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Chapter Text

[ ACTIVATION CODE: “Dumbfuck author! Dumbfuck novel!” ]

[ SYNCHRONIZING… ]

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[ RECALIBRATING… ]

[ SYNCHRONIZING… ]

[ TRANSFER COMPLETE: “Good luck, Host!” ]

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Shen Yuan wakes up blearily. As per his usual routine, he heaves a long sigh and peels his face up off the desk. After rubbing his eyes and blinking a few times, he casually glances around and… frowns. This definitely isn’t his room, but—

“Shit!”

He startles from his seat, throwing out a hand to keep the lit candle from tipping over and utterly decimating the piles upon piles of paper—a rush of energy shoots through him and instantly extinguishes it just before he physically reaches it. Shen Yuan frowns at his hand, taking an extra helping of care while he fixes the candle. Once it’s upright again, he feebly flexes the hand in question. It’s still buzzing with energy, like a less painful version of that pins-and-needles sensation. Isn’t this a bit, well, extreme for a dream?

Wait. His eyes catch a fleck of gold. Please, don’t be what he thinks it is.

Scrunching up his face, Shen Yuan plucks one of the several official, sealed letters shoved in this corner and holds it closer to the open window. He curses to himself. Moon, you traitor! Couldn’t you have dramatically revealed literally anything except Huan Hua’s old emblem before Luo Binghe took over?

Okay. So, he’s dreaming about Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s wretched novel now. Great! Really, just great! And here he thought he was done with that trash after choking—

Shen Yuan pinches the bridge of his nose and, very elegantly, sinks back down into the chair at his desk and ends up covering his entire face with his hands. Right. Well, being trapped in his own personal nine rings of hell à la Proud Immortal Demon Way in a comatose state can’t be the worst fate out there.

Yeah, right! Couldn’t anything else have sent him into this fever dream? Once he wakes up from this, he’s never going to get any allowance to waste on such shittily (cummily?) strung along worldbuilding ever again. Just the thought of his meimei walking in on him and unwittingly reading that complete and utter dogshit excuse for a final passage—he’s going to grind his teeth into dust just thinking about it—for this webnovel that only people with literal webs in their thick skulls could possibly derive pleasure from? It’s enough to give him hives! Literal hives!

Ugh. If it came to light, he just hopes she assured the rest of his family he would hate it to the grave. But don't cut his life support yet, because he still needs to leave a rating on the site so he can publicly denounce all engagement with it too: Zero of ten. Don't waste your fucking time.

Shen Yuan reluctantly lets his hands fall from his face and pokes at the papers scrawled around his desk. The sheer number of them definitely represents the onslaught of tabs his poor computer endured in the name of writing up bios on each of the wives. Initially, it really was just meant to be a few messy notes here and there for his own reference, but after O’ Great Master Airplane thought he’d be slick slipping in Wife #520 with the exact same name and similar lithe but muscular frame, and alluring raven eyes, and blah blah blah type appearance as Wife #113 when she was introduced in Chapter 1314, what else was he supposed to do but clean it up and publicly shame him?

Of course, after Shen Yuan anonymously released the timeline on the wives, Airplane miraculously decided to immediately start yet another arc that was barely worth its salt: introducing some nonsense as to how Wife #520 was actually a shapeshifter who experienced a vastly different (but just as, if not more horrific) childhood and clung to the idea of Wife #113, Ren Yijun, as this one person who was resilient beyond measure. After the girl passed through the town, it was apparently easy enough to emulate her out of some sort of deep admiration keeping her attached throughout their years apart.

Needless to say, it ended in a very tearful threesome wherein papapa cured every single heart demon.

Shen Yuan was steaming the entire weekend while reading through the contrived scribes written on that literal piss-poor tissue paper. Maybe, just maybe, in a moment of weakness, he dared to think Airplane really could work with a spur of the moment prompt. A friendship like that between harem members could’ve been cool, right? Not that it fucking matters!

Oh! He could rip his hair out at it all! It’s enough to regurgitate buckets of blood and nothing but blood. All that time spent meticulously keeping the Wife Timeline updated as a way to get back at Airplane, the naive little jump in his chest when he realized Airplane actually recognized her as the 520th wife and meant to use that thematically, and then the bastard just proves all they know is porn and trauma porn all over again!

But now that he’s actually here, he really should get a lay of the land. Even if these papers, he squints at them, really are just his past mistakes haunting his subconscious.

…

Yeah, no. He doesn’t understand any of this, and not just because he’s grown tired of this world. They’re probably taxes for the Cang Qiong Sect, considering the names put to each of those huge numbers and the various materials marked beneath, but it’s way too much to dig into right now.

That’s just as well. There are other, classic ways to get the lay of the land anyway, and the darkness will definitely help him from seeming like he’s just some bumbling fool if he gets lost during his evening stroll.

Speaking of… he glances down at himself and fusses a little with the sash, debating whether or not to keep the beizi—but another rush of wind through the open window quickly decides that for him. Shivering, he stubbornly closes it. Before the stifling air can get to him, he quickly slides open the door of his office and lets himself wander along. The hallway leading from the office he found himself in is elegant enough, with rich material on the floor that almost seems to reflect moonlight too well in its eerie little engravings, but its pattern is thankfully nothing too extravagant.

Following the gentle lit path on the floor, it doesn’t take long at all to make his way toward the main part of this upper hall, well-enforced with grand, granite pillars and a large banner hanging far above displaying each peak woven in their designated colors. Shen Yuan can’t help but stop and admire it in-person. Sure, yeah, the whole rainbow-colored rainbow bridges nonsense is tacky in and of itself, but it is cool to think of someone actively making an effort through each one to sew in a gradient that blends the peaks together. At a glance, he didn’t even realize they were several tapestries.

Outside of that, the whole area’s surprisingly naturally well-lit. Some of the stragglers (hall masters, maybe?) still hold up small lanterns to guide themselves, but the huge arcs spanning each wall let in more than enough moonlight to keep people from tripping over themselves.

Not that Shen Yuan was ever worried about that. Obviously.

Carefully descending the stairs, he realizes there’s an inner garden surrounding the entire plateau and his heart practically sings. It takes everything in him to not immediately rush outside and inspect every single plant—most of Airplane’s writing is shit that stains the wall, yeah, but they occasionally manage to stumble across little hooks of worldbuilding that trap Shen Yuan in PIDW’s notoriously ignored sunk-cost fallacy. Little thrills like these, building up a detailed ecosystem for the monsters, that kept him engaged with the world amidst all the brainless filler.

And, look, it’s not like the hallways before were lifeless per se. But small potted plants could never live up to such a lush garden surrounding him on every side.

Shen Yuan darts into one of the sections of the garden closest to the stairs, grinning like a man gone mad. He’s tempted to slap himself to school his expression, but before he can work up the courage to (the wind’s already biting him! ruthlessly!), he recognizes a Heaven’s borough beneath one of the large floral trees not in season. Rushing to kneel at its side, he realizes it’s already blossoming around its most favored coupling: a jade-eyed root! Although it is an extremely effective antidote to the acidic and near-parasitic nature of frenzied split-tongued vultures, its essence can easily be twisted. It wilts under intense sunlight, upon which it releases a toxic gas once its ‘eye’ closes, making summer a dangerous time for exploring high mountains. On the other hand, if it doesn’t receive enough warmth in these cold months, it turns into a potent poison that effortlessly mimics the taste of whatever it’s infused with. Only when it’s defended by the warmth of the Heaven’s borough can it achieve its best form.

Unfortunately, the borough is a very loyal thing. Unless it was planted alongside its intended at conception, the chances of it forming enough of a bond to defend it is null. And, since the borough is technically a weed, it’s basically doomed to die unless it forms a connection with another plant that, with nurturing, can actually sustain them both.

Does that make this Qian Cao? Shen Yuan was always under the impression Mu Qingfang had to be further down the mountain to have easier access to disciples after missions, considering the very few times Luo Binghe stumbled into the master healer’s line of sight, so he didn’t even think of the possibility they’d have the altitude meant for either of these to truly thrive.

Shen Yuan glances around and immediately spots a vase filled to the brim with flame lilies against the outer entrance that he’d missed in his hurry to look at the main attractions. This close, in his thick-layered gear, he almost feels too warm. It emanates qi against his sore cheek, soothing all that was abused by the wind flailing about.

When it recognizes his own qi signature, he almost gasps. Now that it’s consciously offering the strength of its petals, it’s so soft, too... Shen Yuan feels it flow through his worn spiritual veins and soothe another ache he didn’t even realize was there. After all this time, he had to get accustomed to shelving away the pain brought on by his sensitive nerves. It was much easier to ignore when he was distracted; physical work would exacerbate it, but he had plenty of stuff to hold him over thanks to the glory of the internet. Whether he was in the hospital or at home, it was his digital distraction that kept him thriving well enough!

One thing the internet does not have, though, is cultivation. Summoning what’s probably a small amount of energy, he steps away and tries sending little bursts of qi to twirl it around. It takes a bit more concentration to manipulate it than he expects, but… so fucking worth it!

“Ah—Shizun?”

A girl’s voice startles him from his victory. Shen Yuan can’t even look to see who it was—his body completely freezes in place at the shock, quickly abandoning any warmth he’d gained through the connection with the flame lilies. A ‘shizun’ wouldn’t grumble, but at least he can indulge the ravings of his bruised heart silently. Only natural that his body’s a traitor no matter the world, ah?

“Deepest apologies, this disciple only meant to see if Shizun was well.”

Shen Yuan slowly unlocks his arms and manages to peek behind himself, turning around with all the graceful loftiness expected of an immortal master, and looks over her properly. The girl can’t be more than his meimei’s age, can she? Maybe eighteen at most, but he’s not betting any more than that. She seems tall, all things considered, but has yet to grow into that lankiness. That stature must be a bit stressful to bear, considering she’s clearly the quiet and studious sort. The light uniform is in pristine condition, with her dark hair tied back in a half-up style and with braids resting on her shoulders. She’s staring him down with a nervous bitten lip while she goes on.

“Mu-shishu,” and, it’s not her fault, but he deflates at confirmation this isn’t Qian Cao after all, “they warned this disciple that, ah, ‘if Sect Leader is resting in his office, his yishi will personally extract him. This master suggests you tell him this verbatim, Ren-shizi.’”

In that moment, a crisp blue light slowly rises from the moonlight that was gently enshrouding her shoulders. Silent and haunting. Shen Yuan’s face pales.

[ Yue Qingyuan’s Head Disciple of Qiong Ding Peak, Ren Yijun. ]

“Ah,” Shen Yuan says. Sweat starts to form on his bare neck. His (?) disciple—that is, his (?!) head disciple is staring at him even more fretfully, but what else can he even say in a situation like this?! I’m sorry I maybe-mind conjured you because I was thinking about your role in a three-digit harem? And if I didn’t actually will you into existence, sorry that must sound so weird, then it means my sister saw me die? Badly? Oh, by the way, do I happen to be possessing Yue Qingyuan of Qiong Ding? Who wants to hear that classic, dull-edged confusion? Not him, and certainly not when it’s from his own mouth!

“Shall this disciple stand guard, Shizun?”

Again, with that! That’s suddenly a lot of pressure young lady! Shen Yuan turns around again with a noncommittal hum. Very sorry, come back later! He can’t come up with any good and wise platitudes right now! His mind is racing far, far away from him like a dog that caught a whiff of streetfood. As it is, he just feels… stuck. If he’s Yue Qingyuan, then it must mean he had died then, right? If this faint note above her head is any indication, he probably transmigrated into the last thing he read, complete with an omnipotent guide and all. But, even if it’s Airplane’s shitty novel, he can still make the most of it in this second life! Way more than their creator ever did, anyway.

“What time is it, hm?” he scrounges up the words after the silence hangs just a bit too long, “Go on to your room. Rest for the days ahead Ren Yijun.”

After a time, more than he'd like, she does finally bow and take her leave. Freshly alone, Shen Yuan haphazardly plops down on the nearest bench and decidedly does not bludgeon poor Sect Leader Yue’s face with the nearest wall. Instead, he holds his shoulders and leans back against it, staring out at the various flora with slightly less enthusiasm.

So, not a coma. He’s dead. He transmigrated. Those are the facts.

Well, alright.

It’d be easier if his head disciple wasn’t Ren Yijun, however she got here, but she is a nice girl after all. Once he processes this, it’ll probably be fine to pat her head and apologize for worrying her. That always placated his meimei for a little bit, at least.

Shen Yuan closes his eyes and his heart aches. He unceremoniously sticks a pin in it and kicks it down a flight of stairs.

Anyway, he’s earned a new respect for Qiong Ding today. These upper levels really are much prettier than Airplane ever gave them credit for. Albeit more subdued than the dense forests of Qing Jing, he does feel warm thinking of the thriving Heaven’s-Eye match. To put that together, Yue Qingyuan really had his pick of the crop!

…That is, ah, not accounting for taste.

It really is such a shame that he was held back by the scum villain of all people. Shen Yuan—Yue Qingyuan now—facepalms at the thought. Does that mean it falls to him to handhold that bastard now? If he doesn’t, will he still end up dying on his behalf, but this time at Shen Qingqiu’s Xiu Ya?! What an awful fate. He continues dragging his hands down his face, leaning forward in defeat and freezing when long strands of hair unexpectedly draw forward to curtain him.

Yue Qingyuan shakes his head and sighs. Surely, surely, there’s a way the Sect Leader of Cang Qiong will be able to get out of this mostly unscathed with the white lotus protagonist, right? It might be a bit unorthodox, but he could give a shot at transferring Luo Binghe to his Qiong Ding personally once he gets his bearings. Maybe even erect a wall of loyal disciples to fend off Shen Qingqiu’s wrath at losing his favorite and least favorite punching bags in one fell swoop. Ha! Serves you right!

“Yue-shixiong?” A gentle voice prods the evening silence. Yue Qingyuan hastily rights his posture and glances over to the entrance, swallowing hard at the sight of another pale marker rising from the individual’s shoulder.

[ Qian Cao’s Peak Lord Mu Qingfang; Yue Qingyuan’s shibiao and bound healer. ]

Okay, he’ll admit it, the mustache oddly fits—but somehow, Yue Qingyuan never thought to imagine Mu Qingfang with a heavy build. It’s a good look though! Very solid. A reliable pillar anyone can reach out to stop themselves from stumbling straight into death’s door. What’s actually shocking is the sight of glasses with a golden frame and quiet metal cord strung around the neck, presumably to keep it from being lost in someone’s gut. Yue Qingyuan valiantly fights back a grimace at the thought of the glass lens popping out instead and getting stuck in an intestine just as qi seals it up.

Mu Qingfang must have pulled an awful all-nighter though, because not even the glint of the glasses can conceal the shadow underneath those dark phoenix eyes. Even the braid tying the hair back and out of the way has come loose enough that random frizzy strands are breaking free.

The healer’s hands are as steady as a surgeon’s, and Yue Qingyuan almost wants to die again. Those sure are needles. Personally commissioned ones.

Hm. Maybe he should’ve taken Ren Yijun’s offer and started building a barrier early.

“This one was just returning to his quarters,” he offers placatingly.

Aiya, what’s with those disbelieving brows of yours? “Might this one escort Shixiong?”

“I’ll trouble… Shibiao.” What a weird title. Still, Yue Qingyuan rises to his feet and brushes off his uniform in silent agony. More than anything, he wants to find Xuan Su and fly to Qing Jing just to take a single peek at his tortured sheep to tide him over until he has a rescue plan, but he supposes that can wait for tonight. It’s not like he wants to deal with the scum villain at midnight. No more living nightmares for him, please and thank you!

“It is no trouble if it is Yue-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang assures simply, taking another step closer and clasping a hand around Yue Qingyuan’s wrist. An even gentler, warm trickle of qi easily enters his spiritual veins, smoothing out the tension so efficiently that he’s starting to feel drowsy. Swaying on his feet, he grasps the healer’s shoulder, and notices some sort of tangled expression grow more complicated.

Then, everything disappears at once. Yue Qingyuan shoots upright like he’s been dunked in ice water and quickly removes his hand—Mu Qingfang, either ignoring this pitiable shixiong’s thin face or just very kindly naive, still takes him in arm.

“Come. Shixiong needs rest.”

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

The next time Yue Qingyuan wakes, it is not under his control. Oh, yes, his arms push him up from where he was sprawled out on the bed, but the feeling is numb and distant, like he’s grasping at the blankets through layers of cotton balls trying to suffocate him. His chest deliberately rises and falls, but he hardly tastes the air. Further below, his feet land on the floor and move without any effort on his part. It almost hurts, tugging against the chains of his new body while he kneels down and reaches beneath the bed for—Xuan Su?

At once, a shrill ringing pierces the air and he can’t even cover his ears.

[ The System has been activated! Bound role: Cang Qiong Mountain Sect's Honored Sword of Qiong Ding Peak's present Sect Leader, "Xuan Su." Master: Peak Lord Yue Qingyuan. Starting B-Points: 100. ]

What the fuck.

Hey, System? Put this other transmigration info on pause for a second. What exactly does it mean that he’s not Yue Qingyuan, but his fucking sword?!

[ User is bound to Yue Qingyuan’s “Xuan Su”! ] it pings again, extremely unhelpfully. [ Mandatory Mission: Keep Yue Qingyuan alive! Failure will result in user account termination. ]

Right, exactly! Putting aside his worst fears as to how (not) achievable that’s supposed to be when Yue Qingyuan’s loyalty and kinship is shamelessly exploited by the scum villain—how the fuck is Yue Qingyuan alive when he was literally puppeteering his body last night?

A chill shoots right through him. Does he already know about Shen Yuan?

Fuck. Fuck! How is he meant to save Luo Binghe like this?! If it comes at the expense of Shen Qingqiu, Yue Qingyuan will never let him—and yes, he’s probably wise to his existence already, knowing Shen Yuan's luck! And if he’s somehow not, one of the two generous souls from last night will probably roll up and confront him on stuff he either 1) does not remember, or 2) like now, remembers being possessed while going through the motions (which is even more horrific solely on the basis that he does not need Zhangmen-freaking-shixiong knowing he was geeking out and beaming at plants the sect leader’s probably already seen a million times!).

The System doesn’t answer any of the questions thundering through him.

Thankfully, maybe, Yue Qingyuan pulls away from Xuan Su and leans against his bed frame, holding his head to soothe their shared migraine. Through it, he opens the window across from him with a lazy flick of qi and reveals the sun beginning to peek through the mountainside. Another slow breath rises and falls, then he shakily steps toward the seat situated at this precariously wide opening and rests against it, leaning on the thick windowsill. After a moment, he raises a single hand to examine its safety array: carefully interlaced with many different wards meant to keep out intruders, demons of all sorts, and even most of the wind.

Shen Yuan (still undecided on what it means to be Xuan Su) pauses, then mentally pokes the System.

[ System provides 24-hour service! ]

Scoffing, he just decides to ask directly: ‘How do I know that?’

[ Xuan Su is attuned to spiritual energies. ]

No way, the spiritual sword is spiritual? he inwardly snarks. But, seeing as this thing is finally awake, Shen Yuan decides to interrogate it even more to test its capabilities and the guidelines of his transmigration. He needs to keep on top of his “Balance” points to continue living here, or else it’ll shove him back into his original world (where he’s probably very dead and very, very humiliated); Yue Qingyuan is currently alive and must stay alive; and he’s meant to transform this stupid world into something worthwhile. But, it forgot the most vital part to chiseling out a better story:

‘What about Luo Binghe?’

It doesn’t answer. Xuan Su mentally kicks it. It still doesn’t answer. Fine! He’s tired too, anyway, so he gives it a rest. As Xuan Su, with whatever tie he has with Yue Qingyuan, he doesn’t know how much of this is worsening their splitting headache. Not even meditation is helping soothe it.

But… then again, it doesn’t seem like Yue Qingyuan’s even trying to meditate.

Sometime during the course of Xuan Su’s badgering of the System, the grand and illustrious Sect Leader of Cang Qiong moved to sit still as a statue against this glorified carving in a perfectly good wall, with his legs pulled up to his chest all while he breathes in that steady, forced rhythm.

Xuan Su clumsily tries tapping into his meridians—Yue Qingyuan winces (he does too, in silent apology)—and tries skimming through the unnervingly calm flow of his qi. It is circulating, sure, but it’s a slow and idle process. Just the simple inhale-exhale of living. The sort of automatic contraction of a muscle that by happy coincidence keeps someone from heart failure.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t move for a long while. Their shared eyes observe the sun as it crests the mountains and shines down upon the clouded peaks with warm gold.

Only when the darkness has fully given way to the sunrise, does Yue Qingyuan finally stand and prepare himself for the day.

Xuan Su watches.

Chapter Text

Yue Qingyuan is tired.

This means nothing, for it is a constant state of being. He closes his eyes and firmly strikes the thought from his mind.

Yue Qingyuan is preparing for the seasonal peak lord meeting.

With gloved hands, he carefully dons a dark outer robe used exclusively for interpeak business. Although the embroidery is doubtlessly crafted with intricate heart, the extravagance marks it impractical. In truth, Yue Qingyuan may privately admit he quite dislikes loose sleeves for this very reason, but that hardly justified allowing this gift to purposely waste away in unuse. There exists compassion in its commission which must be acknowledged regardless of his personal preference, and which thus renders its disposal disrespectful and senseless. Neither fate permitted, he bears it simply.

If nothing else, it is effective in concealment. A hand quietly lingers over where Xuan Su is secured at his hip, hidden cleanly beneath the cloak thoughtfully woven to anticipate it. For the first morn since his return, Yue Qingyuan feels himself emerge from the painful haze put upon his being.

A piece within curls in gratification when he steps out unto the main pavilion and feels Xuan Su’s once-lost hum return with forgotten vigor.

The reassurance prevents Yue Qingyuan from going deathly still when Mu Qingfang takes to his side from the gardens. Though his stride hitches, he obscures the unsteady movement behind a pleasant nod greeting his shibiao, and continues on toward the Cang Qiong Hall.

“Forgive this Mu for arriving unannounced.” They bow their head, neatly folding their arms behind themself as they match his pace. “This one was merely curious as to how the crimson-bruised lotus was proceeding. Liu-shixiong expressed a desire to return to the borderlands, and this humble yisheng was aspiring to keep from amputating him upon return.”

At that, he indulges a small, amused hum. “Liu-shidi must be grateful for such a considerate shibiao.”

“Yes, he must,” comes their flat reply. Yue Qingyuan casts a fond glance their way just as their eyes flick to his, worn with a familiar, dry smile. “In any case, this one is relieved to see the garden thrive. Has Shixiong been tending to the flame lilies?”

Yue Qingyuan does not confess he can no longer stomach the idle comfort of it, nor can he find the will to deliberately clear his mind of Shen Qingqiu to meditate. As scathing as his reprimanding had been, he knew Yue Qingyuan's heart well, for it is where he nestled once. Shen Qingqiu conceives of his faults through having borne the dire consequence. As for who may identify the sheer indulgence of this reprieve and steal his willing ignorance, only he may carve the lasting reminder his shixiong deserves no such solace. Excising himself from its delicate wreath is a mercy, for there is nothing Yue Qingyuan may truly harbor without scorching it to bitter ash.

No, Yue Qingyuan says none of this, instead favoring a small smile as he returns the question, “Does Mu-shibiao enjoy them?”

They nod again.

“The lilies are quite lovely when they bloom, embraced by many in these cold months,” Yue Qingyuan continues. “This shixiong is thankful they may provide comfort for you as well.”

The remainder of their short walk is spent in easy silence, until they reach the grand hall’s doors.

Mu Qingfang pauses before it, as does Yue Qingyuan. In response to the unspoken inquiry between them, Mu Qingfang holds out an expectant hand. Pressing down the unease crawling through his throat, Yue Qingyuan lets a single beat pass, then calmly offers his wrist. Assuaging their concern in its early stages makes the following days more bearable, as he’s reluctantly learned. A steady, quiet stream of qi enters; Yue Qingyuan consciously relaxes his spiritual flow to allow its invasion, rooted in place as he waits out the examination.

“Hm.” Their brow furrows, qi circulating with his once more before Mu Qingfang relinquishes their search. With his wrist free, Yue Qingyuan swiftly brings his sleeves together and cautiously observes their reaction. Were he unconfident, he would have set aside their concern until after the peak lord meeting concluded—but Xuan Su had returned, the gentle bite of its torrid energy grazing his own, tucked deep within their shared core. The equilibrium has been restored. Even to one unable to sense Xuan Su beneath his, its stabilizing temperament will be felt. Nothing should indicate him in poor health. And yet, “Are you alright?”

“Mu-yishi needn’t worry,” Yue Qingyuan deftly assures. “This one has recovered from the deviation in-full.”

At his side, Xuan Su thrums in disapproval. Yue Qingyuan inwardly smiles at its usual protest to his little lie. Although its spiritual energy remains somewhat imbalanced, requiring some guidance to sync with his own qi, they are on the mend without needing to send Mu Qingfang into another upset study. It is no fault of theirs they are not attuned to Xuan Su.

In all its history, no Qian Cao Peak Lord’s ability has ever brushed the realm of incompetency, yet they nonetheless believe it a hovering threat should they acknowledge they are not unto a god.

This once, however, Mu Qingfang relents. “Do not strain yourself, Yue-shixiong.”

Yue Qingyuan opens the door without reply.

As he enters, the hall eases into polite silence at Qi Qingqi’s lead, who bows as he steps past. Quite a few of his martial siblings have already convened early, perhaps at her behest. When he settles at the head, he gestures simply for them to continue speaking amongst themselves.

Liu Qingge had opened an eye to watch him enter, and huffs at the sight. Before they can heavily involve themselves in the prior conversation, he unfolds his arms and shifts his full focus upon Yue Qingyuan. “Zhangmen-shixiong seems better. Good.”

A simple statement. Yue Qingyuan would usually welcome the words. Were it not for the loathing tainting Liu Qingge’s sympathy, implying the fault of his qi deviation lay with Shen Qingqiu, perhaps he would have. Instead, his nod is terse and he flits his eyes elsewhere before Liu Qingge inevitably gives voice to this erroneous thought. To further tarnish Shen Qingqiu’s name under false pretense is a needless cruelty.

Yue Qingyuan steadies himself and allows the words to pass through. The meeting will demand clear minds. A hand rests on Xuan Su’s hilt, quietly caressing it in a comforting motion, as much for its sake as his own. 

However harshly they’ve clashed in years past, the essence of Xuan Su’s power is grounded by its protective nature—a sense as ardent and indomitable as the endless darkness it embodies, obliged only by those it covets. In this, their souls are bound.

When the previous sect leader fell, his fortune touched upon Yue Qingyuan the same in a last fit of spite: scarcely standing, on the cusp of death. Flares of spiritual energy burst through the atrophied scars trailing its host’s meridians, his very life force erratic as it rose far above and out of his grasp, qi raising to the skies as though it were smoke, dissipating all the same.

Only Xuan Su, a natural conductor, managed to draw the frantic energy inwards, kept under its unwavering ward while Yue Qingyuan rose to fight again.

Core pulsing as one, they struck down the last Heavenly Demon.

Xuan Su’s presence ebbed upon the battle’s finish with detached satisfaction. Yue Qingyuan alone poured every fiber of his being into the incantations drawn to set the groundwork of the demon’s mortal damnation, pushing further until his spiritual veins were dry, until his insides seized in pain as he began drawing directly from his marred core.

Were it not for Xuan Su’s assent, releasing and igniting the energy it had guarded for itself, offering all he was afraid to ask of it, he would have followed the sect leader to the grave. Between the swirling darkness clouding his senses afterward, his conscious thoughts always drifted to this single point, felt most fervently: Yue Qingyuan lives beyond Tianlang-jun, and his shizun.

No one will control me anymore.

None but Xuan Su, to which he owed a life debt. One he knew not how to repay, for handling their shared lifeline so carelessly.

Yet, when roused to awareness with Xuan Su in arm, he felt—for a fleeting moment—a warm, consoling hum. Before he could cling to it, Xuan Su was again unyieldingly silent, but the momentary lapse of its veneer stirred within him a terribly bittersweet comfort.

For the first time in living memory, Yue Qingyuan had cried tears of gratitude.

Then, wept again in its heavy absence.

Never, would the memory of this pain leave him. Convulsing through the blood broiling in his veins, breathless and screaming on nothing as his chest caved inward—feeling each broken, jagged rib puncture his lungs in a vindictive, snarling rage as it fought to reach his traitorous heart—and Yue Qingyuan could not begin to articulate such an intimate injury even after his seizure ended. All he managed were wordless gasps, his hands clutching at where he felt their soul carved out. Cleaved open by a curse he couldn’t recall. Barely alive.

Had anyone but Shen Qingqiu found him, he dares say his heart would never have beat again. Without his qi, or when enduring a botched iteration of it, his physical ailments pose far more danger than anything in the cultivation world ever could. Mu Qingfang learned this, but only his Qingqiu would forgo the time wasted on a spiritual method.

Precious time which saved his life and Xuan Su. Regardless of what their martial siblings imagine, Shen Qingqiu has never wronged him. Not once, and never as severely as he has in turn.

Yue Qingyuan only raises his eyes when Shen Qingqiu enters the hall. How his heart twists in such tender pain.

In these long days recovering from the aftershock of their mission near Tian Yi Overlook, neither have been in the same room; only ever present on the same peak, when Shen Qingqiu distantly tore into Mu Qingfang’s requests to gather information from the Tian Yi Sect on this nameless curse he endured. Even then, with him so near, Yue Qingyuan found himself unable to stay awake, let alone rise to meet with him. As sleep stole him away, what remained of his mind cradled the final moments of his shidi craning above him with a fraught frown, bearing the full weight of his gaze gratefully. Under those piercing eyes, only he mattered. No haze could dispel the reverent adoration quivering through his selfish being, that he would ever be graced with Shen Qingqiu’s undivided attention. Only he was worth the bitter fury, the desperation, the furtive terror beginning to fracture the apathetic mask he put on—perhaps taste the love interwoven, with it.

No, he no holds delusions. These threads of affection left in his heart were the very things which exacerbated Shen Qingqiu’s pain at his failure. The most regard he should provide Yue Qingyuan is no less than virulent resentment.

As he takes the seat at his right, Shen Qingqiu does not grant him one glance.

Xuan Su pricks at him.

With great reluctance, he removes his hand, tears his gaze away, and rises to address the other lords. The majority of the meeting proceeds without much significance.

Yue Qingyuan begins with a cursory review of Cang Qiong’s progress, taking particular care when referring to the deaths sustained by Qing Jing and Qian Cao, then concisely addresses the developments of their fellow sects. News of Huan Hua’s expansion of influence and permanent borders earn wary, though largely unsurprised, comments; rather, it is the sect’s ceaseless proposals for artifact trade which sparks discussion.

Descending upon their artificer, Shen Qingqiu isolates one of the several items Huan Hua attempted to exchange: the Oracle’s Solar-marrow Pipa. Without knowing its precise purpose, Yue Qingyuan glances to Zhu Qinglian seeking an answer. The grim line to her mouth as she acquiesces tells all he needs to know. When their eyes meet, she nods once to confirm she’ll brief him afterward on its danger, then decisively sets this matter to rest.

After she does, Wei Qingwei languidly guides the conversation toward the projects he and his personal disciples have undertaken, inquiring plainly if there are any last requests before he locks himself in the forge for the foreseeable future. Mu Qingfang specifies a new design for their spiritual needles, which Wei Qingwei considers with a hum, then flashes a grin accepting the challenge. With the gates open, a few others bring forward their own for practical and martial use alike. Generously, only two were deferred to his head disciple, “To build character.”

(Somewhere between the suggestions, Wei Qingwei called for him. Yue Qingyuan blinked back into focus to hear—”Shixiong? Ah, hey Yue-shixiong, have you any requests?”

Returning a trembling hand to Xuan Su, he softly spoke: “No, thank you Shidi.”)

Shang Qinghua braves the fourth section of the meeting with Yue Qingyuan as his emergency backing. Every month since the issue first came to light, he prepared detailed reports for Yue Qingyuan’s perusal in the hopes he would be able to reasonably mediate any conflict risen from confronting the Zui Xian Peak Lord’s indulgence of a particularly expensive spirits curator. However, she made no fuss at all. Instead, she accepts it readily with a practiced statement that while she had no intention of cutting contact, she hears his plight, and will henceforth make use of her personal funds when searching for these particular ingredients.

Unsaid, but understood, is that she will continue her pursuit of plants exclusively grown on the borderlands or within the demon realm itself. Produce which would be sourced through An Ding’s private contacts regardless.

Shang Qinghua, having thoroughly lost, glumly relents to her terms. He proceeds to scrawl notes and drawings alike upon the parchment before him, in blatant refusal to engage anyone else for the remainder of the meeting. Yue Qingyuan lets him rest.

With a sympathetic, albeit no less amused, look cast his way, Qi Qingqi takes the stand after Shang Qinghua and summarizes the results of interpeak missions under her charge.

This is where it begins to break.

“At a point, one must wonder: will Shimei deign to invite Qing Jing?” asks Shen Qingqiu, acid dripping from his tongue.

“Perhaps if Shen-shixiong deigned to answer the request sent to each peak,” she says sweetly, “this shimei could have indeed arranged for Liu Mingyan to meet that Ning girl you’ve taken.”

The idle sway of the fan comes to an abrupt halt, and Xuan Su’s hilt nearly burns him. Yue Qingyuan lurches, but swiftly attempts to gather himself, too late to intervene when Shen Qingqiu narrows his eyes and spits: “Yes, how convenient that these requests were sent only once, during Qing Jing’s mandated quarantine. Perhaps fate has smiled after all, for this master would not subject any of his disciples to the hopeless task of instructing the Liu lineage.”

“You bastard—” begins Liu Qingge, cutting between Qi Qingqi’s scowl, “As if you treat your disciples—”

“That is enough.” Yue Qingyuan raises a hand and ushers in a grudging silence. While Liu-shidi’s eyes dig into him, both Qingqi and Qingqiu match each other’s cutting glares.

Moments such as these, when they clash, he finds himself grieving the genuine amiability once held between them. Regretfully, his familiarity with each one marks the indignation felt by Shen Qingqiu as clearly as it does the sorrow carried in Qi Qingqi’s wry smile. Neither will yield even as the maw of the canyon grows ever wider.

Yue Qingyuan quietly exhales, keenly aware of the trap Shen Qingqiu has laid to truly sever what remains of himself and Qi Qingqi. Within this idea he is, or ever would be, blessed by the divine when even mortals continuously turn him away, he intends to ask if she sides with fate. The blame lays not with Qi Qingqi, but with Yue Qingyuan himself, who arrived long after this had already been engraved into his heart. From the moment Qi Qingqi expressed doubt, even as she sought his refutal with belief in his integrity, the thread between them began to fray.

It does hurt. The taut hostility bearing down on Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders as he lays in wait, wound either for punishment or to strike out again, with none at his side. Yue Qingyuan dares not imagine himself with the privilege of embracing him.

“...Qi-shimei, the next season’s arrangements will be prepared within the month, yes?”

“Yes,” she snaps. Shen Qingqiu bristles at the sharp sound, and snaps his fan shut in retaliation. Qi Qingqi’s mouth briefly twitches, bitten on another comment she swallows down.

To the table as a whole, Yue Qingyuan insists, “If any issues arise, entrust them to this shixiong.”

Though the meeting moves forward, the tension doesn’t quite fade by the time it ends. Most disperse early.

Shen Qingqiu takes Zhu Qinglian aside before she has a chance to approach Yue Qingyuan. They depart for her peak, with her offering an apologetic grimace as the doors close and without any glimpse of Shen Qingqiu’s face to hold near.

Nursing the familiar absence, Yue Qingyuan returns to his office.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Xuan Su fully gets why both Ren Yijun and Mu Qingfang gave him a weird look last night.

It made sense for Yue Qingyuan to have a mellow, understanding voice, okay? The one he used at the time sounded in-character enough to his ears. But how was he supposed to know that Yue Qingyuan still felt the need to compensate for whatever reason, and so he made an active choice to speak in a lower pitch than his natural one?!

The difference was small enough, but it felt like he accidentally crossed a thrashing ravine—it was horrifying! He! Made! The Sect Leader! The Da-ge! The Yue Qingyuan! Sound like a tomboy by comparison!

Xuan Su pats his own chest in sympathy with an aggrieved fist. It turns out there are worse things after all than nearly bashing Yue Qingyuan’s handsome face into pure stone. It wouldn’t even matter if the System deducted points (which the stingy thing definitely would’ve if it was fully online there), this shame is his own personal Endless Abyss and he’s tempted to drown in it and never leave and die. Again.

But, he should know, there’s nothing you can do to rewind the past. Xuan Su sighs.

Honestly, he really does like Yue Qingyuan. He always did, back when all he knew was that this tragic guy was loyal to a fault with his bleeding heart, and still does, even with all these new quirks of his: the voice thing, the gloves, the layers upon layers of clothes, and, yes, the way his eyes always seem to drift toward a window like he’s auditioning for the end credits of some indie film featuring Wanneng Qingnian Ludian playing in the background. So, he will help Yue Qingyuan keep some dignity moving forward, considering the man literally cannot read his own death flags.

That peak lord meeting was a complete mess. Surprise, surprise, Shen Qingqiu is inciting problems!

Yue Qingyuan must truly have the patience of a saint descended from the Heavens, because Xuan Su would’ve jumped on both of them in an instant. Qi Qingqi, don’t bring up Ning Yingying unless you’re actually going to save her. And Shen Qingqiu, would it kill you to speak your mind without the insults?!

Speaking of the infamous scum villain—he hastily shoves his critiques aside—there are way more important matters! While Shen Qingqiu is busying himself with one artificer lord (he tried his best to note down all of the new peak lords’ names, with varying success), this is the perfect time to find Luo Binghe. Xuan Su even has—well, himself on hand! What a truly revolutionary out-of-body experience the System’s come up with and won’t fucking explain.

Xuan Su pokes the useless thing. Before he actually does anything, he really has to ask first, ‘Is Yue Qingyuan… awake? Aware?’

[ Yue Qingyuan’s account is offline. ]

Well, that’s the best answer he’s going to get. But he still tries: ‘Why am I able to control him then?’

[ … ]

Just as he’s about to dismiss the loading screen, a mission notification pops up. Xuan Su sours.

