Work Text:
Shang Qinghua didn’t know how long he’d been cowering there, under the stairwell of An Ding Peak’s Leisure House, where even his own disciples dared not touch the old boxes when they came in to clean. The curtains were drawn, the air stifled with dust and ancient scrolls, but it was better that way. Better than sunlight. Better than blood.
He swallowed dryly even with no saliva left in his mouth, his eyes wide. His body ached strangely, as if he were alive and dead at the same time. Veins burned beneath his skin. Sounds sharpened. He could hear the heartbeat of people walking just outside the house. And that made him… hungry.
No.
No, no, no.
He buried his face in his knees and trembled. This could not be happening. He was just a bureaucratic cultivator, a logistical Peak Lord, a man who hid behind forms and strategies. He wasn’t a monster.
But the Eastern Blood Demon had bitten him. He had fought. He had screamed. He had driven his own sword into the demon’s chest, but it was too late. The poison, or the blood, or whatever it was, had already entered his system.
And the System… the System had done nothing.
“You are off the main path. Critical failure.”
Shang Qinghua nearly laughed bitterly. Of course the System wouldn’t help. He would now be flagged as an anomaly, a code bug that needed deletion.
Footsteps echoed on the porch. Then another.
Shang Qinghua held his breath. Fear dropped like a boulder. He recognized that gait.
The door creaked softly open.
“Shang Qinghua.”
The voice was calm but carried a subtle edge of concern, if one knew how to listen, something Shang Qinghua, unfortunately, did not. He and Shen Qingqiu had become… something like friends in recent years, though friendship felt too weak a word. They were allies of sorts: sharing tea, laughing quietly about a few fellow disciples (especially Liu Qingge). It had started by accident. Shang Qinghua, wordy as ever, had mentioned he’d bought tea thinking of Shen Qingqiu. Shen had invited himself to taste it. Shang Qinghua didn’t refuse. A curious beginning to meetings where Shang Qinghua would prattle on and Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t leave or hit him. It was progress.
Progress ruined by the Eastern Demon.
Shen Qingqiu: Lord of Qing Jing Peak. Master of the protagonist. Prime mortal threat to supernatural aberrations and the only person in the sect who would kill first and ask questions later (Liu Qingge at least only kills demons).
Shang Qinghua didn’t answer. Maybe if he played dead… though now that was closer to the truth.
“I know you’re here, Shang-shidi,” said Shen Qingqiu. “Your disciples said you’ve been missing since the last negotiation mission.”
Shang narrowed his eyes. Damn it. Gossiping kids… how had it reached Shen Qingqiu?
Soft, delicate footsteps. The sound of a door opening, a shelf being moved.
Light spilled between the boxes as Shen Qingqiu bent down and found him.
Shang Qinghua’s eyes flashed crimson for a moment and he hissed sharply.
Ah. Damn.
Shen Qingqiu stared at him, his green eyes widening at the sight of Shang Qinghua crouched there. Shang raised trembling hands.
“Please, don’t kill me.” It came out as a desperate whisper, a sob caught in his throat.
Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widened further, absorbing the pallor of his skin and the frantic urgency coloring his lips—but he didn’t step back.
“It’s not my fault. I didn’t want this, Shen Qingqiu. I fought. I fought so much. All these years… I tried to do everything right. I swear! The sys… This shouldn’t have happened…!” His voice broke under the weight of sheer despair. Not simply fear of death, it was the fear of second death, considering he’d died two nights ago when bitten. He flickered between sleep and waking, and now, fully awake, he feared dying yet again.
He was afraid of being discarded. Of no longer being human. Of becoming exactly what everyone always expected him to be: useless, unwanted, replaceable.
Shen Qingqiu drew a deep breath. With a sharp flick, he opened his fan, and Shang Qinghua shrank into himself, like a wounded animal. But no strike came.
Shen Qingqiu froze mid-motion, his typically piercing eyes softening, filled with a strange blend of frustration and concern, as if facing a cracked porcelain figurine that might shatter at a hard touch. He wanted to understand.
How did this happen? How had Shang Qinghua, on a simple commercial mission, returned… dead?
Because he was dead. He wasn’t breathing, his skin looked like filthy winter snow, cold to the touch, and his eyes glowed with a tragic crimson, a painful red that did not belong to him. A thick, unknown mark decorated his forehead, an ancient, forbidden symbol that Shen Qingqiu had never seen in all his years of study, possibly demonic.
But the first thing Shen Qingqiu asked was:
“Are you… hungry?” His voice low, cautious, like asking the answer might break something that’s still holding together.
