone knew Nie Mingjue—swift, resolute, terrifying in battle. He adored his younger brother, but when it came to education, his expectations were merciless. Nie Huaisang admired him deeply… and feared nothing more than hearing him say, “How are your studies going?”

Wei Ying clapped him on the back, cheerful as ever. “Don’t worry, Gusu isn’t so bad! It’s pretty fun too.”

Nie Huaisang leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Wei-xiong, take my heartfelt advice. The Cloud Recesses is not like Lotus Pier. If you want to survive three months here, there’s one person you must never provoke.”

Wei Ying tilted his head, amused. “Who? Lan Qiren?”

“Not that old man,” Nie Huaisang whispered. “His favorite disciple. Lan Zhan.”

Meng Yao’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Lan Zhan of the Twin Jades of Lan? Courtesy name Lan Wangji?”

Everyone knew of them—the Lan sect leader’s two sons, Lan Huan and Lan Zhan, famed since their youth. “The Twin Jades of Lan,” paragons of poise, models for all disciples. Their names were spoken like thunder throughout the cultivation world.

Nie Huaisang fanned himself quickly. “Lan Xichen is kind, gentle, easy to get along with. But Lan Zhan… aiya, he’s our age but stiff as a board. Worse than his shufu. Don’t smile, don’t laugh, don’t breathe too loudly near him or he’ll freeze you solid with a glare.”

Wei Ying grinned. “Is he good-looking, though?”

Jiang Cheng snorted. “They’re all good-looking. Find me an ugly Lan. Go on, I’ll wait.”

Wei Ying gestured at his face. “Particularly handsome, I mean. Dressed in white, forehead ribbon, sword on his back, and the expression of someone who’s attending a funeral.”

Nie Huaisang froze. “…That’s him.”

Wei Ying’s grin widened.

“Wait,” Nie Huaisang said suspiciously. “He only just came out of seclusion yesterday. When did you see him?”

“Last night,” Wei Ying answered casually.

Meng Yao’s voice was flat. “…When you snuck out to buy liquor.”

Wei Ying nodded happily.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes nearly popped from his skull. “There’s a curfew! Where did you even see him?!”

Wei Ying pointed vaguely upward. “There. On the roof.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Meng Yao pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Wei Ying said innocently. “Didn’t we pass Emperor’s Smile on the way here? Last night, I couldn’t resist. So I went down to town, bought two jugs, and was just climbing back when he caught me.”

Meng Yao remembered how Wei Ying had stepped on his chest in order to launch himself out the window and glared daggers at him.

Jiang Cheng’s head throbbed. “Where’s the liquor?”

“Well,” Wei Ying said, scratching his cheek, “I was caught before I could sneak it in. He demanded I take my leg off the wall. Obviously I couldn’t, so he came up, light as a feather, and asked what I was holding.”

“…And you said?”

Wei Ying beamed. “‘It’s Emperor’s Smile! I’ll share a jug with you, just pretend you never saw me, okay?’”

Meng Yao face-palmed.

Jiang Cheng groaned. “Wei Wuxian, liquor is banned here. Now you’re doubly guilty.”

“He told me the same thing,” Wei Ying said blithely. “So I asked him, ‘What doesn’t your family prohibit?’ He told me to go read the Wall of Discipline. Three thousand rules, written in ancient seal script—who’s going to read that? Not me. Why was he so angry about it?”

“That’s right!” Nie Huaisang cheered, oblivious to Jiang Cheng’s despair.

“Private fights are forbidden too,” someone muttered.

Wei Ying perked up. “Oh, good to know. Because I fought him.”

Meng Yao groaned. “Sometimes I regret ever meeting you.”

Wei Ying winked. “I love you too, Yao-ge.”

The group howled with laughter.

Jiang Cheng pressed his fingers to his temples. “…What happened to the other jug?”

“I drank it,” Wei Ying said simply.

“Where?!”

“On the wall. Right in front of him.” Wei Ying smirked at the memory. “‘If liquor is banned in the Cloud Recesses, then I won’t go in. I’ll drink it outside. That’s not against the rules, right?’ And then I drank the whole thing.”

The boys erupted into gasps and whistles.

Nie Huaisang stared at him in awe. “Wei-xiong, you’re too bold. Lan Zhan has never suffered humiliation like that before. You’ve doomed yourself. He’s going to have his eyes on you every second now. And don’t forget—he’s in charge of punishments!”

Wei Ying waved him off. “What’s there to be scared of? If he’s such a prodigy, shouldn’t he be in seclusion, busy with cultivation? He won’t waste his time on me.”

Just then, they rounded the garden wall—

—and froze.

Inside the Orchid Room sat a white-clad youth, posture straight as a sword. His long hair fell perfectly behind him, forehead ribbon gleaming. His face was handsome, exquisite even, but carved with frost.

Lan Wangji.

The icy gaze he lifted toward them silenced the group instantly.

Wei Ying’s grin faltered just slightly.

Jiang Cheng leaned in and whispered, “His eyes are on you. Good luck.”

Wei Ying turned, glanced at Lan Zhan’s flawless side profile, and—against all good sense—looked delighted.

But before he could open his mouth, a tall, thin figure swept into the room.

Lan Qiren.

His back was straight as a brush, his long black beard well-kept. Handsome in that Lan way, but overshadowed entirely by the aura of pedantic tyranny. He unfurled a scroll that seemed to stretch endlessly across the floor, and began reciting the Lan rules in a voice that promised endless hours of suffering.

The disciples’ faces drained of color.

Even Wei Ying.

And as Lan Qiren’s voice filled the quiet, Wei Ying felt bored. Excruciatingly bored. His eyes darted everywhere but the scroll being droned out at the front of the Orchid Room. The carved lattice of the windows. The green tips of bamboo swaying in the distance. The way sunlight caught on the sheen of Lan Qiren’s goatee. 

And inevitably—his gaze slid back to the profile of the boy seated beside him.

Lan Wangji.

Of course, Wei Ying had been shameless enough to plop himself down right in the first row, directly at Lan Wangji’s side, while Meng Yao sat one row back and Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang had found seats not too close, not too far. Nie Huaisang had, in fact, tried to sit further away, but Jiang Cheng dragged him by the collar.

Lan Wangji’s face was the picture of composure, his gaze fastened on the lecturing elder as though nothing in the world existed beyond the endless scroll of rules. His expression was cut from marble: serene, unwavering, detached.

Wei Ying, despite himself, stared. How does he manage to pay such serious attention to something so boring?!

Lan Qiren, up at the front, suddenly slapped the long scroll down onto the floor with a resounding thud. His sharp gaze swept the room.

“This is all engraved onto the stone wall outside, but since it seems no one has read it, I must repeat each rule one by one. Very well—let us see if there will be any more who dare use ignorance as an excuse for their transgressions. And since some still dare to sit inattentive—very good. We shall lecture on something else.”

Although his words were for the entire room, Wei Ying had the distinct and sinking feeling the glare was aimed at him.

Sure enough—

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying shot up with a grin, cheerful as though he’d been called on by a kindly teacher. “Present!”

The air crackled.

Lan Qiren’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me—are yao, demons, ghosts, and monsters the same thing?”

Wei Ying flashed a toothy smile. “No.”

“How are they differentiated?”