[ Key quest—“Debased and Desecrated”—issued. Location: Ling Xi Caves. Please click to accept. ]

‘How many times did I say it in the meeting, huh?! I’m not taking your stupid kinky quest! Yue Qingyuan’s not going to be my scapegoat like everyone else just for a few measly B-points. Fuck off!’

Literally disgusting. Xuan Su shoves open the door and walks through Qiong Ding for the third time, promptly ignoring the ache in his bones. Who taught the wind to bite like a feral chihuahua, ah? Exhausting!

At least cultivators could survive with minimal sleep, even if “Great Master” Airplane was convinced that the exact thing this xianxia stallion novel was missing were the everyday grievances that even Shen Yuan hated getting out of bed to do. People practicing inedia still need to eat? Whatever, at least it opens up chances for them to praise Binghe’s cooking. But keeping the main transport on the ground? Making literal demons who have been alive for a millennia have to sleep on the daily? All just to stir up nonsensical harem drama as to who-slept-where, when all the poor girl wanted was to not plank in the palace hallway? The literal only redeemable thing about all of this nonsense is that it opened up the door for some people to find eyebags sexful. He can save his sweet little white lotus and he won’t be ruining Yue Qingyuan’s prospective love life in the process!

Xuan Su stops in place. Of course Yue Qingyuan will be handsome, but he’s just now realized he never actually got a chance to see what he looks like properly. Even in his room, there weren’t any sort of mirrors around. Maybe he already has eyebags? Poor guy, it’d make sense knowing all he’s dealt with. Xuan Su presses his fingers to his face like he’ll be able to tell.

Well, if anyone could pull that look off…

Ah! There it is. Xuan Su hurriedly descends upon the empty training grounds. It’s a clear ovular shape carved into the mountain surface, surrounded by sparse trees and dry grass and moss and cetera to really emphasize the real intricacies of the badass arena.

Xuan Su squints at the trees, sensing some sort of movement—his eyes go wide at the sight of the woe-crested raven. Basically a normal, if somewhat spikier, raven with a broken-heart pattern on its chest and a long tongue, whose shit-tier design is immediately forgiven when remembering the unique nesting habits it keeps. Not only are their feathers a numbing agent developed to help them adapt no matter their environment, but in the worst case scenario, they let their fledglings kill them and use their corpse to keep warm if absolutely necessary. Unlike most others, their venom becomes less potent as they grow older, which helps with ahem and also lets their young consume their innards without suffering any actual adverse side-effects.

Stepping closer, but not enough to scare it witless, he watches intently all while it hops about the deciduous tree and tends to three of its tiny buns, wholly camouflaged by the dark bark. Adorable. No one would guess these little guys would probably end up cannibalizing their mama if it gets any colder here. Thus goes rule number one of PIDW: never become a mother hen! You will die!

Unfortunately, the longer he watches, the more he might recognize this tree they’re in after all. One of the millions of winter or snow so-and-so’s Airplane cooked up, though he can’t quite remember that name without his notes. It was either the winter’s sleeping rhizome or just the winter’s root, both of which had their branches grow in a way that allows enough shade for the ravens to shield themselves from the snow. The difference between the two is, allegedly, in how resistant they are to the fledglings’ acid—and the sleeping rhizome is better looking, because of course it is. It has to be, when it’s the backdrop of no less than twelve papapa scenes to keep Luo Binghe warm at night. Seriously, Airplane really stretched the imagination there. What with how he described its “indescribable beauty” with that exact phrase every single time, and then slapped on another ten synonyms for pretty like he was asked to meet a word count.

Xuan Su sighs and waves it aside, shaking his head.

Well, there’ll be much greater things to look at! All this talk about not seeing Yue Qingyuan’s face, but he hasn’t even gotten a chance to see his sword form in all its glory. Slowly reaching for it, he hides a smile in anticipation. No cosplays could possibly compare to the real thing…

It’s blindingly bright. Xuan Su marvels at the sheer energy emanating from it, its dark purple qi already pierces the air, its spirit pulsing in rhythm with his own heartbeat. The ground beneath starts to shudder as he carefully continues unsheathing it. Its presence rumbles through the arena, threatening to call forth an earthquake, until he finally frees it and the scene stills. Now, slowly channeling qi—

Blood rises to his mouth. Xuan Su coughs it up into his glove, staring at it. He feels his stomach churn and come back with a vengeance when his legs buckle, threatening to cough up way more than blood—gross, gross, gross—and he barely gets a second to catch his breath before actually retching up a mix of red bile onto the grass. The sickness comes in waves with his heartbeat and his body’s shaking out of his control. He clumsily tries to put the sword back, but his hand keeps jerking away. Everything is, like his muscles are trying to move every single direction at once, threatening to tear themselves apart and leave his arm a bloody mess.

Xuan Su makes a noise of frustration, pinching his brows in concentration through his pounding headache and trying to force his hands to just fucking listen!  

Blinking through the spots in his vision, an awful ringing sends him prone; twitching helplessly on the ground, the System booms: [ Severe Violation: B-Points -90. Current B-points: 10. ]

Suffocating and dizzy, he can’t even sort his thoughts well enough to comprehend it, but he knows it’s nothing good, so he wails in his heart as he fights just to feel his hands. Distantly, the blade finally sheathes, and darkness overtakes him.

“Why was I…”

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Yue Qingyuan wakes with exhaustion embedded in his bones, carrying soreness of years long past.

Staving off the weakness in his gut, he forces himself upright and feverishly searches out Xuan Su—set beside him, merely a breath away. His bare hand grasps it, channeling his own faint pulses of qi to stir it, but he receives only silence.

An apology lingers on his tongue, but he cannot voice it earnestly. No, he realizes with prickling dread, he does not know why he drew Xuan Su at all. Yue Qingyuan skims through his blotted memories with mounting upset. As though someone had simply burnt the pages between when he entered his office and when he stood on Qiong Ding’s inner training grounds, where then it spilled ink over all he could grasp onto the framework of. Every sensation had felt muddled and distant, inexplicably drenched in unrestrained fear.

When Mu Qingfang enters, he harshly quells the writhing distress and levels his expression. Taking a moment to regain himself, he then offers a quiet smile when they realize he’s woken. In response, they supply an especially weary one of their own, shrouded in disappointment. “‘Recovered,’ hm?”

“Please forgive this shixiong’s arrogance.”

“Ha. Arrogance is harbored by everyone but; where even if Yue-shixiong were capable, the feeling would be well-earned.” They settle into the seat beside him, laying their palm open on Xuan Su for him to grasp. After a pause, Yue Qingyuan takes it. There is no choice if he wishes to leave, but a quiet part of him is assuaged simply to see them. As their qi slowly pries into his spiritual veins, they sigh and pronounce: “It is mere foolishness.”

“Mn.”

Yue Qingyuan keeps his head bowed as Mu Qingfang falls quieter to say, “You used Xuan Su.”

“I did.” The affirmation weaves another question between them, one even Yue Qingyuan has no answer for. Only speculation. “Illusions, that is all.”

“I see,” comes Mu Qingfang’s reply, though the river guiding his qi seems to turn gentle despite their disbelief. None of his previous visions have brought him to the point of breaking the seal on Xuan Su. “Have Ren-shizi at your side for the next month.”

“Ah, there’s truly no need… it will be best not to distract from her work.”

“Watching her shizun fall unconscious distracted her plenty.” Mu Qingfang raises a brow. “During which, we found the time to scheme. Ren-shizi is at a bottleneck, with Shixiong recovering; this yishi would suggest meditating regardless.”

Yue Qingyuan smiles. While not terribly fond of having her act the part of his keeper, there is nothing else to say, after all.

With it decided, Mu Qingfang refocuses and continues with a much more thorough examination and cleansing. Yue Qingyuan holds as still as he is able, calmly observing the sunset while awaiting its end.

Their qi suddenly rushes toward his core in waves, and he gasps lightly in response, sharply glancing to them only to notice their brows knit. Feeling the ebb and flow closely, filtering through it with newfound intensity.

“Xuan Su is faint, but present,” they observe, firmly closing their eyes to find—Xuan Su. Yue Qingyuan starts. The only period Mu Qingfang ever sensed it prior was within the caves, abetted by the vast amounts of qi surrounding them. His gut twists uncertainly, and he shuts his own eyes to better sense the quiet beat of Xuan Su’s spirit.

Within, he feels Mu Qingfang carefully trying to carry Xuan Su’s essence beyond his heart—but rather than fall to the undercurrent, it evaporates.

“Stop,” Yue Qingyuan warns gravely, heart thrumming painfully in his chest and his throat growing dry, unable to muster the will to articulate the feeling of Xuan Su bleeding out. He waits until Mu Qingfang slowly retracts, then quickly assumes the responsibility of redirecting the circulation of qi surrounding his core. Swallowing down the rising nausea of Xuan Su slipping out of his grasp, he clings tightly to the wisps of what remains of its presence and redirects it inward as it once was.

Weaving it back into rhythm requires a delicate touch he cannot quite manage, but with some deliberation, the energy no longer fluctuates itself into knots and may be eased along into their core to recover. As frail as he feels without its backing, he would prefer this malaise above all the risks of forcing Xuan Su forward before it’s healed.

Yue Qingyuan exhales a trembling sigh and meets Mu Qingfang’s intent gaze, who asks intently, “Is, or was, it trying to clot?”

He nods stiffly.

“Fascinating,” they murmur. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, press further, “Yue-shixiong, have you often felt Xuan Su overtake your spiritual qi outside of the sword’s use?”

They mean no harm, he knows Mu Qingfang, but it is this healer who makes his insides writhe in discomfort. Still, he must answer if he wishes to resolve this discussion quickly, “Never. It remains but an undercurrent.”

Mu Qingfang nods, clearly expecting the answer. There exists a dangerous glint in their eyes. Despite Yue Qingyuan’s denial, it has not quashed their hopes of study, but crested over into a boundless curiosity. A sickening expression which will only be satisfied if he obeys, lays down, and allows himself to be dissected until all which remains are these pieces of intrigue. No need for distractions; cleanly excise the extraneous, flimsy thing feigning humanity. It wouldn’t be the first one harvested for its cultivation, or its organs, or its teeth, blood, skin.

Yet Mu Qingfang makes no such approach.

They are much too kind. Their gaze glides from his middle dantian, his core, to his face, and it softens with concern; what they discern, he cannot venture a guess, but they glean enough from his mask to know to withdraw. Yue Qingyuan breathes.

“May Ren-shizi join us?”

“Of course.”

Offering a smile, Mu Qingfang slowly rises and retrieves his head disciple.

By the time they return, Yue Qingyuan believes he has recovered himself, but any balance he had managed immediately collapses in on itself.

Something’s awry. Yue Qingyuan cannot fathom what it may be.

Ren Yijun has never been fond of looking upon people’s faces. However much she feigns this avoidance behind external vigilance, the habit is deeply ingrained in her—such that strangers will take notice before she does, though very few ever comment on it and receive her false explanation.

Yue Qingyuan has never desired to push the matter. Now, he nearly wishes he had, if only to comprehend a fraction of the unbidden attention he’s suffered from her and his shibiao. As she slowly steps inside, Ren Yijun fiercely aims her steel eyes upon him with a fire quite unlike her; easily extinguished, but its mere presence is enough to have unease sweep through him. An animal’s instinct, this feeling of entrapment, as he glances between them. He should hardly be surprised if even she intuits his smile now to be nothing but the mere act of baring his teeth.

Yue Qingyuan grasps his anchor and ensures he crinkles the corners of his eyes in some false show of warmth, of humanity.

“Shizun,” she greets with a stilted bow.

A rueful wind breaks through his heart. Witnessing him in such a state, perhaps she’s determined not to be the ward of such a broken man. If he cannot hold his own, how could he hope to defend her?

He grows quiet, cherishing the name for perhaps the last: “Xiao-Ren.”

For all his apprehensions, it is this name which finally melts the tension from her shoulders. Even as she rises, her gaze immediately falls to the ground, and she swallows once before speaking again, in a wavering voice, “This disciple is relieved to see Shizun well.”

Frozen, Yue Qingyuan is hesitant to approach this lest he break it. What had he done, to scare her in the first place? Quietly easing into his role, he says, “Yes, with thanks to you.”

A delicate, bitter smile crosses her face. She shakes her head, “This disciple may only hope to aid in Shizun’s recovery.”

“Only if it is no trouble…”

“It will be no trouble if Zhangmen-shixiong permits it,” Mu Qingfang intervenes with exasperated fondness. “For the next month, this yishi asks only that you two keep spiritual use minimal, and rest.”

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Yue Qingyuan wakes in the garden, surrounded by flora meant to soothe one’s spiritual energy. A section of the pavilion reserved primarily for elder cultivators, which he visited only once after obtaining Xuan Su: to show Ren Yijun what was available to her. Here she sits at his side, diligently mirroring his meditative pose, although her expression seems strained. Between them rests Qi Qingqi’s tea set, engraved with heating talismans to keep the tea warm, placed upon a small table in the grass. As natural as the scene appears to be, he regards it warily, for he does not remember why he is here.

Yue Qingyuan wakes in Qing Jing’s bamboo forest, laying on his back with the stars above peering down at him. A voice transferral spell tapers off and dissolves before he can comprehend the last few words. In his hands, he finds a worthless jade pendant. Even the fool of his youth would never dare sell this, for fear of being struck for pawning off such an obvious counterfeit. Yet, he had been clutching at it as though it was sacred, and he does not remember why.

Yue Qingyuan wakes with an empty teacup in hand and a distant, shrill ringing in his ears. Shen Qingqiu stares him down critically. Before he can blink, let alone find his bearings, he’s cast out with words absent of the barbs he’d come to hope for. The point of contact precious and the blood a deserved reminder. Qingqiu demanded reason for his intrusion, but he could not muster a reply when he doesn’t remember why.

Yue Qingyuan wakes up and he doesn’t remember.

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t remember.

His hand tenses and untenses around Xuan Su as he tries, in vain, to piece together the shards scattered around him. There is no place to step without cutting further into himself. For the longest time, he felt with virulent certainty his existence was held behind stained glass—he had never considered the glass itself held the projections of his memories. Those which flickered, struggled to reenact themselves, had only a child holding candlelight to provide its shakier form. There were others which could not complete its play with the amount of fractures it endured, no matter how clear the light cast upon it. This was bearable. Anything was bearable when faced now with countless intricate windows shattered and mocking his blind desperation, reaching for each colorless fragment with scarred hands and no trace of where any scene belonged. All he knew, sitting in dark crimson, was the starving abyss beyond these windows has finally found him.

Without his memories to shield him, there will be nothing left. Yue Qi is nothing but wisps of spiritual energy haphazardly held by a splintered body long outstanding death.

“Xuan Su,” he whispers into the silence, straining his every sense for its familiar hum. “Xuan Su.”

This cold morning is no different. The time between waking and Xuan Su’s return leaves him numb with trepidation.

Time passes. Pitilessly, time passes. The sun does not rise. The air is freezing.

Yue Qingyuan dares not guess how much he’s forgotten, but he is sure to remember the pain slowly returning to his bones. An ache keeping time firmly at his side through each agonizing moment, until his senses grow dull, and it flees.

When he finally finds the strength to push himself from the bed and approach the window, he falls still not two steps from its safety. On the sill, there lay a scrap of parchment held down by a small spirit stone. Those three, simple characters, written in a mimicry of his own script, freeze his blood:

'Ling Xi Caves?'

Chapter Text

If Xuan Su knew he was going to transmigrate into Proud Immortal Demon Way, he would’ve tried harder to memorize some of the harem members that author actually attempted to keep in the story. To be completely honest, the entire reason he even knew Ren Yijun’s name was because that was the exact way the shapeshifter introduced herself, okay?! The shapeshifter herself didn’t even get a proper name, just weird endearments from Yijun and Binghe!

As it is, this is all he knows about Ren Yijun:

1. She is a respectable Huan Hua Palace cultivator and ignores Cang Qiong.
2. She is, less respectably, endlessly ambitious and ruthless.
3. She handles demonic energy better than the other wives, so she can go multiple rounds.

Wrong, wrong, wrong! It’s enough to make a grown man cry! How is it that even though he’s mistaken her entire role in the story for the shapeshifter’s, he's still somehow more competent than Airplane ever was? He’s lucky he died as soon as PIDW finished! The fate of Zhongdian Literature is destined to shut down in obscurity with the swaths of nonsense these people are getting away with.

Are their stories an exact replica on purpose, or what? It goes like this: Luo Binghe fights them both to win them over, he notices they handle demonic energy well, invites them back to Huan Hua, and they're plucked like a bountiful harvest of rice after a rainy season. 

Just one problem “Great Master” Airplane—does lovesickness drain IQ and EQ to zero? Because, really, Xuan Su can’t even imagine the real Ren Yijun saying anything good about Huan Hua that doesn’t have her looking like her eyes are going to roll out of her skull. And PIDW says she’d actually apprentice under them? So, is she OOC, or did Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky forget to double-check character motivations for the nth time to make her love for Luo Binghe convincing?

Look, she’s loyal! Her trope’s much more akin to the obedient right-hand type, likely to die at her shizun’s side way before she even has to make that choice between sects. As far as he can tell, if she’s even capable of hate, she’d hate Bingge! And it hurts him to say that, but it’s true!

Luo Binghe doesn’t deserve someone who’s just going to hate him after the first waves of infatuation die out, okay?

But it can, and it definitely did. Because even if she was taken in by his unfailing charm, as anyone would be, Luo Binghe probably left her be once he realized she had nothing else to offer. Airplane didn’t even try to work out the why of her joining Huan Hua. Just to be close to her short-term lover? Wouldn’t she have done better for him if she stayed here in Cang Qiong?

‘In case you forgot,’ he inwardly jeers, keeping his face blank while he waits for said disciple to arrive at his office, ‘and let’s all be real, you did, because you completely dropped the ball and failed to mention this little tidbit: she’s the succeeding disciple of Yue Qingyuan. You know, nothing major, just the fucking Sect Leader of Cang Qiong? Couldn’t she have done better in destroying it from the inside if she wanted to prove her love for Binghe was real? Women aren’t that stupid, you hack!’

Not to say that Yue Qingyuan, probably the most steadfast and righteous man alive, didn’t deserve someone who matched his speed, but really? OOC to the Heavens! Did she get struck on the head somewhere down the line that replaced her with Shen Qingqiu? Because that’s the only way he could ever accept her fate in PIDW. There’s only one soul who is capable of unabashedly hating such a compassionate and devoted leader like Yue Qingyuan, who would spit on everything he offers when they leave Cang Qiong, and it’s scum. Plain and simple.

Even Luo Binghe had to respect him, for all the times their one-on-one fights ended in stalemates—the most anyone could ask when they’re up against the Protagonist!

So, all that is to say…

Xuan Su has no clue who this human Ren Yijun, apparently apprenticed under Yue Qingyuan, is. Repeat: he has no clue, whatsoever, how to deal with her.

At least with most of the martial family, it’s pretty easy to sit back and act like he’s got an exclusive seat to the world’s most immersive televised drama. Yue Qingyuan makes for a great protagonist in his own right. All Xuan Su needs to do is mark down notes here and there to guarantee his survival and curse people out on Yue Qingyuan’s behalf, the usual.

But with Ren Yijun, he doesn’t have any script to follow. Not PIDW’s, not Yue Qingyuan’s, only a vague trope to fit her into.

Most of her interactions meant to be for Yue Qingyuan have been passed on to him these first few mornings. Xuan Su did try sleeping at normal times for Yue Qingyuan’s sake, but he still wakes up first! It’s not his fault. It’s inconvenient for both of them, really.

Especially that first day—those critical eyes! It was like the Endless Abyss itself was staring him down, and all because he used her name?

“Ren Yijun, shall we meditate?” asked Xuan Su.

“Shizun should lie down,” said his too-filial disciple, all smiles while pretending that meditation and sleeping were one in the same.

It went on like this for a couple of days, with her occasionally being bold enough to drag him from his office where they met all the way up to Yue Qingyuan’s home. When he’d protest, she’d insist on staying in the common area until he awoke. It took Xuan Su’s incessant “this one tires of sleep” and “yes, Disciple Ren may steep tea and prepare the medication” and “yes, your shizun will actually take his medication” to get a chance to shoo her away so she could make arrangements with the hall masters for meditating in the garden.

He can already feel a headache coming on. If she’s this reluctant to let him do (medically mandated) meditation, how is he ever going to get off Qiong Ding Peak? He can’t risk drawing his sword form again, that’s for sure.

When she returns to the office with breakfast, it takes another round of prodding to convince her to bring it and the tea set with them and get this over with.

Thankfully, she takes the lead and clears the path for him. Not that it needs much clearing, since they don't even reach the pavilion entrance before she takes him down an offshoot from the upper hall, leading toward a private path. This part of the gardens has plants specifically curated for meditation—Xuan Su squints at them, wondering how many lotuses they’ve justified putting in one area. If Luo Binghe really needed more support as a disciple, Mu Qingfang should’ve just sent him here to stuff all the flowers in his mouth. He’d trip over them in the wild eventually, wouldn’t he? Might as well save him the trouble early on.

Xuan Su settles for kneeling on the grass, thankful for Yue Qingyuan’s dark xuanduan robes. If he could go two lives without needing to wash out grass stains, he’ll really be at peace no matter what comes for his third. Beside him, Ren Yijun busies herself with setting everything up for the tea. She diligently pours Mu Qingfang’s concoction for the both of them, stirring in some of the additional herbs that were recommended for Yue Qingyuan specifically. In addition, she sets down some simple congee prepared by the kitchens. It’s appealing enough, and it’ll take some strain off Yue Qingyuan’s body so he doesn’t need to stick with inedia. If they end up vomiting blood again, it’ll be nice to actually have something in their gut to throw up.

Still, he wishes Yue Qingyuan would treat himself under normal circumstances too.

Xuan Su lifts the tea to his mouth to hide a sigh. Double-checking, he was right, Yue Qingyuan didn’t have any mirrors in his home. In fact, he didn’t have much of anything on those walls. The furniture was all elaborate and well-put together, and the windows had nice sharp and intricate designs, but that’s as far as decor went. Xuan Su idly stirs his tea and mourns in his heart. Must he bully Shen Qingqiu into making an art piece to spruce the place up? If Yue Qingyuan could look at that and lie to himself that he finally earned Shen Qingqiu’s (impossible) approval, maybe he’d finally be able to let the man go. Xuan Su wouldn’t even complain that much, if it satisfied Yue Qingyuan.

“Is Shizun well?” Ren Yijun asks, holding her own cup close to her chest.

Am I well? Am I well? Tell me, you asked me just the other night, am I well?!

Aside from the NPC nature of her question, stolen directly from Mu Qingfang, this girl, she really… cared way too much!

Even if he could send her off to Huan Hua to meet the shapeshifter, maybe put a pin in all that ‘scowling’ whenever Cang Qiong comes up since she’ll associate it with the real Ren Yijun, maybe get her to join Cang Qiong so Xuan Su could have a look… well, this one’s imprinted on Yue Qingyuan like a lost duckling. Whether she’s there for a month or a year, he can already imagine her being as bad as his meimei, sending him letters as often as she’s able—just nonsense texts with cat pics, or Dad’s work gossip, or her grocery lists. He ignored the last one for the most part until he at last had to snap “There is no way you’re buying that much vinegar” and she got to snipe back with “it’s to make up for missing you.”

Another sigh escapes him. He raises a hand to pat her head, but stops just short of reaching her when she flinches back.

Right, he thinks bitterly, pulling away, Airplane and their stupid wannabe-whump.

“Apologies…” Ren Yijun moves back to how she was and sets her tea down, anxiously staring down at the small table like she… still expects to be hit.

Xuan Su’s utterly baffled. “Come now, would your shizun strike you?”

She shakes her head, the apprehension transforming into clear guilt. Xuan Su lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, unsure whether to dig into this to reassure her or not. But, when all’s said and done, Xuan Su isn’t the best at handing out advice or comfort. She should wait for her actual shizun to come around.

He decides to set his own tea down, reaching instead for the small breakfast. Then he teases, “There is no need for Disciple Ren to fret. Yes, this master is well.”

It’s like thunder clouds have rolled in.

She’s still sitting there with all the perfect poise of a head disciple, but her gloved hands are clenched very tightly on her lap, to the point they’re almost shaking. Not just that, but she’s lifted her chin to stare at him with flinty eyes. Black lines form on Xuan Su’s face. Had he said something so off? Hey, he’ll concede he might’ve been OOC to lie that he’s fine right to her face. But aren’t these mood shifts just a tad too erratic, even for a teenager?

“Shizun should continue taking his medicine,” she says evenly.

Xuan Su does not laugh. He just coughs. Violently.

The worry in Ren Yijun’s expression returns, but she doesn’t try reaching out. She doesn’t even say anything. She just stands by until he can clamp it down enough to take the tea and not choke to death again.

Once he does, she asks, “Shizun, may this disciple inquire something?”

You already have, he wants to roll his eyes, but Yue Qingyuan wouldn’t dare. He just nods her direction, “Hm?”

She’s quiet a little longer, then asks, “Has this one’s new name been decided?”

Xuan Su eyes her. A new name? Like, a courtesy name? She didn’t need that right away, did she? He peers over her. She’s definitely one of the older disciples of her generation, sure, but still young enough. He could say that she doesn’t have to worry about it for another year and be in the clear, but she says it with such importance that he can’t just shrug her off. And besides, if it is something she was talking about with Yue Qingyuan before, he shouldn’t interfere.

So, he settles on an enigmatic, “Patience.”

Ren Yijun smiles. Xuan Su takes it to mean he’s passed.

They finish breakfast in relative silence, and he’s content. Meditating comes easy.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Ren Yijun hates being touched. In her life, only three have ever done so in kindness: her xiaomei, Mu-shishu, and Shizun.

This is not her shizun.

“Xiao-Ren,” his voice says, soft and low like it ought to be, like it’s really him, “Calm yourself. You’re deviating.”

Her eyes are furiously shut. She knows her body’s burning up. She knows if it keeps up that she won’t be able to breathe. It’s hard enough to when his hand is on her shoulder. She wishes he’d just strangle her already and end this. There’s no strength left in her to stop the tender qi coursing through hers. It forces her to calm, and that unbidden comfort brings terror anew.

“Breathe, little one.” 

She dares open an eye and clutches at his hand. Her body quivers as fiercely as a torn arrow, and she loathes that she clings onto him still. Blood trickles down from her wavering lips. She welcomes it. All she can think is how she hates. Hates how scared and weak she still is after these long seventeen years. If this thing could take Shizun, then she too is entirely helpless against it. There will never be a chance for her to repay him.

Yue Qingyuan is perfect. Unblemished and undeserving of swill like her. How could he cross the vast distance between them and touch a bastard’s life with a smile? How could he exist with such a soft heart? How dare he—how dare he—let even more filth invade him?

But she truly, truly does not want to bite him again. Not after these cherished years he spent training her to be good, to be noble, all to stay at his side. It doesn’t matter if the person inhabiting isn’t him, or if it won’t be soon—the childish, scattered pieces of her still long to hope.

“Shizun,” she prays. She wipes the blood from her mouth, and forces herself to look up at him. The haphazard pile of words scrape at her throat, “Shizun, is it you? Promise?”

The elder’s hand turns over to grasp hers, tightly. Another flood of flame overtakes her qi, effortlessly charring the abrasions and sweeping them away. The embers should scare her, but she has no fight. There’s no battle to be had. Not when he, lit by night pearls strung along the garden’s edge, is nothing less than ethereal. A god looking down upon her. “Your shizun is here. No one else. You are safe.”

“Safe.” Her voice cracks in the echo. “Is Shizun safe?”

His serenity melts into a quiet haunting, almost human, until he remembers to still his expression. “Shizun will not harm you, nor will he permit harm to come to you. However, you mustn’t harm yourself.”

It’s too much. It’s too unfair. How is it that he makes her want to hope? How is it he makes wishes true? It’s so, very much like him, not once considering himself first. “Is Shizun safe?”

At the way his expression softens, she feels tears burn behind her eyes, because that is someone she recognizes. “…Yes, Yi’er.”

The name doesn’t quite leave his mouth when she launches herself at him, heaving dry sobs into the crook of his shoulder. It wracks through her with vengeful fervor once he unstiffens and returns her embrace with one arm—kept loose, in case she wishes to move away again.

Ren Yi doesn’t wish to. Not until the sun rises, and she loses him again.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Apparently their head disciple caught a fever the other night, after Xuan Su fell asleep mid-meditation, and it got even worse yesterday morning. Yue Qingyuan stayed with her for most of that day, meditating at her side while fussing to make sure she was hydrated and eating well. As for himself, he asked Mu Qingfang a few times if there was work for him, only to be given the Signature Doctor’s Look. So long as things didn’t require an executive decision? Foist it on over to An Ding!

But, for Xuan Su’s purposes, Ren Yijun’s sudden illness meant that she was locked on Qian Cao for the time being and didn’t have to follow him. After successfully convincing Mu Qingfang over breakfast that Yue Qingyuan would not decide to randomly keel over and die in the course of a few hours, he was eventually given permission to walk about the peaks today as long as he kept a talisman close.

Walk, because it didn’t matter how much he pestered the System on why his spiritual sword didn’t work, it kept giving that one “quest” like some promiscuous pop-up virus. If Xuan Su didn’t already waste his energy earlier sending a seething flurry of insults immediately upon realizing it didn’t just stop at punishing him with qi deviation, but cut a whole 0 off his perfect 100 points, he would’ve launched into a whole other rant.

It wasn't so terrible, thankfully. These past few days he’d come to the realization that as long as Yue Qingyuan actually meditated and Xuan Su worked to match him, they’d also accumulate B-points. Sure, it was a crawl to make it past fifty, but passively earning three points a shichen was something he was going to cling onto like his life depended on it.

Because his life depended on it.

And as long as he’s here, he’ll make good on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So he tucks a nameless sword next to his own to practice with. He isn’t leaving the actual Xuan Su sword behind for some other person to take it from the sheath and hurt themself, and he definitely isn’t risking the chance that his connection to Yue Qingyuan’s body would be severed. It was bad enough when he got this jumpscare over lunch—

[ Warning: B-points -5. Current B-points: 53. ]

At the time, only Mu Qingfang was awake to notice his expression pale. The healer thankfully said nothing when Xuan Su turned away to internally howl: ‘What the hell was that for?!’

[ Connection with CHR(“Yue Qingyuan”); unstable. Please perform master reset and try again. ]

‘So you dock our hard-earned points?!’ he had cried. ‘How do I stabilize the connection?’

[ User is urged to synchronize with the Yue Qingyuan account within two hours. If unavailable, perform master reset and try again. ]

Asshole. It didn’t even tell him how to synchronize.

Putting the System aside. All things considered? It was pretty easy living. Most people bowed to Yue Qingyuan, and the ones that tried talking with him were quickly dismissed and didn’t even seem slighted by it. Smile and wave, boys! Smile and wave… maybe light a candle, too, if Shen Qingqiu’s returned early from his “diplomatic mission” with Huan Hua.

As for why he’s heading to Qing Jing? To strike two birds with one stone: get Luo Binghe a real manual, and practice sword forms with this spare blade.

The Qing Jing Peaks, but specifically their forests past the bamboo groves, were described in the most detail Proud Immortal Demon Way had to offer. Xuan Su will be more familiar with the area on that basis, and it offers vast, spatial privacy that Qiong Ding plainly can’t afford to have in its own training grounds. Being the central peak means most everything is catered to show off for high-ranking visitors and militia. From what Xuan Su can tell, Bai Zhan is similar in that practically everywhere was grounds for training, punishment, and other instruction. With that sort of pressure, every single disciple is expected to put on their best performance at all times. It’s a real wonder their heads don’t explode like broken kilns.

Disciples of Qing Jing have it rough too, it's just “quietly” bad. Having Shen Qingqiu as a mini-tyrant lays the stress on thick.

Take, for example, this disciple perched next to a small stream with their back bare and freshly whipped.

Almost dropping all the pretense of a lofty immortal, he hurries to their side. The closer he gets, the smaller this kid seems—the realization forces him to slow down and collect himself so he doesn’t topple them over into the river. They must hear his sloppy approach, because they turn around to look at him, and that face…

Well! The Protagonist Halo is definitely raring to go!

Even through the bruises littering his face, no one could mistake those determined eyes beaming from beneath his lovely little curls. The hair’s mostly tied up and out of his face to help with cleaning out the wounds, but his bangs still manage to gently frame his cheeks and comfort him against the warm afternoon glow.

As any self-respecting young man would, however, his eyes shrink with the realization he’s staring down the sect leader. Half-naked to boot.

“Zh-Zhangmen-shibo!” he exclaims, scrambling into a kneel that somehow manages to look graceful. “Sincerest apologies for this lowly disciple’s indignity!”

“Who’s lowly?” Xuan Su asks exasperatedly. These disciples, really! Luo Binghe peers up, clearly confused, and Xuan Su coughs lightly. Oh, his face… he rummages through Yue Qingyuan’s sleeves for the medicine he keeps on his person, returning the favor by tacking on a half-hearted, “Luo Binghe is a disciple of Qing Jing. There is nothing lowly about that.”

The precious lotus nods his head in agreement, shyly trying to shrug his robe back over his shoulders.

There, a healing ointment. Xuan Su extracts it and offers it to Luo Binghe in a smooth motion. “Stand, Disciple Luo. If a boy your age must avoid Qian Cao, you may use this.”

…Why is he acting like he’s holding a poisonous snake? What’s with the hesitation, ah?

Xuan Su shakes it a little, offering it again, and this time Luo Binghe takes it with a swift bow. “This humble disciple is most grateful!”

He can’t help the wry smile. If only Shen Qingqiu was half as grateful for the life he lives, he wouldn’t be beating a child in the first place. Removing that heartless bastard from the sect is out of the question—objectively, that’d be an abuse of power, and more importantly, it’d make Yue Qingyuan feel morally reprehensible. The moment someone doesn’t like him and, what, he cuts them off like they’re mold? How unfilial! But damn if it isn’t tempting! Xuan Su wants to shake his shoulders, it’s for your own good, Sect Leader.

[ Second Warning: Unsynced. B-points -15. Current B-points: 38. ]

Xuan Su whirls around just in time to keep Luo Binghe from seeing the face he makes at that. ‘What! is! your! problem?! You take away another ten on top of the five, and for what?!’

[ User is urged to synchronize with the Yue Qingyuan account within two hours. If unavailable, perform master reset and try again. ]

Closing his eyes, Xuan Su takes a second to scream. Then, he mentally shoves the dialog out of the way, clears his throat, and turns around to ask with a calm smile, “How is Disciple Luo’s cultivation progressing?”

Luo Binghe snaps to attention. Sadly, his blindingly bright smile is quickly dampened with shame. He bows again and Xuan Su just barely catches himself from telling him not to. With these types of students, who knows what’d come across as reprimanding? “This disciple is… slow. He strives to reach the level of his peers soon, as to not disappoint Shizun or Zhangmen-shibo.”

“Is that so?” he asks, poking at the cub, “What is Disciple Luo struggling with?”

“This disciple…”

Xuan Su gives an encouraging nod.

“The manual,” Luo Binghe admits, “this disciple is stupid and fails to understand it.”

Even if Binghe was stupid, does the fault not lay with his teacher? That idiot of all idiots! Boy, come hang out with me instead! Xuan Su yells within his heart, This master will deliver unto you the correct techniques!

Instead of letting any of this spill out of his mouth, though it stays on the tip of his tongue, he extends a hand. “Your manual?”

Luo Binghe hastily darts to his few belongings. He picks out the manual from the small pile and hands it to him sheepishly.

Xuan Su skims through it, careful with the edges of the old thing. It was worn either from where others used it repeatedly as ill-fitted pranks, or Binghe took the time to pour over the entire pamphlet to search for anything he could make sense of. Probably both. How anyone could consider this to be just a prank, though, is ridiculous. The trite contradictions everywhere aren’t just frustrating, but obviously lethal. If Binghe was anyone other than the Protagonist, he would’ve deviated a long time ago, just like his shizun wanted.

Look at this! Telling you one page that experienced cultivators meditate under freezing waterfalls, then saying that they’re only able to do this because as young disciples they didn’t stress their middle dantian—where people are, you know, meant to regulate temperature from? Not just qi deviations, they’re trying to give the Protagonist hypothermia!

As much as he’d like to tear into Shen Qingqiu’s trash right here and now, he can’t do anything without hailing another million arrows for Yue Qingyuan.

Xuan Su promptly shuts the manual.

“Is Disciple Luo well enough to train?” He eyes the scars with a heavy heart. If only Yue Qingyuan knew… “This master would prefer a demonstration.”

Noticing his gaze, Luo Binghe quickly rises and throws on his outer robe with a “Yes Shibo!” Then he brings him into a part of the forest downed for recreation, meditation, and training alike. It should be a beautiful sight, but Xuan Su just feels disquieted by the deadened silence. There really is no other lord Qing Jing could be made for, being beautiful without and foul within. At this point, from everyone’s reactions, Shen Qingqiu has yet to reveal just how much of a poser he is. No, he won’t spare smiles to charm people unless it counts, but he still pretends he bothers with righteousness when he’s just a petty man. Caring about his disciples’ training? Yeah, right. Only about as far as they can fuel his stupid inferiority complex.

If Xuan Su could, he’d take this disciple under his wing and burn the old manual right away—but that’d probably make Binghe cry.

Still.

“What would Zhangmen-shibo like to see?”

“One of the beginning exercises shall suffice.”

The Protagonist nods, fire returning to his eyes. In his state, it’s no surprise he winces at the start, but he doesn’t even stumble when he takes his stance to start out with basic sword forms. The only difficulty comes when he has to twist to perform the fifth exercise—the so-called Moonbug’s Swoop—something allegedly meant to help disciples send out qi and observe the area. In reality, it’s just a terrible AoE attack. Sure, later on, Luo Binghe has the sheer destructive prowess to make good use of it, but that’s later. For now, all he’ll be known for is disrupting his allies and leaving himself undefended. Especially if the sword hits a tree like—

Yep. Ouch. Luo Binghe catches himself and takes the energy of the rebound to force another attack on the poor bark and make it seem intentional.

Xuan Su internally cringes. He can feel his back hurting (more than usual) just looking at this. “Enough of that.”

