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Chapter Text

Liu Qingge had not planned on attending the Peak Lords’ meeting.

He rarely did—mostly because the last time he’d shown up, Shang Qinghua had ended up weeping into his own spreadsheets over “budgetary tribulations,” and Liu Qingge decided that witnessing it once was already too much.

But when word reached him that Shen Qingqiu had apparently obliterated half of An Ding Peak over some trivial irritation, Liu Qingge found himself standing outside Qiong Ding Peak before the official summons even arrived.

The great hall seemed smaller than usual—crowded, stifling. The air itself buzzed with polite gossip. He took his usual seat near the end of the table, perfectly content to remain unnoticed. That contentment lasted right up until Shen Qingqiu swept in.

Fan open, robes pristine, expression as smooth as still water.

He looked fine.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But Liu Qingge had learned that Shen Qingqiu’s version of “fine” usually meant “one mild breath away from collapse.” His fan snapped open and shut with a rhythm too quick, his smile perfectly painted but brittle at the edges. And when his eyes—sharp, green, too knowing—slid past Liu Qingge’s, they skittered.

Something was wrong.

He was still thinking about that when the meeting began.

Yue Qingyuan spoke first, his voice steady and even. Shang Qinghua followed, sweat beading at his temples as he babbled about “temporary reallocations” and “herbal discrepancies,” which usually meant he’d lost something expensive again.

Liu Qingge half-listened. Mostly, he watched Shen Qingqiu. The slight tremor in his fingers. The restless flick of his fan. A coil of tension wound tight in his shoulders. 

He was restless. Tense. Like a bowstring drawn too tight.

Then Yue Qingyuan turned to him.

“As we discussed last month, the younger disciples’ joint exercises have improved overall coordination between the peaks. It may be worthwhile to continue with the mixed formations training into the summer term. What does Shen Shidi think?”

Liu Qingge expected some dry, perfectly measured response—something about comparative discipline efficiency or the benefits of cross-peak education.

Instead, Shen Qingqiu blinked once and said very clearly:

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

The silence that followed was absolute.

Liu Qingge stared at him. A what? message?

Even for Shen Qingqiu, who occasionally spouted nonsense, this was... unusual.

Across the table, Shang Qinghua made a noise suspiciously close to strangled laughter. Someone coughed. Yue Qingyuan’s polite serenity faltered into mild, horrified confusion.

Shen Qingqiu, for his part, went red to the tips of his ears and started fanning himself with excessive vigor.

Was this the start of qi deviation? Possession? Could it be that Shen Qingqiu had finally lost his mind and no one had noticed until now?

The meeting stumbled onward, mercifully redirected by Yue Qingyuan. Liu Qingge stayed silent, as always, but his focus never left the man beside him. Shen Qingqiu’s usual poise was gone, replaced by quiet panic barely disguised under calm nods.

When it finally ended, the moment the sect leader dismissed them, Shen Qingqiu was already halfway to the door.

Well, this won't do.

Liu Qingge moved before he could think about it, catching his sleeve.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?”

Shen Qingqiu startled—actually startled, eyes wide, fan half-raised like a shield. Then, without hesitation or control, he said, “This Shixiong is rushing to the bamboo house, barricading himself inside, and never emerging again.”

Liu Qingge stared at him.

Shen Qingqiu stared back, mortified, as if he’d just confessed a crime.

It was almost impressive, how fast disaster followed him.

Liu Qingge exhaled through his nose, slowly. “You do remember I’m cleansing your meridians today?”

A pause. Then, faintly—

“Ah. Right.”

Of course. For a man so quick-witted, Shen Qingqiu’s self-concern was selectively absent.

Liu Qingge already resigned. “Then come.”

Shen Qingqiu hesitated, eyes darting like a trapped fox searching for ten different escape routes at once and finding none. Finally, with an expression of profound martyrdom, he adjusted his robes and followed.

It figured.

Even when Liu Qingge didn’t plan to involve himself, Shen Qingqiu had a way of dragging him straight into the storm.

***

The bamboo house was quiet enough to hear the breath of the wind through the leaves. 