“Yao are formed from nonhuman living beings. Demons are formed from living humans. Ghosts are the spirits of deceased humans. Monsters, from nonhuman deceased.”

The disciples rustled, glancing between themselves. Wei Ying’s answer had come smoothly, without hesitation.

Lan Qiren’s goatee twitched. “Yao and monsters are easily confused. Give an example of their difference.”

Wei Ying lazily pointed toward the lush green tree outside the Orchid Room window. “For instance, that living tree. Should it breathe in the air of scholarship for a hundred years, it might form a consciousness and enjoy teasing mortals. That is a yao. If I chop it down with an axe and the dead stump cultivates a spirit, that is a monster.”

Meng Yao lowered his gaze, lips twitching faintly at the casual I chop it down.

“What was the profession of the founder of the Nie Clan of Qinghe?”

“Butcher.”

“The insignia of the Jin Clan of Lanling?”

“The white peony.”

“What variety?”

“Sparks Amidst Snow.”

“Who was the first within the cultivation world to focus on strengthening the clan and weakening the sect?”

“Wen Mao, founder of the Wen Clan of Qishan.”

Wei Ying’s replies flowed like water, fluent and confident. Around him, the other students sat rigid, relief creeping into their spines. They prayed silently: let him continue, let him keep answering, let it never be our turn.

But Lan Qiren’s eyes were sharp as knives. “As a guest disciple of the Jiang Clan of Yunmeng, such knowledge should come as easily as breath. There is no pride to be taken in reciting what you ought to already know.” He snapped the scroll closed with a flick of his sleeve. “Let me ask you something else. There is an executioner who has slain hundreds while alive. His parents and wife live still. He is murdered in town, his corpse lying in open air for seven days, brewing resentment. Now he haunts the world as a malicious spirit. What is to be done?”

This time, Wei Ying didn’t answer immediately. His grin faded into a thoughtful tilt of his head.

The others fidgeted, nerves prickling. A fierce corpse? Seven days unburied? That was the definition of a nightmare. They glanced hopefully at the old man, silently begging him not to call on them next.

Lan Qiren’s glare sliced across the benches. “Do not look at him. Think! Do not touch your books.”

The students hastily pulled their hands back, faces paling.

Finally, Lan Qiren snapped, “Wangji. Tell him.”

Lan Wangji rose slightly, his voice flat and steady, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room.

“First, deliverance. Second, suppression. Third, obliteration. One must seek out his family and attempt to fulfill his dying wish; if his obsession may be absolved, his resentment will disperse. Should this prove futile, suppression must be enacted without hesitation. If his crimes are too heinous and his resentment cannot be dissolved, then he must be destroyed. In this, a cultivator must not err.”

The class exhaled as one, relief washing through the room. Thank heavens it wasn’t us.

Lan Qiren inclined his head, pleased. “Not a word amiss.” His eyes cut like daggers back toward Wei Ying. “Be it cultivation or conduct, one must always build such solid foundations. If one grows proud and unruly, strutting from the hollow victory of defeating mere mountain spirits—” his tone was loaded, his goatee trembling—“then humiliation is certain to follow.”

Wei Ying’s jaw slackened. Was that aimed at me?

He turned his head slightly. Meng Yao met his gaze and gave the smallest, most eloquent of looks.

It is aimed at me! Wei Ying confirmed internally, bristling. He’s throwing shade. Seriously throwing shade. Fine, then.

Wei Ying quirked his brows and leaned back, deliberately casual. “I have a question.”

The room went still.

“Speak,” Lan Qiren snapped.

Wei Ying’s smile widened. “Although ‘deliverance’ is the first step, deliverance is often impossible. Fulfill his wish, absolve his obsession—that’s easy to say. If his wish is a set of new clothes, fine. But what if his wish is to slaughter an entire family for revenge? Then what?”

Lan Wangji, eyes forward, answered calmly, “Deliverance is supplemented by suppression. Obliteration if necessary.”

Wei Ying tilted his head, grin sly. “What a waste of resources.”

Meng Yao groaned quietly behind him, dragging his hand down his face. Jiang Cheng pinched the bridge of his nose. Huaisang nearly choked on a laugh.

“I’ve thought of a fourth option,” Wei Ying continued blithely.

Lan Qiren’s eyes blazed. “I have never heard of any fourth option.”

Wei Ying leaned forward, eyes bright. “This executioner killed hundreds in life. His transformation into a fierce corpse is inevitable. So—dig up the graves of those hundreds, awaken their resentment, fuse their skulls, and let them fight him for you—”

At that, Lan Wangji’s head finally turned, his gaze flicking to Wei Ying. His face remained carved from stone, but his brows furrowed ever so slightly.

Lan Qiren was trembling with outrage, his beard quivering. “Such ignorance!” he thundered, shooting to his feet. “The purpose of exorcism is deliverance! And yet you would awaken further resentment, reverse the order of nature, and corrupt righteousness with your foul reasoning?!”

Wei Ying dodged the book that came flying at his head with ease, grinning. “Why not? Some creatures can’t be delivered anyway, so why not make use of them? Didn’t Yu the Great tame the floods by redirecting them, instead of blocking them? Suppression is only blockage. That’s unwise.”

Another book flew; he ducked again, hair flying, grin wide.

“Spiritual energy is energy. Resentment is also energy. If spiritual energy can be stored in the dantian and wielded, why not resentful energy? Why can’t it be harnessed, reshaped, turned to something useful?”

“Then tell me!” Lan Qiren roared, his face nearly purple. “How would you guarantee that resentment remains under your control and does not destroy you—or others?”

Wei Ying actually had an answer to that question—and so did Meng Yao.

During their years under Shen Jiu, their education had not been the rigid, narrow kind favored by most sects. Shen Jiu, for all his sharp tongue and cruelty, carried within him a vast reservoir of knowledge that had no business existing in this realm—knowledge that reached beyond the orthodox limits of spiritual cultivation. He never revealed the source of his teachings, never explained how he came to know theories that made even the most ancient of cultivation texts seem provincial. But his disdain for this realm’s stagnation often slipped through.

Where others taught only what was written, Shen Jiu taught by debate, by tearing down assumptions. He would scoff at the “progress” of the great sects, calling their sword work stiff, their talismanry shallow, their cultivation theory laughably underdeveloped compared to what he knew. Even Qinghe Nie’s brutish physical strength and Gusu Lan’s vaunted melodies were, to him, faint shadows of what such paths could be if they were truly cultivated.

He did not encourage them to walk the unorthodox path outright—never. He knew too well the weight of stigma, whatever the realm. But when Wei Ying or Meng Yao pressed him with questions, he never dismissed them. He pushed. He demanded they think. He argued late into the night with them, forcing them to imagine possibilities beyond “orthodox” or “unorthodox,” to treat cultivation as a vast, unmapped expanse rather than a straight road.

It was from those nights that Wei Ying’s audacity was born—the nerve to suggest a fourth option, to treat resentful energy not as an abomination but as another form of power. And it was from those nights that Meng Yao’s unquenched curiosity came, along with it the restraint of someone who knew exactly how dangerous this line of thought could become if spoken aloud.

Of course, neither boy knew that Shen Jiu’s knowledge was not of this world at all. They only knew that their shizun’s mind seemed like an endless ocean, full of frightening depths.

