Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The disciples had barely recovered from the sight of their esteemed master single-handedly tearing a full bronze mirror from the wall when, to their mounting dread, they realized he fully intended to haul it all the way back to Qing Jing Peak.

“Shizun,” Ming Fan ventured cautiously, watching Shen Qingqiu stride ahead with the massive mirror slung across his shoulder like some deranged traveling peddler, “shouldn’t… shouldn’t we leave that object where it is?”

Shen Qingqiu did not so much as falter in his pace. His voice, cool and refined, flowed effortlessly, “And permit some other sect—or worse, passing opportunists—to claim it and put it to vile use? This Master would never allow such calamity to take root.”

…Except, of course, that was not what came out.

What came out of Shen Qingqiu's mouth was, “I need this mirror to beat Shang Qinghua over the head with it until he coughs up an explanation.”

Wait...what?!

The disciples nearly tripped over one another.

Shen Qingqiu flicked open his fan with a snap, concealing the faint heat spreading across his cheeks.

“Do not heed your Shizun’s nonsense,” he commanded. “Keep moving.”

And so, once his disciples had been sent off in confusion, Shen Qingqiu marched toward An Ding Peak, dragging the enormous mirror behind him like some stubborn mule possessed.

When Shang Qinghua’s shabby little residence came into view, the door creaked open. For a split second, it looked as if Shang Qinghua was about to step outside—but then his gaze fell on Shen Qingqiu hurtling toward him, a massive object at the ready.

With a strangled yelp, he ducked back inside like a man fleeing an avalanche and slammed the door. 

Shen Qingqiu’s lips curled. “You—coward!” He jabbed the bronze edge against the wood with sharp intent. “Open this door, or—”

His throat tightened, as if warning him not to throw around promises he had no intention of keeping.

Inside, Shang Qinghua pressed himself flat against the far wall, voice trembling. “Bro! Violence isn’t the answer! We can talk about this!”

“Talk?!” Shen Qingqiu all but hissed. The words tumbled out with no restraint. “Save your talk for my execution, when the peak lords discover I’m an impostor and—”

“???”

Shang Qinghua’s eyes bulged so wide they looked ready to leap from his skull. Forget being beaten to death—he was suddenly far more afraid of the consequences of Shen Qingqiu’s words being overheard.

In blind panic, Shang Qinghua wrenched the door open, grabbed Shen Qingqiu by the sleeve, and yanked him inside. He slammed it shut again with a bang that rattled the frame.

“Bro!” he hissed, scandalized. “Have you lost your mind?! You said that out loud! What if someone heard? What if the System heard?!”

Shen Qingqiu pressed his lips into a blood-thin line. He jabbed the mirror against the floor with a frustrated clack.

“The System will be the least of my problems when I spill all my guts to everyone I meet! If I don’t deal with this mirror now, I won’t even survive long enough for Luo Binghe to return. And it’s your fault!”

Shang Qinghua staggered back, glancing at him in confusion. “Wait… the mirror?..”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed. “What, you don’t recognize your own creation?”

Shang Qinghua fidgeted, sweat already sliding down his temple. “Well… I mean… it’s… big. And glowing. And ominous—”

“I’m going to kill you now,” Shen Qingqiu said evenly, mildly impressed that for once the words had come out the way he intended them to.

“…Okay, okay, I don’t remember that one!” Shang Qinghua flailed. “You know how long PIDW is! Hundreds of chapters! Random artifacts weren’t exactly a high priority for reader engagement. Bro, have mercy, alright? Why don’t you—why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

Shen Qingqiu let out a long, weary sigh and collapsed into the nearest chair with the grace of a martyr.

This had been nothing more than a simple mission—merely a training exercise for the senior disciples. Qing Jing Peak had been asked to assist a small allied sect in cleansing an abandoned ruin overrun with low-level ghosts. Rumor claimed the place once held a formation library. Naturally, Shen Qingqiu felt the tug of curiosity. 

All went smoothly, almost boringly—until a faint voice echoed from the basement.

“Shizun!”

At once, Shen Qingqiu descended the steps. His fan snapped shut as he gestured for his disciples to remain behind.

“What is it, Yingying?”

Ning Yingying’s voice trembled, though she kept her posture dutifully upright. She pointed toward the far wall. “Shizun, there are ripples… the stone itself is stirring, and it gives off a strange energy.”

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes. Indeed, the qi was odd, foreign. He advanced carefully. Dust swirled thick in the air, but beneath it the object revealed itself: a massive bronze mirror, ancient, heavy, unmistakably dangerous.

“Did you touch it?” he asked, voice calm but firm, studying her carefully.

Ning Yingying shook her head quickly. “No, Shizun. This disciple only glimpsed it and immediately called for Shizun, just as he taught us.”

His expression softened minutely. He inclined his head. “Good. That was exactly the right thing to do. Never let curiosity outweigh caution, especially in places like this.”

Ning Yingying beamed at the praise.

At that moment, one of his little terrors—Li Zeyan, whom Shen Qingqiu had specifically ordered to stay put—came blundering down the stairs.

“Ah—!”

In his clumsy tumble, crates toppled and books scattered. A displaced talisman shot loose a wild pulse of qi.

“Careful!” Shen Qingqiu warned, but it was too late.

The qi slammed into the mirror with a resonant crack. Fractures spider-webbed across its surface. Energy surged back with cruel precision—straight into the nearest target.

Shen Qingqiu.

He barely had time to think, Of course it hits me. Why would it hit anyone else?

The impact seared through him. For one unbearable instant, his meridians seized as though they had been locked in iron chains. It was disturbingly familiar—like the first time No Cure had swallowed him whole.

But the sensation vanished as suddenly as it came, leaving him rattled, his skin cold, his pulse erratic. Had he imagined it?

Shen Qingqiu steadied himself with his fan, exhaling quietly.

The crash summoned the disciples at once. Footsteps thundered on the stairs, voices overlapping.

“Shizun!”

“Shizun, what happened?!”

“Shimei, are you hurt?!”

Ning Yingying sat dazed on the ground, the impact having knocked her off her feet. Li Zeyan reached out a hand, cheeks red with guilt.

“Shijie, are you alright?”

She accepted the help and brushed dust from her skirts. “This disciple is well. It was Shizun who bore the brunt of it.”

The moment she said it, all eyes whipped to Shen Qingqiu.

“Shizun, where does it hurt?”

“Should this disciple summon a healer immediately?”

They crowded around, their earnest little faces brimming with panic.

Shen Qingqiu straightened, smoothing his sleeves with all the dignity he could muster. He opened his mouth, fully intending to say: This Shizun is perfectly fine. There is no need for alarm.

What came out instead was:

“I feel like I’m about to keel over and die on the spot. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

…Huh?!

The disciples froze, wide-eyed.

“Shizun is dying?!”

“No, no, Shizun, stay with us!”

“Quick—someone, go to Qian Cao!”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan wavered in his grip.

Excellent. Wonderful. Announce my impending death in front of the children, why don’t I. Next I’ll be blurting out spoilers for the rest of their lives.

He cleared his throat and steadied his expression into serenity. “Enough, all of you.”

The disciples froze mid-frenzy, clinging to his words.

“This Shizun is not in need of a healer,” he said gently. That, at least, was true. He wasn’t in need of one.

The little faces around him, wide with worry, did not ease.

“But, Shizun…” one began timidly, “just now you said—”

“I said,” Shen Qingqiu cut in smoothly, “that the experience was extremely unpleasant. Which it was.” 

Unpleasant?? Understatement of the century! 

He raised his fan, gesturing lightly toward the stairs. “Go back up. The qi of this place is unsettled. Ming Fan, watch over your shimei and shidi. This Shizun will examine matters further.”

“But Shizun…” Ming Fan began, worried eyes fixed on him.

“Stay above, keep watch, and wait for your Shizun’s word.” Shen Qingqiu repeated.

Reluctantly, one by one, the disciples bowed. “Yes, Shizun.”

As soon as the last green robe hem disappeared up the stairs and their footsteps faded, the serenity drained from Shen Qingqiu’s face like ink from spilled water.

He lunged toward the mirror. His hands swept frantically over the surface, smearing away decades of dust and cobwebs until the bronze gleamed dully beneath his touch.

There—along the frame, half-hidden under grime—characters emerged.

To cleanse the heart is to face the self

Shen Qingqiu leaned close, lips moving as he traced the inscription with his fingertips.

His stomach dropped.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Shang Qinghua’s voice broke through Shen Qingqiu’s spiraling thoughts. “Ah… I remember now. That’s the Mirror of Forthright Reflection.”

Shen Qingqiu’s brow furrowed. “…The Mirror of Forthright Reflection? Why don’t I remember that?”

Shang Qinghua rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “It was supposed to appear in chapter… uh… 378, I think. But it had to be cut from the final version to make room for… more important descriptions.”

Shen Qingqiu’s frown deepened. “…More important descriptions?” His gaze darkened slightly as memories flickered. “You mean that seven-page-long papapa exposition—”

“Right, so—” Shang Qinghua waved a hand nervously. “Look, the mirror itself was originally created by righteous cultivators as a teaching tool for disciples. It was supposed to help young cultivators ‘cleanse their hearts.’ The idea was that when someone looked into it, they could comprehend the truth and accept it.”

Shen Qingqiu hummed thoughtfully, brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead. “And yet it’s been sitting in that basement for who knows how long, absorbing… yin energy. It probably seeped in over the years and twisted its function.”

Shang Qinghua’s eyes lit up as if he’d just had a sudden insight. “Ah! Exactly! So it binds your tongue with a curse of truth!”

Shen Qingqiu turned slowly, lips pressing into a thin line, gaze sharp enough to pierce through stone. 

“…Wait—no, no, that came out wrong—”

“I don't see what you're so happy about. My inability to keep my mouth shut is a problem we share, and you—yes, you—will see exactly how long your little cover as a spy lasts.”

Shang Qinghua’s face went pale. Cold sweat broke out on his temples. “W-wait! No—oh gods, this is bad! This is really bad! We need a plan! Like, immediately! Something has to be done!”

Shen Qingqiu watched silently as Shang Qinghua paced back and forth, hands tugging at his hair. Shen Qingqiu suppressed a groan and pressed a hand to his own forehead.

“Alright,” he said evenly. “How do we break the curse?”

Shang Qinghua froze mid-step, eyes widening. “Break it?! Uh—okay, let me think. So… the wife… yes, she—she confesses her love to Luo Binghe, and he… uh, takes her into his harem… then—well, you know—lots of… passionate… papapa… and everything resolves because she’s finally honest about her feelings!”

Shen Qingqiu’s lips pressed into a thin line. A faint grimace tugged at the corner of his mouth. Honestly, not surprised at all.

“…And you’re suggesting I… do what, exactly? Confess my love to whom? There’s no one here for me to confess to.”

Shang Qinghua waved his hands desperately. “Wait! Maybe it doesn’t have to be a love confession! Maybe you just… confess something to me! Like, tell me a truth, any truth! That should satisfy the mirror, right?”

For a moment, Shen Qingqiu allowed himself to consider the idea. Then the curse pulsed, the mirror glimmering faintly as if sensing an opportunity. 

Before he could even think better of it, the words tumbled out:

“I’ve been holding back the urge to throttle Shang Qinghua for years, but this might be the day I give in.”

There was a long, tense silence. Shang Qinghua’s shoulders twitched as he finally spoke, cautiously, almost whispering. “Uh… are you… feeling any better?”

Shen Qingqiu’s voice was flat. “Not a bit.”

Shang Qinghua swallowed and then began pacing again, muttering under his breath. “We’re doomed. Absolutely doomed. Maybe it has to be a certain secret, or directed at a certain person… but while we figure that out, you shouldn’t talk to anyone. Maybe… we could just tell everyone you have a sore throat or something?”

Shen Qingqiu shook his head slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…Then Mu Qingfang will definitely want to examine me, and our little lie will be exposed in an instant.”

Panic surged again across Shang Qinghua’s face. “Then… can you… I mean… could you remain silent?”

The curse pulsed immediately, as if laughing. The words ripped themselves from Shen Qingqiu’s mouth before he could stop them.

“No.”

Shang Qinghua’s knees nearly buckled. “…No?!”

Shen Qingqiu let out a long, flat hum, glaring at the bronze surface. “…Of course. Naturally. The only way to avoid telling the truth is to avoid meeting anyone who might talk to me.”

…And I have no idea how to do that.

A sudden knock at the door made both of them jump. Shang Qinghua’s voice cracked as he barked, “Uh—yes! Come in!”

The door creaked open, and an An Ding disciple stepped into the room, bowing low. “This disciple brings a message: the sect leader requests Shizun’s presence.”

Shang Qinghua froze for a heartbeat—then his eyes widened as he remembered he had originally intended to deliver the reports. “Ah—yes, yes, of course! I was just about to see him,” he stammered, waving a hand toward the door.

Then he spun toward Shen Qingqiu, forcing a nervous smile. “See you later... Shixiong.”

Shen Qingqiu raised a brow, voice dry as dust. “…See me later, then.”

Shang Qinghua bolted toward the door, muttering under his breath, “God… please let me survive this…”

Shen Qingqiu remained, eyes fixed on the mirror, already calculating how long it would take before the next interruption forced yet another truth out of him.

He’s so, so screwed.

***

The bamboo house did not keep him safe for long. 

For a shichen, Shen Qingqiu sat at his table, fanning himself in futile composure while his mind scrambled for a way out of this ridiculous predicament.

He drummed his fingers on the table, recalling the numerous instances in Proud Immortal Demon Way where some unfortunate character had been forced into blurting out their innermost secrets. The author had neither the originality nor the shame to avoid recycling the same tired gimmick over and over again. Every arc, someone was compelled to spill their guts—and every time, that was the only way forward.

Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky could never meet a dead horse without enthusiastically beating it.

If Airplane’s writing habits were anything to go by, then Shen Qingqiu’s fate was already sealed. But he refused to accept such a lazy ending. Surely there had to be a workaround. A cheat.

This world was riddled with them, after all. 

There was the Jade of Clear Silence—but it was sealed away in the secret vaults of the Western Empire. And the Silver Night-Blooming Orchid only blossomed under a full moon in midsummer, and it was currently early spring.

Where was the System when it was needed?! He tried calling it—mentally yelling into the void like a customer stuck on hold—but it remained treacherously silent. Not even a “ding!” Not even a sarcastic remark. Perhaps, if it had stirred itself, it would have thrown him a hint or at least a mission prompt.

The root of all his problems stood mutely in the corner, leaning against the wall, as if mocking him. Even when covered, its presence pressed against his nerves.

Shen Qingqiu was running out of time to think and was beginning to feel despair.

So far, no one had come looking for him. He prayed it would be later rather than sooner, and that if anyone did come, it would only be his curious children, easily redirected with a few right words.

What he did not expect was the knock of a Qiong Ding Peak disciple on his door.

“This disciple brings word: the sect leader asks if Shen Shishu is well enough to attend today’s meeting of the Peak Lords.”

Shen Qingqiu froze.

…Meeting? But it's supposed to be—oh, right. Today.

Apparently, rumors of his little rampage on An Ding Peak had reached Yue Qingyuan, and the ever-concerned sect leader—long accustomed to the theatrics of the original Shen Qingqiu—had decided to test the waters.

To be perfectly honest, Shen Qingqiu had completely forgotten about the meeting. And in light of current circumstances, attending a full assembly of Peak Lords was about as advisable as handing himself over to Luo Binghe with a ribbon tied around his neck.

Unfortunately, the curse chose that moment to sink its claws in.

“This Master is in good health,” he heard himself say.

The disciple bowed deeply. “Then this disciple will inform the sect leader to expect Shen Shishu’s presence.”

He retreated swiftly, the door closing quietly behind him.

The moment silence fell, Shen Qingqiu let his forehead drop against the table with a dull thunk. He groaned into the wood.

Now there was no way out.

Skipping the meeting was technically an option, but that would only make matters worse in the long run.

Shen Qingqiu needed a plan. Fortunately, he was good at plans. This one was simple: avoid direct questions, avoid unnecessary conversation, and keep his mouth shut. The curse only acted up when prompted—it wasn’t as if he was spilling hot takes every ten seconds.

So: sit down, stay quiet, endure a few hours of boring sect politics, then retreat in one piece. Not that difficult.

Except, apparently, it was.

When Shen Qingqiu arrived at Qiong Ding Peak’s great hall, the only open seat was between Mu Qingfang and—of all people—Liu Qingge.

Shen Qingqiu’s steps faltered.

Really? Really?!

Why was Liu Qingge even here? The War God of Bai Zhan was such a rare guest at these gatherings that most Peak Lords had long stopped expecting him altogether. Aside from Shen Qingqiu himself, Liu Qingge was perhaps the only person who could regularly skip these meetings without consequence—mostly because he was literally impossible to pin down in one place. And yet today, of all days, he had chosen to grace them with his presence? Shouldn’t he be off somewhere slaying demonic beasts, or rescuing wide-eyed peasant girls from bandits?

Honestly, pick a lane, bro.

Weighing his chances, Shen Qingqiu began to pivot on his heel, fully prepared to retreat to the safety of his bamboo house and fake a sudden illness. That was when Yue Qingyuan materialized at his side with impeccable timing.

“Shidi,” Yue Qingyuan greeted warmly, one hand resting on Shen Qingqiu’s arm as though to anchor him in place. “It gladdens me to see you in good health. Please, be seated. We may begin.”

There was no escape.

Shen Qingqiu’s face twitched into a strained smile, and with the dignity of a condemned prisoner walking to the chopping block, he trudged toward the empty chair. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Shang Qinghua across the hall, lips pressed so tight they’d gone white, forehead already shining with sweat. Their gazes met. He mouthed something that looked suspiciously like we’re dead, before ducking his head again.

Shen Qingqiu sank into the chair, flicking his fan open in one smooth motion and raising it to obscure his expression. He fixed his gaze firmly on the table, determined not to so much as glance at Liu Qingge beside him.

Fortunately, Yue Qingyuan cleared his throat and began the meeting, his steady voice cutting cleanly through the hall. “Let us start with logistics.” His gaze shifted pointedly toward Shang Qinghua.

There was a long, painful pause before Shang Qinghua startled, nearly dropping the sheaf of papers in his hands. “Ah—yes! Logistics!” He fumbled one page free. “An Ding Peak has worked very hard, truly! This month, revenue from spiritual herb sales is… ah… respectable, though perhaps the accounting talismans may have, er, smudged a few zeroes here and there…”

A collective sigh rippled through the room.

Shen Qingqiu let the droning wash over him. Slowly, cautiously, he began to relax. If the meeting kept rolling along like this—boring numbers, perfunctory updates—he might actually make it through alive without blurting out anything incriminating.

Naturally, the heavens despised him.

“…What does Shen Shidi think?”

Shen Qingqiu’s head snapped up. Yue Qingyuan was looking directly at him, brow faintly furrowed in expectation. The sect leader must have been asking for his thoughts on some matter, the context of which he absolutely missed.

But the curse took the words literally.

“I was thinking this whole meeting could’ve been a text message.”

When the meaning of his own words finally sank in, Shen Qingqiu wished—not for the first time—that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Silence descended over the hall like a thick, suffocating blanket. The only sound was a faint, strangled wheeze that sounded suspiciously like Shang Qinghua.

Yue Qingyuan blinked slowly.

“Text… message?”

Somehow, hearing it from the Sect Leader made it sound even more absurd.

Shen Qingqiu’s hand reflexively went to his fan. He snapped it open and began fanning himself aggressively, hoping to drive away the heat creeping up his face. Of course, doing so also risked flinging himself into the air, so he quickly stilled.

He tried to extricate himself. “Ah… what I mean is—” He stopped mid-syllable. 

Of course. The curse wouldn’t let him come up with an excuse. 

However, Shen Qingqiu was pleasantly surprised to find that it didn't force him to burst forth into explanations about the benefits of mobile communications. This could mean that if the question wasn't clearly formulated, Shen Qingqiu wouldn't have to answer it.

Every pair of eyes in the room fixed on him, some politely restrained, some openly curious. He imagined the mental notes being taken: Shen Qingqiu, remarkably frank. Possibly insane.

Faintly, he could hear Shang Qinghua muttering under his breath: “We’re dead… we’re so dead…”

Luckily, Yue Qingyuan seemed to take pity on him—or perhaps decided that pressing him further would be pointless. With a faint smile, the sect leader cleared his throat.

“Let us review the grain and supply allocations for the northern peaks,” Yue Qingyuan said, glancing pointedly at Shang Qinghua. “Shang Shidi, you may continue with your report.”

Shen Qingqiu sank lower into his chair, hoping to disappear into the upholstery. He could practically feel Liu Qingge’s gaze boring into him. Shen Qingqiu tightened his grip on his fan and prayed inwardly.

Please, please, let this meeting end quickly...

After what felt like an eternity, the meeting finally began to wind down. Peak Lords stretched stiff limbs, muttered to their neighbors, and gathered their scrolls. Shen Qingqiu seized the opportunity.

He nearly made it to the door—nearly.

A firm hand shot out, catching him by the sleeve. Liu Qingge, expression unreadable but presence as imposing as ever, looked down at him. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

Shen Qingqiu’s mouth moved before he could stop it.

“This Shixiong… is rushing to the bamboo house, barricading himself inside, and never emerging again,” he blurted.

Liu Qingge raised a single, perfectly arched eyebrow. “You do realize I am supposed to be cleansing your meridians today?”

Shen Qingqiu froze. “Ah… right.” It had completely slipped his mind. “This Shixiong… has not.”

A long, resigned sigh escaped Liu Qingge, as though he had already accepted all the calamities his careless shixiong might produce in a single day. Without further ado, he gestured for Shen Qingqiu to follow, and the two made their way toward Qing Jing Peak.

***

Steam curled lazily from the spout of the porcelain teapot as Shen Qingqiu set it on the low table. He poured tea for Liu Qingge, then for himself, watching the clear amber liquid swirl.

If I sprinted for the window right now… Shen Qingqiu’s gaze lingered on the bamboo lattice, measuring the distance, calculating the odds. Five steps, maybe six. But even if I made it—what then? Liu Qingge would catch me before my feet left the sill. It would be the shortest—and most humiliating—escape attempt in history.

He dismissed the thought with a sigh and lowered himself onto the cushion across from his shidi. Perhaps, while they drank tea, he could salvage a few precious moments to think through a plan.

Liu Qingge, apparently unbothered by etiquette, lifted his cup and downed the tea in a single gulp, as though it were a shot of baijiu.

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “...”

He could not resist a mild reproach. “Shidi, that is not how one drinks tea,” he said. “If it lingers in the mouth, one might actually taste it. There is no point to fine leaves if they vanish like water.”

Liu Qingge set the cup down with a quiet clink. His expression didn’t change in the slightest. “It served its purpose,” he said simply. 

Shen Qingqiu pinched the bridge of his nose. Right. 

Liu Qingge extended his hand across the table, palm up, waiting.

Shen Qingqiu knew this ritual well—he was expected to place his hand there, and allow the cleansing to begin. Warm, calloused fingers closed around his wrist.

Then Liu Qingge’s gaze flicked past him, narrowing toward the corner of the room.

“What is that?” 

Shen Qingqiu’s pulse leapt violently.

Oh no. Oh no no no—

How could he have forgotten about the enormous cursed artifact that was supposed to be hidden instead of sitting in plain sight like a guest of honor?

And, naturally, the curse decided to lend a helping hand.

“That,” Shen Qingqiu heard himself say, “is a cursed mirror that forces a person to tell the truth.”

He silently prayed to every deity he could think of that Liu Qingge would not press for details.

But his shidi apparently was in an unusually talkative mood. “If it is cursed, why is it not with Mo Qingluo?”

Shen Qingqiu had thought of this himself, of course. Hand it off to the Fu Ming Peak—the sect’s foremost authority on curses and sinister relics—and let Mo Qingluo puzzle it out. But then word would inevitably reach Yue Qingyuan, and the last thing Shen Qingqiu needed was his sect leader fluttering about like a worried hen.

“I have it,” Shen Qingqiu said flatly, the words ripped from him, “because I am cursed. And I have no intention of making that public.”

A short, taut silence followed.

Liu Qingge’s expression remained unchanged, though his grip on Shen Qingqiu’s wrist tightened fractionally.

“…Cursed,” he repeated, slowly.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Shen Qingqiu said quickly. His own mouth had betrayed him once again, but this time it wasn’t the curse. 

Liu Qingge’s gaze did not waver. 

“I will not,” he said with quiet determination, as if taking an oath. His hand remained steady on Shen Qingqiu’s wrist. “If this is what you fear,” he added calmly, “I will not take advantage of your situation.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked, stunned into silence for a moment. How could he have doubted—even for a single instant—the integrity and conscience of the War God of Bai Zhan?

He felt his shoulders loosen for the first time that day. He lowered his gaze to the low table, tracing the rim of his tea cup with his fingers.

“This Shixiong… is grateful,” he murmured. 

He hesitated, then added, almost reluctantly, “When… when asked a direct question… I cannot resist the call of the curse.”

“Have you…” Liu Qingge paused as if reconsidering. “You don’t know how to lift this curse,” he finally said, phrasing it as a statement rather than a question. 

“This Shixiong… has thought of methods,” he admitted, voice low, careful. “But…” His hands tightened around the tea cup. “…their success is uncertain, and attempting them might draw attention I’d rather avoid.”

“If you need my help,” Liu Qingge said simply, “you have it.”

Shen Qingqiu felt a rush of gratitude he could barely contain. He lowered his gaze to the table, chest tight with a mix of relief and awe. 

How did I deserve such a good friend?

And,
Why, oh why, did Airplane have to kill off a character this great?

Liu Qingge’s quiet support spurred a spark of determination within Shen Qingqiu. 

“In that case,” Shen Qingqiu raised his head, meeting Liu Qingge’s gaze, “what would Liu Shidi say about chopping off a couple of demon heads?”

The corner of Liu Qingge’s lips lifted ever so slightly—a rare, fleeting smile—and Shen Qingqiu’s heart stuttered. He carefully stored the image in his mental archive.

“I would say that you should have start with it.”

Chapter Text

The sun had barely begun to crest the horizon when a knock echoed against the door of the bamboo house.

Shen Qingqiu, cocooned in blankets, scowled into his pillow. At this hour, any visitor had forfeited their right to courtesy. Whoever it was could roll into a ditch for all he cared. He pulled the quilt over his head until only a messy strand of hair stuck out.

The knock came again. Harder.

“Get out!” Shen Qingqiu barked without opening his eyes.

For a blissful moment, silence returned. He allowed his breathing to even out, sinking back toward the edges of sleep—

Bang! The door slammed open, and heavy footsteps advanced toward his bed. A single sharp tug, and the blanket was torn away. The morning chill bit instantly through his thin nightclothes, and Shen Qingqiu shivered, curling his arms around himself. 

Blinking sleep from his eyes, he saw blue-and-white robes swimming into focus.

“…Liu Shidi?” Shen Qingqiu croaked. His throat was dry. “What time is it?”

“Mao Shi,” Liu Qingge replied evenly.

Shen Qingqiu’s mind sluggishly translated: the third quarter of the mao hour. About five in the morning.

“…Five?” Shen Qingqiu nearly wept. “Why—why in all heavens are you waking me at five in the morning?”

Liu Qingge stood straight-backed, utterly unmoved by his pitiful display. “Almost two shichen’s flight. If we want to strike before the beast retreats to its den at noon, you should start dressing now.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him in mute disbelief. 

After a few moments of silent staring, Shen Qingqiu finally asked, “Shidi… do you intend to watch this Shixiong get dressed, or is this your way of volunteering to assist?”

Liu Qingge choked on air, a sharp sputter escaping his throat.

“You—” He snapped his mouth shut, opened it again, and shut it once more. The tips of his ears turned red, the color seeping down the line of his jaw.

For a brief moment, Shen Qingqiu, still half-asleep, thought—

Cute.

Liu Qingge cleared his throat, finally regaining composure. “I will wait outside,” he said gruffly. “If you do not emerge within one ke I will drag you out by the scruff of the neck, regardless of what you are wearing.”

Without waiting for an answer, Liu Qingge turned sharply on his heel and strode out the door in righteous anger. 

Shen Qingqiu let out a slow breath. His shidi must have felt insulted. Maybe he went a bit overboard, especially when Liu Qingge was, after all, helping him. But honestly. Waking someone before chen shi? At that hour, even the birds had the sense to keep quiet. Liu Qingge could not expect him to be in a good mood.

Shen Qingqiu cast one last, sorrowful look at the warm bed, so soft, so inviting, so unfairly abandoned, before blowing a stubborn strand of hair out of his eyes and dragging himself upright. After all, Liu Qingge had given him fifteen minutes. He had no doubt that his shidi would keep his word if he lingered even a breath longer.

A full ke later, Shen Qingqiu finally emerged into the courtyard and paused.

Liu Qingge stood waiting, straight-backed and still, his figure framed by swaying bamboo stalks. His lashes cast shadows like fine brushstrokes across his skin. The rising sun cast its rays on his cheekbones, making them look as if they were carved from jade. His blue-and-white robes stirred in the morning breeze, bright against the green of the grove.

He looked as though he’d stepped straight out of a painting. An immortal cultivator, unattainable in his splendor.

Noticing him at last, Liu Qingge summoned his sword with a smooth flick of his hand. In one effortless motion he leapt onto it, landing as if it were solid earth beneath his boots. He looked back expectantly, waiting for Shen Qingqiu to follow suit.

But something in Shen Qingqiu’s expression must have betrayed him, because Liu Qingge gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“It will be faster on my sword,” he said. Then, after a pause, his eyes narrowed faintly. “And safer. I don’t believe you wouldn’t fall asleep mid-flight and plummet to your death.”

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Annoyingly, his shidi had a point. 

With no better defense than a wounded huff, he placed his hand in Liu Qingge’s outstretched one and climbed onto the sword beside him.

Shen Qingqiu had been in this world for years now, long enough to grow used to all its peculiarities, but flying was something that still stole his breath every time. The air rushing against his skin, clouds streaming by at arm’s length. How could anyone ever call this ordinary?

Below them, the bamboo grove fell away, replaced by rippling forests and silver veins of rivers, the distant peaks looming on the horizon.

In his past life, the only time he had left the ground was strapped into a cramped airplane seat, breathing recycled air and pretending not to notice the baby shrieking two rows behind him. This—this was nothing like that. 

Here, the sky itself spread wide and unbounded, close enough to touch. This was freedom.

A flock of wild cranes cut across their path. They swept past so near that Shen Qingqiu could make out the delicate feather patterns along their wings. His fingers twitched; hands itched with the childish urge to reach. He managed to restrain himself… mostly. Judging by the sidelong look Liu Qingge cast him, he hadn’t hidden it as well as he thought.

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat at once, spine snapping straight, arranging his face into the dignified mask of a Peak Lord. “Ahem.”

He leaned the slightest bit closer, telling himself it was only so the wind wouldn’t carry off his words.

“Shidi,” he said, his voice lower now, “thank you. For agreeing to help. You probably had more important things to do.”

Shen Qingqiu had never had anyone he could rely on before. At best, there were forum acquaintances, fleeting usernames who disappeared once the thread scrolled on. 

Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder why the System had chosen him at all—whether it was a punishment or some kind of blessing. It let him hide beneath the shining veneer of a xianxia dream, to wear the mask of a learned, powerful, and wise Peak Lord. But beneath the layers of silk and ceremony, he was still the same—pathetic, anxious recluse who had achieved nothing of note, and left behind no one who would even notice his absence.

Liu Qingge's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “It is nothing.”

He shrugged his shoulders as if batting away a fly, but the tips of his ears flushed faintly red.

Shen Qingqiu smiled softly. “I also greatly value your… discretion to my situation,” he added. “Another Peak Lord might have been tempted to pry.” 

Liu Qingge’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, but his voice was resolute. “Your secrets belong only to you,” he said. “Share them if you wish. If not—no one has the right to take them.”

Of course, Shen Qingqiu mused silently, Airplane had to kill this man in the original novel. Luo Binghe’s harem would never have grown to such proportions if the War God of Bai Zhan had simply walked the earth.

The cave mouth came into view first, yawning like a jagged scar against the mountainside. The place which, according to Shen Qingqiu's calculations, the Spine-Crowned Myriapod inhabited. 

Liu Qingge guided his sword down, setting them onto solid earth. He drew the blade, fingers tight on the hilt.

“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said in warning, “Remember to stay away from its venom. It paralyzes the meridians and severs spiritual flow in a matter of seconds.”

Liu Qingge gave a curt nod.

They stepped into the cave, the air damp and close. The scent of earth mixed with a faint copper tang that clung to the back of the throat.

Shen Qingqiu drew his sword, the blade steady in his grip if not half as intimidating as Liu Qingge’s. He moved cautiously ahead, feeling for the faint thrum of demonic qi beneath the ground—the pulse of the Myriapod’s spines, ticking like a clock.

“Keep to the edges,” Shen Qingqiu whispered. “The center is dead ground. It collapses tunnels deliberately. One misstep and we—”

A low rumble rippled through the cavern. Dust drifted from the ceiling, and the ground buckled beneath them. Shen Qingqiu clutched a loose vine along the wall like a lifeline.

They exchanged glances.

With a sharp crack, thirty zhang of armored chitin forced its way up through the floor, violet veins glowing as they pulsed beneath its armor. Its mandibles snapped with a sound like shattering metal. 

Liu Qingge didn’t flinch. In one clean motion, he vaulted forward. Sparks leapt where steel met armor.

“Not the shell!” Shen Qingqiu called, already retreating to give him room. “The crown-spines—strike the ridges!”

Liu Qingge’s answer was a blur of motion. His sword carved through the air, a relentless rhythm of strikes, each aimed with surgical precision at the spines. The beast shrieked.

Shen Qingqiu really should have kept his eyes on the battlefield, but when Liu Qingge moved, it was nearly impossible to look elsewhere. 

Each strike of his sword was clean, absolute. His movements flowed from one to the next without hesitation, every motion honed by decades of ruthless discipline. The sheer force of his blade split stone, drove back armored segments, and shattered demonic qi barriers that should have been impervious.

Watching Liu Qingge fight was like watching the very best kind of wuxia film—except every flash of steel was real, every motion born from blood and grit.

Even the demonic Myriapod seemed diminished by comparison. Against such martial perfection, its massive body looked clumsy, its strength wasted. Liu Qingge danced on its armored ridges as though the heavens themselves had paved him a stage.

But the Myriapod adapted. It slammed its massive body down, collapsing part of the cavern floor. The ground pitched beneath them, nearly throwing Shen Qingqiu from his feet. Dust clouded the air.

“It’s trying to bury us alive!” Shen Qingqiu shouted. “Keep it above ground—it loses speed there!”

Liu Qingge was winning. All it took was a couple of clean cuts and it would be over. Shen Qingqiu didn't even have to help.

But then, in a last desperate effort, the beast opened its mandibles wide. A spray of venom arced through the air, aimed perfectly to meet Liu Qingge mid-strike.

Shen Qingqiu’s blood ran cold. He saw it clearly: Liu Qingge was mid-motion, no time to dodge. If it hit him—his qi would collapse, his body paralyzed. The Myriapod would tear him apart.

No choice.

Shen Qingqiu moved. His hand shot up, summoning a shield of spiritual energy just long enough to intercept the spray. The ichor splashed across it, sizzling through layers of defense like acid through silk. It burned against his skin even through the barrier, a cold fire that sank into his meridians.

Pain lanced through him. His qi stuttered, sluggish and unresponsive. His breath caught in his throat.

“Shen Qingqiu!” Liu Qingge’s voice was sharp, angrier than he had ever heard it. His sword cleaved the air with renewed ferocity, each strike now savage, desperate. 

The Myriapod reeled beneath the onslaught, its massive body crashing against the ground. The segmented legs continued to twitch for a few more moments before it went limp for good. 

Shen Qingqiu swayed on his feet. He barely registered Liu Qingge crossing the space between them in two strides, catching his arm with surprising gentleness.

“You—idiot,” Liu Qingge growled, but his hands braced Shen Qingqiu as if he were made of glass. “Why would you—”

Liu Qingge cut himself off, biting down on the rest. His jaw flexed, but he said nothing more. Instead, he eased Shen Qingqiu down onto a flat rock with surprising care. His hand closed around Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, probing the state of his meridians.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t need Liu Qingge’s verdict; he could already feel it. His qi was leaking away like water from a fractured jar, sluggish and thin.

“This Shixiong is fine,” he said, forcing his voice light. “A couple of days’ rest and I’ll be as good as new.”

Which wasn't technically a lie. 

Liu Qingge shook his head, expression grim. He finally looked up, and his gaze was sharp, almost accusing.

“You shouldn’t have interfered.”

“If I hadn’t, it would’ve been you instead,” Shen Qingqiu countered at once. “And then what? Both of us dragged down. Hardly an improvement.”

Liu Qingge’s lips parted, a protest forming. But before he could speak, the edges of Shen Qingqiu’s vision wavered as though the cave itself tilted around him. Liu Qingge’s hand steadied his shoulder instantly.

“We’re leaving,” he said, already rising to his feet.

Shen Qingqiu caught his sleeve. “Wait.”

Liu Qingge stilled, eyes flashing down at him.

“The crown-thorns,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, fumbling a qiankun pouch from his sleeve and pressing it into Liu Qingge’s hand. His fingers curled around his shidi’s palm, insistent despite the tremor in his own. “Could Shidi collect them for me?”

For a moment Liu Qingge hesitated, gaze darting from the pouch back to Shen Qingqiu. Then, wordless, he moved to the beast’s carcass, his blade slicing cleanly through the hardened spines. 

When the job was done, he slid the pouch back into Shen Qingqiu’s sleeve, then bent without hesitation to pull him to his feet. His arm braced firmly around Shen Qingqiu’s waist.

Together, they stepped out of the cave and into the thin, cold light of morning.

Since Liu Qingge couldn’t risk flying fast with Shen Qingqiu swaying half-unconscious on the sword, they decided to stay nearby. A small town lay only two li away, and fortune favored them: on its edge, a shabby little inn still had one spare room.

Shen Qingqiu had only the faintest impression of the journey. His thoughts swam in and out of focus, the fever already nipping at the edges of his mind. One moment, gray cave walls were at his side; the next, he was being eased down onto a creaking bed.

“What can I do?” Liu Qingge’s voice was close, tight with urgency.

The curse stirred. Shen Qingqiu rasped, “Stay.”

“I won’t go anywhere,” Liu Qingge promised immediately.

Cool hands pressed against his burning cheeks. Shen Qingqiu let his eyes close, leaning into the touch with a shudder of relief. When the hands withdrew, a sound broke from him—half sob, half sigh.

“I’m here,” Liu Qingge said quickly, almost stumbling over the words. “I’m not leaving.”

There was the muffled murmur of his voice at the door, someone answering in hushed tones. Soon after, a cool, damp cloth pressed against Shen Qingqiu’s forehead, soothing the burn that crawled under his skin.

The mattress dipped as someone sat beside him. A familiar hand found his wrist, calloused fingers wrapping gently around it.

Half-dreaming, unable to lift his eyelids, Shen Qingqiu muttered, “I’ll be fine… just need to wait through the fever.”

The grip tightened slightly.

“Rest,” came the low reply.

And with that, Shen Qingqiu let go of the thin thread of awareness he had been clinging to, and let the darkness pull him under.

***

When Shen Qingqiu woke, the fever had burned off, leaving only a heavy head and the faint taste of copper at the back of his throat. Pale daylight spilled through the shutters. The faint clatter of cartwheels and the chatter of hawkers carried in from the street.

He shifted upright slowly. 

The room was sparse—plain walls, one lopsided table, and a bed barely fit for one person. 

No sign of Liu Qingge.

He wouldn't leave me behind, Shen Qingqiu thought. He would never do that.

And almost as if summoned by the thought, his shidi appeared in the doorway.

The door creaked shut, and there he was—blue-and-white robes, shoulders squared, expression unyielding as ever. 

Their eyes met, and Liu Qingge’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “You’re awake.”

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat, his voice rough. “How long—?”

“A little more than a day.”

Liu Qingge hovered at his bedside for a moment, a faint crease between his brows. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again with a small shake of his head. Instead, he sat down heavily on the mattress and reached for Shen Qingqiu’s wrist.

Cool fingers pressed against his pulse point. Liu Qingge’s expression went sharp, focused—so reminiscent of Mu Qingfang that Shen Qingqiu half expected him to start reciting a prescription for bitter herbs.

Shen Qingqiu arched a brow. “Well? What’s the diagnosis, Physician Liu?”

Liu Qingge’s brows furrowed deeper. “Reckless,” he said flatly.

Shen Qingqiu tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Oh? Is that curable?”

His Shidi’s gaze snapped up—exasperation, and something warmer hidden underneath.

Liu Qingge let go of his wrist at last. “We’ll wait another day before flying back.”

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to protest—then snapped it shut. He could hardly claim to be fine. The cursed mirror made sure of that. And judging from the mocking arch of Liu Qingge’s eyebrow, his shidi knew that as well.

Shen Qingqiu shut his mouth with an audible click.

Trust Airplane to saddle him with this cursed mirror.

“Well,” he said instead, forcing his tone into something vaguely dignified, “this Shixiong may not know what the Bai Zhan disciples expect from their Peak Lord, but I do know my students expect me to teach them lessons.”

“I’ve already sent word to Qing Jing Peak,” Liu Qingge said evenly.  “They know you’ll be delayed.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “You—” Of course he had. “Truly, Shidi thinks of everything.” 

He leaned back against the wall and allowed a crooked smile. 

“Then… what do you propose we do with an entire day here, Liu Shidi?”

“Breakfast,” Liu Qingge answered at once, as though he had already anticipated the question. “The innkeeper prepared congee with pickled vegetables. We can go down and eat with the others. Or—” he hesitated briefly, “I can bring it up here if you don't feel ready to leave bed.”

Shen Qingqiu pictured himself sulking in this bare little room all day, with Liu Qingge hand-feeding him congee like an invalid and immediately shook his head. “I’ll come down.”

After tidying himself up with a basin of cool water and fixing his hair to at least somehow give himself a presentable appearance, Shen Qingqiu slid the door open. Liu Qingge was waiting outside, arms crossed. He gave a brief nod when Shen Qingqiu joined him, and together they descended the narrow staircase.

The first floor of the inn was already bustling. Low wooden tables filled the wide hall, their benches occupied by townsfolk bent over steaming bowls. Chopsticks clicked, voices overlapped in a warm tide of chatter, and the air was thick with the fragrance of rice porridge and fresh buns. 

From the kitchen door, a young woman emerged carrying a tray piled high with mantou. Seventeen at most, all bright eyes and easy smile. When her gaze landed on Liu Qingge—and then on Shen Qingqiu behind him—she froze mid-step.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, nearly dropping her tray. “Liu Xiansheng, your friend is better already!”

Before either of them could respond, she whirled back toward the kitchen and bellowed, “A-niang! Come quick!”

Moments later, another woman appeared, short and sturdy, her face weathered and browned by years of toil. She wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron. 

“Meiyun! What are you yelling for? You’ll scare off the customers.”

The young woman—Meiyun—pouted and gestured toward their guests. “But, A-niang, look! They’re here! He’s awake!”

Only then did the older woman’s gaze fall—and her whole expression softened at once. The severity on her face melted, and a broad, relieved smile unfolded in its place.

“Ai-ya, you’re on your feet already? That’s good, that’s good,” she said, addressing Shen Qingqiu. “Please forgive my girl, Immortal Masters. I never did manage to teach her proper manners.”

Shen Qingqiu returned her smile, gentle and warm. “It’s quite all right, Ayi. My own disciples are much the same—no matter how often this Master lectures them on courtesy, the lesson never seems to stick.”

The old woman looked Shen Qingqiu up and down, as if to make sure he wasn't about to faint in the middle of her hall, and shook her head with gentle reproach.

“You gave us all a fright yesterday, Xiansheng.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Liu Qingge, then back to Shen Qingqiu. “Especially your friend here—he nearly knocked my doors off their hinges.” 

Beside him, Liu Qingge shifted, fidgeting almost imperceptibly.

Shen Qingqiu coughed lightly into his sleeve to cover a smile. “This one is feeling better now,” he said. “Thank you for your care, Ayi.” 

“Oh, nonsense,” she said briskly, waving a flour-dusted hand. Without further preamble, she seized both Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge by the arms and steered them toward a freshly wiped table, as though they were wayward boys rather than Peak Lords.

“There, there, sit. You need food in your belly. Meiyun, hurry up now.”

“Yes, A-niang!”

Meiyun set steaming bowls of congee before them, each accompanied by a plump mantou. She placed chopsticks neatly across the bowls, then plopped down the bench.

“Eat,” the older woman ordered, planting herself across from them. “Cultivators are rare in our little town—it’s an honor to have you here.”

Shen Qingqiu offered a polite smile, lifting his chopsticks. “My Shidi and I were hunting a beast in the nearby mountains. We were fortunate to find lodging here.”

Meiyun’s head snapped up at once, eyes sparkling. “Beast? You mean the centipede demon—the one that lairs in Venomspine Ravine?”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “The very same.”

Her eyes went round as moons. “And it was just the two of you who killed it?”

“Not quite,” Shen Qingqiu tilted his head toward the man beside him. “My Shidi did all the work. I merely tagged along.”

Meiyun’s gasp was so heartfelt it nearly toppled her from the bench. “Truly amazing!” she breathed, staring at Liu Qingge with undisguised awe. 

Her sparkling gaze and eager voice were painfully reminiscent of Ning Yingying. He couldn't help but smile.

Liu Qingge cast a startled glance at Shen Qingqiu, as if overwhelmed by the sudden wave of admiration.

Liu Shidi, Shen Qingqiu thought with amusement. Wasn't the War God of Bai Zhan accustomed to being revered for his skill?

Meiyun started to pepper them with questions—How big was it? How did they fight it? Was it true its venom could paralyze a man in seconds?—but her mother tugged her back sharply by the sleeve.

“Meiyun! Don’t pester Immortal Masters.” She turned back to the cultivators, her tone brisk but warm. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Obediently, Shen Qingqiu dipped his spoon into the steaming congee.  The grains were perfectly softened, each bite warming and gentle, laced with the sharp tang of pickled mustard greens. It was delicious—yet the taste struck him with sudden melancholy.

He hesitated without meaning to, and apparently the change in his expression didn’t escape their hostess.

“What is it?” she asked at once. “Not to your liking?”

Shen Qingqiu shook his head quickly. “No—no, Ayi, it’s delicious.” That much, he didn’t even need the curse to compel out of him.

“Then what troubles you?”

The curse slid through him like an opened door. “The taste reminds me of Binghe’s cooking.”

Beside him, Liu Qingge stiffened, his chopsticks pausing midair. Almost as if he braced to step in.

The older woman’s gaze softened with sudden understanding. “Is he your child, then?”

Shen Qingqiu’s tongue shaped the word no, but what spilled from his mouth instead was:

“He’s the closest I ever had to a son.”

The words hung between them, ringing in his own ears.

A son?

He was barely in his twenties when he’d woken up in this cursed novel-world. Too young, far too young to have had a fourteen-year-old child trailing after him. Yet… Luo Binghe had looked at him that way once, hadn’t he? With desperate, searching eyes, hungry for approval, aching for guidance.

Shen Qingqiu’s chest tightened.

Had he cared for Binghe out of true concern… or only self-preservation? A coward’s attempt to save his own skin from the jaws of the plot? And could someone who had cast a child into the pit of hell truly dare to claim the title of father?

The memory of Binghe’s face that day—the hurt, the betrayal—rose unbidden. Guilt pressed against his chest, bitter as bile.

Then a small, wrinkled hand gently covered his own. He blinked, startled, and looked down to see the innkeeper’s motherly grasp. 

“Ah, Xiansheng,” she murmured, sorrow woven into every syllable. “Fate can be cruel sometimes. I, too, once had a son,” she added after a pause, her voice dropping lower. “Meiyun’s gege. Illness carried him away many years ago, but still—” she gave a small shake of her head, “still a mother does not forget.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Shen Qingqiu caught a glimmer: Meiyun, seated at her mother’s left, blinking rapidly, her lashes wet.

The woman gave her daughter’s arm a soft pat before continuing, her gaze returning to Shen Qingqiu. “But you mustn’t always think of him with sorrow. The ones we love… they would not wish us to keep our hearts bound only to grief.”

Shen Qingqiu took a slow, steadying breath before he gently withdrew his hand. He offered a small, grateful bow.

“You’re right, Ayi,” he said softly. “Thank you… for reminding me, and for your kindness.”

The older woman gave his hand a final, reassuring squeeze. “It was a pleasure to meet you both, Immortal Masters,” she said. “But I must return to the kitchen, and Meiyun has her own work to attend to.”

With a careful tug at her daughter’s sleeve, she guided Meiyun to her feet. The two women left the table, disappearing into the bustle of the inn, leaving Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge alone. 

Shen Qingqiu didn’t need to look up to know Liu Qingge’s eyes were on him.

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat and let the matter slide, forcing a lightness into his tone. “Your shixiong is in a rather sentimental mood today,” he remarked casually, letting a small smirk curl his lips.

Finally, Shen Qingqiu dared to look up. The undisguised concern in Liu Qingge’s eyes made him add, “I’m fine. Seriously. Though… it would be nice to be freed from this curse sooner rather than later.”

Liu Qingge gave a slight nod—not agreement, but quiet assurance.

Shen Qingqiu took a deep breath. He only hoped that once they returned to Cang Qiong, he would finally have the chance to calmly concoct a serum to reverse the effects and reclaim even a sliver of normalcy.

***

Of course, when they approached the bamboo grove on Qing Jing Peak a day later, Shen Qingqiu noticed a familiar figure waiting at his doorstep. Shang Qinghua. The moment Shen Qingqiu’s gaze fell on him, he realized something was off—wide-eyed and pale, his companion in misfortune looked like he had seen a ghost.

The moment he spotted Liu Qingge, his voice faltered. “L-Liu Shidi…”

This didn't bode well.

“Everything all right... Shang Shidi?” Shen Qingqiu asked carefully.  “You seem… agitated.”

Shang Qinghua swallowed hard, his Adam’s-apple bobbing visibly. 

“The Sect Leader… is calling all the Peak Lords to a meeting.” He looked Shen Qingqiu straight in the eyes and he knew it—they were screwed. “Lao Gongzhu is dead.”

Shen Qingqiu felt his headache return with full force. 

Wonderful. From fever to funeral, no intermission.

Chapter Text

The main hall of Cang Qiong was unusually solemn.

Yue Qingyuan stood at the head, posture impeccable. Without his ever-present polite smile, their leader's face was almost unfamiliar.

“Many thanks to all the Peak Lords for coming despite the abrupt summons.” Yue Qingyuan’s gaze swept the hall. “It has come to our attention that the Palace Master of Huan Hua Palace, Lao Gongzhu, passed away early this morning.”

The Peak Lords—as indecorous as children at the back of a schoolroom—bent their heads together, whispering behind their sleeves. 

Qi Qingqi raised her brows with scarcely disguised curiosity. “Passed away? Was this a natural passing… or one assisted?”

Trust her to cut to the heart of it with a single stroke.

Yue Qingyuan’s expression did not falter, though his jaw tightened. “At present, this information is being withheld. I remain in contact with the elders of Huan Hua Palace. Matters are delicate, and until they are clarified, I must ask my martial brothers and sisters to exercise vigilance, and remain upon your peaks.”

Another wave of whispers rippled across the room.

Across the hall, Shen Qingqiu caught Shang Qinghua's terrified gaze. 

They both knew what it meant.

The death of Lao Gongzhu would plunge Huan Hua Palace into disorder. Factions would clash for dominance — ambitious elders, hidden heirs, all with their eyes on the seat of power. And while they busied themselves tearing their sect apart, demons would not miss the opportunity to press their advantage.

But this was not Shen Qingqiu's concern. He was worried that without Lao Gongzhu alive to take Luo Binghe under his wing when he emerged from the Abyss, the story had veered wildly off course. The script had been broken.

Would Binghe be abandoned? Hardened further? Or… Shen Qingqiu’s heart gave a twist. Would he look to Cang Qiong instead?

He couldn’t wrap his head around this. Had he and Shang Qinghua somehow nudged the plot hard enough to send it careening in a completely different direction?

Yue Qingyuan’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I will keep you informed as matters progress. For now, I ask only your trust.”

At that moment, one of Qiong Ding Peak’s head disciples stepped forward, bowing low and murmuring something at Yue Qingyuan’s ear.

The Sect Leader’s brows furrowed faintly. He inclined his head, then turned back to the assembly. “Forgive me. I must take my leave.”

With a sweep of silvery sleeves, he departed. The heavy doors closed behind him with a thud that echoed like a period at the end of a very ominous sentence.

For a breath, no one moved. Then the whispers resumed all at once, louder than before—like sparrows freed from a cage. Half the Peak Lords were already calculating what this meant for alliances, for power, for their own disciples. The other half were just speculating on who would inherit Lao Gongzhu’s seat.

Shen Qingqiu thought with growing panic that he needed to leave right now. 

He slipped neatly between two squabbling Peak Lords, letting Mu Qingfang’s sleeve shield him from Liu Qingge’s line of sight, and was through the side door before anyone noticed. Shang Qinghua yelped when Shen Qingqiu grabbed a fistful of his robes and hauled him along, but didn’t dare resist.

Only when they were a safe distance away, tucked behind the shadow of a pavilion wall, did he let go.

“Cucumber Bro, this is a disaster—an absolute disaster! Not only has everything gone completely off-script, but the System—I wanted to talk to you, but you had Liu Qingge stuck to your side and I couldn’t—”

“The System?! What are you talking about?!”

Shang Qinghua froze. His lips flapped like a fish. “Wait—you… you didn’t hear it?”

“Didn’t hear what?” Shen Qingqiu snapped.

“The System!” Shang Qinghua’s voice cracked. “It was trying to activate. Kept spitting out warnings—errors—autocorrecting, recalibrating—did you really not hear?”

Shen Qingqiu’s stomach dropped. He seized Shang Qinghua’s shoulders and gave him a sharp shake, rattling him like a dice cup. “What exactly did it say?”

“Ah! Don’t shake me, Bro, I’ll talk, I’ll talk!” Shang Qinghua’s hands flailed uselessly. “It said—” He gulped. “It said a major deviation from the main storyline had been detected. Then it started running some kind of course-correction protocol.”

Shen Qingqiu’s mind reeled. What deviation?! Ever since he’d yeeted his poor little sheep into the abyss, he’d been living like a reclusive salted fish. The only anomaly was this curse, but even then—what had he actually said? Random awkward nonsense! Embarrassing drivel that made him look OOC at worst. Surely the System hadn’t triggered a nuclear meltdown just because calling Binghe his son made it cringe?!

Right now that glitch-brained System couldn’t even calculate a meal plan without crashing, and it tried to rewrite the plot?

Shang Qinghua was still fidgeting, glancing around nervously. “…There’s something else,” he mumbled. “Bro, don’t freak out—”

A vein throbbed at Shen Qingqiu’s temple. “If you don’t spit it out now, I will throw you off this peak and let you roll the whole way down.”

“Okay, okay!” Shang Qinghua waved his hands frantically. “I was going to tell you! The System—it—it tried to bring Luo Binghe back!”

“WHAT?!” Shen Qingqiu’s shriek echoed through the mountain peak. His pulse skyrocketed, and for one horrifying instant he really did feel like he might keel over. His imagination helpfully supplied images of Luo Binghe clawing his way back up early, demon blade in hand, politely turning him into a human stick.

Shang Qinghua yelped and grabbed his elbows, as if seriously worried he was about to keel over. “Wait! Don’t faint, Bro! It didn’t work—it failed! The System threw up a wall of errors when it tried to shift the plot forward. It said, uh, the action was impossible. Then the whole thing glitched, spammed red text everywhere—and bam—it just… shut down. Dead silent.”

Shen Qingqiu’s pulse was still hammering in his temples as he yanked his sleeves free and began frantically fanning himself. 

He didn’t even know what to feel. Relief flooded him, sharp and shameful—Binghe wasn’t back yet to hunt him. His head remained safely attached to his shoulders. Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.

And yet… what kind of monster felt relieved knowing the child was still trapped in the Abyss—alone, suffering, choking on darkness and blood and betrayal? 

Then the thought struck him like a slap. He froze mid-fan.

“Wait. What if Lao Gongzhu’s death—” Shen Qingqiu’s voice dropped to a sharp whisper, “—was an accident?”