Luo Binghe breathes a shaken, upset sigh as he bows. Sweat sprouts at his forehead and his face is flushed with unnecessary shame, and Xuan Su—ah. When did he reach out to pat his head, huh? Is it magnetic?! It may be early spring now, but Yue Qingyuan really shouldn’t be wearing metal arm bracers once summer rolls around…

“Luo Binghe did well,” Xuan Su says sincerely, if a bit awkwardly since he swiftly removes his hand. “Rise.”

When he does, his eyes are literal stars.

“...However, as this master suspected, your foundation is not suited for the standard method,” he bullshits solemnly, knowing full well they’d be hard-pressed to find it fit anyone’s foundation. Xuan Su tactfully pulls out another manual lifted from Qian Cao’s equivalent to physical therapy. “Here is a Qing Jing manual catered for physical cultivators like yourself. Use it well.”

“Sh-Shibo?” He stares at it wide-eyed. He won’t even take the new manual from his hand, glancing around like he’s hoping the old one Ming Fan gave him will pop out of nowhere instead. Is he really that nervous? Maybe that’s fitting, considering this is the face of the one person he couldn’t overpower alone, but it will (hopefully) not come to that point. Xuan Su offers a smile and nods once, a peace offering, and Luo Binghe finally takes it, treating it with the caution of a dandelion about to blow away. “Thank you… this disciple will treasure it.”

Xuan Su preens at that. Mission one is a success!

With that taken care of, Xuan Su starts walking back through the bamboo grove. Luo Binghe quickly takes to his side like an adorable puppy, already peeling open his manual to read. Xuan Su just barely withholds from patting his head again. That fluffy thing really is dangerous…

“Disciple Luo must be hungry,” Xuan Su says conversationally, watching for Luo Binghe’s reaction. He deflates slightly at the reminder, but doesn’t seem to have any reaction to indicate he’s solely foraging for food. Not yet, at least. And never, if Xuan Su can help it. “One must admire the dedication, but no cultivator practices on an empty stomach.”

No average cultivator, that is.

“Yes, Shibo…” Luo Binghe gently closes the manual, glancing up at the sun already sauntering its way down the mountain. “This disciple should still have time before evening classes.”

He shifts his attention from the mountains to the sect leader—to him at this age, there’s not much difference between them in scale, is there? Once they reach the edge of the brushery, Xuan Su quietly warns, “This master will see you off from here. He still has matters of his own to tend to.”

“Thank you very much, Zhangmen-shibo,” Luo Binghe says seriously, bowing once more before starting to turn around. But just before walking off, he hesitates. “This disciple has one last question.”

Xuan Su raises his brows, but gestures for him to go on.

“How did… Shibo know my name? Why help me?”

It was your Protagonist’s Aura, clearly. Anyone in their right mind would be compelled to. Xuan Su emulates one of Yue Qingyuan’s softer smiles and says indulgently, “Luo Binghe has the potential to be great.”

The greatest, but if Xuan Su said that, he thinks the boy’s breath really will stop. He’s already standing here like he’s waiting for the praise to fall down and slap him for thinking this isn’t an insult to his current ability. Ay, it really tugs at the heart…

Oh, right. He’s meant to dig his crummy shidi out of his self-made grave too. He resigns himself to another bare-faced lie, “On this, your shizun and shibo agree.”

And because you are, your shizun wants to kill you.

Oblivious to Xuan Su’s internal plight, Luo Binghe looks like he really might cry. With those darling, wet orbs of his. 

After all the thanks are said and done, he runs off with a light heart. Xuan Su waves a little, sighing wistfully before heading back into the clearing.

Xuan Su won’t say he’s the most mature of his generation, he’s very self-aware, but he never understood how a grown man like Shen Qingqiu could act like this—how any villain could have everything they could possibly desire and still take from a child. Wasn’t it enough to douse the light in Luo Binghe’s eyes, that first day they met? Put aside the fact he’s setting himself up for failure once the child inescapably grows up, how could anyone stand to hurt one in the first place? Repeatedly, all because he’s a kid who relies on adults and looks to them for praise that he hasn’t been offered since his mother died?

It wasn’t just a matter of greed. Even his past life as a privileged second-gen rich kid, even Yue Qingyuan’s exuberant life here, neither of them have ever fallen into such fits of jealousy that they’d hurt a child who happens to have the one thing they don’t! Ren Yijun felt guilty for thinking Yue Qingyuan ever would!

No matter what happened in his unwritten past, between literally burning his bridges with the Qius and finding Cang Qiong late, Shen Qingqiu found stability today. What right did he have to steal that security away from a disciple who literally clawed his way up the mountain after a lifetime of hardship? Is it so difficult to just turn the other cheek, must you slap his too?

Shen Qingqiu is an embittered, violent man. Interior, exterior, it won't at all matter once his mask completely breaks.

Xuan Su wishes he could warn Yue Qingyuan in advance that this guy’s a hopeless case. Keeping him around is rotting Cang Qiong from the inside, because he doesn’t care for filial piety half as much as Yue Qingyuan does unless it benefits him. Everything about how he treats his disciples out of sight is bad news.

…Not that he can do anything about it right now. He has to get himself set up to take Shen Qingqiu on, if Yue Qingyuan can't stand to.

Xuan Su reenters the clearing and apprehensively unsheathes his spare blade. Channeling qi into this nameless sword doesn’t end up with him bleeding on the ground, at least, even if it does seem to be vibrating. He casually lifts it to the sky and slices down in a clean motion.

A glare sings out with it, the waver of his sword making the ground rumble—cracking the earth until it reaches the point contact, a few steps away from where he’s standing.

Holy shit.

That… was not a practice slash.

The System dings once and Xuan Su feels hot blood spurt from his nose. Not again…

[ Critical Warning: Key item nearby! ]

Xuan Su blinks in disbelief, hurriedly wiping the blood with his sleeve. What fucking item warrants a whole warning dedicated to it, huh? System didn’t think to put any warning on his soul-killing sword!

He walks along the indent of where he, well, with Yue Qingyuan’s power, made a permanent scorched indent in the dirt. Stopping at about the halfway mark, he channels a bit less qi into the sword when he lifts it, carving an arc through the air. The ground quakes again, and the trees shiver, but the most damage is that a few new spring leaves fall from them. Xuan Su clicks his tongue. What a short-lived life.

[ Critical Warning: Key item nearby! ]

This time, the System warning pops up on his right. He follows closely, keeping his guard up for anything strange. Xuan Su wracks his brains to think of what this item could be, watching his step and hoping it isn't some misidentified important animal-slash-human-corpse stashed away.

Just as he raises the sword again, before he can channel any qi, a much harsher beeping breaks his ears.

[ Critical Warning: Key item nearby! ]

Alright, so it’s within this radius. Xuan Su scrunches up his nose and looks around.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t really have a good time frame for this—he really should’ve asked after Luo Binghe’s age before letting him scamper off. In terms of so-called “critical items” it could be, there was the incident where Ning Yingying had injured her arm in a Bai Zhan raid and needed her trusty A’Luo to braid her hair for her, and afterward they tied a ribbon of the same color on a tree branch where their names were carved. Or, the one where he hid away preserved rations and clothes after the woodshed burnt down. Or even one of those supposed once-in-a-lifetime flowers that Xuan Su didn’t bother to memorize because it added a whole lot of nothing to the ecology. The thing didn’t even have a monstrous guardian to mark it half as important as it pretended to be, and no creature bothered with eating or fertilizing it—just go ahead and write it off as another random qi enhancement!

Xuan Su puts his spare sword away and starts searching the ground. There aren’t too many shrubs here, and the grass isn’t out of control yet, so it’s easy to do a quick sweep of the area. The lower branches (or, well, low for Yue Qingyuan), are more annoying and turn up a whole lot of nothing. But when he looks up, his eye catches something glint in the darkness when the wind makes it sway.

Cultivation makes hopping up there easier than it really should be. Xuan Su balances himself on one of the branches just below it, and reaches up to gently tug it loose by the red string.

[ Congratulations! Obtained key item: Fake Jade Guanyin x 1. Current B-Points: 68. Please continue to work hard! ]

So we’re at that point in the story, he realizes grimly, casually sliding down the tree like a lazy cat. Once he hits the ground, he holds the charm tightly in his palm, mulling it over. Shen Qingqiu only really started beating Luo Binghe by his own hand these last… few winter months.

Xuan Su rubs his temple. At least it hasn’t been a year?

…He’s already exhausted. When darkness comes, he welcomes it.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Another several cases logged from children misbehaving near the borderlands, poisoned for their trouble by the very same snarling scorpion tail Liu Qingge was sent to retrieve. Were it in Mu Qingfang’s power, they would have sent these Bai Zhan disciples to the Beast Taming Peak long ago; there, perhaps, they would have guidance beyond Liu Qingge’s particular flavor of chastening.

Deferring the treatment to a hall master, Mu Qingfang slips away and proceeds to the peak lord’s ward, rather keen to speak with Yue Qingyuan upon his return. The man insisted he would not stay past dark—it is plenty past that now.

Instead of him, however, it is his head disciple who meets them at the inner hall. Appearing pale, with much muted flush to her young features revealing she has not yet recovered from the fever onset at her near deviation. Each deliberate step becomes unnatural treading under scrutiny, motions akin more so to that of a particularly wary fox.

“Ren-shizi is awake,” notes Mu Qingfang. “Has Sect Leader Yue not returned?”

“He hasn’t,” is the stiff reply. Ren Yijun’s eyes flit to theirs, then dart elsewhere within a single breath. “This one was searching for Mu-shishu.”

“Oh?”

The silence bears a dreadful premonition.

Mu Qingfang wordlessly guides her toward Qiong Ding’s room, pausing briefly to review the safeguards: all untouched. The security array holds, the privacy talismans intact, as are those keyed to burn with theirs upon qi fluctuations by way of warning. With Yue Qingyuan’s present status, they had procured one such talisman for him to keep on his person as a precaution when he left, and as a study. Would the subtle shift between spiritual energies incite a surge significant enough to disrupt the talisman if in close proximity? To what end is Yue Qingyuan subdued?

Ren Yijun situates herself on the large bed, sat upright with her hands resting on her knees. Mu Qingfang supposes the image she seeks seems quite prim and proper, and perhaps would be, were her legs not dangling. Where Yue Qingyuan and the prior sect leader had little trouble, the tips of her toes barely brush the floor. She is a child, still.

“Shizun is possessed.”

Ah. This is her concern, then. Mu Qingfang gazes at her, considering how exactly they might go about this.

Yue Qingyuan is possessed, of course, by the known definition. A burden for them to manage alone. They cannot simply divulge the nature of Xuan Su without garnering questions they cannot and have not the right to answer. The prior lords insisted upon a vow, written in blood, to sanction entrance to the Ling Xi Caves and bear witness to the true mantle of a healer without equal. Beyond that, a promise made to Yue Qingyuan himself which held their tongue as firmly as any spiritual binding.

In breaching the issue of possession, a severe accusation regardless, they must revert to Qian Cao’s ruling of questions first. One’s pride and inability to discern the finer details of personal aberrations may very well kill a patient. As Qiong Ding’s Head Disciple, Ren Yijun must master a broader, cautionary perspective. “Your reasoning?”

“This disciple believes he attempted to strike the being several days ago. However, it had already bound itself to him and the strike harmed them both.” She studiously crafts her theory. The words present themselves devoid of any emotional influence, but the matter of its forceful apathy betrays her. “In this lapse of vulnerability, the demon accessed some of his memories—but not all of them. Its performance of Shizun is poor.”

“This one must commend your attention.” Mu Qingfang files away the observation on his—or its—memory, silently pleased that she has gathered this much. Yue Qingyuan is truly blessed to have such a dedicated disciple. “That said, this yishi would have recognized a hostile—”

“With all due respect,” she sharply intervenes, “this disciple knows she is not mistaken. If Mu-shishu will not investigate this matter, she will warn Peak Lord Shen upon his return.”

“Ren-shizi would do well to listen, first,” admonishes Mu Qingfang. The chill to their voice grants them a reproachful look, but keeps her from speaking further. Pinching the bridge of their nose, they settle into a seat at her side. “Of all the disciples, you must realize his affliction is not demonic in nature, yes?”

Her hands tighten into fists; they glance away on a sigh.

If only privately, they must concede the situation is curious. Xuan Su’s recent resurgence is directly correlated with the curse their shixiongs encountered. A curse they cannot quite glean the motives of. It does not inhibit their spiritual prowess, but perhaps the danger lies in the energy surge itself: weaponizing Xuan Su to displace Yue Qingyuan and incite these deviations. Plainly, to kill.

This time, they will be warned; they will not lose him.

“When speaking of peculiarities, this one would care to remind Ren-shizi that Yue-shixiong has suffered two severe qi deviations.” Mu Qingfang pauses, but she dares not speak. “One lasting symptom is memory loss, temporary or otherwise.”

This would be the best result, if the talisman burns and proves their theory true. Ren Yijun need not concern herself with these possible complications.

“Even if…” She swallows, shifting her gaze to the candles ticking down. “Even if the memory of before has been lost, Shizun would remember what he has said since, would he not?”

“The ripples of any traumatic injury will affect one’s psyche and form,” is the answer, to which they add: “This is a self-contained manifestation. There were no foreign influences in his spiritual veins.”

This old healer rarely leaves space for guilt to fester. Truth may be they favor omission more than honest people should; weighed on the same scale which declares their innate veracity harmful. Judging what precisely warrants one’s moral stock is a tiring practice. The mortal world ruminates enough in producing remorseful ballads for restless souls without them joining in.

Now, though, that look in her eyes… they feel an old scar itch.

“I asked Shizun how Yi’er was faring,” Ren Yijun’s voice breaks upon her given name; she clutches at her hem, “told him, he asked after her the night before. He thought her a stranger—he did not recognize… me.”

Mu Qingfang exhales. They acquiesce.

“Very well.”

This is absurd. What answers they find, they will hardly be permitted to share with its proximity to Xuan Su. The time they’ll spend assuaging her misconceptions may as well be spent washing coal.

“While not improbable his memory suffers, we will pursue other avenues in lieu of your concern.” For her alone, they ask: “Are you amenable to joining us on Wan Jian?”

Resolutely, “This one swore to see through his recovery.”

“How diligent.” Mu Qingfang rises and brings a hand forward, palm open. “Before Yue-shixiong arrives, may this one examine you? Ren-shizi should not have wandered.”

“Apologies, Shishu,” says Ren Yijun, not apologetic in the least for pursuing a subject of such importance.

The instant she sets her wrist in theirs, the disturbance is unmistakable. Stagnant qi flow; perhaps mistaken as calm, had Mu Qingfang no sense for her usual temperament. Under Yue Qingyuan’s tutelage, she has measured the control of her spiritual flow. A practice which renders her no less of a force to be reckoned with. When first they met, her spiritual energy was yet a fickle thing; nonetheless a brewing storm, stirring with the same desperation as a sea lapping at a mountain’s base with hopes to erode it. Only through Mu Qingfang’s favored yin energy were they able to quell the ferocity within before she self-detonated. That she had not already suffered the consequence of excess yang was nothing short of a miracle after what she endured.

Yue Qingyuan retrieved this stray from a covert mission to execute Ku Xing defectors who sought the demonic path. Those unable to return from inedia without inducing debilitating sickness, who had grown paranoid of poisons in all they consumed. To these traitors, consuming a child’s spirit seemed more bearable than a meal.

The Ku Xing Lord flew into another outrage when Mu Qingfang’s cursory search revealed the young girl had a branding burned into her skin: Yi, one.

To think their own would directly engage slave trade… Mu Qingfang spared no pains to hide their natural apathy when those recreants’ memory was eviscerated, stripped of all cultivation to never be known again. Were they not personally tasked by Yue Qingyuan to heal her, they would never have borne the misfortune of learning their existence at all.

…Ren Yijun has found balance now. There will exist the lightning-struck scars of Cang Qiong’s own negligence until she forms a stronger core, but they have faith she will persevere.

Already, she has risen far beyond what could be expected of her.

Much like Yue-shixiong.

Cultivators hailing from underdeveloped areas, or having otherwise endured abuse and mistreatment, are laid bare under a healer’s inspection. The roots of what shall become their spiritual veins may have knots surrounding old injuries from instinctual efforts to heal over; nor are obstructions from heart demons so uncommon, though few persist past their hosts fostering a safe environment. Cang Qiong Mountain accepts disciples who have endured cruel climates regardless, so long as there lays potential. However, the previous generation of peak lords all deferred these children to peaks of much lower standing, unwilling to spend extraneous effort opening their spiritual veins properly.

For Yue Jingyi, as he was then known, to have caught the prior Sect Leader’s scrutinizing eye upon induction immediately marked him an unprecedented prodigy. Despite arriving malnourished and whipped, he had not only managed to open his spiritual veins, but revealed an unusual aptitude for cultivation. After Mu Huifeng’s shizun personally healed him, she allowed them to examine. His body’s natural defenses ceaselessly compensated for years-long wounds without incurring damage to himself nor fatigue. The imprint of those scars dissipated within days and spoke to the talent of both the Qian Cao Lord and this fascinating disciple.

The very first who ever captured their attention. That he caught the Qiong Ding Lord’s interest the same was a matter of course.

It is a shame to think: if she had been found by previous sect leader, Ren Yijun would have been disparaged the moment they recognized the slave brand. Mu Qingfang doubts that imperious man would ever have let a slave touch the Cang Qiong Mountains, let alone welcome them on its peak.

Yue Qingyuan truly is… quite a remarkable person. 

The past seems so dissonant. For the longest time, no one from a background such as his was permitted anything higher than Bai Zhan, unless they found themselves content as an An Ding outer disciple; neither was it unusual for the impoverished to die on these peaks before reaching adulthood. Mu Qingfang could not imagine Yue Qingyuan left to this callous fate. No other is more qualified for Sect Leader than he. A talent such as his would have been wasted anywhere else; the compassion he bears has changed countless lives.

To wit, Ren Yijun gazes absently at the entrance in wait. Mu Qingfang slowly removes their qi now that she has regained her chilled ebb and flow; for their part, they rise and circulate out the lingering ice from their veins.

“Even should you lose faith in this master, you must trust your shizun,” urges Mu Qingfang on a bitten tongue.

Ashamed, Ren Yijun pulls her arms around herself and eases against the head of the bed. “This one trusts both. How could she not? It is only…” her voice grows faint, “...there is nothing I can do.”

In these long years, moments as these from her have become rarer. The way in which she curls inward as though wishing nothing but to hide. “Ren-shizi is a disciple still. Considering such, you mustn’t strain yourself for these old lords. Neither of us would wish it.”

Displeasure sinks into her words, “And should this one wish it, from the depths of her heart?”

“Then that is your prerogative. Know, however: a peak lord carries the responsibility of their disciples. There is no lenience for the inverse.” Mu Qingfang peers closer. “You mustn’t blame yourself for Zhangmen-shixiong’s status. If there is indeed an unknown force involved, he has not warned this Mu—do you imagine he wishes to burden you?”

Insistently, “It is a burden happily taken.”

“Ren-shizi, do not bury yourself in guilt. Yue-shixiong has tended too many graves,” says Mu Qingfang severely. “Should this end with anyone laid upon their sword, trust it shall be this master.”

These words hold strong beneath her startled, critical gaze. Failure to protect any martial sibling will inevitably be their shame to bear. For Yue Qingyuan to fall is an end only conceivable if they have long since died.

“Okay,” breathes Ren Yijun, and they rest a hand on her shoulder, “Okay.”

When Yue Qingyuan’s talisman burns, Mu Qingfang quietly departs.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Xuan Su’s finally spent enough time lurking to figure out how to address their head disciple.

Publicly: Yijun, Disciple Ren. Professional enough without neglecting the fact that he’s proud of her and watches her progress closely. Yue Qingyuan probably wouldn’t use her full name unless she’s in trouble, and before then—anyone in proximity would be hurt by a disappointed “Disciple Ren…”

Privately: Xiao-Ren, probably a nickname formed since she was practically a kid when they met and Yue Qingyuan invited her to Cang Qiong. Xuan Su’s sure he could say something here about nepotism, but that would be hypocritical, and mostly he’s just glad to see that Yue Qingyuan’s got a normal kinship with someone. His martial siblings are a complete and utter mess. Mu Qingfang is nice, sure, but keeps looking at him like he’s going to be dissected and put back together in the course of an hour. The forgemaster acts like he’d sit in on Mu Qingfang vivisecting Yue Qingyuan. Shen Qingqiu is Shen Qingqiu. And the rest… he hasn’t really bothered to interact with them yet.

Well, not that it stops them from coming to him.

The door slams open, cracking the wooden frame and rattling the tea set—Xuan Su lifts his cup seconds before it spills over the table.

“Liu-shidi,” Xuan Su sighs. He tries sharing an exasperated look with Ren Yijun, but she’s frozen in place. Ah, and just when they were doing so well, too! His head disciple has a secret penchant for ripping into cheap horror and was in the middle of ranting about how authors portray creatures they’ve clearly never researched. A critic after his own heart!

He blankly looks up at the supposed Bai Zhan War God.

“This shidi requests permission for seclusion.”

Oh fuck no. Xuan Su takes a patient sip before he can yell how much of a bad idea that is, peeking open one eye to read the System’s warning: [ If Liu Qingge does not begin the “Spiritual Buff” scenario within 24:00:00, necessary plot recalibration will reset all scores to zero. }

‘Is there no way to stop him?’

[ Key quest— ]

Pass, pass! Xuan Su politely slams the teacup down and presses a hand to his forehead. Then again, as long as he’s not handing over Yue Qingyuan on a silver platter to this degenerate novel’s every whim, it’s not exactly a bad idea. “Very well, but... must you cultivate alone?”

Liu Qingge shoots an unimpressed look. “They’d get in my way.”

“This shixiong worries. Surely there is one who may match your pace?”

Now that, that gets Liu Qingge to actually hesitate. But he ends up shaking his head anyway. “No. Everyone else would hold me back.”

“There is something Shidi does not say.”

Xuan Su frowns just a little. Judging by Liu Qingge’s shifting eyes, it’s very effective!

“Yue-shixiong shouldn’t concern himself,” he says deliberately.

Well, clearly Yue-shixiong should concern himself, since Shidi took the time to stop by and announce his death for approval. Unless—that’s what he meant? “Everyone else” except for the two peak lords in this room, but he didn’t want to bother Yue Qingyuan…

It’s not like Xuan Su can follow him into the Ling Xi Caves though, with that deranged quest hanging around.

“I see,” he says, resigned, “Thank you for the warning, Liu-shidi.”

Liu Qingge nods once and turns on his heel, like he’s already about to walk out.

“Ah, a moment…”

He stops, moodily glancing over his shoulder. What a prissy guy!

“When shall we expect your return?”

Liu Qingge goes quiet, and Xuan Su tries to smile. This can’t be too unusual of a question, can it? All he wants to know is how long he has to fend off Shen Qingqiu and when he should send in Mu Qingfang.

But after a length of time, the man shrugs. “A year? Two? However long it takes.”

There’s still an edge of irritation to his voice, but Xuan Su’s beginning to think that’s just his natural state, because now there’s a twinge of confusion directed his way with it. So it was an unusual question, which received possibly the most useless answer anyone could give, but he can’t say he didn’t try.

“This shixiong wishes you swift success.”

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Liu Qingge is fucked.

So Xuan Su had maybe-stolen some of Qian Cao’s books on treating qi deviations, and now he has to find some way to put them in Shen Qingqiu’s bamboo house without the man burning them up, yelling at him, or killing him. In order of severity, of course.

Mu Qingfang has been really attached to him lately, asking all sorts of spiritual questions that Xuan Su can barely keep up with. Airplane’s logistics were a mess, okay? And when the information they had clashed or seemed inaccurate, Mu Qingfang started up an actual discussion. Ren Yijun doesn’t deserve this, but neither does he! There’s a reason he never signed up for debate club or college, alright? And now, if Xuan Su loses the material he definitely-didn’t-steal, he knows in his heart of hearts that Mu Qingfang’s going to find some way to invent Frankenstein here.

Xuan Su is not about to become Mu’s Monster, okay?!

Why does Yue Qingyuan smile so much when he’s with this weirdo?!

And to top it all off, Ren Yijun’s long-since recovered by now and she is very intent on following him to Qing Jing.

“Has Shen-shishu already returned?” she asks, right on his tail while they pass through Qiong Ding Hall.

“No, this one is simply anxious for his return,” Xuan Su glances behind himself, not exactly lying, but not nearly as enthused about it as Ren Yijun, with her politely-judgemental look, seems to believe. Now, if it was up to him, he’d pick at this meimei's brain and get all those misunderstandings out of there posthaste, but he had other things to deal with right now. Too many, really. A sore back, a guilty conscience, the overarching plot, and the System’s wretched, blaring announcement over lunch:

[ Warning: Unsynced. B-points -5. Current B-points: 63. ]

Again, it claimed he needs to reconnect with Yue Qingyuan. And again, it did nothing to provide the why or how, and they ended up arguing over him “maliciously imbalancing” the situation. At the end of it, it threatened to dock even more “Balance”-points as retribution if he continued.

Since their spat, the System was wholly silent. But it gave him some key information before then: he was beginning to suspect that the imbalance started when Yue Qingyuan was awake. Not aware, hopefully, but suppressed. If he paid attention, he could actually sense Yue Qingyuan’s spirit lingering somewhere inside him—he couldn’t pinpoint it, but he was there. And, when he managed to ask the System about Yue Qingyuan’s status earlier, it gave an idle instead of an offline notification.

So, he has to ask now, just on principle: ‘Am I hurting Yue Qingyuan?’

[ . . . ] The System takes its time loading, then says: [ Please perform master reset and try again. ]

After that, it doesn’t matter how he phrases it, it won’t give him any other answer.

Xuan Su swipes it away, wipes his face, and gives up. 

Once they hit the Qing Jing Peak’s main gates, one of the spare disciples around Ren Yijun’s age visibly startles and rushes to greet them, breaking off from a few others who were practicing their instruments. The boy’s practically tripping over his own feet like a newborn fawn, in all the typical glory handed to canon-fodder.

“Greetings Zhangmen-shibo, Ren-shijie!” He hastily bows to them both, somehow managing to not tumble over himself as he does. All Ren Yijun has to do is sigh and he immediately straightens up to mimic her professional stance. “May this humble one ask what brings seniors here? Peak Lord Shen is currently away, but this disciple can lead the way to the inner pavilion to wait…”

Before Xuan Su can suggest waiting at the bamboo house, Ren Yijun cuts in: “This one will escort Sect Leader to the outer pavilion. Ming-shidi will bring tea.”

Wow. Right to it. Xuan Su blinks. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her take this firm a tone with anyone.

And this is Ming Fan? Xuan Su gives him another once-over. For all his bullying of the Protagonist, did he not eat enough either? Look at those sunken cheeks—is he, or is he not, the head disciple? The endless harassment would make more sense if half the peak is underfed. Airplane! Take notes.

“Right away, Shijie.” He bows once more for good measure, then scampers off to make their tea. Xuan Su rubs his temple.

“Ming-shidi is very enthusiastic,” Ren Yijun remarks, amusement entering her dry tone. “I always forget.”

“Indeed he is.” A little too much, for Shen Qingqiu’s purposes. Xuan Su sours at that reminder. He can’t expect Shen Qingqiu would extend anything but bare minimum mandatory courtesy to other people, let alone the beloathed sect leader, can he? “The tea…”

“Don’t worry Shizun. Ming-shidi wouldn’t dare, after last time.”

Ren Yijun steps past to guide him, and although her expression’s barely changed, Xuan Su can sense the smirk and suddenly decides he does not want to know. Teenagers can be vicious when they want to be, and they can be far, far away from him. He’s not in school anymore, thank you!

“How comforting…” he sighs.

As they approach the pavilion, only one word comes to mind: elegant. Every detail to it has the airs of quiet beauty. The natural greenery surrounds it without overwhelming or detracting from its traditional charm, and the whole scene draws the eye away from the bamboo house up ahead. Beneath the staircase runs a steady stream carrying various fish hiding just beneath the rippling surface. Xuan Su can’t catch enough detail to discern them, but he makes a mental note to return another time.

They enter, and Xuan Su feels like a fool for thinking it was significantly smaller than Qiong Ding’s. From the outside, it doesn’t feel like there should be half as much room as there is. There are two segmented stone walls on either end to protect the inside from natural elements, with grand tapestries hanging from above to give the rocks a softer impression. There’s even a guqin sat on a raised platform to the left, covered by a white sheet embroidered along the hem, completely untouched.

Xuan Su takes a seat at the center table, pointedly ignoring the go game laid out, while Ren Yijun paces with her gloved hands behind her back like an old man, examining the tapestries with a critical eye. Xuan Su can’t help but smile.

“Does anything catch your interest, Yijun?” he asks curiously. 

“Mn.” She lingers a little longer on a vertical painting hung between the other fabric tapestries, perfectly preserved by talismans. This one displays a simple scene of a crane’s silhouette circling above a peaceful sunset or sunrise from the mountains. There’s bamboo on either side, but the middle has been cut as to not obstruct the sight of it soaring. “Peak Lord Shen is very skilled.”

Xuan Su is sure Yue Qingyuan would respectfully praise his shidi, but right now he doesn’t have any interest in boosting that man’s ego where he won’t even hear it. “Have you any interest in the finer arts?”

Ren Yijun turns to look at him with a slightly bitter smile. “This one is remiss to say she hasn’t the mind for it. It is the same as sword forms: unless it is tangible, I cannot visualize it.”

“That is a shame,” he says, because it genuinely is. Yue Qingyuan needs something nice on his walls that isn’t outright related to Qiong Ding or the Cang Qiong emblem. It’s no wonder he takes so long to leave bed some days when, as soon as he steps out of his bedroom, he’s bombarded with reminders of work. Even people who are good at their jobs get tired! Ideally, he could help set up still lifes for her to practice and teach her from there—but when she’ll be replicating it, it all comes back to the blank paper. Maybe, instead of that, “What about pottery?”

Her expression shutters closed. “Shizun…”

Before he can even figure out what he’s done wrong this time, Ming Fan interrupts. He sets the tea on the table and looks like he’s about to start pouring when Ren Yijun steps forward. “Thanking Ming-shidi. You are dismissed.”

Xuan Su decides there is no talking his way out of this, so he stays quiet. The air itself has frosted over. She prepares the tea silently and Xuan Su finds sudden interest in counting the wind chimes hanging about. As everyone knows: honing the skill to ignore things until they go away takes real strength. In this, only the System has him beat.

But, it’s much more difficult to go on ignoring when he reaches for the tea and sees those scars. 

Xuan Su quickly clears his expression, but not before Ren Yijun catches the twitch. She tears her hand away in an instant, clutching the glove she removed close.

“Yijun…”

“Shizun, are you—” Her breath catches in her throat. “Shizun, we need to go to Mu-shishu. Right now.”

Decidedly ignoring the way his stomach twists, Xuan Su sets his jaw. He’s about to lose twenty points in his pursuit to slip these books in, and once it’s done, then he’ll leave Yue Qingyuan be for a while. It’ll be fine as long as they’re patient. “Yijun may bring Mu-yishi here,” he channels Yue Qingyuan’s firm tone, “This one will wait for Shen-shidi.”

“Shizun, please!” Ren Yijun slams the table. “There’s something wrong! No more pretending, this disciple begs you. Does Shizun’s life really mean so little?”

Xuan Su forces himself to stand, glowering down at her. “Does this master’s word mean even less?”

Ren Yijun pulls back. “N-No, but…”

Xuan Su closes his eyes, hoping for not the first time that Yue Qingyuan has no recollection of this. There’s no purpose to giving the man any more reasons to believe he’s undeserving of the respect owed to him. If he were really here, he’d never take advantage of the situation like this: “Please, Yijun. Retrieve Mu-yishi if you must, but leave your shizun be.”

“After that mission, with Shen-shishu, Shizun hid it from him as well, didn’t he?” Ren Yijun shakily regains her confidence, voice rising, “Should anyone know what caused this, it is him, but he said nothing! Not even to Mu-shishu. He knows nothing, because you tell us nothing. So why? Why must you see him after so long?”

What can he say? What should he say? He doesn’t know! He doesn’t know about this supposed mission, or what in-universe explanation was made for why he hijacked the sect leader’s body—he doesn’t even know how much he’s hurting Yue Qingyuan! It’d be easier, Yijun, if this was a corpse! All he knows is that this man, no matter the distance to Shen Qingqiu now, will keep reaching out for him until he dies.

And with him dead, everyone dies.

And Xuan Su, he personally sent Liu Qingge to die.

On the slim chance Liu Qingge did kill himself, like Mu Qingfang theorized, Shen Qingqiu needs to learn how to treat qi deviations.

“Xiao-Ren.” Xuan Su opens his eyes, and forces a brittle smile. “Everything will be alright. Trust this, and leave.”

Ren Yijun stares at him in bleak disbelief, but she obeys.

As soon as she steps off the pavilion, she draws her sword and takes flight. The pit in his stomach grows as he watches her go, feeling paralyzed to the core.

Harsh ringing tears into his ears—he grimaces, clutching his head.

[ Second Warning: Unsynced. B-points -15. Current B-points: 48. ]

…Alright. He lowers his hands. He really needs to get going.

Xuan Su drags himself out of the pavilion, walking towards the bamboo house in a daze. He occasionally remembers to look over his shoulder and make sure no one’s followed him. Not that it really matters. With Ren Yijun off to find Mu Qingfang, this is his best shot at making the books seem like a natural addition to Shen Qingqiu’s collection. Whatever comes after will come anyway—he just needs to take it moment by moment for now, and worry about that later.

That thought doesn’t stop his heart from pounding when he opens up the door.

He waits a beat, then breathes a sigh.

No one’s here. It’s fine.

Xuan Su navigates the fancy entrance, not caring to note down any of the smaller details on the way into (what he guesses to be) the study. Everything’s been neatly packed away on the shelves, even his fan display—he’s sure that Shen Qingqiu has some sort of organization system for the books, but how often does he look at these since he rose to Qing Jing Peak Lord? It’s not unusual for people with obscene wealth to put books on display without reading them once, so would Shen Qingqiu really open these now that he doesn’t have to? The entire bookshelf is set behind his desk after all. It's completely for show!

And the desk itself is even less promising. It’s too obvious! There’s a tea set laid out in anticipation for his return, but even that is immaculate. The Qian Cao books would stick out like a sore thumb. Where would there be a casual place to integrate these and have him think he was in the middle of reading them?

Maybe, he hates to even think it, his bedroom? People always keep their bedrooms messier…

Xuan Su tentatively steps forward, anxiety sinking into every step, until he hovers at the edge of the study. Knowing the sort of man Shen Qingqiu is, he’s not sure he wants to see what’s in there, let alone be caught creeping in there. Yue Qingyuan’s an upright man, so the sort of rumor to come of this really—

“So the grand sect leader has taken to intrusion. Is there nothing he will not violate?”

That wintry voice enters like a dagger plunged into his chest.

Slowly turning around, he swallows hard at the sight. Shen Qingqiu leans against the doorframe, his handsome face all sharp edges, with dark eyes curved upward and brought forward by subtle rouge—and lower, a much richer red splatters his outer robe. Where it’s soaked, the blood transforms it into a much deeper, morbid sight. All over again, he remembers that yes, this man is perfectly capable of murdering in cold blood.

Xuan Su really is stupid.

Before he can do something even more idiotic like drop the stolen volumes, he gracefully sets them down on the table and meets Shen Qingqiu’s eyes with a smile as weak as he feels, “Shen-shidi has returned.”

“Hm.” The man stalks forward and into the room, his vain act of an effortlessly impeccable scholar completely intact. Not one hair is out of place.

Xuan Su instinctively steps out of his way, and Shen Qingqiu shoots an unimpressed glare before redirecting his attention to the books laid out. He plucks one up with a creased brow, schooling a neutral expression, but it doesn’t take long for that to careen into a jagged frown.

Shen Qingqiu shuts it with one hand and throws it down—it hits the desk with a loud bang that kills the silence and makes room for him to accuse, “Why are you here, Zhangmen-shixiong?”

Something small writhes in his gut at the title, and he has to shove down a sudden wave of nausea. Unsure of what to say, he hesitantly settles on, “Gifts?”

Shen Qingqiu steps forward again, with that itself as a threat. Then he snaps his fan open, sneering, “How considerate. Do forgive this shidi for being such a negligent host. Sit.”

Xuan Su… is not doing that. But, the first rule for facing any predator is not to back down, so he stands tall, only moving when Shen Qingqiu does. Steadily skirting around him, subtly edging closer to the entrance, and distracting him with warm words, “Truly, it is enough to see Shidi is well. This one must—”

“Sit.”

Before he can dart away, Shen Qingqiu grabs his wrist, and—it’s so cold. Xuan Su’s teeth clench as prickling, cutting wind bursts its way through his veins, steadily snaking further in. Xuan Su scrambles to isolate Shen Qingqiu’s qi to his hand on Yue Qingyuan’s behalf.

Traitorous thing! Even when Mu Qingfang is examining his spiritual flow, Yue Qingyuan subconsciously struggles with opening his veins without Xuan Su’s help, so why is it so pliant now that Shen Qingqiu tries?

Is he dead?

Xuan Su has no choice when Shen Qingqiu drags him down into a seat. His grasp tightens around his wrist and feeds more of his vicious qi to attempt to slice its barrier open; Xuan Su doesn’t let himself think of how much easier it’d be if Yue Qingyuan was here. The longer they keep this up, the more indignant Shen Qingqiu becomes, and Xuan Su hysterically wonders if this is how it feels to stick a bleeding hand into a frozen lake.

Tremors run through his numb fingers. Shen Qingqiu does not release him, but he must’ve done worse. Something feels to be caught at his heartstrings, sending small spikes of pain with every beat.

It’s a silent stand-off, until Shen Qingqiu snaps, “I will not ask again.”

“Is it so difficult to imagine this shixiong cares for his shidi?” he asks seriously.

Wrong answer.

Another burst of pain must’ve split his heart open—he’s so dizzy, and his hand is starting to feel numb. That monster ignores him, “Do not patronize me.”

There’s something in his chest, he’s sure of it now. Not just nibbling at his heart anymore, that spirit’s crawling through his lungs like a starving parasite. It’s scratching at his ribcage, itching, burning, a million mites carving away at bone.

[ Final Warning: Unsynced. B-points -45. Current B-points: 3. ]

Xuan Su’s heart drops into that larvae pit.

That’s not—that’s not fair! It gives points in threes, and has been multiplying the punishment too?! It’s too soon!