Wei Ying paused, scratching his cheek, still crouched from his dodge. “Haven’t thought that far yet.”

A beat of silence—then Meng Yao dropped his head into both hands, muffling his laugh

Lan Qiren’s roar rattled the windows. “If you had, there would be no place for you in the cultivation world! Out!”

Wei Ying was already halfway to his feet, smirk tugging at his lips. “Gladly!”

He bolted out of the Orchid Room, hair flying, robes flaring, grinning like a man who had just scored the greatest victory of his life.

The class stared after him, dumbfounded.

Meng Yao exhaled heavily, shoulders trembling in amusement. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

Behind him, Jiang Cheng had his head in his hands. Nie Huaisang, on the other hand, looked delighted.

Chapter Text

The slam of the Orchid Room doors echoed long after Wei Ying slipped out, leaving behind only stunned silence. Not a soul dared to breathe too loudly, as though even the air itself was trying to recover from the audacity of what had just happened.

Lan Qiren stood rigid at the front of the room, his beard trembling faintly, his lips pressed into a severe line. For once, he didn’t even know how to react. The boy’s sheer arrogance—strutting out as though dismissal were his own choice!—had left him momentarily speechless.

Meng Yao, sitting just behind Wei Ying’s vacated seat, lowered his gaze quickly, but not before hiding a fleeting smile behind his sleeve. It wasn’t that he approved of Wei Ying’s recklessness—Heaven knew his martial brother’s antics were like juggling with firecrackers. But to see the famously unshakable Lan Qiren robbed of words? That was a rare sight indeed, and Meng Yao, despite how he liked to present himself, was just as much of a chaos enthusiast as his Shixiong. 

At last, Lan Qiren seemed to snap back to himself. With a sharp tug, he brushed his sleeves as though banishing invisible dust, then resettled onto his seat with forced dignity. His grumble filled the air, low and cutting, “Arrogant. Insolent. Just like that woman…”

Meng Yao’s eyes flickered. That woman? He made a note of it immediately, filing the name like a dagger to be drawn later. For now, though, he smoothed his expression into composure as Lan Qiren’s sharp gaze suddenly turned on him.

Meng Yao straightened, spine taut. He braced for the storm. Now that Wei Ying is out of the picture, will Meng Yao become his next target? 

“Meng Wuyan,” Lan Qiren called, as though testing both memory and pronunciation.

“Yes, Lan-laoshi.” Meng Yao replied softly, bowing his head.

Lan Qiren had remembered that It was noted on the roster that the Jiang Sect this year brought not only their disciples, but also two guest disciples—both apprenticed under the same master. Wei Wuxian and Meng Wuyan. 

Meng Yao eyed him carefully, not yet certain where this was leading.

Lan Qiren’s eyes narrowed. “You will relay this to your martial brother: for his disrespect in this class, and his transgressions last night, his punishment shall be the transcription of the Highest Justice from the Righteousness Collection—three times.”

The air sucked in at once. The sound of twenty pairs of lungs gasping softly was almost comical. Several disciples shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances that screamed: three times?

The Righteousness Collection was no slender text; it was the Lan clan’s moral backbone, a tome compiled and edited painstakingly by Lan Qiren himself. And the Highest Justice chapter? Daunting, verbose, written in language that tangled itself into knots. To copy it once was punishment enough. Twice more on top of that? The Orchid Room was silently burning incense for Wei Ying’s soul.

Yet Meng Yao only blinked and tilted his head politely, waiting for Lan Qiren to continue. Surely that can't be all, right? Lan Qiren is known for being a strict and unforgiven teacher. But the more he waited and the more the silence stretched, he realized that this was indeed all.

And then he thought, with quiet amusement: This is what people call strict?

His mind flickered back, unbidden, to the Courtyard House in Yunping—to nights when he and Wei Ying had been caught misbehaving. Shen Jiu’s punishments had even become infamous among the Jiang disciples. Two hundred transcriptions was the baseline of “mercy.” The man had once made Wei Ying hold horse stance on water jars for an entire day and night while reciting the Dao De Jing backwards. Compared to that, copying some Lan family scripture thrice over felt almost like a holiday.

If these people ever witnessed Shizun on a bad day, Meng Yao mused with dry humor, they would faint on the spot.

Still, he inclined his head again, murmuring a deferential “Understood.”

Lan Qiren gave a small grunt of approval and unfurled his scroll once more. He was about to resume when Meng Yao, feeling both petty and mischievous, straightened and raised a hand.

After Wei Ying’s performance from earlier, what kind of brother in chaos would he be if he doesn't pursue the same. Plus, he had to get some sort of revenge on Lan Qiren for targeting Wei Ying like that. 

And if Wei Ying’s antics were theatrical and explosive, then Meng Yao’s were more subtle and passive. Yet they still did the job nonetheless. 

His smile was small, deferential, but his eyes gleamed like the edge of a blade sheathed in silk. “Lan-laoshi, forgive my ignorance, but I find myself unsettled by a question.”

Lan Qiren gave him a look that weighed the boy from head to toe, then inclined his chin. “Speak.”

Meng Yao folded his hands neatly. “You have just spoken of orthodoxy and unorthodoxy. Yet, what defines this line so clearly? Is it the method itself, or is it merely the judgment of those in power?”

The room stirred. Several disciples leaned forward unconsciously. It was the kind of question one thought but never dared ask aloud.

Lan Qiren’s brows pressed down like millstones. “Orthodoxy is defined by what aligns with righteous principle. Unorthodoxy strays from it. It is not so difficult.”

Meng Yao tilted his head ever so slightly, respectful, curious. “But Lan-laoshi, what is ‘righteous principle’? Can it not shift from generation to generation? Was it not once considered unorthodox for cultivators to wield talismans instead of swords, And yet, this method has now become a celebrated cornerstone of cultivation.”

A ripple of whispers darted across the Orchid Room like minnows scattering.

Lan Qiren placed his scroll against the lectern. “Talismans were sanctified through generations of discipline and refinement. They were not born of corruption.”

Meng Yao pressed delicately, like a cat with one paw on a mouse. “But surely, at the time of their creation, those who first used them were branded heretics? Would it not follow, then, that today’s heresy may be tomorrow’s orthodoxy?”

A few disciples gasped outright. Someone dropped their brush.

Lan Qiren’s face darkened, but his voice was steady, ironclad. He had realized exactly what Meng Yao was doing, the boy was not asking for the sake of finding answers, instead he was challenging Lan Qiren’s intellect with these questions. This was not a debate but rather a duel of wits. “The righteous path does not alter. Those who mistake corruption for innovation sow only chaos. The boundary between orthodox and unorthodox is not one of convenience, but of moral principle.”

Meng Yao’s smile remained polite, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. “Is moral principle not also a matter of perspective? Consider: a sword may defend the weak or slaughter them. Is the sword orthodox, or unorthodox? Or is it the heart of the one who wields it that defines it?”

The room held its breath. Even Lan Wangji’s gaze flickered sideways, settling briefly on Meng Yao.

Lan Qiren’s goatee trembled faintly, but he shot back, “The heart defines the man, but the method reveals him. A corrupt method corrupts the wielder in time, regardless of intent.”