Shang Qinghua blinked, startled. “Huh?”

“What if the System wasn’t just flailing?” Shen Qingqiu hissed, eyes darting around as though him speaking of the devil would certainly summon him. “What if it tried to… to skip ahead? To nudge the world toward the next big canonical event? Binghe’s rise. The Old Palace Master’s death is the trigger, isn’t it? Maybe the System aimed for that—and misfired.”

Shang Qinghua’s jaw dropped. “You—you mean it tried to fast forward the plot?!”

Shen Qingqiu dragged a hand down his face. “Tell me it doesn’t sound exactly like something that half-assed program would do.”

“Holy shit—”

“And if that’s true,” Shen Qingqiu clutched the fan in his hand, exhaling shakily. “Then we’re not just off-plot.” 

We’re in an entirely different story.

***

Shen Qingqiu lingered on the edge of Qiong Ding Peak, fingers curling as he summoned his sword.

The faint hum of spiritual energy stirred—only to be cut short by a firm grip closing around his wrist.

He looked up, startled, to find Liu Qingge standing beside him.

“I thought you had better sense,” Liu Qingge said disapprovingly. “Flying when your spiritual energy hasn’t recovered—do you have a death wish?”

“Sometimes,” Shen Qingqiu blurted.

He froze. His traitorous mouth had moved before his brain. Hastily, he added, “…I thought Liu Shidi had already flown off.”

He didn’t add: and I wasn’t planning to look for you anyway.

Liu Qingge’s eyes widened slightly and Shen Qingqiu, with the clarity of hindsight, regretted every life choice that had led him to this point, beginning with not throwing Shang Qinghua off a cliff when he had the chance.

The hand around his wrist tightened for a fraction of a breath—Liu Qingge’s expression gave away nothing, but Shen Qingqiu could feel the unspoken “don’t test me” radiating off him.

Without another word, Liu Qingge summoned his sword. In one smooth motion, he leapt onto it and extended a steady hand. “Come on.”

Shen Qingqiu hesitated. He inhaled, resigned, and placed his hand in Liu Qingge’s palm.

The world shifted in a rush of wind and sky. Mountains dropped away beneath them, bamboo groves sweeping into view.

Back in his quarters, Shen Qingqiu attempted to shoo his unwanted guest with the practiced courtesy of a man who had spent far too much time around inconvenient disciples. “This Shixiong thanks you for escorting him back.” His inflection sharpened ever so slightly, like the edge of a blade: hint, hint, now get out.

But Liu Qingge merely crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, broad-shouldered and immovable, like a particularly stubborn pine tree that had taken root in the middle of Shen Qingqiu’s house.

He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. What was it about Liu Qingge that made him harder to dismiss than a horde of clingy disciples?

Shen Qingqiu folded his hands behind his back. “…Does Liu Shidi require anything else?”

“You’ve been very absent-minded lately,” Liu Qingge said bluntly.

Trust Liu Qingge to slice straight through polite misdirection.

“It’s because the curse occupies my thoughts.” Shen Qingqiu tested the waters, half-expecting the curse to punish him for lying. It didn’t. Well then, apparently that was true. “I only want to be rid of it once and for all.”

“Do you need help preparing the antidote?”

“No.” The answer leapt out too quickly. Shen Qingqiu winced, then amended: “I already have everything prepared. I only need to crush the crown-thorns and add them to the flask.” A pause, and because he wasn’t a complete ingrate: “But… if Liu Shidi wishes, he may stay.”

That seemed to mollify Liu Qingge. His shoulders loosened, and he sat at the low table where they often shared tea.

Shen Qingqiu busied himself with mortar, pestle, and flask. The mixture was bitter enough to burn his nose. 

“Well,” Shen Qingqiu said lightly, raising the flask as though it were fine wine, “to curses, poor life choices, and medicinal sludge that smells like feet.”

When at last he downed it, the sludge was every bit as vile as he expected.

And—nothing happened.

The silence stretched. Shen Qingqiu shifted, tapping the flask with a finger as though it might suddenly reveal hidden magic. Perhaps it needed time?

Eventually, Liu Qingge broke. “Did it work?”

Shen Qingqiu rubbed at the corner of his mouth. “…I don’t know,” he admitted. Well, the only way to know for sure… “I’ll just try to lie.”

Liu Qingge looked at him expectantly. Shen Qingqiu stayed stubbornly silent. One of Liu Qingge’s eyebrows arched.

Shen Qingqiu coughed into his sleeve, embarrassed. “Do you think it’s so easy to come up with something to lie about?”

Liu Qingge rolled his eyes. “Just say something mundane. Do you meditate every morning?”

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth, prepared to say yes.

Instead, what came out was: “I oversleep.”

And then, as if the curse was twisting the knife: “…and fake serenity.”

The corner of Liu Qingge’s mouth twitched, as though he was trying—and failing—not to smirk.

They stared at each other in the thick, damning silence that followed. Shen Qingqiu wanted to crawl under the floorboards.

Liu Qingge blinked once, then sat back. “So. It hasn’t worked.”

Shen Qingqiu let out a long, weary sigh. “No. It hasn’t.”

Shen Qingqiu set the useless flask down. Then, forcing his mouth into the semblance of a smile, he said, “I knew the chances were slim from the start. I only regret… that I’ve wasted your time, Shidi.”

“No.” Liu Qingge’s tone was steady, matter-of-fact, but there was warmth beneath it. “Helping you isn’t a waste of time. Besides…” He paused, his eyes flicking briefly toward the window where the mountains stretched in quiet majesty. “I’m always glad to have a good fight.”

Shen Qingqiu’s lips curved faintly. This was so typical of Liu Qingge.

“It seems,” he murmured, “I have only one way left to lift this curse.”

Across the table, Liu Qingge’s brows drew together in a silent question.

Shen Qingqiu let out a humorless laugh. “To tell the truth.” He glanced toward the corner of the room, where the old bronze mirror loomed, its shrouding cloth having slipped to the floor at some point. “But I don’t know what kind of truth the mirror is waiting for.”

Without a word, Liu Qingge rose and crossed the room. His boots made no sound against the wooden floor as he came to stand before the mirror. Fingers brushing the edge of its frame, he leaned forward slightly, as if searching for something within the tarnished surface.

“It looks old,” he said quietly.

“It's very old indeed.” Shen Qingqiu hesitated. Then, recalling Airplane’s explanation, he said, “It was crafted to help cultivators confront themselves. To face truths they’d rather avoid...”

And with that, his mind went blank, then flooded all at once. Of course. To cleanse the heart is to face the self. How could I not have realized it sooner?

“The truth it demands isn’t trivial.” Shen Qingqiu said, more to himself. “It is something that weighs on the heart.”

It was so obvious—so painfully obvious—that he almost laughed.

But the sound curdled before it could escape. Because if that was true… then the truth that weighed on his heart was the very thing he could never afford to speak aloud. Not to anyone.

If anyone discovered it, it would be the end of him.

And what of the System? Who knew whether it still lurked, broken but listening, waiting for him to let something slip. Last time he opened his big, stupid mouth, one of the pillars of the cultivation world had dropped dead. Who could say what calamity the next confession might trigger?

Shen Qingqiu’s pulse thudded dully in his ears. He forced his expression into calm neutrality, as though his thoughts weren’t spiraling.

Liu Qingge turned then, eyes searching his face.

“Would it be so bad,” he asked almost softly, “if someone found it out?”

“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu said immediately. “It would be bad. Because it would change everything.”

“Not for me.” Liu Qingge’s voice was firm. “For me, nothing would change.”

Something inside Shen Qingqiu jolted unpleasantly at those words. Not because he believed them, but because a traitorous part of him wanted to.

His lips curled bitterly. “And if the truth I carried was one that demanded you kill me, would you still want to hear it?”

Liu Qingge froze at these words, and Shen Qingqiu regretted opening his mouth at once.

Mother was right. This tongue of mine is my greatest enemy.

Because no one had forced him to speak, and yet he couldn’t stop poking at the very danger he ought to avoid.

He waved a hand weakly. “Forget I said anything.”

But Liu Qingge wasn’t one to let go once his teeth had sunk in. “Do you really think you deserve to die for that?”

“I don’t know.” The words slipped free before Shen Qingqiu could tell if it was his own conviction or the curse tearing them loose. “But that’s what awaits me.”

In two strides, Liu Qingge was upon him. Shen Qingqiu stiffened as calloused hands closed around his wrists, firm but gentle at the same time.

“I don’t know what truth you’re so afraid of,” Liu Qingge said. “But I won’t let anyone harm you for it.”

Shen Qingqiu froze like a deer in headlights. His body forgot how to move, how to breathe.

What in the nine heavens is Liu Qingge doing, saying things like that?

And—were his Shidi’s eyes always this impossible silvery-gray?

Before Shen Qingqiu could think of a single appropriate response to Liu Qingge’s bombastic declarations, an urgent pounding rattled the door.

He startled, immediately stepping back. Liu Qingge’s grip loosened, but his expression didn’t waver. Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat with deliberate formality, tugging at his sleeves. “Come in.”

The door slid open and a young disciple nearly stumbled inside, her face flushed from running. “Shizun!” She bent into a hasty bow. “There’s—there’s been an incident at the alchemy pavilion!”

Shen Qingqiu seized on the interruption like a drowning man clutching driftwood. For once, his own sect’s chronic incompetence had arrived as a perfectly timed savior. He almost wanted to applaud.

“What kind of incident? Was anyone injured?” He was already crossing the room, Liu Qingge falling into step beside him like a shadow.

The disciple—Xin Yanhua, if he recalled correctly, one of the more excitable juniors—shook her head quickly. “Everyone’s safe, Shizun! But…” She hesitated, glancing uneasily at Liu Qingge’s looming figure before rushing on. “Li Shixiong was experimenting, and his serum—well—it exploded, and then…” Her words faltered.

Shen Qingqiu’s brows drew into a sharp line. “Then what?”

But the answer came before she could stammer it out.

Even before reaching the pavilion, the reek hit him like a physical blow. Acrid, rancid, so thick it clung to the back of his throat—he gagged and dragged a sleeve across his nose.

Liu Qingge, naturally, was unaffected, striding into the miasma as if it were a summer breeze.

The bamboo around the alchemy hall had turned sickly brown, curled leaves dropping like rain. Disciples were clustered outside in pitiful knots, coughing into their sleeves, some with watering eyes. One was trying to fan the air with his robes, which only made the miasma billow in fresh waves.

In the middle of all this, Li Zeyan stood there, looking guilty and embarrassed. Of course.

Trying to maintain the appearance of a dignified Peak Lord and not a man enduring olfactory torture, Shen Qingqiu beckoned the culprit closer with a flick of his sleeve.

Li Zeyan lowered his head like the grounded child he was and shuffled forward.

“Zeyan,” Shen Qingqiu managed breathlessly. “What were you attempting to create?”

Bowing deeply, the boy rasped,  “Shizun, I—I thought I could refine a tonic to accelerate qi circulation during meditation. It should have been simple, but I must have… miscalculated an interaction between the frost ginseng...”

Shen Qingqiu gave a slow nod. Dignified. Serene. Inwardly, he was already making a note to ban this boy from the pavilion until the next century. He wanted to say that a tonic still needed some work, but then the curse dug in its claws: “This Shizun is not sure about qi-boosting tonic, but we can definitely bottle this and use it as a deterrent.”

Every disciple within earshot froze, eyes widening in unison. 

Li Zeyan’s lip trembled. He looked exactly like a puppy that had been booted down the stairs.

Shen Qingqiu winced. Excellent. Truly the inspirational figure every young cultivator needs. Now he looked more like the original than ever.

He tried again, forcing gentleness into his voice. “What I mean is—” The curse shoved his words sideways once again. “—that at least no demon will want to come within a hundred li of us.”

Then, from behind him, a grunt came.

Shen Qingqiu’s head snapped around, and sure enough—Liu Qingge was standing there, the corner of his mouth betraying him. 

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes at him. Oh, very funny. Glad someone is enjoying my public immolation.

He decided, then and there, that he had delivered more than enough speeches for one day. He turned to the disciples. “All of you—disperse. Open the windows, and for the love of the heavens, do not breathe too deeply until the air clears. The alchemy pavilion is hereby under quarantine until further notice.”

A chorus of “Yes, Shizun!” rose as the disciples scattered to follow orders.

Liu Qingge walked up to Shen Qingqiu and fell into step at his side, their shoulders almost brushing. His face, as always, remained still, but Shen Qingqiu could see the amusement he clearly held back.

“Perhaps,” Liu Qingge said flatly, “you don’t want to be rid of this curse at all.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “…I beg your pardon?”

Liu Qingge didn’t even look at him. “It gives you an excuse. To be rude.”

Shen Qingqiu let out a scandalized gasp, staggering half a step back as if stabbed. “—Shidi! You accuse me of rudeness?”

He pointed a trembling fan at Liu Qingge’s unrepentant face. “This one recalls quite clearly that only last week, you threw one of your disciples so hard he demolished an entire barn!”

Airplane had stormed into his study afterward, wailing about wasted construction funds and the futility of insurance paperwork in a xianxia world. Shen Qingqiu had been forced to listen for half an hour before he managed to kick this hack author out.

The worst part was, Shen Qingqiu suspected the disciple in question had actually thanked Liu Qingge afterward. Bai Zhan cultivators really had no sense of self-preservation.

Liu Qingge, of course, wasn’t remotely chastened. He shrugged. “That way they’ll learn to be stronger.” And then, as if deliberately trying to irritate Shen Qingqiu, he added, “You could stand to pay more attention to your disciples’ fighting skills as well. Maybe then they’ll actually know how to hold a sword.”

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw dropped. His children—his Qing Jing Peak little cabbage sprouts, who dutifully recited Yi Jing every morning and brewed him tea—were being insulted in their own backyard!

“Take that back!” he snapped. “My disciples know perfectly well how to fight! See? It's true.” 

Liu Qingge’s eyes flicked toward him, impassive. “Just because you believe it doesn’t make it true.”

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth, ready to take grave offense, but his Shidi’s words lingered in the air. And… he paused. 

Did the mirror really want him to confess some devastating truth to the world? Or… was it asking him to admit something to himself? Maybe all of that was just therapy counseling. No loud proclamations of “I am an impostor in the Peak Lord's body!” followed by cultivators chasing him with pitchforks. Yes, that sounded much more manageable.

He blinked, taking a slow breath. “I… I must take my leave for now,” he said finally, heading to his bamboo house. Then, on second thought, he added: “Thank you for your help, Shidi. We will see each other later.” 

Hopefully this time, Liu Qingge would allow him to retreat to his quarters without escort.

Shen Qingqiu finally had a working theory—and he was going to test it.

***

Shen Qingqiu stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection as if he were about to have a fist fight with it.

The mirror shimmered faintly, as if saying, well, strut your stuff.

“All right,” he muttered, eyeing his own reflection suspiciously. “Let's get this over with.”

His reflection just stared back at him with that calm, judgy face.

He cleared his throat. “I’m Shen Yuan. And I am, uh, twenty-seven years old. Not some refined, otherworldly immortal.” The mirror gave no reaction. “Here they call me Shen Qingqiu. Here... I am considered a man of unshakable grace. But in fact I am a man who binged an entire webnovel over three sleepless nights eating nothing but instant noodles and vending machine snacks.”

Silence. The mirror’s surface remained still, but Shen Qingqiu felt an odd prickle. Encouragement? Mockery? Hard to say.

He tried again. “I am a man...” he faltered, then sighed. “Fine. I have no self-control. None. Zero. I once cried because my favorite mobile game shut down their servers before I could log in for the daily reward.”

His reflection stared back at him, serenely judgmental.

He spread his hands in frustration. “I... died when I was twenty-two years old, and my last proud accomplishment in the mortal realm was finishing a season pass in an online gacha game without spending money. Is that the kind of truth you’re after?!”

The mirror shimmered faintly.

Encouraged, Shen Qingqiu leaned in. “I—! I was the type of person who left my laundry in the machine until it smelled weird. I’ve lied about being busy just to avoid social gatherings. I was supposed to be a respected adult. Instead, I spent my weekends arguing with strangers on the internet about whether a villain deserved redemption arcs!”

Shen Qingqiu slapped a hand over his face. “Heavens above. I’m going to die in this world, and my legacy will be forum arguments and two hundred half-finished fanfics in a hard drive no one will ever find.”

The glass rippled again, faintly approving.

“What else should I admit? My butt hurts whenever I sit too long. I pretend to meditate but usually just fall asleep. I have no idea how half the sect’s accounting works and simply sign whatever Airplane puts in front of me.”

At that moment, a voice exclaimed, high and scandalized:

“I knew it!”

Shen Qingqiu screamed. It was undignified, a sound that would haunt him until the end of time. He whirled around, fan raised like a weapon, and saw—of course—Shang Qinghua, sliding the door shut behind him.

“You—!” Shen Qingqiu sputtered, nearly choking on his outrage. “How did you even get in here?!”

“I just… walked right in.” Shang Qinghua strolled in as if invited. “No one stopped me.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched. Mentally, he was already drafting punishments. Better yet, he could lend the lot of them to Bai Zhan Peak for a day. That would fix their laissez-faire attitude toward intruders.

“Why are you here?” Shen Qingqiu snapped.

“Me? I just came by to check on you, Cucumber bro. You looked a little, uh, pale before.” Shang Qinghua said quickly, sidling a little further into the room like the coward he was. “What is all this yelling about?”

Shen Qingqiu clicked his tongue in mild irritation. “This is not yelling. I am attempting a method to break the curse.”

Shang Qinghua tilted his head, squinting. “…A method?”

“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu bit out. “Liu Qingge suggested the mirror may require one to… admit truths. To oneself.”

“Ohhh. That makes sense.” Shang Qinghua’s eyes lit up. “If the mirror is about self-improvement, then your confession must also be a revelation to you. So… any progress?”

Shen Qingqiu winced. “…Not much. The mirror flickered when I roasted myself. But that’s all.”

Shang Qinghua hummed, tapping his chin. “Wait, wait, wait—have you already told it that you once tripped over your own robes during morning lecture and pretended it was part of a sword form?”

Shen Qingqiu froze, scandalized. “I—! That is—! How do you even know about this?! You weren't there!”

“Dude, I'm in a spy's skin. I have eyes everywhere.”

“You're about to lose those two that are on your stupid face!”

Shang Qinghua flinched, backing up with both hands raised. “Whoa, whoa, bro! Chill! I’m just trying to help you out, okay?!”

When this is all over, Shen Qingqiu thought, I'll gut this hack author and feed him to the pigs. At least he seemed to have scared Airplane enough to make him sit still.

But then, like the opportunistic cockroach he was, he remembered something. His eyes narrowed in calculation. “Say, uh… the curse still makes you answer every question truthfully, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed. “…Where are you going with this?”

And then, realization struck.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Shen Qingqiu jabbed his fan at him threateningly. “If you even think of asking—”

“Bro, come on, it’s just one question!” Shang Qinghua pleaded, taking another cautious step back. “You don’t even have to—”

“No!”

“Okay, but—did you pay for the VIP chapters?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them: “…Yes.”

Shang Qinghua froze. Then he lit up like a festival lantern, nearly bouncing on his toes. “I knew it! Ha—bro, I knew it!”

He barely dodged death when a jade paperweight went sailing past his head and left a dent in the wall.

“I only did it because your cliffhangers were criminal!” Shen Qingqiu roared, stalking after him with fan raised like a blade. “Fifty chapters of cabbages, and then—bam! A key character dies! What sane man wouldn’t crack?!”

Shang Qinghua yelped, darting behind the table like a startled rabbit. “That’s called tension! It’s called craft! Bro, you wouldn’t understand!”

“Tension my ass!” Shen Qingqiu lunged, nearly catching him with a swipe of the fan. “Your pacing was garbage, your so-called worldbuilding could have been cut down by two-thirds, and your arcs were padded with useless filler no one cared about—”

“Readers loved the filler!” Shang Qinghua squeaked, scrambling away as a tea tray narrowly missed his head.

“Readers suffered through the filler! Because they were already invested and couldn’t escape!”

The mirror rippled faintly, as if amused.

Suddenly, there was a polite knock on the door, followed by a small, worried voice.

“Shizun? Are you… alright? I heard a crash.”

Shen Qingqiu froze mid-gesture. 

So now they were here to do their bidding. 

Before he could bark an appropriately lethal reply, he forced himself to take a breath. It was not a disciple he was angry at. 

“This Shizun is fine,” he said carefully. “I'm just trying to kill your Shishu.”

Ah, right.

How come Shen Qingqiu still hasn't gotten used to the fact that none of his excuses will turn out as he planned?

There was a long pause outside the door. Then, in a level, calm voice:

“Ah. I see. This disciple will leave you to it, Shizun.”

The young disciple departed and Shang Qinghua’s jaw dropped. “W-WHAT?!”

Looks like I won't be sending my little sheep to Bai Zhan, Shen Qingqiu thought, almost impressed. They're good for something after all.

After a tense few moments, Shang Qinghua finally held up his hands in surrender. “Okay… okay, I get it. I shouldn’t have asked. Really. I—uh—I couldn’t help myself because I knew you’d never admit it otherwise!”

Then, as if remembering something, he fumbled through his sleeve and pulled out a small bag. “Actually… you know, Cucumber bro, I completely forgot to give you something.”

He tossed it across the room like a truce flag. Shen Qingqiu caught it without thinking.

“You—” he snapped, then stopped. The sight of the small candy bag—his favourite in this world—mollified him more than it should have. He popped one into his mouth reflexively and felt a childish, ridiculous warmth spread through his chest.

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes, turning his gaze back to Shang Qinghua. “Are you trying to bribe me not to kill you?”

Shang Qinghua waved his hands frantically. “N-no! Of course not! I—uh—I mean, yes, but no… okay, maybe a little.”

He cleared his throat, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. “To be honest... I came because I was worried the System glitch might have caused, you know, some really bad consequences because of your curse. So I thought… maybe I could help somehow?”

Shen Qingqiu snorted, tossing the bag of candy onto the table. “Right. You, help me. I’m sure I can rely on you.”

“Come on, bro! Don't be so mean. Let's brainstorm.”

Shen Qingqiu rolled his eyes, but let himself cool down slightly. “Fine. You can stay. But,” he added, waving a threatening finger, “if you ask another question—”

Shang Qinghua hurriedly raised his hands. “No questions! I promise! Not a single one. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Still sweating but visibly relieved, he settled cross-legged on the floor with the air of a supplicant at court. Shen Qingqiu sighed, pulling a few cushions over to sit as well.

“Okay, how about this…” Shang Qinghua began.

And the entire time they spent discussing this, Shen Qingqiu felt the mirror shimmer faintly behind him.

Chapter Text

As Shen Qingqiu had predicted, the demons did not wait long before causing trouble on Huan Hua Palace grounds. Within a few days, messengers arrived with reports of havoc, and naturally, Cang Qiong Mountain Sect was summoned to aid their allies.

Naturally, Liu Qingge was the one sent to the front lines.

Not that Shen Qingqiu doubted his shidi’s abilities—in truth, if there was anything in this world more immovable than the mountain ranges themselves, it was Liu Qingge’s determination. The War God of Bai Zhan did not earn his title by accident.

Still. Ever since the System had cruelly stripped away his meta knowledge of the plot, Shen Qingqiu had been unable to sit with both feet under him. What use was being a transmigrator if he no longer had the safety net of spoilers? He used to know which battles were just scripted scuffles and which ones were genuine game-over flags. Now? All he had was instinct and trust. And instinct, unfortunately, had the bad habit of disguising itself as relentless anxiety.

After the Peak Lords’ meeting was dismissed, Shen Qingqiu expected Liu Qingge to head out immediately, as was his habit. Yet to his mild surprise, the man lingered until Shen Qingqiu stepped out, then followed him into the corridor.

“I will visit you after my mission,” Liu Qingge said at last, voice low. After a brief pause, he added, “That is—if you are willing.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. 

Liu Qingge, of all people, sounding unsure of himself? Since when? Of course he was willing. Did he not realize that, besides Shang Qinghua, he was the only Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu could tolerate in his house?

Keeping his composure, Shen Qingqiu smiled faintly and folded his fan. “Shidi, my doors are always open for you.”

Something eased minutely in Liu Qingge’s expression. He gave a short nod, mounted his sword, and rose into the sky in a streak of light.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled, shoulders loosening a fraction. He turned to leave for Qing Jing Peak when—

“Mn. That was interesting.”

Shen Qingqiu jolted so hard his fan snapped shut and nearly caught his fingers. Whirling around, he beheld—of course. Who else would it be? Arms crossed, eyes sharp and glinting as though she had just caught him red-handed.

“Qi Shimei,” he said smoothly, as though his heart hadn’t just tried to leap out of his robes. “Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?”

“I walked,” Qi Qingqi replied, one brow arching. “You were too busy staring after Liu Qingge to notice.”

“I was not—” Shen Qingqiu cut himself off before the curse could call bullshit on him. He coughed lightly into his sleeve. “Does Shimei require something of this Shen?”

“Nothing urgent.” Her lips curved ever so faintly. “I was merely curious. I did not know the two of you had that sort of… arrangement.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “Arrangement?”

Her gaze flicked toward the sky, where Liu Qingge had vanished, then returned to him.

It took a beat. Then it hit him. His composure cracked like cheap porcelain; his face flushed crimson, hotter than a brazier in midsummer.

“This—! No!” Shen Qingqiu flailed, waving his fan so wildly he nearly decapitated a butterfly. “There’s no such thing!”

“Really?” Qi Qingqi’s tone was placid, but her raised brow spoke volumes. “Strange. From where I stood, it looked rather familiar.”

Shen Qingqiu gaped, scandalized. “Familiar?! Qi Shimei, surely Xian Shu Peak does not occupy itself with manufacturing baseless rumors? What next—shall I expect you to peek into the laundry and whisper about whose robes dried beside whose?”

A hair’s breadth of a smile tugged at her lips. “You think too little of me. I don’t need to invent anything.”

“You—!” Shen Qingqiu’s voice strangled itself. “There is nothing to discuss here!”

Qi Qingqi tilted her head, looking thoroughly entertained. “You are unusually defensive, Shen Qingqiu. One might think you have something to hide.”

He absolutely did not. …Probably.

Shen Qingqiu glared at her but remained silent. She reminded him horribly of a cat toying with a trapped bird.

She finally sighed. “Fine. If you say so.” For a moment it almost seemed as if she’d drop it. Then, with perfect serenity, she added, “So when you said your door is always open for him…”

Shen Qingqiu nearly coughed blood. “I—! It was the literal door, Shimei! The literal door! What twisted interpretation is this?!”

Qi Qingqi covered her smile with her hand, though her eyes gleamed with merciless glee. “Ah. I see. My mistake.”

“You—!”

Before he could stammer himself to death, she glided away, composed as ever.

Shen Qingqiu remained standing in place, ears burning, glaring at her retreating back with the righteous indignation of a man just set on fire and left to smolder.

His martial brothers and sisters were a menace.

This was precisely why he never invited them to Qing Jing Peak.

***

Shen Qingqiu wished for nothing more than to retreat to Qing Jing Peak, bar the doors, and scream into his pillow. But alas—he had disciples. And disciples meant obligations. And obligations meant he couldn’t just vanish for three days under the excuse of “secluded cultivation.”

So instead, he straightened his robes, schooled his features into the serene mask of a gentleman-immortal, and glided toward the pavilion where the children awaited.

The instant he stepped inside, all the little sprouts scrambled to their feet.

“Greetings to Shizun!” they chorused, bowing in neat unison.

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head with impeccable grace. “Sit,” he instructed. “Today, this master will not speak of sword forms. Today, we shall discuss the essence of cultivation.”

The children straightened at once, eyes shining, quills poised over their tablets. 

Shen Qingqiu allowed a dramatic pause, then asked, “What does cultivation mean to you?”

Xin Yanhua—the same disciple who had recently reported that “stinky incident”—lifted her hand. “To pursue strength, Shizun! To overcome the limits of the mortal body and achieve transcendence.”

“Mn.” Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “Correct, but not complete.”

Another child raised his hand eagerly. “Cultivation is… to seek harmony with the Dao, Shizun?”

“Very good,” Shen Qingqiu said, smiling faintly, tapping his fan against his palm.

One after another, the disciples spoke—diligence, harmony, discipline. All respectable answers, all completely useless for his purposes. Still, Shen Qingqiu nodded gravely, as though receiving rare pearls of wisdom.

At last he declared, “But cultivation is not only force or technique. It is self-knowledge. Without understanding the self, one cannot hope to approach the Dao.”

The little sprouts nodded solemnly, faces as round and earnest as steamed buns.

“Therefore,” Shen Qingqiu continued, “your next assignment: reflect upon this question. What must a cultivator understand about themselves in order to truly advance? Write an essay.”

The disciples blinked in surprise. Several brightened at once, already mouthing potential openings to their grand treatises.

Excellent. Shen Qingqiu snapped open his fan, entirely satisfied. Soon he would have thirty miniature essays filled with distilled reflections. All he needed to do was… comb through them for useful fragments to plagiarize into his own mirror confessions.

Truly, what a generous teacher. Forward-thinking. Inspirational. A shining beacon in the history of pedagogy.

For nearly a shichen, the pavilion echoed with the scratching of brushes. Thirty disciples diligently wrote thirty earnest essays about “knowing oneself.”

Meanwhile, Shen Qingqiu was bored out of his skull.

He flicked his fan open. Closed it. Open. Closed. Spun it between his fingers. Considered balancing it on his nose. Picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. Straightened. Slouched. Straightened again.

He tried half-napping with his eyes lowered in “sage-like contemplation,” but one disciple looked up at him with such reverence that he was forced to fake a profound gaze of watchful guidance.

He even picked up a copy of Foundations of Qi Circulation for Novices. Five pages later he slammed it shut with a grimace. Airplane’s prose had been unbearable—but this was worse.

By the time he resorted to counting bamboo slats in the ceiling, salvation arrived.

A green-robed disciple stood hesitantly in the doorway, bowing low.

Shen Qingqiu’s expression smoothed into unflappable calm. “That will be all for today.”

The disciples looked up.

“Submit your essays, then you may go. Do not be late to afternoon practice.”

“Thank you, Shizun!” Thirty small voices rang in chorus. They hurried to stack their scrolls neatly, bowing again before filing out, bright-eyed and obedient. None seemed to notice they’d just been used as his unwilling therapy interns.

The pavilion emptied in soft clattering steps, leaving only the visitor.

Shen Qingqiu gestured lightly with his fan. The Qian Cao disciple stepped forward and bowed.

“Shen Shibo,” he said respectfully, “this disciple brings a message. My Shizun requests your assistance at Qian Cao Peak.”

“Oh?” Shen Qingqiu arched a brow.

It wasn’t unusual for Mu Qingfang to consult him, but it was unusual for him to send a messenger. Normally, Mu Qingfang turned up in person, scrolls in hand, dark circles shadowing his eyes, rattling off a list of obscure herbs before Shen Qingqiu had the chance to sit him down with tea.

If he was too busy to come himself, then the matter must be urgent. After Lao Gongzhu’s death, demons had sprouted like weeds, and Qian Cao Peak was stretched thinner than old silk.

Shen Qingqiu’s fan slowed in his fingers. On one hand, he always found working with Mu Qingfang—well, intellectually stimulating. One of the rare few in Cang Qiong who shared his interests in herbology.

On the other… disastrous risk. The last person he wanted to be truth-compelled in front of was Mu Qingfang, whose gaze was as mercilessly clinical as a scalpel. What if Shen Qingqiu sneezed, and Mu Qingfang asked, “What are your symptoms?”—only for him to blurt out, “A rare case of transmigration into a hack author’s second-rate novel.”

…Catastrophic.

Still, if Mu Qingfang summoned him, he could not refuse.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled through his nose, bracing himself. “Tell your Shizun this master shall arrive within one ke, once matters here are in order.”

The disciple bowed. “Yes, Shen Shibo.”

After gathering up the disciples’ scrolls and depositing them in the bamboo house, Shen Qingqiu turned his steps toward Qian Cao.

***

The scent of herbs greeted him before his feet had even touched the ground—sharp mint, faint traces of angelica drying in the sun, and beneath it all the bitter bite of roots steeped too long. Disciples bustled in every direction, their green robes fluttering like willow leaves in the wind.

A few caught sight of him. Their faces lit up.

“Shen-shibo!” they called in unison, bowing neatly.

Shen Qingqiu returned a mild nod, expression serene. Internally, however, he couldn't help but wonder. When had Qian Cao’s disciples stopped offering him only perfunctory courtesy and started greeting him with genuine respect?

At the center, like the calm eye of a storm, stood Mu Qingfang—white sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, a tray of instruments balanced on one arm. He looked up as Shen Qingqiu approached.

“Shixiong. Good—you came quickly.”

…Oh dear. The eye bags are even worse than last time. Someone ought to confiscate his mortars and force-feed him a nap.

“Of course,” Shen Qingqiu replied smoothly, folding his fan. “If my busy shidi finally remembers to ask his shixiong for aid, how could I dare delay?”

Mu Qingfang set the tray aside. “Mm. When my shixiong proves he can be useful for something other than posturing, I naturally welcome it.”

Shen Qingqiu let out a very undignified snort. …Hold on. When exactly did the esteemed Peak Lord of Qian Cao get such a sharp tongue? He was pretty sure that in Proud Immortal Demon Way Mu Qingfang had never once spoken like this to original Shen Qingqiu.

He absolutely loved it.

Normally unfailingly polite and composed, overwork occasionally revealed a streak of dry temper—and Shen Qingqiu felt, absurdly, a flicker of pride that he was one of the few people Mu Qingfang didn’t bother to hide it from.

“You’re familiar with the spores of Jin Yao fungus,” Mu Qingfang said without preamble, gesturing for Shen Qingqiu to follow him inside the pavilion. “They’re reacting strangely this season. Come look.”

The table inside was covered in neat rows of jars, each filled with pale filaments drifting like ghostly threads. The faint medicinal odor tickled Shen Qingqiu’s nose.

He leaned in, frowning. “The color is off.”

“Exactly. It should be pearl-white. Now it has this…” He waved irritably at the faint green tinge. “It resists processing. If not handled properly, it will spoil other compounds.”

Shen Qingqiu tapped the rim of a jar with his fan, eyes narrowed in thought. “Have you tried binding it with silver grass root? In small doses, it neutralizes decay without disturbing efficacy.”

A pause. Mu Qingfang glanced at him, expression unreadable. “…We hadn’t.”

Shen Qingqiu smirked faintly. “What a tragedy. The mighty Qian Cao Peak undone by weeds.”

Mu Qingfang sighed—an inelegant sound he would never make in front of anyone else. “Shixiong, sometimes I think you cultivate plants more than people.”

…Fair. Not inaccurate. Shen Qingqiu raised his fan lazily. “Better plants than disciples. At least plants know how to stay rooted in one place.”

From the corner of the room, two Qian Cao disciples suppressed startled laughter before quickly lowering their heads, pretending to sort herbs.

Mu Qingfang, of course, noticed nothing—or pretended not to. He gestured Shen Qingqiu closer, his tone dropping. “Truthfully, I called you because this strain appeared in several wounded cultivators brought back from the border. If it spreads unchecked, our supplies will collapse.”

Shen Qingqiu’s smile faded. “So it’s connected to the demons.”

“Mn.” Mu Qingfang rubbed his temples, and for the first time, his composure slipped. “Every day, another request from Huan Hua. The wounded are coming in thicker than summer mosquitoes. If our supplies fail now, even small injuries may turn lethal.”

Shen Qingqiu flicked his fan closed with a snap. “Because Huan Hua can’t keep order.”

Mu Qingfang’s silence was confirmation enough.

In the novel, Luo Binghe had swept aside all this mess with the ease of a storm clearing summer heat. He’d unified the sect by sheer strength, cowed Huan Hua into obedience.

But Luo Binghe wasn’t here now, was he?

Shen Qingqiu’s mouth pressed into a thin line. If this unrest turned into a full-blown wave, it would drown them all long before his protagonist could rise.

“I’ll send some of my disciples,” he said at last.

Mu Qingfang blinked, caught off guard. “...Your disciples?”

“They can manage simple work. Sorting, drying, carrying, chopping—mundane tasks, nothing delicate.” Shen Qingqiu elaborated, his tone deliberately airy. “That way, your disciples can focus on medicine instead of fetching water and tripping over baskets.”

For a rare moment, Mu Qingfang looked almost startled. “Shixiong, are you sure?”

“I am,” the curse responded. Shen Qingqiu waved a hand. “It’s nothing. Consider it a learning opportunity for them.”

He did not add: And if I leave them on Qing Jing Peak too long, half of them will be sneaking around trying to dig up whatever rumors are flying about Huan Hua succession. Better they be tired from pounding roots than stirring trouble.

A faint sound—half laugh, half sigh—escaped Mu Qingfang. He inclined his head. “Then I’ll thank Shixiong in advance.”

Not long after, Qing Jing Peak’s pale green-robed disciples began trickling into Qian Cao’s courtyards. Their lively voices blended with the rustle of Qian Cao’s composed crowd until the whole peak thrummed with new energy.

Shen Qingqiu, naturally, didn’t just stand idle either. While his disciples carried baskets and ground powders, he set about cataloguing the changes in the Jin Yao fungus personally. He sketched its altered veins, noted the resilience of its filaments, and tested combinations of neutralizers in small batches. His calligraphy, neat and spare, filled several ledgers by the end of the day.

The treatment room had settled into an almost peaceful rhythm by the time the sun dipped behind the mountain ridge. The sharp smell of ground roots and simmering decoctions had mellowed, and even the most industrious disciples began moving at a slower, steadier pace.

Even Mu Qingfang sank into a chair, resting his sore eyes. “If not for Shen Shixiong…” he murmured, voice low with exhaustion, “I would still be at the worktables now, wringing myself and my senior disciples dry.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Shen Qingqiu waved his fan with affected casualness, though his ears burned at the sudden earnestness. “Shidi gives this one too much credit. My disciples needed tempering. Consider it… mutual convenience.”

But Mu Qingfang’s gaze lingered on him, softened by fatigue. His words slipped out like a thought spoken aloud. “Five years ago, I would never have imagined I could rely on you.”

Shen Qingqiu went very still.

Five years ago—when the original Shen Qingqiu was alive... Cold, cutting, too proud to stoop to this kind of work. That was the version Mu Qingfang remembered.

He scrambled for a reply, but nothing came. 

Mu Qingfang blinked, as though belatedly realizing he had spoken aloud. A faint crease appeared at the corner of his brow. “That was… poorly phrased. Shixiong, I didn’t mean—”

The words were cut short by the sudden slam of the outer door.

“Shizun!” A young Qian Cao disciple stumbled inside, red-faced and panting. “Liu Shibo has arrived—his condition is grave. He collapsed at the steps. Please come at once!”

Mu Qingfang was already standing before the sentence had finished, composure snapping back like a blade unsheathed.

“Bring him in. Lay him on the nearest couch—quickly!”

…Condition is grave?

Shen Qingqiu found himself rising too, pulse spiking. His feet carried him after Mu Qingfang down the corridor without waiting for his brain’s input. Every step left his chest hollower, as if his breath had gone on strike.

By the time he reached the treatment hall, chaos was already in full swing. Disciples darted about in all directions: hauling water, shaking out clean linens, sweeping herbs and instruments onto tables with frantic efficiency. The air was thick with blood and crushed herbs.

And on a stretcher—

“Liu Qingge…” Shen Qingqiu’s stride faltered.

Liu Qingge looked like he’d fought his way out of a battlefield just to be dumped straight into another one. Robes torn and blackened, skin scorched with demonic qi that still hissed faintly around the wounds. His breathing came in broken bursts. His hand clutched his sword so tightly it looked like he’d rather snap his own fingers than let go.

The stretcher hit the couch with a heavy thud.

“Hold him steady,” Mu Qingfang snapped, already at his side, hands moving with calm precision.

Easier said than done. The moment disciples touched him, Liu Qingge’s eyes cracked open—dazed, feverish—and his body surged upright with terrifying force. A disciple was nearly flung clear. Even like this, he could overpower them all.

“Restrain him!” someone cried. Two more rushed in, pinning arms and legs. Liu Qingge thrashed against them with the ragged fury of a wounded beast.

Shen Qingqiu froze in the doorway. His mind blanked. He’d seen Liu Qingge injured plenty of times before. Never like this—never so raw, so humanly fragile. His chest twisted painfully, panic crawling higher with every ragged sound.

Then his body moved before his thoughts could catch up.

He stepped forward, pressing a hand firmly to Liu Qingge’s arm.

“Liu Shidi.” His own voice startled him—low, faltering, more urgent than calm. “It’s me. You have to stop.”

At first, Liu Qingge’s muscles only strained harder. Then, slowly, his fevered gaze dragged upward through the haze. Recognition flickered.

“…Shen Qingqiu?” His voice was barely audible.

“Yes. Yes, it’s me.” Shen Qingqiu tightened his grip on that ironclad hand. “Lie still. Let Mu Shidi tend to you.”

“’m…fin’,” Liu Qingge muttered. But he stilled.

“I know,” Shen Qingqiu said quickly. “But humor me. Please.”

“…Fin’.” Then, rough and quiet: “…Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The fight drained out of him at once. His fingers twitched once against Shen Qingqiu’s sleeve—as if confirming he was real—then his body went slack, collapsing into the cushions.

The disciples stared, wide-eyed. The room let out a collective breath.

Mu Qingfang did not waste the moment. He leaned in immediately, eyes sharp on the black veins creeping outward from the wound. “Hold him steady,” he said, tone quieter now. “We don’t yet know how far the corruption has spread.”

The next stretch of time lost all meaning. Everything melted together under the relentless cadence of Mu Qingfang’s voice.

“More gauze.”

“Hold steady.”

“No, not like that—here.”

The disciples moved with grim focus. Sweat trickled down their faces, but no one dared falter.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t move either. At some point he had dropped to his knees at Liu Qingge’s side and never stood up again. His hand had found Liu Qingge’s and stayed there, clamped tight, like he was single-handedly keeping this stubborn blockhead tethered to this world.

Eventually—after what felt like enough time to reincarnate twice—Mu Qingfang’s hands stilled. He leaned back, eyes scanning his patient one final time, then gave a slight nod. “Enough. That’s all we can do.”

The disciples let out long, exhausted breaths, some swaying on their feet. Mu Qingfang flicked his hand in dismissal, and they filed out.

Shen Qingqiu stayed still.

“The corruption is contained,” Mu Qingfang said, his gaze flicking toward him. “His meridians are clear. The rest depends on him.”

Shen Qingqiu’s throat locked up. His face must have given him away, because Mu Qingfang added, softer, “Liu Shixiong is strong. He’s survived worse than this.”

…Worse.

Yes. Shen Qingqiu knew that. He’d always known Liu Qingge wasn’t invincible. The book itself had hammered that in—Original Goods Shen Qingqiu had skewered him like a side character in the Ling Xi Caves without blinking.

But that was text on a page. This wasn’t. This was Liu Qingge, alive, blood hot under Shen Qingqiu’s hand, clammy skin and unsteady breathing. Not a line in a novel. A man. A man who could very easily stop breathing.

And what had Shen Qingqiu been doing? Wasting time counting down the days on his curse, posturing about dignity, desperately clutching his flimsy self-preservation like it was worth more than the people around him. If he had taken the deviations seriously from the start—if he hadn’t insisted on playing ostrich—would Liu Qingge be lying here now?

A silence stretched. When Shen Qingqiu finally looked up, Mu Qingfang was watching him. He placed a hand on Shen Qingqiu’s arm, steady and warm.

“Shixiong,” he said at last. “Come. Rest a while. I’ll have my disciples prepare your quarters.”

Shen Qingqiu shook his head. His voice scraped out rough. “No need. I’ll stay here. If… it’s allowed.”

Mu Qingfang studied him for a long moment, as though weighing whether to argue. In the end, he only sighed. “If that’s Shixiong’s wish.”

Shen Qingqiu eased into the nearest chair, still close enough to reach out, to keep Liu Qingge in sight. His fan hung uselessly at his belt, dead weight. 

He didn’t notice when Mu Qingfang left. The chamber sank into hush: the occasional crackle of lantern light, Liu Qingge’s uneven breaths.

And so, with every nerve drawn tight, Shen Qingqiu sat his silent vigil. Watching. Waiting.

And so the night dragged on, unbearably long.

***

Shen Qingqiu woke by degrees, as if surfacing from a depth. Long before his eyes opened, the stiffness in his spine announced itself with ruthless clarity. His back ached from having slept half-collapsed in a chair, and something brushed faintly through his hair—a ghost of a touch that pulled him toward consciousness.

For an instant, he thought he had dozed in his own bamboo house. The thought vanished the moment the air reached him: sharp, pungent, saturated with the tang of medicinal herbs. Not bamboo. Not his quiet chambers.

Qian Cao Peak.

And on the low couch, less than an arm’s length away—

Liu Qingge.

The pale bandages stood out harsh against his bare chest, stark as snow. His breathing was steady, but shallow; sweat clung faintly to his temples, highlighting the drawn pallor of his face. At some point in the night, Shen Qingqiu must have dragged the chair closer without realizing it. Too close. Close enough to see every detail he had no business noticing.

And when his gaze lifted—

A pair of gray eyes met his.

“You’re awake!” Shen Qingqiu jolted forward, his aching back forgotten in an instant. “When—? How long have you been conscious? How do you feel? Pain anywhere? I’ll call Mu Qingfang—”

Before he could rise, a hand shot out. The grip around his wrist was weaker than usual, but still enough to halt Shen Qingqiu mid-motion.

“No need,” Liu Qingge rasped. His voice was rough, but steady. “Not yet.”

They locked eyes, suspended in that fragile moment. At last, Shen Qingqiu exhaled, the tautness bleeding out of him. “You startled me half to death, Shidi. When they carried you in, you looked—” His throat constricted. “…you looked...”

A flicker crossed Liu Qingge’s expression—shadow or memory, it was hard to tell. His tone, however, was almost mild. “So you really were here.”

“Of course I was,” Shen Qingqiu said without hesitation, though his voice caught halfway, fumbling toward steadiness. “Mu Qingfang stabilized you. He sealed the wounds, neutralized most of the demonic qi… it was close, but he said you’d recover. You—”

“I’m sorry,” Liu Qingge interrupted.

Shen Qingqiu froze. “…What?”

“I frightened you,” Liu Qingge said simply.

For a rare moment, Shen Qingqiu’s tongue failed him. After a pause, he forced composure back into his voice. “…It isn’t your fault you were injured. But you’ll have to promise not to do it again.”

Something unreadable flickered in Liu Qingge’s eyes. He inclined his head. “I promise.”

The hand on Shen Qingqiu’s wrist lifted. Trembling, deliberate, it brushed a strand of hair from his face. The touch was so startlingly gentle it sent a fresh heat curling up Shen Qingqiu’s cheeks. He suddenly became acutely aware of his rumpled robes, the dark smudge under his eyes, the undignified disarray he must have presented after an entire sleepless night.

The door slid open.

Mu Qingfang entered, his practiced gaze sweeping the room in one measured glance. His eyes lit, just briefly, at the sight of Liu Qingge awake and glaring at him with something resembling his usual temperament. Relief surfaced and was gone in the same breath, smoothed under the brisk tones of a healer.

“You’ve regained consciousness. Good. Tell me—any pain? Dizziness? Shortness of breath? Numbness?”

“…Fine,” Liu Qingge muttered.

Mu Qingfang arched a brow, but accepted the curt answers with the ease of long familiarity. He checked the bindings, the pulse, the clarity of breath, then finally straightened. His voice, softer now, carried weight. “You’ll recover. But tell me, Liu Shixiong—what exactly happened out there?”

At that, Liu Qingge’s jaw tightened. He turned his head slightly, a faint wince betraying the effort. “…Call Zhangmen Shixiong. He needs to hear this.”

Shen Qingqiu and Mu Qingfang exchanged a glance, puzzled and uneasy.

“The demons,” Liu Qingge said at last, voice low. “They’re gathering an army.”

Chapter Text

It was a rare sight indeed: Shen Qingqiu showing up early for a Peak Lords meeting. Ordinarily, some disciple would stop him on the way with a problem only he could solve, or else he’d lose track of time buried in a scroll. There was always something delaying him.

But today, here he was, seated at the table in Qiong Ding Hall, with seven other chairs still empty.

Yue Qingyuan had wasted no time. The moment Liu Qingge managed to deliver his halting report, the Sect Leader summoned every Peak Lord. Every Peak Lord except, of course, Bai Zhan’s own, who was currently confined to a bed on Qian Cao Peak. Confined—as in, nailed down by sheer threats and persuasion.

Shen Qingqiu hadn’t wanted to leave. He had peeled himself away from Liu Qingge’s bedside with all the enthusiasm of a man being exiled to the bitter ends of the earth. Irrational, yes. Mu Qingfang’s disciples stood watch, and Qian Cao Peak Lord himself had sworn the injuries were not life-threatening. Rest, bitter medicine, time—these were all that was needed. He knew this. Absolutely knew this. And yet the thought of Liu Qingge unattended—

Shen Qingqiu pushed the thought away before it could spiral further.

Yue Qingyuan’s voice cut him off from himself. “Now that all are gathered, let us begin.”

The hall quieted.

“The night before,” Yue Qingyuan said, tone grim, “Liu Qingge returned from the Huan Hua Palace grounds. He reports that the number of demons is tenfold what Huan Hua’s elders first claimed.”

Uneasy looks rippled around the table.

Wei Qingwei’s brows knit. “And where is Liu Shidi now?”

“Bai Zhan’s Lord sustained heavy injuries,” Yue Qingyuan replied evenly. “At present he is under treatment at Qian Cao Peak.”

Shock swept through the assembly. Murmurs rose like a tide.

Yue Qingyuan’s expression darkened further. “What is more—Liu Qingge reports these demons are not acting chaotically. They are being commanded by one who calls himself Xie Huizhong.”

Across the table came a sharp intake of breath. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed, sliding sideways. Ah. There it was. Shang Qinghua was sitting pale as death, practically vibrating in his chair. Bingo. Shen Qingqiu flicked him a look that very plainly said: Don’t you dare vanish the moment this meeting ends.

Yue Qingyuan continued, voice like a hammer falling. “According to Liu Qingge, this Huizhong declared openly: once Huan Hua falls, Cang Qiong will follow.”

The murmurs burst into a low uproar.

Qi Qingqi snorted. “Such wild ambition.”

Wei Qingwei nodded sharply. “To imagine Cang Qiong within reach of some demon’s hand—ridiculous.”

Xu Qinglian of Tian Shu Peak spoke then, her voice calm and even. “And yet he defeated Liu Shixiong in battle. Is that so easily dismissed?”

Wei Qingwei frowned. “No one doubts Liu Shidi’s strength. But surely he was outnumbered. If it were a fair duel—”

Xu Qinglian’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Does Wei Shixiong imagine demons fight fairly?”

The table fell into brief silence.

Yue Qingyuan raised a hand. “Enough. It is too soon to call this war, but we must be prepared for all outcomes. Wei Shidi—you will lead reconnaissance to Huan Hua’s borders. Track their numbers, their movements. Confirm if this Huizhong is present. Qian Cao disciples will accompany you.”

Mu Qingfang inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Mu Shidi, oversee all medical preparations. Increase production of antidotes, detoxifying pills, and qi-restorative medicines. Xu Shimei, you must reinforce our defensive barriers—double-check the outer formations.”

Xu Qinglian bowed.

“Shang Shidi—” Yue Qingyuan’s gaze lingered a shade too long. “—logistics will fall to you. Secure stockpiles of food and medicine. Ensure supply routes are protected.”

Sweat rolled down Shang Qinghua’s temple in a visible line. Shen Qingqiu, catching it from the corner of his eye, thought with great sincerity: if sweat could be converted into spirit stones, Shang Qinghua would singlehandedly fund their entire war effort.

“Qi Shimei,” Yue Qingyuan said, “spread your nets wide for intelligence. Rogue cultivators, wandering merchants, even disguised demons—no rumor too small to pursue.”

Qi Qingqi gave a sharp hum of assent.

Finally, Yue Qingyuan’s gaze landed on Shen Qingqiu. “Shen Shidi. Your counsel will be needed once reports arrive. I expect your assistance in coordinating strategy.”

Shen Qingqiu’s spine went stiff. …Strategic oversight. No pressure. Just the fate of the entire sect balanced precariously on his borrowed wisdom.

“All Peaks,” Yue Qingyuan concluded, “will also send disciples to assist Qian Cao Peak. Their hands will be needed.”

With that, he rose, sleeves falling in precise folds. “This meeting is concluded.”

He departed without hesitation.

The other Peak Lords lingered, speaking in low voices. The air was heavy, thick with tension—like smoke before a storm.

Shen Qingqiu did not wait. He reached out, hooked his fingers into Shang Qinghua’s sleeve, and hauled him out the door before the man could so much as squeak.

…Was this becoming a tradition? He really hoped not.

Once they were clear of prying eyes and the drone of voices in Qiong Ding Hall had faded, Shen Qingqiu finally stopped. He released Shang Qinghua’s sleeve with a sharp flick.

“All right,” he said, his voice edged. “What the hell is going on? Who exactly is this ‘Xie Huizhong’? Don’t tell me it’s another one of those bargain-bin villains you cut from your landfill draft.”

Shang Qinghua flinched. “Ah, no, no! He’s in there, bro, he’s in there! Just—uh—barely. Just a couple lines, not even by name—”

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes.

Sensing doom, Shang Qinghua babbled faster. “Listen, he’s a real heavy hitter, okay? High-ranking demon lord, martial clan type. Charismatic, pragmatic, scary as hell. The sort of guy who could actually get demons march in formation instead of rolling around biting ankles.”

“If he was so formidable,” Shen Qingqiu said, frown deepening, “why didn’t he appear in the story?”

“Uh…” Shang Qinghua coughed into his sleeve. “Because by the time Bing-ge rocketed out of the Abyss like a god descending, Huizhong was already old news. Like, dude barely finished polishing his boots and got steamrolled completely offscreen. It was one sentence. ‘A would-be warlord was swiftly put down by the Overlord.’ That’s it.”

Shen Qingqiu absorbed this in silence. “…And now, with Huan Hua’s Palace Master dead, and two years until Luo Binghe returns, Huizhong suddenly has the perfect chance to build an empire.”

Shang Qinghua nodded like a chicken pecking rice. “Y-yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

Shen Qingqiu fixed him with a stare that could have frozen water. “If you knew this, why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“…Slipped my mind?” Shang Qinghua wheezed. “I swear I wasn’t hiding anything! Mobei-jun hasn’t said a word about other demons moving around, which means Huizhong’s faction deliberately staying off his radar. They know Mobei would squash them flat if he noticed.”

He twisted his hands together. “Uh. Liu Qingge really… came back that bad off?”

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw clenched. The curse burned against his teeth, forcing the words out. “…Yes. He was half-dead.”

Shang Qinghua winced, sympathy plastered across his sweaty face. “Ah, bro… I’m—really sorry.”

A familiar throb bloomed behind Shen Qingqiu’s temples. Fantastic. A migraine to match his entire existence. “Perfect,” he muttered darkly. “Absolutely perfect. A demon warlord, a sect succession crisis, and open battle on our doorstep. Shall I pencil in famine and plague while we’re at it?”

Shang Qinghua hunched lower, chastened into silence.

And then, because apparently he had no sense of self-preservation, he tried to console him. “Don’t worry too much, Cucumber bro. Liu Qingge’s tough. He’s a strong character, he’ll be—”

Snap. The fan opened like a blade. Shen Qingqiu’s voice was ice. “A character? That’s what you call him? One more, one less—what does it matter, right?”

Shang Qinghua went wide-eyed and flailed like a drowning man. “No, no, no! Not what I meant! They’re not characters, they’re people—real people! My idiot mouth—bro, you know me! Everything I say sounds worse than I mean!”

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly through his nose and thought, very seriously, about strangling him on the spot. It would solve at least one of his problems.

The anger drained as quickly as it had come, leaving a sour aftertaste. Hypocrite. Hadn’t he been the same? Treating this world as words on a page, just clichés and tropes to laugh at? It had taken him far too long to realize that nothing here was paper-thin.

Ming Fan was no one-note bully now, but a dependable young cultivator, one his peers could look to for guidance. Ning Yingying was more than some simpering harem extra, but bright and resourceful, sharper than she looked. His martial siblings were not one-trick ponies, but people with tempers, flaws, and strengths of their own.