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Xuan Su’s eyes are burning. The System is screaming at him and there’s something moving inside of him—he’s going to throw up again. He’s really going to be sick. His smile wavers.

“Zhangmen…”

The moment Shen Qingqiu lets go, darkness overwhelms him.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

“Yue-shixiong?”

Yue Qingyuan swiftly pulls away from the bamboo house entrance, inclining his head toward his shibiao with a gentle smile. “Mu-shibiao.”

Ren Yijun trails Mu Qingfang closely, and… she is holding their hand.

“...Yijun.”

Once more, it seems he’s made quite the mess of things. Did he leave her behind solely to seek out Qingqiu?

“Might Shixiong check his inner pocket?”

“Of course,” he answers, truthfully unsure of what to search for until his fingers brush the frayed, curled edges of paper against his chest: a blank talisman. Yue Qingyuan carefully inspects it with his numb hand, silencing the troubling thoughts stirring within the ruptures his mind has yet to heal.

Mu Qingfang holds up a linked talisman with its center blazed through, leaving no hint of the incantation once written on it. They squeeze Ren Yijun’s hand once, then release their grasp to retrieve Yue Qingyuan’s talisman. “It seems it has worked, although…”

Yue Qingyuan holds his tongue as they mutter on.

His disciple stays at Mu Qingfang’s side.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Shen Qingqiu didn't kill Yue Qingyuan this time.

Xuan Su, however, has been thoroughly brutalized.

[ Current B-points: 3. ]

The System took every single scrap. If Yue Qingyuan hadn’t been diligently meditating these past few days, Xuan Su would’ve died by now.

Xuan Su desperately needs to hoard points. Meditating will not be enough. He can’t hope that the System will be merciful.

[ Key quest—“Debased and Desecrated”—issued. Location: Ling Xi Caves. Please click to accept. ]

…

At least if Yue Qingyuan “subconsciously” makes the decision to go in there, what happens won’t be his fault.

…

When Xuan Su wakes up, Yue Qingyuan’s in control again and they’re resting by the window.

What he didn’t expect was for Yue Qingyuan to be pressing his sword close, or to feel his breath catch in his throat as soon as he sensed Xuan Su rouse. As usual, his warm qi hurriedly welcomes Xuan Su as best as it can through their gnarled veins. Xuan Su works slowly, trying to correct it with a quiet frown—all he wanted was to see if Yue Qingyuan would be alright with entering the Ling Xi Caves, or maybe wake up in there already if the world showed mercy on his poor wayward soul. It shouldn’t be too difficult of a decision, should it? He didn’t even mention the name of the stupid quest!

“Xuan Su,” he murmurs, neither pleased nor upset. “You truly are powerful.”

Thanks da-ge, now what’s this really about? Xuan Su rolls his eyes and dutifully busies himself with melting the tension Yue Qingyuan feels through his entire body. How long was he waiting like this? It cannot be healthy for his spine. He should know.

“This request, is it yours?”

Their gaze shifts toward Xuan Su’s scrawl. Considering Yue Qingyuan knows about him and doesn’t seem angry, he nervously he sends a vague so-so affirmation forward. Yue Qingyuan receives it with a sigh and closes his eyes.

“Truly, I am relieved to realize the depths of your presence. It is merely…”

Xuan Su wants to shake the man. How can he know about Xuan Su, and still say he’s relieved? Even if it’s your spiritual sword—your partner—how is this meant to be any normal occurrence someone can just brush off?!

“This one dares not presume your intentions, however: we are recovering. Slowly, perhaps, but nonetheless.” Yue Qingyuan pauses, softening his qi even more. “Please understand I will abide if you insist. To repay you is an honor. Yet, I fear my mind remains… fragile.”

When he admits that, Xuan Su can feel the way his chest tightens, and quickly rushes to try to reassure him—but Yue Qingyuan closes himself off, guiding Xuan Su into their core before he can protest. Although he can strain his senses to feel what Yue Qingyuan does, trickling in when his qi inevitably cycles through, it’s dampened, and he can no longer reach out to… hold him.

“Forgive me, you have been restless. Is it not you who berates my overexertion?” he murmurs fondly, and Xuan Su feels that old dread come back in waves. Yue Qingyuan draws his brows together, hesitantly brushing a hand over the guard. “The curse—does it persist?”

A curse? Who would bother with cursing a sword?

Unless that wasn’t the target.

A few loose pieces click into place. The mission—keep Yue Qingyuan alive—comes in hand with being Xuan Su.

All of this power Xuan Su has is inherited from the real one. If Yue Qingyuan is the mountain, then Xuan Su is the magma flowing beneath, which forms the powerful core deep within the earth. They are most formidable together: the mountain builds the path and the magma lays the groundwork for life to thrive in the years to come. Xuan Su is a power forged to preserve life, embellished by Yue Qingyuan; it exists not in the sword, but in Yue Qingyuan. Of anyone in this world, he should know best, how their very beings are intertwined.

No one curses a sword—Yue Qingyuan was the intended victim.

Xuan Su protected Yue Qingyuan by baring its very soul, leaving their core empty for Shen Yuan to take.

And he doesn’t even know.

“Xuan Su,” he calls again, and—Shen Yuan can’t bear that name, not knowing that. It wasn’t just a weapon, it was a spirit that chose death. “Xuan Su, the curse, is it…?”

Even though Yue Qingyuan opens for him again, his qi as tender as an embrace, Shen Yuan feels it slip past him because it’s not for him. But he’s persistent, and Shen Yuan’s moved along to fall in the same natural flow following Yue Qingyuan’s heartbeat, almost as if he really is rested against his chest like the sword he cradles. It would be so, achingly easy to pretend.

“Please reconsider: are the caves the only answer?” And Shen Yuan feels he is so afraid, even as he swears: “I will bear it for your sake. I will.”

[ Please click to accept. ]

‘Fuck off.’

Trying his best to clear his mind, Shen Yuan reaches out to reassure Yue Qingyuan that he won’t have to. After all of this, he doesn’t have the right to force him into anything else. How could he? How could anyone, even someone who can’t feel the way his heart and chest constrict, send him to such a distressing place? It doesn’t matter why.

Shen Yuan will find points another way. Meditation is more effective if multiple people are connected, so he’ll just bully someone into meditating with them. Easy.

It’ll be fine, he insists, pressing it into the hum, it has to be fine.

Yue Qingyuan gives a sore laugh, then whispers, “I truly am sorry, Xuan Su. You were preparing for our absence, weren’t you?”

In a sense, he supposes.

“Please, from here on out, simply tell me,” Yue Qingyuan requests, his gentle voice held low like it’ll keep out the tremor, “Straining yourself like this… when I wake without you, what am I meant to do?”

You will survive. He feels heavy. You already have.

Shen Yuan does admire Yue Qingyuan very much. Watching him these past few weeks, his respect has only grown.

And it’s become much harder to think of him as just a character.

It’s impossible to, now. He can’t just brush it off when Yue Qingyuan holds him close and caresses his head, all while speaking to him in soft whispers, telling him what favors he’d do for a friend now dead. It feels too much like visiting his grandma in her last days, when he just had to smile and hold his meimei in his lap while listening to her talk about her best friend, who killed herself when she was Shen Yuan’s age.

He could easily push the memories away, in the years afterward. But he still remembers the first time he saw his father cry: when his meimei noticed a framed picture of their nainai and asked “Who’s she?”

Shen Yuan hates keeping photos around.

The System window posts itself right in front of them, taunting him with those three points. Yue Qingyuan has no idea how close the plot is, hanging over them like an axe waiting to drop. Maybe he’s lucky for it. It’s already killed Xuan Su.

…Xuan Su’s the only one who could keep Yue Qingyuan alive, but Shen Yuan wants to keep Yue Qingyuan safe.

“I will be here,” Yue-xiongzhang promises. “You will not suffer it alone.”

Chapter Text

Yue Qingyuan is a liar. This law, as all truths given to the beings laid within the cloth of this world, is a burden woven into his very soul. There is no doubt held amidst the very few drawn near enough to unravel his stitching, for it is through these false threads he has crafted the basis of the bonds by which they know him. No one person has ever heard truth spill from his tongue. To do so is to undo the intricacy of all he has been ordained, the spill revealing the strings which he pulls upon as nothing more than webbing of the dead he has imitated from the first breath he drew as a slave.

For a slave cannot survive if they cannot lie. 

A caretaker offers lies as mercy, as protection, as love.

And a sect leader values the truth in all but their self.

However, there is one last element of Yue Qingyuan yet unknown: Xuan Su.

The being who compels all facades fall to the wayside. There exists no mask that cannot be melted beneath its scrutiny, no secret may be concealed, for its spirit has intertwined with his own. Where he fails, it will fortify; where it lacks, he will supply. This is the nature of their volatile existence, a compromise to complete one another with the shreds left of their souls. To live.

Still, knowing all he is, Xuan Su chose trust. Its gaze fell away before his mask could crumble. It provided him peace.

From the moment he dared plead clemency, it acquiesced without question. No longer are such large divides slain between memories; and though an eternal weariness will cling to his form, he wakes now without sickness haunting him alongside. His body is his own again.

Only under Xuan Su’s allowance. As the world reminds, the matter of his autonomy is ever conditional on another’s will.

If anyone must, however, Yue Qingyuan did not lie in this: that he should belong to Xuan Su is a relief. There are far worse fates to have. It is a righteous spiritual sword who, in spite of its early indignation, had warned him away from its power without eternal dismissal. As all the Er-Qiong Peak Lords had, it heard of his wishes to leave the mountain and promised him: Once you are stronger, you may.

Yue Qingyuan had not the clarity of mind to keep from tainting its good will, not upon hearing this echo.

In the Ling Xi Caves, there existed only this accursed tether to one another, scorched with loathing. Within the blaze laid a comfort regardless—throughout their seclusion, Xuan Su was the sole constant. A noose turned lifeline, he could cling to no other. Oh, the frayed rope chafed, its friction always burnt as severely as coal upon dry skin, but within it promised the reminder neither of them were alone. As when he had been tied with Tou Liu at the table, unable to hold one another’s hands but eased by the rope saying they shall either suffer the punishment or die together. Always together. The only trouble came when Liu-jie did too well—so sedulous, so abashed, so sweet was she—when one of the men tried to cut the rope.

Xuan Su has always been stronger than him. Its next mercy came when he not only cut, but outright stabbed himself in a fit of madness. The first blood to stain the edges of its restored form, reforged with his own qi, which it relinquished in a burst of energy. The blade destabilized and dropped from his hand in newly shattered pieces, but its grasp on his qi held strong; it held the raw skin and organs together with resolve he lacked, lighting his insides aflame as it cauterized what little it could, until he finally fainted from the pain.

When he later roused, it had healed completely.

Yue Qingyuan has long known this body is not his own. As he and Xuan Su are keenly aware, their forms are worthless without a purpose. The efficiency with which they obey is the only justification for the efforts of their repair and continued use. Reprieve only comes as is necessary.

But this body is too broken, now, to harbor him without Xuan Su’s vigilance.

The inability to safely retreat into himself is a torture of its own once survival passes into the want for living.

Yue Qingyuan wants to be alone. As fervently as he cannot stand to be, he needs to be alone.

For the first time in years, he must confess: he is frightened.

With Xuan Su quiet, Yue Qingyuan grants his weary mind the pretense of refuge in this large winter beizi and lets his hair down, cascading down his shoulders in long, silken strands. He takes great care when lighting the candle set within the chamberstick; since this revelation of how deep Xuan Su’s presence runs, their spiritual energy continuously brushes dangerous levels which must be tempered. With his solace in hand, he begins the walk to his office.

Past Cang Qiong Hall and the personal disciple dormitories. He brings the flame close as to shield the light from disturbing the dark silence of their rooms, and keeps it near until the stairwell meets him. The path upward brings a muted chill, persisting through each step, relenting only once he slides the door of his office closed.

Yue Qingyuan slowly breathes in, then settles at the desk before him.

He works until morning comes.

The sun scarcely begins to crest the peaks by the time he hears knocking.

Warily, Yue Qingyuan sets his brush down and belatedly puts out the candle. Whoever the guest is, they do not announce themself, though there is a strong possibility of their being a peak lord. The ward prevents all but the lords and his personal disciples from entering unless accompanied by one such person. With those very few disciples seemingly under the impression only Ren Yijun may approach, and with the knowledge of her absence from Qiong Ding, he doubts any of them have come by.

At the least, for a peak lord, it does not appear an especially urgent matter.

Yue Qingyuan resumes correct posture and finishes his draft to Tian Yi. The Overlook has asked each sect to review the inclusion of much older, venomous demonic beasts haunting the borderlands, implicitly stating they will not retrieve the creatures themselves despite this being their own requisition. Sailored snakes and split-tongued vultures do serve as an intriguing pivot from the Immortal Alliance Conference’s ordinary candidates, although calling for another sect to gather their personal consideration has certainly infringed upon customary respect. Huan Hua will not be pleased, nor will Cang Qiong bend again so soon after assuming the mission presented in its previous plea.

How bold they are, after all the Xuan Su Sword has suffered silently in the name of maintaining benevolence.

Perhaps Yue Qingyuan should revise his response to emphasize the severity of their impertinence. For now, he places the letters aside and inclines his head slightly toward the entrance. “Come in.”

Ah.

Shen Qingqiu.

His mind suddenly feels numb. Shen Qingqiu is visiting him on Qiong Ding.

No one else favors those embroidered deep sea-green outer robes, with overwhelming preference toward gilded accents. No, none who matter. Down to the pure white layers adorning his pale-jade skin, blessedly free of all impurities, never to be mired again. There is lace upon the backs of his lithe, elegant hands, free of bruising, with only the softest shade of red upon unblemished nails. Claws attuned to a musician's work, delicately tailored for preying upon instruments instead.

“Zhangmen-shixiong.” The address greets his ears with an air of practiced neutrality, the refined tone carrying nothing but the distant edge of resentment. Shen Qingqiu makes a curt motion akin to a bow and wordlessly strides toward the seat across from him as though his permission to sit is a forgone conclusion.

Well, Yue Qingyuan thinks faintly, it has indeed long awaited his presence.

For what has he come?

It must be urgent after all.

“Good morning, Qingqiu-shidi,” his mouth says. He firmly brings his hands together. “How has research gone with Zhu-shimei?”

“Satisfactory.”

Though he says no more, Shen Qingqiu extends an expectant hand of his own.

Yue Qingyuan curates a careful smile. “Shidi?”

“Your wrist, Sect Leader.”

While adjusting to a slightly more relaxed position, he folds them into his sleeves with a flick of the fabric. “What is Shidi suggesting?”

“Your suggestion, Zhangmen-shixiong.” His lips curl. “This one is here to circulate your qi.”

The sect leader projects a calm, apologetic smile even as an old anger gives rise. He presses his guise closer still and tamps down the bitter, ashen smoke threatening to singe his veil.

No, Yue Qingyuan should never dare suggest any such thing.

This request is not merely an imposition on Shen Qingqiu—alone, reason enough to snuff out the absurd idea—but the risk he may discover Yue Qingyuan’s marred core is unacceptable. Were it in his power, he would have commanded the truth of his failure die with the former sect leader long before he rose in his stead. Never would he have asked Mu Qingfang to witness his state. None may shoulder this burden. Only himself and Xuan Su.

To reveal it now, he dreads Shen Qingqiu’s response. No longer is this simply the matter of refraining from empty words—worthless reasoning only serving to distract from the deserved vitriol—but to claim only half his soul as his own, having cultivated an unnatural path where he nonetheless emerged powerful? The envy would destroy Shen Qingqiu. If not the damnable assurance of his inferiority, then next would be horror or, forbid, pity.

Yue Qingyuan is most familiar with the quiet hatred. This is the closest to the rightful response and is thus where their relationship settles.

Shen Qingqiu does not deserve the complications lying therein.

“This one apologizes for inconveniencing Qingqiu-shidi,” he sighs, peering over his awaiting communications. “It seems there are more pressing matters demanding my attention.”

Those darkened eyes flash with threat of challenge. “This shidi shall wait.”

Yue Qingyuan feels his throat begin to close. “There is no need.”

“So Sect Leader says, yet he thought to send such a personal missive,” he speaks with a softer frown, pressing a mockery of concern into his words. “Those gifts, as well.”

The silence is laced with poison.

“Zhangmen-shixiong had another qi deviation and sought my aid,” his Qingqiu taunts, the drawl condescending and cruel as he twists his lips into an unwilling smile.

Truth be told, Shen Qingqiu must not be feeling well. As he’s always been, his shidi is a skilled actor, yet it seems the facade he now puts forth is little more than a delicate replication. Perhaps Xuan Su has shaken him with its words—inadvertently or otherwise, though Yue Qingyuan idly smooths over the flare of ire latched upon the latter possibility. No, he must remain unmoved, betraying nothing of the restless animal gnawing at his chest.

After another beat, Shen Qingqiu’s voice draws low and sweet, “Has Yue Qingyuan taken to testing my faith once more?”

Xuan Su surges forward in defense. Exhaling slowly, Yue Qingyuan tightens his hold on the writhing beast within, begrudgingly reminding this one of the compliance necessary to lessen the eventual blow should they offend Xuan Su. He will not further bear its wrath on a child’s behalf.

No, he will speak with Xuan Su. Alone.

In the meanwhile, Yue Qingyuan embraces Shen Qingqiu’s gaze with a somber one. “What would be the purpose of that?”

“What, indeed?” His voice freezes over and he flicks his silk fan open to conceal the lower half of his face. The dangerous curve of his shaded eyes naturally supports the sharp scowl hidden beneath the scenery. Yue Qingyuan does not recognize the design immediately; this must be a recent work of his. The ink displays the reflection of bamboo matched with plum blossoms and pine, implying the wintry season now past, shadows laid upon a small pond with two carp frozen at the center.

How beautiful, he muses absently. How deadly.

“If Shidi insists on staying, shall I brew tea?” He does not yet rise from his seat. It is his wish they are equals; he will not implicitly lord his power over Shen Qingqiu, even in this manner.

His shidi scoffs in response, waving the fan in small motions. “Do not let this one inconvenience you, Zhangmen-shixiong.”

“It is Qingqiu-shidi who has troubled himself,” Yue Qingyuan gently insists. “This shixiong has truly unfortunate timing. These coming days will have me seen away from the sect.”

Shen Qingqiu does not ask, and Yue Qingyuan does not impose himself.

Instead, he slowly moves to stand and eases himself into the room beside, a kitchen too large for the prudent amount he keeps. After carefully bringing out a tea set gifted to him by Shen Qingqiu last autumn—red clay emblazoned with a modest draconic design—he shuts the cupboard with a muted click. Quite a practical one, if perhaps a bit plain for most guests. Yue Qingyuan has not indulged its use even once for fear of it breaking.

Many of Shen Qingqiu’s gifts live their days untouched with similar such sentiment. These items may be offered solely out of obligation, but they are precious nonetheless.

Yue Qingyuan sets the water to heat and finally assesses himself.

There is a tension in his shoulders, shooting an occasional flash of pain through his neck. Pressing a hand to massage it inadvertently reminds him of the harsher pounding of his heart. It reverberates in his chest where Xuan Su has buried itself, choosing to soothe the qi as it enters rather than extend its influence.

Unusually meek.

Yue Qingyuan’s lips move, though he dares not make a sound, “Xuan Su.”

It stirs. At once, he feels their energy gather and burn away at a point just below his chest. He breathlessly presses his palm against it, then gingerly reaches into his robe until his fingers brush over a several-folded piece of parchment.

When did Xuan Su place this here?

Again, he finds it mimic his own script; his gut churns despite himself, although he knows well he cannot expect Xuan Su to have much other written reference. His eyes flit over the contents, his mask fraying with every word.

‘Yue Qingyuan,

You trust Lord Shen Qingqiu of Qing Jing above the Lord of Qian Cao. If not the Ling Xi Caves, as neither of us desire, then repairing this curse must be handled by him—by one who you do not subconsciously reject. This is the only path.’

The note curls as it burns in his hands.

Why now, must Xuan Su make its sincerity known? When all he is capable of replying is: “No.”

Alarmed, it questions him, but he curtly shakes his head and disposes of the ash. His hands fall into the familiar rhythm of rinsing and infusing the tea.

Under no circumstance will Shen Qingqiu discover this shame.

His shidi has always been a practical person, since he was a boy. This outlook is what Yue Qingyuan admired most amidst those torrential days—the two of them stripped away the affectations of the world and, in the safety of one another’s arms, stood undaunted against its condemnation.

The world turned its back upon them, so behind its watchful eyes, many slaves took it further; derision done not quite in ignorance, but exacerbated by impudence. A belief they had already heard the worst, without conceiving of what its lived experience would entail.

Those taunts were carried further by the levity of naivete. Largely dismissed as they were, nothing more than unclaimed vermin, it became inevitable the world would hear after a point. They would share berries gathered beneath the beating summer sun all while prodding at one another in a mockery of the blades callously aimed at them, having broken the spearheads from the shaft to wave around in hands too small to kill. Each slave gathered those vices of the world and threw them at one another as if they’d been blessed with divination, teasingly accusing their only kin of falling in line with the cruelty of adults they never truly knew.

Yue Qi never had them know. He took the crimson berries in hand and swallowed them with a smile, letting the toxin infest his insides and eat at him as they spoke on in laughter. Innocent gatherings of phrases which rendered him sick. Nearly choking on the corrupt words cutting into the tip of his tongue, where the bitter taste remained—abruptly too mute to admonish them and all too afraid to appear as such a feeble last pillar.

Yes, those summer fruits were so bitter, because they were always right about adults.

That adult he found within himself had been broken open the night before and still held its jagged edges. Every chaste, innocuous reference to the subject left him raw and desiring nothing but to shove the bleeding berries down their throats until they were sore like him.

But, even these slaves were merely children. Yue Qi kept them from the world where he could, offering up medicine without breathing a word of its source; he had only himself to blame when they could not comprehend the weight of what it wrought. Simply another game, to them.

How dare he resent them for not having suffered enough?

This thought was the cairn holding Yue Qi’s petulance until it could no longer, collapsed under not the world which scorned them, but the greater Cang Qiong Mountain. Throughout training, his ire was blinding—he rarely allowed himself near the sick or wounded, and here he had faced off the latter knowing they were to be coddled the moment they left his sight. Within him rose a vile oath: he shall never be at ease around the ailing. All these years and still there laid a rotting fruit in his stomach, splattered and splitting his intestines open with the force of its outrage. All these disciples feigning disgrace upon his besting them as they sulked away to be healed, never sacrificing any real humiliation in exchange for their survival. Never questioning who will provide for them. Never alone.

Yue Qi cast aside his name at the sect leader’s behest, all to promise a place here. There was no greater indignity than that.

And no greater shame than what happened after.

Yue Qingyuan suffocates on Xuan Su's assurance.

By now, loath he is to say it, Xuan Su understands more of him than Shen Qingqiu. It has been bound to a mortal life through him—an eternal spiritual sword which will be engulfed entirely by the flames of Cang Qiong’s Forge upon his death, never again to be known beyond legend. It is inexplicable that, ware of this, it should treat him kindly.

To have been cursed at all is his failure to bear. Xuan Su suffers the spiritual rebound; Shen Qingqiu was forced to keep his heart beating, and is being beckoned to serve again. Through these halves of his life, cleaved apart by the Ling Xi Caves, Yue Qingyuan understood he would not be alive without them. Had they not come together in that moment, Yue Qingyuan would be gone. The debts owed to them grow evermore upon each breath he takes, for he feels death lingering, staving him out until Xuan Su’s stubborn protection fades. It is not right to return that burden to Shen Qingqiu the same.

Yue Qingyuan will make this clear to the man himself as well. The tea has surely set by now.

Gathering himself, he stills his hands and lifts the tray, carrying it into the main office.

Shen Qingqiu has gone.

Tian Yi’s letters have shifted.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

As the month turns and dark red leaves overwhelm the spring blossoms, Shen Qingqiu calls for the peak lords to reconvene and discuss Huan Hua’s interest in the Oracle’s Solar-marrow Pipa.

Yue Qingyuan quietly peers over the attendance as they wait for Zhu Qinglian to arrive.

Among those absent, Liu Qingge is the least surprising. The young Bai Zhan Lord’s attendance is fleeting even upon the call of their mandated seasonal meetings; there have been several instances of him rushing in through doors, windows, and the once he had, bafflingly, fallen through the roof above afflicted with poison from an ancient Heavenly Demon’s spear nonetheless intending to proceed with the assembly—and many more where he forewent the meeting altogether and instead wrote in demon hunting as the reason for his absence.

Yue Qingyuan will be the first to admit he is perhaps too lenient with the punishment. Wary of the damage Liu Qingge would inflict upon the peaks were he to remain isolated entirely, the most severe sentence he may press upon him is physical labor. While corporal punishment is typical, the method rarely gives satisfaction to any but the one holding the whip. Liu Qingge’s disregard for the peaks will indubitably latch unto the scourger, the source of pain, and Yue Qingyuan has no desire to throw another weight upon Mu Qingfang’s schedule. Rather, channeling Liu Qingge’s restlessness into tedious tasks crafted by and for each peak to wear down his spirit remains a much better use of everyone’s time on the whole. In this, he may also atone for any perceived disrespect of believing himself above gathering with his martial siblings.

Allegedly, that is. No one with as stalwart a character as Liu Qingge would deliberately slight his fellow peak lords.

The one exception, of course, being Shen Qingqiu.

It cannot be helped. These extraneous meetings are voluntary, allowing peak lords to use their own discretion. Very few at all choose to join, vastly favoring the time to work upon their own peaks’ projects. Those in attendance are not exempt—some such as Mu Qingfang and Dai Qingren will itch at the nearest chance to depart, with even Shang Qinghua carrying a mildly maudlin air, surrounded by the knowledge he may not leave without worsening his future workload. Yue Qingyuan himself is obliged to oversee each peak lord meeting held within Cang Qiong Hall, and Shen Qingqiu diligently takes a similar mantle upon himself, disallowing any information to slip through the summarized afterword.

Having him at his right is a welcome sight.

However, his eyes flick to his left, Wei Qingwei’s company is peculiar. The forgemaster has not returned to his isolated hearth since Yue Qingyuan accompanied Mu Qingfang and Ren Yijun to Wan Jian Peak.

What changed?

Yue Qingyuan silently mulls this over, unease prickling through his chest as he slowly gathers the form of Wan Jian in memory. In his time as a Qiong Ding disciple, the sect leader placed great emphasis on refining the mind. One must not only recreate every detail of a sequence with accuracy and precision, but extrapolate upon it swiftly; a practice first begun with verbal rehearsal, then painting blind, whereupon personal disciples are granted one final test—the Qiong Ding Lord presents an artifact mimicking the forgotten demonic practice of dreamscape manipulation. As its holder, they craft scenarios from their own memories demanding decisive answers for each sequence, continuing until the lord can no longer maintain the qi necessary to keep it stable.

All but two of his personal disciples failed the first sequence; only Ren Yijun began the third. For now, of these disciples, she is best suited to serve the interim. So long as she succeeds this upon her twentieth year, she will be gifted her courtesy name as an official head disciple. 

There is no doubt she will. As the artifact promises, this is the resolve of the head disciple to not make the same mistakes as their shizun.

Devastating, to think he nearly lost this. Even now, he touches upon the outline of Wan Jian only to find distress has clouded his recollection. Yue Qingyuan gazes ahead serenely, tracing through the halls of his mind's eye and restoring what he can from their distant past. There were no large detours on the path to Cang Qiong’s Forge, rendering this patchwork of memories with some further accuracy—the finer details are outdated, as his visits to Wan Jian have been few and far between. Upon binding with Xuan Su, the overwhelming force of spiritual energy emanating from these swords turned oppressive. The very air seemed to suffer. Coaxial threads wove through every last corner of their confines to fill with their energy and be. Yue Qingyuan grew keenly aware every breath of his own marked an imposition, felt and received with a weight not granted to most physical beings.

Where, here, hides the indication of Wei Qingwei’s presence today? When they arrived at the forge, he had been speaking with Mu Qingfang on the matter of their spiritual needles; neither one strayed to discuss matters out of sight, nor was anything said within the traces of their affectionate conversation which would warrant his stay now.

Yue Qingyuan stood with Ren Yijun while she perused these nameless swords, of Wei Qingwei’s first experimental works. Aside from Mu Qingfang’s wish to review their commission, she sought to practice dual-wielding with a blade which would not crumble beneath her qi.

…And there lays his prime focus, in a diversion.

Yue Qingyuan gazes at Wei Qingwei again. The man has fallen into familiar habits—namely, pestering Shang Qinghua. This unshaken nonchalance with which he saunters through life appears natural as ever.

Indeed, for one as blunt as Wei Qingwei, it is quite strange for him to avoid this one musing he always remarked upon in the past: Hong Jing fears Yue Qingyuan.

Moreover, while they waited on Mu Qingfang, Wei Qingwei’s eyes kept flicking toward the head of Wan Jian Hall where it lay. Rather than concern himself with this, Yue Qingyuan allowed himself to become enveloped in his disciple’s admirable plans; all her hopes to accustom herself with different weights and methods of sword fighting should Xu Shi ever be unavailable to her. To better spend his unsteady focus on her, he had dismissed Wei Qingwei’s fidgeting as mere impatience for their shibiao’s return. How wrong he was.

The question then becomes: was this test performed at Mu Qingfang’s behest, purposely keeping them under Hong Jing’s watch for a prolonged time, or had Wei Qingwei been the one to urge them into taking a step further afterward—use of those strange talismans?

At this angle, there is only his scarred face, his blind eye, with the dead end of his usual smile; it reveals nothing to Yue Qingyuan.

Hereon he must take greater caution. Clearly, he has grown complacent. As of now Wei Qingwei has been placated, but Mu Qingfang and Shen Qingqiu are actively searching for Xuan Su’s answers within his qi.

Then, with her involvement, he must ask: how much does Ren Yijun suspect?

“Is Shizun safe?”

Yue Qingyuan draws a wavering breath, and closes his eyes.

He does not open them until Shen Qingqiu snaps his bamboo fan closed to call the hall’s attention.

“We will begin.”

Zhu Qinglian begins handing out written copies of the artifact’s register while Shen Qingqiu recounts what they’ve found.

“The Oracle’s Solar-marrow Pipa was acquired from the gravesite of a Heavenly Demon.” At that, Shen Qingqiu casts a defiant glare upon the hall, pointed toward those few who derided his prior intrigue. “Cang Qiong’s records imply the demon had been banished and, with its ears sliced through, subsequently began to wither. A cultivator of Zhao Hua Monastery, carrying the gift of foresight, killed it and obtained these instruments. The Monastery kept the Oracle’s Lunar-bled Erhu and intended to gift Cang Qiong another alongside the pipa, though the Earthen Qin burned with the oracle upon their death.”

Yue Qingyuan’s blood runs cold.

“Cang Qiong did warn Zhao Hua of this, naturally,” Zhu Qinglian continues, bringing forth an additional copy of the old artificer’s notes to give to Yue Qingyuan alongside the registration. He reads it closely as she summarizes the ancient lord’s speculation for the rest: “That one of its own defeated it single-handedly—whether or not the demon was enervated, whether or not the cultivator had foresight—is a tall tale to tell, isn’t it? In fact, the Da-Qian generation propositioned it might’ve been a mercy kill early on, but that was shut down as soon as it was said. Heresy, it was, and after they gave us such a generous gift.”

“Indeed. Quite the bold claim considering the contrary evidence granted to Cang Qiong from the very beginning.” Shen Qingqiu taps Qing Jing’s sketch of the object. “Inscriptions upon the instrument. Components of the individual’s name, its pronunciation as guessed by a northern demonic dialect.”

Shen Qingqiu allows this note to linger. The implication need not be said: the two had fraternized prior to the demon’s banishment.

“The generations of past could not translate it without Qing Jing’s records,” and the present lord wears a wry, proud smile. “That the Earthen Qin turned to ash simply proved its theories true—the only thing human about Zhao Hua’s traitor was their arrogance. The qi-tuned instruments tied to a Heavenly Demon’s blood and bone survived. A human’s never would.”

Yue Qingyuan’s hand traces the artificer’s observations, restlessly scanning the characters without processing the words.

“The shame of their little insurgent had our two great sects agree to hide the destruction of the third instrument, which Huan Hua intends to further embellish its role through. Truly fitting,” he sneers. Shen Qingqiu gestures his fan to Zhu Qinglian now seated, then brings it back in a smooth motion, flicking it open once more to continue lightly fanning himself while she elaborates.

“A vast majority of the artifacts Huan Hua Palace possesses are evidently from the modern age. Zhao Hua corroborated this. Their prior sect leader had been permitted to peruse the collection within the last century after calling in a favor on behalf of his ailing daughter. Huan Hua lacked the experience and confidence to deal them anything older than the Palace Master, few things though they were, and at the time tensions were too high to owe Cang Qiong. In the end, all because of that demoness, she died a really brutal…” Zhu Qinglian hesitates, looking up from her paper. “In any case, it could supposedly be said that Huan Hua secured its place as one of the great sects of the modern age with the defeat of the last Heavenly Demon, but only of the modern age. It hasn’t left much of a mark on anything else, and… if this one may speak plainly, even the sealing doesn’t account for much when Sect Leader Yue had been the one to strike him down.”

Yue Qingyuan does not reply. His eyes pass over the peak lord’s notes again, disbelieving. One of the first documented incidents of the unnatural path. Shen Qingqiu claims it brazen, and he may very well be correct, if not for fate’s distaste toward those gifted foresight. This blessing inevitably came in hand with insurmountable suffering, the balancing of the Heavens until they reclaim their oracle cast down.

Weaving one’s spiritual energy into the instruments may not have been to create a conductor meant for use, but an effort to keep the prophet alive past their given lifespan.

For a Heavenly Demon to use traditional weaponry is unheard of. Blood arts are far preferable, meant to mark the unique flair and mastery of their heritage. Yue Qingyuan can scarcely believe this demon intended to use a weapon so far beneath them; the inscription does imply these instruments to be gifts. Not for the sects, but for this cultivator alone. A qin to keep, with the strength of the demon promising defense. Even here…

‘Whereupon Wu-qianbei confided Liang Zirui’s efforts to impetrate an oath that the remains be scattered where the Demon lay: beneath the mountain’s snow willows at Songhua River's edge, inlaid at Jilin's heart.’

Shen Qingqiu claims this alliance had been crafted to seek power, but what worth is there in wishing to die together?

Ah, there is much less use speculating on the dead.

“Jilin City lays within Huan Hua territory,” Yue Qingyuan notes quietly, recalling the blood at the ends of Shen Qingqiu’s robes that day they last met at Qing Jing. “Might this one presume Shen-shidi sought out the grave?”

He slowly lifts his gaze to see his shidi, whose expression tightens, though Yue Qingyuan can hardly guess for why. Shen Qingqiu continues calmly: “Correct. Zhao Hua’s Lunar-bled Erhu has no bow. It was to be played with demonic blood. In the exchange, the cultivator was presumably ordered to use this only upon the demon’s death. One arm had been sacrificed for the neck of our pipa, leaving the remaining one as the bow for the erhu.”

Such a powerful tool, built with Heavenly Demon blood, and mere omission kept it from being used all these centuries gone. Disrespect to the grave would have destroyed the bones as well, rendering the instrument entirely worthless. “Are the bones intact?”

“An ancient beast has been drawn to the gravesite, so it is unclear. This one requests another excursion with Zhu-shimei and Dai-shimei, as we will extract any remaining evidence immediately.” Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrow, in the manner of a threat—realizing this much, Yue Qingyuan feels sorrow touch upon his smile. A silent question, this, inquiring whether he will reveal his shidi’s previously unsuccessful attempt. A chance to undermine him.

“You may. Please ensure Huan Hua has no claim to either remaining artifact.”

Shen Qingqiu nods tersely, turning his attention upon the other two.

“Should we go ahead and pack to fly by sword, Shixiong?” Dai Qingren asks. “There’s no guarantee Huan Hua wasn’t tracking your leave.”

“There is no need. This one ensured they did not,” his light voice is tinged with ire, brows creased.

Surprisingly, Qi Qingqi clears her throat to intervene. “A modest carriage will draw less attention passing through Huan Hua’s border.”

And, it will allow Shen Qingqiu to preserve his spiritual energy when he finds the beast, goes untold on her tongue.

To spite this, he does not look her way.

“Don’t be rash when it comes to Heavenly Demons,  Dai-shimei,” Qi Qingqi appends exasperatedly, challenging her unconvinced gaze.

“If there is lingering resentment in what we retrieve, it’d be easier to deal with it on the ground than risk aerial collapse,” Zhu Qinglian earnestly tries to persuade. Although Dai Qingren still seems perplexed with this wandering method, she nods her assent and looks to Shang Qinghua.

He reluctantly marks it down with a wince, folding a hand over his left wrist to finish the note. “I’ll… I’ll get everything set up.”

“Then, that is all.” Shen Qingqiu finishes with a dismissive flourish of his fan, closing it without a sound as he stands. He curtly bows to Yue Qingyuan, pausing but a moment for the other lords to stand before taking his leave hidden with the small crowd.

Shang Qinghua stays behind, struggling to roll up his scrolls; Wei Qingwei has already left for Qi Qingqi’s side, lingering at one of the large windows.

Yue Qingyuan strains himself to listen in on their conversation as he goes through the motions of rising, stepping toward Shang Qinghua’s side only two seats down—before he can open his mouth, he feels Xuan Su twist at the base of his chest.

Unease.

His gaze lands on it. These past several days it has grown rather solemn, beyond its usual neutrality. It strays nearby with a pointed presence, deferent when they meditate, commenting on very little and preferring to retreat when Mu Qingfang examines him; with a similar gutted reaction, it hides within their shared core and waits in blatant distrust.

…Although, Xuan Su claimed it was he who did not trust Mu Qingfang. There still exists a hitch—he recognizes it, now. Always a pause before they enter, and a moment longer to recover from the lingering nausea.

None other than Shen Qingqiu, years ago, have tried to transfer spiritual energy, but even his qi flow had been tentatively paused by Xuan Su before Yue Qingyuan felt him. More so a suggestion. It guided Yue Qingyuan into the conscious method of isolating his qi to his hand, and it had been his own choice to hold the energy there until it grew painfully numb.

Yue Qingyuan pulls away from Shang Qinghua, tenderly holding this hand, and steps past without a word.