Meng Yao bowed his head slightly, as though chastened, but then lifted it again with a glimmer in his eyes. “Forgive me, Lan-laoshi, but if intent is paramount, then why condemn the method at all? If a righteous cultivator employs an unorthodox practice purely to save lives—does that not sanctify the act? Or is he forever branded corrupt?”

A disciple in the back muttered under his breath, “That’s…a good question…” before being hushed by a sharp glance.

Lan Qiren’s voice cut through the air like a bell. “No, because corruption once courted is corruption forever. To step into the shadows, even for noble cause, is to risk never returning. That is why the line must be drawn bright and sharp.”

Meng Yao’s lashes lowered thoughtfully, his voice quiet and smooth. “But are shadows not only the edges of the light we do not yet understand? Should we not seek to study them, rather than fear them?”

The Orchid Room broke into shivers of suppressed whispers.

Lan Qiren’s beard quivered furiously, but his gaze held steady, if you looked closely, you would be able to see a glimmer of interest in his eyes. “You speak like one intoxicated by clever words. Shadows cannot be studied without risk of corruption. That is why those who flirt with them are condemned—lest they drag others down.”

Meng Yao pressed again, softly but sharply. “But is ignorance not also dangerous, Lan-laoshi? ’The ignorant does to himself what the enemy does not do to his enemy.’” he quoted, “If we shun the shadows entirely, do we not leave ourselves vulnerable to them? Perhaps knowledge, even of dangerous things, is a kind of safeguard. Understanding does not mean embracing.”

It was a masterstroke, and the silence that followed was heavy. Even the most inattentive disciples were scribbling furiously now, ears wide, eyes darting between the two.

Lan Qiren’s jaw clenched. He held the boy’s gaze for a long, taut moment, and then—exhaled.

“Knowledge is a double-edged sword,” he said at last, voice low. “Those strong enough to wield it rightly are few. That is why rules exist: to shield the weak from what they cannot master. That is the purpose of orthodoxy. That is the foundation upon which the cultivation world stands.”

Meng Yao lowered his gaze, bowing deeply this time. “Lan-laoshi’s words are a lantern in fog. I am enlightened.”

Lan Qiren huffed, tugged his sleeves, and looked away, but the faintest glimmer in his eyes betrayed something perilously close to…respect.

Across the room, disciples exchanged glances. Some were wide-eyed in awe, others pale with nerves, still others frantically noting down every phrase of the debate.

Lan Wangji, however, gave Meng Yao a single lingering glance—cool, but contemplative. A flicker of intrigue beneath all that ice.

And Meng Yao, lips pressed into the very picture of humility, hid the smallest of smiles behind his sleeve.

He had won nothing tangible, but he had won attention. And sometimes, that was victory enough.

The sun had slipped lower, scattering gold across the pale tiles of the Cloud Recesses. After class, the flood of disciples emptied into the courtyards, whispering excitedly. It took Jiang Cheng, Nie Huaisang, and Meng Yao a good while to locate the missing menace.

Wei Ying was, of course, perched on top of a wall.

He sat as though the spot had been made for him, one leg dangling, the other propped up, his cheek resting on his palm. A thin sprig of grass lolled lazily from the corner of his mouth, and the breeze stirred his hair as if it wanted in on his mischief. The people below pointed up at him like he was some exotic bird that escaped from its cage.

“Wei-xiong!” Nie Huaisang cupped his hands around his mouth, his voice bubbling with glee. “You’re amazing! He told you to get out and you really got out! Hahahaha!”

Jiang Cheng’s lips twitched, though his voice came out sharp. “He couldn’t wrap his head around what happened for the longest time, you know. His face was so sour I thought he’d start coughing up blood.”

Still chewing his blade of grass, Wei Ying shouted down, grin wide. “I answered his questions, didn’t I? Then he told me to get out, and I did. What more does he want from me—gratitude for my obedience?”

Meng Yao pinched the bridge of his nose, deadpan. “It’s the first day. Couldn’t you have at least waited until tomorrow before making every single Lan disciple glare at you like you set their library on fire?”

Wei Ying tilted his head back and laughed, sunlight catching in his eyes. “Oh, come on, I haven’t even touched the library yet.”

“Yet,” Meng Yao echoed flatly, a knowing look in his eyes. 

Nie Huaisang, fanning himself with his ever-present fan, leaned closer to Jiang Cheng and whispered conspiratorially—but not quietly enough—“Why does it seem like Old Man Lan is extra strict with Wei-xiong? Calling him out in front of everyone like that—too fierce.”

“Serves him right,” Jiang Cheng muttered, arms crossed. “What’s with those answers? All that nonsense is fine for his shizun, whatever, but to say it in front of Lan Qiren? He was begging for punishment.”

Wei Ying only waved cheerfully from above. “He’ll never like me either way, so I might as well say what I want. Besides, I didn’t call him names. I just gave honest answers, that’s all!”

At this, Nie Huaisang suddenly brightened. “Speaking of—after you left, Meng-xiong started debating with Old Man Lan! You should’ve seen it!”

Wei Ying’s leg stopped swinging. He practically leapt down from the wall, landing with a soft thud before Meng Yao, eyes wide and gleaming. “You did?!”

Meng Yao’s dimple appeared, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to—Nie Huaisang was bursting to tell it for him.

“It was incredible! I’ve never seen anyone dare to go toe-to-toe with Lan Qiren before, but Meng-xiong actually managed to make him stumble. He even controlled the flow of the whole exchange! And the things he said—so sharp, so clever—I thought the Orchid Room was going to explode from how quiet everyone went!”

Jiang Cheng let out a long, put-upon sigh, shooting Meng Yao a half-hearted glare. “Congratulations. Now you’re doomed, too. He’ll never let you live in peace after this.”

Wei Ying, meanwhile, smacked Meng Yao’s back so hard the poor boy staggered. “That’s my Shidi! Defending my honor after I left—good man!”

Meng Yao winced, swatting at his hand. “You’ll defend my honor straight into a dislocated shoulder if you keep hitting me like that!”

Wei Ying raised both palms in mock surrender, smirking. “Alright, alright, I yield.”

Jiang Cheng groaned under his breath. “Two menaces. Just what the Lan sect needed.”

While Meng Yao rubbed his shoulder, Nie Huaisang grew pensive, fanning slower, Wei Ying’s earlier words resurfacing in his mind. Finally, envy flickered across his face.

“What Wei-xiong said back there… it’s actually interesting. To form spiritual energy you need a golden core, right? And for people like me, that’s not going to come quickly. Any aptitude I had got chewed up by dogs in my mother’s womb.” He sighed dramatically, then perked again. “But resentful energy… that’s everywhere. If it really could be used—how nice would that be? And Meng-xiong, what you said too—about actions being judged by intentions…”

The golden core—a mark of a true cultivator. Meng Yao, scholarly to the bone, knew all the theories by heart, and Wei Ying had grown up under Shen Jiu’s lectures drilling it in. Without a core, you were little more than a fraud with a sword. Nie Huaisang, however, spoke of it with a careless honesty that drew Wei Ying’s grin wide.

“Right?” Wei Ying slapped his hands together. “All that energy just floating around—it’d be a waste not to use it.”

Smack. 

Meng Yao brought his fist down on both their heads. “Are you two mad? Discussing heresy at the top of your lungs? Do you want the Lans to throw us down the mountain before the second day is done?”