Shen Qingqiu was across from him, still as a painting—elegant, faultlessly poised. Even the tilt of his wrist looked rehearsed.

Liu Qingge sat where he was told, armor left at the door. The tea tray between them gleamed faintly in the afternoon light.

He had spent enough time here to know the rhythm of this place—the faint creak of the floorboards underfoot, the whisper of bamboo sighing against the eaves. Qing Jing Peak had long since ceased to feel foreign.

It was strange, realizing that. These days, he visited no home but his own, and no one came to his doors unless duty demanded it. Not his disciples, not his peers—no one except, perhaps, Liu Mingyang.

But this house… this one, he knew by heart. He could have walked its rooms blindfolded and never once lost his way. The quiet here was not an intruder’s quiet; it was a familiar silence, the kind he did not need to fill.

Shen Qingqiu poured tea with meticulous grace, sleeves sliding back just enough to reveal the white edge of his wrist. Every motion was perfectly measured, the embodiment of a cultivated gentleman.

It was almost convincing. For someone else.

Liu Qingge had learned long ago how to read the signs others missed: the faint hitch in Shen Qingqiu’s breath, the subtle tension beneath the surface. The way his hand trembled for a fraction of a second before he steadied it.

For a brief, uneasy moment, he wondered if Without a Cure had played out again. But no. He knew the symptoms: the fevered qi, the glazed eyes. This was something else. 

It wasn’t the first time Liu Qingge had seen him like this—perched on the edge of something sharp, pretending it wasn’t there.

But that time, his favorite disciple died.

Now, seeing that same brittle calm again, Liu Qingge felt the weight of dread settle low in his chest.

When the cup was offered, Liu Qingge took it without ceremony and downed the contents in one swallow.

Hot. Leafy. Unremarkable.

Across the table, Shen Qingqiu blinked once. His expression went from patient civility to exasperated disbelief in the span of a heartbeat.

“Shidi,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “That is not how one drinks tea.”

“It served its purpose,” Liu Qingge replied.

The sigh that followed was soft, long-suffering, and entirely familiar. It said, as clearly as words: You barbarian, I give up on you.

Good. It meant he was still himself.

Liu Qingge set the cup down and extended a hand across the table, palm up. A silent offer. Shen Qingqiu hesitated—always pretending he didn’t know the routine—then laid his wrist against Liu Qingge’s palm. His pulse stuttered.

Liu Qingge began channeling spiritual energy, steady and deliberate. Warm light flowed from his hand, tracing the path of disrupted qi beneath Shen Qingqiu’s skin. Slowly, the pallor eased, replaced by a faint, healthy flush.

He was about to withdraw when something shimmered in the corner of his vision.

A mirror sat propped in the shadows, half-covered by a carelessly thrown cloth. The surface gleamed faintly, though no sunlight touched it. Qi pulsed from it—dark and restless.

Liu Qingge’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

Shen Qingqiu froze. The words that left his mouth came helpless and unbidden, “That is a cursed mirror that forces a person to tell the truth.”

The pulse beneath Liu Qingge’s fingers spiked violently. His gaze flicked from the mirror back to Shen Qingqiu, whose composure was now unraveling in real time.

“If it’s cursed,” Liu Qingge said evenly, “why is it here and not with Mo Qingluo?”

The man could be eccentric, yes, but he knew his business. There was no reason a cursed relic should be entrusted to Shen Qingqiu—unless...

Shen Qingqiu’s lips parted. “Because I am cursed,” he blurted, flinching as though the words had struck him. “And I have no intention of making that public.”

Liu Qingge’s grip tightened without meaning to. The skin beneath his thumb was warm; the pulse thumped violently.

“…Cursed,” he repeated quietly.

Shen Qingqiu looked away. For a man who thrived on control, the helplessness in that small motion was unbearable.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said quietly.

“I will not.”

He meant it. He would rather cut out his own tongue than betray that trust. Still, something about that fearful look on Shen Qingqiu’s face made him ache.

“If this is what you fear,” Liu Qingge said, his tone steady, “I will not take advantage of it.”

For a moment, Shen Qingqiu just stared at him. Then, carefully, his posture softened. “This Shixiong… is grateful.”

The sound of it lodged somewhere in his chest.