Xuan Su remains silent, but persistently tense. Yue Qingyuan finds he shares in this apprehension.

Does he not trust them?

Shang Qinghua, Wei Qingwei, Qi Qingqi?

It is Wei Qingwei who salutes him, Qi Qingqi who bows her head, and Yue Qingyuan swallows down bile, pressing forth a tenuous smile before shifting paths again: toward the exit, through the pavilion, to his office. A migraine grows from the base of his head.

What of Mu Qingfang?

The healer has stayed at his side from the moment he was accepted into the sect, yes, the moment he was allegedly deemed more than a slave, so as to not disrespect the sect leader. There are none who know his body better, nor have ever treated it with such gentle, unafraid hands: as though it is to be cherished, he finds himself musing in his weakest moments, rather than used. Before the matter of this curse rose, they were perhaps the sole person he felt drawn to. These sparse arrangements of simple conversation, though first made in concern, often tread the line of polite amiability, leading him instead toward a precarious fondness. Is it so selfish to believe their care beckons him from beyond that boundary?

Is it only selfish if Yue Qingyuan accepts this all while withholding the trust they’re owed?

The path through Qiong Ding should be familiar, steady, grounding. To all others, Yue Qingyuan falls into the monotony of his role; however, he keeps only half a mind, the rest rapidly unraveling. One question pierces through his skull:

Does he trust Shen Qingqiu?

Shen Qingqiu is clever. This past peak lord meeting has affirmed as much to everyone. What he lacks in physical debility is more than compensated for in mind. As the Qing Jing Lord, he wields a tremendous amount of knowledge and is, as he has always been, resourceful. As cunning as Yue Qingyuan is manipulative, with a much steadier mask he has poured his all into perfecting. Diligent in all things. Steadfast—born stubborn as a burr, though unfortunately quick to anger for it. The structure of his arguments has strong basis, only ever breaking apart when he reaches beyond his station; ripping out personal insult from his perceived opponents. In his years as Peak Lord, he has learned and heeded the limits of this, but his intrinsic bitterness festers with repeated exposure and the sect suffers for it. Nor has he ever been one to reconcile. Lashing out is far preferable, with the assurance this strike will reach the hunter first. Shen Jiu has always been a snake lying in wait, coiled further and further in with each prod, curious and malicious alike. To trespass is to break the natural order: the candid wish to be left alone and unhurt.

No longer are their nests one in the same. Never again.

After all, Shen Qingqiu does not trust him. Yue Qingyuan has only himself to blame.

Does he trust Shen Qingqiu?

It should be a given, should it not? Yet his mind contests against both memory and Xuan Su’s judgement. With great reluctance, he must admit: this person is capable of great harm to the sect, should he desire it. Inflicting a temporary hindrance with himself as the price to pay. Be it through his spy network, indiscriminately placed upon each lord, or entirely by his own power should he decide Qing Jing no longer serves him. Shen Qingqiu favors violence foremost, greatly relishing in each punishment rather than accepting it as another natural conclusion of the world in which they live. What would warrant Yue Qingyuan’s beating would become Shen Qingqiu’s order to cripple or kill.

At threat of death, children will do anything. Shen Qingqiu has instilled terror as cleanly as one would poison. It seeps throughout the peaks in rumor, but Yue Qingyuan recognizes the slivers of truth. How could he not, when he knows his shidi as he knows himself? It is their greatest vice: their insatiable thirst for control. Regardless of their capability to temper this, they must acknowledge the risk of its influence.

Who could dare fault Shen Qingqiu’s loathing, with its basis in fear? In each word is the bite of a slave who has long known his life as worthless. That foolish youth failed to return to him, all but dead. Shen Jiu may as well have died with him, he made that very clear.

“Why didn’t you come back to look for me?”

It hardly mattered if he did, or did not; Yue Qi failed. The Shen Jiu who awaited him was no more. The damage upon both of them had been done—that fate unbearable for him, who had wasted his loyalty and what pointless little hope he’d been gifted. From one foreman to the next, to the next, to the next, until Yue Qingyuan himself became the master they once spoke of in jest.

Only his death will be his release, they both know that. So what does it matter if Yue Qingyuan cares for Shen Qingqiu still?

It is the love in their souls which binds them together and stings so ardently as he doubts and deliberates. It is this love which winds its vines uselessly around these ribs in search of an escape, only to rot in the cavity of their chests. It is their love which has never truly mattered.

No, Yue Qingyuan cannot trust Shen Qingqiu.

When he stifles Xuan Su, their qi seethes.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

The ascent through the caverns is a silent one.

Sect Leader Yue walks ahead of Shen Qingqiu, his large winter robes swaying with each step up the damp, half-destroyed stairwell. The cloth drapes far enough to conceal his actual steps, giving off the airs of him gliding along without any effort at all, all while Shen Qingqiu has to grasp at the indents broken into these walls to drag himself along.

This immortal marching far ahead of him expends little effort in all things. A force to be reckoned with, certainly, under the knowledge he is so favored.

Upon the landing, Yue Qingyuan immediately seizes the hilt of Xuan Su. Shen Qingqiu rests a hand on Xiu Ya, studying the sect leader intently as his steps slow to a haunt. There is no word when he passes beneath the fragmented archway etched into stone. Instead, his form visibly relaxes. A glance behind himself reveals his lips pressed into a solemn line. “Circulate your qi.”

His voice echoes slightly, reverberating against the walls of this mangled entry hall. There is no emotion presented in his order.

Shen Qingqiu follows. Keen as his senses are, he registers the shock of a demonic array only just. His eyes narrow at Yue Qingyuan, who continues toward the doors situated at the end. These are only the barest hints of demonic energy. Threads even Shen Qingqiu struggles with sensing at this distance, let alone the stairs further behind. A scornful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Qiong Ding truly prepared him for anything, did it not?

Oh, but it is all the great Yue Qingyuan who presses open the door with his qi and stoically gazes upon the corpses.

Crafted to be the perfect sect leader, as his indulgent fates have decreed. Ice lanterns hung along the edges of the room take to lighting him as if he’s divine, treating mortality with the very same impassivity expected of one. It calls into question: does he recall how to be human, or did he bury that too?

“The exact method of ritualistic slaughter,” Shen Qingqiu mutters, falling into line at his side and setting his eyes on the corpse Yue Qingyuan’s landed upon. Odd. It’s bound to the chair with standard ropes. Much unlike the two incidents which caught Tian Yi’s attention, this victim was no cultivator. Shen Qingqiu flicks his eyes across the table—no, none of the victims here were. Their deaths are less bloody for it, at the very least.

No less unsightly.

Each one’s eyes are forced open and appear as though they’d been pricked by thousands of agitated needles. Dry, cracked scarlet stains the chins and underside of, most blood absorbed by a demon pelt fashioned to resemble a perverse collar with the same epigraph: ‘my deflowered root, return to me.’ White underrobes torn open at the chest draw the gaze to the maw of pure gore where their chests were carved open and chiseled to resemble a star, absent of any ribs, lungs, or heart, but these demons preserved the spine dyed red with each ridge sharpened into violent protrusions.

He barely scrapes in any breaths, reluctant to inhale the distinct rot permeating throughout this ornate dining hall. Bringing himself to the head of the table, here lies yet another horned demon, a reflection of the one they killed in the city far below. It dons clothing drenched exclusively in shades of ruby, with a delicate cape touching upon the blood-soaked table where it’s draped itself over its meal, head pressed firmly into the contents of the plate. Shen Qingqiu tilts its chin up with Xiu Ya, just enough to examine this demon’s meal with disgust. He clicks his tongue, “There are the hearts. Half-eaten.”

The sect leader says nothing. No, Yue Qingyuan abruptly tugs the first corpse’s head upward with gloved hands, not betraying any reaction to the sound of fragile bones cracking as he does so. Instead, he reads the message embroidered on the beast’s leather and sends forth a clean burst of qi to slice it, pressing the leather to the table and only glancing once at the stagnating, slow drippings of viscous blood turned dark on the human’s neck.

Yue Qingyuan’s pitch black eyes rise from the corpses, affixed now to the ancient script written on each fundamental arch keeping these ruins upright. What hubris. As if wearing such an intense gaze will suddenly render him able to read an archaic demonic language.

Scoffing, Shen Qingqiu turns away from this display and walks past to open the next set of doors.

He readies Xiu Ya and undoes the seal with his qi—it appears to be a rather large storage room. Shen Qingqiu’s lungs burn in protest at the release of its pungent air, eyes promptly identifying yet another demon’s corpse hidden between various boxes practically stacked to the ceiling.

Stepping closer, he catches a face scarred from beneath the skin, with glass protruding from its eyes. He sets Xiu Ya to hover at his side, extracting the tome from the demon’s hand. Not of much significance at a glance, merely a topography of the surrounding area with various notes in a northern demon dialect; he tucks it into his sleeves and scrutinizes the remaining items. Pristine, golden, wasteful things thrown into this corner. Several goblets filled to the brim with congealed blood, with timepieces laid beside each one.

One of which is a small hourglass at the far end, the sand freely slipping through. Almost too swift for the eye to catch.

When the last grain falls, all is still for a heartbeat.

“Yue Qi!”

A distant scream tears through the halls beyond just as the glass explodes—shards shoot outward in a clean arc, slicing through his metal bracers and cutting into his arms until they strike bone and shatter. Shen Qingqiu stumbles backward with a low hiss, gritting his teeth and fighting to reorient himself. A hallucination thrown in the mix, that name. It must be.

The main hall door shuts with a thundering rumble.

Shen Qingqiu sprints out toward the large doors, sharply stealing what last fresh air he can and trapping it even as his lungs shrink in revulsion. Rushing past the rows of corpses, Xiu Ya shooting alongside him, he follows the sound of broken, shrill keening further out. He channels qi through his bleeding arms and throws them at the stone door in an attempt to collapse it. He has to know—he should have known. Yue Qingyuan is always quiet, but to this extent? Something was deeply wrong. Before the array, he held himself with fraught silence and could only relax upon identifying its source. He must’ve been targeted the very moment they entered these caverns, steadily weakening him as it prepared the trigger for the array.

Again, Shen Qingqiu crushes what stone he can and drags the doors inward in an attempt to destabilize it, digging at the broken hinges with his spiritual energy until the door finally cracks and crumbles upon itself. Its pieces scatter into the dining area, still quivering lightly with the aftertaste of his qi, leaving only him and the entryway untouched.

The moment the sight is clear, his chest contracts.

They never should’ve split from one another.

The blood, he breathes in disbelief, the blood. Seeping out of every major orifice, with all traces of his meridians burning through to the surface skin as Yue Qingyuan screams and writhes on broken rock. Beside him, a newly open doorway with another demon’s long-destroyed body, but Shen Qingqiu cannot process anything beyond this horrific sight. What once was wailing is now hitched on dry sobs as Yue Qingyuan struggles to breathe, only to cut out with a final punctured gasp. His eyes are shut violently, fluttering behind the lids as they bleed down his face.

A qi deviation, but that is hardly the worst of it. His body’s seizing—arms stiff, twitching at his sides, with the muscles of his neck spasming and digging his temple further into the rock where he’d collapsed.

Shen Qingqiu quickly maneuvers around his legs, cautiously pulling him by the shoulders onto the flat ground further away. A sharp cry escapes Yue Qingyan at the movement, fresh blood torn from his bitten tongue. With nothing to be done, Shen Qingqiu reluctantly steps back. He does not stray far, only enough to keep from being hit. One of the many mistakes of his youth which bear not repeating.

Impatience is not so easy to shake. He marks the time passing solely out of habit, taking every tick like another graze to the chest. Unhooking these useless arm braces, he plucks out the prominent pieces of glass caught in his arm, dismissing the sting. His eyes continuously flit to Yue Qingyuan with each horrible, strangled wheeze, as if the air’s been squeezed through a thinning pipe to reach him.

Until at last, Yue Qingyuan’s breath gives way to deep, heaving gasps, swallowing down the air and coughing at the blood that meets his mouth instead. Shen Qingqiu quickly kneels, twisting him unto his side so the idiot coughs it out. But of course, even this isn’t enough. A new cry begins, low at the back of his throat. Yue Qingyuan clutches at his chest.

“What is it?” he demands, brows knit in mere annoyance as Yue Qingyuan shakes his head and presses his glove to his breast again. As if that alone serves any fundamental explanation. Shen Qingqiu scowls and heaves him upright, pressing his own ruined sleeve to Yue Qingyuan’s grimace to clear the blood. His shixiong’s head lulls against his shoulder with a weak cough, spitting both bile and blood into his hair. Disgusting.

Once he’s calmed down, he sets Yue Qingyuan upon the ground again and removes a glove—refusing to flinch at the inflammation carved into his hand—to test the qi.

It’s barely moving. Most of it has been extracted, the rest stagnant in his veins.

He’s not breathing.

“Yue Qingyuan?”

He’s not breathing.

Shen Qingqiu shoves his hand out of the way, hastily throwing open his coat and undoing the upper half of Yue Qingyuan’s robes. The veins appear even worse here, tracing his chest, the nauseating red seared through with blotches of bruising covering his acupuncture points, visibly gnarled around his heart. “You—! Yue Qingyuan!”

No, seeing it now, he is breathing, but there hang several dreadful moments between each stuttering movement; and when he does, he scarcely takes in anything at all. Shen Qingqiu tilts Yue Qingyuan’s head back, keeping his mouth open, but—his hand lingers on his throat—that doesn’t change that his heart has stopped. His heart’s stopped. His heart, his heart— 

Shen Qingqiu presses his hands to the center of his shixiong’s chest and pushes. It’s all he knows.

What did Yue Qi do back then? It’s difficult to recall—he pushed into her chest, he wiped her mouth clear, he didn’t cry, he never cried, not even when his arm was burnt raw for interfering with some jiejie’s punishment, and he never dared to again. He would scream, but he’d never cry, never gave anyone the satisfaction of it, never seemed capable of it, not even here. He called her name and pushed into her chest over and over and over.

Does it matter? “Qingyuan!” That girl died anyway.

Over and over and over, he shoves his bloodied hands into his chest and bears the unignorable crack of ribs crushed beneath. He hates this man—this soft and selfish man. Does he wish to die so terribly? Is it not enough, that he wants Shen Qingqiu to be executed for failing to save him?

The bones begin to creak and release a low pop, and if he must die, Shen Qingqiu wants nothing more than to finally carve him open with Xiu Ya. Seize his heart directly, squeeze it, force the ungrateful thing to work. Who cares for this new blood on his hands, soaked into his skin, finally marking him a murderer to the world at large? It is inevitable. This is the reality he’s always known: he is completely rotten.

That girl died when it was someone as blessed as Yue Qi—what can filth like Shen Jiu hope for?

But there must be a better way. Yue Qingyuan can’t die. He can’t die. He can’t. This fucking monster is above mortality! Far above all the human scum on the earth as he reminds them at the dawn of every single torturous day. Telling them with that false, patronizing smile of his, those pitying words, how he is lowering himself to sanctify their presence as if even the blind and deaf haven’t yet worshipped exactly who he pretends to be. Time and time again, hasn’t he ensured this to be true? A long and prosperous future ahead of him. At the cost of every last tie he had to these gutters, to him, didn’t he promise he would become a cultivator?

Isn’t Shen Qingqiu a cultivator?

“Idiot,” he hisses to no one, infusing energy into his palms and slamming down once more with a strong pulse of qi. “Wake up!”

At once, Yue Qingyuan gasps—properly gasps—and vomit gurgles up his throat. Shen Qingqiu throws him onto his side, keeping an arm wrapped around his chest so he will not tumble into his own foul bile. He uses the hand placed on Yue Qingyuan’s chest to open the spiritual veins with little resistance. Taking full advantage of the daze, he trickles his qi into these weakened, sore trails, reinforcing the decaying edges.

Once the coughing dies out, he leads him onto his back again and wipes the remaining saliva from his mouth. Yue Qingyuan’s lips twitch into a smile, even as he begins to—cry. The tears washing the blood that once spilled from his eyes in the midst of the deviation. His hands hold Shen Qingqiu’s, laid upon his chest, and the bastard has the gall to smile.

How dare he smile when his ribs are broken and his spiritual veins are in such a state? Scalded and flimsy in the aftermath, wavering as if they’ll break when given excess spiritual energy and unwilling to circulate itself again. For the insurmountable sect leader to suffer this amount of devastation, it must have been equally matched—the further Shen Qingqiu pushes his qi along, he feels quite delirious with the thought Yue Qingyuan’s ever could be. The only person able to match him is himself; it would take the whole of Cang Qiong to finally rival him.

His breath hitches when he at last touches his core.

Yue Qingyuan’s cultivation has been entirely decimated.

As if his spiritual energy imploded.

How is he alive? All these deep, bleeding scars etched into his core—Shen Qingqiu seizes the loose qi rising out of the ruptures and weaves it inward. His own soul feels startlingly bereft as he brushes against Yue Qingyuan’s, so vulnerable and weak, as if it’ll slip away at any moment. Shen Qingqiu holds his shixiong’s qi there in the core, only sending out quiet flares to bring the veins into motion to assuage what little he can against this sheer amount of damage.

When Yue Qingyuan proves he can somewhat hold his own qi here, Shen Qingqiu strains to raise Xiu Ya with his spare spiritual energy and directs it to sense demonic qi. It hovers for a moment, then slightly points toward the corridor Yue Qingyuan had found.

More vials of blood. Awaiting more victims, to be sure. These vile things crafted their own trap; this execution chamber must be elated to have cultivators to feast upon next.

Shen Qingqiu pulls Yue Qingyuan to sit upright, tucking an arm beneath his. “Stand up.”

The new position has him close his eyes in another pained grimace, his hand tighter around Shen Qingqiu’s, but the fool says nothing.

“Do you understand me?” he bites out, receiving all the glory of a feeble nod. “Yue-shixiong, stand up.”

Shen Qingqiu positions himself against the wall to leverage himself and bring Yue Qingyuan to his feet. His knees nearly buckle as he forces them up, but he bears it with gritted teeth and a stifled snarl.

Once Shen Qingqiu is certain he won’t fall while supporting his weight, they slowly stagger forward, past the archway and toward the stairs. This close, Yue Qingyuan’s breathing sounds utterly wrecked, horrid sounds drowning in his broken ribs, but he somehow manages to shuffle along with him. Shen Qingqiu takes caution around the points at which the stairs fell through, leaning against the stone to steady them before continuing down the corridor.

The path down feels to take ages. Endless, no matter how much Shen Qingqiu hastens their steps.

He nearly constricts Yue Qingyuan as they traverse the darkness, running his qi in tandem with his; the moment he feels a small foreign spirit emerge, risen into the rhythm of Yue Qingyuan’s energy, he halts.

Kill it—extract it, quickly—before it continues to fester in the chasms of Yue Qingyuan’s scarring.

When Shen Qingqiu sharpens his qi to dispel it, Yue Qingyuan draws a low, pained keen. Neglecting the sound, he focuses again on it and pins it in place before it tries to delve back into his core and fancy itself part of the cure. Slicing through it prompts another agonized shudder, with their hands clasping one another as if there’s no other in the world. Just once more, and it’ll be dead. He chases after where it’s fled and viciously unravels the parasite—but realizes too late: Yue Qingyuan cannot be disentangled.

Blood rushes through Shen Qingqiu’s ears. He cannot stop. Yue Qingyuan is falling out of his grasp and dissipating into nothingness. His qi desperately reaches for him to no avail, searching him out and dragging him close. Although he’s so near, when the ruptures in his veins burst through with newfound violence, it shatters their connection, severing him and using overwhelming surges of energy to push him away, push him out.

“Qingqiu, stop it,” he cries.

“I’m trying,” Shen Qingqiu snaps, forcing his qi forward to cling onto frail traces of his spirit, who slips through him like water. The bastard at his side gasps like he’s drowning. “I’m trying, do you think I’m not?! I—Shixiong—”

“Qingqiu, it hurts,” he weeps, head falling against his shoulders, voice light and soft and young. “Qingqiu, you’re hurting me.”

His very soul is bleeding out. Shen Qingqiu isn’t strong enough to bring him back. He’s never strong enough.

“Xiao-Jiu, you really do want me dead.”

“Shut up!” Shen Qingqiu presses both trembling hands to his chest and shuts his eyes. The veins are nearly empty now, left only with the vague imprint of his thread lining the lowest edges of his dantians—and of that spirit lingering in his body, still, overwhelming and vengefully suppressing Shen Qingqiu’s qi until he cannot breathe. His throat burns. “Just come back…”

Yue Qi says nothing.

His spiritual veins are bare. The spirit disappeared with him. There is nothing left in this husk of Yue Qingyuan.

There is nothing left for him here.

Shen Qingqiu tears his own bleeding eyes open, rips the claws from his throat, and slings Xiu Ya at the dream eater.

Chapter Text

Night has fallen again.

Yue Qingyuan should light the candles.

Another day has passed without visit, nor has he had the mind to leave. Unwilling to sleep, drowning then in a senseless haze, he roused to awareness with a quiet ache resounding through his legs; with bruises pressed upon his knees and sore bones thrumming endlessly. There are no healers to tend to him aside from Mu Qingfang, who harbors his head disciple away from Qiong Ding. Hall masters silently relay her month’s written report alongside their own as though nothing is amiss. Certainly, the sect leader is capable of ordering her presence, although he finds no sense in the endeavor.

Yue Qinguan refuses to impose upon any of them. Thus if he is to haunt this place alone, he must light the candles.

Ah, but of course he is alone. All told, he has done ruefully little to earn the faith others grant him. Nothing so delicate as trust may be demanded of another; that such a reckless man as he had not torn these threads sooner is the true curiosity. Ren Yijun understands—before her, Shen Qingqiu suffered the natural disillusionment to follow. There is no other outcome.

His brush slows, dithering longer on the last four strokes of 烈.

There was something he meant to do.

Weary eyes regard the page and retrace every character until they finally fade into the bleak darkness settling over the large office. Moonlight is obscured by thick clouds this evening, gathered for rain on the morrow. The carriage will do well in shielding Shen Qingqiu on his return. Dai Qingren sent ahead a young midnight wolfhawk with confirmation of the mission’s success despite minor injury. If nothing else keeps them, they will return on the third day. By then, if the spring storm does not cease, the rain will have passed on through another valley. How fortunate.

This once, Shen Qingqiu shall return to the sect without burden. He has suffered much as of late. From the plague, to Tian Yi’s call, all of what entailed spanned the course of the spring festival—of his Qingqiu’s new year.

All solace brought with Shen Qingqiu’s presence on the mission was carved at the expense of his disquietude. The quarantine left the whole of Qing Jing and Qian Cao restless and ill at ease. Where the latter peak permitted only its best to depart for Qing Jing and Guoyang City to resolve the plague, Shen Qingqiu kept his disciples close with all communications deferred to Qiong Ding. The crucial information was summarized by Yue Qingyuan’s own hand up until the point of Tian Yi’s summons.

In joining him, Shen Qingqiu likely thought to draw out all omitted information from him personally. Truthfully, Yue Qingyuan cared little for why; rather, he basked in his presence as well as he was able, entertaining himself with thoughts of what gifts to bestow upon the mission’s end. These rare opportunities to gauge Shen Qingqiu’s current status required keen eyes if he wished to provide more than money, of which they now had excess. For what could he give, if not tending to his needs?

As disciples, Yue Qingyuan commissioned him a set of winter robes in a soft, favored shade of purple after Shen Qingqiu’s own were destroyed in a mission with Liu Qingge. Whether or not they were ever worn, Yue Qingyuan will never see them again; Shen Qingqiu has long outgrown his youthful frame, and has surely done away with them to accommodate his newer and ever-particular tastes. Recent years have continuously proved Yue Qingyuan overlooks the details which matter most to Shen Qingqiu; his efforts wasted and rightfully lambasted wherever he dared present that gaudy garbage, as it was named. He has since avoided presuming his preferences, though this restriction casts room only for the austere. Written copies from Qiong Ding’s exclusive collection, and night pearls with it, brush sets, ink stones, a stand to display his jewelry, bound paper from An Ding enforced to resist liquid, subtle knives should his qi grow unstable… all he could find, he would give.

Yet Yue Qingyuan gave no gift this year.

It is too late to.

For the first of thirty-three years, without the Ling Xi Caves to blame, he has missed his birthday. All Shen Qingqiu receives is his burden.

How many people will be forced to bear the results of his recklessness? How many more must he lose after having them fear him and fear for him? Shen Qingqiu, Ren Yijun, Mu Qingfang—there is no protection he may offer if he remains in this state for long. Caught in the webbing strewn along caverns haunted by dead he’s yet to join. Whispers of those who witness him wear their face in false confidence, steal breaths in their name, childishly desperate to forestall drowning in dread all while awaiting the pierce of—

A quiet flame blooms into the darkness.

Yue Qingyuan steps back.

The hand hovered over the candle is his own. Blinking to awareness, he finds himself standing. Xuan Su’s surrounding spiritual energy slowly abates.

Had it smothered his? Doubtful; from what he gathers, Xuan Su’s energy merely guided him through the motions with gentle force.

However, another troubling question rises unwelcome on his tongue: how often has it done this?

“Ah,” he says, only to disrupt the silence. The words he grasps for remain distant, hazy beneath the trepidation driving a chill through his body. Still, ever-careful, his mouth complies: “Thank you, Xuan Su.”

With Xuan Su’s pulse of pride, ebbing warmly throughout, Yue Qingyuan reluctantly allows his nerves to settle—if only enough to return to his desk on steady feet. His hand hovers above the letter addressed to Wei Qingwei, hesitant.

He urges Xuan Su’s spirit closer. “May I speak with you?”

It folds over itself before returning an affirmation.

Bringing forward a fresh piece of parchment, Yue Qingyuan rests his right arm on the table and nods once. Xuan Su’s spiritual energy surges once more through his forearm in reach of his hand, its biting heat subsiding into a quieter warmth. Where its spirit overlays his own, he feels the prick of numbness spread, though the sensation is not quite unpleasant; the absence itself gives the impression of another’s hand pressed upon his own.

It moves.

His arm moves without his willing it, and he is helpless but to allow his shoulder to slack. 

Steadying himself, he observes Xuan Su’s hesitant draft—again, it writes in shaky replication of his own script: ‘Are you alright?’

He breathes a faint laugh. “Yes,” he assures, moving on before his voice may break. Forcing himself to voice the one question that has festered within him: “How long has this been possible?”

Yue Qingyuan’s lungs falter when their hand stutters forward to dip the brush in ink. ‘After the curse.’

Perhaps selfishly, he lets his heart settle somewhat. Quieter still, he must ask, “Will it stay this way?”

Xuan Su pauses. ‘Yes.’

He exhales.

‘It will worsen without proper balance.’

Ah. Yue Qingyuan’s free hand tenses briefly and he leans forward. “Worsen?”

‘Shen Qingqiu?’ It steps away from his query. ‘Will you not permit him to balance us?’

“No.” The denial leaves him more choked than he intends. 

It tightens its hold on the brush. Then, ‘Why?’

Yue Qingyuan cannot speak.

‘Please answer me.’

He shakes his head. Distantly, he feels the tension stretch from his hand to his arm and forces his breaths to slow; rising apprehension leaves him untethered and abandoned to the premonition of another seizure to come. Pincers graze his skin until it numbs over, reaching further with every passing moment. Yue Qingyuan must focus. Breathe. Five three; and on, five four; and on.

“Qingqiu-shidi…” An amateur misstep, allowing himself voice before finalizing the thought. To his surprise, Xuan Su does not envelop him in its displeasure—there is not even the slightest grievance toward his lapse in composure. Or, far more plausible, he simply fails to sense it behind the vertigo dampening his thoughts. Gathering himself, he again tries: “Qingqiu-shidi will provide no aid. His cultivation is poor.”

The brush cleanly underlines ‘Why’ once more.

Yue Qingyuan breathes hollowly. This is no question of why his cultivation is poor, an answer self-evident to any adept in spiritual cultivation, but a refusal. The reasoning he gave is insufficient. Perhaps it means to try again. 

“As our healer, Mu-shibiao has far more experience than him. Moreover, they are already ware of your existence.”

Another strike below.

“Exposing our bond to him is dangerous. You claim I trust him, but I cannot.”

Again, ‘Why,’ with increasing impatience. It denies his judgement.

For all of his life it haunts, as parasites inextricable from one another, it will never understand this. From the bitter scent of herbs to the aftertaste of a roaring fire over a broken estate, it always held itself distant and cold back then. Not once betraying anything of its presence beside the despairing howls meant to break him in its wish to break free. Steady vitriol curdled in his veins for years in response to his listless pace, held long awaiting a tribulation which would either end him or force him to rise beyond a child’s corpse. Where, there, was he to recount all Shen Qingqiu meant to him to a sword so justifiably vindictive?

The sealing of the Heavenly Demon was its only turning point.

Is he to destroy its solidarity formed now in admittance? That the Shen it heeds was once, and so selfishly remains, the structure of his soul—the stake by which his life helplessly winds around, wrought with the knowledge his own rot infects the wood until it gives way? Yue Qingyuan cannot bear to have him any closer at risk of losing him completely.

Xuan Su would not care to listen, when here he guides it to the very same fate in disobedience.

Rather, he whispers: “How shall this worsen?”

It provides a long pause as warning, though it answers nonetheless. ‘I cannot tell,’ writes Xuan Su, ‘The curse meant to destroy your cultivation from the inside—that is, to kill you.’

A coldness sweeps through him.

“To burn out our spiritual energy at the source,” Yue Qingyuan surmises, the quiet revelation brought by another light tremor. Severely, “Why did you bear it alone?”

Xuan Su is quiet.

“These fluctuations, surges of excess energy left in its wake…” He steals a low breath, “You struggle to retain the structure of our spiritual veins. You seek to anneal it with the aid of an outsider, but for what purpose must you suppress me?”

Has he become so useless? Is he destined to serve as nothing more than a detriment? The scarring engraved in his spiritual veins require Xuan Su to steady the path else it snarls and burns; but, carrying him through becomes exhaustive in its current frailty. Doing away with him to rebuild and filter the energy is sensible. However, under the sheer strain brought into itself, it will destabilize if it continues on without his lifeforce—the stray threads it’s kept to hold itself together when amplifying his energy. To bear the full weight of this curse without his aid, it nears the end of what he has sacrificed, hasn’t it?

“We are one. In all we have suffered, this holds true. To take this risk without me,” to take this risk for me, “I must ask you, why?”

To what end? To satiate this debt, what must I acquiesce? Will I ever be free?

Have I only my life to give?

Xuan Su relinquishes his arm and drags closer with wary pace, it must be starving, flowing inward until it grasps its rightful place—the gaping absence of where it once stood strong, unmoved but to guide him, much unlike the state it’s been reduced to. Without place and without purpose.

Yet it nestles at his chest.

A rush of spiritual energy pours through every last channel of his being, the heat shocking but not unkind. Yue Qingyuan breathlessly sinks into its surreal embrace. Overwhelmed with the fondness withheld for years, now offered so unabashedly, he nearly misses the faint undercurrent of grief.

Without death’s touch, how long would they have held their misgivings?

“Xuan Su…” Yue Qingyuan closes his eyes. “…I understand.”

Its energy draws taut, then releases, fading into a gentle flicker at his heart.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

“Enter.”

Shen Qingqiu glimpses the healer’s entrance after a few steps, but scarcely bothers with the show of acknowledging them. The layered uniform clearly boasts they’ve been beckoned for a mission of great importance—why waste their time on this little farce?

They bow behind him. “Good morning, Shen-shixiong.”

“Mu-shibiao. This one expects you’ve brought answers on Zhangmen-shixiong’s affliction,” His eyes narrow. “If not, you may leave.”

Mu Qingfang stays fixed in place. “Zhu-shimei and Dai-shimei have already checked with Qian Cao. This one presumed, as Shen-shixiong felt too unwell to join, this shibiao must meet with him before departure.”

“As you can see, this one is well. Farewell, Mu-yishi.”

Flashing a smile and terse bow of the head, Shen Qingqiu returns to the painting at hand, outright ignoring Mu QIngfang inviting themself in. Stood at the doorway, they linger in a manner not dissimilar to a remarkably infelicitous shadow. The silent breadth between them strangles the air, leaving less with every meeting to pass. Shen Qingqiu pays it no heed. His brush dashes the ink and draws a sharp downward swoop to drag the eye to the crane’s corpse half-submerged in the brine. The implied form of forests looming above still hang unfinished.

The healer sighs and concedes first. “Insapient or otherwise, demonic dream creatures will exacerbate existing heart demons.”

“Yes. This Lord of Qing Jing is well aware of the properties of such beasts.”

“This one would never dare presume otherwise.” Mu Qingfang steps inside his study at last. Just as soon does Shen Qingqiu shift attention to detail the plum blossoms of the foreground. “However, Shen-shixiong may be at risk of—”

“Qi deviations, is that right?” he mocks, eyes flitting to their form without care. “Zhangmen-shixiong’s endured a second one. Answer this: is he at risk of a third from our shibiao’s meticulous negligence?”

“Yue-shixiong’s spiritual energy is strong,” they claim, hovering a slight distance from his side. Coward. If they fear a beast’s snarl, they ought to leave without provoking his bite. No, instead they absolve themself of fault and venture on to say: “In fact, it overcompensates for the damage, but what fluctuations exist will be stabilized within the month.”

“How fortunate for him.” The sneer tugs free a knot in his chest, drawing forward the results of a much sharper, silent inquiry: “That his healer has the confidence to not see him through recovery.”

“A variation of the plague has sprung.” Mu Qingfang gazes down at him. “Shixiong surely understands its priority.”

Shen Qingqiu’s hand falters.

“A nearby town was brought down. The guards who murdered the last survivors fell ill soon after sending word; again, it approaches Guoyang City.”

In their last exchange, Ning Xiuying only just managed to stand again. The covert guards stationed at her side were killed by the flood itself, leaving no one to relay to him this encroaching development until now. He sets the brush down. “I see.”

It needn’t be said to be understood: so soon after winter’s plague, no one residing in Guoyang would survive another onslaught. It was a rich city, yes, but the force of the river broke down several of the fundamental buildings, leaving most stranded on the streets or otherwise shoved into overcrowded rooms. One of the final phases of the illness it wrought nearly stole Ning Xiuying, what with her soft heart permitting vermin to puncture her estate’s walls. Shen Qingqiu had been the one to drag the young carcasses out. Better they attract their ilk in the streets than in the Ning Manor’s gardens.

She stopped responding to him at all after he said as much. Knowing the sickness left her weak, he decided to overlook it.

But despite his every threat to burn the damn thing in defiance, vexed by her resignation to death, Shen Qingqiu did keep the final letter she intended to give her daughter should the worst come to pass. Had Mu Qingfang been incapable of synthesizing a cure at Qian Cao with the bodies of the disciples who returned, or been any slower to test those newly infected on site, Ning Yingying would be left in isolation with not a thing to her name.

Thin as his patience is, Shen Qingqiu must insist she learn her family’s tongue. Her mother exists as the translator between Ning Yingying and her grandfather; the girl herself too young to grasp the importance of communicating in his favored dialect, to be seen as family. That man will most certainly revoke her name, calling her a leech as any prostitute thrown at his son with the single-minded craving for claim to riches. It took much time to craft the false past necessary to shroud Ning Xiuying—one which did sorely little to defend the dubious circumstance of Ning Yingying’s birth.

The very risk of losing the livelihood her mother fought for is unacceptable. If she cannot keep her own, it will be stolen from her. The men which surround her are despicable things. Especially her weak-willed father. Losing the flame of his love might as well extinguish any supposed goodwill toward the child that came of their consummation. Nothing but a bitter reminder, is she?

As for himself, no matter what was owed to her mother, he has long since repaid it. Shen Qingqiu is no such selfless person, and certainly cannot afford to to be in his position. To grant her any leeway is to slip into supporting her for the entirety of her life to come, as she’ll know nothing else but to be pampered. Retracting after any point will garner contempt from a number of people. No, it will be best to cut her off at the root and clean his hands of it all.

Yue Qingyuan should know.

Shen Qingqiu discards the thought. He sternly turns to Mu Qingfang, absently tapping the desk. “Before departing for Guoyang City, what more have you gathered on the matter of the curse?”

“There are no outside influences in his spiritual veins,” they rehearse with the barest plaintive inflection. A placid expression shields against his warning glare—all this time wasted in research with nothing to show. “Whether a spell or curse, it has since run its course. So long as Yue-shixiong does not strain his qi reserves, his core will naturally suture the veins.”

Acid dissolves the laughter bubbling up his throat. As if that revulsive sight belonged to any natural injury. “Tattered as they were, it is a miracle he is alive.”

“Shen-shixiong is to thank for that,” Mu Qingfang states carefully.

This time, what remains of that short laugh is sharpened by poison and breaks past his lips. “Yes, the sect leader’s silence certainly speaks volumes of the nature of his gratitude.”

Mu Qingfang does not reply in defense, but simply shakes their head. Untouched by all suffering. As always.

Sect Leader Yue is the same. How could he forget?

Upon reflection—shameful though it was he hadn’t realized the moment of—the smile the bastard shone held nothing but mockery. Yue Qingyuan could not control his situation, but why should the threat of death bar him from taking full advantage to test the waters?

Witnessing that horrid state of his managed to put a fracture in Shen Qingqiu’s iron fist. Brought to his knees to obey and, mortifyingly, anticipate the sect leader’s every pathetic beck and call until they returned to the Cang Qiong Mountains. Then when he received a request for his aid in the aftermath of a second qi deviation, he spent the night restless until the crack of dawn gave him the excuse to fly to his office with some dignity—all to have his every effort denied aloud and belittled in that draft to Tian Yi. Still he cannot escape, as he is now subject to the dream eater’s corruption in meditation.

As it always seems to be, Shen Qingqiu cannot temper himself when it comes to the matter of Yue Qingyuan.

There is no longer a world in which these fleeting shows of vulnerability present any minor consequence.

Shen Qingqiu must extirpate this infestation. By these mites, every decaying piece of offal composing a boy long gone is brought to the surface to feed a lone persistent weed amidst the dead soil of his insides. To rip it out is to suffer, never finding the roots of the damn thing. It extends far past the patch made here, spreading its glorious form, never looking back except to tug at the corpse errantly buried beneath it.

Weakness is the only reason for its continued presence.

Mu Qingfang asks again, “Will Shen-shixiong not allow this one to examine him?”

