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Recently, something felt different at An Ding Peak.
The sky looked bluer, the birds seemed to sing in perfect harmony, and according to the more superstitious disciples, even the insects had become less interested in crawling into their boots and robes.
But what had truly changed… was Shang Qinghua-shizun himself.
“Did you see him this morning?” whispered an inner disciple, eyes wide.
“I did! He... he was smiling. And not one of those panicked ‘we’re all doomed’ smiles. A real one! He looked so calm!”
“He gave me a rice bun,” said another, still in shock. This earned him a chorus of stares, some jealous, others surprised, a few simply stunned.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared the disciples of An Ding Peak for what came next.
Shang Qinghua stepped into the main courtyard with his robes perfectly arranged (not a single visible ink stain, gasps of wonder followed), and… his hair down.
Hair.
Curly.
Long.
Loose.
Tugged playfully by the breeze, framing his face with soft, rebellious strands that gave him an almost angelic glow.
A genuine spark of joy danced in his eyes as he strolled by with a scroll tucked under his arm, whistling a melody that sounded like it belonged in a faraway village.
“Shizun…?”
Head disciple Lin Suyin tripped over her own feet. She had never seen him without his usual messy bun, hastily tied with a pen or bamboo stick. She blinked several times, as if trying to dispel an illusion, but it didn’t fade.
Shang Qinghua noticed her and paused, watching as she bowed stiffly, too stunned to move naturally.
“Yes, Disciple Suyin?” he asked with a kind smile, blissfully unaware of the chaos he had just unleashed upon the hearts of his students.
Disciples gathered around, some shielding their eyes as if his smile were too radiant to behold. Their limbs trembled. It felt improper to witness their shizun like this, too graceful, too serene.
“Your hair looks… beautiful,” she said, the words escaping with the innocent awe of a child discovering fire. She quickly tried to compose herself. “You… seem well-rested.”
“Ah!” He laughed, scratching his neck sheepishly. “I think I finally got more than three hours of sleep in a row. Miraculous, right?”
A ripple of murmurs spread across the gathered crowd.
“He slept.”
“He slept?!”
“He smiled!”
“He’s smiling!”
“Is he possessed?”
Shang Qinghua, oblivious as always to the quiet drama trailing his every step, simply smiled at the sight of so many disciples in the courtyard.
The warmth in his chest spread, there they were, lively, talking, exchanging smiles. He didn’t know why everyone seemed so flustered today, but seeing them like this made him happy. Caring for them was something he did gladly, even if he rarely showed it. Moments like this felt like a balm against the daily madness of leading a peak.
Meanwhile, Lin Suyin squinted, as though analyzing the terrain of a battlefield. Her mind was already racing with strategy. Pale blue silk ribbons, maybe, to match his informal robes… or a discreet golden one, for formal occasions.
A jade-accented hairpin, elegant, but subtle. Or, if she dared, a thin golden circlet with hooks to tame the more rebellious curls without ruining their natural charm.
But did she really want to tie them back?
There was also the option of nurturing them as they were.
She remembered a perfumed oil a shidi from other Peak once recommended, made from eastern blossoms, perfect for softening and hydrating curls without weighing them down.
Would her shizun accept such a gift?
Would he appreciate the thought?
While Lin Suyin was swept away in a sea of aesthetic planning, Shang Qinghua, blissfully unaware of being the center of so much attention, waved goodbye and headed toward his office, his robe flowing behind him, dark hair dancing in the wind like silk unraveling into the sky.
The disciples watched in silence.
When he passed through the gate and out of sight, they all bowed respectfully, perhaps with a touch of longing.
Not a single awkward joke. No grumbled complaints.
Not even a weird remark about bean buns. It felt… oddly incomplete.
Then Lin Suyin straightened, her eyes gleaming with purpose.
“I’m going to town this afternoon,” she declared. “To buy ribbons for shizun. We can’t let that beautiful hair be left at the mercy of the wind.”
“I’m coming too!” exclaimed a disciple from the right. “Honey-colored ribbons! They match his event robes!”
“Velvet ribbons!” added another, crossing their arms. “Our shizun’s hair deserves comfort. Luxury. Honor.”
“Let’s pool our money!” someone suggested enthusiastically. “We’ll commission a whole box of hair accessories. Like a talisman chest—but prettier!”
“We could engrave his name on the lid,” dreamed another. “Something like: ‘Shizun’s Treasures’.”
And so, under the gentle morning sun, An Ding Peak prepared for a new kind of mission: caring for their shizun’s hair with the same reverence they’d give a sacred relic.
Shang Qinghua might never truly know the effect he had on his disciples’ hearts, but he was loved. Sweetly, fiercely, and with absolute loyalty.