And Liu Qingge… Shen Qingqiu pressed his lips together. He had softened. In the smallest ways, but undeniably. Staying for tea instead of fleeing the moment his meridians were cleared. Showing up unasked to accompany him into town—to markets, to plays in tea houses. Dropping rare beast carcasses on his doorstep like cat gifts, so that Shen Qingqiu could study them to his heart’s content. Quietly returning fans Shen Qingqiu managed to misplace. Piece by piece, he had become something more than the Bai Zhan Peak Lord, turning into his dearest friend.

They were people. All of them. Real, breathing people. They had lives, choices, humanity of their own. And now, thanks to one curse, thanks to his own inability to just keep his head down, all of them stood in danger. 

The spiral hit fast. One moment he was upright, the next he was on the ground, lungs seizing like he’d been shoved underwater. Shang Qinghua’s pale face swam in his vision, words tumbling out in broken fragments: “bro—breathe—come on—don’t do this to me—”

At last, air scraped into his chest. His vision cleared. Shang Qinghua was still clutching his knee, shaking like a leaf. When Shen Qingqiu’s eyes focused, he sagged in visible relief.

“What—what just—” Shang Qinghua started, babbling messily, panic tripping over itself.

Fortunately, it was incoherent enough to dodge the curse’s bite.

“Stop.” Shen Qingqiu cut him off, tucking the tremor in his hands safely inside his sleeves.

He stood, forcing his movements steady. Shang Qinghua scrambled up beside him, hovering like a terrified chicken—desperate to help, more desperate not to die for it.

“Contact your demon lord,” Shen Qingqiu said evenly.

Shang Qinghua bobbed his head so hard it was a miracle it stayed attached. “Yes! Right away! I’ll handle everything!”

He half-turned, then hesitated. “Bro, are you… sure you’re—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Shen Qingqiu said, glacially, “I’ll throw you off the mountain.”

“Understood! Perfectly understood!” Shang Qinghua yelped, already retreating. “I’ll send word as soon as I hear anything, I swear!”

With that, he scuttled off like a rabbit fleeing a hawk.

Shen Qingqiu stayed where he was, pulling his breath into order.

As long as the Sect Leader didn’t demand his presence, he was free to move as he pleased. He would return to Qian Cao Peak. He wasn’t leaving Liu Qingge’s side again.

But first… he needed to stop at Qing Jing Peak.

He could not face a war in a rumpled robe, after all.

***

When Shen Qingqiu reached the treatment hall chamber, he froze in the doorway.

Inside, Liu Qingge—bare-chested in shameless display, with only a pair of trousers clinging with stubborn modesty—was half out of bed, propped against his sword as though it were a walking stick. Mu Qingfang, for some reason presently disheveled, was trying to wrest it from his grasp.

“Liu Shixiong,” Mu Qingfang gritted out, robes sliding askew as they struggled, “if you insist on leaving this bed, you will rip open your stitches and prolong your recovery. I will not repeat myself.”

“I’m fine,” Liu Qingge said, in the flat tone of a man whose knees were already giving out beneath him.

With one final wrench, Mu Qingfang pried the sword free. He stumbled back, only just catching himself against the wall, hair mussed. “Enough! If you’re determined to behave like a child, then I will treat you like one. You won’t be getting this back.”

Liu Qingge snorted. “I can fight without it.” Then promptly attempted to rise again—and promptly failed. “Where is my robe?”

“You will not get your robe,” Mu Qingfang snapped, patience fraying.

“Then I’ll go without it.”

…Honestly. Shen Qingqiu felt as though he’d walked in on two toddlers fighting over a toy bucket.

He cleared his throat. Both pairs of eyes whipped toward him.

“Ah, Shen Shixiong.” Mu Qingfang practically sagged with relief. “Perhaps you can talk sense into him, since he won’t listen to me.”

Shen Qingqiu strolled in, fan tapping idly against his shoulder. “Liu Shidi, truly. Do you not know a healer’s words must be obeyed without question?”

One unimpressed brow rose. “And yet I recall you ignoring a healer’s orders to attend a poetry recital.”

…Damn it. Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open at once, fluttering with vigorous energy. That was one time! And it had been boring, anyway!

“Liu Shidi’s memory is unusually sharp,” he said smoothly, pretending not to see Mu Qingfang’s withering look. “But this is different.”

Liu Qingge’s hand was clenched white-knuckled on the mattress, straining as he tried to rise again. Shen Qingqiu pressed his own palm down over it, firm.

“We nearly lost you.”

The fingers beneath his own loosened by fractions.

“I cannot sit idle,” Liu Qingge muttered, gaze heavy. “War is coming.”

“And we will survive it.” Shen Qingqiu’s voice was steady, though inside, he was a great deal less certain. “But collapsing before the first clash does not qualify as strategy. Wei Shidi and Qi Shimei are already scouting. Your absence is not disaster. Liu Shidi, better than anyone, knows what happens to those who charge without thought.”

Liu Qingge’s jaw locked, but he looked away.

Shen Qingqiu eased him back toward the pillows. “So instead of terrifying Mu Shidi’s poor disciples, why not recover? This Shixiong will keep you company.”

Reluctantly, Liu Qingge allowed himself to sink down again, though the glare on his face could probably curdle wine.

Mu Qingfang let out a long breath of reprieve, set the sword pointedly in the farthest corner, and said, “Then I leave Liu Shixiong to Shen Shixiong’s care. This one still has duties to attend.”

“Go on, Mu Shidi. Leave it to me.” Shen Qingqiu inclined his head.

Once the door closed, silence stretched. Shen Qingqiu dragged a chair over and sat with deliberate composure. “Since Liu Shidi refuses to sleep, this Shixiong has prepared something else.”

From his qiankun pouch, he produced a stack of scrolls.

“My disciples have been pondering matters of cultivation and virtue with admirable diligence. Allow me to share their wisdom.”

The look Liu Qingge gave him could have killed a lesser man on the spot. “You plan to bore me into unconsciousness.”

Unrolling the first scroll, Shen Qingqiu’s expression was grave. “Listen well. This one is quite promising: ‘A cultivator’s sword is like his wife. If neglected, she grows dull and disobedient; if cared for, she gleams bright and cuts through all foes.’ Hm. Yichen is truly bold with his metaphors.”

“Expel him.”

Shen Qingqiu’s lips twitched despite himself. “Oh? Liu Shidi does not agree?”

“That is nonsense. A sword is not a wife. It is a weapon.”

“And yet,” Shen Qingqiu countered smoothly, “you polish Cheng Luan every morning with the devotion of an affectionate husband.”

Liu Qingge went scarlet, as though accused of unspeakable scandal. “…It is proper maintenance,” he ground out.

Shen Qingqiu took out another scroll. “How about this one? ‘If one cultivates long enough, perhaps one may turn into a dragon. Dragons live forever, therefore cultivation should be for the sake of becoming a dragon.’”

“Expel that one too,” Liu Qingge said flatly.

“Absolutely not,” Shen Qingqiu countered, flicking his fan open. “This shows creative thinking.”

“It shows he wants to sprout scales.”

“And why shouldn’t he? Ambition is the root of cultivation.”

Liu Qingge’s silence managed to convey even more disdain than words.

“…Do you not have any sensible disciples?”

“Plenty,” Shen Qingqiu replied. “And this is not only my belief. But since Liu Shidi insists, let us reflect more deeply. Here.” He plucked out another scroll. His expression softened, just faintly. “From one of my brightest young disciples. Listen to what she writes: ‘If demons cultivate diligently, could they not also ascend to immortality? And if immortals commit wicked deeds, are they not as demons?’”

Liu Qingge’s frown deepened. “…Dangerous. Naïve. Thoughts like that will lead her astray.”

“On the contrary,” Shen Qingqiu said serenely. “It shows she can question, rather than recite dogma. Better a mind that thinks than one that parrots.”

Liu Qingge gave a derisive huff.

“Oh, here we go. Finally someone remembered the essay topic. ‘A cultivator must understand they are always superior to others. If one’s sword is sharp enough, then any other understanding is irrelevant.’” Shen Qingqiu’s mouth twitched despite himself. “…Huh.”

Liu Qingge’s brow twitched harder. “Who wrote that.”

Shen Qingqiu lifted the scroll with tragic resignation. “Zhu Zizheng,” he said.

“Expel him.”

“This Master believes this shows focus.” Shen Qingqiu placed it carefully aside. “He’ll go far.”

He drew out another. His tone grew faintly amused as he read aloud: “‘A cultivator must know when they are hungry and when they are sleepy. Otherwise, they may mistake hunger for enlightenment, or sleepiness for meditation.’”

Liu Qingge actually blinked. “Who—?”

“Zhang Jiale,” Shen Qingqiu tapped the name.

“…Expel him.”

“Liu Shidi seems very intent on single-handedly depopulating my Peak.”

“Your Peak would be better off for it.”

At last, Shen Qingqiu selected one more scroll. The brushstrokes were clean, measured. He read, voice gentling: “‘To advance, one must first recognize one’s weakness. If one cannot see their limits, how can they break them? If one cannot see their flaws, how can they refine them? Only by facing oneself clearly may one hope to transcend.’”

The room fell still.

Liu Qingge, who had been staring at the ceiling like he’d been praying for deliverance this entire time, finally lowered his gaze. He said nothing for a long moment. Then, reluctantly: “…You can keep that one.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open with a soft flick. He smiled behind it. “Why, thank you, Liu Shidi. My disciples are nothing if not insightful.”

Liu Qingge’s expression could have flattened mountains.

Shen Qingqiu carefully slid the last scroll into his qiankun pouch. The quiet stretched—until Liu Qingge’s low voice cut through it.

“…I regret breaking my promise.”

The brush of silk stilled against lacquer. Shen Qingqiu blinked. “What promise?”

“I said I would come to see you after the mission. I didn’t.”

…Excuse me? Of all possible dramatic declarations, this was the one? Shen Qingqiu stared, fan twitching. “Liu Shidi was half-dead from his injuries. Where else could you go but Qian Cao Peak?”

Liu Qingge’s jaw tightened. “I was supposed to help you with the curse.”

Ah. That was it.

Shen Qingqiu inhaled. “This Shixiong already understands what the mirror demands. But that path—” He paused. “No one else can take it for me. I have to walk it myself.”

Liu Qingge’s face remained unreadable, but his hand flexed on the blanket as if itching to argue. Whatever he’d been about to say vanished when the door creaked open.

A Qiong Ding Peak disciple slipped inside, bowing low. “Shizun requests Shen Shishu’s presence.”

Of course. Perfect timing. Excellent. Just what I needed.

Shen Qingqiu smoothed his expression into polite calm. “Very well. Tell your Shizun I shall come immediately.”

After the disciple retreated, Shen Qingqiu turned back. Liu Qingge’s shoulders were taut, eyes fixed on him with that unwavering intensity that could probably drill holes through jade.

“I must go,” Shen Qingqiu said. He hesitated, then stepped closer, laying a hand over Liu Qingge’s. “But first, I would ask something of Liu Shidi.”

Liu Qingge’s reply was immediate, instinctive. “Anything.”

Shen Qingqiu gave his hand a firm squeeze. “Do not leave this bed until Mu Shidi allows it. Follow his instructions precisely; otherwise, I will have neither peace of mind nor clarity of thought.”

For once, Liu Qingge actually looked torn—caught between refusal and reluctant agreement. At last, he dipped his chin in the barest nod. “…Fine. I promise.”

Relief unfurled in Shen Qingqiu’s chest. He let out a quiet breath. “Good. Then this Shixiong thanks you. I will return as soon as I am able.”

He straightened, gathering his sleeves with practiced elegance, and turned toward the door. He cast one last glance over his shoulder at Liu Qingge—every inch the injured general stripped of his armor.

Shen Qingqiu forced himself into the corridor.

All right. Time to brush up on every historical novel I’ve ever read. Otherwise… yeah, this is going to end badly.

***

When the Qiong Ding disciples led Shen Qingqiu into a smaller chamber off the main hall, he immediately felt his stomach sink.

Only one person was there.

Yue Qingyuan looked up at once. Despite the weariness in his face, his smile was soft. “Xiao Jiu.” His voice gentled even further. “It’s good to see you here.”

Shen Qingqiu winced internally at the name. Outwardly, his bow was impeccable. “Sect Leader.”

Of all people to be trapped alone with, it had to be Yue Qingyuan.

The reasons were several, none of them pleasant. First: the original Shen Qingqiu—Shen Jiu—had left behind an emotional labyrinth where Yue Qingyuan was concerned, one far too tangled for Shen Yuan to ever hope to map. Second… well, second was Yue Qingyuan himself.

That tone. That look. That quiet warmth that said, You are still someone I care for, no matter what you’ve become.

It was the same voice Shen Yuan’s own da-ge had used with him and his mei-mei—another life, another world. A kindness meant for someone already gone.

And Yue Qingyuan didn’t know that. Couldn’t know.

Standing here, Shen Qingqiu felt like a vulture feasting on someone's bones. 

Yue Qingyuan rose, lifting a pot from the low table. “Xiao Jiu, you must be weary. Have some tea.”

Shen Qingqiu took a half-step back. “Sect Leader’s consideration is generous, but this Shen requires nothing. I assume there was business for which I was summoned.”

A flicker crossed Yue Qingyuan’s expression—pain, quickly smoothed away. He replaced the pot without a word and sat again, posture perfectly composed but heavy with exhaustion. “Then, please, sit. Wei Shidi will arrive shortly. We can speak once he comes.”

Shen Qingqiu obeyed. He trudged to the chair as if he were about to be electrocuted.

Silence fell. A long, excruciating silence. Yue Qingyuan gazed into his empty cup as though it contained the sum of mortal suffering. Shen Qingqiu, for his part, studied the wood grain of the table with the scholarly focus of a man preparing to publish a dissertation on carpentry.

Mercifully, the door slid open at last.

Wei Qingwei entered, travel dust still clinging to his robes. He bowed. “Sect Leader. Shen Shixiong.”

Yue Qingyuan’s voice softened again, tinged with relief. “Sit, Wei Shidi. Tell us what you learned in Tong’an City.”

Wei Qingwei seated himself, his movements crisp. “When we arrived, the demons had already withdrawn. We tracked them southeast—three hundred strong, disciplined, moving toward the heart of Huan Hua’s lands. They destroyed nothing. Villages, crops, shrines—all untouched.”

He paused. “They marched beneath a black banner. White character ‘Hui.’”

Yue Qingyuan’s hands folded together, knuckles whitening. “Then our fears are true. This is no rabble—it’s an army. Organized. Advancing with intent.”

Shen Qingqiu tapped his fan against his palm. “And restrained. They’re not spreading chaos—they’re claiming ground. This Huizhong means to make Huan Hua his seat.”

Wei Qingwei nodded. “That was my conclusion as well.”

Yue Qingyuan’s voice dropped. “A demon lord with patience and vision—that is the worst kind.”

Wei Qingwei straightened. “Should I lead men to intercept them, Sect Leader? Their number is not unmanageable.”

Yue Qingyuan shook his head. “No. We don’t yet know their strength. Those three hundred could be bait. A feint to draw us out. We’ll not move until we see his hand.”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “Cut off the head, and the limbs fall limp. Without Huizhong, the rest will scatter.”

Yue Qingyuan’s expression softened, faint approval in his eyes. “Shen Shidi speaks well.” He turned back to Wei Qingwei. “Continue to shadow them. Don’t engage. Report their every move. Meanwhile, Cang Qiong will fortify the borders and post sentries along every road to Huan Hua.”

Wei Qingwei hesitated. “Sect Leader, most of Wan Jian Peak’s disciples are already deployed. We have none left to spare.”

Shen Qingqiu flicked his fan open. “Bai Zhan Peak has plenty of willing muscle. Liu Shidi will find it refreshing to be useful.”

Yue Qingyuan nodded once. “Good. Then that will be our course. Strengthen our defenses. Wait and watch. When Huizhong shows himself—we strike.”

The meeting ended there.

Wei Qingwei bowed, efficient as ever, and was gone before the echo of his steps faded.

Shen Qingqiu rose as well, smoothing his sleeve. “If there is nothing further, this Shen will—”

“Xiao Jiu.”

He froze.

Yue Qingyuan had not moved. The lamplight cast gentle hollows beneath his eyes, softening him in a way that made Shen Qingqiu tense instinctively. “We haven’t had the chance to speak lately,” he said quietly.

Lately. Shen Qingqiu wondered which era Yue Qingyuan meant—the past few weeks? The past few years? Or the long, bitter silence stretching back to when Shen Jiu first climbed Cang Qiong Mountain and decided the only way to survive was to stop needing anyone at all.

“Sect Leader,” he said, perfectly polite. “Now isn’t the time for idle conversation. Surely you understand that better than anyone.”

For a moment, silence again. Then Yue Qingyuan murmured, “Naturally.” His gaze dropped, then lifted with a faint, wistful light. “Still. If you had any difficulties, any matters troubling you… you would tell me, would you not?”

The curse stirred—cold and absolute—curling its fingers around his throat.

“No.”

Yue Qingyuan flinched, just barely.

Shen Qingqiu’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t meant—well. He hadn’t meant it to sound that harsh. But honesty under a curse could draw blood sharper than any blade.

He bowed, low and precise. “If there is nothing else, Sect Leader, this Shen will take his leave.”

He turned, not waiting for permission.

Behind him came the faint echo of Yue Qingyuan’s voice: “Very well, Xiao Jiu… Take care.”

The air outside was cold and thin, cutting against his lungs.

Ah.

So this, he thought with bitter humor, was what it truly felt like to be Shen Qingqiu.

***

For the past few days, Shen Qingqiu had been haunting Qian Cao Peak like a particularly devoted ghost.

Qing Jing Peak would manage without him; he’d left Ming Fan in charge with strict instructions — if anything came up that couldn’t be handled, he was to be summoned immediately.

That settled, Shen Qingqiu had returned to the healing halls, keeping silent vigil beside Liu Qingge’s bed.

But today, something was off.

Two disciples were stationed by the entrance, robes neat and faces pale. When they saw him coming up the steps, they stiffened in unison, like a pair of startled cranes.

“Shen Shibo,” they chorused, bowing low.

Shen Qingqiu gave them a mild once-over. “Is something the matter?” His gaze flicked toward the closed doors. “Has your Shizun fallen into a poor mood again?”

The older disciple hesitated. “Replying to Shen Shibo — Shizun is… occupied at the moment.”

“I see.” Shen Qingqiu folded his hands into his sleeves, perfectly composed. “In that case, this Master won’t disturb him. I only came to check on your Shibo.”

Another glance passed between the two—barely even trying for subtlety.

Shen Qingqiu’s brows drew together. “Well?”

The younger one swallowed hard. “Shizun instructed… that Shen Shibo not be allowed inside.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air.

Shen Qingqiu’s folding fan tapped once, sharply, against his palm. “Oh? And why is that?”

Neither disciple moved.

His tone cooled, just slightly. “Speak.”

The elder one shifted, lowering his head. “Shizun said… Shen Shibo shouldn’t see Liu Shibo right now. Because…” His voice faltered, dropping to a miserable mumble. “Because he has fallen into qi deviation.”

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu had always thought highly of Mu Qingfang.

The man might not have Liu Qingge’s brute strength or Yue Qingyuan’s authority, but when it came to medicine, his skill was second only to Heaven itself.

He’d once watched Mu Qingfang treat the venom of a Blackscale Thunder Asp—a beast whose bite killed nine out of ten cultivators—without even furrowing his brow. Another time, the man somehow noticed the faint stirrings of Without a Cure acting up in Shen Qingqiu’s meridians and sent over ointments before Shen Qingqiu realized he was in pain. Once he’d even found Mu Qingfang still working past midnight, sleeves rolled up and hands stained green with crushed herbs because Bai Zhan Peak’s illustrious War God had decided his disciples weren’t bleeding enough in their training sessions.

So yes. Under normal circumstances, Shen Qingqiu would have trusted Mu Qingfang’s judgment without hesitation.

But today was not one of those days.

In his defense, he had given Qian Cao Peak’s disciples a chance to step aside voluntarily. They’d just… chosen poorly.

A flick of his fan and a ripple of wind—gentle by his standards, though the disciples might disagree—sent them stumbling neatly out of his way. The doors slammed open with a hollow crack that echoed down the corridor as Shen Qingqiu strode into the Healing Hall.

The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt it.

The air trembled, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bite of ozone. Heat pressed down like a fever. The deeper he went, the hotter it grew—by the time he reached the inner chamber, it felt as though he were standing at the mouth of a forge.

Without hesitation, he lifted a hand and the barrier sealing the chamber dissolved at his command. He slid the door open—

—and walked straight into chaos.

It was as if a storm had taken shape inside the room.

Mu Qingfang’s voice rose above the roar of spiritual energy. “—told you he wasn’t allowed in—!”

The floor was littered with ruined talismans, the ink burned half away. Cracked wood smoked faintly where heat had seared it. The air itself shimmered, vibrating so violently it stung the skin.

And at the center sat Liu Qingge.

Half-naked, drenched in sweat, his face tight with strain. The bandages at his ribs were soaked through, crimson bleeding dark against white. His skin glowed with feverish light, veins standing black against it, pulsing as if demonic qi were boiling beneath the surface.

His spiritual energy—normally sharp, controlled—had turned wild and violent, lashing at the room like a beast in a cage.

A few paces away, Cheng Luan lay discarded on the ground, the blade trembling faintly as if it, too, felt its master’s imbalance.

“Get out!” Mu Qingfang snapped, voice ragged. “I have this under control!”

The words had barely left his mouth before Liu Qingge’s qi flared again. The surge struck one of the nearby disciples full-on, sending the poor boy flying into the wall with a dull thud.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t even blink. “Clearly.”

Mu Qingfang glared at him. “We need to get the sealing talisman on him, but none of us can get close enough!”

“Then,” Shen Qingqiu said, stepping forward, “allow me.”

Mu Qingfang’s voice sharpened. “It’s dangerous—his energy is unstable, you could—”

“Could,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted mildly, already plucking the golden talisman from Mu Qingfang’s hand, “but will not.”

Getting closer to the War God was no easy task.

Even when said War God was half-conscious, bleeding, and actively falling into qi deviation.

The instant Shen Qingqiu stepped forward, Liu Qingge’s eyes snapped open—bright and glassy, recognition scraped away. The whites were latticed with red; the pupils shone like polished obsidian. A shiver of spiritual energy pulsed outward. Cheng Luan, forgotten at his side a heartbeat before, lifted into the air and landed in his hand.

“Wait—Shen Shixiong, don’t!” Mu Qingfang’s voice cut sharp. “If he recognizes you as an enemy—”

“If?” Shen Qingqiu murmured under his breath. “How optimistic.”

There was no time for debate. The storm in the room was building toward a break; Liu Qingge’s aura warped the air itself, making the last talismans on the walls curl, smoke, and singe.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t summon Xiu Ya. Calling steel against an unstable cultivator’s qi would only escalate things.

He opened his fan instead and stepped straight into the storm.

“Liu Shidi,” he said, voice level though nearly drowned by roaring spiritual power, “if you strike your own shixiong, I will personally make sure you never live it down.”

No answer—only a lightning flash as Cheng Luan cleaved the air.

The first blow came like thunder. Shen Qingqiu twisted away; the gust carved a deep groove into the floor where his feet had stood. Before he could reset, the next strike arrived, faster than sight. He met it with his fan—ribs sparking at the contact—and used the recoil to launch backward.

Even crippled, Liu Qingge’s sword work was surgical: precise, unforgiving, absolute. Every swing carried the force of a body honed into a weapon.

When Liu Qingge had no missions and Shen Qingqiu’s lectures mercifully ended, they would occasionally take to one of Bai Zhan Peak’s training courtyards.

“Occasionally,” of course, was defined as every single time Liu Qingge decided Shen Qingqiu needed “practical exercise.”

Unsurprisingly, Liu Qingge always won.

That day was no exception. Shen Qingqiu hit the ground with an undignified thud; his sword skittered away and clattered on stone. Dust puffed around him in a hazy halo of indignity.

He lay a moment and stared up at the painfully blue sky. A single white cloud drifted by, slow and smug. He sighed.

“If I ever meet another opponent like you, Master Liu,” he said, tone deceptively mild, “I’ll lie down at the outset and spare myself the effort.”

Liu Qingge looked down, blade flashing faintly. “If your opponent is stronger and faster, it does not mean you cannot defeat him.”

“But what,” Shen Qingqiu countered, brushing a strand of hair from his face, “if he’s stronger, faster, and reads every attack I make?”

The sword tip dipped. Liu Qingge arched a brow. “Then give him nothing to read.”

Easy to say. Shen Qingqiu catalogued five ways things could go wrong, three ways he might die, and one brilliant plan to fake his own demise to skip the next training session.

He pushed up on an elbow and dusted his sleeve with theatrical grace.

“You think too much,” Liu Qingge said flatly. “You plan five moves ahead. By the time you reach the first, I’ve already seen all five.”

Shen Qingqiu pretended to ponder. “So your grand strategy is to flail until victory  simply falls into my lap?”

“No.” A brief exhale—almost a laugh. “Create false intentions.”

“And if my opponent reads the false intentions?” Shen Qingqiu asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Then let him read what you want him to read.”

As if that solved the mystery of everything.

Liu Qingge nodded toward the discarded sword. “Up.”

Shen Qingqiu sighed—eloquently—and retrieved his weapon.

“Feint high. Strike low,” Liu Qingge said.

The oldest trick in the book, still serviceable. Shen Qingqiu complied: a high arc, a pivot, a low cut to the ribs.

Steel met steel with a decisive clang. Liu Qingge’s parry was effortless. “Predictable,” he said.

“Thank you,” Shen Qingqiu replied sweetly. “Consistency is my brand.”

Liu Qingge ignored him. “If your opponent expects the low strike, don’t change the strike—change the timing. Make him believe he reads you, and then move half a beat late. The more confident he grows in his read, the wider his opening when you break the rhythm.”

He stepped back; sunlight caught the fine scar along his jaw. “You cannot always hide intent. You can, however, decide what your opponent thinks he understands.”

Shen Qingqiu regarded him, then: “…So the key is to gaslight my opponent until he defeats himself. Noted.”

Liu Qingge frowned. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Shen Qingqiu said at once. “Just admiring your profound martial wisdom, Liu Shidi.”

The unimpressed glance said he’d seen through that false intention too. “You didn’t learn a thing,” Liu Qingge muttered.

Oh, but he had.

The blade descended.

Shen Qingqiu twisted aside—barely. The edge grazed his sleeve, slitting it from wrist to elbow. Heat kissed the air where the steel passed.

He flicked the frayed edge with exaggerated delicacy. “Liu Shidi,” he said lightly, “if you wished to express interest, you could have simply asked. There was no need to make such a… passionate statement.”

Don’t fight to the opponent’s rhythm.

Liu Qingge’s qi was a living storm: surging, snapping, without predictable cadence. Beneath the chaos, though, Shen Qingqiu could still sense the faint pulse of intent—the steady hunger of a warrior sharpened by battle. To meet it head-on would be to invite obliteration.

So he didn’t.

He moved with deliberate irregularity—steps too quick, then too slow—gestures that fractured any pattern Liu Qingge might hope to read. Twice he sidestepped when every instinct demanded a block. Once he walked into the pressure of a swing and let the fan graze the blade, shifting its arc by a hair.

The floor cracked where the redirected blow hit. Splinters stung his cheek.

“Still predictable,” Shen Qingqiu muttered to himself, and circled closer.

Sweat beaded at Liu Qingge’s temple; his breath trembled. The aura around him swelled, raw and unstable. It wouldn't hold much longer.

Shen Qingqiu tightened the talisman between his fingers. One chance.

Cheng Luan struck, this time from the side—an arc meant to push him away. Shen Qingqiu stepped forward, late by half a beat. The blade nicked his shoulder, blood warm, and for a heartbeat Liu Qingge’s eyes flickered with confusion at the delay.

That single heartbeat was all Shen Qingqiu needed.

He covered the last measure and pressed the talisman flat to Liu Qingge’s bare chest.

The golden seal flared. Light flooded the hall; spiritual energy surged like a river finding its banks and then collapsed inward. Liu Qingge convulsed—hard enough to make the very air shudder—and then went still. Cheng Luan fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Silence followed, broken only by ragged breaths: Mu Qingfang’s, the disciples’, his own. The oppressive heat ebbed, leaving the sharp tang of singed talisman ink and ironed blood.

Shen Qingqiu’s arm trembled as he lowered it. The fan hung limply; one rib bent from deflecting a strike that could have cleaved stone.

He exhaled, careful. Heart racing, sleeve ruined, a few strands of hair sacrificed to the cause—but Liu Qingge was alive, and more importantly, quiet.

Mu Qingfang was at his side in an instant, dropping to check the pulse. “Stable,” he said after a beat; the tension unclenched by an inch. He looked at Shen Qingqiu with equal parts gratitude and exasperation. “You reckless—what were you thinking?”

“That I would prefer he didn’t explode in your Healing Hall,” Shen Qingqiu answered with the honesty of a cursed man. His knees felt suspiciously unsteady. “You’re welcome.”

Two disciples hurried forward at Mu Qingfang’s bark of command. They lifted Liu Qingge’s limp form with reverence and care, as if even unconscious, the War God might take offense, and carried him to the nearest bed. The golden seal still glowed faintly on his chest, painting his face in soft light.

Mu Qingfang moved with crisp efficiency, reaching already for fresh talismans. “Bind him as well—both wrists, both ankles. Use the spirit-sealing ropes—yes, those. If his qi flares again, none of us will have time to dodge.”

Golden cords wound around limbs, humming faintly where they met skin. Mu Qingfang let out a slow breath—the first sound of weariness he allowed. “That will hold until his meridians calm. Shen Shixiong—” His tone softened, a fraction. “This time, I insist you leave it to us.”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “Very well. I’ll wait outside. Inform me when you’re ready to report his condition.”

He turned to the door, footsteps deliberate — one of the few courtesies left to spare the exhausted air of the Healing Hall.

He really hoped that after all this effort Liu Qingge would, in fact, not die. 

***

“So you’re saying,” Shen Qingqiu said, his voice low but steady, “that if you can’t find the source of the corruption in his meridians… there’s a chance he could fall into deviation again?”

“Yes.” Mu Qingfang inclined his head. “The backlash of whatever entered his system is still circulating. Until I identify it, I can’t neutralize it. If his body rejects the suppression seal…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication was clear enough.

The room felt heavier for it.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze flicked to the glowing seal etched faintly across Liu Qingge’s chest. “Can’t you take a sample? Examine it from his meridians?”

“I can’t.” Mu Qingfang shook his head, weariness softening his usually precise tone. “Any interference might further rupture his spiritual network. His qi is already unstable. Even a minor disturbance could make the damage irreversible.”

Silence settled again, broken only by the faint hum of the sealing ropes and Liu Qingge’s shallow breathing.

“I need a sample directly from the source.” Mu Qingfang sighed and pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose. “I’ll report this to Zhangmen Shixiong. He’ll arrange for someone to obtain a sample from the source. Until then, I can only keep him stable.”

Shen Qingqiu’s brows tightened. Obtain a sample from the source. In other words—someone would have to get close to the demon responsible.

Oh joy. What a perfectly suicidal assignment.

He could already imagine Yue Qingyuan’s face when he heard the report. He’d never assign such a task to anyone. Not when the only person who might stand a chance against Huizhong was lying unconscious, bleeding onto Mu Qingfang’s medical bedding.

“I understand,” Shen Qingqiu said finally. His tone was calm, polite even, but something in it made Mu Qingfang glance up. “Do keep me informed of any changes, Shidi.”

He turned before Mu Qingfang could respond.

Outside, the air was cool and still. The wind brushed through the eaves, carrying the faint scent of mountain herbs. Shen Qingqiu paused beneath the lantern light, the glow catching faintly in his eyes.

He already knew what he had to do.

And he knew exactly where to start.

***

The door slammed open so hard it nearly came off the hinges.

Shang Qinghua let out a shriek—there was no other word for it—and managed to baptize half a dozen scrolls in tea. “Wha—!? Oh.” He slumped in visible relief. “Cucumber bro! Don’t scare me like that! I thought you were—uh—never mind. What brings you here so late? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, of course—just, you know—a bit sudden—”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t answer. He crossed the room in three unhurried steps and sat down across from him.

Shang Qinghua blinked, mopped at the spreading tea puddle with a damp handkerchief, and glanced up every few seconds. “Uh… for the record, I haven’t done anything wrong lately.” He paused. “…Have I?”

The curse obligingly stirred — a subtle itch under Shen Qingqiu’s skin.

“No,” Shen Qingqiu said flatly.

“Oh. Great! See, I told you—wait—hey!”

Shen Qingqiu reached over, picked up the abandoned teacup, and lifted it. A faint, syrupy scent hit his nose before he took a sip. He paused, frowning.

“…You’re drinking huangjiu?”

“Uh.” Shang Qinghua froze mid-blot. “It’s—medicinal?”

“Of course it is.” Shen Qingqiu set the cup down with disdain. “Any word from Mobei-jun?”

“Not yet,” Shang Qinghua said quickly. “I sent a message, but he’s been busy. Probably conquering something. Or meditating. Or ghosting me. Why? You—you look kind of pale, bro. Did something—”

“I need you,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted, “to tell me everything you know about Huizhong.”

That shut him up.

“…Huizhong?” Shang Qinghua repeated weakly.

“Yes.” Shen Qingqiu’s voice was all clipped edges. “Everything. Now.”

“Oh boy.” Shang Qinghua set down the soggy handkerchief and began rifling through the clutter of his memory. “Okay, let’s see. Xie Huizhong—one of the six surviving demon lords from the first great war. Technically ranked fourth in strength, second in actual influence. He’s the kind that plans twenty steps ahead and only fights battles he’s already won.”

Shen Qingqiu tapped his fan against the table, slow and unimpressed. “I’m aware he’s a strategist. Continue.”

“Right, right.” Shang Qinghua swallowed. “He doesn’t believe in Heaven’s Will or destiny or any of that. Says power writes its own laws. And Heaven doesn’t write for demons anyway.”

“Philosophy noted. What else.”

“Uh…” Shang Qinghua rubbed the back of his neck. “Most high-level demons have some flashy thing—fire, ice, wings, whatever. Huizhong doesn’t. His specialty is… corruption.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes narrowed. “Speak.”

“The corruption’s kind of a contagion,” Shang Qinghua said, voice dropping. “Starts small. Spreads through the meridians like rot. Once it’s deep enough, the cultivator can’t circulate spiritual energy at all.”

So it lodges in the meridians and devours the spiritual pathways. No wonder Mu Qingfang had looked like he wanted to burn his medical texts after describing it.

“Then how,” Shen Qingqiu said, very evenly, “do I get a piece of it?”

“…Excuse me?”

“Let’s say I need a sample. How do I get it?”

“Bro,” Shang Qinghua said faintly, “you can’t just pick it up like mushrooms off the roadside—”

“Are you testing my patience right now?”

“Oh my god…” Shang Qinghua ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know, okay? Huizhong shouldn't have survived!”

“But you should at least know where it comes from!” Shen Qingqiu leaned forward, voice rising. “Is it something he coats his weapons with? A technique? Some kind of spiritual disease in his system—”

“It’s in his qi!” Shang Qinghua blurted out. “He releases it when he fights!”

Shen Qingqiu went very still.

So technically, it was possible to collect it. The problem was… how, exactly, to do that without dying horribly in the process.

An idea—half-formed and absolutely terrible—was already taking shape.

Before Shang Qinghua could open his mouth, Shen Qingqiu reached for the cup again and tossed back the remaining huangjiu. It hit his throat like liquid fire.

Shang Qinghua made a strangled noise. “Bro—!”

“Wait for news from Mobei-jun,” Shen Qingqiu said, already turning toward the door.

He adjusted his sleeves, stepped out into the night air, and set his course.

He had another Peak to visit.

***

Shen Qingqiu had never been to Tian Shu Peak before.

In Proud Immortal Demon Way, it had merited only a passing mention—one of those minor set pieces that existed mainly to justify the author’s harem math. Something about a virtuous wife, elegant, tragic, overshadowed by the protagonist’s seventy-third romantic complication. A peak known for its arrays, not its soap opera value.

Having transmigrated into this world, Shen Qingqiu had found even less reason to visit. The main plot had kept him comfortably confined to Qing Jing Peak, and the original goods—well, he hadn’t exactly been the sociable type. 

As for Tian Shu Peak Lord, Xu Qinglian—he’d only ever spoken to her twice. Once during a Peak Lords’ assembly, and once at the Immortal Alliance Conference, where she’d said perhaps ten words and terrified three elders.

So, really, this visit was overdue.

When he landed on Tian Shu Peak’s terraces, a fine chill greeted him like a polite slap. The air here was thinner, crisper; every breath carried a faint bite of mountain frost. Silver-green rhododendrons carpeted the slopes, blossoms shifting from pale lilac to deep indigo in perfect symmetry. Even nature, it seemed, respected Tian Shu Peak’s obsession with balance.

A disciple in indigo robes appeared almost immediately, bowing low.

“Shen Shibo,” the young man greeted, polite but visibly startled. “Forgive this disciple—I wasn’t told to expect your arrival.”

Shen Qingqiu flicked open his fan with practiced ease, hiding the fact that he’d been lost for a solid five minutes on the way up. “The fault is mine for arriving unannounced. If your Shizun is not currently occupied, this Master has a matter he wishes to discuss.”

The disciple blinked, then gestured quickly to a younger female disciple. “Go and inform Shizun that Shen Shibo has arrived.”

The girl bowed and vanished up the path with the efficiency of a trained arrow.

The remaining disciple inclined his head. “Please, Shibo—this way. You may wait in the Array Pavilion.”

They followed a slate path lined with faintly glowing lines, geometric sigils pulsing like heartbeats beneath their feet. Ahead rose a circular building of pale stone, its walls inlaid with threads of mirror-bright metal that caught and fractured the evening light.

When Shen Qingqiu stepped inside, his breath stilled for a beat. The ceiling was painted in silver and blue, constellations spiraling across it in precise detail. Stars glimmered faintly, as if the whole pavilion were a fragment of the night sky trapped within a formation. The structure itself was an array—a living one.

Outside, dusk had begun to settle. The quiet here was different from Qing Jing Peak’s tranquil solitude. This was silence by design—measured, deliberate, the kind that hummed faintly with restrained order.

Soft footsteps approached.

Shen Qingqiu turned as Xu Qinglian entered.

She moved with unhurried grace, her expression calm and precise as calligraphy. Indigo robes trimmed with silver traced constellations across the fabric; her hair was bound high with a talismanic pin that shimmered faintly with spiritual light. She looked every inch the scholar cultivator she was reputed to be: all quiet authority and unnerving composure.

“Shen Shixiong,” she greeted, bowing with faultless poise.

“Xu Shimei.” Shen Qingqiu lowered his fan in return. “Forgive the intrusion. I would not disturb you at this hour were the matter not urgent.”

Her gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, before softening by a fraction. “Few come to Tian Shu uninvited,” she said. “I confess, I was surprised when my disciples reported your arrival.”

Shen Qingqiu smiled thinly. “If anyone else in the sect could assist, I would have spared you the trouble. Unfortunately, you alone have the expertise I require.”

Her brows rose. “Then it must be a very particular problem.”

He closed his fan with a crisp snap that echoed too dramatically for comfort. “Arrays,” he said. “Specifically—containment. A structure capable of absorbing demonic qi and isolating it through spiritual flow inversion.”

For a moment, Xu Qinglian’s composure held perfectly still. Then subtle interest flickered in her eyes. “That’s a rather specific formation, Shen Shixiong. May I ask—what purpose do you need it for?”

Shen Qingqiu hesitated. For one blessed moment, he considered lying. Then the curse in his chest pulsed sharply, warningly, and the choice was made for him. “I intend to capture a sample of demon qi.”

The silence that followed was the delicate, brittle kind that could shatter with a breath.

Xu Qinglian regarded him for a long moment, lashes lowered. “I see.” Her tone was even, but her eyes gleamed with measured thought—as if weighing whether he had gone insane or simply been that way all along. “You do not intend to elaborate, I assume.”

“Not at present.”

“Then it must be urgent indeed.”

It was. Urgent, reckless, and, fine, maybe one of his top five most questionable ideas since transmigration. But explaining that would take too long and sound even worse aloud.

Under her scrutiny, he suddenly felt like a mortal hauled before the Heavens for sentencing. The lamplight struck the silver threads of her robes, giving her the aspect of a goddess carved from moonlight—one capable of condemning or saving him with the same tranquil breath.

Would she refuse and go straight to Yue Qingyuan?

Or hear him out, only to decide this was above her pay grade?

This visit was an “all-or-nothing” gamble. Shen Qingqiu had come here with no contingency plan and certainly had no time to devise another.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then Xu Qinglian exhaled softly, tension unwinding in a single controlled breath.

“Very well,” she said at last. “If the matter is as grave as you suggest, Tian Shu Peak will assist. But to construct such an array, I’ll need to understand precisely what it’s meant to contain.”

Her gaze met his, clear and unflinching. “Tell me, Shen Shixiong—what kind of demonic qi are we talking about?”

***

Shang Qinghua blinked blearily, looking like a mole dragged out of its burrow mid-hibernation. His hair stuck up in four different directions, defying gravity and dignity alike. Clutching his thin robe tighter, he squinted miserably at Shen Qingqiu.

“Bro,” he croaked, voice full of betrayal, “the sun isn’t even up yet and you’re already hunting my Peak. What did I do this time?!”

Honestly, Shen Qingqiu had to respect his efficiency. The man’s mouth was fully functional even when his brain clearly wasn’t.

“You didn’t do anything,” Shen Qingqiu said evenly. “But you are the pimple on my ass. And if I must suffer, it’s only fair you join me.”

Shang Qinghua made a noise that perfectly embodied spiritual despair. “You’re so cruel, bro. Can’t you at least let me suffer after breakfast?”

“No. I’m already letting you live. That’s generosity enough.”

“That’s not generosity, that’s emotional damage,” Shang Qinghua rubbed at his face, yawning. “So why are you awake, then? Don’t tell me you actually get up this early just to harass me.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. “Seriously? Then what were you doing all night?”

Shen Qingqiu hesitated for half a breath too long. The curse of narrative inevitability struck right on cue. 

“I was… busy with Xu Qinglian.”

The reaction was instantaneous and appropriately catastrophic.

Shang Qinghua’s eyes flew open like doors in a hurricane. “WHAT?! Bro—her?! That’s—wow, didn’t think you had that in you! Wait, wait—is that even allowed between Peak Lords? Is there a sect regulation—?”

“Not that kind of busy, you gutter-minded rodent!” Shen Qingqiu snapped, smacking him on the head with a fan from the bottom of his heart.

“Hey—ow! Fine, fine!” Shang Qinghua ducked, rubbing his head. “Be mysterious, then! You didn’t have to assault me over it—”

“Enough.” Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly through his nose. He could literally feel his blood pressure rising. “I came because I need you to cover for me. I’ll be leaving Cang Qiong for a day or two.”

The transformation from sleepy to horrified was instantaneous—spectacular, even.

“Leaving?! Where are you going? You can’t just say it like that, bro! Are you eloping with Xu Peak Lord now? Is this a full romance arc—”

Shen Qingqiu looked up at the heavens and briefly considered asking for lightning to smite him on the spot.

“I’m going to the Huan Hua lands.”

A silence fell. Heavy. Prolonged.

Then—

“The Huan Hua lands?! Are you insane? Huizhong’s there! You can’t just—he’s like a walking apocalypse! You’re not even the protagonist!”

Shen Qingqiu grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him until his words turned into loose syllables. “Can I rely on you or not?”

Shang Qinghua blinked, dazed, hair flopping. “I—uh—yes? Maybe?”

“Maybe?!”

“Okay, okay! Yes! I’ll do it!” he yelped. “I’ll make something up! Just—don’t die, all right?!”

Shen Qingqiu released him, straightening his sleeves with practiced calm entirely undeserved by the chaos he’d just unleashed.

Ever since fate—or that damn System—had dragged him into this world, Shen Qingqiu had vowed not to waste the second chance he’d been given. For years, he’d walked a careful line, ticking off the System’s tasks one by one, terrified of the price of deviation. He’d even thrown a child into the abyss, all for the sake of survival.

Cowardice, neatly packaged as strategy.

But not this time.

If the price of his safety was someone else’s life, then he refused to pay it.

Liu Qingge would not die. Not again.

And if the System wanted a fight—well, Shen Qingqiu was more than ready to give it one.

Chapter Text

The original Shen Qingqiu might have been a scum villain, but he’d also been the sharpest mind in the world of cultivation. That man could smell a conspiracy before it had the decency to finish hatching. Not a single poisoned cup ever reached his lips, not a single rumor slipped past his network of shadows, and not a single schemer lived long enough to boast about outwitting him. His cunning, foresight, and paranoia were the envy of generals and ministers alike.

Too bad all that brilliance had been no match for the protagonist’s plot armor.

As for Shen Yuan... well. The only “strategic maneuvering” he’d ever mastered was figuring out how to stack coupon deals on fried chicken and which subway seat avoided the cabbage sack of some determined ayi during rush hour.

So when it came to outsmarting one of the most dangerous demon lords alive, he was, frankly, operating far below peak historical Shen Qingqiu levels.

And the curse of truth—oh, that beautifully useless accessory to his existence—made things worse. Every half-formed scheme shattered before it left his mouth. How could he lie, or even bluff, when the moment he tried, reality itself slapped him on the wrist? He wasn’t Liu Qingge; charging in and yelling “Fight me!” was not a viable life choice.

If he strolled up to Huizhong and said, “Hey, mind if I borrow a little of your demonic plague juice for research purposes?” the demon would probably laugh, wave a claw, and let his underlings turn him into artisanal minced cultivator.

No, to get a sample of Huizhong’s corrupted qi, he needed the demon lord to fight him voluntarily. Which meant baiting him. Which meant convincing a centuries-old tactical genius that Shen Qingqiu was worth the effort.

All while being physically incapable of lying.

Yes. He was absolutely, spectacularly doomed.

According to Wei Qingwei’s latest reports, the demon forces were moving southeast—just as predicted—closing in on the heart of Huan Hua. Huizhong himself had been sighted at last: towering, calm, strolling through battlefields as though admiring spring blossoms.

Yue Qingyuan, in his eternal wisdom, had taken one look at the reports and quietly shelved his plan to strike once the demon lord’s location was confirmed.

Apparently, Qian Cao’s disciples had discovered that the corrupted ground didn’t just decay—it disintegrated. Into particles. Into nothing.

So yes. “Incorrect assessment” was putting it mildly.

That left Shen Qingqiu with only one option.

He descended toward Baihe City.

The city was silent, hollowed out, the air thick with the residue of demonic qi—clinging, heavy, like tar in his lungs. Once, merchants had shouted from their stalls here; now the only sound was the whisper of his robes over stone.

He wondered, not for the first time, why the demons had stopped leaving territories untouched. Had Huizhong changed his plan midway? Or was this how it had always been meant to unfold?

His steps echoed down the empty street. A pressure built gradually in the air—vast, deliberate, suffocating.

From the far end of the street, a figure emerged through the haze—black and crimson bleeding together in the light.

“Peak Lord Shen,” the voice drawled, rich and unhurried. “How curious. I didn’t think the righteous would seek me out willingly.”

Huizhong was dressed in dark robes traced with faint runes, armored at the shoulders like a battlefield commander. His hair was bound high, his gray eyes steady and coldly lucid—too human, and not at all. The guan dao in his hand caught the light, its edge humming faintly with power.

By human reckoning, he looked to be in his early thirties. Which was, frankly, unfair. Demons didn’t age properly, and this one apparently didn’t believe in aesthetic humility either.

Of course Huizhong knew exactly who stood before him. Shen Qingqiu would have been insulted if he hadn’t.

From the outskirts, lesser demons slunk closer, a silent pack circling the edges of the street. Shen Qingqiu didn’t bother to count them. If these were the ones he could see, there were twice as many he couldn’t.

“You’ve been busy,” he said lightly, flicking open his fan. “It would be impolite to intrude.”

Huizhong’s lips curved faintly.

“So,” he drawled, “what brings a cultivator of your standing to Baihe’s graveyard? Come to negotiate? To plead for peace?”

“Neither,” Shen Qingqiu said before he could stop himself. The curse always did prefer speaking over thinking.

A dark gleam flickered in Huizhong’s eyes. He looked—Shen Qingqiu noted with deep irritation—like someone watching an especially entertaining street performance.

Fine. Let him enjoy it. Admission was free, and the protagonist might very well die before intermission.

“Oh?” Huizhong’s tone was mild, almost indulgent. “So Cang Qiong Sect now sends its Peak Lords on personal errands?”

“Cang Qiong didn’t send me.”

That earned a brief silence. Huizhong blinked slowly. “Is that so?”

Even a demon looked skeptical—and frankly, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t blame him. If he were Huizhong, he’d assume he was lying through his flawless, righteous teeth.

If only he could.

“The Sect Leader doesn’t even know I came,” he added.

Huizhong’s gaze sharpened, gray eyes narrowing. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes.”

The pause that followed felt deliberate, weighted. “Why?”

Shen Qingqiu sighed and flicked open his fan, letting the soft snap disguise his exasperation. “Because, as fate would have it, I'm literally incapable of lying.”

Huizhong blinked once—then laughed. A low, rolling sound that spread through the air like thunder across empty hills.

“You are one amusing human, Peak Lord Shen,” he said. “So you truly came here of your own accord?”

“Unfortunately.”

Huizhong’s amusement deepened. “For what purpose?”

“To confirm a theory.”

One dark brow arched—elegant as a brushstroke. “And what theory might that be?”

“That human spiritual energy behaves differently when it comes into direct contact with demonic qi.” Shen Qingqiu’s gaze flicked to the black mist curling lazily along the cracked stone. “Specifically—your corruption.”

“You came all this way, alone, to test a theory?” Huizhong’s smile widened, not kindly. “You must value knowledge very highly.”

“No,” Shen Qingqiu said, fanning himself once. “I value prevention more.”

That drew another pause. Huizhong’s expression shifted—not hostile now, but thoughtful, curious.

“You intrigue me, Peak Lord Shen,” he said at last. “So few men admit their fears so plainly.”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “Ah, it’s less fear than… an occupational hazard.”

Huizhong chuckled again, low and dangerous. “Of course. And how do you intend to confirm this theory of yours?”

“Preferably,” Shen Qingqiu said, “without dying.”

The demon lord laughed outright this time, a sound as sharp as steel drawn from its sheath. “A rare man, Peak Lord Shen. I find I rather like you.”

He lifted his guan dao in one smooth motion, the blade catching the blood-red light of sunset.

“Very well,” Huizhong said. “Let us test your theory.”

The blade came down in a streak of red light.

Shen Qingqiu twisted aside just in time. The guan dao struck the ground where he’d stood a breath earlier, carving a deep gouge through the cobblestones. The shock split the air with a deafening crack, pulverizing a nearby wall to dust.

All right, he thought grimly, snapping his fan open as he skidded backward. So that’s the level we’re playing at. Good to know.

Huizhong stepped through the settling dust like a shadow. His voice was calm, almost conversational. “Your movements are refined. But you lack intent.”

“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu said weakly, “that’s because my intent is survival.”

He darted sideways, gathering spiritual energy in a flick of his wrist. Green light burst from his fan, colliding with Huizhong’s black qi. The impact shattered the spell midair, sending him tumbling across the stones. Sparks flew where his boots scraped the ground.

Spiritual energy clashed against demonic qi—white against red-black—tearing through the ruined street. Dust swirled up in thick clouds; broken stalls and tiles scattered like dead leaves.

Huizhong laughed softly as he cut through Shen Qingqiu’s next strike with insulting ease. “Cultivators talk of harmony, yet all your light ever does is try to erase what it cannot understand.”

And all your corruption ever does is ruin my robes, Shen Qingqiu thought darkly, coughing up the taste of blood.

He staggered back. The wind from the next blow ripped straight through his sleeve. Without his reinforced barriers, he’d have lost an arm by now.

Huizhong advanced at an unhurried pace, blade spinning lazily, smile faint. An executioner who had all the time in the world.

Liu Qingge, even mid–qi deviation, still pulled his strikes, Shen Qingqiu thought, heart pounding. This one looks like death showing up to collect what was due.

He thrust his palm forward, releasing a burst of spiritual power. The shockwave threw him clear across the square; he rolled and landed on one knee, gasping. The ground where he’d stood moments before had melted into a smoking crater.

His fan was half-burned, the metal ribs glowing faintly. Fantastic. First my dignity, now my accessories.

But he didn’t have time for mourning. He slipped a hand into his sleeve, fingers brushing over two talismans. One for Huizhong. The other, linked to it, meant to capture a trace of the corruption.

Another quake of power rippled through the ground as Huizhong swung again. Shen Qingqiu leapt, qi surging into his sword until its edge burned white.

Huizhong’s eyes followed him through the air. “Your cultivation is refined,” he said, tone almost approving. “A pity it won’t save you.”

Shen Qingqiu dove sharply, feinting left and twisting right. His fan snapped open, releasing a narrow streak of light that sliced through the air and buried itself in Huizhong’s outer robes.

The talisman flashed once, then vanished.

One down, he thought, pulse thundering. Now for the part where I try not to die.

Huizhong’s gaze sharpened. “You’re bold, Peak Lord Shen.”

“I’ve been told that before,” Shen Qingqiu panted. Usually by people trying to kill me. Consistency is comforting.

Huizhong smiled faintly. “Then be bold enough to face this.”

The next surge wasn’t a strike—it was a flood. Black qi poured from the guan dao, twisting the air itself. The ground blackened; the sky dimmed as though the world were being swallowed whole.

Shen Qingqiu pressed a talisman to his chest. It flared gold—then blinding white. The array awoke, connecting to its twin.

The corruption rushed forward, swallowing everything in its path. The talisman drank a fragment of it—barely—before the rest crashed through.

Pain exploded through his body. His barrier shattered; white light burst behind his eyes. He hit the ground hard, the miasma burning in his lungs.

And then—of course—Without a Cure chose that exact moment to stir.

A pulse of icy pain tore through his meridians, jagged and merciless, like a thousand needles scraping his insides. His breath hitched; his limbs went rigid. He could feel the poison gnawing at his spiritual core, drinking greedily from what little strength he had left.

Perfect timing, he thought faintly, teeth gritted. Absolutely perfect.

“Is that all?” Huizhong asked softly, as if genuinely disappointed. “You came all this way just to die here?”

“As I said,” Shen Qingqiu rasped, dragging himself backward, “I came to test a theory.”

“Then you’d better conclude quickly.”

The next strike fell like thunder. Shen Qingqiu barely raised a barrier before the force flung him across the square again. He coughed blood, limbs shaking, vision swimming.

He’s playing with me.

When the demon smiled, it wasn’t mockery—it was certainty. He knew the next blow would end it.

And Shen Qingqiu—aching, lightheaded, qi flickering out—knew it too.

Huizhong’s blade fell.

Shen Qingqiu tried to raise his hand, to summon a shield, anything—

But nothing answered. The thread of spiritual power snapped.

Without a Cure burned hotter, a cruel echo in his veins, and he could do nothing but gasp through the pain.

So this is how it ends.

For a moment, amid the roar of wind and pain, his mei mei’s face flickered into Shen Qingqiu’s mind—bright and fierce beneath the dull glow of a kitchen light. She'd always been the only one in his large, messy family who believed that Shen Yuan was more than a punchline. 

“Ge, you’re not useless,” she’d said once, thrusting a chipped bowl of reheated rice into his hands after yet another job rejection. “You just haven’t found where you belong yet.”

If she saw him now—smashed, ragged, gasping under demon-qi—what would she say?

The guan dao struck—

—and the world split open.

A burst of sanguine cleaved through the night like a second sun, tearing apart the miasma in a single, blistering sweep. The shockwave rolled across the square, scouring the air back into clarity. For one blind instant, all Shen Qingqiu saw was light.

Then, through the settling dust, someone stepped forward. Black and crimson. Wreathed in smoke.

…No.

Steel met steel with a sound like heavens collapsing. Sparks carved arcs through the dark as two auras crashed—black and sanguine, cold and blazing. The newcomer moved with impossible precision, each strike landing with a restrained fury that forced the demon—Huizhong, ancient and unshakable—back a pace.

Impossible.

Huizhong’s lip curled. “And who,” he asked, low and curious, “are you supposed to be?”