“When asked a direct question,” Shen Qingqiu added after a pause, “I cannot resist the call of the curse.”

And suddenly everything made sense. The strange outburst at the meeting, the rigid control, the sudden disappearances. Of course he hadn’t gone to Yue Qingyuan. Shen Qingqiu would rather suffer alone than be pitied.

Liu Qingge’s hand tightened imperceptibly, grounding him. 

He had questions—too many—but each one would force an answer Shen Qingqiu couldn’t choose to give. Liu Qingge had promised not to take advantage, and he would keep that promise—even if it meant speaking like a fool who hadn’t learned proper words.

“You don’t know how to lift it,” he said at last.

Shen Qingqiu hesitated, then sighed. “This Shixiong… has thought of methods. But their success is uncertain, and attempting them might draw attention I’d rather avoid.”

Liu Qingge nodded slowly. 

Shen Qingqiu’s pride was armor—thin in places, but still the only thing keeping him upright. Without it, he’d bleed out fast. The man would never ask for help; he’d rather walk into a wall and pretend it was part of the plan.

Still, that quiet acceptance—that tiny shift in his posture—spoke louder than words ever could.

And Liu Qingge had always understood him best when he wasn’t speaking.

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

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes—green like a young bamboo—flicked up at him, startled. His lips parted, then closed again. A faint heat rose along his cheekbones.

The air between them felt charged—like the moment before lightning struck.

Liu Qingge looked away before he could do something foolish, like act on the impulse to close that distance.

He didn’t know when this had started—this pull, this instinct to protect, this inexplicable gravity. Maybe it had always been there, buried beneath rivalry and sword drills and mutual exasperation.

But one thing was certain: there was no world in which he would let Shen Qingqiu stand alone against this. 

“In that case,” Shen Qingqiu said suddenly, a hint of mischief returning, “what would Liu Shidi say about chopping off a couple of demon heads?”

The smallest smile tugged at Liu Qingge’s mouth.

“I would say that’s where we should start.”

If the mirror craved the truth, let it take his first—

for as long as Liu Qingge drew breath, no force could ever claim Shen Qingqiu.

***

Qing Jing Peak was almost unnaturally quiet at this hour.

Mist clung to the narrow paths, silvering the bamboo leaves. The courtyard lamps had long burned out, and the few disciples on guard duty looked as though they were halfway to joining them.

If they’d been Bai Zhan disciples, he’d have had them running laps until their legs fell off. But Shen Qingqiu’s disciples… well, “discipline” meant something entirely different here. Something involving tea breaks and poetry, probably.

Still, Liu Qingge didn’t let it slide completely. He shot them a look—sharp, pointed, and wordless. The effect was immediate: both boys jerked upright like they’d been speared through the spine, suddenly very alert to the thrilling sight of the empty courtyard.

Satisfied, Liu Qingge continued toward the bamboo house.

At the door, he stopped. His hand hovered for a beat. Manners were habits that refused to die—his mother had drilled them into him early. You didn’t storm into another man’s home. You waited, you knocked. You weren’t a brute, even if half the sect insisted otherwise.

Then again, this was Shen Qingqiu.

Knocking for him before dawn was an exercise in futility.

The man could sleep through heavenly tribulation itself. And if, by some miracle, he did wake, it would only be to declare vengeance upon the one who dared disturb his rest.

Liu Qingge had seen it once—years ago, an ill-timed visit that ended with Shen Qingqiu snarling from under a blanket like some furious spirit beast. It had been burned into his memory ever since.

He tried anyway. Once. Twice. A third time. The hollow knock echoed through the bamboo.

No answer.

He exhaled through his nose and pushed the door open.

Inside, the air was warm and faintly scented with jasmine oil. A tangled heap of blankets occupied the bed, rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. One lock of dark hair trailed across the pillow, catching what little light filtered through the paper screens.

Liu Qingge stared for a moment longer than necessary.

So this was what Shen Qingqiu looked like when he wasn’t busy performing. No fan, no smug smile, no precise composure—just… soft. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way that made Liu Qingge’s throat feel tight.

The blanket shifted, a small sound escaping from within.