“Ow! Ow! Why did you do that, Yao-ge!” Wei Ying whined, rubbing his head. “Meanie!”

“Enough,” Jiang Cheng warned, his frown deep as his voice dropped. “Talk about it all you want, but don’t even think of actually walking that path. Do you want to disgrace your Shizun? You’ll drag all of us with you.” he pointed at Wei Ying then at Nie Huaisang, “And you! If your brother heard you speak, he'd break your legs!”

“Ah, calm down Jiang-xiong. It's just talking, nothing serious.”

Wei Ying, still grinning, leaned against his shoulder, drawing a disgusted scowl. “Relax, Cheng-Cheng—”

“Who are you calling Cheng-Cheng!”

“—Why would I leave the broad road under the sun to creep along a rotten little bridge in the shadows? If it were that easy, someone would’ve done it already.”

Nie Huaisang fanned himself leisurely. Meng Yao muttered darkly. Jiang Cheng only huffed and stalked ahead, muttering about headaches.

Wei Ying hopped after them, calling brightly, “Enough gloomy faces! Come hunt pheasants with me before curfew starts!”

Jiang Cheng spun around. “What pheasants? Where in the world do you see pheasants here?!”

Meng Yao seized the moment, tone mild but words sharp as needles. “Speaking of pheasants—Lan Qiren told me to tell you you’re to copy the ‘Highest Justice’ chapter of the Righteousness Collection three times. That should keep you busy instead.”

Wei Ying froze mid-step, spat out his grass sprig, and brushed off his boots as if dusting responsibility from his person. “Absolutely not. I’m not a Lan, and I don’t plan on marrying into the Lans either, so why should I copy their family rules three hundred times?”

“Three hundred—?!” Nie Huaisang sputtered, his fan nearly slipping from his grip.

“Three times,” Meng Yao corrected smoothly.

Wei Ying blinked. “…Three? That’s it?”

Meng Yao arched a brow. Jiang Cheng’s eyes nearly popped.

“What do you mean that’s it?!” Jiang Cheng snapped. “Do you know how long that chapter is? I’ll ascend to immortality from copying it once, and you have to do it three times! Don’t underestimate the Lan scriptures unless you want to be humbled!”

Wei Ying and Meng Yao shared a look. The same thought passed between them, unspoken but clear as crystal.

That’s too little. 

I know.

Wei Ying grinned. Meng Yao’s dimple deepened.

And Jiang Cheng, catching sight of the silent exchange, nearly groaned aloud. He had a vague idea about the severity of Shen Jiu’s punishments and knew his two friends found Lan Qiren’s too easy to even pose a challenge. He only hopes these two won't abuse the fact to mess around.

Nie Huaisang, being the only one in the dark, fluttered his fan dramatically and leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll copy it for you, Wei-xiong!”

Wei Ying’s brows shot up. He spat out what was left of his grass sprig, giving him a long side-eye. “Mm. There’s always something fishy about people being so generous out of nowhere. Go on then—what do you want?”

Nie Huaisang laughed nervously and fanned faster, hiding half his face behind the painted bamboo leaves. “Wei-xiong sees straight through me. You see… Old Man Lan has this terrible habit—”

But he cut himself off mid-sentence. His hand stilled, fan snapping shut with a muted click. His posture shrank at once, and his eyes darted somewhere over Wei Ying’s shoulder.

That was all the warning anyone got before the air around them shifted.

Wei Ying turned—and, ah. Of course.

Lan Wangji stood a little way off under the ancient tree, as if he’d stepped straight from a painting. White robes, wide sleeves, sashes flowing with the wind; his figure was upright as a blade, shadowed by branches and mottled sunlight. Bichen rested across his back, gleaming faintly where the light caught on silver.

The picture might have been ethereal, but his gaze most certainly was not.

Meeting those golden eyes was like walking headfirst into an ice cellar. Everyone stiffened. They’d been loud earlier, their laughter bouncing shamelessly across the courtyards, and it was obvious their noise had lured him here. At once, the chatter died, the four boys suddenly very aware of their volume.

Wei Ying, however, broke into a grin and hopped a step forward, hand raised like they were old friends. “Wangji-xiong!” he called brightly.

No reply. Lan Wangji’s gaze slid over him as though he were less than air.

The others exchanged looks of dawning horror. Jiang Cheng pressed his lips together to keep from groaning aloud. Nie Huaisang ducked back behind his fan entirely.

But contrary to what they thought, Lan Wangji hadn’t come merely to glare. He stepped forward, stopping just shy of their group. A curt nod of greeting, polite enough, and then—

His eyes found Meng Yao.

“Meng Wuyan,” he said, voice steady, each syllable cool as carved jade. “Shufu summons you. Come.”

The silence that followed was palpable.

Meng Yao’s breath caught in his throat. Behind him, the other three perked in a mix of curiosity and dread. Lan Qiren’s office? There was no doubt why.

Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang exchanged looks, the same thought flashing across their faces. They each lit a candle in their hearts for their doomed friend.

Lan Wangji turned on his heel, expecting immediate compliance, his white sleeves swaying like banners.

Wei Ying dashed after him. “Wangji-xiong, wait for me!”

The only answer was the ripple of white vanishing behind the tree, quick as wind over water.

Wei Ying stopped short, blinking. “He ignored me.”

Nie Huaisang peeked out from behind his fan, voice soft but gleeful. “Mm… looks like he really doesn’t like you, Wei-xiong. Lan Wangji’s never this rude—never. Not even to strangers. And yet with you…” He trailed off dramatically.

Wei Ying gaped at him. “He hates me already? I was going to apologize!”

Jiang Cheng scoffed outright. “Now you’re apologizing? Too late. Just like his shufu, he probably thinks you’re rotten to the core. Evil, a lost cause. He won’t waste his breath giving you the time of day.”

Wei Ying stared at him with exaggerated offense. “Rotten? Evil? Cheng-Cheng, don’t stab your own friend in the back like this.”

Meng Yao only sighed, adjusting his robes as he nodded slightly to the others. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He moved quickly, not daring to lose sight of the trail of white before it vanished entirely. He was a little surprised to see Lan Wangji still waiting for him behind the trunk of the tree. 

Wei Ying, still watching, pouted, his shoulders dropping.

“Honestly,” he muttered as Meng Yao’s silhouette disappeared, “it’s not like he’s even that pretty.”

Then, after a beat, he tilted his head, thinking it over. His grin edged back in, crooked and boyish. “…Alright, maybe he is that pretty. But still.” He tossed the thought behind him like a crumpled note, shrugging it off.

Jiang Cheng groaned at his theatrics. Nie Huaisang just giggled, fanning furiously to hide his grin.

Chapter Text

With both Wei Ying and Meng Yao shipped off to Gusu, Shen Jiu’s days fell strangely quiet. Too quiet, in fact. For years he had grown used to the constant background noise of bickering boys, clumsy footsteps, or the occasional explosion of “Shizun, it was an accident!” echoing through the halls. Now, in their absence, he could hear the wind slip through the corridors without interruption.

At first, he thought it would be a blessing. Peace at last. Freedom from chaos. But after three days, the silence started gnawing. He caught himself searching for Wei Ying’s ridiculous laugh or Meng Yao’s careful, too-polite voice. He clicked his tongue at himself—ridiculous.