The figure didn’t respond. His sword tilted lazily, drawing a thin crescent of red through the air. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, steady—frighteningly familiar.

“Leave him.”

Shen Qingqiu’s breath hitched painfully.

That voice. It was rougher, deeper—but unmistakable.

Absolutely not.

He tried to sit up. His body, traitorous, refused. The world reeled, his vision lurching sideways like a shoddy compass. 

Sound dulled. Pain dissolved into a distant hum, almost gentle.

Then everything went dark.

***

The first thing Shen Qingqiu noticed was the smell.

Bitter herbs. Crushed roots. A faint trace of sandalwood smoke.

He would have recognized it anywhere.

Qian Cao Peak.

He pried his eyes open. The ceiling wavered in and out of focus, the light stabbing cruelly at his temples. His head throbbed like he’d gone three rounds with a wine jug and lost decisively. Every rib felt as though it had been personally tested for structural integrity by a herd of spirit oxen.

He made the mistake of trying to sit up.

Pain exploded down his side—sharp, tearing and immediate.

“Ah—”

Before he could even finish the sound, a figure loomed over him—first a blur, then resolving into Mu Qingfang’s unmistakable, tragically unimpressed face.

Shen Qingqiu had never been so simultaneously relieved and distressed to see anyone in his life.

“Good,” Mu Qingfang said evenly, pressing two fingers to Shen Qingqiu’s wrist. “You’re awake. That saves me the effort of reviving you just to scold you.”

Ah. So that was how it was going to be.

Mu Qingfang’s tone was calm, but in that calm was the quiet promise of a man perfectly capable of burning your ancestral hall to the ground for your own good.

“You went to Baihe alone,” he continued. “Told no one. Fought a demon lord. Nearly died.” His gaze flicked briefly to the bandages across Shen Qingqiu’s ribs. “You’re lucky to be alive at all. When the disciples found you at the foot of the mountain, I half-expected you to be cold already.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “…Found me?”

“They said you were lying there unconscious,” Mu Qingfang said, still frowning. “No trace of anyone else nearby. You somehow made it back from Baihe in that condition. Care to explain?”

Ah. Excellent. Because he had no explanation either.

If he told Mu Qingfang that Luo Binghe had swooped in like a demonic avenger and then casually dropped him off at Cang Qiong like a piece of misplaced luggage—everyone would have thought Shen Qingqiu had finally lost it. 

Even he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t hallucinated it. Perhaps he had died. Perhaps this was a very elaborate posthumous fever dream.

He cleared his throat. “…It’s complicated.”

“That much,” Mu Qingfang said dryly, “was already evident.”

Shen Qingqiu nodded with the solemn dignity of a man who fully intended never to elaborate.

He listened to Mu Qingfang in silence, the way a husband listens when he comes home drunk, broke, and covered in lipstick stains to find his wife holding a rolling pin.

Yes, yes, I know, I was stupid. Please, let me die in peace now.

He might have stayed that way—meek, repentant—if a sudden, horrifying realization hadn’t struck him.

Shen Qingqiu jerked upright. Pain lanced through him so sharply that he nearly blacked out. “My robe—where is it?”

Mu Qingfang blinked. Then narrowed his eyes. “You’re not seriously thinking of getting up, are you? You’re barely conscious, your meridians are strained, and—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted, which for once was true. “I just need something from it. Right now.”

The look Mu Qingfang gave him could only be described as utterly done. The man looked like he was this close to prescribing him a lobotomy.

“You can have it later,” he said flatly.

“No,” Shen Qingqiu insisted. “It’s important!”

A long pause. Then Mu Qingfang sighed, the sound of a man who had already aged ten years today. “Fine. Bring your Shibo’s robe,” he told a nearby disciple. “The one from the battle.”

The disciple hurried off and returned a moment later with the shredded remains of what had once been a perfectly respectable green robe. Shen Qingqiu snatched it at once, rummaging through the folds like a madman.

Nothing. Nothing—

His stomach dropped.

Then his fingers brushed something dry and papery.

He pulled it free—a crumpled talisman, the edges blackened, the ink faintly smudged—and held it up in triumph like a man brandishing a winning lottery ticket. “There!”

Mu Qingfang stared. “…You nearly tore your stitches open for that?”

“Check it,” Shen Qingqiu rasped.

The healer took it gingerly, frowning. “This… is an array?”

“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu said, each word dragged out through sheer stubborn will. “Containing array. Extract it—”

Mu Qingfang’s eyes sharpened. “Right now?”

“Now!”

There was something wild in Shen Qingqiu’s tone—half desperation, half triumph—that left no room for argument.

Mu Qingfang exhaled quietly, already moving. At his worktable, he placed a glass flask, drew a quick seal, and activated the talisman.

A faint, oily smoke curled upward. The array flared once—then a stream of demonic qi spilled into the flask, dark and writhing like liquid fire.

Mu Qingfang’s eyes widened. “This… this is pure corruption. You actually—”

Shen Qingqiu managed the ghost of a smile. “Now you can… make the medicine…”

And with that, his strength gave out. His head fell back, vision dimming at the edges.

He heard Mu Qingfang calling his name, sharp and distant, before the world dissolved into dark again.

***

When Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes again, it was—mercifully—less like clawing his way back from death.

The ceiling was the same plain wood as the Healing Hall chamber’s, but this time it stayed still. Morning sunlight filtered through the lattice, scattering bright squares across the floor. The air smelled faintly of angelica and clean linen.

Everything hurt. His ribs, his head, his pride—especially his pride. But at least his stomach had stopped trying to stage a dramatic exit through his throat. Progress.

He tried to sit up, then immediately decided that was a terrible idea. Sitting was for people whose organs weren’t currently at war with each other. He eased back down with all the dignity and resilience of a wilted fern.

Something warm closed around his hand.

He turned his head—and the world narrowed to a single pair of gray eyes.

Liu Qingge sat by the bedside, clad only in inner robes. His hair, usually bound with military precision, had been gathered loosely over one shoulder. The dark crescents beneath his eyes spoke of exhaustion, but there was color in his face again, solid and alive. He looked like someone who’d stepped straight out of a cold mist and somehow—somehow—found sunlight waiting.

Shen Qingqiu’s body reacted before his brain caught up. He lunged forward, tangled himself in the blanket, and still managed to reach out, both hands catching Liu Qingge’s face as though touch might confirm what his eyes refused to trust.

The skin beneath his palms was warm. Solid. Real.

Liu Qingge’s hand came up to steady his, calloused fingers wrapping around his own. 

“You’re—” Shen Qingqiu’s voice cracked on the word. “You’re alive.”

“…Mn.”

It wasn’t much of a reply, but Shen Qingqiu would take it. He’d take anything that escaped Liu Qingge’s mouth right now.

He brushed his thumbs along Liu Qingge’s cheekbones, searching for that cold hum of demonic qi. Nothing. Clean.

“Is the corruption—?”

“Gone,” Liu Qingge said simply. “Because of you.”

Liu Qingge’s gaze softened, the faint crease between his brows easing. “Mu Qingfang told me everything. You were reckless—you could have—”

“I know,” Shen Qingqiu cut in quickly, voice low. The words caught in his throat. “I just… couldn’t let you die.”

The silence that followed was the gentle, unbearable kind.

Then Liu Qingge reached up, brushed an errant strand of hair behind Shen Qingqiu’s ear, and that was it—his heart promptly forgot how to behave.

Before Shen Qingqiu could decide whether to die of embarrassment or pretend nothing had happened, a pointed throat-clearing broke the moment.

Mu Qingfang stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and faint amusement. “Liu Shixiong,” he said evenly, “did I—or did I not—warn you that if you tried leaving your bed again, I’d tie you to it?”

Liu Qingge leaned back in his chair, as unrepentant as a cat on a forbidden countertop. “I don’t recall.”

Mu Qingfang’s mouth twitched. “Convenient.” He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “You two are going to shave at least ten years off my lifespan.”

He crossed to the bedside, the hems of his robe whispering against the floor. His sharp gaze flicked over Shen Qingqiu. “Thanks to the sample you so recklessly acquired,” he said, with the weary tone of a man who had long given up on expecting sense from anyone, “I was able to refine a compound that purged the demonic corruption entirely.”

Shen Qingqiu smiled, all grace and innocence. “Ah, that’s excellent news, Mu Shidi.”

Mu Qingfang looked profoundly unconvinced. Still, he reached for Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, fingers pressing briefly to his pulse before giving a curt nod. “You’ll live—provided the Sect Leader doesn’t find ten spare minutes to throttle you first.”

That… was a fair point.

Something tugged uneasily at the back of Shen Qingqiu’s mind—a vague gap where memory should have been. A blank between battle and waking on a Qian Cao bed.

“By the way, Mu Shidi,” he said, brow creasing, “my memories are… slightly unclear. What exactly happened?”

Mu Qingfang’s face remained composed, but his single arched brow managed to convey an entire lecture. “You tell me. You were found unconscious at the foot of Cang Qiong Mountain yesterday morning. Outer sect disciples discovered you, alerted the Sect Leader, and you were taken straight here.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “The foot of the mountain?”

“Yes. And judging from your injuries, it’s remarkable you reached even that far on your own two feet.”

Ah.

His pulse gave a betraying stutter.

Memory flickered—scarlet light, searing heat, arms lifting him.

So Luo Binghe had saved him. Luo Binghe had been there.

He was absolutely, resolutely, very calmly not panicking.

“That so…” he said lightly, striving for composure. “How fortunate I ended up somewhere convenient, then.”

“Fortunate,” Mu Qingfang echoed, flat as a millstone.

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat. “Mu Shidi, when you have a moment, could you send someone to fetch Shang Shidi? There’s…  matter I’d like to discuss with him.”

Mu Qingfang’s gaze narrowed. “You need rest, not conspiracies.”

“It’s n—well,” Shen Qingqiu attempted.

“Mm.” Mu Qingfang’s tone suggested he was once again choosing professional restraint over tossing a patient out a window. “I’ll inform Shang Shixiong that you requested him. When you’re well enough for visitors, he can come.”

Not exactly the answer Shen Qingqiu wanted—but at present, he lacked the leverage of a man who could walk unassisted.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Perfectly reasonable.”

“As luck would have it,” Mu Qingfang continued mildly, “Shen Shixiong will have ample time for such discussions once he returns to his Peak. After all, he’ll need something to occupy him during the next month.”

“…I—pardon?”

Mu Qingfang regarded him in beatific silence. Then, very pleasantly, he said, “Your contributions were deemed significant. The Sect Leader has granted you rest. No travel. No missions. One full month of quiet contemplation on Qing Jing Peak.”

Contemplation? Shen Qingqiu’s jaw went slack. I’m being grounded. I’m actually being grounded. Like a disciple caught smuggling rice wine down the mountain.

From the couch, Liu Qingge made a faint sound — suspiciously close to a laugh.

Mu Qingfang continued smoothly, “Take it as an opportunity to rest and devote some time to teaching. I’m sure the disciples on Qing Jing Peak must miss your…” his pause was just long enough to be insulting “…guidance.”

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to protest. Closed it. Opened it again once more like a fish out of water. Nothing came out.

The corners of Mu Qingfang’s lips twitched. “In any case,” he said, rising, “I have other patients to attend to. I trust my martial brothers will have the sense to rest in their own beds.” His gaze flicked to Liu Qingge, pointed. “That includes you, Liu Shixiong. Unless, of course, Shen Shixiong’s bed proves more to your liking.”

Liu Qingge’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly disappeared into his hairline.

Shen Qingqiu choked. “Mu Shidi!”

But Mu Qingfang was already turning away, robes whispering neatly as he left. “Rest well,” he said, far too serenely, and slid the door shut behind him.

This bitch, Shen Qingqiu thought, awestruck.

The silence that settled over the room was long, and faintly, excruciatingly awkward.

***

Dusk bled slowly across Baihe City.

Ruins lay scattered like old bones—edges sharp, shadows pooling deep where sound refused to linger. The air was stale, heavy with ash and cold iron, the scent of something burned away but not yet cleansed.

He walked without haste. Each step stirred dust from cracked stone; each breath drew in the faint throb of demonic qi that still clung to the ground. What had once been homes, stalls, doorways—now only hollow shells, leaning as if in grief. A human arm protruded from the rubble, skin bloodless against the rust-dark earth.

He did not avert his gaze.

At the center of the ruined square, he stopped.

The wind shifted. Beneath it—a vibration, brittle as a spider’s thread, the last echo of a spent formation. He closed his eyes. Under decay, something still breathed: a pulse, buried deep beneath layers of corrupted qi, stubborn as a scar.

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “Interesting.”

He moved forward, boots rasping over shattered stone. The lines of the formation were nearly gone, scoured thin by time and battle—but not erased.

He knelt, fingertips brushing a fissure. The air shivered.

A thread of light rose from the earth—gold at first, then red. It curled around his wrist, pulsing in imperfect rhythm with his qi, as if testing him, recognizing something it should not.

He felt the tug—the formation reaching back. Cautious. Curious.

“So it responds to me,” he murmured, amusement softening the words.

The qi at his fingertips deepened, bleeding to the same corrupted hue that tainted the ground. He pressed his palm flat.

The formation flared—sudden, violent—like an eye forced open.

Stone split. 

A fissure tore through the square, light erupting in bands of white and red. Its pressure surged outward, heartbeat-strong, ravenous.

He watched it without alarm, gaze half-lidded, the curve of his mouth untouched by surprise. The rift widened, unfurling like ink in water.

“Good,” he breathed. “That should be enough.”

For a time, he stood within it, letting the unstable current coil around him. Its corruption was tainted—humans had meddled—but it called to him all the same.

Only then did he lift his head, eyes tracing the empty horizon. The wind caught the tattered end of his cloak.

When he spoke again, it was almost gentle.

“Come see me, Shizun.”

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu truly couldn’t decide whether to feel relieved or profoundly insulted that Yue Qingyuan had not appeared even once during his convalescence on Qian Cao Peak.

Either the Sect Leader was so overburdened with duties that even a courtesy visit was impossible—or he was still so furious that the mere sight of Shen Qingqiu threatened to shatter his immortal composure. 

Then again, he had caught sight of a few disciples from Qiong Ding Peak passing through the Healing Hall, pretending to tidy shelves or deliver medicine—so clearly, Yue Qingyuan hadn’t entirely washed his hands of him. Which was both comforting and vaguely alarming.

Still, cultivators recovered quickly. The sort of wounds that would cripple mortals for months faded within days. By the third morning, Shen Qingqiu was fully functional—and rapidly losing his mind from boredom.

Liu Qingge had lasted barely forty-eight hours before insisting he was “fit for duty.” Naturally, this assertion ended with Mu Qingfang catching him at dawn, practicing sword forms with stitches still fresh, and very nearly transcending into medical wrath on the spot. For the sake of his sanity—and his blood pressure—Mu Qingfang had banished him.

Wei Qingwei immediately abducted him into some emergency war council, leaving Shen Qingqiu alone with four walls, stale congee, and his own thoughts.

At the door, Liu Qingge had paused. “Rest,” he said simply. “I’ll return when I can.”

Shen Qingqiu had smiled, mild and elegant. “This Master does not require such fussing. Go. The Sect needs you.”

And then his last remaining buffer against madness vanished.

Airplane—that treacherous little rat—hadn’t shown so much as a paper crane. Not even a “lol is u dead?” scrawled in chicken-scratch. If he thought he could hide until the heat cooled, he was sorely mistaken.

Thus began what Mu Qingfang would later refer to, with haunted eyes, as Shen Qingqiu’s “strategic persecution campaign.”

“Oh, Mu Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said on the second day, fanning himself idly within the apothecary. “I merely wished to confirm—are your herbs organized by spiritual affinity or stroke order? No? Fascinating.”

By the fifth visit, Mu Qingfang broke.

“Fine!” he snapped, flinging his sleeve in defeat. “Go. Take two disciples with you so I can at least pretend someone is preventing you from collapsing in a ditch.”

“Mu Shidi’s concern warms this one’s heart,” Shen Qingqiu said gravely.

“Get. Out.”

And so, flanked by two deeply unfortunate Qian Cao disciples trailing behind him, Shen Qingqiu made his leisurely way to An Ding Peak.

When he reached Shang Qinghua’s door, he employed the most efficient method of announcement.

He kicked it open.

The door slammed into the wall with a satisfying crack.

“—UCK! OW—my head—!”

Shang Qinghua emerged from beneath the table like a spooked field mouse, clutching his skull. “Cucumber bro! Can you not? Have you ever heard of knocking? Normal people knock!”

Shen Qingqiu arched a brow. “And give you time to escape out the window? Dream on.”

He stepped inside without apology, folding his fan with a snap as he claimed the rickety chair that had long ago submitted to his authority.

Shang Qinghua, still rubbing his head, squinted suspiciously. “…So, uh, Mu Qingfang finally let you out?”

“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu replied coolly. “Your overwhelming concern during my near-death experience was noted.”

Shang Qinghua flinched. “Ah—haha—Bro! It’s not like I didn’t want to visit! You aggroed a mini-boss in the middle of a public plaza—respect—the whole sect’s been scrambling to keep up! Who knew you could actually force the demons to retreat?”

“Impressive theory,” Shen Qingqiu cut in. “Unfortunately, incorrect. Huizhong wiped the floor with me. Luo Binghe is the one who forced them to retreat.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. Then stared. “...Come again?”

“Luo Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu repeated. “He stopped Huizhong from killing me, and dragged me back to Cang Qiong.”

Shang Qinghua’s jaw unhinged. “But—but he wasn’t supposed to respawn for another two and a half years! The System didn’t even have enough data to patch him back in from the Abyss—bro, what the…?!”

Yes, Shen Qingqiu thought grimly. Join the club.

“I was hoping,” he said aloud, “that you might have some explanation.”

Shang Qinghua’s eyes darted wildly. “Bro, I swear—Luo Binghe wasn’t supposed to show up at all. I have no idea what script he’s running anymore. And why would he save your ass? No offense, bro, but I would’ve put money on him teaming up with Huizhong to fast-track your reincarnation!”

“That makes two of us.”

For a while, Shang Qinghua looked genuinely baffled. Then, as if remembering an overdue chore, he perked up. “Oh! Right. Mobei-jun replied.”

Shen Qingqiu raised a brow. “And?”

After rummaging through the stratified disaster that was his desk, Shang Qinghua produced a single, pristine letter. “In short? He says Huizhong is trash. He’ll let them burn out, then salvage the scraps.”

“How inspiring,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, folding the note. “So. We are on our own.”

Shang Qinghua wilted. “Pretty much.”

Shang Qinghua rubbed the back of his neck, clearly desperate to steer the conversation anywhere else. “Sooo… uh, how’s the curse situation? Any progress?”

“No.” Shen Qingqiu fixed him with a look that could sour milk. “I have a theory. No opportunity to test it.”

Shang Qinghua leaned back with the air of a man who valued his life very little. “Well, rumor says you’re on house arrest, so hey—go wild, bro.”

Silence.

Shen Qingqiu smiled.

It was not kind.

“A-ha-ha,” Shang Qinghua said faintly. “I-I meant—sure you’ll find a safe, respectable pastime—”

The smile remained.

“—Oh look, someone’s calling me—” he declared, already halfway upright. “Must be an important sect business—you know how it is! Great seeing you, Cucumber bro! Love the fan, looks super menacing—gotta go!”

He nearly tripped over his own feet bolting out the door, vanishing down the path like a rabbit fleeing a fox.

Shen Qingqiu watched the empty frame.

…Coward.

Still, perhaps not entirely wrong.

The mirror was still waiting for him in the corner of the bamboo house.

Well. No time like the present.

***

The closer Shen Qingqiu came to Qing Jing, the lighter the air grew. Mist twined between the bamboo stalks; sunlight filtered in soft gold. Wind and leaf whispered in familiar voices.

Peace. Simple, fragile, heartbreakingly welcome.

Then—

“Shizun!”

A blur of light-green robes barreled toward him. Before Shen Qingqiu could so much as brace himself, he was surrounded—arms tugging at his sleeves, clutching at his waist, chattering all at once. 

“Shizun, are you hurt?”
“We heard you were dying!”
“Shizun, your face looks so pale!”

For a moment, he considered the very real possibility of suffocation by filial devotion.

“Enough, enough,” he said, prying off hands with all the dignity he could muster. “This Master sees you’ve all reverted to toddlers in his absence.”

“Shizun, we were worried!” Ning Yingying blurted, eyes still red from crying.

He sighed, patting her head. “And whose fault is that? If you have this much energy to spare, you could practice your sword forms instead of your dramatics.”

“We couldn’t concentrate,” she mumbled, pouting. “Not when Shizun was hurt.”

“Hopeless,” Shen Qingqiu said, shaking his head. “I’ve spoiled you all beyond saving.”

Still, as he looked at them—really looked—he was startled. 

Ning Yingying’s head now nearly reached his shoulder. Ming Fan, broad-shouldered, tall like a bamboo stalk, was no longer the scowling child he used to be. Even Li Zeyan, who was always tripping over the hem of his own robe, carried himself with something almost like maturity.

When had that happened?

Between demonic invasions, life-and-death crises, and the general nonsense of the System, he’d barely noticed time moving on in its quiet, merciless way.

His disciples escorted him to his bamboo hut, chattering the entire way. When they lingered uncertainly at the door, he waved a hand.

“All right, enough. Go practice, meditate, pretend to be diligent—whatever it is you do when I’m not watching.”

“Shizun, should this disciple brew tea for you?” Xin Yanhua offered.

“No,” Shen Qingqiu said gently. “This Master wishes to rest on his own.”

They hesitated, then reluctantly bowed and withdrew, their voices fading into the rustle of bamboo. Shen Qingqiu watched them disappear and turned to the door.

Inside, everything was exactly as he’d left it—simple, orderly, untouched. As if the world outside had never tried to fall apart under the weight of a new war.

His gaze drifted to the corner, where a bronze mirror stood shrouded in a thin layer of dust.

For a while, he only looked at it. Then he stepped forward and pulled the cloth away.

The face that looked back was pale, framed by dark hair and faint shadows under the eyes. 

He stood before it for what could have been hours—or lifetimes.

His own reflection regarded him from the dull surface: serene, composed, faintly irritated, as if daring him to humiliate himself again.

He’d done this before. Too many times. Every attempt had ended the same way—silence.

But now, he thought he finally understood.

Understanding, however, did not make speaking any easier.

He exhaled softly.

“All right,” he muttered, voice half a sigh. “I’ll say it.”

The mirror remained still for a heartbeat, then its surface rippled faintly—like a pond disturbed by the gentlest breeze.

So. It was listening.

“When I first woke up here,” he began, “I had no idea what I was doing.”

A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. 

“I moved around like some baby deer on ice. Everything looked familiar, but nothing felt real. Everyone spoke like they were acting out a bad web novel.”

He shook his head, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I kept expecting to wake up at my desk and curse Airplane for writing such garbage.”

He paused. The silence pressed in from all sides—soft, suffocating.

“I treated it like a game,” he said quietly. “Like everyone around me was just… NPCs.”

Outside, the bamboo rustled, a soft breath of living sound.

“But somewhere along the way,” he continued, “that stopped being true.”

The reflection blurred faintly as he spoke.  “The disciples of the original Qing Jing Peak Master became my disciples. His martial brothers and sisters became mine. I even started thinking of Cang Qiong as—” His voice faltered. “—as home.”

He laughed once, a thin, trembling sound. “Home. Imagine that.”

The mirror pulsed once, faint and warm, like a heartbeat beneath the glass.

In his past life, “home” had been a single-room apartment that smelled of damp walls and overboiled instant noodles. The kind of place where the wallpaper peeled at the corners, where the neighbor’s kid practiced the violin every night with passionate enthusiasm and zero talent, and the radiator only responded to physical violence.

He hadn’t chosen it so much as surrendered to it. Three nights of scrolling through rental listings with gritty eyes, and he’d signed the lease the moment he saw the price—not because he liked it, but because it was the only thing he could afford that wasn’t his parents’ couch.

He’d told himself it was freedom. In truth, it was exile.

His parents had never fought with him. They didn’t need to. His mother’s sighs were quiet things, worn down from repetition, like a broom sweeping dust that never quite disappeared. His father had stopped offering lectures years ago; he simply walked out of the room whenever Shen Yuan stepped through the door too early, or left another resignation letter on his nightstand. A stalemate of mutual retreat.

And honestly, what was left to argue? His father had dragged himself out of the countryside by his fingernails, studied under streetlights, built a life brick by brick—only to end up with a son who couldn’t even survive behind a cash register.

That apartment had been gray, airless, and silent. But at least the silence was his. No expectation. No eyes. Just four walls and the quiet acknowledgment that if his life was a mess, then at least it was his mess.

So yes—when he opened his eyes in a bamboo house on Qing Jing Peak, surrounded by mist and mountain wind and the faint curl of tea steam, it had felt like a joke at first. Like stepping into someone else’s dream.

“For the first time,” Shen Qingqiu said softly, “I felt like I belonged somewhere. Like I wasn’t just drifting from one pointless thing to another.” His throat tightened. “And that’s what makes me sick.”

The man in the mirror looked back at him—pale and exhausted.

“I didn’t ask to be here,” Shen Qingqiu said. “But I stayed. I took his life, his face, his place. No matter how well I act, that’s all I am — a stand-in. A fake.”

The mirror trembled again, light shifting across its surface. For a moment, warmth brushed against his skin—an echo of understanding.

Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders sagged. “So this is it, then,” he murmured. “The truth I was supposed to accept?”

The mirror did not answer.

Its surface lay utterly still, reflecting nothing but the soft glow of lamplight and the very tired figure standing before it. Shen Qingqiu waited a beat longer, senses attuned for even the faintest tremor of qi—some flicker, pulse, celestial hint.

“...Nothing?”

Nothing.

He let out a quiet groan and slumped into the nearest chair. His head tipped back against the frame with a muted thunk. 

He could have sworn it had responded before—just once. A heartbeat of warmth. A shiver across its surface. But whether that had been illusion or wishful thinking, the curse remained firmly in place, wrapped around his spiritual core like an obnoxious parasite.

Was he missing some crucial step? An esoteric enlightenment stage no one bothered to write down? Had he failed to “speak his truth” with enough poetic sincerity? Or was the next stage interpretive dance? Blood oath? Group confession?

He pressed fingers to his brow. A headache was beginning to bloom.

Perhaps he should simply introduce the mirror to the concept of external force. Repeatedly.

A knock cut through the room.

Shen Qingqiu’s frown deepened. He had been exceedingly clear about not wishing to be disturbed. His disciples knew better.

Unless… something had gone wrong.

Suppressing the sigh, he rose, smoothing his expression back to placid courtesy. “Enter.”

The door slid open to reveal—not one of his Qing Jing Peak disciples—but a young cultivator in the silver-edged robes of Qiong Ding Peak. The boy bowed low.

“Shen Shishu. This disciple greets you on behalf of Shizun. Sect Leader Yue has heard that Shen Shishu has been discharged from Qian Cao Peak, and inquires after your full recovery.”

Ah. The lion remembers his stray sheep, does he.

With perfect composure, Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “Please inform Sect Leader Yue that this Master’s injuries have long since healed. There is no cause for concern.”

The disciple bowed deeper. “In that case, Shizun requests Shen Shibo’s presence at Qiong Ding Peak.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked.

For a breath, he remained still—balanced neatly between surprise and a very faint, entirely unworthy flicker of dread. Yue Qingyuan had spent his entire recovery avoiding him like a contagious plague spirit — and now suddenly wanted to meet? Had he merely waited until Shen Qingqiu could stand unaided… so he could be scolded properly?

“Very well,” he said smoothly, already sorting through diplomatic escape routes in his mind. “Inform your Shizun that this Master will depart shortly.”

Another bow, and the boy withdrew. The door slid shut.

Shen Qingqiu lingered in the quiet, turning back toward the mirror. His own reflection stared faintly back—unclear, warping at the edges.

“...Tch.”

He snapped his fan open with a flick.

One problem at a time.

***

When the doors to the smaller council chamber on Qiong Ding swung open, Shen Qingqiu halted mid-step.

At the head of the table sat Yue Qingyuan, robes immaculate, expression calm to the point of serenity—and beside him, composed in deep indigo, was Xu Qinglian.

…Well. That was unexpected.

He smoothed his sleeves and entered, every inch the proper Peak Lord. “Sect Leader.” Then, with a measured nod, “Xu Shimei.”

For a breath, Yue Qingyuan’s expression shifted—barely, a flicker across still water. His voice remained gentle. “It is good to see Shen Shidi in better health. Though I would rather the cause had never arisen.”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head, polite without yielding. “It was not this one’s intention to trouble the Sect Leader.”

—Or to report at all, but no need to tempt the curse.

Xu Qinglian observed in silence, her expression unreadable, gaze cool as though assessing an opera scene of moderate interest.

The quiet stretched. Shen Qingqiu decided someone should cut the string—mercy, or impatience, difficult to say. “Might this one ask the purpose of this summons?”

“I had hoped not to trouble your convalescence,” Yue Qingyuan said in the tone of someone pretending Shen Qingqiu had voluntarily entered seclusion rather than being quietly benched, “but there is a matter that cannot be resolved without you.”

Shen Qingqiu raised a brow. “Oh?”

Yue Qingyuan exchanged a glance with Xu Qinglian. “It seems you left something behind in Baihe. The formation you and Xu Shimei constructed…” A pause, diplomatic reproach in the slip of his gaze. “…has turned against itself.”

Xu Qinglian’s face remained perfectly still.

Shen Qingqiu turned to her. “Turned against itself?”

“Three days ago, a rift opened above Baihe City,” she said, tone even. “The land is now saturated with demonic qi. I was dispatched to seal it. However, the residual array bears the operator’s qi signature.” She inclined her head—fractional, precise—toward him. “Yours. To neutralize the core, the original qi pattern must resonate. Otherwise, any interference will result in violent rejection.”

“Violent,” Shen Qingqiu echoed.

“Precisely.”

He hummed, fingers brushing his sleeve in thought. “Then this one’s presence is required.”

“So it appears,” Yue Qingyuan said, a crease between his brows.

Shen Qingqiu nodded crisply, inwardly glad to finally get his parole. “Then we should depart at once. The longer that corruption remains unsealed, the greater the risk.”

But Yue Qingyuan shook his head. “You will depart at first light. Liu Shidi will accompany you.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open, sharp and unamused.

“Forgive this one’s ignorance, Sect Leader,”—and the glaring lack of briefings—“but it was this one’s understanding that Baihe’s demonic threat had already been subdued. Surely Peak Lord Liu is otherwise engaged?”

It wasn’t so much an objection. Missions with Liu Qingge were actually… nice. Pleasant, even. But sending him back into that corruption—absolutely not ideal.

Yue Qingyuan’s smile thinned by a hair. “…Given the current volatility of the demon realm, I prefer to err on the side of caution.”

Shen Qingqiu studied him a moment. Then snapped the fan shut. “…As Sect Leader commands.”

When it became clear that Yue Qingyuan had no further intention of elaborating—no cryptic “one more thing,” no meaningful sigh that might drag him back into yet another heartfelt exchange—Shen Qingqiu wisely seized his opportunity to retreat before the heavens changed their mind.

He stood, sleeves immaculate. “If there is nothing further, this Shen will withdraw.”

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze softened, carrying that dangerous warmth that always made Shen Qingqiu want to climb the nearest window and hurl himself into the pines. “Mn. Rest well, Shen Shidi.”

Exactly what he intended to not do.

Shen Qingqiu offered a final bow and made as dignified an exit as possible for someone resisting the urge to flee.

Outside, he stepped to the veranda’s edge, hands clasped behind his back. He waited.

It did not take long.

Xu Qinglian emerged with the same tranquil composure she always wore, the embodiment of a well-executed brushstroke. She did not seem surprised to see him waiting.

“Xu Shimei,” he said. “This one regrets entangling you again. I heard the Sect Leader was… displeased by your previous assistance.”

Her gaze shifted toward him, untroubled. “Sect Leader is within his rights. I chose to assist you. Nevertheless… Had I refused, Liu Shixiong may not have survived. I do not regret it.”

Not false modesty—her tone held the calm certainty of one stating a law of nature.

Yet after a pause, she added, softer, “Even so, I must have miscalculated. For the array to destabilize this way…  something in my design was at fault.”

Shen Qingqiu, who had a great deal of experience in deciphering unreadable expressions, recognized the weight of her guilt. “Unlikely. Xu Shimei’s arrays are precise to the point of intimidation. More probable the terrain was compromised—or Baihe’s demonic saturation disrupted the foundation. Any formation under that strain may fracture. Regardless, it will be resolved tomorrow.”

Her face barely shifted, but something eased around her eyes. “Let us hope so.”

Silence, not uncomfortable, settled.

At last, Xu Qinglian bowed her head. “Then I shall meet Shen Shixiong at dawn.”

“Mn.”

She departed with serene grace, sleeves trailing like water over stone. Shen Qingqiu watched her go, the faint scent of rhododendron lingering in her wake.

Well, problems or no, at least he was free.

***

The closer they drew to Baihe, the heavier the world seemed to breathe. The air hung thick with demonic miasma, clinging to the lungs, leaving behind a bitter film. Even the wind faltered, as if it, too, wished no part in what lay ahead.

By the time the city’s watchtower appeared on the horizon, Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual sense was already crawling. A dull pressure of corrupted qi pushed against his meridians, like someone attempting to force a mountain through a sieve.

Marvelous, he thought darkly. Half a day outside Qing Jing Peak, and I’m already inhaling demonic exhaust.

He’d known what to expect, of course. Xu Qinglian’s last report had described the rift as “unstable,” which, in Xu Qinglian’s scholarly dialect, apparently translated as cosmically offensive to the laws of nature.

Now the air was so thick with contamination it left a metallic tang on his tongue. Shen Qingqiu wasn’t sure whether to purify it or to gargle cleanser.

Beside him, Xu Qinglian’s brows drew tight. “This is far worse than before.”

“Indeed.” Shen Qingqiu flicked open his fan with a soft snap. “It seems the rift has developed a rather unfortunate sense of ambition.”

Liu Qingge said nothing, but his expression was the kind that suggested at least three future arguments about Shen Qingqiu’s field safety.

They crested the final ridge.

Baihe sprawled below them like a corpse half-devoured—streets cracked and sunken, rooftops slick with the greasy sheen of demonic pollution. The air shimmered faintly red, pulsing to some unseen rhythm.

But what caught Shen Qingqiu’s eye wasn’t the decay.

It was the people.

Baihe was supposed to be under strict quarantine. And yet, from this height, it looked more like a market fair than a restricted zone.

Tents had sprouted along the main square, sect banners snapping in the wind like particularly smug peacocks. Cultivators swarmed the area in every shade of self-righteousness—from Huayue Sect’s icy blues to the gaudy golds of Southern Sky Pavilion. Disciples perched on rooftops like overzealous pigeons, pretending to sense spiritual currents.

Shen Qingqiu stared for a long, incredulous moment.

“Was there,” he said at last, tone mild, “a sale announced while we were en route?”

Xu Qinglian’s gaze swept the square, her composure slipping by a hair. “This is not right. When I was last here, only a few Huan Hua disciples maintained the perimeter. There should not be this many.”

Liu Qingge frowned. “They’re too close to the rift. Fools.”

“Mm.” Shen Qingqiu’s fan traced a lazy arc through the air. “One might mistake it for enthusiasm.”

He sighed inwardly. Of course Huan Hua Palace would turn a crisis into a social event. He hadn’t attended the recent inter-sect meetings—Yue Qingyuan had sentenced him to convalescence, complete with a ban on politics, paperwork, and anything remotely interesting—but Airplane had been only too eager to deliver gossip bulletins.

Apparently, the Palace’s leadership change had birthed a new Young Palace Mistress—Mu Ruyan, daughter of the late Lao Gongzhu. A beauty, they said. Brilliant, ambitious, and with the temper of a hornet’s nest.

Exactly the kind of person Shen Qingqiu preferred to deal with from a polite, several-mile distance.

As they descended toward the gates, the noise of the crowd thickened—voices rippling like restless insects. The moment the trio entered the main square, the murmurs fractured and fell into silence. Heads turned. Eyes followed.

Naturally, most of them landed on Shen Qingqiu.

He could almost hear the whispers passing from mouth to mouth. That’s him. The one who unleashed demonic qi.

Technically accurate, but still rude.

He maintained his serene, untouchable smile—the kind that said ‘I am above this, but yes, I heard that, screw you’.

Liu Qingge shifted a step closer, an unspoken wall of steel and threat, and several gawkers abruptly remembered urgent business elsewhere.

At the square’s center, the rift loomed above the shattered pagoda—jagged and seething, pulsing with a slow, hungry rhythm. The air bent around it, trembling at the edges of sight.

Waiting near the perimeter stood a group of Huan Hua disciples, white and gold uniforms gleaming stubbornly against the stain of corruption. At their head—

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “Gongyi Xiao.”

The young cultivator turned at once, surprise giving way to composed respect. He bowed deeply. “Peak Lord Shen. Peak Lord Liu. Peak Lord Xu. Huan Hua Palace greets you.”

The boy had changed since the Immortal Alliance Conference—less wide-eyed, more steady.

“Gongyi Xiao,” Shen Qingqiu returned the nod. “It has been some time. You’ve grown.”

The boy’s smile held a faint trace of pride. “It gladdens this disciple to see Peak Lord Shen recovered. We have heard much of your—ah—heroic efforts in Baihe.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan paused. Heroic, was it? That was one word for it. Catastrophic was another.

“So has everyone, apparently,” he murmured, hiding his expression behind his fan.

Xu Qinglian stepped forward. “We have come to assess the rift and stabilize the formation. I did not anticipate such numbers.”

“Ah—yes.” Gongyi Xiao hesitated, composure wobbling for a heartbeat. “When word of the corruption spread, many sects dispatched disciples to assist—or observe. The Palace could not refuse them. Moreover…”

He lowered his voice. “Shao Gongzhu announced that those who contribute to Baihe’s purification will earn favor in Huan Hua’s future alliances. It seems the offer was… well-received.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan stilled mid-tap.

Ah. 

Politics again. The kind that dressed itself in righteousness but still stank of opportunism.

Gongyi Xiao was still talking—coordination, purification, sect protocols, et cetera. Shen Qingqiu had learned to translate such speeches into white noise. Liu Qingge, however, measured patience in sword-strokes, and they had just reached the last.

His hand settled on his hilt.

“We’re not here to watch banners flutter,” Liu Qingge said, voice flat. “Move. We’ll close the rift.”

Several minor sect disciples within earshot tripped over themselves retreating, while others stared in affronted indignation at Liu Qingge’s back.

Shen Qingqiu lifted his fan with the serene poise of someone hosting an afternoon tea.

“My martial brother’s words are somewhat abrupt,” he said, voice calm and perfectly civil, “but not inaccurate. The demonic qi is thickening by the moment. It would be best to assess the rift before its corruption spreads further.”

Xu Qinglian, ever diplomatic, offered a courteous bow to soften the blow. “We request temporary control of the perimeter.”

Gongyi Xiao hesitated, glanced at Liu Qingge’s hand still resting on his sword, and made the only sensible decision. He signaled for the area to be cleared. Protest hummed through the crowd like wasps disturbed from a nest. Shen Qingqiu caught fragments—his name, the word demon, a few others less flattering.

They proceeded toward the rift.

The ground itself seemed to pulse. Red light throbbed from the fissure—slow, deliberate, like the beat of something ancient and foul beneath the earth.

Xu Qinglian brushed her sleeve; array flags flickered within. “We must reset the outer seals.”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “Then let us—”

“—Oh?” 

The voice floated from the pavilion, lilting and sweet as spring wine. 

“Well, well. So the source of our troubles deigns to appear.”

The crowd parted.

Descending the steps was a young woman draped in pink and gold, her approach deliberate to the last tremor of silk. Sunlight caught in her jade hairpins, cold fire dancing at each turn. A jeweled whip coiled at her waist like a serpent awaiting command.

Her beauty was dazzling in the way a weapon might be—polished to perfection, and not at all safe to look at directly.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t need long to realize who stood before him.

Mu Ruyan, Young Palace Mistress of Huan Hua.

Ah, he thought mildly, so this is the part where everything goes wrong.

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu’s expression remained as placid as a lake in early spring. 

Internally, however, the archivist responsible for his memories was sprinting in frantic circles, knocking over filing cabinets.

Mu Ruyan… right—that one.

In Proud Immortal Demon Way, she’d been one of Luo Binghe’s dazzlingly troublesome wives—one of many. Like every other fatal beauty in that garbage of a novel, she possessed three core attributes: stunning looks, a personality that could curdle milk, and absolutely no self-control. The type who’d poison a rival, cry about it prettily, and somehow inspire the protagonist to climb ten thousand mountains for a miracle flower—only to return with a new wife in tow.

Basically—beautiful, lethal, and disastrous. Shen Qingqiu could only pray that whatever wave she planned to stir up today, he wouldn’t be the one swept out to sea.

He stepped forward, folding his hands in formal salute.

“Cang Qiong’s Shen Qingqiu greets Huan Hua’s Xiao Gongzhu.”

Xu Qinglian bowed beside him, all elegance and composure. Mu Ruyan, of course, did not bother to return the courtesy. Her gaze slid past Xu Qinglian entirely and settled on Shen Qingqiu, sharp and appraising, lips curving into a smile.

“Peak Lord Shen,” she said, her tone smooth as honey steeped in vinegar. “How fortunate Baihe is to be graced by your presence once again.”

Ah. The ancient art of polite hostility.

Shen Qingqiu’s fan opened with a quiet snap. “The fortune is this one’s. Cang Qiong could hardly ignore the corruption spreading on Huan Hua’s soil.”

“Mm.” Mu Ruyan tilted her head, eyes half-lidded, like a cat watching a fly tire itself against the glass. “Fate does have a taste for repetition, doesn’t it? The same Peak Lord at Baihe then… and again now, when the rift stirs once more.”

The air between them drew taut. Around them, the gathered cultivators pricked up their ears like a crowd of gossiping aunties.

Shen Qingqiu’s fan stilled mid-motion. “This Master I was under the impression that Huan Hua Palace was still accepting assistance from its allies. Unless”—his voice remained mild—“the invitation has been revoked without notice?”

“Assistance?” Mu Ruyan let her pale fingers wander idly over the whip at her side. “Forgive me, Peak Lord Shen. One only wonders whether your presence brings aid—” She inclined her head just so, eyes gleaming—“or merely heralds what follows in its wake.”

From the corner of his eye, Shen Qingqiu saw Liu Qingge’s patience hit the end of its lifespan. The faint scrape of steel against scabbard made every disciple within three paces take a strategic step backward.

“Watch your words,” Liu Qingge said, voice flat and glacial. 

Before the sparks could catch, Xu Qinglian stepped forward. “Xiao Gongzhu, this is an inter-sect emergency. The sealing array depends on Shen Shixiong’s qi. Without him, it cannot be reactivated.”

“Oh?” Mu Ruyan raised a brow. “Then you admit the corruption bears his signature?”

A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd—the delicious sound of scandal taking root.

Shen Qingqiu froze. Excuse me—what part of that sounded like an admission?!

“Baseless accusation,” Liu Qingge said coldly. “You dare slander a Peak Lord before witnesses?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it baseless.” Mu Ruyan lifted a delicate hand. “Evidence should speak for itself.”

A disciple came forward, bearing a lacquered tray. With theatrical care, he drew aside a layer of crimson silk to reveal a fractured talisman—edges scorched, golden ink dim but still pulsing faintly.

Even before she spoke, Shen Qingqiu knew what it was.

The anchor seal. The one that had been attached to Huizhong.

Mu Ruyan’s smile blossomed like an oleander in full sun. “This was recovered from the site where the corruption first emerged,” she said softly. “Tell me, Peak Lord Shen—does it belong to you?”

Of course it did. That was the problem. Under normal circumstances, he could’ve spun a respectable half-truth, but now his cursed ass had no choice but to give the world’s least convenient honest answer.

“…Yes,” he said evenly.

That alone shouldn’t have meant anything. It was his—he’d used it in battle, and everyone knew that. But Mu Ruyan let the silence stretch, long and deliberate, until the moment turned into theater.

At last, she held the talisman aloft, a curator displaying evidence of divine wrongdoing. “When our Palace’s specialists examined this fragment,” she continued, “they found another layer of inscriptions beneath the surface runes.” Her tone softened, almost pitying: “Demonic ones.”

The words fell like a bell struck in still air.

Xu Qinglian moved at once. “Impossible,” she said sharply. “Allow me.”

Mu Ruyan inclined her head as though indulging a child.  

Xu Qinglian’s fingers glowed faintly as she examined the seal; her expression darkened. “The upper structure is ours,” she confirmed, voice clipped, “but this—” she traced the black-etched markings beneath, “—is not.”

“Ah,” Mu Ruyan breathed, satisfaction curling her lips. “Yet you, Peak Lord Xu, know that secondary runes cannot be added after activation. The demonic layer must have been written first.”

A collective intake of breath swept the square; someone actually gasped. Another disciple leaned away, as though expecting Shen Qingqiu to start sprouting horns.

For a mad instant, he almost expected the familiar [Ding! Host has acquired Achievement: "Most Wanted Demon Cultivator."] to ring through his head.

At least then, he’d know how many points humiliation was worth.

But he remained motionless, fan half-open, his expression smooth.

“If Xiao Gongzhu seeks certainty,” he said coolly, “perhaps she can prove this talisman was truly taken from Baihe’s battlefield.”

For a fleeting instant, her smile faltered. Then it returned—silk over steel. “If that is not convincing enough,” she said, “perhaps this will be.”

A second tray appeared, bearing a charred scrap of parchment.

“Recovered from the same site,” she announced. “Though damaged, its meaning is plain.” She nodded for the disciple to read.

“‘—aid promised, cure delivered—balance owed—when the rift opens, our bargain complete—’”

Murmurs spread like wildfire.

“No signature,” Mu Ruyan said delicately, “but the handwriting—ah—remarkably similar to Peak Lord Shen’s.”

Xu Qinglian’s composure cracked. “On what basis?”

“Compared to his prior correspondence,” Mu Ruyan replied, gesturing for another disciple. An aged scroll unfurled, Shen Qingqiu’s elegant signature gleaming faintly at the bottom.

He frowned. He didn’t remember writing that letter. Which, frankly, was concerning.

This is too neat, he thought. Too well-timed. 

“This Master has never seen that document,” he said evenly. “Handwriting can be forged. I trust Huan Hua’s experts are aware.”

Her smile didn’t so much as flicker. “Then perhaps you will find this next piece… harder to dismiss.”

A young disciple stumbled forward, pale and shaking. He dropped to his knees. “Th-this disciple saw it! After the battle—Peak Lord Shen was speaking with a demon in human form! Then they vanished together—in demonic light!”

The uproar was instant.

Liu Qingge’s sword was halfway out before Xu Qinglian caught his wrist.

“Lies,” he snarled. “A slander unworthy of dogs.”

The boy shook, voice breaking. “I swear it! I swear on the honor of the sect, on my very life—there is no falsehood in my words!”

And that was the worst part. He believed it. Every trembling word.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. Of course.

The “demon” wasn’t Huizhong—it had been Luo Binghe. Carrying him from the battlefield, shrouding them both in demonic light. Probably altering the witness’s memory for good measure.

Every piece slid neatly into place. The evidence, the crowd, the trap. Mu Ruyan was only the mouthpiece.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze swept the gathering, sharp and searching. Somewhere beyond the layers of illusion and polite chaos, he could feel it—the faint, amused pulse of someone watching.

Mu Ruyan’s voice floated through the noise again, sweet and poisonous. “Our scouts detected demonic qi interwoven with Peak Lord Shen’s own. Proof, I think, of… close association.”

Of course they had. Luo Binghe had carried him back himself. His spiritual signature would have soaked through like ink in water.

The crowd began to murmur again, louder this time.

“If it wasn’t collusion, how did he survive?”
“Demons don’t spare humans.”
“Maybe they struck a deal—”

The sound swelled, a tide of eager scandal.

Xu Qinglian’s voice cut through. “Enough. All evidence should be presented to Cang Qiong for formal investigation. Until then, speculation serves no one.”

Mu Ruyan smiled, serene in triumph. “Naturally. Until Cang Qiong’s inquiry concludes, however, Peak Lord Shen will remain under Huan Hua’s supervision. For his safety, of course.”

Liu Qingge’s sword hissed halfway free. “Over my—”

“Qingge,” Shen Qingqiu said softly.

He reached out before the inevitable explosion could happen, laying a hand over Liu Qingge’s.

That single, soft address was enough. Liu Qingge went still, fury trembling just beneath his control.

“Shen Qingqiu,” he said through clenched teeth, “you’ll let them insult you like this?”

He couldn’t answer truthfully. Not here.

Shen Qingqiu could have resisted. He could have drawn his sword, called Liu Qingge to his side, and cut his way clear through Huan Hua’s precious courtyard before anyone so much as blinked. But that would only make him look exactly as they wanted him to look—violent, unhinged, tainted by demonic qi. This would drag Cang Qiong’s reputation through the mud. Precisely what Luo Binghe wanted.

So he did nothing.

He closed his fan with a soft, final snap. “If it will ease Huan Hua’s fears, this Master will comply. There is no need for further spectacle.”

The murmurs shifted again—astonishment, disdain, reluctant respect. Let them think what they pleased. Better a fool than a threat.

Inside, though, his mind was already turning, quiet and relentless, fitting the fragments together: who had planted the evidence, how far Luo Binghe’s meddling reached, and how to keep Cang Qiong from splintering before Yue Qingyuan intervened.

Two guards stepped forward, uneasy. Shen Qingqiu couldn’t fault them—arresting a Cang Qiong Peak Lord was about as pleasant as hugging a thunderstorm. 

Liu Qingge looked ready to ignite. Xu Qinglian’s hand on his arm was the only thing keeping the square intact. Her gaze flicked toward Shen Qingqiu, brief but deliberate. Hold on. We’ll uncover the truth.

He inclined his head a fraction, acknowledgment enough. Then turned to follow the guards.

The crowd parted before him like water retreating from a tainted shore. He walked with calm, measured grace—as though excusing himself from a dull banquet rather than a public accusation.

At the edge of the square, something brushed against his spiritual sense—soft, resonant, familiar down to the marrow.

Ah.

So you were watching, after all.

***

When the blindfold fell away, Shen Qingqiu thought—somewhat dryly—that Huan Hua Palace truly never missed a chance to show off.

The so-called “Water Prison” wasn’t merely a cell. 

The cavern yawned wide enough to swallow sound; its ceiling vanished into darkness, its walls slick with wards and cold iron. At its heart lay a lake—perfectly still and glass-clear. It gleamed faintly, as if waiting, patient and hungry, to claim whatever fell into its depths.

He stood on a platform of pale jade so cold the chill crept through the soles of his boots. The surrounding air thrummed faintly with array-lines. And the water… he had already witnessed what the water did. A helpful guard had demonstrated: a stone thrown in—soft splash, hiss, puff of smoke. Nothing left.

Shen Qingqiu had smiled politely and decided, with renewed sincerity, not to trip.

Across the lake, Gongyi Xiao—who had joined the procession at some point—lingered, hunched over, his face twisted between duty and horror. He bowed deeply.

“Peak Lord Shen,” he stammered. “This disciple… believes there must be some mistake.”

The boy looked ready to throw himself into the acid out of solidarity. Shen Qingqiu, not for the first time, wondered where on earth Gongyi Xiao got this blind faith in him. Certainly not from the original Shen Qingqiu.

“This matter does not concern you,” he said mildly. “Once Cang Qiong investigates, the truth will surface.”

He meant it—mostly. His fellow peak lords wouldn’t leave him to rot here. That wasn’t his worry.

No, what concerned him was that Luo Binghe might arrive before they did.

A grinding noise shuddered through the floor. The bridge began to retract, folding neatly into itself as it sank beneath the black surface. Ripples spread, then stilled. From above, water poured in a perfect circle, forming a translucent curtain that sealed him in.

And just like that, silence fell.

Well. That was that.

Shen Qingqiu lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the jade, arranging his sleeves with the air of a man settling in for a long train ride. He lasted perhaps three breaths before his nose itched. By the time an incense stick would’ve burned down, he’d decided this place definitely had mold—and, by the second, that Huan Hua Palace must have cut ventilation from the budget.

After what felt like an eternity he began mentally composing a strongly worded complaint letter. Possibly to Heaven.

Once, he would’ve sent it straight to the System without a second thought. But the System had gone eerily silent.

At first, he’d assumed it was recalibrating—maybe it would reboot when the main plot reconnected, when he finally came face to face with Luo Binghe again.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Then—suddenly—

That feeling. The faint prickle at the nape of his neck, that old, primal instinct that didn’t need spiritual sense to recognize.

He opened his eyes.

The curtain of water didn’t part; it yielded. Light fractured across the ripples, and a shadow stepped through.

Black and red.

Even before his features came clear, Shen Qingqiu’s stomach sank.

Luo Binghe.

He should not have been surprised. From the very beginning, he’d recognized the signature behind this elegant farce—the conveniently timed “evidence,” the trembling witnesses, the performance of righteous outrage. Luo Binghe’s fingerprints were everywhere.

Knowing it was one thing. Seeing him was another.

The boy who had once followed him around, wide-eyed and eager, had vanished. In his place stood a man sharpened fine as a blade—taller now, shoulders broad, every motion measured and deliberate. There was power in the way he carried himself, quiet and absolute.

Those eyes, once bright with devotion, had gone dark and still. No longer the gaze of a disciple seeking approval, but of a man who had seen too much and learned to guard the truth behind silence. In the dim torchlight, they gleamed like the lake beneath them: calm, fathomless, and faintly dangerous.

Soft footsteps crossed the bridge—slow, unhurried. He didn't need to rush.

Shen Qingqiu rose anyway. If his death was scheduled for today, he could at least meet it on his feet.

Luo Binghe stopped just outside arm’s reach. The torchlight caught on the weapon at his side—a blade black as obsidian, the faint red shimmer along its edge breathing like a heartbeat. Even from a distance, the air around it warped slightly, bending like heat over sand.

Xin Mo.

Shen Qingqiu’s expression didn’t change, but inwardly he sighed.

So the child was really parading around Huan Hua Palace with a demonic sword on his hip. Were all the righteous cultivators here blind, or just too polite to mention it?

Luo Binghe’s composure was near flawless, but Shen Qingqiu saw the tremor—the tightening of the jaw, the dark lines crawling faintly beneath the skin.

Ah. That explained it.

Xin Mo wasn’t just a weapon—it was a living thing, whispering, feeding. And it was eating him alive from the inside out.

Luo Binghe did not speak. He simply regarded him—the way a craftsman might study a creation, evaluating what remained.

Then, finally, he said softly, “Shizun.”

The single word drew the chamber colder.

Shen Qingqiu’s face remained calm, though his heart gave a treacherous leap. He inclined his head. “Binghe.”

The name tasted strange. Too familiar for someone who no longer had the right to use it.

Luo Binghe’s lips curved faintly, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Shizun does not seem surprised.”

“It would be stranger,” Shen Qingqiu said, voice even, “if this Master were.”

“Ah,” Luo Binghe murmured. “Then Shizun expected me.”

“I always knew you would return,” Shen Qingqiu replied simply.

For an instant—barely perceptible—Luo Binghe’s composure shifted. Then it was gone, buried beneath calm.

Silence again, save for the slow drip of water echoing through the dark.

Shen Qingqiu drew a steady breath. “Binghe,” he said, tone soft but formal, “may this Master ask a question?”

Luo Binghe inclined his head, every line of him a mirror of obedience long since turned to mockery. “Whatever Shizun wishes to know, this disciple will answer.”

“Then tell me,” Shen Qingqiu said. “Why did you spare me that day?”

For the first time, Luo Binghe’s voice dropped low.

“How could I let another decide Shizun’s life and death?” His eyes flared faintly red; Xin Mo gave a quiet, hungry hum. “If anyone is to decide Shizun’s fate… it should be me.”

A chill threaded through Shen Qingqiu’s spine. Instinct made him retreat half a step before he caught himself. Of course Luo Binghe saw it. His lips twisted, and for an instant, the fury beneath that perfect calm almost broke free.

Shen Qingqiu steadied his breath. “And what of the others?” he asked. “The rift still festers. The land around it is poisoned. The mortals still suffering—do their lives count for nothing?”

Luo Binghe laughed, low and sharp. “Shizun remains the same,” he said. “Ever righteous. Never letting a speck of demonic filth touch the undeserving.”