His mind, usually a model of discipline, took one look at the curve of that pale neck and went abruptly blank.

He could almost see it: this same sight, every morning, sunlight catching on that hair, the faint crease between those brows softening as Shen Qingqiu slept beside him—

Liu Qingge blinked hard. Absolutely not.

He was here for a reason.

And the reason was not this.

And yet—his pulse wouldn’t slow down. Heat prickled at the back of his neck. He was a grown man, a Peak Lord, not a fifteen-year-old boy ambushed by a pretty face.

Annoyed with himself, he decided the best course of action was to treat Shen Qingqiu like an obstinate disciple.

He yanked the blanket away.

The reaction was immediate. Shen Qingqiu shivered violently, curling up like a cat startled by a basin of cold water. He blinked at him, bleary-eyed and utterly disoriented, hair a mess, voice rough from sleep.

“…Liu Shidi? What time is it?”

Liu Qingge tried to remember how to speak like a human being. “Mao Shi.”

The confusion on Shen Qingqiu’s face turned slow and dreadful. “...Five? Why—why in all heavens are you waking me at five in the morning?”

The tone was pure petulance—half complaint, half sleepy outrage—and something in Liu Qingge’s chest gave a painful lurch. It was ridiculous. Adorable. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to drag him out of bed. He wanted—

He did not want to think about what he wanted.

“Almost two shichen’s flight,” he said shortly. “If we want to strike before the beast retreats to its den, you should start dressing now.”

That should have ended it.

Except Shen Qingqiu just looked at him. Then said, with infuriating calm, “Shidi… do you intend to watch this Shixiong get dressed, or is this your way of volunteering to assist?”

Liu Qingge choked on air.

He could feel his composure splinter. Heat slammed into his face before reason could intervene. He opened his mouth to answer, found no words, and shut it again.

And then—just to make things infinitely worse—the edge of Shen Qingqiu’s robe slipped, revealing a stretch of pale skin at his collarbone.

That was the moment Liu Qingge knew he needed to leave before he did something catastrophically stupid.

“I will wait outside,” he managed, the words scraping out of him like gravel. “If you do not emerge within one ke, I’ll drag you out by the scruff of your neck, regardless of what you’re wearing.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and left, fast.

Outside, the air was crisp and cold, cutting against his overheated skin. He exhaled slowly, counting the beats until his pulse stopped trying to hammer its way out of his ribs.

He drew in a breath, counted, exhaled. Once. Twice. Tried to erase the image burned into his mind.

It didn’t work.

He set his jaw, eyes on the horizon.

If Shen Qingqiu made him wait longer, someone was going to end up running laps after all.

By the time Shen Qingqiu finally emerged, the sun had already cleared the treetops.

Liu Qingge had been standing in the courtyard for a full ke, still as stone, trying not to think about what might be taking so long. When the door finally opened, he nearly exhaled in relief—but stopped short at the sight of him.

Shen Qingqiu stepped out, robe collar straight, hair neatly bound, the perfect image of a Qing Jing Peak Lord—except his eyes were still faintly heavy-lidded from sleep, his movements unhurried, the crisp edges of his usual grace softened.

Liu Qingge had seen him composed in battle, immaculate before the sect, sharp-tongued in argument. This—gentle, half-awake, almost human—was new. It made something in his chest pull taut.

He pushed the thought aside before it could take root.

He summoned his sword instead, more abruptly than necessary. “We should go.”

When he glanced back, Shen Qingqiu still hadn’t moved. There was a faint blankness in his gaze. Liu Qingge didn’t even have to imagine how that would end.

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

Shen Qingqiu looked mildly offended, which was proof enough that he was still half-asleep. Liu Qingge sighed inwardly and, before Shen Qingqiu could retort, reached out to catch his wrist.

He pulled him forward—perhaps a little more firmly than necessary—and set him in front of himself on the blade. It was a departure from the usual arrangement, but practicality won out. If Shen Qingqiu was going to faint from lack of sleep or get distracted mid-flight, better to have him where Liu Qingge could catch him.

Nothing to do with the faint warmth seeping through two layers of silk, or how little distance—barely two cun—separated his chest from Shen Qingqiu’s back.

