Chapter Text
"Shang-shishu and Shen-shishu are dating."
The sentence exploded in Mu Qingfang's mind as he left his leisure house that morning. The impact was immediate, as if the serenity of the peak had split in two.
The day seemed perfect, the rain from the previous night had left the air fresh, full of the scent of clean earth, a soft mist rested over the leaves and gardens, even the cold wind felt gentle, brushing against his skin. The timid sun filtered through the fog, offering a pale and calm light. Everything invited calm work, but the words echoed, shattering the harmony.
For a moment, Mu Qingfang wondered if he had really heard correctly. Gossip was common, he knew. The youth amused themselves with rumors of impossible romances, invented quarrels, secret admirations, often encouraged by the peak lords themselves, who did not bother to correct impressionable disciples.
But his head disciple was not one to give credit to empty chatter, so could there be some truth?
Mu Qingfang's heart pounded erratically, a burning rose through his chest, sharp and uncomfortable. His mind raced in opposite directions, disbelief, anger, painful curiosity.
"What?" he blurted out, surprise and a hint of sharpness in his voice.
The two whispering disciples turned to him, visibly alarmed, their eyes wide as if caught red-handed.
"Ah, Shizun! G-good morning, what a beautiful day!" Xie Yuan tried to mask it, but his yellowed smile betrayed his discomfort.
Mu Qingfang continued almost mechanically, as if his feet knew the way to the clinic without needing his mind. Xie Yuan followed, talking about the day's tasks, but his voice seemed distant, muffled by a haze.
"Shizun, I have prepared the list of herbs we need to restock, there are also two patients waiting since yesterday, one with persistent fever and another with chest pain…"
Even so, the initial sentence hammered in his mind, Shang-shishu and Shen-shishu dating.
During peak meetings, Mu Qingfang had noticed something, but nothing indicating romance, exchanged glances, short words in low voices, quick and subtle laughter. Perhaps just empathy between two often-overlooked masters, or companionship. Dating, however, was a chasm.
They do not match, he thought violently, trying to crush the poison before it could bloom. But a treacherous voice whispered, or do they?
Both were reserved, discreet, rarely asserting themselves in front of other peak lords. Perhaps shared fragility, perhaps a silent affinity that had grown into something more intimate. Mu Qingfang's stomach twisted and his mouth turned bitter.
A cruel memory came, at the end of the last meeting, they left together. A casual comment mentioned they had gone for tea. Tea. Simple, trivial, but now it seemed a confession of complicity.
Had Wei Qingwei commented?
Mu Qingfang remembered Wei Qingwei's sharp gaze, the natural way he spoke of Shang Qinghua, and the embarrassing moment when he assured him there was no romance between him and Qinghua. Relief and shame mingled in his memory.
"Shizun?" Xie Yuan called hesitantly. "Should I ask the disciples to go to the medicinal plant market tomorrow? We need to send the form to An Ding…"
Mu Qingfang blinked, awakening from a trance. Reality returned in fragments, the desk covered with notes, patient reports, the disciple beside him. But his heart still burned, aflame with a fire that would not go out.
And in his mind, in vicious circles, the same image, Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu side by side, leaning over a tea table, too close. Shang Qinghua could not be dating Shen Qingqiu, he could not.
Arriving at the clinic, the scent of herbs, the sound of bowls and vials, the warmth of the lamps, everything seemed normal, yet distant, muffled by an internal haze Mu Qingfang could not disperse.
“Shizun, the patient with chest pain has arrived,” Xie Yuan said, placing Bai Zhan’s disciple on the stretcher. The voice of the chief disciple seemed now to come from very far away, as if from another plane.
Mu Qingfang nodded automatically, picking up his equipment and adjusting his posture. His hands were precise, skilled, but his mind wandered constantly: Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu. Dating.
He remembered how Shang Qinghua had tilted his head, laughing softly at a joke only Shen Qingqiu had understood. He remembered the care with which Shen Qingqiu examined every detail of each report, their silent patience together.
It could not be. It was impossible that something so intimate, so personal, had developed between them. And yet, the memory of the tea after the last meeting persisted, invading his mind, leaving Mu Qingfang with a strange feeling of loss, of invisible betrayal.
He bent over the patient, examining him, trying to apply the correct treatment. But each touch on the herbs, every gesture of healing, seemed to echo with the memory of the two, a discreet touch of the hand, a quick, knowing glance, the softness of voices that only understood each other.
“Shizun, should I prepare the tea now or wait for the next patient?” Xie Yuan interrupted, worried about the prolonged silence.