Still, with nothing tethering him to one place, Shen Jiu found himself wandering. He paid visits to Yu Ziyuan, who welcomed him with eyes of approval and a cup of tea. Jiang Yanli would sit demurely beside her, smiling softly, pouring for him with practiced grace. Their conversations were clipped, but pleasant enough. Even Jiang Fengmian received a few rare words from him, though Shen Jiu mostly endured that man with thinly veiled disdain.

The rest of his time, however, was spent at the quiet little courtyard house in Yunping, where he lived with Sisi. 

It had become something of a routine: escorting her through the market, trailing after her while she haggled with fishmongers, helping her carry baskets, sometimes joining her in the kitchen. He didn’t mind the domestic rhythm. He didn’t even mind when the townspeople cast knowing glances their way. Let them think they were husband and wife; if it kept wagging tongues from aiming sharper insults at her, then so be it.

One late afternoon, Shen Jiu was already lounging in the courtyard, fan half-open, idly flipping through a small scroll when Sisi’s voice floated through the gate.

“I’m back!”

He glanced up. She came into view with a bundle in her arms—not vegetables, not fabric rolls, but flowers. A whole bouquet of them, vibrant and fresh, tied with a neat ribbon.

The bouquet looked almost too bright against the worn wood of the courtyard, its vivid colors standing out like a careless splash of paint. Shen Jiu eyed it the way one might eye a poisonous mushroom.

He raised a brow. “...What’s that?”

“Flowers,” she said simply, but there was a glow in her cheeks that betrayed her mood. She looked down at the bouquet with the kind of tender delight that made Shen Jiu immediately suspicious.

“I can see they’re flowers,” he drawled, snapping his fan shut. “The question is: why are you carrying them as if they’re a treasure chest?”

Sisi pursed her lips, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “The new textile merchant in town gave them to me.”

Shen Jiu’s expression soured instantly. “Hn. The one who set up shop by the tofu seller?” He set his fan aside and leaned forward, eyes narrowing. 

“That's the one.” Sisi chirped.

“Mm.” Shen Jiu leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Did he also happen to mention how charming you looked while carrying them home?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “...Well, yes. He might have said that.”

“And you just… took them?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, a little defensive now, hugging the bouquet closer. “It was kind. No one has given me flowers in years.”

“What the hell are you talking about!?” Shen Jiu spat, offended at the accusation. “What about all the flowers I gave you before? Are they not considered flowers now?!”

“It's not like that, Shen-lang.” Sisi pouted, looking down at her feet instead of facing Shen Jiu’s sharp eyes. 

“Then it's like what?”

“It's just…” Sisi trailed off, her cheeks flushing at the next words she was about to say. “The flowers you give me are ones to express platonic affection, but these ones… are romantic.”

Shen Jiu’s tone dripped with disbelief. “You think men hand out flowers for free? Tch. He’s not kind, Sisi. He’s plotting.”

She blinked, then tilted her head at him, bemused. “Plotting what, exactly? He’s a merchant. He sells fabric.”

“Plotting you,” Shen Jiu shot back flatly. “And don’t look at me like that. Men don’t waste coin and effort unless they want something in return. He’s not admiring your embroidery skills, I assure you.”

That earned him a deadpan stare. Sisi looked him up and down, bouquet cradled against her hip. “Shen-lang, you sound like an old crone who’s been cheated at the marketplace one too many times.”

His lip curled. “I sound like someone who has eyes. You’d do well to use yours. You think because he smiles and hands you flowers, he’s honorable? Please.” He made a dismissive wave. “Give it a week, he’ll be circling your door with silk bolts, then marriage talk.”

Her brows arched, amusement creeping back into her face. “And that’s a problem because…?”

“Because he’s a man,” Shen Jiu said, voice sharp. “And men always have knives hidden under their sleeves.”

Sisi lifted her brows at his dire words, entirely unconvinced. “What a way to ruin a perfectly nice gesture.”

“A bouquet is just bait, Sisi.” Shen Jiu said flatly. “And you’re standing there smiling at the hook like a fish.”

Sisi laughed openly this time, the sound light and musical. “Since when did you become my protective father? Should I start calling you Shen Fuqin?”

His lip curled in disgust. “Call me that and I’ll throw you into the pond.”

Still chuckling, she came to sit across from him, setting the bouquet gently on the floor between them. “Why are you always like this, ah? So suspicious. So ready to draw your sword at shadows.”

“Because shadows are where knives hide,” Shen Jiu replied without hesitation. His gaze lingered on her, sharper than the edge of any blade. “I’ve seen too much to think otherwise. And you—” he jabbed a finger at her “—you’re too softhearted. You’d let a wolf through the door just because it brought a lamb in its mouth.”

She tilted her head, eyes dancing with amusement. “And what if the wolf isn’t hungry? What if it just wanted to bring me a gift?”

“There is no such thing as a wolf that isn’t hungry,” Shen Jiu said. His voice was like iron, like he believed it down to his bones.

Sisi studied him for a moment, her smile softening. “You’ve decided the whole world is made of wolves.”

He looked away, snapping his fan open again, hiding his expression behind the painted silk. “Better to assume the worst than be caught off guard. You’d do well to be less trusting, you know how bad the world can be.”

She reached over and plucked the fan from his hand with a swift tug before he could react. “And you’d do well to stop frowning at every good thing. Look at you, glaring at flowers like they spat in your tea. Can’t you just be happy someone thought of me?”

Shen Jiu glared at her now instead, hand hovering in the air where his fan had been. “I’ll be happy when the someone isn’t a man with unknown intentions.”

“Then you’ll never be happy,” she teased, twirling his fan idly. “Because in your eyes, everyone has bad intentions. Even when they don’t.”

“That’s because they always do.”

She smirked, tapping his shoulder with the fan. “Then I suppose it’s fortunate for me that I already have you. What merchant or scholar could possibly compete with Shen Jiu the Wolf-Slayer?”

He scoffed, but a faint flush crept up his neck. “Don’t mock me, woman.”

“I’m not mocking,” she said, eyes bright with amusement. “If anything, I’m grateful. Who else would scare off textile merchants for me?”

Shen Jiu finally reclaimed his fan with a sharp tug, snapping it open with a flourish. He tried to look annoyed, but the faintest curve tugged at his lips. “Ridiculous. You should be thanking me for saving you from foolishness.”

“I’ll thank you,” she said sweetly, “if you put one of these flowers in your hair.”

He choked, whipping his head around to glare at her. “Absolutely not.”

“You’d look handsome.”

“Over my dead body.”

She laughed again, warm and unbothered, while Shen Jiu huffed and pretended to ignore her, though his hand strayed to the single blossom she’d slipped on his lap for him earlier. His fingers brushed over its petals once, twice—betraying him.

Sisi caught the motion out of the corner of her eye, but she said nothing. She only smiled.

It's not that she didn't understand where Shen Jiu was coming from, she did—gods, she did—but even with that knowledge she likes to give the world a chance and believe in the goodness of other people. After all, Shen Jiu is living proof that there are kind and caring people still in this world. 