He set his hand on Shen Qingqiu’s thigh, anchoring him. “Hold still,” he said, as evenly as he could manage.

Then they rose.

The courtyard and bamboo grove fell away beneath them. Clouds spread open like gauze, the wind clean and sharp in his ears. Liu Qingge had flown this route a hundred times before; the landscape below was familiar, unremarkable.

But the man in front of him wasn’t.

Shen Qingqiu’s detachment had slipped. His eyes were wide, almost bright, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as the wind caught his sleeve. He tilted his head slightly, gaze sweeping across the open sky as if it were the first time he’d ever seen it.

It was ridiculous. He’d been flying for decades. Yet every time Liu Qingge had seen him in the air, that same expression returned—as if the world was something worth marveling at.

Liu Qingge’s chest tightened, a slow, traitorous warmth coiling there. The kind that whispered of foolish thoughts—like staying aloft a little longer, just to keep that look on his face.

A flock of cranes swept past, white wings flashing in the light. Shen Qingqiu’s body leaned imperceptibly toward them, as though some part of him wanted to follow. Liu Qingge’s hand tightened reflexively on his thigh, steadying him before he could slip.

Shen Qingqiu startled, glancing back over his shoulder. A faint blush touched his cheeks.

Liu Qingge immediately turned his gaze toward the horizon.

The silence between them stretched, filled only by the rush of wind.

When Shen Qingqiu finally spoke, it was quieter. “Shidi... thank you. For agreeing to help. You probably had more important things to do.”

Liu Qingge’s first impulse was to say that there was nothing more important. There were few things in this world he wouldn’t drop if Shen Qingqiu asked. He’d long stopped pretending otherwise. 

“...It is nothing,” he said instead. 

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

“Your secrets belong only to you,” Liu Qingge replied. The words left him before he could think them through. “Share them if you wish. If not—no one has the right to take them.”

It was simple decency.

But when Shen Qingqiu turned to look at him, eyes warm and open, was looking at him as though he’d just hung the moon.

That look did things to him.

It was nothing.

And yet, for that look alone, he thought—just maybe—he’d find a way to bring the moon down if Shen Qingqiu asked.

***

Of course, as usually happened when Shen Qingqiu was involved, nothing went according to plan.

Liu Qingge should’ve known better by now. Shen Qingqiu had a talent for turning strategy into suicide attempt. He called it “calculated risk.” Liu Qingge called it reckless idiocy.

And now here they were — sword hovering over a stretch of wilderness, the horizon bleeding into dusk, and Shen Qingqiu half-unconscious in his arms, breathing shallowly against his shoulder.

The venom left thin black tracings beneath his skin, curling like frost. Liu Qingge’s fingers found his pulse — weak and unsteady. Every rise of his chest felt too slight, every exhale too fragile.

Liu Qingge’s grip tightened. He forced his breathing to stay even. Panic would help nothing. But his mind refused to listen.

Should’ve moved faster. Should’ve shielded him instead. Should’ve—

He cut the thought off. No sense in shoulds. Not when Shen Qingqiu needed him lucid, not unraveling.

A town came into view below, little more than a scatter of roofs around a crooked main street. He descended fast, boots striking the dirt hard enough to throw dust. Shen Qingqiu stirred faintly at the impact, a quiet sound escaping his throat.

“Hold on,” Liu Qingge muttered, not sure if he was talking to Shen Qingqiu or himself.

He pushed open the door of the nearest inn with his shoulder. It slammed against the wall with a crack that made everyone in the room freeze.

Heads turned — farmers, travelers, a merchant with his bowl halfway to his mouth. All of them stared.

He ignored them.

“Room,” Liu Qingge said curtly.

The young innmaiden behind the counter blinked, startled. “A-ah—of course, Immortal Master! Just a moment, we have one avail—”

“Now.”

That single word, low and sharp, cut through her stammering. The girl nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to fetch a key. He didn’t mean to frighten her — but the sight of Shen Qingqiu’s head lolling against his arm, his breathing still too shallow — every nerve in his body was strung tight, stretched thin by fear.

The innmaiden returned, hands trembling. “S-second floor, end of the hall—”

He was already moving.