Shen Qingqiu could not reply. He could only watch the child he had once guided—his disciple, his pride—stand before him, sharp-edged and unreachable.

Once, the System would have flashed some ridiculous [Protagonist Consolation Option], flashing choices like: {A. Praise his moral fortitude}, {B. Offer a head pat}.

Now—nothing.

No floating choices. No countdown. No pixelated panels bleeding into reality.

Only the steady, human thud of his own heartbeat.

Had it gone silent at last?

Had the code that bound this world truly gone dark?

He did not know whether to be relieved… or profoundly alarmed.

Without the System’s interference, he was free.
But without its interference, he was also entirely, disastrously on his own.

Luo Binghe’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “May this disciple pose a question to Shizun in return?”

He had a creeping suspicion of exactly what his former disciple intended to bring up. Unfortunately—what face did he have left to dodge it?

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. “Speak.”

Luo Binghe’s gaze locked on his. “Does Shizun… regret it?”

The curse stirred at once—hot and tight around his ribs. It dragged the words out whether he willed them or not.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I regret it deeply.”

For a heartbeat, Luo Binghe froze. Then disbelief shattered through his composure like glass. “You’re lying.”

Shen Qingqiu’s smile was weary, almost imperceptible. “I am not.”

“Then why?” Luo Binghe’s voice cracked. “Why did you do it?”

Shen Qingqiu drew in a shallow breath. “Because…” The curse coiled tighter, forcing truth through clenched teeth. “Because there was no choice.”

“No choice?” Luo Binghe’s eyes flared red. “Shizun always said there is always a choice!”

Before Shen Qingqiu could reply, Luo Binghe’s expression twisted. His hand flew to his temples; breath hitched. Then he swayed—sudden and unsteady. Instinct overrode hesitation, and Shen Qingqiu reached out, catching him by the elbows before he could fall.

“Binghe—”

For one fleeting moment, Luo Binghe leaned into his grasp, head bowed, breath uneven. Then his eyes snapped open, unfocused for the briefest moment before they sharpened to a dangerous clarity. He jerked free of Shen Qingqiu’s grasp with violent precision, as though the contact itself burned.

“Don’t feign concern, Shizun,” he hissed. “If you truly care, then answer honestly—can you?”

“I—” Shen Qingqiu let his hands fall. “…You’re right. There was a choice. I made one—and I chose wrongly.”

Luo Binghe moved then—swiftly, soundlessly, closing the distance until Shen Qingqiu felt his breath like a cold thing at his ear. “If Shizun believes he will be granted release,” he whispered, each word low and vicious, “then he is mistaken. I will not be appeased. I will see you destroyed. I will see you understand what it is to lose everything.”

The sword at his side pulsed once, crimson bright beneath black lacquer. Shen Qingqiu could feel it straining, alive and hungry.

Then Luo Binghe stepped back, all gentle composure once more. “This disciple heard that Shizun and Liu Shishu have grown… rather close,” he said. His smile thinned. “Shizun even descended the mountain to battle a demon on his behalf.”

Shen Qingqiu’s pulse stuttered. A flicker of alarm must have shown in his eyes—because Luo Binghe saw it. Saw it, and savored it.

“It would be unfortunate,” Luo Binghe continued softly, “if, after all of Shizun’s care… Liu Shishu still met an unfortunate end.”

Shen Qingqiu’s blood ran cold. “What—what do you mean—”

Luo Binghe only smiled, soft as silk. “Please rest well, Shizun.”

He turned, robes sweeping in a whisper across the jade, and walked toward the bridge.

“Binghe!”

The curtain of water was already descending. Mist caught the torchlight, veiling him in silver and shadow.

“Luo Binghe—!”

And then—silence.

The cavern returned to stillness, empty but for the faint echo of dripping water, as if nothing—and no one—had ever disturbed it at all.

***

Shen Qingqiu paced the narrow ring of jade like a caged beast—three steps, turn, three steps again. The platform was barely wide enough to stretch one’s legs, yet it had never felt so vast.

Ever since Luo Binghe’s visit—no, since that threat spoken in that maddeningly calm tone—his composure had been a flimsy paper screen stretched over a pit.

It would be unfortunate if Liu Shishu still met an unfortunate end.

Unfortunate.

Unfortunate, he says—like misplacing a tea cup.

He had always known how this story ended. The moment he pushed Luo Binghe into the Abyss, his fate had sealed itself shut like the lid of a coffin.

He and Airplane had plans—half-mad, half-practical contingencies for when the narrative inevitably decided to bite back. Talismans, obscure formations, “emergency routes”, even a theoretical bargain or two. There had been ideas, even something that might have worked. 

They'd been prepared—or so they’d thought.

They’d believed they had time. Fools.

He stopped pacing and exhaled. The air tasted faintly of damp stone and spiritual residue.

This was never supposed to reach Liu Qingge.

Grown close, Luo Binghe had said—as if it were some recent development. A novelty. Please. They’d been like this for years.

…Eventually.

At first, Liu Qingge had despised him with the righteous intensity of a man guarding an ancestral home from a literary plague. But even a War God’s heart, when properly bullied and bribed, thawed faster than spring frost. Once Liu Qingge had resigned himself to his company, Shen Qingqiu tied himself to his shidi’s thigh. It was rational. Practical. Who wouldn’t attach themselves to the most lethal bodyguard in three realms?

He’d never meant to paint a target on the man’s back.

I can’t let him die.
Not because of me.

The jade platform suddenly felt too small, the walls of water pressing close. He turned his thoughts over, searching for cracks, discarding plans as quickly as they formed.

The shimmering barrier reflected faintly in his eyes—no weak points visible. The air hummed with layers of defensive arrays: seal, corrosion field, suppression charm, the works. Huan Hua Palace really had gone all out.

Could he appeal to Gongyi Xiao’s soft heart? Possibly. But how could he ask the boy to betray his sect? And when would he even get within ten paces of him, sealed down here like a prize carp in a jar? Not happening.

Think...come on, think…

If there’s no door—dig one.
If there’s no ground—complain to management until they build some.

He was just about to reach the “rip hair out in despair” stage when the air changed.

The wall of water rippled. The arrays flickered and dimmed, one by one, until the barrier dissolved into drifting mist.

A stone pathway surfaced from the crystalline water, slabs rising with a grinding sigh.

His pulse leapt.

Already? Luo Binghe, back so soon? 

No. Impossible. 

Luo Binghe never rushed the drama.

Maybe Mu Ruyan, coming down from her silk cushions to enjoy a little recreational torment?

He waited. Counted three breaths. Then, cautiously, called out:

“...Who approaches?”

Is this a test?
Do they expect me to run? Lower the bridge halfway and watch the Peak Lord dissolve? Very amusing. Ten out of ten for stagecraft, zero for sportsmanship.

He stayed where he was. If Huan Hua Palace thought him impatient enough to leap into acid, they were in for a long vigil.

Then—movement.

A shadow detached itself from the dark. Heavy footsteps echoed, deliberate and unhurried.

Shen Qingqiu’s breath hitched.

Torchlight caught on a guan dao slung carelessly over one shoulder.

“Peak Lord Shen,” Huizhong drawled, voice all smoke and teeth. “You’ve grown fond of this place—enough to settle down, I see.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked.

There were several possible explanations—illusion, hallucination, imminent mental collapse—but none that accounted for the demon general standing before him, grinning like a fox at the henhouse gate.

Huizhong’s smirk widened. He set the guan dao down with a lazy clang.

“Pack your things, Peak Lord,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

…Huh?!

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu would concede—privately, of course—that he was momentarily taken aback. Who wouldn’t be? The last person he expected to see here, of all forsaken places, was the demonic general who had once come within a hair’s breadth of separating his head from his shoulders.

Still, once the initial shock ebbed, clarity returned with a vengeance. Really, how absurd. A demon—that demon, the one he’d been accused of consorting with—had apparently sauntered into the most heavily warded facility in the cultivation world, bypassed arrays that could reduce a mortal to smoke, and now stood at his cell door offering him a way out?

How stupid did they think Shen Qingqiu was?

Composure restored, he smoothed his sleeves, the motion calm and deliberate. When he spoke, his tone was mild as mist drifting over a pond.

“Truly, Huan Hua Palace’s proficiency with disguise talismans is admirable,” he remarked. “Though I confess, I did not expect them to resort to such… theatrics.”

Huizhong—or the imitation thereof—laughed, low and amused.

“Ah, Peak Lord Shen suspects an illusion? Understandable. The righteous always find it hard to believe when demons come knocking.”

With an ease that reeked of arrogance, he drove his guan dao into the floor. The blow resounded through the chamber, shaking dust from the rafters. Black veins erupted from the blade’s edge, crawling over the stone like roots in search of prey. When they reached the water, it curdled—darkened—thickened—until the lake itself had become a slow-churning mire.

Shen Qingqiu’s jaw slackened.

He stepped forward, peering into the black water. It no longer reflected light; it swallowed it whole. Even through the dampening seals that dulled his spiritual sense, he could feel the corruption pulsing beneath the surface, alive and watchful.

Could any human, disguised or not, pull that off?

Huizhong leaned lazily against his weapon, satisfaction curling his lips. “I trust this demonstration satisfies Peak Lord Shen. I’ve little patience for lengthy debate tonight.”

Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts went very still.

If there had been even a flicker of doubt left, it was gone now.

So. The real Huizhong.
In Huan Hua Palace.

But why?

Why would the demon general—the same one who had nearly sent him to an early reincarnation—be here now, apparently intent on freeing him?

Had Shen Qingqiu offended him so thoroughly by fainting mid-duel that the man desired an encore performance?

He clasped his hands neatly behind his back and said, in a tone of tranquil politeness, “This one did not anticipate visitors at such an hour. Might I ask to what this unworthy one owes such an… unexpected honor?”

Huizhong’s grin deepened. “Word travels quickly. When I heard the illustrious Peak Lord Shen had checked himself into Huan Hua’s hospitality, I thought I’d see if he cared to stretch his legs.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked once. Twice. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Saying “how magnanimous” would likely be translated by that curse into something along the lines of “this is the most ridiculous bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

He opted instead for a gentle, diplomatic smile.

“And you offer this… out of the kindness of your demonic heart?”

Huizhong’s smirk faltered—barely, but enough. A flicker of shadow crossed his face before he slung his guan dao over his shoulder. “Let’s say this: if you’re still sitting pretty in this cell by morning, it’ll make a certain arrogant brat’s day. And I, for one, can’t have that.”

“…Arrogant brat,” Shen Qingqiu repeated, already suspecting the answer. “You refer to Luo Binghe?”

The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Cold fury sharpened Huizhong’s expression. “He humiliated me before my subordinates. I do not take that lightly.”

Ah. That explained part of it, at least. Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts flicked briefly back to that battle—the blinding flare of Xin Mo, the instant before his consciousness had dropped off a cliff. If Luo Binghe had bested Huizhong, the demon’s grudge was understandable.

And yet…

“If General Xie can infiltrate Huan Hua Palace,” Shen Qingqiu said slowly, “why not claim it outright? Surely its cultivators would pose no challenge to you.”

Huizhong’s eyes hardened. “I see Peak Lord Shen declines my generosity,” he said flatly. “If you’d rather await your righteous judgment, by all means—remain.”

He slammed his guan dao down once more. The black mire recoiled, draining away as if pulled by unseen hands, until the lake returned to its crystalline, deceptively serene stillness.

Then the demon turned, clearly done with the conversation.

Shen Qingqiu remained where he was, utterly motionless. His thoughts, however, churned faster than the corrupted water had moments ago.

Trusting a demon general was the height of idiocy. But remaining here—waiting for a trial that might never come, allowing Liu Qingge to remain ignorant of his own peril—was worse.

…No. He couldn’t let that happen.

He drew in a slow breath. 

“Wait.”

Huizhong paused, half-turned, a brow arched in silent challenge.

Shen Qingqiu hesitated a fraction of a second—then straightened, dignified as one before the imperial court.

 “Very well,” he said softly. “Let us depart.”

The demon’s grin unfurled again, sharp and wolfish. “Good. I was growing bored.”

Shen Qingqiu did not reply. He merely lifted his chin, stepped across the still surface of the water, and did not look back once.

***

The cave stretched on like the gut of some vast, slumbering beast—its winding tunnels slick with breathless damp, walls veined by a faint, sickly glow that neither brightened nor faded.

No wards stirred. No talismans whispered.
That silence, more than any resistance, was what set his nerves on edge.

This was Huan Hua Water Prison, the heart of vigilance, where every stone should have been bound with seals and every threshold watched. Yet they walked in perfect, suffocating silence. 

At first, he suspected Huizhong of casting some veil over them, but when he reached out with what little spiritual sense he had left, he found no concealment at all.

Shen Qingqiu’s fingers twitched at his side. Every instinct screamed that he was being led by a snare. But to turn back now was to walk willingly into Luo Binghe’s arms—and that, in his long catalogue of bad ideas, ranked near the top.

Huizhong, naturally, was at ease. The demon general sauntered ahead as though strolling through his own courtyard, guan dao slung over his shoulders, humming tunelessly. Every so often, he would glance back at Shen Qingqiu, like a man checking whether his dog was lagging behind.

When the last flight of steps curved upward, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t stand it any longer.

“General Xie,” he said dryly, “might one inquire how it is that not a single soul has noticed a demon walking uninvited through Huan Hua’s halls?”

Huizhong didn’t even bother to turn. But the grin in his voice was audible.

“I persuaded your hosts to rest their weary eyes.”

Shen Qingqiu wisely decided that he did not need clarification on what that meant.

They emerged at last into the cold night air.

The courtyard stretched before them, bright under a pitiless moon, silvering every roof tile and polished stone. There was not a single soul outside. Not even the night birds dared to call. For a brief, foolish instant, Shen Qingqiu wondered if they had truly escaped.

Then, inevitably—

“Who goes there?!”

A young disciple rounded the corner, lantern flaring in his trembling hand. His eyes widened, then bulged outright. “P–Peak Lord Shen?! And—a demon—!”

The alarm whistle shrieked through the night.

Shen Qingqiu swore under his breath.

Within moments, the courtyard flooded with figures—disciples flooded the courtyard like ants, forming a glittering semicircle around them. 

Shen Qingqiu stepped back. He hadn’t even opened his mouth when she appeared from the high gallery. 

Xiao Gongzhu of Huan Hua, alighted with the grace of someone who expected every eye to be on her. Her smile was all poise and poison.

“Why, Peak Lord Shen,” she purred, “leaving us so soon? Has our hospitality failed to charm?”

Shen Qingqiu thought fleetingly—tragically—that he missed his fan. A well-timed snap of silk could have saved him the expression he was failing to hide—an exhausted blend of despair, exasperation, and the subtle urge to throttle someone.

“Xiao Gongzhu,” he replied evenly. “This humble one merely assumed that, since you sent an escort, it was your wish I depart without delay.”

For the briefest instant, her composure cracked. 

“Escort?” she repeated, voice turning to ice. Her gaze slid toward Huizhong. “Peak Lord Shen dares to call this filthy thing my escort? Are you suggesting I collude with demons?”

The pure, unfeigned disgust in her tone made Shen Qingqiu falter inwardly. 

…Wait. She hadn’t sent him?

Then why was she here now, right as the alarm sounded—unless she had been waiting for the trap to spring?

Unless—

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

Far beyond the chaos, at the edge of the courtyard’s shadows someone watched.

Shen Qingqiu’s breath hitched. Even across that distance, he recognized the figure instantly.

Luo Binghe.

Still as a ghost, half-swallowed by darkness, red and black gleaming faintly under moonlight. For a second, Shen Qingqiu almost thought he was hallucinating—until those lips curved into that faint, knowing smile. 

Their eyes met for the briefest instant. Shen Qingqiu’s pulse tightened.

So. This was his doing?

Of course it was. Who else could have slipped Huizhong through Huan Hua’s wards? 

But did Luo Binghe really conspire with Huizhong, who by all rights should have been his rival? 

Luo Binghe must have planned this. Shen Qingqiu realized it with the cold clarity of hindsight—of course the boy had planned his escape. Cang Qiong’s investigation was never going to uphold the charges against him; all those accusations had been paper-thin, crafted for theater rather than truth. Luo Binghe would have known that too. 

So had his threat to Liu Qingge ever been real? Or had it merely been another of his precise maneuvers—a way to drive Shen Qingqiu exactly where he wanted him to go?

Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts short-circuited when Huizhong gave a low, amused laugh.

“‘Colluding,’ is it? Guniang, if you wish to collude with me, I’d be delighted. Though—” his grin flashed sharp—“I suspect our definitions differ.”

Shen Qingqiu barely avoided choking.

Mu Ruyan froze for a heartbeat—then snapped her whip, sending a bolt of blue lightning cracking across the tiles. “You—vile—!” 

Huizhong tilted his head; the strike hissed harmlessly past his shoulder.

“Feisty!” His gaze swept lazily from her head to her feet, and he smirked. “When I take your sect, I’ll make sure to keep you alive. You’ll make a fine concubine. I like women who bite.”

Mu Ruyan looked one breath away from coughing up blood. Her whip swung again like a snake preparing to strike. Huizhong caught it with two fingers, laughed again, and released it.

“Mm. Yes. Very spirited. I’ll make sure you get your own palace.”

That was the match.

Mu Ruyan had seemed to finally run out of patience.

“Kill him!” she shrieked. “And seize Shen Qingqiu—alive!”

The disciples surged forward and the courtyard exploded into motion.

Talisman light streaked across the night, blades flashing in arcs of white and blue. Disciples shouted incantations, their voices colliding in the air like thunderclaps. The sweet scent of spirit fire mixed with the metallic tang of ozone.

And Shen Qingqiu—unarmed, under-slept, and wholly over this situation—found himself in exactly the kind of ridiculous spectacle that made righteous sects the laughingstock of dramatists.

A sword strike whistled past his ear.

Excuse me, he thought acidly, what happened to ‘alive’?!

Huizhong, meanwhile, was having the time of his life.

Every lazy swing of his guan dao split the air, sending shockwaves rolling across the courtyard. A single strike knocked five cultivators off their feet. He laughed—a full, booming sound that carried over the chaos.

“Ah, the glorious Huan Hua Sect!” he jeered. “Famous for their embroidery, was it?”

Shen Qingqiu blinked once, twice.

Is he—doing stand-up?

Apparently, yes. Right in the middle of a siege.

Honestly, with that voice projection and flair for provocation, Huizhong could have had a thriving career in public entertainment—if only he weren’t so committed to the whole ‘world domination’ path.

Shen Qingqiu sidestepped a flying talisman with a sigh.

Pity. A talk show would suit him far better than a casual slaughter.

Shen Qingqiu dodging another attack. His own spiritual power was sluggish, cold in his veins like a half-dead engine. But as his feet found open ground, it stirred. Threads of qi crawled back up his veins, sharp and unsteady but there.

Leaves from the courtyard trees stirred, as though answering an old, familiar call.

He flicked his wrist.

A handful of leaves rose, spinning into the air. They caught the light of the moon—and then, with a shimmer of qi, hardened to steel. The technique was beautiful, elegant, and, in the opinion of every serious combat cultivator, almost completely useless in a deadly fight.

Luckily, Shen Qingqiu had no intention of killing anyone tonight.

The leaves sang through the air in shimmering arcs. Each one struck cleanly, disarming rather than wounding—knocking swords from hands, shredding talismans before they could ignite. In seconds, the front line was reduced to a flustered pile of robes and indignation.

Across the courtyard, Huizhong cleaved through another barrage as if swatting gnats.

Shen Qingqiu, who possessed both wisdom and a strong sense of self-preservation, decided that “exit, stage left” was in order. He slipped through the gaps in the melee like a shadow, one sleeve brushing the stone wall as he circled toward the garden path. Almost there. Just a few more steps, and—

Something snapped around his ankle.

The world tilted.

He hit the ground with a graceless thud, dragged backward across the tiles hard enough to leave a groove. His robes caught on the edges, his hair came loose from its ribbon. Shen Qingqiu barely had time to curse before the force hauling him stopped abruptly—and he found himself looking up at Mu Ruyan.

Her eyes gleamed, cold and satisfied.

“I see Cang Qiong’s etiquette remains impeccable,” she purred, whip coiled around his leg. “Even in flight, its Peak Lords remember to bow.”

Her spiritual strength belied her delicate frame; every pull dragged him another half-step closer. Shen Qingqiu grimaced, attempting to free himself without ripping his robes. A man must maintain standards.

She smiled wider, raising her whip for the final tug—

—and a golden talisman flared between them.

The whip slackened, its glow flickering.

Mu Ruyan’s head whipped toward the source of the interference.

A teenage girl stood several paces away—barely fourteen, if that, dressed in the uniform of Huan Hua’s inner sect. Her eyes were wide with fear but steady with purpose. She held a talisman between her fingers, smoke curling from its edges.

“Xiao Gongzhu,” she stammered, “please—don’t! He’s unarmed!”

“Qing’er,” Mu Ruyan hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “Step aside.”

But the girl didn’t move. She activated another talisman and it burst against the whip. Its spiritual hold shattered with a sharp crack.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t wait for a second invitation.

He rolled to his feet, catching the girl’s wrist as she stumbled from the recoil. “Excellent timing,” he said pleasantly. “Now—if you value your life, run.”

She hesitated, as though caught between orders and conscience.

He felt it then—a flicker of qi beneath the uproar. Shen Qingqiu’s head snapped toward it, not out of conscious intent but out of that instinct honed by too many close calls and one excessively clingy child.

Across the chaos, framed by blades and firelight, stood Luo Binghe. Once carved from perfect composure, his face was now twisted in some mixture of disbelief and fury.

Shen Qingqiu nearly laughed.

You didn’t expect that, did you?

Luo Binghe surged forward, slipping through the maelstrom of cultivators, his burning gaze fixed on Shen Qingqiu. But before he could reach them, Huizhong—still howling with laughter like an unhinged spirit beast—chose that very moment to send a shockwave through the courtyard, scattering disciples like dandelion seeds. 

Luo Binghe, divine protagonist halo and all, got caught in the crossfire and was gracelessly thrown back along with them.

For one glorious heartbeat, Shen Qingqiu allowed himself the satisfaction of watching his vindictive little sheep ending up in a pig-pile. Then sense returned, and he yanked the girl with him as the two darted toward the outer wall, away from the worst of the melee.

They tore through the side courtyard, past toppled lanterns and rain-slick tiles. The shouts of pursuit rang faintly behind them, growing sharper by the moment. Shen Qingqiu tightened his grip.

“How far does this path go?”

“Not far,” she panted. “Not far—but there’s an illusion array ahead. If we cross it, we’ll be trapped inside!”

Of course there is a maze. Why wouldn’t there be.

“By any chance,” he said, with the calm of a man who had ceased expecting good news, “do you happen to have a sword?”

“…No, Peak Lord.”

“Well,” Shen Qingqiu said, mostly to himself, “worth asking.”

Then the girl gasped, as though struck by a thought. She dove into her sleeves, rummaging through layers of silk until she pulled out a folded talisman etched in pale blue ink. The array painted on its surface shimmered faintly—intricate and unfamiliar.

“I think—this one might work.” She looked up at him, voice trembling. “It’s a transport talisman. It can move us outside the barrier, but…”

She trailed off, eyes flicking to him nervously. That particular brand of hesitation was unmistakable—he’d seen it too many times on Cang Qiong’s training grounds, usually right before a disciple tried to ask whether Peak Lord Shen might possibly, if it wasn’t too much trouble, demonstrate something again because the first six times hadn’t been clear enough.

Shen Qingqiu arched a brow. “But?”

Her fingers twitched. She bit her lip, then, with sudden determination, grabbed a handful of his sleeve. “Hold still!”

The talisman burst into light and the world dropped away.

For a heartbeat he was weightless, caught between one breath and the next—then the cold struck. Biting, bone-deep cold that cut through cloth and flesh alike.

When he opened his eyes, the night had changed.

The air smelled of reeds and stagnant water. A dark lake stretched out around him, the moon shattered into silver shards upon its rippling surface. Water rose to his waist; beside him, a young girl was half-submerged, trembling, the ashes of a spent talisman clinging to her soaked hair like grey snow.

“Well,” Shen Qingqiu said at last, voice perfectly mild, “we are… certainly no longer in Huan Hua Palace.”

The girl blanched. “Peak Lord—this disciple—this disciple is so sorry—”

She tried to bow, which would have been disastrous given the water’s depth. 

“Don’t,” Shen Qingqiu said as she began to sink. “Let’s find dry ground first.”

They began wading toward the shore, mud dragging at their feet. Halfway there, the girl gasped, her face twisting in pain.

Shen Qingqiu stopped instantly. “What is it?”

“M-my leg,” she stammered.

He frowned, scanning her in the dim moonlight. The water lapped coldly against his robes as he slipped an arm beneath her shoulder and helped her limp onto the muddy bank. She hissed softly through her teeth—a small, involuntary sound.

“There,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, half to himself, as he steadied her.

She was trembling—not only from pain, but from the lingering shock that came after fear. Up close, she looked even younger—soft cheeks, wide eyes—one of those seedlings who still believed heroes wore pristine robes and righteous smiles. 

Shen Qingqiu, despite himself, felt a hollow ache for his own disciples. Brats, every one of them. He missed them terribly.

He eased the girl down against a slanted tree root, its bark slick and cold, and crouched beside her.

A gash ran along her calf—nothing mortal, but the skin around it was inflamed and raw, streaked with grime and diluted blood. It must’ve opened during their escape, hidden until now beneath panic and adrenaline.

Shen Qingqiu’s brows drew together. He touched the skin lightly, probing for debris. “Hold still,” he said when she flinched, his tone almost gentle.

He tore a strip from his sleeve—the only part not completely soaked—and twisted it deftly between his hands.

The girl looked stricken. “P–Peak Lord Shen, you—you don’t need—”

“Shh.” Shen Qingqiu didn’t have time for formality. “This will sting.”

He dipped the cloth into a shallow pool, murmuring a cleansing incantation that made the water glimmer faintly gold, then pressed it to her leg. She gasped but didn’t pull away.

“Good,” he said approvingly. He bound the makeshift bandage tight. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold until we find proper treatment.”

When he sat back, the bleeding had slowed. The girl’s face had gone pale but determined. Satisfied, Shen Qingqiu looked around.

Ahead stretched a sparse birch grove, the white trunks gleaming faintly in the moonlight. No villages. No lights. Just endless night and wind. 

He turned to the girl again. She was hugging herself tightly, teeth chattering. “Peak Lord S–Shen,” she managed, “I—I’m sorry. The array—I misjudged the coordinates—”

Shen Qingqiu waved a hand, tone serene. “There are worse destinations than a lake. You’ve done admirably, considering the circumstances.” He tilted his head slightly. “What is your name, guniang?”

“F-Fan Qing,” she said, voice small. “Inner disciple of Huan Hua Palace.”

“Fan Qing.” He nodded once. “Tell me, Fan Guniang—why did you risk yourself for me? Surely you know Huan Hua Palace considers me its enemy.”

Her fingers twisted in her sleeve. “Gongyi Shixiong spoke of you often,” she said after a pause. “He said you were… fair. Even to your enemies. And Qin Shijie told me you saved her life once during the conference. I couldn’t just—” She hesitated. “I couldn’t stand by and watch them drag you away. I don’t believe you’re the kind of man Xiao Gongzhu says you are.”

Shen Qingqiu’s expression softened. “A loyal heart is rare, Fan Guniang. You have my gratitude.”

The girl ducked her head. “Xiao Gongzhu…” she said hesitantly. “She can… sometimes have a temper. Please forgive her, Peak Lord Shen. When she’s angry, it’s best to just—” She trailed off, gaze darting away.

Shen Qingqiu caught the flicker and his lips thinned. “I see,” he said quietly. “Then I owe you more than I realized.”

She blinked, startled.

“You’ve acted with both courage and kindness,” he continued, tone formal but not cold. “But it wouldn’t be wise for you to return to Huan Hua. Xiao Gongzhu doesn’t forgive easily.”

Fan Qing’s shoulders sagged. “…Yes.”

Shen Qingqiu sighed softly and reached into his sleeve. Miraculously, the charcoal stick inside had stayed dry. “Then for now,” he said, “let’s make sure we don’t freeze to death.”

He knelt and drew a swift sigil across his palm, the black strokes glowing faintly gold. A wave of warmth spread outward, shimmering through his robes. In moments, the damp fabric steamed, dry once more.

Fan Qing gaped. “That’s… I’ve never seen an array like that!”

“One of my Shimei’s inventions,” Shen Qingqiu said, flexing his hand. “A formation genius, that one.”

“Peak Lord’s shimei must be incredible!” she breathed, eyes shining.

“Indeed,” Shen Qingqiu said fondly. Then, tilting his hand toward her, “May I?”

She nodded quickly. He touched her arm, and warmth spread through her too, drying her robes and hair in gentle ripples of heat. She gasped, staring down at herself. “It’s like sunlight… Thank you, Peak Lord Shen!”

He smiled faintly. “Your work with talismans was impressive. Not many your age would act so quickly.”

Her ears flushed pink. “I—I only study them in my spare time. Arrays are my favorite, though. There’s something… peaceful about them.”

“Peaceful,” Shen Qingqiu echoed, glancing at the dark treeline as if expecting pursuit any moment. “We should move. Huan Hua’s search parties will reach the woods before dawn.”

He knelt slightly, turning his back to her. “Climb on.”

Fan Qing froze. “P–Peak Lord Shen—no! I can walk—truly—”

Her voice pitched upward in mortified panic, as if sheer insistence might somehow erase the pain in her leg.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t sigh, but it was a near thing. He turned his head just enough to fix her with that look—the look of a strict parent, as Shang Qinghua called it. “Either you climb on,” he said mildly, “or I’ll carry you in my arms.”

Fan Qing made a strangled sound. “T-that’s not necessary!”

“Good,” Shen Qingqiu said, as though she’d agreed. “Then the back it is.”

Her face went crimson. After a long, miserable pause, she inched forward and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“Hold tight,” he instructed.

Fan Qing squeaked and wrapped her arms around his neck like a koala clinging to a branch in a gale.

Shen Qingqiu rose smoothly, lifting her with an ease that had been unattainable in his previous life. The motion drew a startled gasp from her; she ducked her head, pressing her forehead against his shoulder like the child she was.

The night pressed close around them, heavy with mist and the smell of lotus and damp earth. His boots squelched softly in the mud.

This wasn’t quite how Shen Qingqiu had pictured his life as a fugitive. Then again, considering his track record, things could always be worse.

So he adjusted his hold beneath Fan Qing’s knees and stepped into the darkness ahead.

***

The courtyard of Huan Hua Palace looked as if a celestial tribulation had descended upon it.

Marble tiles lay split and scattered; walls sagged inward, their ornate pillars crushed beneath invisible weight. The air still shimmered faintly with the residue of spent qi, its heat warping the horizon. Once-immaculate gardens were reduced to ruin—charred hedges, uprooted trees, the faint sweetness of crushed petals smothered by the acrid tang of smoke and ash.

Gray dust drifted lazily through the air, settling over the blood-slick flagstones and the disciples crawling among the wreckage.

Those still standing did so only by will, faces streaked with soot and disbelief. A few tried to restore the shattered wards, but the runes trembled and winked out the moment they formed. Overhead, the once-proud banners of Huan Hua hung in tatters, embroidered sigils half-melted, drooping like wilted flowers in the heat.

At the center of the devastation stood Mu Ruyan.

The ever-graceful Xiao Gongzhu was a ghost of her usual self—hair unbound, robes torn and muddied, the whip in her hand hanging limp and useless. The fury radiating from her was so raw it could have set everything remaining on fire.

“Find them!” she rasped, voice breaking against the air. “Search the mountain paths, the forests—if Shen Qingqiu and that wretched girl aren’t found before dawn, not one of you will see the sun again!”

Her disciples scattered instantly. One stumbled; the crack of her whip split the air beside him, carving a deep scar through the stone.

“Useless!” she hissed. “All of you! An empty-headed girl and a shameless old fox—and you let them slip through my gates?!”

Her voice faltered mid-breath.

Luo Binghe stood at the edge of the ruin.

Smoke curled around him like a crown. Dust streaked his sleeves, blood dried black along the hem of his robe—but somehow, none of it dared cling. Even chaos seemed to part for him. His eyes were distant, expression smooth and unreadable, the faint gleam of red qi flickering at his fingertips like the ember of a dying star.

Mu Ruyan’s voice caught in her throat. She took two uneven steps forward and clutched at his sleeve with both hands.

“You said he wouldn’t get away! You said the moment he stepped outside, he’d be mine—now look around you!”

He did not answer. His gaze stayed fixed beyond the ruined courtyard, toward the dark line of forest pressing against the horizon.

The muscle in his jaw shifted once. A tremor of power rippled through the air—small at first, then heavier, the ground responding like a creature sensing its master’s mood.

When she tightened her grip, Luo Binghe finally turned. The look he gave her froze her to the marrow—flat, cold, and utterly inhuman.

He drew his sleeve from her grasp as though she carried contagion. She stumbled, her whip slipping from her fingers and clattering against the stone.

A pulse of power followed—silent at first, then resonant enough to make the ground hum. The broken tiles around his feet began to fracture anew. The nearest wall split with a deep, guttural groan, before collapsing outward in a cascade of dust and shattered marble. The air trembled with it, thick with something vast and ancient and barely restrained.

Luo Binghe once again turned his eyes toward the shadowed forest, that soft gleam of killing intent sharpening until it burned.

When he spoke, his voice was low—gentle enough to almost sound fond.
But it carried through the courtyard like a death sentence. Mu Ruyan flinched.

“Run, Shizun,” he murmured. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Chapter Text

The road wound pale beneath the fading moon, a silver ribbon vanishing into mist. Shen Qingqiu walked in silence, the soft crunch of his boots the only rhythm in the stillness. The girl on his back breathed evenly now, her warmth a quiet, steady weight between his shoulders. Somewhere behind them, frogs croaked in the paddies, and a lone heron called once before the quiet closed again.

Fan Qing had surrendered to sleep some time ago. Her small hands—once clutching anxiously at his collar—now hung limp against his chest. The first few times her weight shifted, he’d assumed she was fidgeting; then she let out a small sigh—soft and childlike—and he realized she’d drifted off completely.

He couldn’t fault her. It had been a long night for both of them, and she was hardly built for the sort of chaos Huan Hua Palace excelled at producing. Still, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t quite relax. The night looked peaceful enough, but he, of all people, had long since learned not to trust peaceful things. Peace, in his experience, was merely the polite pause before someone tried to kill you.

When the horizon began to pale, he slowed. The first outlines of a village took shape through the mist—low thatched roofs, narrow lanes, faint threads of smoke curling lazily from unseen hearths.

He hesitated. Villages meant people, and people meant questions. But Fan Qing needed medicine, and he needed information. The forest could only hide them so long.

He chose the most unassuming house: a humble little place with a crooked fence and laundry fluttering in the back. After setting Fan Qing down on a dry patch of grass, he eyed the garments on the line.

The girl blinked awake just in time to see him reach for a robe. 

“P–Peak Lord?” she murmured, voice drowsy and uncertain. “What are you—?”

Shen Qingqiu held the robe up to the dim light. Coarse weave, uneven stitching—unrefined, but clean and mercifully dry.

“Unless Fan Guniang prefers that the next patrol recognizes her from a hundred paces,” he said mildly, “we should avail ourselves of local generosity.”

“You mean—steal these?” she squeaked.

He gave her a long, patient look. “Borrow,” he corrected. Not that he was lying. “And I assure you, this one will repay these kind people when the opportunity arises.”

Which, of course, could mean anywhere between tomorrow and the next life—but details.

Fan Qing looked unconvinced, but she helped him gather a second robe anyway. Shen Qingqiu handed her the smaller one and turned politely aside while she changed.

When she finished, he slipped into his own borrowed robe, tying his hair back with a reed cord. The rough fabric itched faintly against his skin, but the effect was adequate—less “disgraced Peak Lord” and more “traveling scholar down on his luck.” A definite improvement.

They left before the first rooster crowed, following the dirt path that cut between the paddies. The sky was turning gold at the edges, clouds brushed with violet.

Shen Qingqiu’s pace slowed without meaning to. Something in the slope of the fields, the curve of the distant hill—it tugged at memory.

He stopped. “Ah.”

Fan Qing peered up at him. “Peak Lord?”

He had been here before—just a month ago, with Liu Qingge—on that ridiculous field trip involving a demonic Myriapod. They’d stayed at a small roadside inn, run by a warm-hearted woman and her bright-eyed daughter. Shen Qingqiu let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

What were the odds?

Perhaps, for once, Heaven was in a generous mood.

“Fan Guniang,” he said, keeping his voice low, “there’s a place nearby where we can rest. But from now on, don’t call me ‘Peak Lord.’” He paused, considering. “Call me Xiansheng.”

Fan Qing made a small sound of acknowledgment, though from her dazed expression, he doubted she fully processed it. Her skin radiated heat through the robe, her movements restless. 

He pressed his lips together. 

Fever. Exactly what he’d hoped to avoid.

The inn’s familiar signboard appeared just as dawn spilled gold over the rooftops. It looked smaller than he remembered, but no less welcoming. He pushed open the door with his shoulder.

“Welcome—!” called a sleepy voice, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “Xiansheng?!”

Meiyun, the innkeeper’s daughter, gaped at him—mud-streaked, disheveled, a half-conscious girl slumped on his back. “Heavens above,” she stammered, nearly toppling her stool. “I almost didn’t recognize you!”

Shen Qingqiu managed a weary smile. “It’s been a long night.” He shifted Fan Qing onto a nearby bench. “Might I trouble you for some medicine for A-Qing’s leg? I’d be in your debt.”

Before he’d finished, Meiyun had already darted toward the kitchen, shouting, “A-niang!”

A moment later, a familiar, plump figure emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. She took one look at Fan Qing and clucked in alarm.

“Ai-ya, poor child!” she said, already ushering them toward the back room. “Put her down, there—Meiyun, spirits, cloth, my salves—quickly!”

Shen Qingqiu obeyed without argument, lowering Fan Qing onto a narrow cot. The two women worked with swift, practiced hands. The older one’s fingers were rough with years but steady as she cleaned and bound the wound.

Fan Qing trembled, biting back a whimper. Shen Qingqiu reached out, brushing his hand gently over her hair. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “You’ve done very well.”

When at last the bandage was tied and the girl’s breathing evened into sleep, Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. He bowed deeply. “You have my thanks, Ayi. Meiyun. I have nothing to repay you now, but I’ll make it right when I can.”

The innkeeper snorted. “Repay, he says! You think I’d take coin for helping a child?” She looked him up and down, unimpressed. “You, on the other hand—pale as paper. Sit. Eat before you faint on my floor.”

Before he could protest, she’d all but shoved him onto a bench and pressed a steaming bowl of congee into his hands. Meiyun hovered behind her, helpfully—or perhaps curiously.

“Eat, eat,” the woman urged, shaking her head. “You look worse than my third husband did after he crawled out of the grave.”

Shen Qingqiu paused mid-spoonful. “…Your third—?”

“Eat.”

He wisely obeyed. The congee was plain but hot, the faint bite of ginger warming him from the inside out. The exhaustion in his limbs eased, just a little.

Kindness, he thought, was rarer medicine than any spiritual herb.

And for once, Heaven had seen fit to prescribe him a dose.

***

The ayi would not hear a word of payment, of course. When Shen Qingqiu made the perfunctory offer of thanks a second time, she only clucked her tongue and waved a battered ladle as if shooing a particularly persistent goose. 

“That room upstairs hasn’t seen use in years. If you don’t mind a bit of dust, it’s yours until the girl can walk again.”

By the time Meiyun had finished sweeping and laying out the bedding, even Shen Qingqiu had to admit the attic looked... presentable. The low ceiling slanted with the rafters like a bowed back; a single narrow window slit the daylight into a pale ribbon, catching drifting motes that turned the air into a slow, shimmering tapestry. Two straw mats, freshly shaken, lay side by side, each with a folded quilt at its head. A chipped basin stood in the corner, brimmed to the lip. 

For an attic that had once stowed spare tools and kindling, it felt like a small, honest palace compared to the road.

He bowed low—lower than etiquette demanded, but sincerity, after all, costs nothing.

When the women left and the house settled back into its quiet, he lifted Fan Qing with careful hands and carried her up the narrow stairs. He kept every motion measured, guarding her bandaged leg from even the thought of a jolt. The girl stirred, loosened the hold of unconsciousness, and made no sound beyond the softest shift. Shen set her gently on a mat and tucked the quilt up to her chin, smoothing damp hair from her forehead. The fever had not worsened; that small mercy warmed him as much as the quilts warmed her.

Protection came next. He drew the slender needle he’d borrowed from Meiyun—simple thing, cold and plain—and pricked his finger without hesitation. A bead of crimson welled bright against his palm. Ink and charcoal could do in a pinch, but blood carried weight: intent, resonance, a whisper of the living. It would anchor the array as nothing else could.

On his knees he traced the sigils along the wooden boards, each stroke precise, each curve a patient vow. Symbols bloomed beneath his touch, faintly gleaming as the pattern wove itself into being—an enclosure of concealment meant to mute spiritual signatures and turn aside any curious spell that might drift too near. 

By the time the last sigil closed, he leaned back and inspected his work with a narrow, private satisfaction. He wiped the red smudge from his finger on the hem of his robe, the last trace blurred into the cloth.

Then he settled beside the still-drying array and let the attic’s hush fold around him.

All right, he thought. The immediate crisis is past. Now what?

Going back to Cang Qiong was out of the question. He’d already driven Yue Qingyuan to a near-ruinous migraine when he’d accidentally torn open the rift at Baihe, and to return now, marked as a fugitive, would be to brand Cang Qiong with him. Better that the mountain have no claim, no whisper linking its name to his misfortunes.

But it wouldn’t hurt to contact someone. In fact, it was absolutely necessary.

The problem was, ordinary spiritual transmissions were surely watched. Huan Hua would be listening; any direct ping back to Cang Qiong would be the spiritual equivalent of waving a crimson banner over his head.

But there was another way.

A thought stirred, faint but persistent. Qi Qingqi.

Of course. If her network still had operatives threading through Huan Hua’s territory—and knowing her, it would—perhaps a discreet hand could forward a message. Subtle, deniable, and far less likely to be intercepted. 

His brief satisfaction dimmed as he remembered what that would entail.

Qi Qingqi’s intelligence web was many things—efficient, furtive, implacably professional. It was also woven from women who worked in houses that catered to men’s baser pursuits. Not quite the promenade a Peak Lord was expected to take.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. He had glimpsed the Garden of Flowing Light on his last visit to the town—lanterns like floating coals bobbing across the square—and the memory made the fine hairs at his nape stand up. The thought of entering such a place, picking from a line of women as if choosing candied fruit at a market stall… the image made him want to hide under a quilt and refuse to be human for a week.

The original goods had never been strangers to places like that, of course. Shen Yuan? The only half-dressed women he’d ever encountered thus far were two-dimensional drawings in trashy web-novels. Now he was expected to stride into a real brothel and somehow choose the right courtesan.

Damn my life, he thought darkly. I’m going to die of embarrassment before Huan Hua even finds me.

Still—Qi Qingqi had given him a hint once, over wine and the dangerous tilt of her smile.

“You men think you’re good at reading faces,” she’d said. “If one of my girls sat beside you, you wouldn’t notice.” Then, as if lowering a curtain on her words, she’d added, “But if you ever need to recognize one… watch her hands, not her smile.”

At the time, he’d rolled his eyes, thinking it another jab at his supposed asceticism. Now he realized it had been a clue.

Well. That narrowed things down—slightly.

He rubbed his temples. There remained, unfortunately, one more practical obstacle.

Money.

Even if he intended nothing more than to request a private audience, he would need coin to buy privacy. Striding into a brothel empty-handed and asking for a closed room would draw attention he could ill afford. 

Shen Qingqiu groaned aloud and let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk.

It was then Fan Qing stirred.

She blinked, blinked again as consciousness came back in fits, and pushed herself upright with a surprised, half-birdlike noise. “P—Peak Lord—!”

“Careful,” he said, lifting a hand. “You mustn’t move too much.”

She sat up in a soft hiss of pain and looked around the dim attic as if seeing it for the first time. “Where are we? What happened?”

Shen Qingqiu gave her the briefest account—escape, shelter, the innkeeper’s ministrations. When he finished, Fan Qing’s lips pressed thin; she bit them until white.

“This one is so sorry...because of me—” she murmured.

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “It wasn’t your fault. Wounds are a thing of the world. You did well to hold out as long as you did.”

She hesitated, eyes falling. “Then… what do we do now?”

“This Master has a plan,” he said, which was perhaps more bravado than fact.

“If Peak Lord Shen will forgive this disciple’s curiosity,” she ventured, “may I ask… what plan does he have in mind?”

Her curiosity was innocent; his reply doomed him entirely.

“I’m going to the brothel.”

Both froze. Fan Qing’s cheeks crept rose.

Shen Qingqiu himself went utterly still, mind catching up a heartbeat too late.

...Ah. Right.

He forgot entirely about his inability to lie.

He cleared his throat and tried to arrange dignity. “That is to say—there is someone there who may assist us in contacting our allies.”

Fan Qing blinked, already recasting him from austere Peak Lord to baffled, mortified emissary. “O—oh,” she said faintly. “I see.”

She didn’t, not really. But she saved him from the greater humiliation.

Shen Qingqiu coughed into his sleeve. “However,” he continued quickly, “I will need some silver first.”

Before he could even begin to scheme about conning a local merchant, Fan Qing reached into her hair and tugged loose a delicate hairpin—the sole ornament she’d managed to keep—and held it forth with both hands, face earnest. “Use this, Peak—ah, Xiansheng.”

He blinked, flustered. “Fan Guniang—”

“This should be worth something,” she said. “Gold and pearls—A-niang said it was expensive.”

Shen Qingqiu could do nothing but look at her helplessly for a moment. “I can’t—”

“It’s just jewelry,”  she interrupted softly. “I don’t need it now.”

Her tone left no room for argument. He sighed and accepted the hairpin, fingers reluctant and grateful at once. “…Very well. I’ll see it returned to you later.”

Fan Qing smiled faintly. “I trust you, Peak—Xiansheng.”

He tucked the pin carefully into his sleeve and rose to his feet. “Rest, then. I’ll be back before sundown.”

As he creaked down the stairs, the attic’s last light sliding away, Shen Qingqiu couldn't help but thought: 

If any of Qi Qingqi’s people laugh at this later, I swear I’ll hex her entire peach orchard.

***

The Garden of Flowing Light lived up to its name.

Lanterns of gold, rose, and deep crimson drifted in the evening breeze, their glow spilling like liquid honey across silk streamers that danced beneath the eaves. The air was a heady blend of sandalwood, plum wine, and laughter—each note curling together like incense smoke in a shrine devoted not to the divine, but to desire.

From the open balconies came the clink of porcelain cups and the low hum of a pipa. Shadows moved behind painted screens—cranes and blossoms dancing with every breath of the evening wind.

Shen Qingqiu paused at the threshold and tugged at the sleeve of his borrowed robe. He inhaled once, deeply, through his nose, as though fortifying himself before battle.

I am a Peak Lord of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, he told himself firmly. A dignified cultivator. Not a guilty husband sneaking into temptation.

The conviction lasted right up until two young women in gauzy veils noticed him and tittered behind their hands.

He exhaled through his teeth. “…Wonderful.”

The moment he stepped inside, warmth and noise engulfed him. The floor gleamed like lacquer underfoot; the air shimmered with perfume and laughter. Girls in pale silks fluttered about like butterflies, weaving between tables of patrons who shouted for more wine, more songs, more everything.

And, naturally, the moment Shen Qingqiu crossed the threshold, half the room noticed him.

Oh no.

The girls pounced.

“Oh my, such a solemn face,” one girl whispered behind her fan. “Did a scholar lose his way to the examination hall?”

Another leaned over a low table, chin in her hand. “If so, perhaps he seeks a different kind of enlightenment.”

At that, a third woman in amber silks—plucking idly at a pipa in the corner—stopped mid-note. Her eyes lit up like twin lanterns catching flame.

“Enlightenment, is it?” she lilted, laughter sweet as medlar syrup. “Then let this humble one guide our honored scholar through the mysteries of the mortal world.”

The first two tittered delightedly. The newcomer rose in one smooth motion, skirts whispering, and drifted toward him—clearly deciding that whatever coin the night might bring, this stiff-backed stranger was infinitely more entertaining than her current patron.

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head with impeccable courtesy. “My apologies, ladies. This one did not mean to intrude.”

Which, naturally, only made them laugh harder.

“Such polite speech! He really is a scholar!”

Before Shen Qingqiu could respond—or self-destruct—a new voice cut cleanly through the noise.

“Enough, you vixens.”

The crowd parted with practiced ease.

An older woman approached, stately and smiling, her beauty worn but not diminished by time. Her eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence. The madam, Shen Qingqiu realized faintly.

“Welcome, gongzi,” she said with a knowing smile. “What manner of company pleases you tonight?”

He folded his hands into his sleeves and composed his face into the picture of serenity. “This one is merely here to—”

“—relax?” one of the girls offered helpfully.

“—conduct business,” Shen Qingqiu finished with the dignity of a man clinging to a sinking ship.

Laughter rippled through the room like a breeze over water.

“Business, he says! That’s what they all call it!”

A perfumed hand slipped around his arm. Shen Qingqiu went rigid, every muscle locking in place.

“So demure,” the girl murmured, leaning in close enough that her breath warmed his cheek. “Gongzi, are you certain business is what you seek? Or perhaps… pleasure?”

When the soft press of her chest brushed against his upper arm, the gong in Shen Qingqiu’s head split neatly in half.

He tried to retreat, but another woman blocked him, smiling innocently. “If gongzi is not fond of women,” she cooed, “our madam keeps two very pretty boys upstairs. Voices like silk, skin white as jade—”

“I am not—!” Shen Qingqiu blurted—then remembered, too late, that spontaneous denial had never been a strong suit of his cursed ass. “That is—this one does not—there is only one man—!”

He stopped, horrified.

The silence that followed lasted exactly one horrified heartbeat before the entire hall dissolved into laughter loud enough to shake the rafters.

“Only one man, he says!” someone crowed. 

“Then tell us, gongzi, who’s the lucky one?”

“I—! That was not—!”

“Oh, don’t be shy,” one of the girls teased, resting against his shoulder. “Perhaps he broke your heart?”

If the Heavens had any mercy, they would open a pit under his feet immediately.

He turned—any direction, any escape—and froze.

Among the painted smiles and tinkling laughter stood a single woman apart. Her veil was lowered, her expression calm. On one slender hand gleamed a silver ring carved in the shape of a five-petaled plum blossom.

Shen Qingqiu’s breath caught. He knew that design. Qi Qingqi’s hairpin bore the same mark.

Before reason could intervene, he crossed the room and caught her wrist.

The laughter died at once.

The woman blinked, startled. Realizing what he’d done, he dropped her hand as if burned and bowed low, mortified to his core.

“Forgive my discourtesy, guniang—this one merely wished to—” He took a steadying breath and forced the words out like a condemned man reciting his last rites. “If guniang would be so kind as to accompany me upstairs, I would be most grateful.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a long, measuring moment. Then her lips curved into a smile—slow, sweet, and faintly dangerous.

“Of course, gongzi,” she said, her voice like silk. “These hands”—she lifted one, elegant and pale, its nails gleaming like lacquered petals—“are sure enough to make you forget any lover who ever wronged you.”

Shen Qingqiu held his breath, certain the last functioning cells of his brain had just dissolved into nothingness.

From behind them, a voice sang out: “Be gentle with that one, Yue’er!”

Laughter followed them up the stairs.

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes briefly. I will never live this down.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, shutting out the hum of laughter and music below. The air in the small private room was still scented faintly of sandalwood and wine, but the noise of the brothel faded into a muted, distant buzz.

The woman—Yue'er—released his sleeve and glided toward the dressing table. Her reflection in the bronze mirror was cool and composed, her earlier coquettish air discarded like a costume. Meeting his eyes in the mirror, she spoke evenly.

“So. What can I do for Peak Lord Shen?”

Shen Qingqiu went still. “…You—know who I am?”

His mind, which had only just begun to recover from its previous ordeal, promptly short-circuited again.

A small, knowing smile. “You think I wouldn’t? My mistress’s friends have sharp eyes. You wear humility well, Peak Lord, but your posture gives you away.”

Marvelous, he thought bleakly. Next time I’ll wear a hat.

He inclined his head, regaining what tattered dignity remained. “Then I will speak plainly. I require assistance in conveying a message to my sect—quietly. It must not pass through official channels.”

Her fingers tapped lightly on the table. “Discretion comes at a cost.”

“I am aware.”

“What message?”

He hesitated. He’d considered writing a letter before coming here, but it was too risky. One intercepted note, and half the cultivation world would know his location by morning. No, better to trust the network Qi Qingqi herself had built.

“Tell them I am unharmed,” he said finally. “That I will not return until my current matter is resolved. And—” he paused, thinking of Fan Qing, pale and feverish beneath thin blankets—“that a young girl travels with me. She is to be sent safely to Qing Jing Peak and kept there until I send word.”

For a fleeting moment, Shen Qingqiu imagined the message reaching Cang Qiong—and Yue Qingyuan reading it—face first paling, then darkening—before mounting his sword, flying down the mountainside with the express purpose of hauling him back by the collar like an errant cat.

The last thing Shen Qingqiu needed was to be locked away “for his own safety” until the end of his natural lifespan. 

He exhaled slowly. Let’s hope Big Brother exercises restraint… for once.

Yue'er nodded. “Understood. It will be done.”

Some of the tension bled from his shoulders. “My thanks, guniang. You have rendered this one a great favor.”

“Is that all Peak Lord Shen requires?” she asked lightly. “You came quite a long way for a single message.”

He caught the teasing glint in her eyes and felt a headache coming on. “That will be all.”

Yue'er hummed, lips curving. “They say the Peak Lord of Qing Jing frequents the Warm Red Pavilion whenever he descends the mountain. I see now those rumors were—exaggerated.”

His ears went hot. “Those rumors were about someone else.”

“Mm. Of course.” Her smile deepened, the candlelight tracing the curve of her wrist. “Then this humble one wishes Peak Lord Shen success—with his lover, whoever he may be.”

Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth, realized there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make it worse, and shut it again.

With impeccable grace, Yue'er bowed and slid open the door. Warm light from the corridor spilled across the floor before vanishing as the door closed behind her.

Shen Qingqiu stood in the silence for a long moment, face blank, soul hovering several feet above his body. Then, very slowly, he brought a hand to his forehead and muttered, “…I am never speaking to Qi Qingqi again.”

He sank onto the nearest chair, robes rustling, and exhaled a long-suffering sigh. The lanternlight flickered across the empty room, soft and mocking.

What karmic debt am I repaying in this life? he thought miserably. I would very much like a refund.

Then, after a beat: At least she didn’t ask for payment.

***

Shen Qingqiu walked down the narrow street with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, the faint scent of plum wine and incense clinging to his robe. 

The curse, he decided grimly, is becoming unhinged.

Making him blurt out awkward truths before his fellow Peak Lords was one thing. Forcing him to proclaim undying devotion to a non-existent man in the middle of a brothel was quite another. If the curse possessed a mind of its own, it was clearly developing a wicked sense of humor.

“Are you kidding me?” he muttered under his breath, as if addressing the curse directly. “Next thing you know, I’ll be proposing to a donkey.” 

A passing farmer cast him a wary glance. Shen Qingqiu smoothed his sleeve with all the dignity of a man who had long ago transcended embarrassment and continued walking. 

By the time Shen Qingqiu reached the inn, the sun had slipped behind the hills. The last light spilled through the open doorway in wide, golden bars that cut across the dirt road. Inside, Meiyun was wiping down the tables, humming to herself. She looked up and smiled as he entered.

“Oh, Xiansheng, you’re back! Did you manage to do what you needed?”

His step faltered. For one dreadful heartbeat, memories of painted lips, tinkling laughter, and his own humiliating outburst resurfaced in perfect detail. He forced on a composed smile.

“Yes,” he said evenly. “It went… as planned.”

“Good, good.” Meiyun wrung out her cloth, then brightened as if she’d remembered something. “Ah! That reminds me — your disciple came by earlier.”

He froze.

“My… disciple?” he repeated carefully.

“Mhm. A young man, very polite.” She frowned, thinking. “Didn’t catch his name, I’m afraid. Said he’d wait in the back courtyard.”