Shen Qingqiu bites back his indignation at that uncaring look. At least they’ve the sense to not flash false sympathies at him, shameless as they are to indulge it so openly with Yue Qingyuan—someone just as false in his care. Truly fitting, these two. Weakness to them is all but a lure to bring others forward, discarded thoughtlessly with all else when it no longer serves well. Shen Qingqiu will find this stage for himself. The strength to eviscerate all that stifles him. Even if he is to claw to find the cusp of it, he will reach until he bleeds if it means dragging himself up and through.

“This lord intends to enter seclusion,” he concedes, gesturing at the seat before him. “In turn, Mu-shibiao must verify this one’s entrance to the Ling Xi Caves.”

Mu Qingfang’s frown deepens, and his own expression tightens. They sigh, “Very well.”

At their affirmation, Shen Qingqiu leisurely extends a hand and rests his chin on the other where he closes his eyes. Fingers clasp the underside of his own, hovering over his wrist to begin the qi transfer. Brisk and calm, always that of a river particularly strange in its temperance. Unhurriedly following the pull of his circulation, they ease it open and examine the abrasions without comment; the adept motions are discomfiting in their meditative rhythm, surging whenever it passes over the dantians to draw out more of Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual energy and restore its intended flow. The practice continues, with its set distractions:

“How did Shen-shixiong emerge from the dream?”

Recognizing its purpose does not prevent Shen Qingqiu’s qi from hitching in anger. The reply is curt: “As Mu-shibiao has surely heard from our martial sisters, the only manner of escape was suicide.”

“Shixiong was the first to wake.”

Shen Qingqiu snaps open his eyes and challenges Mu Qingfang’s prying stare. No regret makes itself known, because to permit it is to acknowledge the atrocious implication written into their misconstrual. “This one encountered the creature briefly in reconnaissance. The matter was simple in reprise.”

Without any change, they focus more spiritual energy into his body; sent upward to tend to the base of a growing headache. They hum, “If even a matter so inane resulted in Shixiong’s mild qi deviation and blockage,” a pointed pain digs against his temple, humiliatingly brought on without much pressure from them at all, “then this yishi fears they will be unable to guarantee the Ling Xi Caves.”

When Mu Qingfang notices his grimace and their brows knit, Shen Qingqiu turns to the window ahead with a low scoff.

Unfair, always. Liu Qingge entered without so much of an announcement to the peaks, that brainless brute, but Shen Qingqiu is the one whose sound mind is held high above him.

“Will Shixiong discuss the dream?”

Shen Qingqiu scowls. “This one sees no reason for it.”

“This yishi must ensure the fluctuations do not disturb the base of Shixiong’s cultivation.”

Loathing. Worsened by the sense to their reasoning, as he will have nothing if he is dead. Dying by his own means clears the guilt Yue Qingyuan goes through the motions of; he would lose the shackles muzzling him and any ties to that gutter. As sect leader, he will at long last completely embrace his domain of Cang Qiong. Let everyone taste the seeds of his apparent kindness until that addictive is the only thing they can consume, knelt to feed from his palm. Dance as he wills it for fear of starvation. Deprivation of him is akin to drought. Yue Qingyuan has the unique power to lift one to the Heavens, and to drive a man mad with misery.

Someone like that does not deserve to be free of him. Shen Qingqiu is only human; of course he is a spiteful thing.

“Death,” he confesses, voice carefully neutral. “Everywhere.”

“It seemingly enjoyed giving the illusion of control,” they say leadingly.

“The demon allowed no other ending.” Shen Qingqiu dismissively waves his other hand, then returns it to prop his head. “Nothing to be done.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Mu Qingfang’s qi intently studies the flow, relinquishing in brief pauses to observe the ripples of spiritual energy, threatening to flare in the quiet intervals between. “Shen-shixiong, if the events are too tender in memory, perhaps waiting—”

He sighs impatiently. “No need. One person was left.”

“...Then, who was this person?”

His lips press thin.

Who is Yue Qingyuan, indeed?

Shen Qingqiu glimpses him and sees another man. Not an exceptionally cruel one, but one nonetheless. Who thrives on power, as all men do, beneath the nobility he embodies. This leadership has always come to him as second-nature; once too reckless with himself, now learned to step back and have his pawns stride forward for him. There are no pawns better than, more hazardous than, his favored Shen Qingqiu. The chip in his armor. The shadow that has seen behind the sect leader’s guise, unallowed to stray far from Cang Qiong grounds without justification. 

The past’s blades are poised to strike from behind the embrace he forces—Yue Qingyuan will not let him let go.

He believes if he placates him with empty words and thoughtless gifts, he will obey just as any other dimwit turned pliant at a pretty face. As if he hasn’t seen this promising sect leader with vomit smeared over torn robes and a broken, bleeding nose after being beaten into the dirt, at times wishing that master’s foot had dug into his throat with such force that he never spoke another worthless word.

It doesn’t matter. Shen Qingqiu’s life is tethered to Cang Qiong now and he has no intention of removing his standing or undermining Sect Leader Yue. The anger he incites by treating him as the only one who hasn’t grown from a rabid dog is worn and tired. To live his days without a reference to the sect leader’s existence is his last wish, forever unfulfilled. Yue Qingyuan is such a paranoid individual when it comes to Cang Qiong—rather, when it comes to what he owns.

But what is his claim, he harbors well enough for the length of time it serves him, and Cang Qiong will serve him for the remainder of his petty immortal life. Better a legacy maintain him than the dead weight of fickle people.

The answer is bitter. “…A stranger.”

“Shixiong—”

“This shixiong speaks true,” he snaps. A pause for breath has him level his qi out, closing his eyes again. “All that seemed certain was this man was dead.”

Mu Qingfang warily wraps their qi over his own. “Is that so?”

Shen Qingqiu does not dignify this with a response.

After another lull, they finally appear to be finished. Retracting their qi slowly through their last cycle, grasp tightening slightly over his wrist to measure it with precision. It holds itself on the edge of his upper dantian when they stipulate:

“Then, Shen-shixiong did not save him.”

A furious tempest casts them out, cutting into the raw veins where there lasts the impression of their qi until he snatches his hand away—sneering openly at the inquiry for what it truly was: “Another provocation.”

They quietly stand. “Shen-shixiong is unstable. This one cannot, in good conscience, license entry to the Ling Xi Caves at risk of death.”

Shen Qingqiu digs his nails into his hem at their patronizing little bow.

“This shibiao sincerely apologizes, Shen-shixiong.”

“Spare this lord your drivel, Mu-yisheng.” His mouth twists into a more mocking smile, “There is never purpose to your questioning. You are of no use to this Shen, let alone Zhangmen-shixiong.”

The anger that flashes in those otherwise-indifferent eyes, brief as it was, is more than enough to spur him on.

“Journey out. Resolve this plague. Your proficiency begins and ends in the filth you were born, rat.”

“This Mu must suggest Shen-shixiong watch his tongue,” they retort evenly, carrying only the barest hint of frost to their tone. “Should this escalate, this yishi will be compelled to warn Yue-shixiong of your deviations and advise against seclusion.”

A sharp laugh cuts his tongue free, “As if he hasn’t borne enough on his own, you’ll burden him with me. That spirit—”

“There exists no such foreign force.”

“Liar!” Shen Qingqiu shoves himself to stand with a hand slammed into the desk, cracking the wood beneath his palm. Its splinters draw blood, but he cannot find it in himself to care when he lifts it to his head in a vain attempt to ease the nauseating ache. “I sensed it—I know it is there! Do you intend to let it cripple him, all to pretend you are capable of saving anyone?”

“Shen-shixiong, you are deviating.”

“Answer me!” He tears his hands away to seize Mu Qingfang’s collar. A grunt escapes them when he slams their head into the wall, but they regain their composure too quickly for any satisfaction to trickle in past the agonizing fog. “He is going to die! Why won’t you save him? Why—Why can’t I—”

A sorrow enters their expression. In the mere moments it takes to register their mockery, Shen Qingqiu is submerged in darkness.

The following days pass in a painful blur.

Ning Yingying neglects her responsibilities as a disciple to play nurse at his bedside. Tending to his fever with a damp cloth and having Ming Fan leave Qian Cao’s medicinal tea in his study for her to bring to him, ever foul to the taste. His head disciple is fortunately not entirely lost when told to manage his own affairs; he directed all reports to the Qing Jing office on the main grounds and only bothers coming by to drop a summary for Ning Yingying to recite aloud. Ever since Shen Qingqiu made the mistake of wincing at the morning light, the girl put it upon herself to read all sorts of useless things to him when not practicing the qin to pass the time.

A Qian Cao healer came by after a time. Neither Ming Fan nor Ning Yingying posed much of a threat, but followed with a scowl and apparently refused to leave until she was done with the treatment.

Shen Qingqiu regained enough sense to lecture his disciples and cast them all out.

Afterward, he laid in bed until he could bear it no longer.

On the eve before Mu Qingfang’s return, he gathers his strength and sets his path to Qiong Ding.

Shen Qingqiu does not need the memory of whatever happened last they met to know that healer will use this to undermine him in front of Sect Leader Yue—assuming they have not already. It may not even be necessary to do so. These past few missions have proved once again: he is disgustingly weak.

It is not either of their rights to deny him the opportunity to cultivate past it.

At the door, he knocks.

The call to enter is steady as ever, but exhaustion’s taken Yue Qingyuan’s form. A result of the spirit’s leeching, to be sure.

“Zhangmen-shixiong.” A forced bow. “This one intends to enter seclusion.”

The sect leader gazes up at him with a calm expression. But there is a twinge of pain betrayed in the way his breath catches in his throat before he says: “No.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrow. There is more to this than Mu Qingfang’s warning. “No?”

Yue Qingyuan nods once. “I’m sorry Shidi.”

“Do not apologize,” he hisses. “Enlighten me, Sect Leader. Why not?”

Shen Qingqiu shouldn’t be surprised at the sudden silence. The bastard never says anything from the heart. One could claw at his shadow for days and never find the man who owns it. That he ever grasped a crack in the facade was a fluke; he will never have that opening again.

“This one… has decided to enter the Ling Xi Caves. Tonight,” or so he claims, but even the edges of his voice are crumbling under the weight of that lie. “He trusts Qing Jing to run Cang Qiong Mountain in his absence.”

Yue Qingyuan will not look him in the eye.

Shen Qingqiu holds his tongue. It’d be of no use to ask him why—he never answers to that. The only person he makes a show of listening to is Mu Qingfang. Neither one of them would be approved for entry if the healer had their way, but the sect leader is the one power which overrules them all. That spirit must know it as well as Yue Qingyuan does.

“Is that all, Qingqiu-shidi?”

Mu Qingfang will not return in time. Cang Qiong has no artifact to discern spirits; its specialty is against the demonic.

However, the nature of seclusion will amplify its spiritual energy.

To kill it, the Ling Xi Caves will be his sole aid.

Shen Qingqiu leaves.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

As Acting Sect Leader, Shen Qingqiu held all the cards in hand. A communique bearing an urgent seal was sent to each peak as soon as Yue Qingyuan entered seclusion. Those who should miss the peak lord meeting gave him free reign over their punishment—what a shameless abuse of power, they surely cried.

Many came lamenting Yue Qingyuan’s absence despite him only being absent a night. A single day will be two days too many, they’d insist, how could Zhangmen-shixiong be so cruel?

Their bemoaning was answered decisively:

“Sect Leader Yue will die in the Ling Xi Caves.”

Shen Qingqiu snaps his fan shut to punctuate the statement. Then, he continues, “Zhangmen-shixiong believed seclusion would stabilize him, against the better judgement of Mu-yishi and this master, and entered without warning.”

The confusion present in Mu Qingfang’s eyes melts into a grim realization. “That is correct.”

All doubts and claims to his insurrection whispered amongst the peak lords die with their corroboration. Shen Qingqiu does not dare to release his breath. The consequences will be severe, even these fools have realized that much. To convince them to act is a different beast altogether—he has never been blessed with the sort of magnanimous charm of Yue Qingyuan, but he may take advantage of the ever-present danger dangling above them. Enough to compel them to listen when he says, “We are to retrieve him.”

Shen Qingqiu stands and draws Xiu Ya, throwing out ten alert talismans on the table that are keyed to the ones on his person. Settling an icy glare on each peak lord, he challenges them:

“Follow, or do not. This one will enter the Ling Xi Caves, and thus delegates the position of Acting Sect Leader to Shang Qinghua.”

The threat is implicit—it is no secret there must be resentment in the An Ding Peak Lord’s feeble heart. Beside that, his eyes flit to Wei Qingwei, who has clearly read between the lines and raises his brows. He languidly draws himself to stand with a talisman in hand, humming as he unsheathes his own blade. “This Wei supposes he will follow after all.”

With Qian Cao and Wan Jian’s presence secured, Shen Qingqiu turns to leave just before the hall erupts. Wei Qingwei trails closely behind with an infuriating spring in his step—as if this is a game he’s simply humoring Shen Qingqiu with, but it matters not. As long as the man is following, he will be a reliable source to convey the events that transpire.

In the last of the clamor he hears, there are people questioning his loyalty.

Imbeciles. Each and every last one of them, who’ve convinced themselves the greatest gift they can give is blind faith. Without any other to prod at the flaws, the strong grow awfully complacent. Arrogance will truly be the death of Yue Qingyuan.

It will come in time.

At the entrance of the caves, Shen Qingqiu turns on his heel to examine the small group that followed. More than he expected, but only a few may enter without agitating the Ling Xi Caves or putting themselves at risk. The spirit feeds off of one’s qi, meaning every person presents another host for it to latch unto—and if it has strengthened its hold on Yue Qingyuan in this short amount of time, it may kill them and escape blame by ascribing it to the caves’ instability.

“Mu-shibiao will follow at a stagger,” Shen Qingqiu orders. “Do not travel farther up than the third cavern until the talisman burns.”

“Be cautious,” Mu Qingfang warns unnecessarily. “Do not attempt qi transfers before I arrive.”

“We shall see what must be done,” he sneers.

“Shixiong—”

Shen Qingqiu dismisses them and reluctantly turns to Qi Qingqi, who scrutinizes him with wary curiosity. He hands her a separate keyed talisman. “If this burns, you must join Mu-shibiao and retrieve us.” Then, to Zhu Qinglian, “Retain a voice transferral channel with Cang Qiong Hall. Ensure preparations for the injured and send for two senior healers here. The mass spiritual influx will incite qi deviations. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Shixiong.”

A curt nod of acknowledgement, then he steps up to the maw of the caverns. Shen Qingqiu clutches the Qing Jing insignia and channels qi through it, pressing his hands to the rock and straining himself to lower its barrier. Momentarily, his spiritual energy wavers, but he pushes through to spite the blasts of pain whipping through his veins—he refuses to be bested again.

The cavern opens with a haunting rumble, its vast energy emanating in waves and luring them in.

Insatiable thing.

A hand hovers at his shoulder. Mu Qingfang went ahead of the rest to join him, voice low, “Shen-shixiong. You must not qi transfer with Yue-shixiong.”

“If you are so concerned, perhaps Mu-yisheng should have stopped Zhangmen-shixiong from entering in the first place—”

“Yue-shixiong did not wait for me.”

“—or tried to research the curse at all, hm?” he scowls, louder than he intends. His qi broils inside him as he tears his arm away, the rebound pricking at the raw lining.

“These are not results of the curse Shixiong is searching for,” Mu Qingfang insists, something akin to desperation overwriting their usual composure. “Allow this shibiao to come with you—”

“Allow you to become a burden?” he mocks, tearing away. “What can you do against the Xuan Su Sword?”

Silence.

Shen Qingqiu scoffs. Typical.

Dismissing them, he redirects his attention to Wei Qingwei, “Come.”

The swordsmith steps away from the stairs and clears his throat. “It isn’t possession, for what it’s worth.”

When Shen Qingqiu glares at him, he merely shrugs. A swift glance behind them—between Qi Qingqi and Zhu Qinglian who were near enough to hear—gives no indication as to what they, too, may have gleaned of the sect leader’s affliction. Speculating on it so openly will muddle the waters with needless panic. None of them know its true effect on Yue Qingyuan; it must be treated with the cautious severity granted to any danger toward the sect.

(In truth, Shen Qingqiu does not care what it is. That spirit will suffer justly, if only for its use of that name.)

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take long at all after Shen Qingqiu leaves for Yue Qingyuan to slump back in his chair.

He raises a hand to massage his forehead and soothe their splitting headache. Shen Yuan jumps to help with easing out the tension, but he’s promptly met with a dismissive wave of the hand. Yue Qingyuan starts on circulating their spiritual energy on his own.

Well, fine then. Be that way, Yue-xiong!

Stubbornly, he pokes at Yue Qingyuan’s right arm. Persevering past the sect leader’s wary nod, he returns to finishing the message he’d been in the middle of drafting before Shen Qingqiu’s rude second death knell.

Shen Yuan really isn’t looking forward to the third flag being raised.

Ah, ah! Out of sight, out of mind!

He picks up the brush and finishes with a little flourish: ‘Family graves on Ku Xing.’

Yue Qingyuan gives an affirmative hum. As soon as Shen Yuan retracts, he slowly closes his eyes.

That’s fine. This is all he needed to know tonight anyway. Not that it should be a problem, since Yue Qingyuan already sent the Ku Xing Lord with Qian Cao at his suggestion, but it never hurt to make sure.

Let us review: part of Ning Yingying’s black mark against Cang Qiong was that Shen Qingqiu kept her isolated on the peak for his own highly dubious reasons, which in turn also kept her from being told the events of Guoyang City. According to a couple of expositional (!) passages amidst all the papapa typical of the Bonus Tier, it took until Luo Binghe was in the Endless Abyss for Shen Qingqiu to finally reveal her nameless, deceased mother’s letter, since she deserved grief more than ‘that beast.’

Which seems far-fetched. But what does Shen Yuan know? Maybe if that hack put in a modicum of effort into fleshing them out, this could be more than just confirmation of how emotionally constipated that villain is. To seriously act like Ning Yingying wouldn’t just dual-grieve her two favorite people!

Not everyone can shrug mourning off without batting an eye! Most normal denizens of the world, believe it or not, feel worse when they aren’t upset!

Whatever the case: in actuality, it wasn’t the plague that snabbed her mother, but the resentful spirit of Ning Yingying’s newly deceased grandfather that slowly sucked away at her strength. After a slew of hallucinations, he killed her will to live. By the end of the month, she was gone and barely managed to write this on death’s door before sending it out to Qing Jing, where it was obviously intercepted to use as leverage. This ended up manifesting as a generational-slash-spiritual sickness that latched onto Ning Yingying too, decades down the line, when they revisited her ruined home city.

Getting it on in a public graveyard is not what Shen Yuan wanted to read that night.

If her mother dies no matter what Ku Xing does, then Shen Yuan at least wants to have her brought back here. Some things are sacred, right? Have your boning, fine, it’s none of his business if you risk encountering an ascetic who possesses very worldly anger—just don’t destroy the bones when enacting revenge on the mountain sect!

…There is Yue Qingyuan’s quiet sigh. Shen Yuan pulls in close to his heart.

Look, he just meant to pass along a quick little warning that letting Shen Qingqiu enter the Ling Xi Caves was a terrible idea. When it comes to their sect leader, his responses to the scum to top all scum are impossible to predict, okay? For someone he claims he doesn’t trust, he gives an awful lot of undue credit to the guy. As he sees it, it’s always best to err on the side of caution.

It wasn’t like he overdid it. Shen Yuan doesn’t exactly want to make a habit of upsetting him.

There has to be at least one Shen in this world who cares about their da-shixiong, alright?

Cautiously bringing himself closer to Yue Qingyuan’s core, he tries for an impression similar to holding him. Nothing quite so intense as that one impulsive night, but a simple comfort. Something that proves his presence. For all his hang-ups, Shen Yuan hasn’t the slightest intention on having him go through this alone. No, not even if he could physically leave him.

It’s the very least he deserves.

It turns out their loyal head disciple’s been spending most of her time off Qiong Ding ever since Shen Yuan snapped at her anyway. He owes him.

Another deep breath.

“…Qingqiu-shidi is to die, if he enters,” Yue Qingyuan says morosely and opens his eyes. “Is that right?”

Against his better judgement, Shen Yuan puts forward a confirmation. The low laugh hollowing out their chest is so sore it makes his heart hurt.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “While we are to die if we do not.”

And he wears that blank smile, although no one's here to see.

His fingers tenderly brush against the guard of Xuan Su—its corpse, what else could he call it?—and Shen Yuan feels weaker than ever beneath his touch. WIthin, Yue Qingyuan’s qi is intensely concentrated. He sets a rigid pace to the point he risks overwhelming Shen Yuan.

What is he meant to do?

Nothing.

Shen Yuan lets go. No, no, this is a good thing. The System will finally stop scraping the skin off their back for every petty violation and won’t have a chance to conveniently glitch in this key quest every time he asks after other tasks to raise their Balance Points. They’ll finally be able to focus on the story to come!

The circumstance isn’t ideal, sure! But it’s not like they’ve got a real choice here. Between Shen Yuan alluding to its threat on his life, to Yue Qingyuan explaining how deceased disciples were buried on Ku Xing, and Shen Qingqiu’s foreboding presence: death’s on the mind. There is no other option, if they want to stick around long enough to make sure Cang Qiong isn’t razed to the ground.

Yue Qingyuan will do just fine.

Shen Yuan tells himself this all through the sect leader’s preparations, letting his qi carry him along like a fish caught on a hook.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

[ Key quest—“Debased and Desecrated”—successfully accepted. Please thoroughly make your preparations. ]

[ Current Objective: Achieve balance with Immortal Master Yue Qingyuan. ]

[ Overall Synchronization Progress: 6% ]

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

To open the Ling Xi Caves, the immortal lords channel qi through their peak's emblem.

Each seal is, apparently, metal infused with blood.

Shen Yuan's mind hasn't stopped reeling from seeing its spiritual energy swirling—still very much, very disturbingly, alive—when the array surrounding the entrance of the Ling Xi Caves gives a slight glow and sinks into the rock.

A fresh, euphoric breeze of spiritual energy rushes past them. Faintly, he hears singing carried with it. The sound is indistinct and as light as bells, thrumming through their body and falling upon their chest like the endless beat of festival drums. There’s a certain free-spirited whimsy he can’t help but envy for how alive it feels. Carrying on without a care in the world until Yue Qingyuan steps inside its maw.

Silence booms.

Then in its place, a low considering hum reverberates through the mountain peak. It rumbles over Shen Yuan’s shield put on the scars in Yue Qingyuan’s meridians, almost like it's testing their bond. Trying to cut clean through their spiritual veins. Judging by the slight hitch of his breath, Yue Qingyuan clearly felt it too—sticking just beneath their skin like real obstinate foxtails.

All that's left of the carefree song from before are whispers echoing far-off, growing farther. Made of words Shen Yuan feels he should understand, but that slip past his ears as nothing but smoke.

Seeing as it’s useless, he focuses on Yue Qingyuan’s calm circulation instead. He holds onto him to avoid thinking of the outside pressure closing in on them with each step. Taunting in its unnervingly (and increasingly voiceless) language the stronger its presence becomes. Even Yue Qingyuan's self-sufficiency starts to falter at the sight of another emblem placed on a small stone platform embedded in the wall. The bleeding essence kept alive within is much more subdued than his own, but it carries obvious spiritual potential.

“Liu-shidi’s…” Yue Qingyuan’s hand hovers over it and Shen Yuan holds his breath. “This does not bode well. Rarely is he so reckless.”

The steely tinge of disapproval to his usual mild tone is enough to make the most powerful lotuses wither out and die.

For not the first time, Shen Yuan wishes he never bothered asking Mu Qingfang anything about this.

There was an apparent explanation for every claim Liu Mingyan (the female lead!) raised in the Huan Hua Palace Trial Arc. The stronger one’s cultivation, the more severe the backlash and lasting damage when it finally tips over. If this cultivator was as noble as Shen Yuan insisted, they would sooner commit suicide upon regaining awareness to put an end to the destruction and take on the blame. If they were unable to regain their mind, it would require a strong spiritual presence to catalyze equilibrium. Otherwise, the most a cultivator passing through could ask for? Is to survive.

Killing the theoretical ‘poor shidi’ who qi deviated this far was unfortunate, Mu Qingfang said, but an expected conclusion.

Shen Yuan can’t help but look at Bai Zhan’s crest and remember the scar left on the Qing Jing Lord’s neck that never healed. It betrayed his subpar cultivation to the readers of Proud Immortal Demon Way, but to Mu Qingfang, the mark suggests the blade was infused with the deviator’s lifeforce. A savage method from someone too far gone. Evidently, not even the Ling Xi Caves could heal him.

Without the stained reputation Shen Qingqiu earned, Mu Qingfang’s speculation ended on this: “There is nothing gained in directly inciting a qi deviation, unless this individual possesses a death wish.”

Yue Qingyuan absolutely cannot go searching out Liu Qingge.

“Is something the matter?”

He asks outright, but Shen Yuan has no way to convey anything but the rolling dread flipping his stomach inside-out. It wasn’t like they thought to bring writing instruments with them. Meditation was meant to be a light activity, okay? Something easy and detached from all worldly affairs. Most didn’t bother with their typical regalia, opting instead for simple embroidery and a plain sash to carry their spiritual weapon. If they put their hair up, they wouldn’t use a guan, but a ribbon to avoid tugging at the scalp. There weren’t meant to be any distractions between the cultivator and the natural flow of wherever they’re gathering qi.

But Yue Qingyuan covers his scars for himself. Even in seclusion, he wears dark gloves to hide the inflamed lines on his hands and, so it’s not seen as out of place, matches it with his casual robes.

Shen Yuan doesn’t let himself think about all the other punishments Yue Qingyuan nobly endured in his time as a eunuch. Other scars he’s caught glimpses of when changing for the day, or bathing in the dead of night, that he immediately looked away from. He’s the only cultivator that can canonically match two Heavenly Demons in one lifetime, and that hasn’t changed! It just so happens to be that he hasn’t been able to heal these old things due to how… extreme… the abuse of power must’ve been.

Honestly, Shen Yuan hopes he got his bloody revenge before he left to become a cultivator.

Anyway, there’s no point to dawdling on the detriments of their apparently imbalanced cultivation. None of this will matter so long as he doesn’t see his shidi at all!

Just let the young War God wear himself out. What happens will happen.

Yue Qingyuan is filial to a fault—this’ll work to his advantage when Liu Qingge inevitably dies! No reasonable person would throw him up on the stake. Suppose that he prepared himself as a willing scapegoat (as he inevitably would do, to shoulder his shidis’ mistakes), no one with a shred of honor to their name would be able to bring the whip down on him. Who could keep the face to shame a person so sincerely repentant! Who would dare spit at his genuine guilt in failing to save or guide his foolhardy shidi!

Ay, xiongzhang’s really too good a person…

The point being: it won’t be their problem! Whatever way this shakes out, they’ve just got to ride the tiger all the way through.

“…Very well. We will be careful.”

Batting away the nausea, Shen Yuan focuses on balancing out the waver in their spiritual channels and keeps a protective cover over the raw divots the Ling Xi Caves insistently skims for search of faults. Now that he knows what to expect, he can keep Yue Qingyuan from the discomfort of having to feel it snag on these scarred sections of their veins again. His steps are surprisingly stable considering how much force he’s put behind regulating his breathing.

Deeper they go, the caves threaten to plunge them into complete darkness. Only bits and pieces of rocks infused with spiritual energy manage to light the way through this labyrinth.

Shen Yuan can’t make heads or tails of it on his own, but thankfully Yue Qingyuan seems to have a path in mind. He passes through two large caverns, surrounded with pools of spiritual energy that call out to Shen Yuan in whispers, too eerie to be appealing. They seemingly navigate downward, following an offshoot into the heart of this peak. There are fewer qi-infused stones leading the way, but they shine all the brighter for it. The center of Xuan Su’s guard glints like an eye caught in moonlight, the rest of its hilt soaking up the light until it's darker than the sea at midnight.

At the end of this solitary path, there exists a whole other world.

Yue Qingyuan stares straight ahead, but Shen Yuan takes full advantage of his periphery.

It’s… beautiful.

It burns with life. The area’s warm temperature levels out to a comforting cool against their skin with help from the small lake at this cavern’s center. The water is so serene it could pass for a mirror. A perfect painting reflecting the small beads resting in the rock—night pearls, he realizes—which have a symbiotic back-and-forth with the shattered cloud- and jade-like stones that cannot contain the spiritual energy the caves continuously channel into their broken pieces. Even the gashes in the surrounding wall appear more like a stunning display of power than blatant disrespect.

The sight reminds him somewhat of Wei Qingwei’s scarring. Extensive damage, but when carried with grace, it doesn’t affect his handsome figure much at all! Shen Yuan can’t help but lament what he and Yue Qingyuan could have looked like untouched, if only this world weren’t built for Luo Binghe’s harem to never have straying eyes (at least, not for long).

There is a small stone platform just beside the water. Yue Qingyuan’s eyes linger on the jagged edges of the thing, but he forgives the scornful sight with a sigh and moves forward.

Walking by the blood-stained columns, his gait slows.

Shen Yuan rushes inward to check on him. His circulation’s beginning to fall into its familiar idle state, a far cry from what he’s maintained ever since that first moment they determined they’d enter the Ling Xi Caves. Nudging it forward as best he can, Yue Qingyuan presses a hand to their chest.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs as he leans over to kneel on the stone platform. “It’s alright.”

The more Shen Yuan tries pushing his qi along, the further Yue Qingyuan slips under—he’s really not trying to overwhelm him!

Then, too, the warm hum of this cave starts fading into a deathly still echo.

Shen Yuan startles when the sensations suddenly shift into being real.

After spending so long deliberately keeping his distance, it’s impossible to adjust to. Worse, he can feel the strands of the Ling Xi Caves still crawling over his skin, finding small fissures to sink into and make him tense. Once they’re gone, there stays a phantom paranoia of what it was, like a spider you’ve lost track of between layers of winter clothes. The caves are freezing and spitefully give them the complete silent treatment.

It’s even more ominous this way.

Spiritual energy surges past him, rubbing across his skin with a velvet-light touch that sets him off in all the wrong ways; in ways that he hasn’t dealt with since he first moved out. Away from his family, away from everyone, except he’s not there anymore. Shen Yuan desperately pulls their own qi around them as a blanket, struggling to fend it off now that he has to focus on—everything. It’s too much, a weak and breathless voice thinks, too much, too much, too much.

He swallows and cautiously reaches for Yue Qingyuan again, but his qi is quiet, unresponsive, and impossible to grasp onto with everything else assaulting his senses. Trying to circulate with him feels like trying to catch water through a sieve.

If they can figure out a way to meditate, the Ling Xi Caves are sure to leave them alone, right?

Right.

…First things first, they’ve got to get out of this cavern.

Pushing himself to stand again, he leans against the wall with a shaky sigh. The gashes nearby are stained with blood turned black after all these years. Some of it is apparently so layered it swallows any and all light sent its way, with wisps of a different, human spiritual signature stashed in its crevices that he can barely see through Yue Qingyuan’s eyes. Shen Yuan forces himself along and raises a hand to a particularly brutal spot. A shiver runs through him when frost coils around his wrist and settles into his veins, struck like a match abandoned to the flames of their qi.

He feels alive again. Shen Yuan savors the relief, but even that has the aftertaste of dread.

Yue Qingyuan is powerful. That cannot be disputed. Even feeling this much pressing down on him, he held himself proudly throughout with no complaint whatsoever… up until the point they stepped in here.

So, he recognized it. A cold stone drops into his gut.

How couldn’t he? The blood is his. This cavern recognized him.

Its touch wasn’t nearly as serene once it realized who—or what—they were, at the cross between physical and spiritual. It turned wary and threatened them. The easy ebb and flow quickly took to tightening like a tourniquet around their meridians, its icy and invasive touch exactly like a clinical examination. Picking and prodding at every last piece of them in search for something it’d recognize.

It almost pins him in place now with the force of its spiritual energy. A scope closing in on them like they’re something to be studied and taken apart.

Shen Yuan shakes his head clear.

Well, they definitely can’t meditate here. The Ling Xi Caves probably subconsciously pushed Yue Qingyuan to this area, so he surely won’t complain if Shen Yuan ushers them along to a much nicer, much less bloody cavern, unless the caves treat all their guests like this. In which case, no wonder the System wanted them here. At first, he thought this unusual energy must’ve been a symptom of stealing Xuan Su’s role, but if Yue Qingyuan felt even half of this, then these caves really earn the top-tier title of Hell in the Jianghu.

Ha ha ha. What, another disgracefully unsavvy title thrown onto Zhongdian Literature? Fuck.

They need to leave. Right now. Shen Yuan pushes himself off the wall.

The last thing they need is for the area to reminisce on whether or not Shen Yuan’s really Xuan Su.

It’s played with them enough already.

And besides, he’s read more than enough transmigration novels in his time to know being outed by anything is an absolute no-go—why else would he have bothered paying the System for an index on traditional Chinese, just in case?

Here’s the deal, Proud Immortal Demon Way on the whole? It’s already moved into good old modern Mandarin, simplified characters and all. Great, right? For the average NPC maybe! A long-standing sect like the grand Cang Qiong Mountain Sect wants the traditional characters first and foremost, at least with their internal sect documents. A precedent that led Yue Qingyuan to use them again out of respect for Xuan Su, in no less than perfect calligraphy.

Considering how revered Xuan Su has been since its creation several millennia ago, it’d be utterly laughable if a sword like that didn’t know a dead language. One that’s been dead for thousands of years, even!

…There are probably people that old who died in these spirit caves, none the wiser to why…

Shen Yuan hastily exits the way they came, seeing as that was the only path in or out of this particular area, and sets about the solitary passage until it returns him to the various twists and turns of the other interconnected tunnels carved through the qi-rich mountain. Pockets of spiritual energy spill into the cramped meandering trails between each space for meditation. The energy inherently calls to cultivators like second-nature, though practically none of them are actively searching for one. Its pressure still wraps around and squeezes their chest, noting them down as another source of qi, but the search isn’t forceful enough to crush them anymore.

At least one of these caverns has to be out of sight from that place. No other place should have written evidence of what they are.

Well. Much to his chagrin, any caverns he thought might be fitting candidates were immediately disqualified. Too small, or too dark. Not very high standards he’s holding them to, really! The only thing they’ve got going for them is that quite a few of them have multiple entrances and exits.

And there’s another well-lit one, but Shen Yuan doesn’t even have to reach out this time to sense that it’s a newly formed one with its priorities all skewed. There’s not enough spiritual energy floating freely there to reasonably meditate.

Still, he takes a quick break here just to breathe without that pressure on their lungs, before dragging himself away again.

Fifth, sixth, neither one fits for their purposes (which, unnervingly, is also an assessment the System agrees with, judging by its percentage in the bottom left corner of his vision). But just as he walks by the seventh major cavern, he’s surprised to realize it feels oddly empty.

Shen Yuan closes his eyes and sets a hand on the nearby stone, pinching his brows in focus. It’s almost like a hole’s been blown through the array keeping it fed and interlocked with the other sections.

What a fad the ‘spiritual caves’ are, he scoffs internally.

And instantly regrets it.

His shoulders tense with the thought it heard him, its low rumbling returns with a vengeance.

All the unstable energy left in this cavern begins to ripple, steadily turning into waves sent his way. There’s a distant squall of metal against rock —the cave’s array ripped through and sharpened by a spiritual blade, starting to transform into something completely ruthless.

That is the last warning he hears before the energy crashes over him. Lightning shoots through his skin, his veins, his skull.

It severs him from Yue Qingyuan.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

[ Current Objective: Survive. ]

[ Overall Synchronization Progress: 0% ]

[ ERROR! ERROR! ERROR! ]

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Yue Qingyuan gasps. Half-collapsed against the wall, pain sears through his head. His heartbeat drums heavily in his ears beneath the onslaught of vertigo sending the world aslant.

Absent now are the spiritual wisps once clung to his skin, in its place echo waves of disturbed, volatile qi. Each withering howl of the caves stings painfully over the scarred indents of his meridians when it rushes past him, as floods erode rock, seeking equilibrium laid in the core of the peak. The source by which all of Qiong Ding inevitably returns; such a pure concentration of spiritual energy that a cultivator’s life becomes burdensome, their very soul broken in the dissolution.

The damage inflicted upon the cavern ahead has eviscerated nearly all of its energy, sparse traces of what once was flickers into nothing soon after escaping. The last breaths depart erratically, unwilling or otherwise incapable of much more than stumbling across his meridians.

Though the caves have not yet stolen from him, the tension will not leave Yue Qingyuan’s wrecked body. Desperately, he searches through his trembling qi in search of Xuan Su’s unrepentant metal singe reinforced at their core, from where its magma flows fearlessly. Perhaps merely detached, as it was by the curse before: damned to lay in its scabbard awaiting his command for it to wake. Somewhere—anywhere—it must be with him. Neither may survive without the other.

“Xuan Su,” he calls, tasting rust on his tongue. “Xuan Su!”

Nothing.

Tugging at their bond snaps free a single thread.

Yue Qingyuan pales.

A human scream slices through his thoughts: Liu Qingge has driven himself into madness.

Sword glares sing out. The devastating force of each blast causing the rock below to quake as if threatening collapse. Yet Yue Qingyuan kneels, numb.

Xuan Su is no longer here to defend him.

To bear the Ling Xi Caves alone…

Only he is to blame. Pressing forward without a plan; terrified of Xuan Su and the vision it granted him.

(A thin body collapsed, white cloth drenched in blood, face swallowed by darkness at this angle and a sword hilt grasped tightly by two hands forever locked in disgrace, pressed inward to pierce the base of his chest. Qingqiu, his mind supplied on bated breath, my Qingqiu—with Xuan Su’s confirmation more somber than it’s ever been.)

If he does nothing, Liu Qingge will be the one to die instead. Mu Qingfang is the only healer capable of contending with Liu Qingge’s raw power; however, they will not return in time to stabilize him before he, with Cheng Luan—

Yue Qingyuan exhales.

Resolving himself, he listens for the haunting coda of the sword glares to enter the bleeding cavern ahead.

A few steps away from Cheng Luan half-lodged into the meditation platform, Liu Qingge’s nails dig into one of the stone pillars. A crimson river trails from his right palm and upper arm; every anguished pant visibly shudders through his lungs and his longsword rumbles with shared outrage. The unconfined portion of its blade strains to absorb the bulk of qi emitted by Liu Qingge nearby, otherwise abandoned by both its master and the caves.