Mu Qingfang took a deep breath, trying to focus, but his mind refused to cooperate. Rationalizing seemed useless: they were reclusive, quiet, discreet, but precisely because of that he wondered, with a mixture of fear and fascination, did they actually suit each other? Or was this closeness only routine, mutual respect?
Every time he closed his eyes for a moment, he saw Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu side by side, laughing quietly, discussing strategies, exchanging glances no one else would understand. Every gesture seemed harmless, even delicate, but deep inside, Mu Qingfang felt the burn of jealousy rising like a silent flame, crossing his skin, lodging in his chest. His heart raced, his throat dried, and his trembling fingers betrayed the control he tried to maintain. Even breathing seemed to require effort.
Shen Qingqiu had not been the same since the Qi deviation. There was something in his posture, in his now lighter and more generous tone of voice, that made him almost human, almost accessible. The Shen Qingqiu of the past never interacted, never laughed, treating Shang Qinghua with cutting coldness, impenetrable arrogance. Those two would never have come close. And now, this new Shen Qingqiu.
If Mu Qingfang thought rationally, he would understand that, of all possible evils, it was better to imagine them together, even only in his mind, than to confront the old version of Shen Qingqiu. But thinking about it was a silent torture.
He tried to work, but every gesture of healing, every movement that had once flowed automatically, now turned into painful memory: the way Shang Qinghua leaned toward Shen Qingqiu, the low laugh that broke the silence and drew the attention of the other martial brothers, who raised discussions that led nowhere, the silent intimacy forming between them. Jealousy, a feeling he had never imagined feeling for two masters who, by the logic of his life and his sect, could not, should not, evoke such emotions.
And yet, there he was, trapped in his own mind, unable to push away their image. As if every word whispered that morning had rooted in his thoughts, growing, multiplying, turning into a persistent echo refusing to quiet. Mu Qingfang felt swallowed, his body reacting on its own while his mind tried in vain to regain some control.
Mu Qingfang paused his care of the disciples and went to the small tea room where the tea was already prepared. Steam rose lazily from the cups, the familiar aroma of herbs invited him to focus, to seek some comfort. Xie Yuan followed silently, observing every gesture.
The disciple noticed something strange: his master was unusually quiet, distant, almost sharp. It was not in his nature to interrupt, so he carefully brought up a topic in a low, almost conspiratorial tone.
“Shizun, did you know that Shang-shishu slept at Shen Qingqiu’s house yesterday?”
Xie Yuan’s voice was curious but carried hope, as if trying to reach the master’s mind and find a reaction that explained that strange morning.
Mu Qingfang looked at him, and the silence that followed was almost physical. His expression was almost frightening, eyes fixed, eyebrows furrowed, a mix of anger, frustration, and deep sadness.
Xie Yuan swallowed hard, but before he could retreat, Mu Qingfang spoke firmly and sharply.
“Where did you get such nonsense, Xie Yuan? You must respect your shizuns and not spread these absurd rumors going around the sect.”
The intensity of his tone made the disciple tremble. He swore he had never heard Mu Qingfang speak like that, so dark, so authoritative. For a moment, he felt compelled to bow and lower himself, but pride and shock kept him frozen. He only blinked, stunned, hands slightly shaking.
“But Shizun, it’s not a rumor. This disciple and Mei Ling, from An Ding, we saw it this morning. She was going after her shizun, who had not returned to her leisure house or office since yesterday afternoon. I was going to get the Cang Jing list about healing books, and… we saw Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu at the door. They looked… inappropriate.”
The words came quickly from Xie Yuan, face flushed, heart racing, remembering the scene with the same intensity as when he saw it.
Mu Qingfang felt a sense of internal collapse. All the hope he had cultivated that morning died at once. The flutter in his stomach was not just jealousy, it was the certainty that something important had been broken, that perhaps, without realizing it, he had lost something he did not even know he had.
He stood there, in front of the cup of tea, unable to speak, unable to think clearly. His soul seemed to drain away, and the silence filled the room like a shadow that could not be banished.
Mu Qingfang gripped the teacup tightly, but did not feel the warmth. Xie Yuan’s words burned in his mind, repeating endlessly, echoing painfully:
“Shang-shishu and Shen-shishu… inappropriate.”
At first, he tried to rationalize. Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu had always been reclusive, reserved. They went for tea together after meetings, yes, but that meant nothing. Nothing. It was routine, mere courtesy between masters.