The world tilted a fraction. His stomach sank somewhere around his knees.

“Ah,” he managed at last, with admirable calm. “How… thoughtful of him.”

He thanked her and turned toward the back door, his mind racing through options — none good. The window? Too narrow. The alley? Too exposed. The kitchen? Possibly, if he were willing to sacrifice the last shreds of his dignity and dive headfirst into a flour barrel.

Not that it mattered. There was no escaping him.

The air was heavy with damp earth and rice straw when he slid open the door. The courtyard lay steeped in twilight. On the low bench by the wall sat Luo Binghe, haloed in the last slanting rays of sunset. His expression was calm, even peaceful.

“Shizun,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “You took your time.”

Chapter Text

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe’s voice broke the evening stillness, low and soft. “You took your time.”

Every hair on the back of Shen Qingqiu’s neck stood on end.

Having drawn the array, he had allowed himself to believe they were safe. For a while.

It was crude work, hastily formed with what little spiritual energy he had left, but it should have masked their presence from any passing cultivator.

A foolish assumption.

Because Luo Binghe was not just any cultivator.

“This master was unaware he was expected,” Shen Qingqiu said calmly, though every nerve screamed with tension beneath the surface.

Luo Binghe’s lips lifted in a shadow of a smile. “I must admit, I underestimated your resourcefulness. Even the Water Prison couldn’t teach you to stay where you belong.”

Shen Qingqiu’s pulse faltered, treacherous thing that it was. He shouldn’t have reacted like that. He had known—had always known—that when Luo Binghe returned, he would return with a vengeance.

He should be grateful, really. Luo Binghe was dismantling him just with words instead of—well, with his hands.

Yet, it stung him to the quick. 

“I was under the impression,” he said mildly, “that I owed my escape to you. And yet…” His gaze sharpened. “I did not expect Binghe to be working alongside General Xie.”

A flicker of amusement—barely there—crossed Luo Binghe’s eyes. “We discovered our goals align better than expected.”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head, cautious. “And your goal, then?”

The smile that answered him was exquisite and merciless.

“I already told you once, Shizun. I want to crush you. Take everything you are and watch it shatter beneath my feet.”

Yes, he'd heard it before. Loud and clear. But was that all?

For a long, taut moment, they faced one another. Only a few steps apart, yet separated by a chasm the eye could not measure.

“I see,” Shen Qingqiu said finally, voice so calm it could have been mistaken for indifference. “And after that? Will you remain in Huan Hua Palace—or is there something else you intend once you’ve… finished?”

The question caught Luo Binghe off guard. His eyes flickered, uncertainty crossing the otherwise unshakable mask, before hardening again.

“Shizun is very concerned about my future,” he said quietly, a faint edge of derision in the tone, “for someone who once condemned me to die in the Abyss.”

Shen Qingqiu’s lips thinned, but he did not flinch.

“So. What happens now? Do you intend to drag me back to Huan Hua yourself?”

A low, dangerous laugh. “Ah, Shizun. You’ve always thought so little of me. What joy would there be in simply delivering you in chains?” His gaze swept over Shen Qingqiu with deliberate slowness, like a hunter surveying prey. “No… I let you go because I wanted to see what you’d do.”

Shen Qingqiu arched a brow. “You let me go?”

Or did I just slip through your fingers? 

Luo Binghe’s hand brushed the hilt of Xin Mo; the sword’s faint red pulse caught the edge of the dying twilight, bleeding into the shadows around them.

“I wanted to see if you’d prove me wrong for once,” his voice deepened. “But you didn’t disappoint. You ran straight into trouble, dragged an innocent into it, and hid behind your virtue, as always.”

Shen Qingqiu’s frown deepened. “You, of all people, should understand why I couldn’t leave her there. If that girl had stayed… she would have met a miserable end. Surely even you can see that.”

He hadn’t known the full story — he rarely bothered with Huan Hua gossip — but even he’d heard whispers of Mu Ruyan’s cruelty when she was still a young disciple. The daughter of a favored elder, indulged and flattered from the cradle, she had learned early that fear obeyed faster than respect.

Luo Binghe’s eyes darkened, and he gave a small, humorless laugh. “Perhaps. But she is not the only one you are dragging down with you.”

Shen Qingqiu froze. “…What do you mean?”

Luo Binghe tilted his head, disturbingly mild in tone. “What do you think happens when Huan Hua’s disciples arrive here, and find this innkeeper sheltering a fugitive accused of consorting with demons? How long do you think she will last in prison, Shizun? How long before her old heart gives out?”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him — genuinely, painfully shocked. “Binghe… would you truly do that? You’re not the sort to punish the innocent for another’s sins.”

A flare of demonic qi surged from Luo Binghe. Xin Mo hummed in its sheath.

“And how would you know what kind of person I am?” His voice cut sharp through the tension, teeth gritted. “Wasn’t it you who decided what I was—what I would always be? A filthy demonic beast unworthy to live among men?”

Shen Qingqiu’s chest tightened, ache spreading across his ribs. “I never thought of you that way,” he said quietly.

For a fleeting instant, the storm in Luo Binghe’s eyes wavered. Beneath the fury, something raw, fragile and painfully human trembled. Shen Qingqiu felt the pull to step closer, to reach out.

“I know my words mean little,” he said softly. “But what I told you before still stands. I cast you down because… I was a coward. It was my greatest failure. If I could undo it—if I could go back—I would have thrown myself into that abyss rather than push you.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked, faintly stunned by himself. That wasn’t the sort of dramatic self-sacrificing nonsense he went around spouting—at least, not intentionally. But the curse wouldn’t have let him lie, which meant he meant it. Somehow.

When exactly had his sense of self-preservation packed up and left?

Luo Binghe’s fingers trembled on Xin Mo. The demonic qi around him pulsed erratically, a storm fighting not to break.

“You have every right to hate me,” Shen Qingqiu continued, steadier now. “But this has gone too far. You’ve already proven your strength. If you want my life, take it. I won’t run. But do not drag others into it, Binghe. You are not this person.”

The last sliver of daylight drained from the courtyard, leaving a dim orange lantern glow. Luo Binghe’s face was half in shadow; his eyes glimmered wetly, betraying emotion he refused to show.

“Not this person?” he repeated, voice barely audible.

Shen Qingqiu met him unflinchingly. “Not the boy I raised.”

The silence between them hummed, sharp, electric—the breath before lightning splits the sky.

Then the earth trembled.

Shen Qingqiu staggered, bracing against the wall as dust rained from eaves. The lantern swung wildly, frantic shadows scattering across the courtyard.

He looked down—and froze.

A narrow fissure split the ground beneath his feet, glowing with the sickly light he had seen once in Baihe. 

That’s impossible — we’re too far from there.

The crack widened, veins of pale radiance pulsing outward, heavy, alive with demonic qi. The air thickened.

He looked up at Luo Binghe, who had gone utterly still, gaze fixed on the ground.

It was growing.

Just like the rift he and Xu Qinglian had failed to close.

For an instant, panic threatened to rise—sharp, instinctive—but Shen Qingqiu’s mind, honed by years of crisis, snapped into clarity.

Protect the civilians. Stabilize the ground. Contain it.

He flung his sleeves wide. Golden light burst from his palms, bright, as dawn breaking through stormclouds. The radiance arced outward, a shimmering shell that wrapped protectively around the inn.

A shockwave rolled across the courtyard, rattling shutters and sending fine dust spiraling like smoke in the afternoon sun. Overhead, the faint scrape of wood reached him, and then a small, high voice quavered through it.

“Peak Lord Shen!”

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze snapped upward. In the attic window, a pale face peeked out, eyes wide, hair tumbling loose from her braid.

Of course she would pick now to lean into open danger.

“Inside!” His voice cut precisely, leaving no room for hesitation. “Shut the window. Stay where you are.”

The shutters clapped shut at once. Good girl.

The barrier trembled instantly beneath the onslaught of energy pulsing up from the earth. It wasn’t built to withstand demonic pressure of this scale. Shen Qingqiu’s jaw tightened; he poured more qi into it, the golden glow deepening until the tremor steadied into a low, thrumming hum.

A woman’s cry rang out from within—Meiyun’s voice, frightened—followed by the crash of falling dishes. Shen Qingqiu didn’t turn. He shut out the sound, tightening his focus.

“Stay where you are,” he muttered under his breath, as though the frightened townsfolk could hear him. “Don’t move. Don’t—”

The courtyard split with a deafening crack.

A jagged fissure tore through the flagstones, vomiting up light that wasn’t light at all — a red-black radiance, dense and pulsing, as if the earth itself bled resentment. Shen Qingqiu turned sharply.

Luo Binghe stood at the edge of the rift. His hair whipped like a dark flame, eyes glinting crimson in the gloom. Xin Mo gleamed in his grasp — unsheathed, alive — its blade radiating heat like metal fresh from the forge. Waves of demonic qi rolled off him in suffocating ripples, clashing with the energy seething from below. Two storms, neither yielding, devouring the air between them.

“Binghe!” Shen Qingqiu’s voice cut through the roar.

Whether Luo Binghe didn’t hear or refused to listen, the result was the same. The sword screamed — a thin, keening sound that pierced bone. The red-black light writhed, thickening, filling the courtyard with choking pressure.

Then Shen Qingqiu felt it — the resonance. Xin Mo wasn’t resisting the rift. It was answering it.

He swore under his breath. “Fool child.”

Without hesitation, he began weaving seals, fingers moving in a blur. Each gesture bled sparks of light.

No focus tool, no talisman — this will drain me too quickly. His lips thinned. But there’s no time.

He dropped to one knee, slamming both palms to the ground. Golden light burst beneath his hands, racing outward in intricate lines. Blood welled at his fingertips, seeping into the glowing cracks — and from it bloomed an array, etched into the earth by sheer intent.

The Clear Heart Formation.

Designed for balance, purification — entirely unsuited for countering demonic resonance. But it was all he had.

The formation flared to life. For an instant, the rift faltered — its jagged edges flickered, the light within thinning—

Then came the backlash.

Pain slammed through him like a hammer. His meridians howled in protest. The formation demanded equilibrium — and Shen Qingqiu had just made himself the center of an impossible equation: demonic qi and rift energy, meeting in the fragile bridge of his mortal body.

He nearly blacked out.

Xin Mo’s aura lashed outward, wild, animalistic, reacting to his interference. Tendrils of black qi ripped through the air and struck like whips. Shen Qingqiu raised an arm to shield himself; fabric scorched away, skin beneath seared raw.

Through the chaos, Luo Binghe’s face came into focus — pale, feverish, his eyes unfocused. Black blood traced his mouth. His qi pulsed erratically, fluctuating between fury and collapse.

A familiar dread twisted in Shen Qingqiu’s gut. That look — the unanchored haze, the trembling sword arm.

Qi deviation.

“Enough,” Shen Qingqiu muttered.

He moved.

In a blur, he crossed the distance, seized Luo Binghe’s wrist, and slammed his other palm flat against the boy’s chest — directly over his heart.

“Binghe!”

He poured his own qi into him.

The effect was immediate — like plunging his hands into fire and ice at once. His spiritual energy met Luo Binghe’s demonic flow head-on, clashing violently before twisting into a chaotic spiral. Light burst between them, gold and black colliding in an explosion that made the air itself vibrate.

Shen Qingqiu’s vision went white. For a single heartbeat, he felt everything.

The storm, the hunger, the rage — but beneath it, the pain. The deep, festering loneliness that had rooted itself in the hollow of Luo Binghe’s chest and never left.

Has he really been feeling this all these years?

Was it… I who had done this to him?

“Enough,” his voice cracked, soft, almost a plea. “You’ll destroy yourself.”

His veins burned gold, light crawling beneath his skin. The pain was unbearable — molten qi tearing through his meridians — yet still he pressed on.

“If you can’t stop,” he said through his teeth, “then I’ll stop it for you. Even if I burn what’s left of myself.”

Something in Luo Binghe snapped.

His fingers spasmed on Xin Mo’s hilt; his pupils flickered — red, then black — before the demonic glow began to waver.

“Shizun…” The word escaped him in a hoarse whisper, young and desperate. The fury drained from his face, leaving only raw fear.

The rift’s light imploded, folding in on itself until it was nothing more than a faint, pulsing scar in the ground. Xin Mo’s shriek faded into silence.

The barrier around the inn shattered. Golden fragments of light dissolved into the air. Shen Qingqiu’s knees hit the ground. His hands trembled violently, faint embers of qi flickering out between his fingers.

Luo Binghe stood above him, chest heaving, his own aura guttering like a dying flame. Neither spoke. The only sound left was their ragged breathing and the soft hiss of the cooling earth.

Finally, Luo Binghe rasped, voice unsteady, “You saved me… why?”

For an instant, Shen Qingqiu thought of answering the way a teacher should. Because a master guards his disciple. Because it is right. But none of that fit anymore, not after everything that had passed between them.

So he lifted his head, each breath dragging. His vision swam, but his eyes were calm.

“Because,” he said quietly, “it’s what I should have done the first time.”

Luo Binghe’s lips parted, but no sound came.

His features twisted—confusion, grief, and something heartrending, more childlike—all bleeding into one. His hand reached out instinctively, fingers trembling.

“Shizun…” he whispered, and for a fleeting, fragile moment, Shen Qingqiu glimpsed the boy he had once known—the fourteen-year-old disciple who had clung to him like a monkey.

Shen Qingqiu’s hand fell limply to his side, and he collapsed forward. The faint gold faded from his skin, and darkness closed in, swallowing the last trace of light from the courtyard.

***

Consciousness returned to Shen Qingqiu like a reluctant tide — ebbing, then crashing back with cruel precision.

The world announced itself in layers. First, the scent: acrid smoke, scorched earth, the copper tang of blood drifting on the wind. Then came the sound—a roof tile cracking loose and shattering somewhere unseen. Then—hands. Trembling, human hands shaking his shoulder with frantic insistence.

“Xiansheng—! Wake up, please—wake!”

The voice wavered, high with panic.

Shen Qingqiu’s lashes fluttered. The world lurched violently into focus, light and shadow tearing at the edges of his vision. Pain arrived next, late but thorough—searing through his spine and spreading like fire beneath his skin. His mind caught up a beat too slow, and his first coherent thought was a very eloquent ah, this again.

It wasn’t quite Without a Cure-level agony, but it was definitely in the same extended family.

Blinking against the haze, he made out two soot-streaked faces hovering over him—the innkeeper and her daughter. Meiyun knelt at his side, blood trickling down from a cut at her temple, her small hands pressed against his shoulder. Behind her, ayi wrung her hands, muttering prayers to any deity that hadn’t already fled the scene.

Somewhere to the side, a man’s voice broke in—loud and uncertain. “Is he, uh, dead?”

The innkeeper rounded on him like a woman possessed. “Mind your tongue, fool! If you’ve got strength to wag your tongue, you can haul the others outside before the roof caves in!”

Shen Qingqiu made a valiant attempt to sit up. It went about as well as expected. Pain flared white-hot across his ribs, ripping a hiss from his throat. His meridians screamed, his qi felt like dry sand spilling through fingers—there, and then gone, no matter how tightly he tried to hold it.

Meiyun caught him at once, arm bracing his back. “Slowly, Xiansheng! Don’t—don’t force it—”

He clenched his jaw, breathing through the spike of agony until the world stopped flickering. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse but steady. “The others… are they alive?”

“Heaven be praised,” the old woman replied, bobbing her head. “All alive. The roof took a beating, and a few shelves tumbled, but the folk are whole.”

Meiyun nodded, voice soft and shaking. “When the ground split and the sky turned red, we thought the end had come. But then it stopped. Everything just… stopped. When I ran outside, you were lying there in the courtyard—so still. You weren’t breathing, Xiangshen. A-niang thought we’d be burning incense for your soul.”

“Meiyun!” her mother snapped, scandalized. “Don’t talk nonsense while the man’s still breathing!”

Shen Qingqiu’s breath rasped shallowly in his throat. The edges of the world still flickered in and out of focus, but the old woman’s words were beginning to make sense. Alive. All of them alive.

Good. One small mercy.

Then—like an arrow loosed from nowhere—the thought struck him.

Fan Qing.

His pulse lurched. “Fan Qing,” he said at once. “Where is she?”

The backyard was nearly unrecognizable—half the paving stones cracked, the air still thick with the tang of scorched qi. A handful of townsfolk stumbled about, dazed, gathering fallen lanterns or staring in disbelief at the scar that marred the earth: a jagged fissure running the length of the courtyard, thin as a blade’s edge and faintly shimmering with residue that made his skin crawl.

And—of course—no sign of Luo Binghe.

He pushed himself upright too quickly; pain lanced through his ribs, sharp enough to blur his vision. Meiyun darted forward, catching him by the shoulder before he could fall. 

Meiyun blinked, startled. “Xiansheng, please, don’t move like that—she’s fine, she’s—”

But before she could finish, a voice—thin and trembling—called from the courtyard’s far side.

“Xiansheng—!”

They turned as one. Fan Qing came into view from around the corner, limping badly, one hand braced against the wall. Her face was pale beneath a mask of dust, her braid half undone, but she was alive. Ayi let out a strangled sound and hurried to her side, fussing and muttering about foolish girls.

Fan Qing let herself be half-dragged, half-guided, across the uneven ground until she sank beside Shen Qingqiu. Her small hands, smudged with dirt, gripped his sleeve. “Xiansheng—are you alright?”

He heard the plea in a child's voice, and habit spoke for him. “This one is well.”

Then it hit him—

—he lied.

The curse, that loathsome thread wound tight around his tongue for nearly a month, had not risen to tear the truth from him. 

Yet even so, he spoke of nothing he hadn’t already voiced before. There was no breaking it by ordinary means.

Cold lucidity cut through the haze of pain. 

The steady pulse of his spiritual core—his well of spirit—had fractured into silence.

So that was it.

The curse had feasted on wholeness, on the living current of spirit. And when that current faltered, when the host fell apart from within—

—it starved.

Fan Qing’s brow furrowed in worry. He exhaled once, steadying himself, and asked in return, “And you, A-Qing? Are you injured?”

Fan Qing shook her head quickly. “No, no. When the light came and the ground shook, I hid beneath the table. After the barrier fell, some of the guests helped me out.” She hesitated then, eyes darting eastward.

“What is it?” Shen Qingqiu asked.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I saw lights, Xiangshen, in the sky. They went east—fast.”

Lights in the sky. Swordflight.

Of course. 

The demonic qi flare, the collapse of the rift—no cultivator within three prefectures could have missed that. The word was already spreading like wildfire. Huan Hua’s people would be here soon, an hour at most if they pushed their swords hard.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled once through his nose. Truly, one disaster at a time is far too simple a request.

He straightened slightly, though the motion set black dots dancing across his vision. “We must leave,” he said. “Now.”

That earned him three identically startled looks.

“Leave?” Meiyun gasped. “Xiansheng, you can scarcely sit upright! And A-Qing—look at her! She cannot walk two steps without falling!”

Ayi nodded fervently. “Heaven preserve us! Where would you even go in such a state? Stay until dawn, Xiangshen! Let the earth settle first!”

He wanted to—Heaven knew he wanted to—but there was no time. Every moment they lingered brought risk clawing closer.

Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes briefly, steadying the riot in his chest. There was only one path left to take.

When he opened them again, his voice was soft, but carried the kind of quiet authority that left no room for argument.

“Ayi, Meiyun,” he said. “This one must trouble you for one last favor.”

He looked at Fan Qing, the child he had promised to protect and promptly endangered.

He chose his words with care, each one deliberate. “Take her to a friend of mine in town,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Meiyun blinked. “A friend? Xiansheng—who—?”

Shen Qingqiu drew a slow breath, wincing as pain flared in his side, but he pressed on. “There’s a woman. Tell her… forget the first part of the message. Focus only on the second.”

Fan Qing clutched his sleeve. “And you? What will happen to you, P—Xiansheng?”

Shen Qingqiu gave a faint, practiced smile. “This one will be alright.”

The words left his mouth smoothly. After a month spent unable to lie, the ease of it felt almost wrong.

Meiyun glanced at him, then at the girl, and though she couldn’t understand everything, determination settled in her eyes. She nodded.

“I’ll carry her,” Meiyun said simply, as if settling a mundane chore.

Fan Qing’s eyebrows shot up. “You? But you’re so small!”

“I may look like a reed in the wind,” Meiyun said with a sly grin, “but I’ve carried enough pots and firewood to have the back of an ox. Trust me.” With that, she dropped to one knee with a heavy, ungraceful clatter. “Up, child.”

Fan Qing hesitated for a heartbeat, then allowed herself to be hoisted onto Meiyun’s shoulders. 

Meiyun's face was fierce and triumphant, like a soldier taking a hill rather than an innmaid carrying a frightened teenager.

Shen Qingqiu watched them, a strange mixture of gratitude and shame tightening in his chest—shame for dragging ordinary people into the shadow of sect wars, gratitude that they refused to let him face it alone.

He turned to the old woman, speaking lightly to mask the tension. “This one heard you were planning to cook pork tomorrow, Ayi.”

She raised her eyebrows, puzzled.

Shen Qingqiu gave a small, rueful smile. “Apologies… the guests will have to make do with rice and vegetables. No meat this time.”

“After all,” Shen Qingqiu thought wryly, “if one cannot hide one’s intent—one can still decide what others think they see.”

***

The night was heavy with smoke and whispers.

It was the sort of place even maps forgot, a smear of lanternlight between two weary milestones. By dawn, it would likely be gone altogether. But tonight, it burned bright in memory—because misfortune had decided to descend here.

The town’s only inn sat at the center of the commotion. Its courtyard, once cluttered with buckets and drying laundry, now flared with swordlight. Robes in every sect’s color swirled through the haze, embroidered hems sweeping through dust and ash. The insignias of lesser sects from nearby prefectures glimmered faintly under the waning moon, but it was Huan Hua’s white and gold that filled the space like a conquering tide.

Their banners strained in the wind, whispering restlessly against their poles. Beneath them, voices murmured—hushed and urgent, far too interested for propriety. 

“Did you hear? The rift opened right here.”
“He was caught in the collapse, they say.”
“Heard they found nothing but blood left behind…”

Each voice carried a different version, each one darker than the last. No one dared speak too loudly. No one wished to stop listening.

At the edge of the torchlight, Xiao Gongzhu stood with immaculate poise. Her robes, rose silk brushed with gold, glimmered faintly through the smoke, and a golden hairpin flickered in her dark hair. Her posture was flawless, her expression calm. Only her clasped hands betrayed the tension she tried to hide.

A sound cut through the night—sharp and clean, like steel slicing through cloud.

A streak of light tore across the sky. A heartbeat later, a wind slammed into the courtyard, scattering embers and ash.

When it cleared, he was there, standing at the edge of the chaos.

His white robe, lined with pale blue, stirred in the fading gust. The sword at his hip still whispered faintly with qi. His face caught the torchlight—and for an instant, the courtyard seemed to forget how to breathe.

The crowd’s murmur died. Awe and unease rippled outward like waves from a stone. Disciples bowed without command, and no one dared meet his gaze for long. Even those who had never seen Bai Zhan Peak’s War God before needed no introduction.

He crossed the courtyard without a word. Wherever he went, the noise faded until only the crackle of fire remained.

The ground ahead had split open in a jagged scar. Faint traces of demonic qi shimmered along the edges, warping the air. At its center lay the ruined remnant of what had once been a robe sleeve, scorched black at the edges. The smell of iron and smoke lingered thick enough to taste.

The War God stopped. His eyes moved over the wreckage once without expression. The quiet around him grew heavier.

Behind him, silk rustled.

“Peak Lord Liu,” Xiao Gongzhu’s voice cut through the hush. “You arrived swiftly. Yet not swiftly enough, it seems.”

Her gaze slid to the blood-soaked earth, then back to him.

“If you came seeking your shixiong,” she continued, lips curving, “I fear you are too late.”

The wind shifted, lifting ash from the ground.

“Shen Qingqiu,” she said at last, “is dead.”

Chapter Text

Liu Qingge detested Peak Lords’ meetings with every fiber of his being.

He found them about as useful as ornamental swords—nice to look at, but no help in a fight.

Why should Liu Qingge care how much spirit herb stock Qian Cao Peak had sold this month, or how many talismans the outer sects were clamoring for? 

If the Sect Leader had a mission for him, he could just send word. There was no reason for everyone to sit in a circle pretending to care about accounts.

Yet here he was.

It was entirely Yue Qingyuan’s doing. 

Liu Qingge had gone to report the completion of his assignment, expecting a quick dismissal. Instead, Yue Qingyuan thanked him warmly, set aside the report scroll… and then, with the same easy tone, mentioned that the Peak Lords were just about to begin their meeting. What an auspicious coincidence. Before Liu Qingge could refuse, Yue Qingyuan had taken him by the arm and half-dragged him into the main hall, talking about how “fortunate” it was that Liu Qingge had returned in time to attend.

Liu Qingge knew a trap when he saw one.

Now he sat at his usual place along the oval table, surrounded by droning declarations, wondering if it was possible to meditate with his eyes open. That might at least make the time pass faster.

Across from him sat Shen Qingqiu, posture impeccable, face unreadable. To his left, Shang Qinghua was fidgeting with a stack of papers, clearly trying not to attract attention. Between them lay an odd sheet of parchment, scrawled with rows of crooked lines and circles. Every few moments, one of them would lean forward, make another mark, and sit back with an expression of deep concentration.

Liu Qingge frowned. From his seat, it looked like… some kind of crude formation diagram? But there was no spiritual energy in the lines, no symmetry, no sense. Just meaningless scratches. A mortal child’s game, perhaps. Whatever it was, Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua seemed deeply invested in it.

Yue Qingyuan’s calm voice pulled him back. “There is one final matter,” he said. “The residents of Yunhe Town have sent a request. They ask that Cang Qiong dispatch several disciples to help maintain order during tonight’s Lantern Festival.”

Ah. Yunhe Town. The small settlement at the foot of the mountain, always lively, always noisy.

Yue Qingyuan continued, “In recent years, disciples from the Heifeng Sect and the Lingzhou Alliance have both frequented the festival. Unfortunately, there have been… altercations.”

Liu Qingge grunted. “Petty squabbles again?”

“Indeed,” Yue Qingyuan said mildly. “It seems Heifeng Sect disciples believe Lingzhou Alliance copied their firework techniques for last year’s competition. Lingzhou Alliance insists they improved them. The argument has… persisted.”

Four years, apparently. Mortals could live and die in less time.

Before anyone could volunteer, Shen Qingqiu lowered his fan and said smoothly, “This year’s festival falls under Qing Jing Peak’s stewardship. It would be unseemly to dispatch only disciples. Since this Shen is free, I shall attend personally.”

The room went quiet.

Even Yue Qingyuan blinked. “Shen Shidi wishes to handle this himself?”

Shen Qingqiu nodded, face calm and perfectly serious. “Naturally.”

Liu Qingge snorted. Loudly.

Shen Qingqiu, volunteering for work? The heavens must have frozen over. The man’s idea of supervision was finding a shaded pavilion and “observing” with tea in hand. He could already imagine him wandering through the festival, sampling street food while claiming to “maintain order.”

But Yue Qingyuan, ever indulgent, smiled faintly. “Shen Shidi’s sense of responsibility is commendable. Indeed, the festival’s oversight falls under Qing Jing Peak this year. It would reflect well upon the sect if one of our own Peak Lords were present.”

Liu Qingge caught the flicker of triumph that crossed Shen Qingqiu’s face—quickly hidden behind his fan.

Of course.

Before Yue Qingyuan could move on, Shang Qinghua—never knowing when to keep his mouth shut—blurted out, “Wait, wait, uh, Shen Shixiong, you really intend to go alone? The last time you ‘oversaw mortal festivities,’ didn’t half the theater roof collapse—?”

The temperature in the hall plummeted.

Shen Qingqiu’s smile didn’t waver, but his gaze could have flash-frozen a pond. Shang Qinghua felt it all too keenly and swallowed the lump in his throat.

Liu Qingge had to admit, for someone who looked like a scholar, Shen Qingqiu could radiate enough murderous intent to humble an executioner.

“It was not my fault,” Shen Qingqiu said through a pleasant smile that fooled no one.

Qi Qingqi, seated beside Yue Qingyuan, arched a brow. “Oh? But as I recall, the story went that you misjudged the strength of your spiritual wind and sent the roof tiles flying into the next street. They say the local magistrate was most impressed.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped open again, the motion precise and sharp. He clearly wanted to retort, but Qi Qingqi was smirking in that infuriating way that dared him to try. He swallowed his pride instead, the picture of strained civility.

Liu Qingge almost smirked. Almost.

“In that case,” Yue Qingyuan said with his usual gentle authority, “since Shen Shidi wishes to take responsibility, let him do so. However—” his tone softened, the kind of diplomatic tone that managed to sound like praise while quietly rearranging everyone’s plans, “such matters often benefit from cooperation. It may be wise for another Peak Lord to accompany him. One… known for reliability.”

A hush fell. Then, as though guided by a single thought, every gaze turned toward Liu Qingge.

He stiffened. “You cannot be serious.”

From the far end of the table, Wei Qingwei’s languid voice floated over. “Who better than Bai Zhan Peak’s Lord to ensure no… unfortunate incidents occur?”

Liu Qingge’s expression darkened. “Why, Wan Jian Peak’s Lord can surely make himself useful—for once.”

Wei Qingwei blinked, feigning innocence so expertly it was almost an art form. “Liu Shidi’s warm praise moves me deeply. Yet I must concede—when it comes to reliability, Peak Lord of Bai Zhan is unmatched.”

Shen Qingqiu, whose expression had been growing more strained by the second, interjected smoothly, “That won’t be necessary. Liu Shidi must have far more pressing duties. This one can handle a few drunken mortals without assistance.”

“Then it’s settled.” Yue Qingyuan’s serene smile made it clear he had heard every protest and intended to ignore all of them. “Yunhe Town will rest easy knowing both Qing Jing and Bai Zhan Peaks are in attendance.”

Liu Qingge stared at him in utter disbelief. He turned his glare toward Shen Qingqiu, who promptly flicked open his fan and raised it just high enough to block half his face.

And that was how Liu Qingge ended up walking the crowded streets of Yunhe, surrounded by drunken townsfolk and paper lanterns.

He exhaled through his nose.

Next time, he was delivering his reports by messenger pigeon.

The town was already alive by the time they arrived.

The main street blazed with light—lanterns of red and gold strung between rooftops, swaying gently in the evening wind. The air was thick with incense smoke and the smell of roasted chestnuts, sugar hawthorn, and cheap wine. Mortals laughed and stumbled through the crowd, their laughter too loud, their joy too careless.

Liu Qingge hated it. 

He had half a mind to split off and patrol on his own, but Shen Qingqiu was walking a pace ahead, gliding through the chaos as if it were a cultivated garden. His robes were spotless, his sleeves somehow never brushing against anyone. From a distance, one might think him a visiting immortal descending to bless the mortal realm.

“This one must commend Yunhe Town’s spirit,” Shen Qingqiu said mildly, as they passed a group of children chasing each other with sparklers. “So lively.”

Liu Qingge grunted. “So noisy.”

Shen Qingqiu gave him a sidelong glance. “How curious. Bai Zhan Peak’s disciples swing their swords so passionately that one can hear the clang from three valleys away. Surely a few drums and flutes are almost tranquil by comparison.”

Liu Qingge shot him a look, evading a rather tipsy uncle navigating the courtyard like a storm-tossed vessel. “At least my disciples know when to stop swinging.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan twitched—just slightly, like he was resisting the urge to swat him with it. “Ah, of course. Truly, Bai Zhan Peak’s discipline is unmatched. One can hardly go a day without seeing someone being thrown off a cliff for training purposes.”

“That’s called building endurance,” Liu Qingge said flatly.

Shen Qingqiu gave a long, delicate sigh, but finally bit his tongue.

They continued on, threading through the crowd. Disciples from minor sects were scattered among the festival-goers, easy to spot by their robes and the faint glimmer of spiritual energy about them. Most behaved—eating, drinking, playing festival games. A few were clearly not so disciplined.

Liu Qingge’s eyes narrowed. “There.”

Two young men in opposing colors—black-trimmed Heifeng robes and silver Lingzhou ones—stood nose-to-nose beside a lantern stand, voices rising with every word. Their respective friends hovered behind them, eager to jump in.

“I’m telling you, he was the one who slew that fox demon—”

“‘Slew’? He shot himself in the leg and fainted before the beast even showed its tail—”

Liu Qingge’s patience snapped long before the argument did. He strode over, grabbed both by the back of their collars, and lifted them clean off their feet.

“Enough,” he said flatly.

The Heifeng disciple, slow on the uptake, dared to twist in his grip. Liu Qingge’s grip tightened just enough to suggest that bones were not as durable as he might hope. The boy froze.

“P-Peak Lord Liu!” someone gasped nearby, and the crowd scattered quickly.

Behind him, Shen Qingqiu approached at a more leisurely pace. “Ah, Liu Shidi,” he said with the faintest smile, “your conflict-resolution skills have truly stood the test of time.”

Liu Qingge released his hold, letting two disciples drop like a sack of damp rice. The boys hit the ground with a thud and wisely stayed there.

Shen Qingqiu regarded the pair as though assessing a particularly unpromising batch of spiritual herbs. “So,” he said, voice smooth as jade, “you broke the stall to prove your moral superiority? Admirable. Shall this Master fetch you both a broom, so you might cultivate humility now as well?”

The two disciples paled. One opened his mouth—perhaps to protest—but Shen Qingqiu’s smile widened a fraction, all courteous civility with the sharpness of a blade just beneath the surface.

“N-no, Peak Lord Shen!” they chorused, scrambling to their feet.

“Good,” Shen Qingqiu said pleasantly. “Then you may begin by cleaning up the remains of the stall you so valiantly destroyed. It would be tragic if the good citizens of Yunhe tripped over splinters because two young heroes could not contain their righteous indignation.”

He gestured lightly with his fan toward the scattered wooden frame and torn paper. A passing vendor quickly offered them a broom, clearly eager to curry favor and avoid getting caught in whatever celestial nonsense was unfolding.

Liu Qingge folded his arms, watching the chastened disciples sweep in miserable silence. “You’re enjoying this,” he said flatly.

Shen Qingqiu blinked, all innocence. “Enforcing virtue is part of one’s duty as a teacher.”

“Teacher,” Liu Qingge muttered, unimpressed. “You just like seeing people grovel.”

“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu said with the air of a man imparting wisdom. “Motivation takes many forms, Liu Shidi.”

Shen Qingqiu twirled his fan idly, watching the two disciples sweep as though he were overseeing an art performance rather than punishment. When they finished and scurried off, he finally turned back toward the main street.

“Well,” Liu Qingge said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves, “that should make things clear enough. Anyone thinking of starting trouble tonight will think twice.”

He scanned the crowd—mortal vendors hawking roasted chestnuts, a few wandering cultivators giving them very wide berths. “We can leave.”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t move.

Liu Qingge followed his line of sight—and blinked. At some point, his fellow Peak Lord had acquired a skewer of candied hawthorn, the glossy red orbs gleaming like captured rubies under the lantern light.

“Where did you even—” Liu Qingge began.

Shen Qingqiu bit neatly into one, utterly unbothered. “Alcohol dulls judgment, Liu Shidi. Even after your rather… flamboyant demonstration, I doubt every drunk cultivator here will recall their sense of propriety.” He waved his fan vaguely toward the crowds. “If you wish to return, do so. This one will remain and monitor the situation.”

“Monitor?” Liu Qingge said incredulously. “You’re eating sugar on a stick.”

“One must blend in, Shidi.”

Liu Qingge stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

For a long moment, Liu Qingge considered walking away—back to the quiet of the mountain, where the only noise came from swords clashing in honest combat, not from merchants yelling about lucky lanterns.

But then he imagined returning alone and explaining to Yue Qingyuan how Shen Qingqiu had “monitored” himself straight into a collapsed pavilion or an incident with fireworks.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine.”

Shen Qingqiu looked faintly surprised. “Oh? You’re staying?”

“I’m not dragging you back to the Sect Leader in pieces,” Liu Qingge said shortly. “If something happens, he’ll reprimand me for letting you out of my sight.”

Shen Qingqiu’s lips curved in quiet amusement. “Then this Shen is truly blessed to have such devoted company.”

Liu Qingge ignored him, scanning the street again. It seemed even louder now. Music drifted from every corner, and mortals, already drunk on festival cheer, stumbled past carrying lanterns painted with dragons and cranes.

Liu Qingge didn’t know when, exactly, he’d become Shen Qingqiu’s shadow. One moment he’d resigned himself to his prolonged stay, and the next he was following the other man through crowded stalls and mortal chatter like some unwilling guard. Wherever Shen Qingqiu drifted, elegant and unhurried, Liu Qingge trailed behind—arms folded, expression set in stone, radiating the kind of quiet menace that made people step aside instinctively.

“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu said at one point, pausing before a wine stall.

The vendor, a cheerful old man with sleeves rolled to his elbows, bowed hastily when he saw their robes. “Immortal Masters!” the man exclaimed, elbowing his wife. “A drink, if you please—our own cherry wine! We brewed it ourselves this season.”

Liu Qingge opened his mouth to refuse, but Shen Qingqiu was already smiling that serene, perfectly measured smile of his. “Such hospitality. Then it would be rude of this one to decline.”

The wife beamed and hurried to pour two small cups. The liquid glowed faintly red in the lamplight, sweet and fragrant. Shen Qingqiu lifted his cup with the grace of a scholar-poet, while Liu Qingge stood beside him, arms crossed, unmoved.

“You do not drink?” Shen Qingqiu asked, tone mild, eyes amused.

“No.”

“How admirable. Nothing can tempt Master Liu.” His words were teasing, but faintly approving, as though he were humoring a stubborn disciple.

Shen Qingqiu took a sip.

Liu Qingge didn’t mean to stare—but somehow he found himself watching the movement: the pale fingers steady around the cup, the quiet tilt of the wrist, the elegant line of his throat as he swallowed. When the cup lowered again, Shen Qingqiu’s lips were stained the color of the wine—dark red, almost too bright against his skin.

And then, with the same absentminded poise as always, Shen Qingqiu’s tongue darted out to catch a drop.

Liu Qingge looked away, sharply.

Shen Qingqiu, oblivious, was already showering the couple with gracious praise. “A most delicate flavor. Truly, the sweetness lingers without cloying—clearly the work of skillful hands. Alas,” he added, fan snapping open, “this one cannot purchase your wine. Sect regulations, you understand. But your candied fruit—yes, I should like to take some back to Cang Qiong.”

The couple practically glowed as they packed up half their stock. Shen Qingqiu paid with a few spirit coins—far too generous, as usual—and tucked the paper-wrapped bundles neatly into his qiankun bag.

When they finally moved on, Liu Qingge said, “You really intend to eat all that?”

Shen Qingqiu looked faintly offended. “Of course not. These are for my disciples.”

Liu Qingge snorted. “You’re spoiling them.”

“Discipline requires balance,” Shen Qingqiu said smoothly. “A stick in one hand, and sweets in the other.”

Liu Qingge gave him a flat look. “Sounds like bribery.”

“Motivation,” Shen Qingqiu corrected as he turned around, the loose edge of his sleeve brushing against Liu Qingge’s wrist.

The touch was fleeting—an accident—but Liu Qingge jerked back as if burned. He didn’t like being touched. He never had. Only his parents, when they were alive, and Liu Mingyan were ever allowed that close. Everyone else… no.

Although Liu Qingge had touched Shen Qingqiu before—he had to, every time he cleansed his meridians—that had been different.

Shen Qingqiu’s hand stilled mid-motion. Surprise flickered briefly across his face, gone as quickly as it came. “Forgive me,” he said easily, as though it were nothing.

Liu Qingge grunted something noncommittal, eyes fixed firmly on the street ahead. The silence that followed wasn’t exactly awkward—but it was aware.

Then Shen Qingqiu, ever the master of redirecting the mood, said lightly, “Come, Liu Shidi. Surely even the most stoic Peak Lord isn’t immune to festival sights.”

He set off again, and Liu Qingge fell into step behind him.

Yet this time, Shen Qingqiu’s movements were measured in a new way—his gestures neater, his turns a shade wider, the distance between them quietly, deliberately maintained.

He was giving him space.

Unaware, Liu Qingge’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.

The night deepened around them—lanterns swaying gently in the breeze, music drifting from distant stalls, the clatter of laughter fading to a softer hum. Shen Qingqiu seemed perfectly at home in the chaos, gliding from stand to stand as if the mortal realm existed solely for his idle inspection.

Liu Qingge followed, silent, and he realized, with a strange unease, that the irritation he had felt upon arriving had already begun to dissolve. 

At some point, Shen Qingqiu stopped before a stall selling lanterns. Rows of glowing shapes hung above the counter—lotuses, rabbits, koi. One in particular caught his eye: a white crane, its wings folded from delicate talisman paper.

“Beautiful craftsmanship,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, fingers brushing the lantern’s silk frame. 

The vendor, recognizing an opportunity, began a speech about blessings and fortune. Shen Qingqiu smiled, listened with apparent sincerity, and purchased it without bargaining.

They walked until the street opened onto a small arched bridge overlooking the river. Below, hundreds of lanterns drifted downstream, their reflections rippling like a current of stars.

For once, Shen Qingqiu was quiet. The warm light from the lantern in his hands cast a soft halo across his face, smoothing the sharpness of his features. Liu Qingge realized, with a strange jolt, that he had never seen him like this—without the mask of the aloof teacher or the shield of his fan.

Liu Qingge didn’t realize he was staring until Shen Qingqiu spoke.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The words cut softly through the night.  

He didn’t answer.

With careful hands, Shen Qingqiu lowered the crane onto the river. It bobbed once, then began to drift, ripples breaking the moon’s reflection as it sailed downstream.

Liu Qingge watched silently before asking, “Whose prayer?”

Shen Qingqiu’s expression softened. “For the disciples who did not return from the night hunt last winter,” he said quietly. “There should be light waiting for them, wherever they go.”

The lantern drifted farther, its glow flickering on the current. Something tightened in Liu Qingge’s chest—an unfamiliar ache he couldn’t quite name.

Shen Qingqiu must have felt his gaze, because he turned, one brow lifting in faint amusement. “What is it, Liu Shidi? You disapprove of sentiment?”

Liu Qingge stiffened. “Just wondering if you ever take anything seriously.”

Shen Qingqiu smiled faintly, turning back to the river. “You would be surprised.”

Liu Qingge realized, not for the first time, that he would never truly understand this man. Yet tonight, somehow, he found himself wanting to.

They stood in silence, the murmur of water and distant laughter filling the silence between them.

After a long pause, Liu Qingge said, almost absently, “I never understood why people send lanterns into water. They burn out quickly. How will the spirits reach home if the light dies halfway?”

Shen Qingqiu only made a soft sound in reply. “Who knows?” he said finally. “But even a brief light is still light.”

Liu Qingge said nothing. The crane lantern floated farther, shrinking to a glimmer that melted into the night.

He didn’t know why that quiet answer lingered in his thoughts long after the festival ended.

Years later, when he heard that Shen Qingqiu was gone, it would come back to him unbidden—

—even a brief light is still light.

Chapter Text

The carriage jolted once, then stopped.

For a long moment, Shen Qingqiu didn’t move. The monotonous creak of the wheels—his only companion for days—had long since merged with the rhythm of his pulse. Their sudden silence made his shoulders tighten.

Outside, boots crunched against gravel. The coachman rounded the cart and lifted the flap.

“Gongzi,” he called, voice hoarse with road dust. “We’ve arrived. I’ll be heading west from here.”

Light spilled in, too bright after the dim interior. Shen Qingqiu squinted until the blur resolved into shapes: a pale road winding through thin mist, sparse trees bending under the wind, the coachman’s tired face.

He pushed himself upright, joints protesting. Apparently, his body had aged fifty years somewhere between the last checkpoint and this godforsaken stretch of wilderness.

He tried to climb down on his own. Predictably, halfway through, his knees wobbled, and the coachman caught him by the arm before he could perform an unplanned, face-first descent.

“Careful there.”

“…This one thanks you,” Shen Qingqiu said, bowing with as much grace as someone who’d nearly eaten dirt could manage. “And thank you for the ride.”

The man waved him off. “No need. I owed the old hag a favor anyway.”

Shen Qingqiu’s lips curved faintly. “Even so, your kindness will not be forgotten.”

The coachman hesitated, gaze lingering on the pale, travel-worn figure before him. “Gongzi… are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?”

“This one will manage,” Shen Qingqiu replied evenly.

A neat little lie—he’d missed that more than he cared to admit.

For years, the System had micromanaged every word that came out of his mouth, like some obsessive editor hovering over his shoulder. He’d learned to fake, to perform, to dance around the truth—until the curse decided to do the opposite and rip it straight out of him instead.

Now the leash was gone. No prompts, no restrictions, no unseen hand throttling his speech.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. So this was what freedom felt like—unnervingly quiet.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure he trusted it.

The coachman’s gaze lingered, doubtful—but after a moment, he seemed to remember that other people’s misfortunes were not part of his job description. “Then… good luck to you, Gongzi.”

He climbed back onto the box, snapped the reins, and the carriage rumbled away—fading to a speck of brown in motion until the bend swallowed it whole.

For a long time, Shen Qingqiu simply stood there, watching the dust settle back onto the road.

Fragments of the night when he escaped Huan Hua drifted through his mind: the old innkeeper scattering pig’s blood through her yard and whispering apologies to her ancestors; her rugged hands fastening his cloak and bundling him toward the merchant’s cart.

That woman… he owed her more than words could touch.

If he survived this mess, perhaps he really would rebuild her inn—something simple, sturdy and far away from demonic rifts.

The wind bit at the edges of his cloak as Shen Qingqiu walked the uneven path. Somewhere ahead—five li, perhaps a little more—lay Baihe City.

If Shen Qingqiu were honest, he would have preferred to sneak back into Cang Qiong and live quietly for once.

With his spiritual core shattered, his qi signature was no more than a faint echo. He could stroll straight up to Qing Jing Peak’s gates and no one would sense him until he politely knocked.

…Of course, the moment someone did realize who he was, they’d probably lock him down faster than a rogue disciple in restricted grounds.

It wasn’t as though he’d been deprived of excitement lately. The past few days had supplied him with enough “character development” to last several lifetimes.

But there was still one thing left undone—one final thread he couldn’t leave dangling, no matter how much his body protested or how tempting the thought of collapsing on his own bed was.

That thing was still festering over Baihe like an unhealed wound.

He had seen its power firsthand. Had he been a heartbeat slower with that barrier, the entire inn would’ve gone down like a house of cards, the whole place sinking into ruin and taking everyone with it. And that had been when the fissure was small.

How many more had split open elsewhere—on nameless hills, in villages no one would ever hear of—without a cultivator to notice, or a sect to care?

How many people had already died while the righteous world was busy debating whose duty it should be?

This had started because he messed up the array, so it was only fair that he be the one to mend it. Besides, the rift bore his signature. No one else could close it even if they tried.

The problem was that he was about as useful as a wet paper talisman. He couldn’t use his qi properly anymore, therefore any attempt at channeling it now could tear him apart from within.

If Mu Qingfang or Yue Qingyuan knew, Baihe would be off-limits forever. And that was precisely why staying away from his lares and penates for a while longer was… prudent.

He hadn’t gone far when he spotted movement up ahead—a slow, uneven procession winding along the road.

At first, Shen Qingqiu thought it might be a merchant convoy. But as he came closer, it became clear these weren’t traders. These were families. Farmers, tailors, cooks—ordinary people, weighed down by their lives packed into bundles and baskets.

Women carried children in their arms, the smaller ones limp with exhaustion. The older kids trudged beside them, clutching at hems and sleeves. A few elderly folk leaned on canes or the shoulders of those younger, their steps dragging, faces gray with fatigue.

The sight hit like a dull ache between his ribs.

Refugees.

A faint smell reached him—thin porridge over a fire, the bitter scent of scorched millet. His stomach clenched on instinct. 

Ah. Right. Hunger. 

He’d almost forgotten that was still a thing.

Once upon a time, he could go weeks without food or sleep and still look like a man in the prime of life. Cultivator perks. But now that his core was gone, his body had opinions again—loud, mortal ones. Every step hurt, his shoulders ached, and apparently, his stomach had decided to stage a protest.

He stopped a little distance away, then approached slowly, making sure not to startle anyone. “This one greets you,” he said, inclining his head. “Might I ask where you’ve come from?”

An older woman straightened up from where she’d been stirring a pot over a meager fire. “Ah—Gongzi,” she said warily, eyes flicking over his borrowed robes, probably noting the travel stains but still pegging him for someone far above her station. “We’re from Wujing.”

Wujing. Even Shen Qingqiu—whose grasp of geography began and ended at “Cang Qiong” and “everywhere else”—knew it was close enough to Baihe to share the same sky.

“I see,” he forced a mild smile. “Then we must be traveling in opposite directions. I’m bound for Wujing myself—to visit my jie jie.”

A collective murmur rippled through the group. Someone’s spoon clattered against a bowl.

“Gongzi, you’d best turn around,” a man barked, looking up sharply. “It’s no place for folk, not anymore.”

“What happened?” Shen Qingqiu asked, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be good.

“The ground opened,” a wiry old man croaked. “Just split apart, like the world itself was sick of holding us. Half the east quarter gone, swallowed whole. Houses, people—everything.”

A younger woman shifted her child higher against her hip. “Those who lived near it started coughing blood,” she said softly. “Then their skin turned black like burned wood. They say it’s a curse. A demonic plague.”

Shen Qingqiu’s spine went cold. He kept his voice steady. “And the cultivators? Have they taken no action?”

A bitter laugh went around the group. “Action?” one man spat into the dust. “They’re too busy fighting demons or fighting each other, who can tell? Not a one of them cares for us.”

“Once, there were some good ones,” the old man said after a pause. “From that mountain—what was it called? Cang Qiong. They used to come and keep order. But no one’s seen them for a xun now. Maybe they’ve all died off too.”

Shen Qingqiu’s hands clenched inside his sleeves before he could quell the motion. Cang Qiong would never abandon the common people willingly. Was it that Huan Hua Palace no longer welcomed them into its domain?

A woman that had been stirring a pot looked him over with quiet pity. “If your sister’s still there, Gongzi, she’ll leave soon, if she hasn’t already. You’d best stay away from that place. There’s nothing but ghosts there now.”

He inclined his head. “This one thanks you for the warning, Ayi. But I’ll try my luck all the same.”

The older woman sighed but didn’t argue.

As Shen Qingqiu turned to go, a small hand tugged at his sleeve. One of the children—thin as a reed, eyes too large for his face—looked up at him. “Gongzi,” he whispered, “if you see my baba in there… tell him we went south.”

A hoarse voice called softly, “A-Xin.”

She came to fetch him—a young mother, though she looked decades older under the weight of grief. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face drawn tight as paper. She carefully took the boy’s hand.

Judging by the hollow look in her eyes, the boy’s father was never leaving Wujing.

Shen Qingqiu’s throat tightened. “…I will.”

He adjusted his cloak and continued down the road.

Behind him, the group’s weary chatter resumed, the sound swallowed by wind and distance.

***

By the time Shen Qingqiu reached the outskirts of Wujing, the refugees’ warnings had stopped sounding like exaggeration and started feeling like understatement.

The air itself seemed diseased. A thin haze clung to the city like fever sweat, burning his eyes and coating his tongue with the taste of iron and ash. Roofs sagged inward, walls leaning against each other for balance, as though too tired to stand alone. The streets were a patchwork of broken stone, the cracks branching outward like veins under pale skin.

No one was rebuilding. No one even looked as though they intended to try.

A few scattered figures sifted through the wreckage, gathering what little was left worth carrying. Others drifted down the streets in slow, unsteady lines—faces hollow, eyes dull. Black veins crawled up their necks, pulsing faintly beneath the skin like worms trapped under glass.

Shen Qingqiu kept his breathing shallow. Even at the edge of the city, the qi felt wrong—heavy, warped, clinging to his spiritual sense like oil to cloth.

He scanned the road until he spotted a trader’s cart half-loaded, its owner shoving goods into barrels with frantic precision.

Shen Qingqiu approached, brushing dust from his sleeves out of habit. “This one greets you, zhanggui,” he said with polite reserve. “Would you still be selling today?”

The man looked up, squinting through grime and suspicion. “Selling? You must be blind, Gongzi. I’m closing.” His tone suggested that, if he could, he’d close the entire city behind him.

“Ah.” Shen Qingqiu smiled mildly. “I require only a few items. It won’t take long.”

Or cost anything, he thought drily. Huan Hua hadn’t exactly handed him pocket money when they locked him up, and spiritual supplies didn’t grow on trees.

The merchant muttered something unflattering under his breath but waved a hand. “Fine. Take what you want and go. I’ve no time for customers.”

He went back to hauling barrels onto the cart, barely sparing Shen Qingqiu a glance.

Shen Qingqiu took that as the blessing it was. His eyes skimmed the cart’s counter—talisman paper, a small ink pot, a coil of spirit thread shoved under a rag. Perfect. He slipped them into his sleeve with practiced ease. Sometimes survival required the same skills as a street-market rogue.

Just as he turned to leave, the merchant slammed the counter window shut—right in his face.

Shen Qingqiu blinked, caught between offense and mild admiration. “Well,” he murmured to no one, “point taken.”

He straightened his robes, adjusted his expression to cultivated serenity, and walked away. No need to look a gift horse—or, in this case, a remarkably ill-tempered tradesman—in the mouth.

He found a half-collapsed shrine at the edge of town—three walls standing, one roof beam miraculously intact. It would do.

Laying out the materials, Shen Qingqiu crouched and began sketching the foundation lines of an array, using the ink to trace careful sigils across the dirt floor. His handwriting wasn’t quite as elegant as it used to be; his fingers still trembled occasionally. But the motions came easily, like muscle memory.

He’d done this before—with Xu Qinglian at his side. The last time, they’d built an array to draw out corruption safely for study. Now he would have to invert it—make it seal the miasma in, instead of pulling it out.

Simple in theory. In practice? A nightmare.

Xu Qinglian had been the formation genius. Shen Qingqiu was more the “good at copying the smart kid’s notes” type. Unfortunately, the smart kid wasn’t here.

He set down the brush and rubbed his temple. To close the rift, he needed a stabilizer—something to act as a pseudo-core, a conduit that could channel power through him without relying on his ruined meridians. The spirit thread would work for that. He could weave it into a temporary network, with each talisman acting as a false node. That would at least keep him from self-destructing in the first three seconds.

But the formation still needed to be powered.

Normally, that meant using one’s qi. Shen Qingqiu had none left worth mentioning. Which narrowed his options to exactly one: use what was left of his mingyuan—his life essence.

Technically, every living being had it. It was the deep current that kept the body breathing, the spark qi built upon. Cultivators avoided using it for obvious reasons: burn too much, and your “longevity” turns into “two hours, tops.” Using it as fuel was like burning your house down to keep warm.

Still, the rift was keyed to his essence. It wouldn’t accept anything else—not borrowed qi, not talismanic power, and not someone else’s interference. If he fed it his life force, it might recognize him enough to obey.

Might.

Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly through his nose. Wonderful. The grand plan, then: siphon off his own lifespan to fuel an inverted demonic containment seal built with stolen stationery and half a memory of Xu Qinglian’s notes.

Peak Lord of Qing Jing, master of elegant solutions. Truly living up to his title.

Still, there was one small mercy. He wouldn’t be relying solely on his own energy. Wujing’s air still stank faintly of corruption—enough demonic qi to curdle blood if inhaled too long. If he could draw on that as the external source, and use his life essence only as the key to guide and stabilize it, it might just hold together.

In theory.

He dipped the brush again. Using demonic energy to contain demonic energy—it was lunacy. 

No cultivator in their right mind would dare.

Then again, Shen Qingqiu had been informed—repeatedly—that his own might be due for inspection.

He wasn’t even a hundred percent sure this would work. But here in Wujing, another fissure had opened, festering right under everyone’s noses.

And with no cultivators in sight, there was no one around to see him try.

Worth a shot.

When night came, Wujing seemed to stop pretending to be alive.

By the time the last smudge of daylight sank behind the hills, the city had gone eerily still. Even the sick had stopped wandering; the only sound was the faint crackle of corruption whispering through the air like static.