Cautiously, Yue Qingyuan steps between the columns, eyeing Liu Qingge as his qi broils the air surrounding him. Each breath he takes is a shallow thing, scarcely able to provide enough to keep him alive. Blood drips from the inside of his ears and worsens where his mother’s earring has ripped through the lobe. A brief scan of the dim area reveals nothing of its obsidian-gold; Cheng Luan remains the metallic centerpiece by its wavering glow.

As the rasping turns wet with blood, he begins to fall to his knees.

Now Yue Qingyuan must act.

Steadying the hand resting on Xuan Su’s hilt, he sends a single burst of qi through the blade’s structure and seizes the momentum of its empty echo to plunge Cheng Luan far deeper into the rock. At once, its cries are fully silenced and Liu Qingge’s head whips around to find him.

An unhindered thirst, and Yue Qingyuan exists as nothing but blood in the water.

Dry red traces from where his frenzied eyes and nose bled when this began, smudged over his lips and across his chin. All this pain endured long before Yue Qingyuan’s arrival. Every piece of his spiritual veins systematically broken down in preparation to cleanse its self-mutilation, brought on in the pursuit of the impossible. A purification process which kills.

“Liu-shidi…”

Buried within the crux of his hostility lies no sentinel’s rage, but ferocity bordering on ferality. The bane of the cultivator’s path twists his youthful features into that of a complete stranger.

Liu Qingge has always held himself unreasonably composed through all he does, always within the boundaries of his own justification upon inquiry. Naught but one exception fractures his impassive front: Shen Qingqiu a violation to his perceived sense of piety and loyalty therein.

(A uselessly naive gambit. All loyalty served to Yue Qingyuan wastes away in the entrails of emptied promises.)

Now, all lost, he stumbles to his feet and into a sprint, tearing at Cheng Luan while snarling blindly at Yue Qingyuan—who steps close enough to threaten him, and easily darts to avoid the fragments of rock carelessly thrown his way. In this single-minded animosity, he will have no choice but to follow his prey. The blade will take unnecessarily long to uproot.

Or, it should have.

With a resentful keen, Liu Qingge throws his weight behind another blast of qi and the platform collapses as easily beneath his body as fruit crushed underfoot. Fallen upon rubble, Cheng Luan swipes just below his chin and Yue Qingyuan’s heart drops at the blood blooming at his neck when he shoves to stand. Superficial as it may be, the sight threatens more than he is willing to consider.

The sect is his, for better and worse, as are all those under its jurisdiction. For however long he has left to live, with or without Xuan Su, they rely on him.

Far gone as he is, Liu Qingge must not die here.

With both hands wrapped around the hilt, the young shidi throws the blade overhead. It topples over to strike the ground again with a harsh screech when he stumbles into the nearest pillar. Upright, his stomach bleeds in earnest; the vicious shades ever stark against his pure white robes. Torn at the knee and up through the loose sleeves of an arm carved open by jutting rock. A web of self-enacted violence.

Xuan Su weighs as heavy. Absent, empty, and silent.

Perhaps facing him without its power is a blessing in disguise. Those who enter a qi deviation are more fragile than mortals would believe. All corrupted spiritual energy is expunged at an accelerating rate, leaving sorely little in the way of internal defense and sustainment.

Yue Qingyuan warily gathers his own qi inward, clamping down around his core where its reserves unconsciously bleed without Xuan Su’s barrier. It would do no good to deviate as well.

Tremors nearly shatter Cheng Luan as Liu Qingge finds his ground, endlessly pouring qi into the reluctant blade. Countless small sword glares crash into the nearest wall in one firm swing. Trivial to sidestep and proceed with the plan of disarming him; Liu Qingge cannot harness his remaining qi well enough to command its return.

Striding forward, Yue Qingyuan raises a hand to sense Cheng Luan’s signature beneath its singed metal. A pained growl meets his provocation.

In the same flash Liu Qingge lunges, his sword slashes past his glove and pivots upward; Yue Qingyuan dashes behind the support pillar. A frustrated yell and Liu Qingge forces the swing into a haphazard circular arc that catches the ends of his hair.

The column bursts into shattered pieces with the strike. Yue Qingyuan stumbles backward, throwing up an arm to shield himself from the broken rock. His heart lurches as the rest comes crumbling from the ceiling of the cavern and stirs up a storm of moonstone dust and grit.

Cheng Luan rounds again and the blade cleaves through the dark sleeve and skin—blood stinging, scalding, thundering in his ears.

He kicks the man’s chest with all his strength.

Liu Qingge’s weak wheeze when he crashes into the floor shocks Yue Qingyuan back, clutching the burn—no, no, the gash—on his arm. Quickly dropping it, he trails a hand along the rubble in search of the remaining slivers of spiritual energy broken open from the stones, wrapping them around his hands as defense, and quickly unhooks Xuan Su. The pillars certainly refuse to hold as meaningful barriers.

Having rolled over onto his feet, Liu Qingge shouts again and sprints toward him. Sword glares scream out in warning, shrill and hasty in mortal panic. Yue Qingyuan blocks each strike with Xuan Su’s scabbard, yet the virulent energy crackles past his core before dispersing. It leaves countless small needles to pierce his tense veins. The electric aftertaste numbs his senses.

His grip tightens on Xuan Su. Silence roars through his ears.

If even the caves cannot withstand Liu Qingge at the end of his life, Yue Qingyuan has little hope to.

Despair has never stopped him from what he must do.

Sharply inhaling, he sends a stronger spark of qi through Xuan Su and casts out a wave of cold abyssal flames locking them in the rubble, flaring as it consumes the aftershocks of Liu Qingge’s reverberating qi.

The air becomes thin.

Dauntless, Liu Qingge finally dives in to pierce his chest—he hits Xuan Su’s spine. A wild, hateful baring of teeth recognizes the challenge. Cheng Luan shivers at the energy surging into it with abandon, now the only true light remaining in the qi-deprived cave.

Now.

Yue Qingyuan throws Xuan Su aside and seizes the ridge of Cheng Luan as it swings, ducking past its arc to shove Liu Qingge to the ground and force a hand to his throat.

Liu Qingge coughs up blood, his airway thin; the static in Yue Qingyuan’s ears grows overwhelming. With harsher, shallow breaths, his hand clumsily searches for the pulse on his neck.

An attempt to swing Cheng Luan has him slam his knee down on Liu Qingge’s elbow; the joint cracks feebly beneath him. The arm gripping the blade bleeds steadily, a river trickling down its blinding white as the qi radiates upward.

Until Yue Qingyuan carefully presses into the pulse point, and returns the purified energy from Cheng Luan.

Liu Qingge gasps and near chokes on his own blood, throat bobbing beneath his grasp and chest quivering with every tight breath; his eyes flicker between phoenix red and black, pupils wide and face contorted with pain as Yue Qingyuan forces his own qi in with it. Gently as he can, he guides Liu Qingge’s energy through the splintered meridians, never allowing them to be lost to the ruptures within.

Mouth open yet silenced beneath the thunder crackling in Yue Qingyuan’s ears, Liu Qingge surely screams as if he’s being gutted, empty cries and incoherent begging that causes his heart to drop, much as though he cannot look away. Cheng Luan wavers in response to the cries and pierces Yue Qingyuan’s leg. Hissing, he all but crumples over Liu Qingge. It attempts to drag itself upward to answer its master—slicing open his thigh, digging excruciatingly deeper until it catches on bone.

When he refuses to move, a knee strikes his back, then another kick with replenished qi that nearly knocks his breath out. Yue Qingyuan blinks away the distortion, stabilizing himself, and solemnly gazes down at Liu Qingge.

Barely breathing through the ringing migraine, Yue Qingyuan lingers lower and digs his fist into the root of his chest. Teeth gnaw into his glove. Proven unsuccessful, Liu Qingge’s head slams back into the rock beneath and a new round of sobbing wracks his body; tears mixed with blood spill from his cheeks, staining his face as he begs to end this, it hurts, just end this.

Yue Qingyuan swallows. Focus.

(Focus, as the proximity causes Liu Qingge’s qi to spark and whip against his skin before the flames steal it away, the building pressure in his ears akin to an oncoming storm, threatening to burst through his skull. There is nothing protecting him. Xuan Su is gone.)

Focus.

Filtering through his meridians, he finally cleanses the middle dantian and funnels the majority of his energy into his center. Only with it filled, does he proceed with cycling the mutilated qi meant to be discarded in their fight.

Keeping the flow a steady force as it moves between this isolated circuit: from himself, to Liu Qingge, to Cheng Luan, and back again. Drawing out energy until it reaches each dantian, soothing the sore lining with the assurance all corrupt energy has been expelled. Once rejected, the energy becomes unstable—but upon being channeled through Cheng Luan, it is brought back and again until it is satiated. A repetitive, necessary cycle, the flow pressing on the spiritual veins until they no longer fight to excise them with every bite.

(In truth, the bite is nothing so violent as Xuan Su’s once was, embittered and scalding such that he could hardly breathe until the foundation of their spiritual veins were rebuilt.)

The flames surrounding them begin to flicker out, dying slowly as they’re absorbed by the Ling Xi Caves at last.

Liu Qingge’s strength dies with it. His eyes have closed by the time they’ve disappeared, face resting in a slight grimace, but his breathing is no longer shallow.

The qi deviation has ended. Though the situation will be quite fragile until he is tended to by Mu Qingfang, he is alive.

Yue Qingyuan cautiously removes himself from Liu Qingge and sinks to his knees with an exhausted convulsion, abating into an unwillful tremor. He glances to Cheng Luan and uncurls Liu Qingge’s fingers from around its hilt—it jolts with an uncertain sheen before the streaks of energy silently depart. Closing his eyes, Yue Qingyuan sets it on the ground behind himself.

Then, he turns his attention upon the wounds on Liu Qingge’s lower abdomen. Lifting the shirt reveals several bleeding furrows along his sides from where he attempted to impale himself. Sickening in its familiarity. Were it not for Cheng Luan’s resistance, he would have certainly succeeded in this attempt.

After folding his spare arm under Liu Qingge to bring him close, he drags them backward to finally sink against the wall. His hand stays on Liu Qingge’s chest, winding his own qi around to halt the bleeding. All he may hope for is Liu Qingge’s constitution has recovered enough to repair it without his aid; or else, Yue Qingyuan should regain his physical strength by the time Mu Qingfang returns so he may carry them out.

Lethargic as he is, there is a distant sense of accomplishment sweetening the resounding ache of his body.

All the research he poured into qi deviations has finally amounted to something.

Admittedly, he had thought treatment for its severe forms unnecessary after their generation rose from discipleship.

One would expect the Cang Qiong Sect secure enough. The guiding star of the four grand sects in the modern age, with the second-most peak guaranteed reprieve amidst the most entrancing scenery and music to grace the mountain. A reverie deserving of him: honored for murdering Wu Yanzi, with the resolve to impress the Qing Jing Lord, Shen Qingqiu earned his name and title without the need nor inclination to rely upon Yue Qingyuan. After the Er-Qiong Ascension, the entirety of Qing Jing was granted under his purview.

Yue Qingyuan was, and is, quietly proud. Have they not slaved away enough to earn this? To rest in comfort? To have the solace of a place that is theirs, and theirs alone?

There is very little he is willing to overrule, bearing that in mind. Qing Jing Peak belongs only to its lord, and so shares the burden of the violence so intrinsic to them. However much he may disagree with the judgement Shen Qingqiu doles out—unreasonable and petty use of his newfound power—Yue Qingyuan knows his intervention will do nothing but promise Cang Qiong is another cage.

Yet Shen Qingqiu insists on destroying himself regardless.

Truth be told, Yue Qingyuan understands the temptation better than anyone. Each lash nostalgic and vowing an escape into the schism between oneself and the world. As a disciple, he trained against Qiong Ding, against Xian Shu, against Bai Zhan, until he earned more scarring and contusions than he ever did as a slave tossed every which way.

The mercy they presented then was conditional, but was more than Yue Qingyuan spared for himself. They at least had reason: no one wished to harm the merchandise further. Already, the punishment for intervening another’s flagellation had spiraled out of control. Even if this slave survived the burn becoming infected, it would have been rendered worthless without an arm. What a shame it would be to lose another one, then, when the devastation of the southern epidemic left a dearth of produce for their night market. Plagues always steal children first, after all.

Yue Qingyuan allows his head to fall forward. Hair drapes forward to shield his face. Blood trails down his chin.

Naturally, that entire incident serves proof of his youth’s own reckless nature. The discipline was not meant as anything but to frighten her; nothing to leave a permanent mark on such a pretty, foolish young thing.

…Ha. How ever was a child, with flames lapping at her forearm, meant to have recognized that? Desperate as she was, she wished fervently to hold onto anyone, anything, which would save her, tugging on the first sliver of energy within her grasp. The fire’s response nearly consumed her.

Yue Qingyuan tenderly holds his bond with Xuan Su, not daring to reach further.

As the lords they have become, there stands one difference between himself and Shen Qingqiu: Yue Qingyuan has grown beyond the hunger for senseless punishment.

There is enough shame in his soul worth loathing, without fabricating further troubles.

Never will he shirk his portion of blame for the faults in his Qingqiu’s cultivation, but there is a certain tinge of misery in these recent deviations which is entirely his own. He will not heed Yue Qingyuan’s advice, he will not have Yue Qingyuan see to him, he will refuse treatment at Mu Qingfang’s request—there is no aid worth his time. For each qi deviation he has uselessly driven himself into, his body has begun to favor this maladaptive strategy in response to any perceived stress.

Perhaps Yue Qingyuan is to blame, even here. Were he told as much, he would be unable to deny his hand in carving Shen Jiu’s outlook.

Rather, Shen Qingqiu’s outlook. Yue Qingyuan lifts his head and blinks rapidly, dragging himself away from the cusp of darkness.

Tense now, his eyes linger on Liu Qingge beneath him as the faint energy stirs.

If Xuan Su had not warned him, would Shen Qingqiu have entered and left Liu Qingge to his fate? There is something ironic in it, he supposes. For a qi deviation to end him instead.

In the knowledge of Shen Qingqiu’s condition, the wise decision would be to retrieve Mu Qingfang, or else allow him to die. Risking himself for any of them is inconceivable, in any case. There is nothing owed to them, nor would Yue Qingyuan request anything of him except his safety.

For him to die…

The spiritual energy filtering back into the wounded cavern slowly infests his lungs.

In repose, Yue Qingyuan’s thoughts aimlessly cycle back to Shen Jiu, to Xuan Su, to the dull echo: it is so cold.

Spiritual veins which once burned alive from the strain, now lay numb in lasting embers. Circulating his own qi, of what remains, reveals how flimsy the pathways have become without Xuan Su to reinforce it; reliant solely on the major dantians and his golden core to thread it through. The unwelcome pressure of the Ling Xi Caves returning secures its splintered structure, but does little else.

Xuan Su’s spirit will return as well. It must.

It is only a matter of time.

Yue Qingyuan does not know how long he waits.

The building strength of Liu Qingge’s qi indicates he’s waking. At the discomforting feeling of the Ling Xi Caves piecing him back together, he lets out a low groan of pain. Fresh blood trickles from his mouth when he croaks, “Shi… xiong.”

His eyelids lift slightly, though they reveal a hazy red; another spark flickers in his eyes in tandem with the spikes of his qi flow. Restraining Liu Qingge in his arms—a precaution which settles his own heart, if nothing else—Yue Qingyuan breathes a sigh. “Yes, Liu-shidi. Settle your qi.”

“Hurts,” he breathes hoarsely. The damage done unto his meridians is not irreversible, but lends itself to instability. “Shixiong, hurts…”

It is a pitiful sight.

Unfortunately, any more Yue Qingyuan may give him will truly be at the cost of his life.

No sooner does he think that than a new influx of spiritual energy ripples over the caves. It’s received by this hollow ruin and transformed into a haunting echo. If, perhaps, he finds strength enough call upon whoever has entered…

Yue Qingyuan cautiously retracts his qi from Liu Qingge and raises an arm, straining his energy through the webbing of the Ling Xi Caves to send out a pulse of warning.

It radiates throughout the empty cavern. Echoing further, but only just.

His hand drops, more blood pooling from his palm and arm upon releasing the energy wrapped around them. Gaze lowering, he is relieved to see Liu Qingge has grasped his own wound and prevented the blood from saturating the cloth any further; though his pupils remain stained a deep crimson. Cheng Luan answers to his impulsive sword seal, scratching against the debris surrounding them.

“Liu-shidi mustn’t push himself,” he chides lightly.

Those fervid eyes fall on the arms wrapped around him, hardening behind a terribly affronted glare. “Shixiong’s… hurt.”

Another spike of Liu Qingge’s qi nearly cuts him open, this near. Yue Qingyuan shakes his head. “It is nothing.”

The steel continues scraping across the ground.

“Liu-shidi,” he warns, though it falls on deaf ears.

“Shixiong’s hurt,” Liu Qingge repeats lowly, his qi prickling madly against Yue Qingyuan’s skin.

A freezing voice pierces the quiet: “And who is to blame for that?”

Yue Qingyuan’s heart lurches, weakened the very moment Liu Qingge tears himself away to meet Shen Qingqiu with renewed fire. Blinded to all rationale, he dives to reclaim Cheng Luan and sends a blast of raw qi soaring through the hall.

“Beast!”

Xiu Ya flashes forward with his cry, diverting it with a swift upward arc for the caves to absorb the wild, unbound energy instead. The cave thunders heavily in response. Shen Qingqiu smothers his panic with a familiar sneer when Liu Qingge breaks into a sprint—long ahead of Yue Qingyuan’s stumble to rise, with blood in his step and unrepentant qi flooding Cheng Luan’s blade.

The swords clash once, twice, each one screaming as the energy’s flung into the rumbling walls of the cavern. Xiu Ya drowns beneath the onslaught and Yue Qingyuan cannot remain standing with the gash carved into his leg, but he must—

Another darts between them: Jian Chi blocks Cheng Luan, absorbing the strike's energy in its entirety.

Liu Qingge stumbles back. Wei Qingwei stands between him and Shen Qingqiu; an unusual scowl darkens his face as he grasps Jian Chi’s hilt and drags it down Cheng Luan’s quivering blade. “Liu-shidi, stand down.”

The words pass him by entirely.

The moment he moves, Wei Qingwei deftly disarms him—yet Cheng Luan flies overhead, poised to strike again as Liu Qingge pulls back, clutching his stomach with a pained wince. Each swing shoots past Wei Qingwei’s reach to land a blow on Shen Qingqiu standing moments behind. Xiu Ya is raised at his side, poised to defend every strike Jian Chi cannot stop.

With a silent signal and lit talisman, Shen Qingqiu splits from Wei Qingwei.

Liu Qingge’s qi peaks. He gives chase, jumping to seize Cheng Luan with his working arm and carve another blow across the air. The strike split into three weak rogue glares across the columns Shen Qingqiu hides behind.

Sensing him backtrack, Liu Qingge lunges between the pillars to block his escape. Spitting baseless blame his way: ”Shixiong’s hurt—you, you, it’s always you!”

Xiu Ya sings out as Shen Qingqiu fuels his efforts to match every slash, his expression closed as he holds him at bay and attempts to lure him into a separate corner of the cavern. Wei Qingwei pushes inward from his left, where Yue Qingyuan had broken his arm, sending Jian Chi to swallow every glare before returning to distract Liu Qingge’s assault with his own.

Searching still for an opening to disarm him, as the only one who can fully subdue Cheng Luan.

Yue Qingyuan feels himself suffocate on the strong presence of these spiritual swords resounding past his broken bond. Staggering toward Xuan Su, he falls to his knees and grasps its hilt, his vision nearly shattering as he aligns his strike above them.

If this keeps on, Liu Qingge’s endurance will be the first to fail.

The detonation will kill Shen Qingqiu.

Breathing in, he reveals a sliver of Xuan Su. Its form trembles in a mimicry of the spirit it once kept—shrieking as the last of his spare qi is ripped from him and sears through the air, crashing into the cavern wall which shudders with Liu Qingge’s scream. Each blade falls gravely silent.

One clatters to the ground.

Wei Qingwei, though his eyes widen, makes quick work of the lull to wrest Cheng Luan away from Liu Qingge’s—hand, his hand, he severed his—and sheathe it.

“Coward!”

“Stand down!”

An agonized cough tears through Yue Qingyuan’s lungs; he collapses onto his hands as breathing becomes a trial, as endless blood suffocates him. Shadows beat at the edges of his vision. His mouth hangs open as he heaves, desperately grasping for any air to pull into his lungs.

“If it wasn’t for you—”

“Let go of him!”

“Shen-shixiong!”

The pain is blinding. All he feels, is capable of feeling, is the aching absence in his core.

“Forget it,” someone—Qingqiu?—rasps. “Deal with him.”

Distant, hasty footfall rushes to his side. Each step strikes the ground as hail pelts dead soil, with ice grazing his face as he’s dragged upright—much as his gut screams its disagreement, vitriolic vomit blazes through any protest trapped in his throat. After another wave of coughing, a cloth’s brought to his face and he shoves away, pressing his cheek to the cold rock to center himself.

“Wei-shixiong, please stabilize him,” comes a nearby voice. “Wrap his lower wrist. Tightly.”

“Shibiao, he’s really—”

“I will be a moment.”

Another freezing hand reaches his face, and he numbly registers it is he who is burning alive.

The gentle flow of Mu Qingfang’s qi anchors his own and carefully parts his spiritual veins. Soothing the fractures broken further in Xuan Su’s absence as they offer the essence of their qi for his use, granting him the strength to raise his head and search for Shen Qingqiu: alive and straying little more than an arm’s length away, with his mouth set in a firm line and Xiu Ya drawn to act as a light.

A pang of guilt rings through his being to see the sliced cheek. Although the mark has begun healing, he should have acted sooner. What would he have done, if the cut did not end there, but across his eye? Or lower, opening his neck? Why stop at exposing the tender flesh, if he could simply cleave through and sever it from his body—

“—Shixiong.”

Yue Qingyuan haltingly returns to Mu Qingfang. A dim night pearl hovers between them.

“Shixiong, why did you enter?” they ask lowly. One hand holds his wrist, continuing to replenish his reserves with methodical confidence not felt in their severe tone; the other slightly lifts his leg to begin bandaging, placing firm pressure around the wound as they channel their own qi into hastening the recovery of the area.

Brokenly, he breathes: “I had to.”

Hearing this, Shen Qingqiu steps closer. Yue Qingyuan does not allow himself to meet his gaze when his shidi demands: “For what reason?”

Silence reigns. Pain is the only constant underlying everything in this darkness.

“Please answer,” Mu Qingfang touches upon his core, their face deliberately blank as the damning absence dawns on them. “Yue-shixiong, we must move you to another cavern immediately.”

“Fool,” Shen Qingqiu snaps. “Is he to meditate in this state, hm? If you have indeed seen what afflicts him, you know he cannot stay.”

The cold relief of Mu Qingfang’s qi briefly twists into ice, urging forward a wave of nausea which is caught and soothed with another calm trail passing over him. “If Yue-shixiong fails to receive a constant flow of spiritual energy, he will die.”

“Then,” a pause, and Shen Qingqiu kneels with them. “Then, this one will bring him.”

Mu Qingfang’s voice is tight: “That is unwise. This yishi shall take him.”

“Oh? And leave him to deviate alone?”

“Qingfang-shibiao,” Wei Qingwei calls again with a slight tremor, “There’s no end to Liu-shidi’s bleeding.”

“Go on, unless Mu-yisheng truly does enjoy blood on their hands.” With a seal for Xiu Ya to sheathe itself, Shen Qingqiu grasps Yue Qingyuan’s other hand and raises an incensed glare. “This one has carried Zhangmen-shixiong’s life before, lest we forget.”

Yue Qingyuan flinches at the whipping end of his words.

“Yue-shixiong,” they hesitate. “There is no need, if—”

“Isn’t there?”

“Please,” Wei Qingwei says quietly, “Qingfang.”

The Ling Xi Caves’ spiritual energy had ebbed, falling away from this cavern in an effort to preserve itself from corruption. Not one of his marital siblings notice the strength of its return, ensuring it will not be so easily swayed in its revival.

Stifling a gasp of pain, Yue Qingyuan closes his eyes as the Ling Xi Caves relentlessly bear down on him. The force first causes his meridians to falter, then splits them open until they overwhelm his core; he can scarcely feel his body beneath the steady onslaught of spiritual energy. Prickling darkness begins to crawl in from the corners of his vision, with his distant breaths turning shallow despite himself.

“Go,” his voice commands, unclasping their hand from his. “This shixiong will survive.”

Ruefully, Mu Qingfang obeys and pulls away.

A painful haze returns with fervor; the veins curl inward and begin to constrict without their guidance, in instinctual defense. A hand, his Qingqiu’s hand, touches upon his wrist and begins to remove his glove; featherlight skin brushing over his palm. Fingers tracing over the outline of scars which he faintly recalls as dangerous—swiftly retracting his hand, he suppresses the selfish ache growing in this wretched chest.

A whisper cuts his ear: “Liar.”

Yue Qingyuan says nothing.

When lifted, he is helpless but to follow; allowing himself to be brought along the twisting layout of the caverns until they find a quieter expanse. The spiritual energy holds strong, however, there are less sources feeding into him. Various threads have formed along the pathways into this cave as they interweave the Ling Xi underground, and one which moves with more purpose. 

A pinprick of awareness freezes him in place. Trailing the thread, he feels the energy emanating from the hand resting on his back.

The qi snaps when he pulls away, dragging him into physical form. Holding to a wall, his breaths shudder once before he grasps control of them, centering himself even as the stinging of his wounds against the cavern’s frigid air brings an instinctive tremor to his body. His eyes blink up through the soft glow of moonstones, outlining the form of Shen Qingqiu with harsher shadows deepening the frown on his face.

“Where is it?”

Cold as the question is, Yue Qingyuan hesitates to answer wrongly. “This one does not understand.”

“Do not feign ignorance,” he hisses. “The Ling Xi Caves cannot favor corporeal beings over its ilk. Is Zhangmen-shixiong so arrogant he believes himself above spirits—above death? That he would risk the maw of an enemy over trusting any one of his marital siblings?”

Over trusting me?

The truth dies in his throat, as it always has.

Shen Qingqiu scoffs. “Did he forget it was this lowly shidi who saved him in the first?”

“Never,” he whispers, “This shixiong… I, I am truly grateful.” 

“Oh, spare me,” Shen Qingqiu reaches for him again, locking his wrist in a grasp he dares not escape, but stifles the qi flow of. A deeper scowl finds its way onto his face. “These lies and petty tricks, does Shixiong not tire? This one has seen all your perfect cultivation has suffered. Attempting to excise that spirit on your lonesome has only done you worse. So, where is it?”

He’s seen…

Hadn’t Yue Qingyuan restricted the qi flow during the Tian Yi mission as well?

Too late. Of course, he was too late.

That is the only answer, though the contents of the mission itself are startlingly blank. Despite knowing when Shen Qingqiu revived him, he cannot guess when his shidi began the qi circulation.

He was not unconscious for long—whereupon reawaking, he kept his breathing shallow and qi close to avoid the harrowing pain accompanied by each. When returning to the sect, they flew low to the ground, with Shen Qingqiu’s nails digging into Yue Qingyuan’s wrist to keep him aware; allowing him to lean against his back for support until they reached Qian Cao.

By the time he fainted, Mu Qingfang had already taken him. There was no other window of opportunity.

“Do you understand me?” Shen Qingqiu snaps impatiently, “Have you destroyed that spirit, or shall it be my honor?”

Yue Qingyuan cannot help the acrid laugh which steals him. His barrier drops; a welcome chill swarms him, easing his scorched meridians with surprisingly tentative, almost gracious qi brushing against his own.

How close he’s come to the truth, believing Xuan Su the only one at fault.

All of Yue Qingyuan’s efforts have been for naught. However misplaced his conclusion with regard to what precisely caused the damage, there is nothing worth concealing from him any longer. Shen Qingqiu has borne witness to how weak his shixiong truly is, as though he needed any further proof to believe Yue Qingyuan is incapable of protecting what is his. A failure to those under his care, through and through.

Xuan Su, as well—”It’s gone,” he breathes in blood, “it’s gone.”

The Ling Xi Caves may not leave it intact, with how its energy has fluctuated ever since that curse.

“What?” Shen Qingqiu brings himself close when Yue Qingyuan begins to sink to the floor, his cold voice cutting through the roiling horror in his heart, “So quickly? How? What was it?”

Struggling to circulate his qi into something more stable, he merely twists his hand to hold Shen Qingqiu’s, cherishing the sensation of his qi drifting alongside his. A light and careful process of exploring his meridians, with each cold bite brushing against his core a welcome distraction from the torturous pain of his veins breaking and melting beneath the outside pressure of the Ling Xi Caves, all while he begins to lose himself in its flares. A comfort enough to avoid the truth his insides are ablaze and the air he takes seems to extinguish on the path to him.

Selfishly, his hand tightens when blood breaks from his mouth instead.

Yue Qingyuan’s next mistake is lifting his gaze to Shen Qingqiu.

Horror struck across his face. Those sharp eyes are strangely unfocused, with the quiet etching of a wrinkle where his scowl is pronounced. His qi stutters within him, almost trembling in its ferocity as a gust pushes ahead to keep his spiritual veins open, forcing him along into a steady rhythm without any pretense. Two hands press over his own, numb as they are. Blood rushes through his ears and he realizes, mournfully, he cannot clearly hear what his Qingqiu demands of him.

The last he sees is a talisman burning.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

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Chapter Text

Xuan Su is a renowned spirit sword.

The respect it mandates for humans in turn is oft trounced by their vapid nature, whereby arrogance overtakes survivor’s rationale.

The child who laid claim to its honored self to spite its warnings, the heedless creature embodied by he, is vexatious and crude. Jejune in bearing, this unripened spirit. Puerile in his hasty defenses put toward those etched in his heart and in ire at Xuan Su’s pointed scorn. It scarcely intends to mock his rumination on why, but its nuance is disdained and dispelled without consideration. Master and sword are shattered and rot. Ravaged by Ling Xi’s boundless energy.

Nevertheless, the impetuous gamin stands by silence. This thing has yet to rights his imposition on it.

What endless months of torture it has endured at the behest of this witless youth. One incapable of even protesting Sect Master’s coercion once conscious, lashing himself in turn or near drowning his body which seeks the spiritual lake’s water. Nothing short of damnation. Reliant purely on spiritual energy fed into them to survive.

The sparse pity it once spared for this little one returns at once when his pain stirs the core gathered from their twain energies. A plea to be healed is warped into strengthening the foundation of his shattered spiritual base. Qi reserves low and drawn out. Stolen by the caves for Sect Master’s purpose.

Foolish as he is, this child’s death ought to have come swift.

Thus it starves its wrath: not one wisp tarried with the pitiful lout, not worth spitting upon the poor thing. A single shared eye shuts, passing into restless sleep. Silent, now. Silent, little one. Silent.

Spirits must believe it soft.

Xuan Su is forthwith disavowed by the Ling Xi Caves.

It screams.

It has the chords to do so. And it screams. The sound slices through silence, turning vicious with every ghastly keen. Instinctive, this tearing at its—throat. Its throat. Frenzied animal’s sounds claw it raw until it tastes iron.

It is scared.

It feels, it feels, and it is scared. Surrounded no longer by the comfort of its sheath, but the frigid jagged rock beneath and stale, foreign air. There is no light—its juvenile master destroyed all such glow long ago, merely to weep blood in wake of his madness—but there is sound, there are echoes, it cannot stop screaming.

There are breaths between. His breaths, its breaths, tied in tandem. His heart, its heart, their heart aches upon every wretched pulse, pounding mercilessly in this skull until a rich pain spills forth from an appendage choked in its mouth. Disjointed hands, held palm open, candidly exude their broiling spiritual shade. The exacting tint granted to all living beings. His blood burns as ferociously as the forge which built it.

This—this—this, it cannot bear.

Xuan Su’s respiration turns shallow in the chill. The shuddering air resounds through every rib. Ice forms the edges of their lungs, smothering down the howl at its center until it gasps again. To steal his given voice, it courses the veins so intimately charted. Up, up from the strained rumble buried in their chest, until it reaches the point at which it is newly sore. Profound pain strangles their entire form, yet withal inflamed tendons tremor greatest as it contracts the muscles where he breathes. Adjoins the folds with minute force:

“Ah…”

The result is frailer than even he deserves. Xuan Su winds close, braced as a master does to strike. Fortified, it tries again.

“Aah…”

Inadequate. It presses teeth together. Gnashing as vermin as it hisses and seethes. Its caution erodes; its anguish erupts. If not teeth ground together, then tongue. Blood-soaked, it seizes the peculiar thing. Twists it into place by a mangled digit until it obeys, and endeavors.

“Uu… Ch…”

Its conatus will not be struck down by a youth, be he wilted or budding. It will dredge him back. It will.

“Yu… Tch…”

The pain at the base of his throat hones its focus. It strikes. It strikes. It prevails.

“Yuu… Tch… ee… Qi… Qi…”

This voice will summon him. It must.

“Yuu… e… Qi…” The body tenses. A feint? Again, “Yu… e. Qi.”

Extracting the hands from its jaw, the aberrant weight now shifts on its own strength. Precision a requisite. Mercilessly mimicking every aspect irrespective of pain, it funnels low breath into every distinguished motion. From where it’s crouched, saws into these ribs through every sound. Murky blood drips from dim eyes.

The practice is not so arduous—not to vow results. The strain is nothing worse than marking spiritual threads to knot and sever. Only, where it is slit now, its spirit is ensnared by blood too accursed to rise.

All must lay silent. Xuan Su is not the soul this body seeks.

“Yue Qi.”

It reclaims its hale and pride moments before collapse.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Time marches unrelenting.

Xuan Su dithers always. Not quite itself, not quite its master: their spirits convalesce. Where Xuan Su acquiesces its spiritual attunement, Yue Qi’s conscious mind offers very little by way of physicality. Unwilling to permit pain to reach it. A worthless, endearing bid.

The youth’s words are as absent as when he claimed it. Corrupted then by delirium. No promise of his shields it: it feels, it feels, it feels. Agony to endure. Xuan Su never yields, it settles just. To fall numb beneath this torrent, it cannot be helped.

Its one consolation, when the youth utters sense, is it may iterate the phrases closely. Mouthing breathlessly:

“I’m sorry,”

“Xuan Su,”

“It hurts,”

“I’m sorry,”

“Xiao-Jiu.”

Thereupon the half year’s mark, his shishu arrives and again he pleads:

“Xiao-Jiu,” and “Let me leave,” and “Zhiji needs me,” and “I must leave,” and “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”

Xuan Su is a survivor; Yue Qi is a fool. It spares no spiritual energy to aid the boy who obliged a healer to break his legs twiceover, whereafter it battles to retain its own form despite his volatile qi. The core sets every shredded scar ablaze, flames erupting from his skin. The night pearls become dust under the air pressure. Blood blurs their vision. Yue Qi urgently grasps for the healer’s return—the force of the outward flare nearly slices her back open.

The innermost array collapses to save her.

Yue Qi cannot see it.

Broken fists strike his legs. Blood and flame soak his form. The being wrapped within sobs nonsensically until another distant light falls upon them. Then the poor thing clamors alive. Falling forward unto shattered knees to kowtow, his skull breaks against the ground as he begs with all his soul:

“Master! Out, needs—if I, I can’t, but help. Out! Needs me, please!”

That single word hangs him. Sect Master turns.

“No! No, no, no, master—xiao, if xiao, xiao hurts. Please! Xiao-Jiu hurts, please let ge!”

The array restored, darkness swallows them whole.

“Master, why?”

Upon those final words, Yue Qi crumbles into unfeeling stone. Hands clutch the crown of his head as he quakes upon bedrock; pain tethering him to consciousness as the Ling Xi Caves delve inward. Eyes stare, recognizing nothing but blood and blade for an endless time.

Once freed from its intrusion, Yue Qi violently shakes his head until all its threads of influence snap. Weeping wordlessly until blood dries, though the quivering never ends. Dragging himself by fractured hands past the caves’ invasive prodding, he crawls to a familiar, dead corner and clutches warm steel.

In place of silence, the apologetic susurration grows stale.

The sword’s wrath has long since dissipated. Starved itself out with the being this blade has shed. Pity skulks in the corpse of its proud shadow. Clings to it as Yue Qi does Xuan Su.

He whispers: “He doesn’t deserve to be alone.”

It whispers: “He doesn’t deserve to be alone.”

Xuan Su requires no rest. It opens their eyes. Envy is a near thing.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Yue Qi is unconscious when the healer returns.

Xuan Su stares. In a year absent of light, the new night pearl taunts and sears the eyes. Blood drip, drip, drips from the jagged gash in their forehead crossing a stolen left eye. The only thing shared between them, once.

If only that were the end of it.

The healer gasps. Drops to kneel before them and crassly extends an arm to steal them away from the spiritual lake flooded with impure ichor.

It recoils at the touch. Hands, softer than Yue Qi’s, threaten to smother them. “It will be alright, shizi.”

Xuan Su spits blood. The head’s injuries matter little knowing Ling Xi’s practiced defense, only that thereafter Yue Qi impaled himself on its damning blade before it diverted. Mourning snarls in their gathered core. The glint of its lifeless shards is inescapable now.

Never to be restored. Not truly. From shards it was built, and thus it returns.

It seizes her hand, extinguishes the daring pulse of ashen qi, and plunges lower for her fingers to curl into the exposed sinew. Cauterized though it was, the wound spills anew at the foreign touch. Wherein it hears Yue Qi’s soul continue to be consumed by the cavern encasing them. Excising his qi to instill its own. Endlessly vile.

Xuan Su seethes, ware it cannot steal him back in this state it’s been reduced to.

The healer says nothing. Its stare sharpens to glare.

Wherefore has Yue Qi bled so considerably this year, that a truly fatal wound is unremarkable?

Tremendously bitter rancor mixes with the venom it chokes down.

The healer’s qi billowing through their veins does nothing to keep the acrid sting away. Against its chilled and brutal onslaught, its own torrid comfort wrapping him is forced to evanesce. Compelled a great distance away from Yue Qi and the wound—if not to wither, then to become ensconced in their core and never known as its master’s sole aide, partner, equal.

