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In the vast gardens of the Northern Palace, where the stone floor shimmered under the sun, the air vibrated with the rhythmic sound of steel clashing against steel. Mobei-Jun, heir of the North, with his untamable grace and focused gaze, was conducting a private sword lesson for young Junshang—affectionately known among the few close ones as Luo Binghe, which is precisely why Shang Qinghua never called him that.
Each strike, each thrust and parry resembled a fluid dance, marked by discipline and passion for the art of combat. Mobei’s blade sparkled with the precision of someone who mastered not only technique, but also the hearts of those around him. His posture held a blend of firmness and gentleness—a rare balance that made even the winds whisper his teachings.
He didn’t usually use swords. He didn’t need to, thanks to his ice powers and teleportation abilities—so this was a different kind of experience.
From afar, beneath the welcoming shade of an ancient pine tree, Shang Qinghua observed the training with eyes full of pride, concern, and an almost maternal fascination.
His heart—so used to the demands of systems and the cold mechanics of political conspiracies—opened in a rare, silent flood of emotion. In Mobei-Jun, he didn’t see just his beloved omega, but a complete being, worthy of admiration. Someone strong enough to protect, yet sensitive enough to care. Like a devoted father.
The thought made him gasp.
Mobei-Jun… a father?
Shang Qinghua almost let out a stifled laugh, but his pheromones were already far from subtle. The simple image of Mobei holding a child—perhaps their child—left him utterly undone. His whole body reacted. His heart tightened with tenderness, his skin tingled with excitement.
He wanted to see that happen.
He could feel the pheromones escaping him like hot steam, uncontrolled, spontaneous, triggered by nothing but fantasy.
On the training field, Luo Binghe moved with power and precision, unapologetic as always. He didn’t bow, didn’t ask permission, and called Mobei by name—no titles, no hierarchy. In theory, he was his superior. He had defeated Mobei a few months back. And now he insisted on returning to the North with a frequency that was downright suspicious, all for “training.”
Shang Qinghua wasn’t so sure that was the only reason.
Binghe stayed around as long as he possibly could—always with a vague excuse, a false report, a half-baked mission. And in the past three weeks, since Shang had arrived, Binghe had been ever-present. Training with his king. Roaming the grounds. Sometimes even visiting Shang Qinghua’s office.
Usually, he’d enter. Stay silent. Then leave.
It was strange.
Strange… and cute.
“Again,” Binghe said, panting, spinning the sword in his hand.
Shang Qinghua noticed the slight tremble in his shoulders. Fatigue, perhaps. Or a desire to impress.
Xin Mo was still a threat—but lesser than before. Shang was helping with that. He and Mobei had gathered medicinal herbs that helped soothe destructive impulses and calm the spirit. Xin Mo was less demanding now, though still aggressive.
Shang Qinghua wasn’t eavesdropping. Not at all. Both omegas knew he was there. He had arrived at the start of the session, intending to go over reports, but had soon abandoned the papers as he found himself completely absorbed by the scene before him.
It was impossible not to be distracted.
Mobei fought with calculated precision, as he always did when he knew Shang was watching. And Shang knew that pattern. It was a kind of performance—a silent form of courtship that made his heart melt.
What surprised him was Luo Binghe.
He too seemed to be... performing. His movements were sharper, more graceful, almost theatrical. His eyes kept seeking Shang Qinghua in the intervals of combat.
And Shang smiled back. He couldn’t help it.
“You locked my wrist. How did you do that?” Binghe’s voice rang again, slightly annoyed, slightly impressed.
Mobei-Jun took a step back, calm. The wind lifted the edge of his dark robe, revealing the metallic sheen of his breastplate.
Mobei didn’t respond with words. He simply raised the sword, set his feet firmly, and repeated the move slowly, demonstrating the curve of the wrist, the backward step, the exact moment of interception. Binghe watched intently, furrowing his brow, mimicking, failing, trying again. Mobei didn’t correct him with long sentences, just with subtle touches, a movement of the hand, a look.
Shang Qinghua smiled.
His lips parted with mild amusement. That was so typical of Mobei. He didn’t talk much, but when he taught, he taught with his whole body. Shang could read his gestures like no one else—each tilt of the head, every line of tension in the shoulders. Sometimes, it was like seeing thoughts hiding beneath pale, cold skin.
Both omegas wore only their pants—a bold choice, if anyone besides him and the guards had been around—their bare chests gleaming with sweat. Outdoor training called for less formality. Their pheromones were contained, firmly held back. There was no need for dominance, only mutual respect. Still, Shang Qinghua, from his place under the tree, occasionally let his gaze drift to the mark on Mobei near his collarbone. The bite mark. His bite.
He felt a shiver of pride. Knowing that it was there—on him —that Mobei allowed a visible mark was more intimate than any heat-scent. It was pure, solid, silent love, the kind only Mobei knew how to give.
On the training field, Luo Binghe made another mistake. His sword was deflected with a simple touch and halted inches from Mobei’s neck, who didn’t even blink.