Who else would buy the contracts of two famous prostitutes—mind you they were very expensive—and instead of demanding they pay him back in some kind of way, he sets them free and even chooses to buy them a home and care for them. The answer was no one, except Shen Jiu. 

The days had grown too quiet. Too neat. Too damn peaceful.

Without his two little gremlins buzzing around like mosquitoes—one chattering his ears off, the other smiling with that infuriatingly polite dimple—Shen Jiu found himself sitting in courtyards with too much stillness pressing against his chest. He told himself it was bliss. Liberation. A long-deserved reprieve.

And yet…

After the fifth day of watching Sisi hum as she embroidered by the window, and after the sixth day of wandering through the market with no one tugging on his sleeves to demand candied hawthorns or paper toys, Shen Jiu realized something grim. He was bored. Horribly, achingly bored.

Not that he’d ever admit the truth. That he missed his brats. No, absolutely not. Missing them was not on the table. He simply required…stimulation. Something to sharpen his blade on.

So he resumed his old habits. Rogue cultivator work. Hunting corpses, monsters, anything that screamed or stank of blood. Something to remind him that he still had an edge.

When he told Sisi that he'll be leaving to resume his travels, she had folded her arms, lips trembling between amusement and exasperation. “At least try not to come back with your robes in tatters,” she’d said. “You’ve got no disciples to patch them for you this time.”

“But I still got you.” He replied instantly. Sisi scowled. 

“Look at you, were you not the one who told me not long ago to stop treating you like my husband?” she asked, a mix of offense and teasing in her tone. “But now here you are, treating me like your wife.”

He rolled his eyes, flicked her forehead with his fan, and left to the sound of her laughter chasing him out the door.

Sword beneath his feet, he cut across the sky. North, where rumors whispered of fierce corpses gnawing on travelers. Each time he found one, he cut it down with ruthless efficiency, leaving whispers behind him instead—of a pale cultivator in jade-green robes who appeared like lightning and vanished just as quickly.

Eventually, his path carried him to Yueyang.

The town sprawled modestly below, its roofs dull brown against the haze of dust. Compared to the glittering sprawl of Lanling or the bustle of Yunmeng, it was an unimpressive little pocket of humanity. Shen Jiu curved his lip faintly as he descended into its streets. The Chang sect territory, if memory serves. A second-rate clan with delusions of relevance.

The road was sunbaked and loud with the clamor of carts, vendors crying their wares, the air thick with the smell of fried cakes and horse dung. Shen Jiu adjusted his sleeve as he walked, scanning for an inn worth his coin.

That was when something small and ragged slammed into his hip.

Shen Jiu halted, brows furrowing. A child had toppled backward onto the dirt road, a plume of dust rising around his thin frame. His robes were patched, threadbare; his face was streaked with grime. Wide maroon eyes blinked up at him, startled and bright.

Before Shen Jiu could so much as scowl, the boy scrambled upright, bowing frantically, words tumbling out of his mouth like loose marbles.

“Gongzi! I—I’m sorry, so sorry, forgive me, I wasn’t looking—”

Shen Jiu lifted a brow, gaze cold but not cruel. “Mn. Next time, look where you’re going.”

The boy froze, then his little face split into a wide grin. He bowed again, voice piping, “Yes, yes, thank you, gongzi, for the advice! I will remember it!”

Shen Jiu blinked. It wasn’t often someone thanked him for a scolding. He flicked open his fan lazily. “What’s the rush, anyway? You nearly cracked your skull on my knee.”

The boy held up a crumpled envelope with both hands, chest puffed out. “I’m delivering a letter! Important! Can’t be late!”

Shen Jiu’s gaze lingered on the envelope, then the boy’s ragged cuffs. Courier? Hardly. He looked more like a street rat scraping coin for scraps. And Shen Jiu knew what that was like, down to the marrow.

He remembered another child—barefoot, filthy, ribs showing through skin, darting through streets with a scrap of parchment clutched in hand. He had been fast, the fastest of the street rats, and that speed kept him and Qi-ge fed. A letter delivered here, a package carried there, and if luck was kind, they might eat a steamed bun that night instead of licking rain from their palms. He remembered the weight of coins burning in his fist, the way Qi-ge’s smile softened when he handed them over, pretending the effort was nothing at all. That memory sat bitter on his tongue now, as unwelcome as the dust in his lungs.

His tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “Deliver it, then. Standing here yapping only wastes more time.”

The boy’s grin widened. “Yes, gongzi!” He bobbed another bow, then turned on his heel and bolted, little legs pumping, envelope clutched tight.

Shen Jiu watched him go, the small figure darting through the crowd like a darting fish, dust puffing up in his wake. Something in the boy’s sprint snagged at him unexpectedly—reckless, breathless, bright.

For a flicker of a moment, he saw Wei Ying’s grin, saw Meng Yao’s eager nod, the way both boys used to dash ahead of him in the streets of Yunping as if the world would end if they didn’t get to the dumpling stall first.

Shen Jiu clicked his tongue sharply, as though that sound alone could sever the thought.

... Sentimental old fool. It’s only been three weeks. Three measly weeks, and already you’re hallucinating your brats into every passing stray... 

He shut his fan with a snap, dusting off his sleeve as if to brush away the discomfort. “Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the nearest inn.

But the echo of maroon eyes and a boy’s wild sprint followed him down the street, clinging like burrs to his thoughts.

The inn Shen Jiu finally settled on was plain but tolerable—thick beams of dark wood, paper lanterns swinging faintly from the eaves, and the faint smell of oil and fried dumplings clinging to the walls. At least it wasn’t crawling with lice.

He passed a man hunched at a table near the entrance, fingers drumming too quickly, leg bouncing like a rabbit caught in a snare. Anxious. Fidgeting. Shen Jiu spared him one sharp, assessing glance and dismissed him immediately. 

The innkeeper, a pudgy man with greasy hair combed back, bustled to show him upstairs. “This way, gongzi, clean sheets, good ventilation, best we have.”

“Mm.” Shen Jiu’s tone said he wasn’t impressed, but the room sufficed. He set down his sword, took stock of his surroundings with one sweeping glance, and dropped onto the floor to sink into meditation. His breathing slowed. His qi ran smooth as a blade along his meridians.

Then—noise.

A crash from downstairs, the scuffle of fists and a body hitting a table. Shen Jiu’s brow twitched. He didn’t move, only sharpened his hearing. Two men. One losing badly. Screams. Splintering wood. Then silence.

He exhaled through his nose. So Yueyang’s entertainment was tavern brawls. Not his business.

Peace, for a while—until more noise cut through from outside. This time, not the thick thud of men fighting, but the sharp pitch of a child’s cry. A man’s roar answered it.

Shen Jiu’s eyes snapped open.

…Even here, even alone, they wouldn’t let me have quiet… 

He rose, walked to the window, and slid it open. Below in the dust-choked street, the anxious man from earlier was now a bruised mess, towering over a small, crumpled figure on the ground. His boots rose and fell mercilessly, kicking up dirt and screams together.

Shen Jiu’s lip curled. A grown man beating a child. Typical asshole behavior. 

Once, he would have turned away. Children got beaten all the time—on the streets of his own past, no one had spared him a second glance. Survival was brutal, and weakness was a target. But that was before. Before two insufferable brats wormed their way into his life. Before he’d caught himself looking at every street child and imagining Wei Ying’s loud grin or Meng Yao’s careful bow.

