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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. “We’ll need three hours in 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 Xiangsheng, 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, Xiangsheng.” 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, Xiangsheng,” 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.”