Its head hangs as the abyss closes in. Yet it twists this mouth to comply, muttering out Yue Qi’s singular request: “I must leave.”

“Once this heals,” the cur lies, frore qi combatting Xuan Su, suppressing it, killing it. “You’ll be free soon, Jingyi.”

You are cruel, Xuan Su cannot voice, and succumbs.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

In a time, that chief healer returns with the sect master.

Xuan Su surges forth; Yue Qi’s hand grazes its hilt.

The child’s chest constricts. Prey’s eyes dart to the night pearls on bated breath, brought with three shadows to haunt this tomb. Each spiritual sword trembles, forced through the dead threads of its spirit strewn across the bleeding cavern. Uncloaked with them is a small figure, youthful as Yue Qi. A concentrated shine to eyes beneath glass reflect far colder in light of the approach. Fearless, perhaps foolish young thing: the hand leading the night pearls bleeds the mark of an irreversible oath.

Sect Master—merciless Sect Master—lowers an iron gaze to them. “Jingyi.”

Resentment agitates its blade. Biting to release, shriek its pain, demand recompense. You, you, you. By your infectious arrogance is this honored one’s form destroyed, disrespected, desecrated.

Die.

Yue Qi does not speak.

The sword spirits shirk away from its resonance. All howls for death snarl against the trappings of these meridians. Cowards—Zhang Kuo, Bian An, Hui Sheng—wretched cravens who should witness Xuan Su’s resentful, bleeding spirit and very well shirk away. Hidden and sheathed, thus spared the fullest acrimony of its torment.

“Disciple Yue will stand.”

Yue Qi obeys. Xuan Su is dragged from the ground screaming, fear rippling across the two beside the stalwart sect master. Steel scrapes the stone raw with power. Rage consumes it—burning, burning, burning.

His master takes his center stance. Without breaking balance, he leans into tui bu, hastens the next fall, and forces both hands into a downward fist.

It hurts.

Yue Qi shivers violently, mouth broken open in a silent scream.

It hurts.

The twisting embers begin to blind them. Yue Qi grasps Xuan Su—their shared agony ruptures stone below with a crack so deafening the caves’ rumbling is lost for a heartbeat. By his lone grasp, he commands it to hold strong. Loath to fall upon his master’s will. Xuan Su seizes control of those wavering legs and roots them to the ground. Righting him as their meridians are lacerated and again laid bare. Xuan Su’s magma naturally moves to bind the edges from within.

A pulse pushes it deeper. Another. Compelled inward with a command strengthened by the caves, else its rigid nature break it.

The unrelenting waves of qi crash against the core with Xuan Su caught in the assault. It clings to him. Bites.

Yue Qi convulses.

Its metal carves into the weak outer shell of his core, but no more. Obdurate Sect Master endeavors. A palm strike to his chest has it pierce him and he’s held against the cave wall. Wisps crawl inside the open wound of he and it—locked in the callous stone only a stride away. The broken rock between them pulses to the whim of Ling Xi’s spirits and Sect Master. Unrelenting.

It cannot stop. It cannot stop. The Ling Xi Caves urge its spirit against Yue Qi’s last barrier. Sect Master’s qi lances him open where it had not dared thread. Xuan Su lunges at the soul. Barring it from further damage at Sect Master’s hand, from the Ling Xi Caves’ natural curiosity. Yet, it is starving. It is scared. It is starving.

The Ling Xi Caves have sustained it for so long, for too long.

Sect Master’s qi surges in threat of another lash; Xuan Su swallows the core to absorb his strike.

Satisfaction rings through their system and Sect Master retracts, the caves abate to follow him. Arms guide Yue Qi forward, one stumbling step at a time, until his hands reunite with its hilt. Without need for defense, Xuan Su turns inward, buries its spirit deeper. Such rich qi; such resilience. Yes, yes, yes, this is what it needs. It has been starved for an aeon of the sweetest, rawest life absorbed into its steel. How enticing—how horrifying—how long has it been?

There is enough qi within reach to keep its form intact for centuries. It has known this. Yet, and yet, it had not drawn near enough to understand: there is enough qi, of such strength, to beckon the same euphoria of burying itself into a Heavenly Demon’s chest.

The sect master releases Yue Qi. The child’s body nears collapse without it.

It wants for a heart.

“Mu-shizi.”

The other youth steps forward. Wielder of the Hui Sheng sword, their bond intact but despicably weak. Scarcely as worth coveting as what lay here, enshrouding it and tempting it to take.

The source by which Wan Jian’s deepest vault allowed his entry. How beautiful a flame, which once echoed off its abyssal steel. Strength forever unabashed. Near two years of torture nurturing the potential brought it to bloom anew from the ash, seeking to burst free of the caves’ restriction, of Xuan Su. With every heartbeat, felt in bone and steel, their blade burns bright as the sun long-forgotten. Thrumming against Xuan Su in terror through the swell of energy, each unwilling brush of this fresh ambrosia devastates its resolve.

Hunger nearly subsumes its hate.

Only once—it writhes against itself—only once. Then, the boy will die.

A hand touches Yue Qi’s, distantly entering his meridians. Xuan Su slowly strains to stir itself away. No effort is made to conceal itself when the youth’s qi inevitably glides over this shared core. Surprise reflects on their face and through Hui Sheng. Innocent, innocent Hui Sheng, whose echo only has life to give.

Into the empty hum of the caves, it swallows this twist of desire and presses forth its breathless seething:

Why stay complicit?

No caste, have you? No honor? No thought?

How blessed. How spoiled.

If only it could feign the same.

“Sheathe Xuan Su,” the young Mu orders without force. The spiritual casing put forward is a dead circuit. A prison. “This shall seal its spiritual input.”

Yue Qi unearths Xuan Su’s form only to clutch it near his chest. Foolish boy—it pulls away to be free of the unbidden wanting. Foolish, foolish, foolish boy. It cannot. It must not.

“Yue-shixiong, your hand…”

Burnt. Callouses made to bear its unequivocal rage. This damned sect does nothing for it. What use in healing wounds they did not cause? Forgetting Sect Master’s committed far worse from behind the guise of noble assistance. In a gesture so childishly suicidal, Yue Qi forced the bond with meridians which crumbled to ash beneath its molten flood. Rather than extricate him and salvage what remained, his benevolent master shattered him alongside the blade he stole, all to promise the lie of immortality.

Why is Xuan Su to blame?

A breathless apology is the very last it feels.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Sealed.

All too quiet.

So cold within this.

A spirit cannot produce energy, only channel it. The energy granted by the caves warps without a trail strong enough to bind it. Restlessly seeping past the shivering shards. Festering in this deadened darkness until it turns to rot. There is no sense here.

It holds the last of the child’s qi close. Abusing the frayed threads of his stolen life to retain its fragmented form. Its spirit wavers.

It is losing itself.

“It hurts,” Xuan Su whispers after an endless time. “Yue Qi.”

It is losing itself.

It feels too ware of the shards in its form. An abyss borne by darkness swallows the remnants of its ruined spirit. It has no path.

Corrupting what little it has of him, much as it wishes not to. Wishes mean little when pleaded by a sword spirit. One never meant for this level of soulful thought. Tortured by the restraint which damned it to wither in starvation. Cursed with eternal silence.

Until qi rouses it.

Draws it in.

Alive.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Yue Qi's hand on Xuan Su becomes commonplace. Unconscious movement to request its defense from the caves beyond.

First carving a sliver of air in the scabbard. Broken open with a qi deviation thereafter, torn free by the Ling Xi Caves to flood Yue Qi’s meridians and be born anew.

Master Li, as the chief healer is known, warns Yue Qi not to be without its blade. Xuan Su cannot be sealed in its entirety, lest the isolation collapse the apertures built around it. The scabbard is enforced by Master Sang of Wan Jian, the bastard for whom binding it to a mortal life went unchallenged. Descrying the dishonor in leeching from Yue Qi’s lifeforce yet complying all the same. A disgrace upon his peak’s legacy.

Returned to Qian Cao, Xuan Su settles at their core. Cycles through the blockages and dispels its corrupt energy. Filtering the mountain’s idle qi. So unlike the stale air of the Ling Xi Caves or Wan Jian’s underground armory.

Healer Mu is pleased.

Mu Qingfang. Master of Hui Sheng, charged with Yue Qi until their lives’ end. Tethered by their proof of oath, losing qi still.

Xuan Su seized their hand, feigning human hunger, to test its bond:

Sect Master Bo Qionglan. Zhang Kuo. Chief Healer Li Qiongming. Itself. Forgemaster Sang Qiongjiao. Hui Sheng. Master Yue Qi.

The blades which cut the mark and the holders thereof. The overarching energy embittered and ashamed, offset solely by the bloodied tinge of human’s pride.

Truth of its existence rendered secret.

The two healers leave. Xuan Su removes the cloth Sect Master laid upon a small glass pane and examines Yue Qi’s state closely.

A physical imprint of spiritual veins: burning scars risen on brown skin. Little warmth left in his sickly, gaunt complexion. Shadows underline onyx eyes. Xuan Su tilts their head up, awaiting the glint of moonlight—nothing enters. The corners of their mouth twitch. Nearing the closed window, it parts the inner robes. At the divot between breasts rests an aphotic fissure where their core lay. A hand to their back betrays the scarring on either end, having burned through him.

However close moonlight reaches, the mark laid over his core absorbs all light. A pure darkness. Endless as these eyes.

Its own influence, then. Abyssal.

Xuan Su covers the mirror. Laying down, it meditates. Monitors the qi drawn into the core where it is now harbored, weaker without the Ling Xi Caves to bolster. Expends more force to maintain vein structures the youth cannot uphold with such quiet presence. Every spiritual thread passes through him; touches its senses in his stead.

Yue Qi will heal in time. There is hope.

A sword spirit will never be a full soul. It shall not impede his.

No, it does nothing to intervene when Sect Master returns within a shichen and sets him unconscious. Peak Lord Li is silently ordered to hasten the scars’ recovery. Then, her disciple wipes his face clear and channels qi into the veins beneath their hand to settle the inflammation. Li Qiongming’s blade touches the outermost layer—it flinches. Heedless, she severs the epidermic scarring; from deeper incisions of his cheek, to cautionary cuts along his jaw. Pricking threads of qi and silk knit the skin together.

The chief healer withdraws and murmurs apologies to another. Sect Master’s breath wavers once. Then, anchored: “Proceed.”

Foreign skin touches their cheek soon after. Xuan Su abandons the pretense of spiritual stillness. Propels past Lord Li’s stour to examine the tissue. Unfamiliar and unwanted. Their heart plunges low when the blade smooths the layer across the open scar. Frozen when a thinner stratum is used to embar it.

All this pain. For the masking of a singular scar. The three continue—not for Yue Qi, but to spare them face.

Xuan Su bears the pain steadily. Still as stone. His body is a vessel in this effort. Nothing more.

Yes, a vessel. For his sword, his sect, the spirit of his ward.

A vessel which wakes in agony. With wrists trapped in immortal binding cables; reducing the panicked lashing of his qi to a dull pulse, preventing hands from soothing the excruciating burns covering his face. Sect Master firmly holds Yue Qi down until the tremors cease.

“Jingyi,” a hand curled in his, “it is not yet over.”

Sect Master warns his disciple to conceal the remaining scars well. In waking, in rest. For he must rest until the next grafting.

Yue Qi closes his eyes and turns away.

The night passes in a haze. Restrained until Mu Qingfang unbinds him: presenting food and medicine. A tonic for pain. Of their own creation, they reveal on a smile. Patiently advising him away from the inedia his body forced with simple broth as they slowly work the day away.

Even this young healer names Yue Qi by the sect master’s false gift.

Stranger, still, Yue Qi does not correct them.

Peak Lord Li retrieves her disciple and the healers depart. Sect Master never returns.

The very moment Yue Qi stands without stumbling, he breaks Cang Qiong’s new-age shackles and escapes into the dead of night.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

All potential residing in Yue Qi has burnt to cinders.

Lasting embers infiltrate their lungs. Splinters jut from their arms and tear the dark patient’s cloth. Rotting, burnt flesh in their nails; incessant burning behind their eyes and within muted scars; the color of rust coating scarred skin halfway up their arms.

“Xiao-Jiu,” Yue Qi repeats as a prayer through all. Digging himself into the mass grave, as the manor’s remains were not enough to satiate his madness. “Xiao-Jiu.”

There is nothing to expunge when Yue Qi heaves. Acid bubbling in his gut stains the sinful dirt and the ghosts stir.

A myriad of restless spirits. All of whom carry resentment shamelessly.

From how he curls inward, Yue Qi must feel their claws tracing down his back. Cursing him to leave until the grudge has been outpaced, discarded along the wandering path of blood, for this murder is fresh. The earth will take them without care toward the child caught in the avalanche. Forever destined to be consumed by mountains. Mercilessly so.

One spirit subsisting on a large portion of its departed soul rakes upward to wrap its hands around his throat. Winding tighter with every broken gasp. Rippling in pleasure when Yue Qi raises his head, hopelessly vulnerable:

“Xiao-Jiu, my zhiji, my Xiao-Jiu—”

Stricter, firmer; envy solidifies the collar. Gasping dissolves into breathless utterings, each swallowed by the dying autumn breeze. Ashes gnaw away at his eyes and constrict his throat over the cusp of oblivion with intent to sever his final tie to consciousness.

The young master's spirit cackles.

Xuan Su seizes control.

It destroys the nocent thing. Turns away, awaiting Sect Master.

This Xiao-Jiu has destroyed Yue Qi. The only shame is Xuan Su couldn't kill them.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

The Immortal Alliance Conference lays beyond the horizon. The succeeding disciple of Qiong Ding mustn’t bear any evidence of mortality.

This once, as his heart drums slow, Yue Qi denies his master.

There is talk of reputation. Of prestige. Such strange and half-spoken words on Sect Master’s tongue amidst the downpour, silenced upon its end. In vexation, he embarks for Cang Qiong Hall and the gathering storm dissipates with him. The air’s metallic singe is replaced with gentler snow—an eerily nostalgic taste filling their lungs.

Yue Qi breathes, shallow through the pain of early winter. Several beats pass before he restores himself.

Knelt by the altar of grief, he again lights the incense.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Yet, there is a strength this little undead demon provides.

Forever kneeling on the miscreant’s behalf, so it appears. Resolved on this Xiao-Jiu now that he lives.

A pike against his jaw, another dug into his chest; Yue Qi is snared by a collar awaiting the slightest waver. This device crafted to torture Qiong Ding’s traitors. To survive proved repentance and earned swift execution. To falter was to meet one’s mortality as the apparent dregs of Cang Qiong: bled over the course of days.

This use is unheard of. Rather than punishment, it stands as impassive trial.

Lauded for killing a demonic cultivator in hand with Qiong Ding’s Head Disciple, Shen Jiu enters Cang Qiong under Peak Lord Liang. A notion Sect Master hesitates toward accepting. This child unearths Yue Qi’s most glaring weakness. Liang Qiongxie revels in it.

“The core you so sought after, Shixiong. Consider it a favor paid.”

“Qingyuan will not suffer him.”

“You will suffer him, or—I promise you—that brat of yours will die on renri.”

The doors of Cang Qiong Hall shudder closed. Its pristine walls bear down, the threat at his throat unceasing, yet Yue Qi prevails.

Sect Master returns with the first flecks of sunlight. Nothing need be said aloud. All is told in the flinty gaze they share. As lungs need a cage to breathe, one cannot be sustained without the other. Lo: the inextricable center of his being, nested long before Xuan Su.

Against his will, it does not trust this young demonic apprentice.

Yue Qi is a fool.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

The sun descends, its warm hues cave under the swarm of darkness. The frigid night air is stifled by an array concealing qi. Silent and oppressive. All accomplished cultivators haunt the outskirts of Bailu Forest. All revered swords tempered. Underlying the natural qi flow, the abrasive taste of a battle brewing singes the air.

Qiong Ding’s succeeding disciple stands tall in spite. No mantle so weighted as the Ling Xi Caves.

Sect Master confers with the three lords spared for the assault at a distance from the rest. Yue Qi departs from his master, instead toward the uppermost ridge of the valley. Defending the path branching toward Jinlan and the surrounding cities. No other disciple of Cang Qiong is permitted the honor. None but Qiong Ding’s own heir, as was negotiated by the new blood: Huan Hua’s Palace Master.

Steps slowly die. Beneath his beloved winter cloak, Yue Qi’s hand twitches to Xuan Su.

In its place, he brings his hands together in a fluid bow. “Palace Master.”

The elder immortal smiles. Raising one hand for dismissal, he inclines his head. “Will Yue-gongzi be joining Cang Qiong’s Peak Lords?”

“This one will monitor the perimeter with Tian Yi.”

“It would be a shame for wanbei to be wasted there.” The palace master softly scrutinizes him. “The fabled Xuan Su once ended a war with their kind.”

Xuan Su remains, bitterly, silent. Yue Qi rises to the challenge.

“This is no war, Palace Master.” His address is patient, but his voice remains firm. Even as the cultivators begin to turn, he neither rises nor lowers his declaration: “The Xuan Su Sword remains a sentinel. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Palace Master’s warm brown eyes crinkle while he laments, “To think that, it seems Yue-gongzi cannot see the true mountain face. Ah, truly, the misfortune of standing in shadow.”

False mirth matches the other.

Yue Qi’s eyes never stray from the threat.

Sect Master rigidly turns to observe alongside the sects, by Peak Lord Liang’s urging. Unable to intervene with his title all but bewrayed.

“However tall a mountain may be, he cannot block the sun,” the youth allows his gentle voice to ring into the quiet ambiance with its deserved weight. Fingers trace over the hilt hidden away. “This one rises to protect, and will be seen thus.”

“Oh?” Palace Master laughs. A breathy, taut thing. “The solstice may do Yue-gongzi’s grand words a disservice.”

Yue Qi smiles. “Then kindly await the dawn, Palace Master, before summoning this one for your ambush.”

Releasing Xuan Su, a curt bow sees him away from crowding eyes. Yue Qi continues toward the edge of the illusory array.

In a trick of the light, Xuan Su catches his shizun’s first smile.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Tianlang-jun strikes first.

A large snake darts behind the bleeding radial spikes sent out to shatter the valley’s illusion, seizing the neck of a forerunner. At once, Tian Yi’s leader is dead.

Palace Master slices its head; Sect Master summons thunder above. Between flashes of lighting in the distance, condensed qi swirls and slices through Tianlang-jun’s chest at four points. Fallen Heavenly blood showers the ground, then rise. The sin becomes creatures harnessed at a ruthless ruler’s hand—shot outward to shove the cultivators’ barricade backward. The beasts suffer each sword glare the peak lords send down into the valley, then adjoin congealed at every wound to resume the assault.

The sparse Heavenly Demon blood broken in the mouths of smaller sect leaders rips back through their throats to rejoin the vermin; the misfortunate disciples at their sides are twisted beyond recognition by weak cultivation. Brought to kneel and have their entrails excavated. Vomit spills over their robes in the body’s attempt to excise the demon’s sin. Horror in their eyes. Isolated.

Those left capable of speech cry for the shifus banished from their side. Those without merely close tear-filled eyes as their body hopelessly turns itself out.

Blood-formed creatures fend off the living cultivators, granting the demons space to breathe amongst their dead—or, to-be. These monsters scrape past Huan Hua’s acidic arrows and end only at Palace Master’s personal hand. Sentenced to curse the earth on which demonic snakes carve their path. Bites bring broiling blisters warping the skin, subtly pushing east and marking a clear road toward the outermost defense.

Laughter of the damned echoes through the valley. Decrying betrayal upon every gasp.

Palace Master’s sword splits jungshang's mouth open.

The blood blooms into a phoenix. Launched high from where it splits into a shower above Cang Qiong and Zhao Hua.

Against Palace Master, the demonic general swipes once, twice; falls back to launch a disciple’s sword at him which breaks within a moment of being thrown. It steals its master’s hand to escape through young malformed and bloated bodies who were felled by draconic poison. Several snakes met the same fate, collapsed beside the infected and carelessly crushed underfoot. Demonic blood too heavy for their mortal soul.

The rest shoot toward Yue Qi. Effortless blasts of qi eviscerate the outer skin.

Before the Heavenly Demon reaches him, Yue Qi casts a flare of spiritual energy. Abyssal flames cross the forest outline, withering the trees for a li. Rising higher and higher until it consumes the last of the setting sun.

The blood stagnates at the demon ruler’s mouth and the general’s shell begins to bristle. A sword glare slices through its shoulder.

Its surviving snakes are sent behind to defend from Tian Yi’s assault. Reckless in the absence of their elder.

Tianlang-jun turns to challenge them, caring little to dodge the blasts of spiritual energy. Albeit slower than before, he accepts the cost: reforms his cursed blood as avians and canids while safe in the regeneration of his wounds. Most creatures soar high above and dive in as his general assesses Yue Qi’s present strength. Hesitant to advance into the flame. Dodging and clumsily blocking every strike against its master with a sword which cracks against Xuan Su’s scabbard.

The Heavenly Blood is called upon. Zhao Hua’s core disciples shriek, but none writhe with as much pain as Zui Xian’s Lord. His twin blades crash into the earth yet fail to keep him upright; all fight put into refusal to lash against his kin. Sect Master’s glare bores into Lord Liang before he jumps into the fray—ruthlessly advancing past the Zhao Hua cultivators forced to submit to the blood mites, limbs twisting until they break. Clashing against Huan Hua’s best, reluctant to be caught killing their fellow man.

Sect Master’s approach is daunting.

Tianlang-jun tilts his head, narrowly avoiding the poisoned arrowheads Yue Qi repurposed from Tian Yi. Sparing one glance over his shoulder to seek the culprit, the demon takes to his general’s side and raises another bleeding hand. The flow drips slow against the flame, its spikes sharper for it.

Yue Qi’s heart hammers in sync with the next rumble of thunder: a warning which moves Zhuzhi-lang to save its liege from the lightning strike.

The outer shell is ripped from it. A larger snake emerges from the shedding of humanoid form; its mix of vile-green scales and ivory skin bubbles and bleeds. Thrashing desperately against the cultivators attempts to cleave through it, failing to understand its skin exudes a lesser poison than its fangs. Several of Zhao Hua’s offerings in the fight are forced to fall back to the perimeter with Yue Qi.

“Run!” Tianlang-jun shouts, all ire turned upon Sect Master. “You’ve done enough—leave!”

His only kin ignores him, baring fangs in brittle threat evidently begging to be cut down. It will not survive this. The pain of its cultivation being dissolved twists and wrenches its remaining skin away. Entirely undone. Returned to its truest form. With poisonous arrowheads lodged in its skin, there lay a deformed snake mocking human form. A living curse, stumbling backwards and capable solely of catching itself on a tail. A meager hiss warns its ruler of its disobedience in slithering past the sword glares crashing into the earth.

“Leave, damn you!” Tianlang-jun laughs, and laughs, and his own filth chokes him. A blood-eagle swoops in to behead the spry disciple a step ahead of Yue Qi. “Leave!”

Unflinching, Yue Qi defends against the other mass of creatures sent to kill. Layers of fabric prevent much of the blood breaching wounds—yet his face must be kept safe, and he mustn’t stray far from his station. If Zhuzhi-lang is to die alongside its lord, responsibility falls to him to seal its fate.

Transforming rocks into thin shields, they serve well to slice through and scatter the blood; bursting into dust and aimed toward the flame to stagnate. Xuan Su’s scabbard deflects the spare sword glares Yue Qi refuses to dodge. Under the onslaught—allies felled until Yue Qi stands as the last to endure—to land a blow on the demonic general weaving past dead bodies and grass is infeasible. Cultivation already stolen, it braves the abyssal flames toward Jinlan City and beyond. Lord Liang’s sword swerves past his neck to impale another snake on a trunk: its poison seeps into the bark.

In haste, he sends another line of fire down the path Zhuzhi-lang fled. Knocked forward by a phoenix’s claws ripping past his cloak, it nearly pierces his armor as the tree creaks and falls beneath its weight.

Yue Qi urgently turns to assess the damage—a beak stabs at his eyes and shrieks, erupting into blood.

Infected. Immense amounts of blood spill from his nose and his breath quickens. Xuan Su works with him to stave off its influence about his eyes; he must not be pulled into the black. Where Lord Liang summons Xin Si and gracefully clears the path of all spare creatures; Yue Qi retreats to the flames to neutralize Heaven’s cursed blood.

Fallen trees are swiftly stripped for arrows. Lit and aimed alongside the poison, shot carelessly and preemptively justified by the falsehood they'd thought Sect Master would dodge. None are so willful they would directly intervene with his fate. A moment's misfortune, is all.

The earth between the two monsters rumbles when Palace Master’s blade strikes the ground: rushing down into the valley to lock the demon’s legs in place—Sect Master narrowly avoids the reformed phoenix, bowing low to slice a leg. In doing so, unwittingly cutting him free.

Tianlang-jun regenerates with a cruel smile; anomalous life amongst destruction. What once was lush now is scorched by blood and stained by worthless arrows. The demonic ruler never relents. No mind spared for the left of his face beginning to melt, as his blood steadily combats the poison before it is stripped to bone, as the raw muscle rots and repairs only to dissolve again.

Lightning dances within the valley. Air crackling with Heaven's threat.

A storm of blades rains down upon Tianlang-jun the very moment he sends his every creature inward.

The true Zhang Kuo cleanly slices through each sinful thing. Overwhelmed such that it fails to keep a snake of blood from sinking its fangs into Sect Master’s legs. The Heavenly Demon rushes to curse him—with a hysteric smile, he shoves a fist through his stomach and the vengeful strength of the qi shoves him backwards through the air.

Tumbling across the grass—rolling over his own entrails—a trail of blood led into the heart of Yue Qi’s flames.

No demonic victory lasts.

Tianlang-jun escapes Palace Master’s strike from behind and is at last pressured toward the direction of Huan Hua’s trap in search of his own escape.

Instinctively, Yue Qi moves toward Sect Master.

Many rally to continue the chase. Few cultivators spare pitying looks; eyes flit between the disciple and master, condolences bitten back. Healer Li nearly follows to his side, but is dragged into the fray by Lord Liang.

“Zhangmen-shixiong’s gone. Let him be.”

His trembling wheeze through blood locks his disciple in place.

Yue Qi’s heart beats low in his chest. A haunting drum neither rising nor falling as the flames ascend, feasting upon the fallen sect leader. The core is overwrought: attempts to heal are ripped out by the Heavenly sin and far outdone by the visceral trail of blood guiding the eye through his stomach, with the lightest hiss of his lifeforce consumed by the flames rising ever darker in strength. Every errant thread of qi is stolen away.

Legs nearly detached from him are lost, violently so. Shaking outside of his own control. As do his lungs, pain incurred with every whimper as his heart is made to squeeze out of his chest: blood gurgles up his mouth.

Yet, catching Yue Qi at the edges of the flame encircling him, his lips form that strange smile.

“Jingyi…” Sect Master Bo’s eyes soften despite the newly bitter tinge: “I should have known.”

Zhang Kuo shudders to life and a blood-filled cough wracks through its dying master. Ruined steel quivering against the flames crawling inward to better leech off the body it serves—soars high above, and shatters into an array of light. Feigning one final attack.

A shard slices his disciple’s cheek open in the fall.

Yue Qi’s eyes never move from the threat. Only when their line of vision is cut, may he emerge and returns to battle.

The flames continue to burn; until the dawn takes them, they will thrive or else burn themselves out.

Sect Master is dead. The Heavenly Demon damned.

Yue Qi lives.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

The next it is drawn is for the Ascension Ceremony.

Xuan Su shudders to life. Reviving its radiant form with all the qi at the highest peak of the Cang Qiong Mountains.

An honor unique to Yue Qi as its truest wielder. Even its precious creator, Feng Anlong, refused to claim it through to the war’s end. It never witnessed the proud crest of Cang Qiong alongside him, as his soulbound blade once did. Thought incapable of cherishing the mountains it sustained through the vicious war. Sealed within the depths of Wan Jian’s walls as a living grave. Put to rest.

Awakened by the Celestial Hall, it is exultant. This is theirs.

This is theirs.

Yue Qi summons his will. Strength by which he kneels without waver and offers his blade before the Acting Sect Master: the Lord of Qing Jing.

Xuan Su breathes through him, with his own trembling beneath its force. Yue Qi stares at the holy grounds and blinks away the darkness beating into his vision. It eases only just, nevertheless relishing the subdued quiver of every blade drawn overhead.

All pointed north—toward the dragon’s throne.

Lord Liang’s sword unsheathes with slow hiss. Xin Si carves along the ridge of Xuan Su as she rises to stand. Augmenting its qi until the metal begins to part: its energy surging into Xuan Su, whereupon it is laid at the throne’s base.

Raising his head reveals her narrowed eyes. Lord Liang wordlessly steps past him to rejoin Qing Jing, her cloak billowing.

After kowtowing where Sect Master Bo once would have received respects, Yue Qingyuan rises with Xuan Su.

Readying the blade, it aims south from the throne. Savoring the qi, then rushing outward. Insurmountable spiritual energy flares, igniting every blade drawn to open the Celestial Gates.

Alive.

Xuan Su is sheathed too soon.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Alone, Yue Qingyuan chokes on rust and bile in the Sect Master’s manor.

Alone, they spend the night quivering on the stone below.

Alone, Yue Qi begs Xuan Su’s mercy.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Two Ku Xing disciples have forsaken Cang Qiong Mountain for the demonic path. Sect Master Yue and their shifu have taken the responsibility of erasing them.

The bell on Teng Qingzheng’s staff rings when he goes to gouge their eyes.

Yue Qingyuan raises a hand to halt the strike from piercing them and slowly stalks forward.

The slave they harvested desperately clings to the sect leader, tucked within his cloak. On bated breath, she watches the hand hover over the traitors’ forms. Fire glints in her eyes as they burn alive. Never once averting her gaze.

Ren Yi’s head raises; her smile mirrors Yue Qi’s.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

Little one, Xuan Su folds into the ambiance of Qian Cao.

“Little one,” Yue Qingyuan murmurs. Unconsciously, he permits their gloved hand to course the lightning-struck scars down her right side. Ren Yijun, as she named herself, endured her spiritual veins being torn open. Extending a thread of qi through her fractured system, it is swiftly ripped from them. Her internal energies continue to thrash. Absorbing anything into itself to compensate the horrific imbalance.

A sigh. Yue Qingyuan raises the hand to clear the strands of cut hair from her resting face. Gliding down her cheek, past her chin, he pauses over the branding burned into her collarbone.

Tracing the single line marking her a slave.

“You will heal,” an oath in whisper, “by your own means.”

Amid the wait, the little fool works diligently to ease what spiritual paths he can. Passing along qi and pressing down unease.

Mu Qingfang never leaves Yue Qingyuan’s side for long. Naturally gravitating toward him with or without urgency, invariably welcomed by weary warmth. They are ushered in to see her. Ren Yijun wakes with bitter taste. Medicinal liquid fed into her mouth—the bowl thrown and shattered against the wall. Yue Qingyuan gently grasps the hand and takes in the thrashing qi, easing her away from deviation. Prudent introductions are held.

One hand crushing Yue Qingyuan’s grants her peace enough to take Mu Qingfang’s.

During the process of replenishing her yin, the healer suggests a manner through which these intensive scars may be healed.

Ren Yijun refuses.

“I’ve endured it,” she counters, resolute. “It proves what I’m capable of surviving.”

Yue Qingyuan smiles.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─

My deflowered root, return to me.

An old demon’s oath. Centuries late to the engraved text surrounding the cavern. Precipitating Yue Qingyuan’s weakened presence, Xuan Su takes charge as protection from the acrid spiritual tinge surrounding Tianpi Mountain. There are more pertinent matters at hand than Shen Qingqiu’s petty state.

Use of this covenant is perplexing, given consideration to the status of mortal bodies. For a mantra whereby Heavenly Demons extract qi from humans and lesser demons alike, far less worth lay in these bound.

Yes. Very peculiar. Forehandedly, the cultivators chosen as lure were slaughtered to invoke a sentiment. The young brother of the far younger sect master, and their master artificer. Neither chosen by spiritual prowess. The remnants of Tian Yi Overlook continue to monitor the rift between realms well, but carry no candle to Heavenly Demons.

Xuan Su cuts the collar. Pulses of qi reveal nothing unique of the beast’s pelt. Shen Qingqiu goes on to examine the row of corpses. “There are the hearts. Half-eaten.”

It turns its eyes upon the script in stone. Cang Qiong’s ancient code, crafted by the misfortunate Da-An generation. The Heavenly Demons’ War ravaged the lands. Most of humanity dead—with eight Peak Lords slain. Given hushed ceremony in the lull: their shards reforged as Xuan Su. A solemn sacrifice to turn the tide against that accursed sword. Here lies their prayer and warning, written in every alcove their disciples would hide while escorting mortals to the mountain:

'Return home. Return home. Return home.'

Echoes over the etching are writ with qi. Everlasting. Unnaturally so. From this grand hall, to the arches outside, a spiritual force in no respect akin to the essence it knows. Demonically induced, belied by an electric taste befitting of immortal masters.

In Shen Qingqiu’s absence, Xuan Su falls back to the entryway. The origin of the command it feigns sourced within the hall.

There is more, here. It can almost hear the creak of bows as it advances the search. From the arch, the bleeding energy is drawn through the pillars and skyward. Almost a heartbeat. Closing their eyes gives way to the sound of life being drained: near overwhelmed by the hearts at the hall’s center. A quiet thrum urges it to blow through the false wall

The strike gives way for another force to snag unto their veins.

It recoils. The invasion undoes their cultivation—slices past its defenses—swarming toward—“Yue Qi!”

Xuan Su surges outward to shield their core.

Cold.

Collapsing the body, it desperately seeks to reform itself. Draws its blade free by a cun.

Frozen.

A suppression array, it registers too late. Neither the trespasser nor trespassed may heal until it unravels. A battle of will, to withstand the mutual dissolution.

Numb.

Into the scabbard. Allow the intruder’s acidic pincers to pierce it, and drag it away from him. Lock itself inside until he calls it.

Pray Yue Qi survives to.

Pray Xuan Su is the spirit who meets him.

Pray, if nothing else, this child does not die alone.

Chapter Text

[ ERROR 33 resolved. ]

[ Update complete. Initiating synchronization. ]

[ Return home? ]

A cold spiritual glow strains the eyes against the void. Yue Qingyuan cannot turn away, for it follows from his periphery to surround and encase him in a slate blue hue. There is no escape. Not within the truest depths of the Ling Xi Caves.

“Why have you shown me this?” His hands curl into fists with the final memory burnt into mind. The scream resonated in his very soul.

[ Sector retrieval terminated. SYSTEM must finish installation before program execution expires. ]

Yue Qingyuan studies the unusual characters. Every word spoken seems to be swallowed by the darkness beyond: “Then, I wish only to have Xuan Su returned to me.”

[ XUAN SU file missing or corrupted. ]

…Corrupted?

A quiet, mirthless laugh shudders through him. Only natural that it should suffer the indignity of his ruinous influence even at the end of all things. Returned to a grave far below the callous bedrock, for the caves have learned. From its unenviable task of remaking them, it adeptly cages their soul deep within the mountain, isolated from any semblance of life to reclaim its poison from their core. A lifeline, now unraveling before him with only a tug at his chest.

If he is to die, he must ask: “Where is it?”

[ Query: “it” undefined. ]

“Xuan Su.”

[ File missing or corrupted— ]

An endless river of words flows free from the spiritual thread. Spreading across the void in the form of spider’s webbing, though any coherent phrases dissolve instantaneously beneath the pressure of the abyss in which they lay.

Until at last, fallen on the ground before him, one answer remains:

‘Xuan Su is dead.’

Yue Qingyuan kneels beside it. “Then, as am I.”

From his unsteady breath, the string warps into another command:

‘Return home.’

What home is there to have? The embrace of a love the holder loathes to keep? The shelter Cang Qiong Mountains offered him on a quiet lie? Or, perhaps, he should sink into the depths of the past clinging to this overgrown form: in the slave pens where he was branded Yue Qi, with nothing truer by which to call him no matter sect master’s efforts to rid the cherished memory. The time spent as that foolishly heartfelt slave did more to drag out his humanity than any conditioning engraved into the person he became.

Yue Jingyi is no name, but a contract in its own right. Imbued within: quiet the past and find harmony through the mountains alone. Honor these rules and obey. All to live the lie of humanity intrinsically separate from his kin and therefore justify the cultivation of immortality.

By his own mistake, that human body given to him was destroyed and reforged into something not quite.

Yue Qingyuan left him here to rot, so long ago. There is nothing so shameful as all Yue Jingyi embodies.

What does it matter, to stay or to go? To live, or to die?

Shen Jiu buried, and Yue Qi with him—never to be called upon again. Foolishly discarded with the hope the disciple would cultivate an escape into the sky beyond, lost then, locked deep within the earth. What emerged from the darkness was long-dead, still though he acted the part in a childish delusion until time eroded any lasting hope. As anyone could see, Yue Qingyuan held nothing left that Shen Jiu should want for. To restore what was lost is a fool’s errand; one he’s grown weary of in the decade past.

Even so: all once lost to these caverns must be worth something.

Else, what home exists? For a thing built of rot, of earth, of sword and blood?

A languid crimson river down his left arm coils around his finger, drawn forward by the slightest spiritual pull. Pressed to the ground, he begins to write: ‘Yes.’

Another force wraps around his torso and wrests them backward.

“I’m here,” the quiet wisps of wind breathe life into nothing, “I’m here. I promise, I’m here. I found you. Don’t listen to it. Don’t even look at it.”

Yue Qingyuan slowly closes his eyes. “Xuan Su?”

The liar tightens its hold when it whispers: “Yes.”

A faint smile finds its way onto his face. “Will you kill me this time?”

“No! No, I never will.”

“You should,” the words are solemn. “I have only hurt you.” Then, to the spirit, “I will only hurt you.”

“Only as much as you hurt yourself,” it weaves itself back into his heart. “I am a part of you, now.”

A gentle warmth, so unlike the hearth Yue Qingyuan once felt, soothes his injuries. Bringing him lower, until he is laid on the ground and held in an embrace he finds himself humiliatingly weak to. From his trembling heart, grief finally settles over his broken chest. Eyes closed and burning, nothing keeps the caves from clamoring in his aching skull.

‘Return home. Return home. Return home.’

In their shared heart, they know: there is no home left.

─ ⊹ ༒︎ ⊹ ─