Fatherhood—even the counterfeit kind—twisted a man’s perspective. Now all he saw was red.

By the time his thoughts cleared, the man had backed off, shouting as he turned for a carriage. The child—ragged robes, maroon eyes wide, he recognized those eyes from an earlier encounter—stumbled after him, clutching a folded arm to his chest. “Y-you promised!” the boy stammered.

The man whirled around, face red in anger and raised his hand, fingers curled to strike. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, braced for the blow—

But it never came. 

When he opened his eyes, all he saw was green. 

Shen Jiu’s sleeve fell like a curtain before him, jade-green eyes sharp as blades glaring down at the abuser. His hand clamped around the man’s wrist, stopping it cold mid-swing.

The man jerked, struggling, but the grip was iron. Shen Jiu only released him when he decided to, shoving his hand aside with contemptuous ease.

The man staggered back, sputtering. Shen Jiu stepped forward, shifting just enough so the child was tucked safely behind him. The boy peeked out, startled recognition flashing—this was the same stranger he had run into earlier.

“You,” Shen Jiu drawled, voice low and venomous, “are a pitiful excuse for a man. Beaten bloody by someone your own size, so you come to kick children in the street? Pathetic. It seems you're nothing more than a coward with a quick temper and slower fists.” His gaze slid over the man’s visible bruises, lingering mockingly. “Clearly you’re only capable of winning against someone half your height.”

The man flushed with rage. “You dare speak to me like this? Do you know who I am? I am Chang Ping, leader of the Chang Sect!”

Shen Jiu gave a short, cold laugh. “And I am supposed to be impressed? A barking dog is still just a dog.” He turned his head, ignoring him entirely, and crouched slightly toward the boy. “Are you alright?”

Shen Jiu felt like an idiot, one look at the boy could show that he was anything but alright. But he didn't know what else to ask. 

The boy nodded timidly, clutching his arm tighter. Shen Jiu’s eyes narrowed, noticing how his weight leaned off his left leg. He scowled.

“Hey! Don't you dare ignore me!” Chang Ping roared, incensed at being ignored. He lunged forward, hand grasping for Shen Jiu’s shoulder. “You fucker, I'll show you—”

CRACK.

A single strike and his arm broke clean at the joint. Chang Ping collapsed with a scream, clutching the mangled limb, rolling in the dirt like a slaughtered pig.

Shen Jiu looked down at him with the expression one might give a squashed bug. Boring. Disappointing. Disgusting. 

Turning back to the boy, his voice softened a fraction. “Where did he hit you? How many times?”

The child blinked, confused by the sudden shift, but under Shen Jiu’s steady gaze, he stammered out an answer—a kick to the ribs, a punch to the mouth, a strike to the head, and so on. 

“Good,” Shen Jiu murmured, almost to himself. Then, without another word, he descended on Chang Ping.

Fists, feet, merciless precision—Shen Jiu repaid every strike, every blow, exactly as described. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and the one who starts is more unjust. The boy’s words turned into Chang Ping’s punishment. Shen Jiu moved with clinical cruelty, each hit punctuated by cold disdain.

The boy, spurred by Shen Jiu’s encouragement, had started to mention more of what Chang Ping did to him with enthusiasm, and maybe even making it up here and there. 

By the end, Chang Ping was nothing more than a heap of blood and dust, unconscious in the road.

Shen Jiu straightened, flexing his bloodied knuckles with irritation. “Tch. Ruined another sleeve.” He clicked his tongue, as if lamenting laundry rather than violence.

The boy was staring at him, wide-eyed. Awed. 

Shen Jiu raised a brow, then offered his hand. “Come. We’ll have your injuries treated.”

Hesitantly, the boy placed his small hand in his. Even though Shen Jiu’s hands were bloody and rough, for some reason, the boy thought that there was nothing more comforting in the world than their touch. And he held onto them tightly, not wanting to let go. 

As Shen Jiu led him toward the inn, the boy glanced back over his shoulder. Behind them, the carriage driver was scrambling, dragging Chang Ping’s limp body back into the carriage before hastily spurring the horses away.

A feeling of vindicated satisfaction burned in his chest, and a smirk broke on his face, showing his sharp canines. 

Shen Jiu didn’t spare them a second look. Trash took itself out.

Chapter Text

Shen Jiu didn’t bother to glance at the muttering crowd as he strode back into the inn with the boy in tow. He walked as if he hadn’t just beaten a sect leader bloody in the street, jade-green eyes forward, spine straight, hand firm around the boy’s wrist.

The innkeeper nearly tripped over himself rushing to the door. He bowed so low Shen Jiu half-expected him to topple face-first into the floorboards. “Gongzi! Such—such gallantry! Please, please, whatever you need!” His voice wobbled, uncertain if he was praising or pleading.

“Prepare a bath in my room,” Shen Jiu said curtly.

The man nodded so vigorously his greasy bun slipped loose. He whirled on the servant boy by the counter, barking orders like a man possessed. Shen Jiu didn’t wait—he simply kept climbing the stairs, the child’s small hand limp in his.

Once in his room, he shut the door with a snap and finally allowed himself to take a long look at the boy.

Filthy robes, knees scraped raw, one arm held gingerly to his chest. Bruises in layers, old and new, purple fading to yellow beneath the fresh red welts. The stubborn way the boy stood upright, though his body leaned ever so slightly off one leg. Shen Jiu exhaled through his nose.

…A common occurrence, really… 

Children like this littered the streets of every city, expendable and invisible. But this one hadn’t cried. Hadn’t whimpered. Just stood, battered and scrawny, eyes darting everywhere but forward. Shen Jiu knew that look well. He’d worn it himself once.

The boy’s wide maroon eyes flicked around the room, then back up at Shen Jiu. The longer Shen Jiu stared, the more the boy fidgeted, shoulders stiff with unease.

Of course he was uneasy. Being dragged alone into a closed room by a stranger rarely meant anything good for a child like him. He’d heard the whispers on the streets himself, the warnings hissed by older kids: Don’t follow men into alleys. Don’t let them get you alone. Better to starve than to risk that.

The boy swallowed hard. Was it really a good idea to have followed this man?

The door creaked again and servants came bustling in, setting down a wooden tub with steaming water, pouring in ladles of hot and cold until it was full. They arranged soaps and oils on a tray, bowing hastily before scurrying out. The door shut behind them with a soft thud.

The boy’s heart jumped into his throat. He stared at the tub, then at the locked door, then at Shen Jiu, who stood silent and still as a blade by the table.

Menacing. Quiet. Too quiet.

The silence broke with Shen Jiu’s voice, low and flat. “Strip.”

The boy froze. His breath stuttered.

Shen Jiu was busy pouring a measure of oil he produced from his sleeve into the water, checking the temperature with his hand, not even looking at him. But to the boy, those words rang out like a death sentence.

His legs locked. His heart pounded. He could bolt—but what would happen if he tried? He’d seen what this man could do. If he could beat Chang Ping senseless without effort, what chance did a boy like him stand?

Shen Jiu turned his head at the stillness. The child hadn’t moved an inch. His robes clung to him, stiff with grime. Shen Jiu arched a brow, leaning on one hip, arms crossed. “Well?”