Shang Qinghua’s eyes went wide.
“What?”
“Do you want blood now?”
He shook his head violently, his tangled hair falling around his face. He hated the question. He hated the answer even more. But yes.
Yes. He did want it.
He hadn’t eaten since the incident. He’d tried tea, it went down. But food… merely the thought made him feel sick, as if he were tasting rotten ashes. One of his disciples had once brought soup out of concern when he was thought ill. And Shang Qinghua was starving.
But normal food disgusted him. The smell made him dizzy. His body knew what it wanted: blood. And that thought filled him with horror.
“No! I mean… yes. But… not your blood! I’d never do that to you!” His voice trembled, losing control. “I bound my own hands with restriction spells, look!” He raised the wrists, where weakening seals glowed faintly. “I’m hiding until I find a way to deal with this! I can’t attack my disciples, Shen Qingqiu, I can’t! I was planning to go to the city later and… never come back here. That would’ve been better. I didn’t want anyone to find out.”
Silence.
Shen Qingqiu stared at him, expression unreadable. Then sighed, long, weary, laden with more than a cultivator’s worry; it carried the weight of someone who, despite everything, still cared.
“You really are a disaster.”
Shang Qinghua made a sound part-laugh, part-cry. A dry cough escaped, and he closed his eyes, shame and relief mixing in his heart.
Shen Qingqiu extended a firm hand.
“You were planning to just disappear from the sect? Don’t be stupid. You have a role here. You can’t abandon everything.”
“But–”
“Come on. You’re not fixing anything by hiding down here. And I’m not going to kill you, idiot.”
Shang Qinghua hesitated, fear glimmering in his eyes. Then he grasped the offered hand, warm fingers against his own, cold as stone, and was hoisted upright.
For a moment, they stood face to face, closer than they had been in a long time.
Shang Qinghua stared into Shen Qingqiu’s eyes, the crimson glow dimming with contained emotion.
“Are you… not afraid of me?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
Shen Qingqiu arched a brow, sharp as ever, he could have ended Shang with a flick, even now that half demon. Especially now that Shang was hungrier than ever. He would easily lose to a novice.
“I get scared when you make tea,” he answered. “This here still ranks lower.”
Shang Qinghua laughed, short, weary, but genuine.
Maybe he wasn’t alone in this. Maybe… there was still a way back, anchored in Shen Qingqiu’s outstretched hand, even as it felt like a trap. Shang’s fingers trembled, his reddened eyes narrowing in fragile uncertainty.
“You…” he swallowed hard, voice low and tense. “You really won’t kill me?”
Shen Qingqiu scoffed in annoyance, rolling his eyes as if the question itself was a personal offense.
“If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it down there. In a much more dramatic way—monologue and everything.”
Shang Qinghua blinked, flabbergasted. Shen Qingqiu crossed his arms, his fan dangling loosely from his fingers. Was it a joke? Shang Qinghua wondered, confused.
“Besides,” Shen Qingqiu added, shooting a sharp glance that softened as he looked at Shang Qinghua’s pale face, “you look… different.”
Shang’s eyes shot open again, fear returning with force.
“D-different how? Scary? Monstrous? Terrifying?”
Shen Qingqiu sighed.
“Beautiful.”
The sudden silence hit so hard that Shang Qinghua nearly stumbled.
“What?”
Shen Qingqiu looked away, annoyed by his own honesty, as if the compliment had slipped out without permission.
“Your eyes… they used to be brown, ordinary. Now… not bad. And your pale skin makes your freckles all the more alive. I never noticed how many you had.”
Shang Qinghua stared as if Shen Qingqiu had just told him he glowed in sunlight.
“You think… I’ve become handsome?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth!” Shen Qingqiu snapped immediately, raising the fan to hide part of his face and possibly the hint of a blush. “I said it hasn’t gotten worse. Just an objective cultivator’s observation.”
Shang Qinghua tried to suppress laughter, but a short, almost childish giggle escaped. He covered his mouth, embarrassed, and whispered:
“You’re so weird…”
“And you’re an idiot. Now come on.” Shen Qingqiu turned to climb the stairs. “We are going to fix this. And before you say a word: yes, I’m going to help you. Not just because you’re my shidi, but because…” he paused halfway up the stairs without looking back, “we’re friends. And I won’t let you run off and make bad decisions.”
Shang Qinghua paused, watching Shen Qingqiu’s retreating figure, heart cold but strangely light.
Maybe he still had a chance.