Shen Qingqiu crouched in the ruined shrine’s shadow, checking his array one last time. The lines of ink had dried dark and sharp, talismans forming a pattern that would’ve made Xu Qinglian cry for at least six different reasons. But the formation was stable enough. Hopefully.

He gathered his things, tucking the brush and thread away, and slipped into the streets. The city was hollow in the light of the fading moon—roof beams like ribs, alleys like empty throats. Shen Qingqiu kept to the walls, his steps soundless. Every few moments, he glanced over his shoulder, expecting the Huan Hua disciples to materialize out of the dark.

None did.

The fissure lay where the east quarter had once been. He smelled it before he saw it—a burnt, metallic tang that scraped at the back of his throat. When he reached the ridge of the collapsed street, he stopped short.

The rift had torn straight through the ground, a gash of seething black light, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Around it, the stones sagged inward; wisps of corruption drifted from the cracks, oily and sluggish.

It was… bigger than he expected.

Shen Qingqiu set the small pouch of talismans on the ground and exhaled through his teeth. 

“Well,” he muttered, “nothing says ‘terrible life choices’ like starting with the biggest one first.”

He spread the talismans around the fissure in a rough circle, each one connected by a line of spirit thread. The array took shape under his hands—crude but functional, like everything else in his life lately. When the last thread was tied off, he sat cross-legged before the rift and pressed his palms together.

“All right,” he whispered, “let’s see if I still remember how to do this without exploding.”

He pushed a single spark of mingyuan outward.

It was nothing like using qi. Qi was fluid, a current you could guide. Mingyuan was raw heat—volatile, intimate, closer to pain than power. It clawed through his chest as it moved, like something half-alive and very unwilling.

The talismans flared weakly, then steadied. The thread began to hum, carrying the faint shimmer of light around the circle.

No explosions. So far, so good.

Next came the dangerous part. He reached into the ambient corruption—the greasy, writhing energy that hung in the air—and pulled. The array trembled as the demonic qi rushed in, black mist twisting along the threads like veins of ink. The formation shuddered under the strain, trying to reject the intrusion.

“Easy,” he muttered through his teeth, sweat gathering at his temples. “You don’t have to like it. Just work.”

He fed it more of his life essence—thread by thread, pulse by pulse—coaxing the demonic energy into alignment. The air vibrated, every breath tasting like ash. For a moment, the corruption lashed back, sinking phantom claws into his lungs.

Shen Qingqiu bit down hard, forcing the flow to hold.

The array flared white-hot, light spilling out in a sharp wave. The rift screamed—a low, guttural sound that made the ground quake—and then, like a candle guttering out, it folded in on itself.

Silence followed.

For a long, dizzy moment, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t move. The air was clear again. No more stench, no more black haze. Just the faint, scorched scent of paper and ink.

He let out a weak, shaky laugh and sagged forward, catching himself on his hands. His body felt hollowed out, as if someone had scooped out everything solid and left him running on fumes. Every heartbeat ached. But—

It had worked.

It had actually worked.

“Ha…” Shen Qingqiu wheezed, breathless and faintly hysterical. “Who needs a core anyway…”

He slumped back against a broken pillar, the moonlight pale on his face. The rift was gone, sealed tight. No witnesses, no Huan Hua dogs, no catastrophic backfires. Just quiet.

He tilted his head back, eyes closing. The exhaustion pressed deep, but beneath it was something lighter—an almost unfamiliar sense of satisfaction.

Reckless? Absolutely. Insane? Without question. He’d probably trimmed a solid twenty years off his lifespan with that stunt.

Still—success was success.

All right, he thought, forcing his aching body upright. Next stop, Baihe.

***

By the time Shen Qingqiu reached Baihe, it was clear the city had fared better than Wujing.

The streets still bore their scars—but someone had at least cared enough to sweep the ashes away. Rubble was gathered into neat, mournful piles; makeshift wards shimmered faintly at the crossroads, flickering whenever the wind passed.

And unlike Wujing, Baihe wasn’t unsupervised.

Huan Hua Palace disciples moved through the ruins in tidy pairs, lanterns swaying as they walked. They looked alert, but not alert-alert—more the kind of vigilance that comes from being told to “keep watch” for weeks without a single interesting thing happening.

The lead disciple stifled a yawn behind his sleeve. Another nudged his companion and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “I’m starving.”

Fantastic, Shen Qingqiu thought dryly. The noble defenders of the realm. Truly, these lands are in excellent hands.

Still, better idle guards than inquisitive ones.

He crouched behind the remains of a well, watching the patrol pattern unfold. Pairs moved at fixed intervals, crossing paths at the central square before looping back. Not even a single narrow gap between them.

He flexed his fingers experimentally. The tremor was still there, faint but persistent. Wonderful. Attempting stealth while your own hands are auditioning for a drum solo—always a good idea.

Maybe he should have stayed retired. Grown vegetables. Adopted a nice, harmless snake demon. Lived quietly.

Except peace and Shen Qingqiu had never been on speaking terms.

So, distraction it was—old-fashioned, tried-and-true idiocy.

He picked up a small stone and flicked it toward a heap of collapsed timber. It landed with a soft crack.

“Over there!” one of the disciples shouted, sword flashing as he charged off in entirely the wrong direction.

The others followed, shouting orders and tripping over each other with all the enthusiasm of men finally given something to do.

Shen Qingqiu slipped past the now-unguarded street, moving through the shadows cast by leaning walls and broken lanterns. The air smelled faintly of ash and old incense. He kept low, skirting the light.

A patrol passed close—close enough for him to hear the scrape of boots on stone. He pressed himself against a wall, breath held, and quietly promised that if he survived this, he would never again mock stealth missions in novels.

Halfway to the inner ward. Three-quarters. Almost—

Eighty percent success rate. Not bad for someone who’d been half-dead three days ago.

He was rounding the last corner when a quiet voice said,

“…Peak Lord Shen?”

He froze.

Oh, no.

Turning his head slowly, he found a familiar figure standing at the mouth of the alley—young, upright, and entirely too perceptive. Gongyi Xiao.

For one stunned heartbeat, their eyes met. Shen Qingqiu braced for shouting, swords, or at least an awkward round of why are you sneaking around like a common thief, Peak Lord?

Instead, Gongyi Xiao’s gaze flicked toward the approaching patrol. His expression didn’t change, but he stepped forward into view and called, loud and clear, “Shidi! I heard movement by the west barricade—perhaps another crack forming!”

The disciples spun instantly, scattering toward the far end of the street. Gongyi Xiao gestured after them, his tone calm, commanding, perfectly believable.

Shen Qingqiu did not wait to see how long that distraction would last.

He slipped behind the nearest wall, gliding through the narrow gap and straight toward the rift.

By the time he reached the cordoned courtyard, his pulse was hammering, and Gongyi Xiao’s voice was still echoing faintly behind him.

He leaned against the cold stone, catching his breath. “Brat’s too kind for his own good,” he muttered. “And too trusting. Excellent traits for an early death.”

Ahead, the rift shimmered faintly in the dark—a jagged wound of light, wide and restless.

Shen Qingqiu straightened his sleeves, checked the perimeter, and stepped forward.

Time for round two.

He crouched, unrolling talisman paper in a half-circle around the rift. The formation here needed to be tight, layered—Baihe’s corruption wasn’t dormant; it was feeding. The rift drank from the air itself, stripping every trace of spiritual energy nearby.

As he drew the first sigil, the paper trembled, tugged by the rift’s pull. Ink bled toward it in thin, crawling lines. He grimaced.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you.”

He pressed his palm to the ground and pushed out a steady pulse of mingyuan, anchoring the array before it could unravel. A faint hum rippled through the air. The rift shuddered—like a beast scenting blood.

The moment he fed in demonic qi, it struck back. The miasma lashed out, hot and sharp, knocking him to one knee. The array flickered violently, sigils blurring as the paper curled.

He hissed through his teeth, forcing his breathing steady. The recoil hit again, deep and cold, dragging through his veins like claws.

“Calm down,” he muttered. “You’re the one being treated. Stop biting the doctor.”

He grounded his hand, adjusted the threads, tightened the pattern until it absorbed instead of deflected. The demonic qi surged, then steadied, funneling into the right channels.

“See? Cooperation. It’s not that hard.”

For about three seconds, everything held.

Then the array flared too bright. The air thinned. Something clamped down on his chest—a pull, deep and hungry.

The rift’s rhythm shifted. It wasn’t following his guidance anymore—it was reaching for him.

The thread connecting his essence to the seal burned hot enough to sting. He tried to withdraw, but the pull grew stronger, dragging deeper, like claws hooking into his skin.

The rift wasn’t a wound anymore—it was a mouth. And now that it had tasted him, it wanted more.

The formation buckled. A talisman burst into flame with a sharp snap. The backlash slammed into him, driving the breath from his lungs.

Not good not good not good—

He slammed his palm down, tightening the circle. If the rift wanted to feed, it would have to feed on itself. The outer talismans flared white-hot, forcing it to consume its own miasma.

The air screamed. The seal trembled—but it held. The pull on his body eased, replaced by a furious roar as the fissure devoured its own corruption.

“Haah…” Shen Qingqiu panted, trembling. “Choke on that, you insatiable little shit.”

For a fleeting moment, victory seemed possible. The light stabilized, the seal lines burned clean. The rift’s trembling softened into something that almost felt like surrender.

He should’ve known better.

The ground groaned—a deep, guttural sound, as if the earth itself were drawing breath. The fissure convulsed, light tearing across it in jagged veins.

Shen Qingqiu froze. The inner talismans went dark, one by one, curling to ash.

Then the rift moved.

A tendril of black light shot outward, spearing through the half-finished seal and striking his chest.

He gasped, the world bleaching to white. The energy threads he’d woven turned traitor, dragging him into the rift’s pull as though he were its anchor.

“No, no, no—” He tried to break the link, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The light crawled through his veins, cold and burning all at once.

The seal shattered with a sound like glass under pressure.

The rift surged, alive and ravenous, devouring the broken formation in a single inhale.

And Shen Qingqiu realized, with perfect, belated clarity—

—it was about to devour him alive.

Chapter Text

The world fractured.

Light, sound, breath—everything tore apart in one violent pull. For a heartbeat, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t tell if he still existed or had already been scattered to the wind.

Then—something struck the rift.
Not from within. From above.

A surge of spiritual energy ripped through the air, bright and furious. It burned through the corruption like sunlight cutting through storm clouds. The pull on his body snapped, and he collapsed forward, coughing up black smoke that stung his throat.

“Shizun!”

The voice—raw and familiar—cut through the ringing in his ears.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes flew open.

Luo Binghe stood at the edge of the shattered seal, his blade driven deep into the ground. One hand gripped the hilt, the other braced against the earth. The sword’s edge shone with divine light, its aura shredding the writhing tendrils that reached for him. Each pulse of qi made the air tremble.

The rift screamed. Luo Binghe didn’t flinch.

He lifted his hand, tracing sigils faster than the eye could follow. Golden-white fire spilled from his fingertips, sinking into the broken lines of the array. The charred symbols flared alive again, reforged under his will.

“Shizun!” Luo Binghe’s voice shook. “What were you trying to do?”

Before Shen Qingqiu could answer, the ground convulsed. The rift lashed out one last time, devouring the remnants of corrupted qi in desperation. Luo Binghe seized the air itself—and tore.

Light burst. For one blinding instant, the world held its breath.

Then—silence.

When his vision cleared, the rift was gone. Only scorched ground remained. Luo Binghe’s sword stood buried in the dirt, and Luo Binghe himself knelt beside him, hands trembling, breath ragged. His eyes burned—not with fury, but something that looked like grief.

Shen Qingqiu, as usual, resorted to the only weapon left to him: sarcasm.

 “…You didn’t need to make such a dramatic entrance, child,” he rasped.

Luo Binghe’s head snapped toward him, eyes rimmed red.

“Don’t joke right now.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “Who’s joking? I—” He swayed, and Luo Binghe caught him before the ground could.

The warmth of that grip was almost scalding.

“You were burning your life essence,” Luo Binghe said, voice barely steady. “What were you thinking, Shizun? You would have died. After everything—you still—”

Shen Qingqiu coughed, the sound dry and thin. “I was—” He stopped, breathed shallowly, and gave a faint, crooked smile. “—simply correcting my mistake.”

Luo Binghe frowned. “Your mistake?”

“The array,” Shen Qingqiu murmured. “The one in Baihe. The seal failed because of me. I thought if I could close this one, it might… make up for it.” His hand moved vaguely toward the scorched earth. “Balance the scale.”

For a long moment, Luo Binghe just stared at him, breath shallow. Then something in his expression shifted. The sharpness drained from his face, leaving something almost hollow in its place.

“Shizun,” he said quietly, “it wasn’t your fault.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked at him, slow and weary. “Binghe… It’s kind of you to humor your old dying teacher, but—”

“No.” Luo Binghe’s voice cracked, louder this time. “You don’t understand. I was the one who opened it.”

The words struck like a whip.

“…What?”

Luo Binghe didn’t look up. His gaze stayed fixed on the cracked ground. “After you left,” he said, voice unsteady. “I tried to twist the array. I wanted it to draw you in—to make you come to me.” His breath hitched. “I wanted you to see me. To face what you’d made of me.”

His hands clenched into fists. “I thought I was so clever. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Shen Qingqiu stared. His thoughts stalled mid-turn, sliding through the fog of exhaustion. “You created the fissure that’s been poisoning everything… to lure me?”

Luo Binghe flinched. “I was angry. I wanted you to hurt.”

His voice cracked—and then broke entirely. A sound escaped him, sharp and ragged. Shen Qingqiu blinked in confusion, until he realized: Luo Binghe was crying.

Not quietly. His shoulders shook, breath catching as though even breathing had become an effort.

This was the man who split mountains. And now he sat in the dirt, hands over his face, as if he could hide behind his fingers.

“I didn’t want this,” he whispered. “I didn’t want anyone to die. I didn’t want you to—”

He stopped, drew a harsh breath. “When I was in the Abyss… I thought about you. All the time. I told myself—if I became strong enough, you’d have to see me. You’d have to stop pretending I was nothing.” His voice shook again. “It was so dark. I didn’t know how long I’d been there. I thought maybe I’d already gone mad. That maybe I’d imagined everything before—Qing Jing, you, the world.”

He lifted his head, eyes red and bright with grief. “And when I finally escaped—when I saw you again—I thought you hated me. You wouldn’t look at me, Shizun. You wouldn’t even—” His voice cracked again. “I was so angry, I didn’t know what else to be.”

Shen Qingqiu looked at him—really looked.

And for a moment, the powerful figure before him blurred, replaced by the boy who used to wait outside his study with a stack of scrolls he couldn’t even lift properly.

The one who smiled too brightly whenever he was praised. The one who’d once called him Shizun with such open devotion it almost hurt to hear.

And suddenly it didn’t matter that Luo Binghe was now tall enough to block out half the light, or that his aura still vibrated with leftover demonic energy.

Right now, he was just a child who’d been lost for too long.

Shen Qingqiu sighed softly, reached out, and rested a hand on Luo Binghe’s shoulder. When the boy didn’t flinch, he drew him closer.

It should have been impossible, awkward even, given the difference in size—but Luo Binghe folded into the embrace without hesitation, burying his face against Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder like a child seeking shelter. His breath came in uneven bursts, hot against Shen Qingqiu’s neck.

Shen Qingqiu’s arms tightened, almost without thought. He could feel the tremors running through him.

“Enough,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than intended. “You’ve grown far too big to cry like this. It’s unbecoming.”

A laugh, small and broken, ghosted against his shoulder. “You’re the one who taught me restraint, Shizun.”

“Then clearly, this Master failed spectacularly.”

Silence followed—fragile, but not unbearable. Luo Binghe’s breathing steadied, though he didn’t let go.

For a few heartbeats, the world felt… still.

Then Shen Qingqiu frowned. Beneath the fading hum of qi, the night was too quiet. No wind. No cicadas. The air still reeked faintly of burnt spiritual energy—and beneath it, movement.

Patrols.

Of course.

He closed his eyes for one brief, exasperated moment. 

As touching as this is, we’re still in the middle of a city currently crawling with people who would love to mount my head on a pike.

“Binghe,” he said, “we need to go.”

Luo Binghe stiffened, then reluctantly pulled back. He wiped his face on his sleeve, the tracks of tears still glinting faintly in the moonlight.

“I… can’t use my qi to move us,” he admitted. “It’s unstable.”

“Of course it is.” Shen Qingqiu sighed through his nose. “Fortunately, this one actually plans ahead.”

He pulled a folded talisman from his sleeve. The ink shimmered faintly even in the dark, the array on it humming with restrained power.

Luo Binghe’s eyes softened. “You should go, Shizun. I’ll stay and handle the rest.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll draw every cultivator in the city if you—”

“I was the one who caused this,” Luo Binghe said quietly. “Let me fix it. Please.”

Shen Qingqiu hesitated. That tone left no room for argument.

He exhaled through his nose. “Don’t think this Master won’t drag you back to Qing Jing Peak just to scold you properly.”

A faint smile tugged at Luo Binghe’s mouth. “I’ll look forward to it.”

He reached out and pressed a hand over the talisman. His qi flared—pure this time, stripped of its demonic undertones—and the golden lines blazed to life. The light curled around Shen Qingqiu’s form, bright and warm.

“Go,” Luo Binghe whispered.

The world blurred. Voices echoed in the distance—shouting, drawing nearer.

The last thing Shen Qingqiu saw before the light folded in on itself was Luo Binghe, standing in the ruin, sword drawn, the faint glow still burning behind him.

Then the formation snapped—and he was gone.

***

The world reassembled itself all wrong.

Shen Qingqiu hit the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, rolled once, twice, and came to rest face-down in something damp that smelled like wet moss. For a moment, he lay still, waiting for the dizziness to subside.

Well. That was… inelegant.

He pushed himself up with both hands, groaning as every muscle staged a protest.

The forest stretched endlessly around him—dense and quiet, its trees cloaked in mist. Pine. Oak. Damp earth. Nothing familiar enough to name. It could’ve been anywhere between Baihe and the western border. For all Shen Qingqiu knew, he might’ve just teleported into the next province over.

It would have been nice, of course, to land closer to Cang Qiong. But considering he’d drawn that array with the spiritual energy of a boiled dumpling, he should probably be grateful he hadn’t materialized inside a rock. Who would've known that Luo Binghe was going to appear like a deus ex machina and fill his tank full?

He brushed off the dirt clinging to his clothes and started north. North meant roads. Roads meant inns. Inns meant food, hot water, and a real bed. 

He managed perhaps ten steps before the forest began to sway.

Each movement sent a dull thrum through his limbs, the same steady ache that had lived beneath his ribs since the rift. He stopped and leaned against a tree until the trembling eased. His breath came shallow, each exhale scraping the back of his throat.

All right. Perhaps he’d overdone it. Slightly.

Still—the rift was sealed. That counted for something. His conscience, at least, felt lighter.

He pushed away from the tree and forced himself onward. The ground shifted underfoot, soft and uneven. His sleeve felt heavy and wet. A glance confirmed it: blood, dark and fresh. He couldn’t even remember how he’d been cut.

His thoughts began to scatter like leaves in the wind. He wanted to go home. He wanted—

Liu Qingge.

The name rose without warning.

Shen Qingqiu blinked, then let out a weak breath. Really. Of all the things to think about right now. 

But the image wouldn’t fade: Liu Qingge, steady and scowling as always; the faint crease between his brows; the way he said Shen Qingqiu’s name.

He should not be thinking about that mole under Liu Qingge’s eye. Or wondering if his shidi was all right. Or—

He caught himself before the thought finished forming.

He really needed to stop bleeding before his brain leaked out entirely.

Still… what if Liu Qingge didn’t know he’d escaped? What if he died here, and no one ever found the body?

Would Liu Qingge be angry? Sad? Would he—

No. Ridiculous. Absolutely not.

The forest began to thin. Ahead, a clearing opened around a ruined temple, half-swallowed by ivy. Its roof sagged, rainwater dripping down broken tiles; the steps were cracked, the door hanging by a thread. A forgotten shrine, to a forgotten god.

Perfect. It had “temporary lodging for the terminally exhausted” written all over it.

He stepped inside. The air was cool and smelled faintly of rain and incense long gone cold. Light filtered through a break in the roof, scattering across the dusty floor in thin gold lines.

He made it as far as the offering hall before his knees gave out.

He hit the floor hard. For a while, he didn’t move—just breathed. In. Out. Each breath thin and borrowed.

His sleeve was sticky with blood; his hair clung to his face. He looked—and felt—like a beggar.

It occurred to him, calmly, that he might actually be dying.

The thought brought a strange kind of clarity.

He thought again of Liu Qingge—stubborn, infuriating, solid as the mountains. And suddenly, sharply, he wanted to see him. Just once. To hear that familiar voice say, “You are a fool, Shen Qingqiu.”

He could almost hear it now, annoyed and worried in equal measure.

Leaning back against the wall, Shen Qingqiu let his eyes fall shut.

The temple was very quiet.

And then—nothing.

***

The world faded in and out.

Sometimes it was night, the roof open to a sky full of stars. Then it was morning, sunlight spilling across the cracked floor. Time drifted, slippery and strange.

Once, he thought he heard someone calling his name. The voice was faint, warped by distance—familiar enough to make his chest tighten.

Then came warmth. A hand, gentle but sure, brushed against his cheek. A thread of qi followed, weaving through his veins in careful strokes, trying to soothe the chaos in his meridians. It faltered before reaching his core, dispersing into nothing.

He tried to open his eyes.

Light and shadow blurred together; the edges of the world refused to hold still. A voice spoke close to his ear, low and steady:

“It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t even think. His body relaxed, instinctive and helpless.

He leaned toward the warmth—something solid beneath his cheek, a heartbeat under his ear.

He let go.

And then everything went dark again.

***

Light returned in fragments—like shards of glass catching fire.

First came breath—uneven, shallow, dragging against his chest as though his lungs had forgotten how to work.

And then sound: soft, muffled, half-formed.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes snapped open.

For an instant, he couldn’t breathe. Pain flared under his ribs, sharp and sudden, and the ceiling above him seemed to twist and blur.

Where—?

The air was too still. The walls were too close. He tried to sit up—instinct before thought—and a jolt of agony tore through his body. His surroundings swam violently, shadows crawling along the walls like dark water.

No. Not again. Not the Water Prison—

He could almost feel the chains biting into his wrists, the cold creeping up his spine, his lungs filling with that thick, unbreathable air. Panic surged like lightning through broken meridians. His pulse stuttered, qi flaring wildly out of control.

A voice broke through the haze—steady and commanding.

“Don’t move.”

He froze, chest heaving, eyes darting toward the sound.

The darkness warped. The stone dissolved into cracked plaster and flickering light. His old apartment—the peeling wallpaper, the hum of a broken fridge. The weight of years that had never belonged to this life pressed down on him, choking.

He couldn’t breathe. His fingers clenched in the thin blanket, shaking.

Then everything shattered again. A roaring wind. The smell of sulfur and ozone. The rift. The Abyss. Luo Binghe’s face—young, terrified, betrayed—burning into his retinas as Shen Qingqiu shoved him backward. The air splitting, the world collapsing.

He was falling—again.

A broken gasp tore from his throat.

“Shen Qingqiu.”

That voice—deep, familiar—sliced through the chaos.

He knew that voice.

But his body wouldn’t obey him. His chest seized with pain, his heartbeat crashing against fractured ribs. The world tilted, faded, flared again.

Then—a touch. Warm and steady. A calloused hand against his cheek.

“Breathe,” the voice said quietly. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

…Safe?

He tried to focus, but tears blurred his vision before he realized they were there. His breath came in ragged bursts; he couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

Another murmur, too low to catch. That warmth moved—his shoulder, the faint pressure of fingers anchoring him back to the present.

A second voice, clipped and even, spoke somewhere above.

“His qi is in chaos. Don’t let him circulate it. If he forces it, it’ll rupture what’s left.”

That tone.
Even through the haze, Shen Qingqiu recognized it instantly.

Mu Qingfang.

The room swam into fragments—the faint scent of medicinal herbs, sunlight diffused through paper walls, the hum of spiritual arrays underfoot.

Qian Cao Peak, Shen Qingqiu realized faintly.

He tried to slow his breathing, to ground himself, but every inhale still felt like knives. His vision flickered again.

“Hey.”

The same low voice—rough-edged but gentle—pulled him back.

“Shen Qingqiu. Look at me.”

He obeyed without thinking.

Liu Qingge’s face came into view—close enough for Shen Qingqiu to see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the dirt still clinging to his collar. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His expression was stern, but his gaze—his gaze was fierce and unbearably gentle.

“I’m here,” Liu Qingge said softly.

Something in Shen Qingqiu stilled. His breathing hitched, but it no longer threatened to spiral. The tears cooled against his skin.

Mu Qingfang moved somewhere behind them, muttering under his breath, “He needs rest, not conversation.” And Shen Qingqiu had never thought he’d actually miss this grumbling.

Liu Qingge didn’t move away. His thumb brushed once, uncertainly, against Shen Qingqiu’s temple—a fleeting touch that felt far too steady for how his own hands shook.

Shen Qingqiu tried to speak. His voice came out hoarse, threadbare. “Liu… Shidi?”

“I’m here,” Liu Qingge repeated.

The words settled around him like a spell. His heart slowed. The tremor in his hands eased. He wanted to make some dry remark—something to deflect the humiliation of crying like a child—but the words tangled uselessly in his throat.

All he managed was a broken whisper: “You… found me?”

Something flickered in Liu Qingge’s expression, quick and unreadable. “Of course I did.”

“You can both congratulate yourselves later,” Mu Qingfang muttered. “For now—rest, before I have to sedate someone.”

Liu Qingge ignored him entirely.

“Sleep,” he said, voice low and rough, but gentler than Shen Qingqiu had ever heard it. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

And for once, Shen Qingqiu didn’t doubt it.

The pain lingered under his ribs, but the panic had ebbed. He let his eyes fall shut.

Liu Qingge’s hand stayed on his shoulder.
He didn’t let go.

***

Shen Qingqiu drifted somewhere between sleep and waking, in that soft gray space where pain dulled and time had no meaning. The first thing he noticed was warmth—steady, grounding, and not entirely his own.

Then came sound: quiet breathing, even and close enough to disturb the air.

He opened his eyes.

Soft morning light filtered through the paper screens, washing the room in pale gold. The faint scent of crushed herbs lingered in the air. Someone had moved the bedside table closer; the teacup upon it still held a wisp of steam.

Beside him sat Liu Qingge. His posture was as rigid as ever—back straight, sword within arm’s reach—but his eyes were closed, head tilted ever so slightly forward. A few strands of dark hair had slipped loose from his tie, falling against the sharp line of his jaw. 

For a while, Shen Qingqiu simply watched him, unreasonably transfixed.

Then, as if the change in Shen Qingqiu’s breathing called to him, Liu Qingge stirred. His fingers, resting on the edge of the bed, brushed lightly against Shen Qingqiu’s wrist.

“Shen Qingqiu.”

His voice was rough, heavy with exhaustion and something that made Shen Qingqiu’s pulse stutter unhelpfully.

Shen Qingqiu blinked at him. “You—” He coughed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “You’re still here.”

“I told you I would,” Liu Qingge replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Some traitorous part of Shen Qingqiu—clearly concussed—felt a sharp, ridiculous ache of fondness.

He made an effort to sit up, aiming for a shred of dignity. Naturally, before he could even leverage his elbows, Liu Qingge’s hands were already there—steady, careful, lifting him as if afraid he might come apart in his grasp.

“How long…?”

“Three days.”

“Three—?” Shen Qingqiu frowned faintly. “And you’ve been sitting there the entire time?”

“Yes.”

…Of course.

“Liu Shidi,” he said after a pause, “this one is awake now. You need not keep guard.”

Liu Qingge’s expression didn’t shift. “I don’t mind.”

“That is hardly the point. Surely you have more pressing duties.”

“I don’t.”

“Well—” Shen Qingqiu gestured vaguely, as though trying to summon logic from thin air. “Even so, you have already done more than enough. If you wish to rest, or—”

“If you want me to leave,” Liu Qingge said quietly, “I will.”

That caught him off guard. Shen Qingqiu froze, breath catching before he could stop it.

“I— No.” His voice came out faster than intended. “I don’t want you to leave.”

The silence that followed was fragile, warm. Then, faintly, Liu Qingge’s mouth curved. Just a flicker—but enough to throw Shen Qingqiu’s heart completely off rhythm.

“Then I’ll stay.”

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat, entirely too aware of how warm his face felt. “Mn.”

He busied himself with his blanket, as if the act could restore balance to the universe—or at least to his heartbeat.

He must still be feverish. Delirious. That was the only reasonable explanation for this ridiculous fluttering in his chest.

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat again, searching for something safely neutral to say—and immediately remembered.

“Fan Qing!” he blurted out. “Where—what happened to her?”

The thought alone seemed to pull him upright again, panic sparking under his ribs. He barely made it halfway before a steady hand pressed against his shoulder, firm but careful.

“She’s safe,” Liu Qingge said immediately. “At Qing Jing Peak.”

“She’s… well?”

Liu Qingge nodded. “She’s been walking since yesterday.”

The tension in Shen Qingqiu’s spine bled out all at once. His breath left him in a long, shaky sigh. 

She’d survived. Thank heavens. He didn’t think he could handle one more thing on his conscience right now.

“She wanted to come see you,” Liu Qingge added, “but Mu Qingfang barred her at the door. Said you’d wake faster without distractions.”

Naturally, that rule didn’t seem to apply to Liu Qingge himself. 

“Hmph.” Shen Qingqiu tried for his usual dryness. “That man has no respect for sentiment.”

Liu Qingge didn’t answer. He was staring at the far wall now, jaw set tight, that funereal expression on his face. Shen Qingqiu knew him well enough to recognize the signs.

He tilted his head slightly. “You have that face,” he said.

Liu Qingge blinked. “What face?”

“The one that means you want to say something but think you shouldn’t.”

That earned him a brief flicker of hesitation—the kind that would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t spend far too much time watching Liu Qingge fail at emotional transparency.

“It’s nothing,” Liu Qingge said finally. “You should rest.”

“I have been resting,” Shen Qingqiu countered. “For three days, apparently.”

Liu Qingge gave him an unimpressed look that showed exactly what he was thinking  about it.

Shen Qingqiu sighed, sinking back slightly. “It’s fine. Speak.”

For a moment, Liu Qingge didn’t move. Then, quietly, he said, “Your core.”

Ah. That.

“This… ” he faltered, eyes darting anywhere but at Shen Qingqiu. “The Young Palace Mistress—”

“No,” Shen Qingqiu said softly, his fingers curling slightly against the bedsheet. “She had nothing to do with it.”

Liu Qingge’s eyes lifted at that, sharp with surprise. “Then—”

“You don’t have to tread around it,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted. “The curse is gone. You can ask directly if you wish.”

For a heartbeat, Liu Qingge simply looked at him, as though weighing the truth of that statement. “It’s gone?”

Shen Qingqiu nodded. “It was bound to my spiritual essence. Now that it’s… gone, it can no longer feed on me.”

That quieted the room again. Liu Qingge’s brows furrowed, the line between them deepening. His gaze flicked to Shen Qingqiu’s hands, the faint tremor in his fingers.

Then—without a word—he reached out. His hand found Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, thumb brushing once across the pulse there. It wasn’t quite a gesture of comfort, nor of inspection, but something oddly in between.

Shen Qingqiu stared at their joined hands for a beat too long. His first, unhelpful thought was that Liu Qingge’s hands were warm. Very warm. The kind of warmth that made him want to lean closer. 

He cleared his throat. “Liu Shidi?”

Liu Qingge’s grip tightened ever so slightly. His voice was quiet when he spoke, almost tentative. “I won’t pry,” he said. “Not unless you wish to tell me. But if anything happens again…”

Liu Qingge had always been a man whose actions spoke in place of words. When he did speak, the words came haltingly—blunt, sincere to a fault.

He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. Shen Qingqiu understood.

Shen Qingqiu’s throat suddenly felt tight. His first instinct, naturally, was to deflect with humor. Something light. Something—

He realized belatedly that their hands were still touching—his wrist caught lightly in Liu Qingge’s grasp. He could have pulled away. 

He didn’t.

“Well,” Shen Qingqiu said eventually, striving for composure. “This one doesn’t wish to be impolite, but you look dreadful, Shidi. Have you even slept?”

Liu Qingge blinked once, slow. “I’ve been meditating.”

“That,” Shen Qingqiu said pointedly, “is not the same thing.”

Liu Qingge’s mouth twitched. “It’s enough.”

Of course he’d say that. Shen Qingqiu sighed through his nose, half-exasperated, half—something else. 

“Since you’re determined to stay, you might at least refrain from ruining your spine in that chair.”

Liu Qingge’s gaze flicked toward the offending furniture, as if only now recalling its existence. “I’m fine.”

“Hardly.” Shen Qingqiu shifted slightly, grimacing as pain flared along his ribs. “I’ve sat in that chair before. It’s abominably uncomfortable.”

For some reason, the tips of Liu Qingge’s ears turned faintly red.

“If you wish to rest,” Shen Qingqiu continued, attempting what he imagined was a tone of serene practicality and definitely not flustered babbling, “there is… space.” He gestured vaguely at the other side of the bed. “I mean—purely practical, of course. No sense injuring your back out of stubbornness.”

A silence followed—long, heavy, the kind that made Shen Qingqiu want to dissolve into the floorboards and never be found again.

He cleared his throat, trying to backpedal with the dignity of a man whose foot was already wedged firmly in his mouth. “You know what—forget it, Shidi. Clearly blood loss has affected my—”

“All right.”

“…All right?”

“I’ll stay here,” Liu Qingge said simply. He rose from the chair, every motion slow and deliberate. “If it’s not an inconvenience.”

Inconvenience? Try cardiac arrest.

He made room anyway. Liu Qingge removed his outer robe, folded it with soldierly precision, and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Even that small motion seemed to radiate tightly-coiled restraint, as though proximity itself were a weapon that might go off at any moment.

Shen Qingqiu turned his face toward the wall. He could feel the heat of the man beside him—a steady furnace of qi and body warmth that made the air seem too close, too thin.

This was fine. Entirely fine. Perfectly normal behavior between martial brothers. Nothing remotely inappropriate here.

Liu Qingge shifted, careful not to brush against him. The gap between them could have housed a small barrel.

Time stretched. Shen Qingqiu became painfully aware of every shallow breath, every heartbeat that did not belong to him. Finally, he exhaled, long and slow.

“If we’re to share the bed, you might as well make yourself comfortable.”

Liu Qingge hesitated. “…Comfortable?”

“Lie down properly, Liu Shidi. You look as though you expect an ambush.”

Another pause, and then the mattress dipped as Liu Qingge obeyed, settling stiffly beside him.

The silence pressed closer, thick enough to feel. Shen Qingqiu’s heartbeat sounded embarrassingly loud in his own ears.

He turned his head—just slightly—and before he could stop himself, his body moved of its own accord, seeking warmth. His shoulder brushed against Liu Qingge’s arm.

Liu Qingge went utterly still.

Shen Qingqiu should have pulled back. He didn’t. His tired mind, traitorous as ever, whispered, What harm could it do? Just for a moment.

So he let his head tilt, resting lightly against Liu Qingge’s shoulder.

The silence that followed was deafening. He could feel the man’s heartbeat under his cheek—fast and strong. Slowly, Liu Qingge exhaled, and the tension in his frame eased by a fraction.

Then, careful as though afraid to startle him, Liu Qingge lifted an arm and let it rest lightly across Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders.

It wasn’t quite an embrace—but close enough that Shen Qingqiu could feel warmth pooling deep in his chest, spreading like ink in water.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

Then Shen Qingqiu, because silence made him nervous, muttered, “This is… acceptable, I suppose.”

Liu Qingge huffed—a quiet sound, almost a laugh. “If it is acceptable to you.”

Shen Qingqiu rolled his eyes weakly. “Do not mock your elders.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Liar.”

A low hum of amusement rumbled in Liu Qingge’s chest. It vibrated through the place where Shen Qingqiu’s head rested, a quiet resonance that seemed to settle straight into his bones.

For a while, neither of them moved. The world had narrowed to warmth, to silence, to the steady rise and fall beneath his cheek. At some point—he wasn’t sure when—Shen Qingqiu’s eyes slipped shut.

Then, very softly, Liu Qingge said, “You scared me.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes opened again. Of all the things he’d never expected to hear from the War God of Bai Zhan, that ranked at the top.

His own voice came out rough from exhaustion. “I didn’t intend to.”

“I know.” Liu Qingge’s hand tightened briefly against his back, then eased. “Don’t do that again.” 

Shen Qingqiu swallowed. His throat ached. Before he could think better of it, he rubbed his cheek lightly against Liu Qingge’s shoulder, a small, unthinking motion. “I won’t,” he murmured.

Liu Qingge’s hand moved in slow, absent strokes along his shoulder, fingers tracing comfort without thought.

…He probably should move. This was improper. If anyone walked in—if it was Mu Qingfang, for instance—then Shen Qingqiu would have no choice but to throw himself off Qian Cao Peak on the spot.

But Liu Qingge’s arm was warm. His breathing steady. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Shen Qingqiu’s mind was quiet.

So he stayed.

***

When Mu Qingfang entered the chambers and saw the two bodies curled up on the bed, Shen Qingqiu was already deeply asleep.

His hair had come loose over the pillow, one hand curled unconsciously against Liu Qingge’s sleeve; Liu Qingge’s other hand rested protectively at the curve of his shixiong’s shoulder. 

Mu Qingfang stopped in the doorway, expression unreadable for all of three seconds. Then Liu Qingge’s eyes opened—sharp, alert even half-asleep. Their gazes met; the silent exchange was brief but clear.

Don’t.

I wasn’t going to.

Mu Qingfang exhaled through his nose, long-suffering, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Unbelievable.” Then he turned to leave, pulling the door quietly closed behind him.

As the latch clicked, a faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Chapter Text

Mu Qingfang was, as usual, a picture of professional misery.

He moved around the room with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on an ancient tortoise. One talisman flared, another burned out; the faint scent of ash and bitter herbs clung to the air. Occasionally, he muttered something under his breath or scribbled a few indecipherable characters into his notes, face unreadable.

Shen Qingqiu, being a man of great wisdom and even greater self-preservation, decided not to interrupt. He sat quietly on the low couch, posture immaculate, the very image of patient cooperation. Beside him, Liu Qingge stood with arms crossed and an expression carved in stone. 

At one point, Shen Qingqiu had even tried to shoo him off—gently, of course— to make him go back to Bai Zhan Peak and rest. Liu Qingge, predictably, refused.

They compromised. Or rather, Shen Qingqiu argued until Liu Qingge agreed to at least go wash up and change clothes. When he returned, hair damp and freshly tied, robes neat and immaculate, Shen Qingqiu found himself thinking—regrettably—that it was a dangerous improvement.

He told himself it was purely aesthetic appreciation. The kind any cultivated gentleman might have for good tailoring.

After what felt like several incense sticks’ worth of silence (and enough talisman smoke to fumigate a mountain), Mu Qingfang finally straightened and exhaled.

“Well,” he said. “It isn’t entirely hopeless.”

An encouraging start.

“Your core hasn’t shattered,” Mu Qingfang went on. “But it’s fractured—like porcelain fired too hot. The damage runs deep.”

Shen Qingqiu inclined his head. As expected. 

“With time and care, it may knit together,” Mu Qingfang continued. “But your spiritual power will not return to its former state.”

“This one understands,” Shen Qingqiu said calmly. “Life remains preferable to its alternatives.”

That earned him a faint nod of approval. “Regular qi infusion may stabilize the cracks. Preferably from a cultivator with stronger energy.”

Before Shen Qingqiu could even open his mouth, Liu Qingge said, without hesitation, “I’ll do it.”

Of course he would. Of course he would volunteer to sit by Shen Qingqiu’s bedside and personally pump him full of pure spiritual energy for hours. Shen Qingqiu didn’t even bother protesting—he’d learned long ago that arguing with Liu Qingge was as effective as reasoning with thunder. Besides, this wasn’t the first time Liu Qingge had run his spiritual energy through his meridians; it wasn’t exactly new territory. 

Mu Qingfang, apparently satisfied, handed him a bowl of something that smelled like it had been steeped in swamp water.

“Drink this.”

Shen Qingqiu eyed it suspiciously. “May this one inquire—”

“No,” Mu Qingfang said.

The taste managed to be worse than the smell—bitter, medicinal, and personally vindictive.

Mu Qingfang, rearranging jars on a nearby shelf, added absently, “Also, while Liu Shixiong’s dedication is commendable, I advise against dual cultivation until Shen Shixiong’s condition stabilizes.”

Shen Qingqiu inhaled at precisely the wrong moment. The vile brew went straight down the wrong pipe.

He coughed violently. “I—what—you—”

“Shen Shixiong, there’s no need for embarrassment,” Mu Qingfang said, turning just enough to give him a long-suffering look—as though he were the one being scandalous. “Dual cultivation could indeed hasten recovery, but with your core so unstable—”

“Mu Shidi!” Shen Qingqiu spluttered, clutching his sleeve. “You are gravely mistaken! There is absolutely nothing of that nature occurring here!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Liu Qingge’s expression—stoic, as always. Except for his ears. His very red ears.

Shen Qingqiu turned away swiftly, pretending to sip the remaining dregs of medicine to hide the treacherous warmth crawling up his own face. Saints above. Dual cultivation, with Liu Qingge of all people! His mind must still be scrambled from fever. Because instead of being properly horrified, some unreasonable part of it whispered, well, if it were him…

Absolutely not. Deleted. Expunged. Buried forever.

The logical part of him insisted he wasn’t interested in men. The illogical part—currently winning—pointed out that Liu Qingge hardly counted as “men” in the conventional sense. He was a protagonist-grade beauty, forged by a hack writer who apparently thought genetic perfection should run in families.

In his defense, anyone might have stray thoughts under those conditions. He was only human.

He pulled his sleeve higher, discreetly hiding his face. Excellent. Now he was blushing even harder.

He absolutely did not imagine what “dual cultivation” would look like with Liu Qingge—and if he did, he was going to delete that mental image immediately and throw himself into the Abyss for good measure.

Across the room, Mu Qingfang, clearly unmoved by this descent into chaos he’d set in motion, packed away his notes. “You’re cleared to leave. Take the medicine twice a day, avoid overexertion, and please refrain from nearly dying for at least a month.”

“Sound advice,” Shen Qingqiu muttered, setting the bowl aside.

He did not run out of the Healing Hall. His composure was flawless—if you ignored the faint twitch in his eye and the way he nearly tripped over the threshold.

Liu Qingge, his shadow these days, followed a single step behind.

Mu Qingfang—that petty little bitch—was merely settling petty scores for all the times Shen Qingqiu had frayed his patience. Nothing more. And yet… why did he feel like a schoolboy caught passing love notes?

The thought made him scowl internally. 

At least he was no longer dressed like a beggar. When Mu Qingfang finally permitted visitors, his disciples had brought his robes from Qing Jing Peak. He had never appreciated familiar fabric so much in his life. 

Ming Fan and Ning Yingying had come just the day before. There had been tears—many tears—and heartfelt declarations that nearly gave him a headache. Even Liu Qingge, who’d entered mid-commotion, took one glance at Shen Qingqiu, flanked by two weeping senior disciples clinging to him, and promptly turned on his heel without a word.

Still… for all the chaos and damp sleeves, he was glad to see them.

The air outside struck him like a revelation—cool, sharp, and alive.

Sunlight spilled over the stone steps of Qian Cao Peak, catching in the thin curls of mist that drifted among the treetops. The mountain seemed to breathe. He inhaled deeply, the scent of pine and morning dew. After so many days shut away in the Healing Hall chambers, even the simple warmth of sunlight against his skin felt unreal.

They had not walked far when something bumped gently against his side.

Before he could even react, a pair of small arms wrapped around his waist.

Shen Qingqiu staggered a step—not from force, but from sheer, unprepared surprise—and looked down to find a familiar head of dark hair pressed against his robes.

Fan Qing.

The girl released him instantly, her cheeks blooming crimson. She stepped back and bowed so swiftly Shen Qingqiu half-expected her forehead to graze the ground.

“Forgive this disciple’s improper conduct, Peak Lord Shen!” she rushed out. “I—this disciple was only… very happy to see you awake!”

Behind him, Liu Qingge did not so much as blink. He had clearly predicted this entire ambush down to the second.

Shen Qingqiu forced his face into polite composure, letting a quiet laugh escape. He reached out, ruffling her hair lightly. “Enough, enough. No need for such formality. You’ll make yourself dizzy bowing like that.”

Fan Qing straightened, hesitant, eyes bright and uncertain, before dropping into another quick bow toward Liu Qingge. “Peak Lord Liu.”

Liu Qingge inclined his head with his usual serene detachment, unreadable as ever.

Shen Qingqiu studied her more closely. Her complexion had returned to health; the pallor she’d worn when they fled Huan Hua through mud and brambles was gone. The limp was gone; her stance was steady. Her robes were clean and neat, adorned with the insignia of Cang Qiong’s guest disciples.

“You seem well,” he said. “Has your leg fully healed?”

Fan Qing nodded eagerly. “It has, Peak Lord Shen. The healers of Qian Cao Peak are skilled beyond measure. I owe them greatly… and you even more. If not for you, I—”

“This one merely returned the favor,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted, flicking his fan open with practiced ease. “You saved my life first, remember?”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head, cheeks burning. “That was nothing—”

“It was brave,” he said mildly. “Do not diminish your deeds.”

Fan Qing’s lips parted, then pressed together, emotion lodged somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.

“Tell me,” Shen Qingqiu continued, changing the subject before she could cry on his sleeves, “do you intend to return to Huan Hua Palace now that its leadership has changed?”

He had only fragments of the news: Xiao Gongzhu had been quietly removed, sequestered indefinitely, leaving the council of elders to steer the sect. Liu Qingge had been careful in relaying the details.

Fan Qing’s expression wavered—uncertainty flaring briefly, then settling into quiet determination. “No, Peak Lord Shen. When questioned by the elders, Peak Lord Xu spoke with me. She said that… if I truly wished, she would accept me as her disciple.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked, tilting his fan slightly. “Oh?”

Fan Qing nodded, nervous but steady. “She said Tian Shu Peak values sincerity over pedigree. If I wish to start anew, she will guide me.”

Shen Qingqiu allowed a small, hidden smile behind the fan. “Then you are in good hands. Xu Qinglian may seem stern, but her heart is steady. She will keep you out of trouble.”

Fan Qing’s eyes brightened. “Then you approve?”

“I hardly see what I have to approve,” he said gently. “But yes. You will do well there.”

She bowed again, slower, more composed. “Thank you, Peak Lord Shen. Truly.”

“Go on, then,” he waved her off. “Do not let me delay your training—or Xu Qinglian will think I am corrupting her new disciple with bad habits.”

A faint laugh escaped her—soft, bright, entirely unselfconscious. “Then I will work twice as hard to prove her wrong.”

“Good.”

Fan Qing hesitated a moment longer, glancing between Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge. “I will not keep you any longer. Peak Lord Shen, Peak Lord Liu.”

With a final respectful bow, she turned, her figure soon swallowed by the trees.

Silence settled. The forest air was crisp, carrying birdsong and the faint rustle of pines. Shen Qingqiu fanned himself idly, eyes following her path.

He felt rather than saw Liu Qingge’s gaze on him.

“You knew she would not return to Huan Hua,” Liu Qingge said, his tone neutral, not a question.

Shen Qingqiu tilted his fan to hide the twitch at his lips. “Did I?”

Liu Qingge gave him a look that seemed to pierce past his façade, and, for a fraction of a heartbeat, Shen Qingqiu realized that he had underestimated how much this man saw—and perhaps always had. 

“Shall we go?” Shen Qingqiu finally asked.

Liu Qingge summoned his sword. In one fluid motion, he stepped onto it, the air folding around him as if he had been born to it.

“Come,” he said simply, hand extended.

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze lingered on the offered hand: the steady grip, the faint white scar along the knuckle, the quiet strength that radiated without effort. His chest thudded in a way that felt entirely unreasonable. He hesitated.

Then he reached out and took it.

The wind swept around them, cool and clean, tugging at robes and hair. The sword lifted into the sky, and the world fell away beneath their feet. For a fleeting, fragile moment, Shen Qingqiu let himself lean slightly into the warmth beside him.

Purely for balance, of course.
Definitely for balance.

***

The meeting began the way all great farces did — with tea.

Steam curled from porcelain cups as three Huan Hua elders sat stiff-backed under the combined weight of twelve Cang Qiong Peak Lords. The vast audience hall of Qiong Ding Peak had never felt smaller.

“Honored Peak Lords,” the eldest of the Huan Hua delegation began, folding his hands so tightly his knuckles were bone-white. “This humble one must first extend our Palace’s most sincere apologies. The recent incident was… a regrettable internal misunderstanding.”

From beside him—practically under the elder’s nose—came a quiet scritch, scritch.

Wei Qingwei—calm as a pond in early spring—was doodling on his meeting notes. From the lazy tilt of his brush, it appeared to be a very unflattering rendition of the elder’s hair bun.

To an outsider, it might have looked like distraction or absent-mindedness.

Shen Qingqiu, however, knew better.

It was a statement. A masterpiece of silent insolence that said, you’re not even worth my full attention.

Wei Qingwei didn’t look up. “Which incident, precisely?” he asked mildly. “You’ll have to forgive us—there have been so many misunderstandings involving Huan Hua Palace of late.”

The elder’s smile strained further. “Ah—of course. We refer to the… unfortunate misapprehension concerning Peak Lord Shen. Our Young Mistress, alas, was misinformed.”

“Ah,” Qi Qingqi said, fan drifting idly through the air. “So you are saying Huan Hua Palace issued a public decree based on hearsay.”

“Certainly not!” The elder was sweating now. “We were deceived by falsified reports! Those responsible have been—ah—disciplined.”

“Disciplined,” Qi Qingqi repeated. “Not removed?”

“Such matters,” the elder stammered, “are best handled internally.”

“Of course,” Yue Qingyuan said smoothly, saving the man before his soul left his body. “Cang Qiong would never interfere in another sect’s internal affairs. We merely wish to ensure no external consequences follow.”

Which, Shen Qingqiu translated privately, meant: Keep your nonsense to yourselves, or we’ll personally escort it back to your doorstep.

Across the table, Shang Qinghua cleared his throat and shuffled a stack of ledgers with exaggerated care. “Speaking of consequences,” he said pleasantly, his usual stammer nowhere to be found, “the Baihe rift disrupted several trade routes, contaminated farmland, and displaced mortal residents. Cang Qiong’s logistics office has, of course, been aiding reconstruction.”

He looked up, all courteous efficiency. “It’s fortunate the matter was resolved, though one might think it could have been contained sooner, had communication been… clearer.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked once. When did Airplane start rolling natural twenties on diplomacy checks?

The elder bowed hastily. “We are most grateful for Cang Qiong’s intervention—”

“Of course you are,” Shang Qinghua said brightly, already jotting something down. “We’ll send an itemized invoice.”

Someone coughed hard into their sleeve. Shen Qingqiu pressed his fan to his lips to hide a smile. Petty king. I approve.

Liu Qingge’s voice cut through the tension like drawn steel. “And the matter of false accusations?”

The elder flinched so violently his teacup rattled. “We assure you, Peak Lord Liu, it was an error of intelligence—”

“By whom?” Qi Qingqi asked sweetly.

“That… remains under investigation.”

The third Huan Hua elder, who had wisely remained silent until now, attempted dignity. “The late actions of our Young Mistress were in no way sanctioned by the Palace Elders. She acted from zeal, not malice.”

“Zeal,” Mu Qingfang murmured, turning a page. “An interesting word for attempted murder.”

Shen Qingqiu’s cup of tea sat untouched beside him. By now, it was almost certainly cold.

He wasn’t sure what his fellow Peak Lords intended to do with this whole farce—but whatever it was, he was watching it unfold with the same horrified fascination one usually reserved for a trainwreck.

Shen Qingqiu fanned himself idly, watching Yue Qingyuan’s smile hover just shy of his eyes. Ah, he thought, and they say sect politics are dull.

Yue Qingyuan inclined his head, his tone serene and final. “Cang Qiong will, of course, expect written acknowledgment of this… oversight. For transparency’s sake.”

The Huan Hua elders bowed so low their foreheads nearly brushed the floor. “Naturally. We will issue a correction immediately.”

Xu Qinglian, who had been silent until now, finally spoke—soft and poised.

“In addition, this one would advise Huan Hua Palace to review its disciplinary protocols. Some of your senior disciples appear in need of… renewed instruction.” She lifted her teacup with graceful precision, taking a measured sip before continuing, “This one must also address the matter of the disciple Fan Qing.”

At the name, the Huan Hua elders went rigid. A fine display of synchronized alarm.

“She was formerly of Huan Hua Palace,” Xu Qinglian went on, unhurried, “but her assistance to Peak Lord Shen during that… unfortunate misapprehension has rendered her position untenable. She has requested to remain on Tian Shu Peak under this one’s tutelage. I trust there are no objections.”

“Disciple Qing,” one of the elders began, beads of sweat gathering at his temple, “is still—technically—registered under—”

“Was,” Xu Qinglian said.

The single word fell as softly as snow.

Silence settled over the hall.

The elder swallowed audibly. “Then… of course, none.”

“Excellent.” Xu Qinglian inclined her head. “We shall see to her reassignment immediately.”

Shen Qingqiu sipped his own tea, now stone cold, to hide the upward twitch of his mouth.

He’d clearly underestimated his shimei. He’d always thought of her as the serene, untouchable type—pure virtue in human form. Who would’ve guessed she could freeze a room faster than Qi Qingqi on a bad day?

Note to self: never get on her bad side. Ever.

From beside him, Liu Qingge shifted—just a subtle motion, barely noticeable, yet Shen Qingqiu caught the brush of familiar spiritual energy. It pulsed steady and close, quietly wrapping around him like a warding circle.

Completely unnecessary, of course. He was perfectly fine.
...Probably.

When he glanced up, Liu Qingge was already watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Shen Qingqiu’s spine went stiff. He turned back to his tea with excessive focus, as if the answer to all mortal suffering were hidden in its steam.

Honestly. That look again. What was he supposed to do with that?

He wasn’t some fragile thing that needed guarding. And Liu Qingge could stop being so—so earnest about it, thank you very much.

When the session finally ended, the Huan Hua delegation rose like condemned men granted temporary reprieve. 

Yue Qingyuan’s tone remained perfectly serene. “Cang Qiong appreciates your cooperation.”

He might as well have said, get off my mountain. 

The three elders all but fled.

As the Peak Lords rose and gathered their belongings, Liu Qingge’s gaze lingered on him for a fraction longer than necessary. “You were unusually quiet,” he said.

Shen Qingqiu arched a brow. “I was told to behave.”

More precisely, Qi Qingqi had told him to sit still, look pretty, and refrain from interrupting while the adults talked.

A faint quirk touched Liu Qingge’s lips—barely a smile, but enough to count in Bai Zhan dialect.

Shen Qingqiu felt a warmth coil behind his ribs at the sight. He fanned himself slowly, hoping the gesture disguised the sudden, unwelcome flutter.

When Liu Qingge stood, his sleeve brushed against Shen Qingqiu’s, steadying him almost imperceptibly when he swayed from the lingering weakness in his core.

Shen Qingqiu froze. Liu Qingge didn’t glance down. He only said softly, “You shouldn’t have come to this meeting if you’re still recovering.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked, an easy retort already forming. “…What, and miss all the fun?”

The moment stretched before footsteps approached along the veranda.

Qi Qingqi caught them as they stepped down.

“Ah, Liu Qingge,” she said, folding her fan with lazy elegance. “Off to see Mingyang?”

“Mn.”

“How dutiful,” she murmured, approval warming her tone. “And your shixiong—will he be accompanying you as well? Or is that... a separate visit altogether?”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “...Excuse me?”

Qi Qingqi’s smile brightened, which was never a good sign. In Shen Qingqiu’s experience, that particular expression usually marked the moment someone nearby began digging their own grave.

“Ah, forgive me,” she said sweetly, snapping her fan shut with deliberate grace. “You’ve been galloping through mountains and forests so frequently of late, I worried you might’ve forgotten a few simple courtesies. Naturally, one should seek a family’s blessing first.”

From somewhere to the left, the Zui Xian Peak Lord, who was hanging his ears out apparently, made a noise suspiciously close to a strangled cough.