It cannot be… It cannot be happening…
And yet, the image invaded his mind like a persistent ghost: Shang Qinghua laughing softly, Shen Qingqiu leaning close, whispering something only for him to hear. Yesterday’s seemingly innocent scene now seemed charged with intentions, with a complicity Mu Qingfang did not know how to place.
He swallowed, trying to immerse himself in preparing the tea, in the details of the herbs, but everything seemed meaningless. Every act of caring for the disciples, every glance at Xie Yuan, was pierced by the memory of the two masters together, as if constantly spying on something forbidden.
“No… they cannot be… Dating? This is too serious. Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu do not match… Or do they?” he murmured to himself, unaware. Doubt throbbed in his chest, mixing anger, jealousy, and… fear.
Fear of what? Fear of losing something he did not even know he possessed? Fear that the silent, orderly world he knew had been suddenly invaded by something he could not understand or control?
Every detail, every memory of closeness between Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu, was amplified, transformed into an echo of invisible betrayal. He wanted to believe Xie Yuan was wrong, that it was only a misinterpretation, an exaggerated rumor… but he knew it was not that simple.
Mu Qingfang closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling with difficulty. His heart raced, and a deep sense of loss spread through his body. The certainty that something had changed, that he may already have crossed a line unknowingly, crushed all rationality.
When he opened his eyes, Xie Yuan was still standing there, looking at him apprehensively. But Mu Qingfang could not, at that moment, give him any answer other than harsh, precise, almost threatening, because the wound that had opened in his chest was his alone, and there were no words that could ease the pain, no explanations that would satisfy Xie Yuan.
Mu Qingfang held the teacup tightly, but did not feel the warmth. Xie Yuan’s words burned in his mind, repeating endlessly:
“Shang-shishu and Shen-shishu… inappropriate.”
The disciple stood there, watching him carefully, not daring to ask anything. But Mu Qingfang could think of nothing else but those words.
Inappropriate… how could they be appropriate?
His mind began to fill in the details. Was Shang Qinghua’s hair slightly tousled as usual, his robes slightly disheveled? Were his fingers still trembling lightly, flushed with some embarrassment? And Shen Qingqiu… red in the face, perhaps the neck slightly warm, as if he had tried not to show anything?
Signs of love… something on the shoulders, on the arms, skin too exposed… The image of the two together, too close, whispering, laughing softly, returned again and again, every gesture amplified by Mu Qingfang’s imagination. The smallest detail he could remember, imagine, or fear, an accidental touch of hands, a look held too long, seemed like a sign of something he did not want to admit.
He tried to look at Xie Yuan, seeking some confirmation, some clue that the disciple had misinterpreted. But Xie Yuan only swallowed hard, hands slightly shaking, speaking quickly, almost stumbling over his words about what they had observed.
Mu Qingfang felt his heart tighten, hope draining from his chest. All the calm morning, every cold breeze, every timid ray of sunlight, now seemed shrouded in a heavy shadow.
Curiosity mixed with pain, and every imagined detail of Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu together became a pang of jealousy, almost physical, that he did not know how to control.
Xie Yuan felt a chill as he realized his words had only worsened the master’s mood. Mu Qingfang stayed still, hand gripping his teacup, his mind elsewhere, too distant for any rational argument.
“W-we may have been mistaken… our martial uncles are good people…” Xie Yuan stammered softly, almost apologizing for his curiosity.
His words echoed, but Mu Qingfang paid no attention.
Only the heavy silence remained, filled with frustration and jealousy.
“We saw Shang Qinghua… he seemed different, and Shen Qingqiu too… it wasn’t like in the meetings. They were too close, too intimate. I swear, Shizun, I didn’t mean to look…” Xie Yuan spoke quickly, face flushed, hands trembling.
Every word deepened the shadow in Mu Qingfang’s chest, each detail a dagger in the hope he still clung to.
Mu Qingfang stared at his tea, every image Xie Yuan described igniting jealousy in his mind: Shang Qinghua’s messy hair, Shen Qingqiu’s flushed face, perhaps their hands brushing, their bodies too close. The silence was suffocating.
Finally, Mu Qingfang exhaled slowly, trying to release the whirlwind inside.
“Let it go,” he said sharply, voice dry, almost rough.
He rose, teacup trembling, every step heavy with frustration and jealousy he could not name. Xie Yuan remained silent, watching, knowing any word now would only worsen the tension. Mu Qingfang disappeared behind the office door, leaving only the scent of tea and a weight that would not lift anytime soon.