“Tch,” Binghe muttered, dropping his sword on the stone ground with a clatter. “You’re impossible.”
Mobei just stared at him, chest rising and falling slowly, without a word.
Shang Qinghua let out a low chuckle and rested his chin on his hand. He was content. Not just for seeing Mobei teaching so naturally, but for realizing that young Luo Binghe trusted enough to expose himself, to learn and fail.
Does Mobei realize how much he already acts like a father? Shang thought, his heart tightening sweetly.
He could clearly see the future there. For now, there were still wars, politics, far too many risks—but it was possible . A home in the North, quiet and cold, but full of life. Perhaps, one day, a real child running through the stone gardens, trying to hold a sword bigger than they were. And Mobei there, serious as always, silently correcting their stance.
Shang Qinghua sighed, leaning more comfortably against the tree.
Yes, he thought, watching the man he loved as though he could see the future through the soft morning light.
Mobei would be a wonderful father.
Moonlight dripped softly through the translucent curtains of the royal chamber, bathing the bed in a cold and silent glow. The chill of the North was kept at bay by the constant warmth of the sheets and the firm presence beside Shang Qinghua, who curled under the thick covers for warmth, his head resting on Mobei’s broad chest.
The room was quiet—the kind of silence that only exists when there’s no more rush, no obligatory words—just the comfort of tangled bodies, slow breaths, hearts beating in sync.
Shang Qinghua lazily traced the line of Mobei’s chest with his fingers, eyes half-lidded, a sleepy smile on his face. His omega was so beautiful.
“You’d look good holding a child, my king,” he murmured, almost as if thinking out loud. Sometimes Shang Qinghua’s mouth moved before his brain processed what he actually meant to say. “Really… you’re already so good with Binghe, even if he pretends he doesn’t need you. And today… when you corrected his stance without a word, just with that look…”
Mobei’s breath hitched for a moment as Qinghua kept musing about that afternoon.
He didn’t reply, but Shang felt the subtle stiffness of the body beneath him. When he looked up, he found Mobei’s cheeks tinged, just a faint shade of darker blue—almost imperceptible in the silver night light. To anyone else, he would seem as unreadable as ever.
But Shang knew him. And he knew that silence too.
Shang Qinghua watched everything with that usual look of feigned disinterest, but he took in every detail. It was impossible to ignore how Mobei leaned in slightly whenever Binghe spoke, how he diverted any threat before the boy even noticed. How he followed him with his eyes even after he left the room.
It wasn’t paternal, exactly. It was something more primal, instinctive — as if Mobei knew, deep down, that this young and inwardly shattered omega needed more than orders, more than discipline. He needed a space where he could exist without fear.
And somehow, that space had formed. Between them.
Shang had seen this before.
Maybe that’s why he, too, was starting to grow attached. Not like Mobei, who moved on pure instinct — but in a way that was almost annoyed, like someone who ends up caring despite themselves. Shang Qinghua found himself leaving food and warm clothes for Luo Binghe now and then, even knowing the boy didn’t truly need them. He handed over reports, scrolls, sweets — anything he thought Binghe might want or need. There was no real reason for it. He just... wanted to.
“Oh,” he whispered playfully, sliding his fingers to the other’s chin. “Are you blushing?”
Mobei stilled, lips hovering against Shang’s. His eyes, unreadable to most, searched Shang’s face with something raw — a flicker of want, vulnerability, and unspoken understanding.
Then he nodded once. Barely perceptible. But Shang felt it — in the hand that curled around his waist, in the way Mobei pulled him closer, steady and sure.
Something of their own.
It didn’t have to be defined. It could be a space, a future, a quiet morning. A shared glance across a war table. Fingers brushing in silence.
Maybe even Luo Binghe — not a son, but something else. Someone precious, someone they both watched over in their own way. A bond neither had planned, yet couldn’t let go of.
Shang closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Mobei’s.
“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “I know.”
Because Mobei loved through action — through presence, protection, and quiet resolve. He never let Shang, or Binghe, face the world alone.
Outside, the wind shifted gently through the trees. A rare night of peace.
Inside, between two breaths, Shang allowed himself to believe — not in destiny, but in what they had built.
He kissed Mobei again, slower this time. Like a promise.
For the first time, he let the thought come fully. Not just a passing daydream, but a real possibility. A child. A life that carried both of them. And Mobei… Mobei would be good. Fiercely protective. Steady. Patient in his own quiet way. He already was — anyone could see that in the way he looked after Binghe.
The thought ached in Shang’s chest, warm and bittersweet.
He kissed him again, breathless. “I love you so much,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’d be such a good father. You already are.”
Mobei said nothing. He didn’t have to. His kiss deepened, full of want and unspoken dreams.
One day, when the world was quiet. When they could breathe.
They would have that future — a home, a child, a life of their own.
Shang smiled against Mobei’s lips, fingers trembling as he cupped his face.
“We’ll get there,” he breathed. “You and me.”
And Mobei, as always, kissed him like a promise.