Shen Qingqiu’s mind went blank. “...What blessing?” he managed, very evenly.

“Why, Liu Mingyang’s, of course,” Qi Qingqi replied, eyes alight with saintly innocence. “Surely her brother wouldn’t bring anyone home unannounced.”

Across from him, Liu Qingge froze mid-step. “What—”

But Qi Qingqi was already turning away, drifting down the corridor in a flutter of silk and effortless smugness. “Do enjoy your visit, both of you,” she called lightly over her shoulder. “It’s such a fine day for horse and carriage.”

Shen Qingqiu stared after her, soul half-detached from his mortal form.

Zui Xian Peak Lord drifted past, muttering under his breath, “If you’re meeting the family, bring wine. Helps.”

Shen Qingqiu had no idea whether to laugh, cry, or throw himself into the nearest koi pond.

Why—why—did everyone in this sect insist on turning his interactions with Liu Qingge into the next grand romance saga?

And why did they narrate it like a midday drama while they were at it?

Shen Qingqiu flicked his fan open, mostly as an excuse to hide behind something. Then he risked a sideways glance.

Liu Qingge’s expression betrayed nothing—no blush, no anger, just that infuriating, serene calm that somehow made everything more incomprehensible.

Perfect. Wonderful. Exactly the emotional clarity I needed right now.

Liu Qingge exhaled, the faintest huff of air, and shook his head. “Never mind.” Then, as if Qi Qingqi’s verbal landmine hadn’t just detonated at their feet, he turned toward the stairs. “Come. I’ll take you back to Qing Jing.”

A sword shimmered into being at his side. With fluid, effortless grace, he leapt onto it, hand extended toward Shen Qingqiu.

And Shen Qingqiu… well. 

He put his hand in Liu Qingge’s.

The flight was brief—barely long enough for the mountain wind to cool the heat still prickling behind Shen Qingqiu’s ears. 

Afternoon sunlight glinted off the sword’s edge, scattering between drifting clouds. From this height, the peaks of Cang Qiong stretched like an unrolled painting: pale mists coiling through pine and stone, banners flashing bright color against the sky.

When they descended onto Qing Jing Peak, the shadows were still short and gold-edged. Disciples crossed the courtyard below, their laughter carrying faintly on the wind—normal life, returning to its rhythm.

For the first time in weeks, Cang Qiong felt at peace.

But far from those sunlit slopes, beyond the last folds of human land and the mists that marked the border of the Demon Realm, peace was a luxury no one could yet afford.

***

The border of the Demon Realm still breathed corruption.

The earth stretched pale and glassy, fractured like old jade beneath a dusty sky. What had once been a fortress lay scattered across the plain—blackened stone, fallen towers, banners reduced to whispering threads that caught on the wind.

Huizhong stood where the throne hall had been, boots half-sunk in ash. His armor hung in pieces; one shoulder guard gone entirely, a streak of dried blood tracing the line from collarbone to wrist. He leaned on the haft of his guan dao, eyes fixed on the horizon as if waiting for the world to offer him a better view.

“You took your time,” he said at last, not bothering to turn.

Through the drifting smoke, Luo Binghe stepped into view, his sword lowered. The air bent faintly around him, the calm distortion of restrained force.

“I had other matters to attend to.”

“Ah. Saving the world. Making amends.” Huizhong’s smile was small and sharp. “How noble.” He looked over his shoulder. “I remember when you thought the world could burn, so long as your Peak Lord burns with it.”

Luo Binghe’s expression did not change. “That was a long time ago.”

“Was it?” Huizhong chuckled softly. “To me, it feels like yesterday. You, standing in the ruins, pretending you were grown. I asked where you found that sword, and you fed me riddles.” His gaze flicked to Xin Mo, humming faintly at Binghe’s side. “So dramatic.”

“You’re one to talk,” Luo Binghe said.

“And yet I didn’t lie to you.” Huizhong’s tone remained almost gentle. “But you—ah, you once offered me Cang Qiong on a platter. Said I could tear it down from within.”

He smiled faintly. “A clever plan. Nearly worked. You even convinced me to play along—to free your Peak Lord, to let the world see him run.”

“Don’t tell me you’re heartsick from betrayal,” Luo Binghe said quietly. “You used me as much as I used you.”

“Of course I did,” Huizhong replied. “That’s the only honest kind of alliance.” His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the last remnants of his army had long since scattered. “But you broke the bargain first, boy. You sealed the rift. You restored the balance. You even slew your own chaos. How dreadfully disappointing.”

“I didn’t slew it,” Binghe said. “I contained it.”

“Semantics.” Huizhong’s laugh cracked through the stillness. “Do you even know what you’re saving? They’ll still spit on your name. They’ll still fear what you are. And still, you protect them. How human of you.”

Luo Binghe’s silence was answer enough. He stepped forward, the air tightening, heavy with quiet intent.

“You’ve had enough chances to walk away,” Luo Binghe said softly.

“And miss the finale?” Huizhong smiled. “No, no. Let’s end this as we began it—in ruins.”

The first clash split the silence. Xing Mo met the guan dao’s edge in a burst of light, the impact rolling through the cracked plain like thunder.

There was no shouted challenge, no flourish—only motion. Quick, clean, and stripped of anything but purpose.

Huizhong fought with the same calm precision he always had, every strike deliberate. Luo Binghe matched him step for step, movements pared down to instinct—no rage, no indulgence, only the relentless certainty of someone who already knew how it would end.

Steel rang against steel. Sparks scattered like fleeting stars. The rhythm between them was not battle—it was acknowledgment. Everything that needed to be said had already been spoken; this was only the echo.

“You’ve improved,” Huizhong said between blows, breath coming harder now. “I almost regret training you by accident.”

“You trained me nothing,” Luo Binghe replied, deflecting a downward sweep that split the ground beneath them. “You only showed me what not to become.”

“So righteous,” Huizhong said with a grin that showed blood at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me, boy—do you think this will earn you redemption?” He pressed the attack again, voice steady even as his weapon began to splinter. “Guilt is only pride with a different face. The only difference between you and me is that I stopped pretending I wasn’t a monster.”

Luo Binghe did not answer. His next strike shattered the guan dao, half the blade breaking clean.

Huizhong stared down at the ruined weapon for a moment, then laughed softly and let it fall.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose that’s my answer.”

Straightening, he lifted his face to the pale horizon. “You were right back then—about humans, about everything. But I never told you the rest of what I was thinking.”

Luo Binghe’s voice was quiet. “Which was?”

“That it was never the sects or their mountains that mattered,” Huizhong said. “It was belief. Faith. The things men destroy themselves over. You can’t cleanse that, boy. You can only choose what you’ll die protecting.”

Before Luo Binghe could move, Huizhong raised a hand. The remnants of his demonic qi flared outward, folding in on itself—collapsing, devouring, sealing. It was not surrender, nor despair, but a deliberate ending, leaving on his own terms.

Luo Binghe’s blade lowered a fraction. “Huizhong—”

“Don’t insult me with pity,” the demon said, grinning one last time. “You were right about one thing. The world only needs one of us to haunt it.”

Light split the ruin—white, soundless, absolute.

When it faded, the wind had gone still. Only the guan dao remained, half-buried in fractured stone, its edge broken clean.

Luo Binghe stood motionless, eyes fixed on the empty space where Huizhong had stood, until even the echo of his presence dispersed into the air.

Far away, atop Cang Qiong Mountain, the wards flickered once—subtle as a breath.

By the open window of the Qing Jing Peak lecture hall, Shen Qingqiu lifted his gaze. The sky above the clouds shifted, as if something unseen had passed through it.

Then the light dimmed. Clouds gathered where the air was usually clear, and a fine rain began to fall—soft, uncertain, as though reluctant to intrude.

It tapped gently against the bamboo eaves until the sound filled the hall.

Shen Qingqiu stood for a moment longer, watching mist blur the distant peaks. Then, quietly, he turned away.

***

Rain whispered against the eaves, soft but relentless, a steady percussion that blurred the hours into gray.

Shen Qingqiu sat cross-legged on the bamboo floor, scrolls scattered around him like fallen leaves.

It had been raining for two days straight. The training grounds had turned into a shallow pond; the teaching pavilions were cut off entirely. His disciples had been confined indoors, their restless energy building like static. No sword practice, no music, no painting—only the endless patter of rain, as if Heaven itself had grown weary of mortal noise.

As far as Shen Qingqiu knew, the other Peaks were faring no better. Shang Qinghua had appeared earlier, dripping wet and wailing about two warehouses that had “sailed heroically toward freedom.” The goods had been saved; the paperwork, alas, had ascended to the afterlife. Shen Qingqiu had offered a suitably sympathetic nod while privately rejoicing that none of it was his problem.

Rain was nothing new on Cang Qiong Mountain, but this storm was different—colder, heavier, the kind that seeped into walls and bones alike. Still, it was a mild inconvenience compared to what brewed in the Demon Realm.

His thoughts drifted there despite himself: to Huizhong, to Luo Binghe, to the note that had come under the seal of secrecy.

Perhaps Heaven had decided to cleanse the realms, washing away the remnants of demonic corruption. A noble sentiment—though Shen Qingqiu would have appreciated it more if divine catharsis didn’t make his half-mortal body ache like an old door hinge.

Qi circulation was a battle lately; the humidity had settled into his bones like a curse. Wrapped in too many layers to look dignified, he sat like a cabbage left out in a flooded garden. Ning Yingying, bless her thoughtful heart, had brought him tea to fight the chill, but the warmth never reached past his palms.

Still, there was a certain peace in the quiet. No disciples sparring, no reports from the Elders, no unexpected summons from the Sect Leader. The world had slowed to match the rhythm of the rain, and for once, Shen Qingqiu was free to attend to the minutiae of disciples’ scrolls without distraction.

Until someone knocked.

He looked up from the essay he’d been correcting—an atrocity of logic so impressive it deserved a preservation scroll of its own—and frowned. Who in their right mind would be wandering around now?

“Come in,” he called, already bracing himself for a soggy disciple—or worse, Shang Qinghua round two.

Instead, Liu Qingge slid the door open.

Rainwater traced the line of his jaw, his robe plastered to the planes of his shoulders. He looked perfectly at ease, as if crossing through a monsoon were no different from a morning stroll.

“Shidi—” Shen Qingqiu blinked, then found his voice. “What are you—why in the world did you walk here? Do you not know what umbrellas are for?”

Liu Qingge closed the door with his usual composure, rain still glinting in his hair. “No need.”

Shen Qingqiu sighed, fetched a towel, and pressed it firmly into his hands. “At least wipe off before you ruin my floorboards. An Ding Peak won’t fund another revarnish.”

Liu Qingge took the towel without protest, though his eyes flicked—too perceptively—over Shen Qingqiu’s bundled layers. “You’re cold again,” he said.

“I am perfectly fine,” Shen Qingqiu said with great dignity. “Just savoring the—ah—the  invigorating mountain humidity.”

Liu Qingge didn’t comment. He stepped closer, the faint scent of rain clinging to him. “Mu Qingfang said sharing spiritual energy might help. I thought I’d assist.”

“Oh,” Shen Qingqiu said intelligently. “That’s—ah—yes. Very thoughtful.”

He shifted on the floor to make space as Liu Qingge sat opposite him. The distance between them felt simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. He folded his hands into his sleeves to hide the way his fingers had gone cold again.

When Liu Qingge reached for his wrist, Shen Qingqiu almost flinched. The touch was light, careful—steady warmth threading through his chilled skin as Liu Qingge’s qi flowed into him, clear and sure, filling the gaps where his own faltered.

It was nothing like their old meridian-cleansing sessions. Then, Liu Qingge’s qi had only passed through him—brilliant, controlled, withdrawn as quickly as it came. Now it lingered, soaking into him like spring sunlight after too long a winter.

Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders loosened before he realized it. The ache in his joints eased; warmth unfurled through him in soft, deliberate waves.

Liu Qingge’s face remained calm, but his focus softened at the edges, the faint crease between his brows smoothing. His thumb brushed lightly over Shen Qingqiu’s pulse, directing the flow. Every motion was deliberate, gentle—reverent, almost.

His heart thudded once, traitorous and loud.

This is ridiculous. It’s just qi transmission. Basic spiritual maintenance. Get a grip.

Except—Liu Qingge looked up. Their gazes caught, held.

For one suspended heartbeat, Shen Qingqiu forgot to breathe. 

“Does it hurt?” Liu Qingge asked quietly.

Shen Qingqiu swallowed. “No,” he managed. “It’s… warm.”

Liu Qingge’s mouth curved, almost—almost—a smile.

Shen Qingqiu ducked his head, scribbling meaningless corrections onto the nearest scroll with exaggerated focus. The essay was already hopeless, but it served as an excellent object of study—far safer than Liu Qingge’s face.

He counted characters, redrew strokes, anything to ignore the faint hum of energy still dancing under his skin.

He wasn’t sure when the flow stopped, only that the room had gone still again and a shadow fell across his desk. He blinked up to find Liu Qingge beside him, close enough that the air smelled faintly of rain and ozone.

“Shen Qingqiu,” Liu Qingge said quietly, his expression tinged with concern, “are you well?”

Shen Qingqiu froze. His throat had gone dry; his voice refused to work. He nodded instead, too aware of the faint tremor in his hands.

Without a word, Liu Qingge reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from Shen Qingqiu’s temple. His fingers lingered there, just so, and the sensation made Shen Qingqiu’s chest tighten impossibly. His heart thudded in a tempo that had nothing to do with breathing.

Do not do anything stupid, he told himself. 

Which was precisely when Shen Qingqiu’s brain short-circuited. His ears burned; his hand twitched; every rational thought drowned beneath the storm of oh no, he’s too close, abort mission, ABORT—

And then he leaned forward.

It was barely a movement—hesitant, foolish, wholly unplanned—but the space between them vanished, and his lips met Liu Qingge’s.

The world went silent except for the soft rush of rain.

Liu Qingge didn’t move. Didn’t respond. Shen Qingqiu froze, realization crashing over him like a cold wave. He pulled back so fast it made his head spin.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—” The words tangled uselessly.

The words tangled and collapsed into nothing. He couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t stop the horror in his chest, the hot shame that clawed from the tips of his fingers up to his throat. Without thinking, without seeing, he bolted. 

He burst through the bamboo door into the rain, the sheets drenching him immediately, the cold a pale consolation to the inferno inside. The world blurred—branches, puddles, lanterns flashing in the storm—and his lungs burned as he ran blindly, unseeing.

Finally, his legs gave out beneath him, and he stumbled to a halt beneath a wide-spreading plum tree. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, dripped in rivulets down his back, and soaked his robes. He pressed his hands to his face, gulping in air as if it could wash away what he had just done.

“Why—why did I—” he whispered to no one, shaking.

Footsteps came after him, rapid and certain. Liu Qingge’s voice cut through the storm.

“Shen Qingqiu!”

He didn’t look up. Maybe if he stayed still, the ground would swallow him.

Then a hand lifted his chin—gentle, firm. Shen Qingqiu blinked, startled, and instinctively tried to pull back—but the motion was stopped. Liu Qingge’s hand was firm, steady, impossibly warm against his cold face.

“Shen Qingqiu,” Liu Qingge said softly, and then—without waiting for a response—he kissed him.

The rain, the cold, the noise—everything fell away.

There was only the press of warmth against his mouth, the taste of rainwater, faint scent of sandalwood, and something utterly his own that made Shen Qingqiu’s knees weaken.

Liu Qingge’s other hand came to rest at Shen Qingqiu’s waist—steady, unyielding—drawing him closer. Shen Qingqiu’s arms lifted on instinct, uncertain where they were supposed to go. His heartbeat stuttered, pounding far too loudly in his ears.

Liu Qingge kissed him slowly, deliberately, as though any sudden movement might cause him to break apart. There was no haste, no confusion—only quiet intent, and a warmth that chased away the panic that had seized Shen Qingqiu moments ago.

Rain drummed over them, soaking their robes and hair, but the cold barely registered. The world had folded down to the heat of Liu Qingge’s lips, the pressure at his waist, the steady pulse beneath his palm.

When thought finally returned, it came in frantic fragments. This is happening. This is actually happening. Don’t ruin it. Don’t ruin it—oh gods, he’s real. He’s actually here. It’s not a dream.

Every second stretched, every heartbeat an eternity, until at last, when Liu Qingge pulled back just slightly, his forehead resting against Shen Qingqiu’s, there was a shared, trembling exhale.

Shen Qingqiu dared to lift his eyes, and there was Liu Qingge, calm and certain, his gaze softer than it had ever been.

Neither of them moved.

Liu Qingge’s thumb brushed against his jaw—light as air, devastatingly gentle. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but certain.

“You always run.”

Okay, that’s accurate, but also rude.

“I—” Shen Qingqiu’s throat worked uselessly. “I wasn’t— I just—”

His pulse was still tripping over itself, equal parts humiliation and disbelief. He tried to summon something dignified, something befitting a Peak Lord—what emerged was, regrettably, “You… you surprised me.”

A flicker—barely there—tugged at Liu Qingge’s mouth. “You surprised me first,” he said.

Shen Qingqiu’s mind promptly blue-screened.
Right. Yes. I did that. I kissed him first. Oh my god, I kissed Liu Qingge.
Wow, that’s gay.

He wanted to hide. Preferably underground. Or under a convenient landslide. But Liu Qingge’s hand was still at his jaw, firm enough to keep him from retreating, his gaze steady and searching—as if waiting for something.

“I thought…” Shen Qingqiu’s voice came out softer than intended. “I thought you didn’t—”

Liu Qingge didn’t let him finish. “I do,” he said, tone steady, as if it were simply the truth of the world.

His hand slipped from Shen Qingqiu’s jaw to rest at the side of his neck, fingers brushing the rapid beat beneath the skin. “I have for a long time,” he added, almost absently.

Shen Qingqiu blinked up at him, startled.

He hadn’t noticed. Of course he hadn’t. He’d spent so much time blaming every odd flicker of emotion, every too-long look, on residual dog-blood influence from Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky’s creative crimes. He’d thought Liu Qingge was just being—well, Liu Qingge: loyal, disciplined, insufferably noble.

But now, faced with the quiet curve of his mouth, the warmth in his eyes that no one else ever saw—

Oh.

“Then why did you never…” The words tangled in his throat.

Liu Qingge’s expression didn’t shift much, but the edges softened, eyes calm beneath rain-dark strands of hair. “I was waiting for you.”

Shen Qingqiu stared at him, blank. “Waiting for me?” he echoed, incredulous. “If you were waiting for me to develop emotional intelligence, you should’ve gone into secluded cultivation and emerged when the heavens collapsed.”

That earned him a faint sound—half a huff of breath, half a laugh. It was quiet, but real, and Shen Qingqiu’s chest tightened.

Liu Qingge tilted his head slightly, rain trailing down his jaw. “You came around eventually.”

Shen Qingqiu groaned and pressed his face against Liu Qingge’s chest, muffling the words. “Eventually? This wasn’t—” He gestured helplessly. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Liu Qingge raised a brow. “You regret it?”

Shen Qingqiu’s heart did that traitorous flip again. “No,” he said too quickly. “I mean—yes. I mean—no, of course not, I just—” He dragged a hand down his face. “I am not emotionally equipped for this conversation while soaked and spiritually malfunctioning.”

Liu Qingge’s lips curved faintly, the kind of smile that could thaw snow on a peak. “Then don’t think about it.”

“That’s not how my brain works,” Shen Qingqiu muttered.

“Then let me help,” Liu Qingge said simply.

Before Shen Qingqiu could ask what that meant, Liu Qingge moved—sure, swift, and utterly done with words.

Liu Qingge’s mouth found his—firm, unhurried, absolute. His hand slid up the back of Shen Qingqiu’s neck, fingers catching briefly in damp hair, the other settling at his waist as if anchoring him in place.

All the carefully built composure Shen Qingqiu prided himself on went straight out the window. His breath hitched—an embarrassing, startled sound that melted into something far less dignified when the kiss deepened. Every thought dissolved into warmth and rain and the quiet shock of want.

Liu Qingge kissed like he fought—focused, relentless, holding nothing back. 

And Shen Qingqiu, who had spent an entire lifetime mastering restraint, found himself giving chase—tilting his head, reaching for more, because apparently his self-control had taken the night off.

When they finally parted, Shen Qingqiu’s mind was a battlefield of static and stunned disbelief. His lips tingled; his heart was doing a somersault; and his brain—traitorous thing—had apparently resigned from all linguistic duties.

He did the only dignified thing possible under such circumstances—hid his face in Liu Qingge’s neck.

The heat radiating off him could probably boil tea. Liu Qingge, mercifully, said nothing. His hand came up to rest at the back of Shen Qingqiu’s head, fingers combing once through damp hair before settling there, steady and warm.

The rain had softened into fine, silver threads that hissed quietly against the ground. Beneath his cheek, Liu Qingge’s heartbeat pulsed in calm, deliberate rhythm. Meanwhile, Shen Qingqiu’s own pulse was doing frantic gymnastics.

He exhaled shakily, voice muffled against Liu Qingge’s collar. “You—you really don’t have to hold me as though I am about to swoon.”

Liu Qingge’s low hum rumbled through his chest. “You are still shaking.”

“I am not shaking,” Shen Qingqiu replied automatically—though the faint tremor in his tone rather undermined the statement.

A quiet sound escaped Liu Qingge—half a laugh, low and short-lived, felt more than heard. It vibrated against Shen Qingqiu’s ear, sending another entirely inconvenient rush of heat through him.

They stayed like that for a while—two rain-drenched idiots standing beneath a plum tree as the drizzle whispered around them.

Eventually, Liu Qingge shifted, his breath brushing the top of Shen Qingqiu’s head. “We should return,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “You will fall ill if you linger.”

Shen Qingqiu made a noise halfway between agreement and protest, but Liu Qingge was already stepping back, still holding his wrist—as though he expected him to immediately bolt into the wilderness again. Which, to be fair, was not outside the realm of possibility.

By the time they reached the bamboo house, the rain had dwindled to a faint mist. Shen Qingqiu risked a glance at Liu Qingge’s profile—calm, entirely too composed—and immediately looked away again, ears burning.

Honestly. He really needed to stop doing things that turned his life into a third-rate romantic drama.

By the next morning, he had—of course—caught a cold.

Mu Qingfang’s lecture could have wilted stone, but Shen Qingqiu barely heard a word of it. His head ached, his throat burned, and still he couldn’t quite stop the small, ridiculous smile tugging at his mouth.

In the end, he thought drowsily, sinking back into his pillows, the fever was probably worth it.

Chapter Text

Shen Qingqiu ducked just in time to avoid yet another twig snapping across his face. At this rate, he’d be lucky to leave the thicket with both eyes intact.

Ahead of him, Shang Qinghua was waging open war on the underbrush with a branch he’d decided was a sword substitute. Squinting into the sunlight, he looked like a man who had once heard the word direction but never personally encountered it.

“Airplane,” Shen Qingqiu said evenly, brushing a leaf from his sleeve, “admit it. You’re lost.”

Shang Qinghua didn’t pause. “Lost? I'm not lost!” he said, waving a hand vaguely in front of him. “It’s just that the road hasn’t been used for, uh, decades, maybe centuries! Naturally it’s a bit overgrown!”

“A bit,” Shen Qingqiu repeated, tone thin with disbelief. “We’ve spent the past half hour locked in mortal combat with shrubbery.”

He might have elaborate on just how ridiculous this little expedition had become, but just then the path opened up.

Shang Qinghua drew himself up and made a dramatic “ahem” noise, turning to Shen Qingqiu with a self-satisfied grin.

“See? What did I tell you!” 

The trees fell away, revealing a small meadow at the foot of a hill. The light broadened. Grass bent under a lazy wind, silver-edged in the sun. A narrow river wound through the valley, its banks shadowed by willows. On the slope above, small earthen mounds rested beneath the grass—old graves, plain but cared for.

Shen Qingqiu gave Shang Qinghua a long, unimpressed look, then stepped neatly around him. “Congratulations. You’ve proven you can navigate basic topography.”

“Hey!”

Shang Qinghua was still protesting, but Shen Qingqiu had already tuned him out. His gaze followed the curve of the valley below.

Liulin Village.

A modest name for a modest place. A scattering of houses between the foothills, once nominally protected by a minor cultivation clan that had long since faded from memory. The kind of village that never brushed shoulders with glory, nor sought to.

He hadn’t planned on coming. Until last week, he hadn’t known this place existed at all.

And yet here he stood—searching for the grave of someone’s grandmother who had lived and died long before he’d even arrived in this world.

It had begun, as most of his life’s poor decisions did, with a visit to An Ding Peak.

He’d gone there to complain. Naturally. Yue Qingyuan’s sudden surge of brotherly concern had reached the point of harassment. And with Liu Qingge already hovering like an overgrown watchdog, one more concerned visitor was frankly unnecessary.

(That Liu Qingge had even let him leave without escort was a minor miracle—one he should probably light incense for later.)

So, to escape the fussing, he’d gone to the one person guaranteed to be more miserable than he was.

But instead of solidarity, the cockroach had merely blinked, shrugged, and—in that blithe tone of his—proceeded to drop Shen Jiu’s entire horrifying lore as if he were discussing the weather.

And Shen Qingqiu had just… sat there. For ten full minutes. Blank. Processing the fact that Airplane Shooting Toward the Sky, literary degenerate and architect of every melodramatic dog-blood twist in existence, had known all along that Shen Jiu’s life had been one long tragedy — and had still written him off as a one-dimensional scum villain.

Who even did that?
Who looked at that kind of backstory and thought, you know what this needs? A harem subplot.

Still, once the shock faded, something quieter remained. Understanding, maybe.

Shen Jiu’s cruelty hadn’t been born from nothing; it had been carved into him, one humiliation at a time. If power was the only thing that made him safe, then of course he’d clung to it with both hands.

Shen Yuan felt… foolish, almost. For all his talk about being the “better version,” he had still managed to nurse his own petty resentments.

Sure, his parents hadn’t exactly been paragons of nurturing support—refusing to fund the education he actually wanted, then acting shocked when their youngest son turned out to be a disappointment. But this?

Being sold off as a child by one’s own mother—for a handful of silver?

Yeah. You wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even your worst enemy.

The grave was simple: a small mound edged with stones, a wooden plaque leaning with age. The name was faint, but still legible—Shen Yueqin.

Shen Qingqiu crouched, brushing the dirt from the surface with his sleeve. Someone had cared enough to place it carefully, to face it south so sunlight would always fall across the grave, with a hill at its back and a river’s whisper before it.

A poor family would never waste such thought unless love had guided their hands.

He doubted that love had come from Shen Jiu’s mother. 

He doubted the woman who’d barely cared to name her child had returned to bury her old mother.

He stayed there for a while, listening to the insects hum, the faint murmur of the stream.

Then, as if the thought came from nowhere, he looked up at Shang Qinghua, who was lingering awkwardly a few paces away.

“Airplane,” he said. “What was his name? Before he was Shen Qingqiu.”

“Uh?”

“Shen Jiu’s given name,” he clarified. “Before he was… sold.”

Shang Qinghua squinted, rifling through memory. “Oh—right. It was Zhi, I think. Shen Zhi. ‘Will’ or ‘purpose,’ that kind of meaning.”

Shen Qingqiu raised a brow. “You think?”

“No—no, I know,” Shang Qinghua backpedaled in a rush, waving his hands. “It just—took me a second, okay? I never used it in the PIDW. Readers don’t care about childhood names—”

Shen Qingqiu gave him a look that said another word and I’ll bury you within shouting distance.

Shang Qinghua coughed and went silent.

Shen Zhi. One with purpose.

A name given with hope. Perhaps by a grandmother who knew the world would be cruel, but still wanted to give the child something to hold onto.

Shen Qingqiu bowed his head, fingers brushing the soil. It wasn’t a ritual bow, not the formal kind. Just… acknowledgment.

He began shaping a second mound beside the first—steady, careful movements, smoothing the earth until it matched its twin. Then he gathered a few river stones and pressed them into the soil, one by one, until they formed a neat circle.

A grave without a body.

Behind him, Shang Qinghua shifted. “Uh. I’ll just… go check the perimeter,” he muttered, and wisely retreated toward the river.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t respond. He waited until the sound of shuffling footsteps faded toward the river, then reached into his qiankun bag.

He drew out three incense sticks and lit them with a flick of his fingers. His spiritual energy was faint, but enough for a spark. The smoke curled upward, pale and steady.

The first—for the child, Shen Zhi.
The second—for someone who became Shen Jiu.
The third—for the Peak Lord who never found peace.

The smoke drifted lazily, unbothered by wind. No celestial sign. No sudden warmth in the air. Just silence, and the faint rustle of grass.

He poured a small cup of mortal wine and raised it to his lips. He took a small sip first. For acknowledgment. For the body they had shared. Then he poured the rest out slowly, letting the wine soak into the dark soil until it disappeared.

There were many words he could have said, but most would have been meaningless.

So at last he said only:

“I’m sorry. And… thank you.”

The words were strange on his tongue, but they felt right.

For years, he’d lived with the gnawing unease of being a counterfeit — an intruder wearing another man’s face, walking through a life that wasn’t his. Every accomplishment, every ounce of respect, every friendship — all of it haunted by the thought that it wasn’t his. That it had been stolen.

But kneeling here, he finally understood.

He might have inherited Shen Jiu’s title, his peak, his disciples — even his broken reputation — but what he’d built from it was his. Every relationship he’d repaired, every battle he’d fought, every quiet act of care he’d offered — those had come from him. Shen Yuan.

Not the villain written in someone else’s trash novel. Not the tyrant everyone feared.

He wasn’t living in Shen Jiu’s shadow anymore.

He was living in his own light.

Shen Yuan had been given a second chance — absurdly, undeservedly — and he had made something out of it. Maybe that was enough. Maybe, someday, Shen Zhi would have the same chance.

A quiet life. A rebirth without chains.

He pressed his palm flat against the mound, feeling the cool earth under his hand. Then he bowed once more — low, sincere and final.

When he straightened, the sky had shifted toward gold. The river caught the light like glass.

Down by the water, Shang Qinghua was tossing pebbles and pretending he wasn’t getting misty-eyed about this whole thing.

Shen Qingqiu sighed and called out, “Hey you! Quit shifting your ass. We’re leaving.”

Airplane turned, waving both hands. “Coming, coming! Don’t ditch me, bro!”

Shen Qingqiu brushed off his robes, hiding the small smile tugging at his mouth.

He’d already been delayed too long. If Liu Qingge decided to come after him, he’d never hear the end of it.

Still… a small, traitorous part of him thought that if Liu Qingge did appear through the clouds to fetch him—

Well. Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t exactly complain.

He could almost picture it — the steady hand at his elbow, the tender look, the two of them rising together into the sky. And somewhere below, Shang Qinghua scrambling to catch up, hollering about unfair treatment.

Yes, Shen Qingqiu thought, casting one last glance toward the twin mounds beneath the willows.

It was time to go home.

***

The lamplight on Qiong Ding Peak burned low, its glow glancing off neat rows of scrolls and inkstones. The warmth did little against the chill that crept through the mountain air.

Yue Qingyuan set aside another report and pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose. Even a month after the rift had been sealed, the work had not lessened. If anything, it had multiplied.

Petitions from minor sects, supply accounts to reconcile, cultivation wards to restore—each more urgent than the last. The demonic invasion was over, but its shadow lingered still.

Even now, there was no rest for a Sect Leader.

A soft knock broke through the quiet. Yue Qingyuan straightened, composure slipping back into place like a familiar robe.

“Enter,” he said.

A young disciple stepped inside and bowed deeply. “Reporting to Sect Leader — Shen Shishu requests an audience.”

The brush in Yue Qingyuan’s hand stilled.

“…Shen Shishu?” he repeated, though he had heard well enough.

“Yes, Sect Leader.”

For a heartbeat, Yue Qingyuan forgot to breathe. Xiao Jiu never came to Qiong Ding Peak of his own accord. Their meetings were rare, and always by his own summons.

Had something happened?

He kept his voice steady. “Show him in.”

The disciple bowed again and withdrew.

Moments later, Xiao Jiu stepped through the doorway. His posture was immaculate, his expression calm; at first glance, nothing seemed amiss. Yet Yue Qingyuan, who had spent half a lifetime reading the smallest changes in that face, felt his heart tighten with worry.

He rose at once. “Xiao Jiu.”

Xiao Jiu bowed with perfect decorum. “Sect Leader.”

“Please, sit,” Yue Qingyuan said, already reaching for the teapot. He poured the tea himself—a habit he rarely indulged. “It’s Bai Mudan, sent from Hua Jing Sect yesterday. A fine fragrance. Try it.”

Xiao Jiu shook his head lightly. “Many thanks, Sect Leader, but this one will pass.”

Yue Qingyuan hesitated, then set the pot aside. The silence between them deepened, filled only by the soft crackle of the brazier.

At last, Xiao Jiu spoke. “I hope this one has not intruded upon the Sect Leader’s duties. I am aware your burdens are… considerable.”

“Xiao Jiu, you are always welcome here,” Yue Qingyuan said at once. “No matter the hour.”

For the briefest moment, a flicker — too swift to name — passed through Xiao Jiu’s eyes. Something like guilt, perhaps, or sorrow. It vanished before Yue Qingyuan could be sure.

“I see,” he said, tone perfectly even. “Then I am grateful.”

He straightened slightly, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “In truth, I came because there is something I wish to discuss.”

Yue Qingyuan inclined his head. “Speak freely.”

Xiao Jiu’s gaze lowered to the table. “First, I must thank Sect Leader for his continued patience—especially after recent events. I am aware I have… caused no small amount of trouble.”

The words struck like an old echo. Yue Qingyuan’s answer came before thought. “Xiao Jiu, none of this was your fault.”

A faint smile curved Xiao Jiu’s mouth—one of those polite, weightless ones. 

“Even so,” he said, with that quiet finality that always left Yue Qingyuan feeling he’d already lost the argument. 

He studied the untouched teacup between them. “Sect Leader,” he said after a pause, “there are matters which, though long past, continue to weigh upon the present. I believe it would be best—for both the sect and for ourselves—if some of them were… finally put to rest.”

His voice was steady, but the phrasing strange, distant — like a man speaking at a memorial rather than a conversation.

“Put to rest?” Yue Qingyuan repeated softly. “Xiao Jiu… are you unwell?”

Xiao Jiu blinked, faintly startled. “Unwell?”

“You’ve seemed pale of late,” Yue Qingyuan said carefully. “Is someone making things difficult for you again?”

“…Difficult?” Xiao Jiu repeated, tone edging toward disbelief.

“Has someone been spreading rumors?” Yue Qingyuan pressed, concern tightening his voice. “Or perhaps—if someone has wronged you—” He caught himself before finishing, but the tension was already there. “It is not… that Liu Shidi has overstepped, is it?”

There was a beat of perfect silence.

Then—

“…What?”

Xiao Jiu’s composure faltered — just a flicker, but enough to make Yue Qingyuan’s heart sink.

Yue Qingyuan hesitated. “He watches over you closely,” he said at last, each word chosen with care. “I thought—perhaps he had pressed too hard. You seemed…”

He trailed off. How was he to explain it? 

Xiao Jiu’s expression went through a series of shifts—surprise, realization, exasperation—and then, uncharacteristically, something close to disbelief.

“Sect Leader,” he said, tone flattening into politeness only by visible effort, “where—Heavens above—did you get that idea?”

Yue Qingyuan blinked. “…Then it isn’t true?”

“Of course it isn’t true,” Xiao Jiu said, and now he sounded almost offended on Liu Qingge’s behalf. “Liu Qingge would sooner swallow a sword than so much as raise his voice at me.”

He stopped there, realizing his own intensity, and visibly composed himself. His next words came quieter, steadier. “He—he has done nothing improper. I am not being mistreated, nor am I ill.”

Yue Qingyuan, abashed, bowed his head slightly. “Then I have misspoken. Forgive me.”

“For Heaven’s sake,” Xiao Jiu muttered under his breath, though the faint flush along his ears betrayed him. “Your concern is noted, Sect Leader. But unnecessary.”

He lifted his teacup—not to drink, only to give his hands purpose—and waited until his tone had settled again.

“What I meant earlier,” he said, choosing his words with care, “was not to question anyone’s conduct. I only wished to speak of—” He paused. “—of what still lies between us.”

Yue Qingyuan blinked, caught off guard. “Between us?”

Xiao Jiu met his gaze calmly. “Sect Leader has carried the memory of another man for many years,” he said. “But that man is gone. Keeping his ghost beside us serves neither you nor me.”

The words struck harder than their tone implied. 

After that qi deviation, the other Peak Lords had whispered that Qing Jing Peak Lord’s memories had burned away, that his temper had been tempered by damage too deep to mend. When the man who once met every word with thorns began instead to bow politely and speak without venom, none dared question the blessing.

Not even Yue Qingyuan.

He had told himself it was mercy—that Heaven had spared Xiao Jiu from old hatred, from pain too heavy to bear. That perhaps this calm, distant gentleness was a kind of peace.

And yet, somewhere deep within, something had grieved.

The man before him was composed, thoughtful, even kind. But his gaze no longer carried that defiant edge, the wary recognition that once said, I know you, even if I cannot forgive you.

Whatever bound them before had not simply unraveled. It had been replaced.

Yue Qingyuan had learned to smile at this new serenity, to be grateful for it. But now, hearing Xiao Jiu speak of letting his old self rest, it struck him with a cruel clarity: the peace he had wished for had cost him the only person who had ever truly known him.

Shen Jiu was truly gone.

And Yue Qingyuan, in the quiet ache of his chest, could not decide whether to thank the Heavens—or curse them.

Xiao Jiu set his teacup down. “I would ask that you… let him rest. And to treat what stands before you now… as someone else entirely.”

For a long while, Yue Qingyuan did not move.

The brazier hissed softly; a coal gave way and folded into ash. Beyond the window, the wind swept over Qiong Ding Peak—steady and unbroken, like the distant murmur of the sea in a dream.

Across the table, Xiao Jiu—no, Shen Qingqiu—sat very still, hands folded neatly, eyes lowered.

Yue Qingyuan’s throat felt tight.

“…I see,” he said at last, the words thin and brittle. “You wish for me to forget.”

Shen Qingqiu lifted his gaze. “Not to forget,” he said quietly. “Just… let me move on.”

Something in the phrasing—quiet, unaccusing—loosened the ache in Yue Qingyuan’s chest. For once, there was no wall in that gaze, no brittle composure guarding something wounded. Only honesty, simple and unforced.

He had waited years—lifetimes, perhaps—for Shen Qingqiu to stand before him without hatred. He had imagined many things to say then: apology, explanation… even the foolish hope of beginning again.

But the man before him now—this calm, self-contained Shen Qingqiu—was not the same soul who had once burned so fiercely.

He was right.

“I have asked too much of you before,” Yue Qingyuan said, setting the teapot down with care. “If this is the path you wish to take… then I will not hold you to the past any longer.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked, faint surprise breaking through his calm. “You would—”

“I would rather see you live,” Yue Qingyuan said, voice low but steady. “Truly live. That is enough.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders eased, and a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slipped free. He inclined his head.

“…Thank you,” he said softly. Then, after a pause, almost hesitant: “Qingyuan-ge.”

Yue Qingyuan stilled.

It had been years since he’d heard that name with neither scorn nor bitterness. The voice before him was not the same as the one from their youth, yet it carried a gentleness that felt like forgiveness.

A smile, small but sure, found its way to his lips.

Outside, wind swept across Qiong Ding Peak, carrying away the last chill of night. Inside, the lamplight burned steady and warm.

For the first time in many years, Yue Qingyuan thought that peace was not something to beg Heaven for.

It was something that could be kept.

***

The inn was almost unrecognizable.

A year ago, it had been a skeleton of warped beams and sighing floorboards, a roof that wept at the first hint of rain. Now, lanterns hung beneath the eaves, their golden light breathing warmth into polished wood and lacquered doors. The air shimmered with the scent of grilled river fish, rice wine, and laughter.

In a quiet corner, Shen Qingqiu watched as Liu Qingge sat across from him, expression grave, peeling a lychee with the same focus he used for demon-slaying.

“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said mildly, eyeing the small mountain of discarded shells, “you do realize I am capable of handling fruit myself.”

Liu Qingge didn’t even glance up. “You’ll stain your sleeves.”

Honestly. Married life—or whatever this was—had given the War God entirely new battlefields. This one apparently involved protecting him from sticky fingers.

Shen Qingqiu took the lychee, bit into it, and very studiously did not smile when Liu Qingge turned aside, pretending deep fascination with the passing crowd.

Outside, the night was alive—music, chatter, children racing by with lanterns shaped like carp and rabbits. The streets gleamed in their glow. Once a forgotten pit stop, the town now thrived: traders hawked bright silks and spice bundles, cultivators rested their swords at the inn, scholars argued poetry in the courtyard, someone strummed a pipa near the gate.

Under Gongyi Xiao’s careful rule, the once-tarnished Huan Hua Palace had turned its lands into something almost thriving. At first, there had been doubt—muttered predictions of failure. Yet within a year, the corruption had been scrubbed away, and prosperity had crept back like spring through thawing soil. Even the most cynical old foxes now bowed their heads and admitted it: the boy had done what few masters before him had managed.

Inside, warmth and noise pressed close. Servants darted between tables, wine splashed, and the rafters seemed to hum with life. Meiyun stood in the center of it all, a general marshalling her troops.

“Mind your elbows! That’s soup, not water — unless you plan to serve the guests a bath!” she barked, swatting at a passing waiter.

The innkeeper—her mother—hurried by with a tray of steaming bowls, muttering, “Born to shout, that one.”

Shen Qingqiu hid his amusement behind his sleeve.

He and Liu Qingge had visited enough times this past year that the staff no longer treated them as some lofty cultivators but as relatives who dropped by too rarely and were therefore subjected to excessive fussing whenever they did.

When ayi reached their table, she clucked her tongue. “Ai-ya, Xiansheng, every time I see you, you’ve grown thinner! Is cultivation so hard you forget to eat?”

Shen Qingqiu smiled, courteous as ever. “Ayi exaggerates. Your cooking is enough to restore anyone’s vitality.”

“Flatterer.” She swatted his shoulder with her cloth, but her grin was bright. “It’s good to see you both. Without your help, this inn would still be rubble. We can never thank you enough.”

“It was the least I could do after all the kindness you showed me before.” Shen Qingqiu said softly. 

Her face softened. “Because of you, I can rest easy. When I’m gone, this place will keep my daughter safe.”

“A-niang!” Meiyun almost dropped her tray. “Don’t say things like that!”

Liu Qingge looked mildly alarmed, but Shen Qingqiu, long accustomed to civilian dramatics, just set down his cup. “Ayi jests,” he said lightly. “With her energy, I suspect this inn will see her bustling when the rest of us are dust.”

Ayi laughed. “Sweet talker. If you were my son, I’d have to keep a broom handy.”

Liu Qingge, who’d been quietly observing, muttered, “You already do.”

Ayi laughed until she had to wipe her eyes.

Beneath the table, Liu Qingge’s hand brushed against Shen Qingqiu’s—barely a touch, as if by chance. Shen Qingqiu’s heartbeat tripped, but he didn’t look up. He only reached for his teacup, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

From the far corner, a young maid collided with a stable boy, firewood scattering, dishes rattling perilously but—miraculously—none breaking.

“Ah—s-sorry!” the boy stammered.

“No, it’s my fault!” the girl said, bowing so low she nearly upset her tray.

They both crouched to pick up the same bowl, hands brushing. Silence. Then twin blushes bloomed like early peach blossoms.

From her post by the counter, Meiyun leaned on one elbow, smiling dreamily. “The start of a great romance.”

Shen Qingqiu arched an eyebrow. “You seem quite certain.”

“Please, Shen Xiansheng, I’ve been listening to the storytellers in the market since before you were born,” she said, with all the authority of someone twenty years his junior. “Clumsy beginnings make the best endings.”

Ayi rolled her eyes. “If they drop one more dish, you’ll be finishing shifts for both of them, girl.”

“Still worth it,” Meiyun said cheerfully.

The crowd had begun to thicken outside and the night had grown bright enough to rival the stars.

When they finally rose from their table, Meiyun escorted them to the door like cherished family.

“Take care, Xiansheng—and you too, Master Liu!” she called, waving her cloth like a banner. “Don’t forget to come back after the fireworks!”

“If you’re still open,” Shen Qingqiu replied with a faint smile, “we may.”

Outside, the streets pulsed with color. Silk lanterns swayed above them like slow, breathing creatures; firelight curled through the air in golden ribbons. Vendors called out their wares, laughter spilled from open teahouses, and the scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with temple incense and fruit wine.

Somewhere, a bamboo flute played—a thin, wistful tune weaving through the noise like smoke.

They walked side by side through it all, two figures in white and green, the crowd parting unconsciously around their robes. Everywhere, people shouted blessings and tied red ribbons to trees, tossed paper lotuses onto the canal, called out to strangers as though the whole city had agreed to share a single heartbeat of joy.

And yet, for all the light and motion, the world seemed to slow whenever their sleeves brushed.

Shen Qingqiu, master of propriety, kept his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves.

Liu Qingge, master of self-control, kept his gaze steadfastly ahead.

Neither deception was convincing.

Every time they passed beneath a lantern, its glow slipped between them like a breath. Every time Shen Qingqiu glanced his way, Liu Qingge’s eyes darted instantly aside—as though the sight itself was dangerous.

He was, of course, right.

They turned onto a quieter street lined with smaller stalls. The air here was softer—sweet with sugar and fermenting fruit, the sharp tang of wine on cooling air. Shen Qingqiu slowed, then stopped. Recognition curved across his lips.

“Ah,” he said lightly. “It seems fate enjoys repetition.”

Liu Qingge followed his gaze. Ahead, an elderly couple worked behind a small table strung with jars of glaze-bright ceramic. 

The husband looked up, blinked—and broke into a wide grin. “Immortal Masters! Still as refined as ever! To think we’d meet again!”

“Indeed,” Shen Qingqiu said warmly, dipping his head. “This one never thought to find you here.”

The wife wiped her hands on her apron. “Our younger son married, so we moved east to help him. These festivals keep us busier than the harvest!”

Pleasantries followed, easy as river water. Soon the man was pouring cups again. “You must try our new blend—peach and jasmine! Lighter than last year’s.”

The wife poured for Shen Qingqiu, then paused before Liu Qingge. “And for Master?”

Shen Qingqiu’s mouth twitched. “He—”

“I’ll have one,” Liu Qingge said, before he could intervene.

That earned him a brief, startled silence—and then, from Shen Qingqiu, the smallest hum of amusement. He accepted his cup, eyes glinting in the lanternlight.

“To courtesy,” Liu Qingge said, the barest hint of teasing under the formality.

Their gazes met. He drank.

The wine was smooth, floral, faintly sweet—but Shen Qingqiu barely tasted it. His attention lingered on the curve of Liu Qingge’s throat, the faint flush rising in its wake.

…So beautiful. Absolutely unfair.

Shen Qingqiu turned to the couple with perfect composure, voice even and elegant. “Truly excellent. Your skill improves with every season. The blend is smoother this year—quite a delight.”

He offered several spirit coins, far more than the price, and added mildly, “We’ll take a jar for the road.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Liu Qingge’s composure waver—the faintest flush beneath his collar, the tightening of his jaw.

When they left, the streets seemed to have grown narrower — or perhaps it was just that the air between them had thickened.

They hadn’t gone far before Liu Qingge stopped.

Shen Qingqiu turned, half-smiling. “Is the wine too strong?”

Liu Qingge didn’t answer. He caught Shen Qingqiu’s wrist and tugged him down a side street. The lane was narrow and dim, bordered by dark stone walls and a single lantern swaying gently in the night breeze.

“Liu Qing—” Shen Qingqiu barely got the name out before his back met the wall—cool stone through silk, the shock of it sending a small tremor through him. The space between them vanished; the air felt thick enough to drown in.

Liu Qingge’s hand still circled his wrist, firm, steady—but his pulse betrayed him, jumping under the skin. His breath was warm, close enough that every exhale brushed Shen Qingqiu’s cheek.

For one drawn-out heartbeat, neither moved. Then the restraint snapped.

The kiss wasn’t gentle, nor rough—it was hungry.

And Shen Qingqiu, for once in his overly complicated existence, didn’t have a single complaint.

Liu Qingge kissed like a man starved for water, as though he’d been wandering in the desert for lifetimes. Shen Qingqiu’s breath hitched; one hand found the front of Liu Qingge’s robe, gripping tight just to anchor himself.

He could taste the faint trace of peach and jasmine from the wine between them, sweet and sharp at once. Liu Qingge deepened the kiss, and the world contracted to the sound of their breathing, the scrape of cloth, the flicker of the lantern above.

When his hand slid to Shen Qingqiu’s lower back, slow and sure, it sent a shiver up his spine. Heat bloomed where those fingers lingered. It was infuriating how easily Liu Qingge could undo him.

Shen Qingqiu’s mind produced the entirely unhelpful thought that if they weren’t in the middle of a town street, he might be tempted to—

But there were footsteps somewhere—children laughing, the sound of someone’s door sliding shut—and reason clawed its way back.

They parted at last, breath uneven, faces still too close. Liu Qingge didn’t retreat. His lips brushed the line of Shen Qingqiu’s jaw, then lower, ghosting against his throat. The sigh that escaped was entirely unintentional.

“Qingge…” Shen Qingqiu’s voice came out rougher than intended. He forced himself to breathe, to find some fragment of dignity. “No… we’re in public.”

That, at least, got through.

Liu Qingge froze. A soft sigh pierced his collarbone, and he forced himself to pull away, using all the strength he had. Liu Qingge, his gaze slightly glassy, ​​stroked Shen Qingqiu's cheek, his finger touching his lips, which were swollen from kisses.

The lantern light flickered across his face, catching in his eyes—dark irises edged with that faint, impossible silver. He looked utterly dazed.

Shen Qingqiu would never admit it aloud, but… of all the countless nights and countless versions of this man that lived in his memory, Liu Qingge had never looked more devastatingly handsome than he did right now—standing there, breathless, as if the act of restraint itself might break him.

A soft giggle shattered the quiet, light, musical—and far too close.

Shen Qingqiu froze mid-breath. Slowly, he tilted his head up.

Above them, a row of women leaned over the carved balcony of the neighboring building. Silk sleeves draped like petals in the evening breeze, catching the glow of red and pink lanterns that swung lazily overhead. Their laughter glittered in the air, mingling with faint music and the scent of sandalwood and plum wine.

For half a heartbeat, his mind rejected what his eyes so treacherously confirmed. 

Oh no.

The painted eaves, the perfumed air, the lanterns swaying like teasing smiles—he knew this place too well.

The Garden of Flowing Light.

Of all the streets in the entire city, Heaven had decided to deposit him right beneath that balcony.

And now, here he was—pinned against a wall, robe in disarray, lips reddened from… entirely non-combat-related activities—while above, an entire audience of women blossomed like amused flowers in spring.

Several of them whispered behind embroidered fans, eyes sparkling with recognition.

“Ah! Isn’t that the solemn scholar from last year?” one gasped, voice dripping delight.

Her companion tittered. “The one who swore he wasn’t interested in women?”

“Oh heavens, it is him!” another chimed, practically vibrating with glee. “And look—he’s found his only one man after all!”

Shen Qingqiu’s soul attempted a strategic retreat from his body.

Beside him, Liu Qingge had gone utterly still. His brow furrowed slightly, eyes flicking upward to the chorus of laughing women. “…Shen Qingqiu,” he said, voice calm but faintly puzzled, “are those—?”

“Not a word,” Shen Qingqiu hissed under his breath. He could feel the mortification crawling up his neck like fire ants.

But Heaven, ever entertained by his suffering, was far from finished.

“Gongzi!” one of the women called brightly, waving a silk sleeve. “You never said your ‘business’ would be so successful! Did you marry him?”

“I—this—no—this one merely—” Shen Qingqiu’s voice cracked mid-denial, dying a dignified death halfway through the sentence.

“Look at them!” another squealed, leaning so far over the railing that her companion had to grab her sleeves to keep her from tumbling over. “Such a proper couple—our shy scholar and his fierce general!”

The balcony erupted in laughter—fans snapping open like butterflies, bracelets chiming in rhythm to their mirth.

Shen Qingqiu made a strangled sound that might have been a prayer for spontaneous combustion and buried his face against Liu Qingge’s shoulder.

“Qi Qingqi won’t let me live through this,” he muttered darkly.

A large, calloused hand rested against his back—steady, grounding. Liu Qingge didn’t say anything, but Shen Qingqiu could feel the quiet amusement in the curve of his posture.

“Ai-ya, Meishi! You’ve completely embarrassed him!” another voice cried between giggles. “Now he’ll never come back!”

“Maybe he will—next time, bring your husband!”

The balcony dissolved into chaos and Shen Qingqiu’s patience finally gave up its ghost.

He inhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, gathering the full, terrifying dignity of a Cang Qiong Peak Lord who had absolutely not just been called someone’s wife in public. 

“Ladies,” he said, his tone the purest, calmest deathly politeness, “please enjoy your evening.”

Before any of them could respond, he caught Liu Qingge’s sleeve and all but dragged him back toward the main street.

Liu Qingge followed without protest, his expression unreadable—except for the faint, unmistakable curve of a smile.

Shen Qingqiu shot him a sideways glare. “Not. A. Word.”

Liu Qingge didn’t speak. But the low, amused rumble in his chest said everything.

***

An Ding Peak was chaos. Organized chaos—but still chaos.

Every square chi of the courtyard was buried under a mountain of “temporary storage”: lacquer chests, ancient scroll boxes, porcelain cranes, folding screens, lamps shaped like mythical beasts, and at least three disturbingly realistic statues that might once have been demons. Might still be demons, if one was unlucky.

Shang Qinghua stood in the center of it all, hair half out of its knot, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a battered notebook clutched like a sacred text.

“All right, all right, move with purpose!” he called, voice already hoarse from shouting. “We are not a junkyard—well, fine, technically we are—but let’s pretend we have standards! Boxes from Qiong Ding to the left! Anything humming ominously goes in the shade! And for heaven’s sake, if it starts glowing, tag it and back away quietly! No screaming this time!”

A faint sizzling sound punctuated his sentence. Somewhere in the back, a disciple yelped.

Shang Qinghua didn’t even look up. “What did I just say?! You think your Wei Shibo sent that over because it was safe?!”

Around him, disciples bustled in controlled panic, their qi sweeping over relics in shimmering waves. Every few breaths, something sparked, coughed, or vibrated menacingly. The faint scent of singed talisman paper lingered in the air, blending with the dust of centuries.

He sighed and jotted something in his notebook. Inventory day. His least favorite day of the month. But after the latest round of sect cleaning, all the “unneeded” items from the various peaks had conveniently found their way to An Ding Peak for “temporary storage.”

Translation: dump it on the logistics guys and let them deal with it.

Shang Qinghua’s brush scratched over the page as he muttered to himself. “Four lacquered chests, one… possibly cursed pipa, five—wait, what even is this thing?!”

“Shizun!”

He didn’t look up. “Yes, yes, if it bites, throw salt at it.”

“No, uh… there’s this mirror…”

“Then what do you think?” he said absently. “Record it, seal it, stack it in the pile—”

Then his qi prickled.

The air shifted—subtle at first, like a breath caught between heartbeats. Every hair on his neck stood on end.

Shang Qinghua froze, brush hovering above the page. Slowly—oh so slowly—he turned.

The mirror in his disciple’s hands no longer reflected bronze. It gleamed, molten and liquid, like sunlight trapped in a pool of gold. His own startled reflection stared back at him, eyes wide, mouth half-open in dawning horror.

No. No no no. 

His notebook hit the ground. “Put that down! Don’t look at it! Don’t even—”

Flash.

Light swallowed the courtyard whole.

Shang Qinghua’s breath vanished; his qi convulsed as though it had been yanked inside out. The world went white—then gold—then an unholy combination of both. His reflection warped in the light, lips forming the words he was already shouting.

“Oh COME ON!”

The mirror pulsed, and the wave of energy slammed into him. His knees buckled, hair rose on end, and his spiritual core let out the internal equivalent of a very creative profanity.

“Oh great, this is how I die!” he gasped, half-choked. “Not in glorious battle, not in bed with Mobei-jun, but buried under other people’s trash!”

The disciples gaped. He snapped his mouth shut with a click, far too late.

A heartbeat of stunned silence—

—and then a scream shook the air so violently that birds took flight from the mountain forests below.

He was so screwed.