The few guests who hadn’t already cleared a path scrambled to get out of his way. The wooden stairs creaked under his boots as he climbed, every sound too loud in his ears.

The room was plain — clean, at least. He set Shen Qingqiu down on the bed as gently as he could.

“Shidi…?” The word rasped weakly from Shen Qingqiu’s throat, more air than sound. His eyes flickered open for a heartbeat, unfocused.

“I’m here,” Liu Qingge said, too gruff, but his hand was already brushing the damp hair from Shen Qingqiu’s forehead, adjusting the pillow under his head. “What can I do?”

The answer was a murmur, barely coherent. “Stay.”

“I won’t go anywhere,” Liu Qingge promised without hesitation.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Immortal Master?” the innmaiden’s voice trembled from outside. “Would you—need anything?”

“Water,” he said, sharper than intended. “A basin. And don’t disturb us.”

Silence. Then hurried footsteps retreating down the hall.

When the basin came, he barely noticed her reentry — only the sound of the door, the water set down quickly and the quick patter of feet leaving again.

Liu Qingge wrung a cloth out, wiped the sweat and grime from Shen Qingqiu’s face and hands. The fever had set in properly now — skin too warm, breath unsteady.

Liu Qingge knelt at the bedside and pressed his fingers to Shen Qingqiu’s wrist. His qi flowed into the meridians in steady pulses — slow, measured. He could feel where the venom had tangled in the channels, sluggish knots of spiritual resistance. It was like untangling threads while blindfolded — too much pressure and he could do more harm than good.

He worked carefully, meticulously, until he felt the worst of the blockages give way and the flow of energy even out.

Only then did he allow himself to breathe properly.

The fever hadn’t broken, but the immediate danger had passed. The venom would burn itself out with time.

Shen Qingqiu’s expression eased, tension slipping from his features. His lips parted on a small sigh.

Liu Qingge sat back slowly, muscles aching from the sustained control. He reached for the damp cloth again, laid it gently across Shen Qingqiu’s forehead.

For a long while, he didn’t move.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside him, hand resting lightly on Shen Qingqiu’s wrist.

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

The grip tightened slightly.

“Rest,” Liu Qingge said. 

He didn’t move again — not through the long stretch of night, not until dawn began to edge through the shutters.

And when the light finally touched the room, Liu Qingge was still there, watching the steady rise and fall of Shen Qingqiu’s chest.

***

Liu Qingge had won countless battlefields, but none of them had ever made him feel the way this did—watching Shen Qingqiu walk steadily beside him under the afternoon sun.

The color had returned to Shen Qingqiu’s face; his pace was even, unhurried. To anyone else, he might have looked perfectly fine. But Liu Qingge knew better than to take that at face value. The Spine-Crowned Myriapod’s venom didn’t simply fade because someone decided to stand up straight.

If it came to it, he could carry them both back to Cang Qiong on his sword—he’d done harder things before—but that didn’t mean it was a good idea. Rest was the smarter choice. Not that saying so would do him any favors; Shen Qingqiu had a very particular talent for turning common sense into an argument.

So when the innmaiden, Meiyun, had suggested the river beyond the fields, Liu Qingge had agreed before she’d even finished.

“At this time of year,” she’d said, puffing up with pride, “the banks are full of fiery begonia. You won’t see anything prettier in our whole town.”

A walk by the river it was, then. It would do Shen Qingqiu good.

The river was wide and lazy, sunlight pooling across its surface. Along the banks, the fiery begonias spilled in waves of red and gold, just as Meiyun had promised—petals flickering in the light like scattered embers.

Liu Qingge led the way, keeping a steady pace just a little slower than usual. Shen Qingqiu didn’t comment, but the faint quirk at the corner of his mouth suggested he’d noticed. When they reached a flat stretch of stone near the water’s edge, Liu Qingge stopped and gestured.

“Sit.”

Shen Qingqiu arched an eyebrow. “Shidi, I can walk perfectly well.”

“You nearly fell down the stairs this morning,” Liu Qingge said, deadpan.

“That was one time.”

“Once is enough.”

That earned him a huff that might have been a laugh. Shen Qingqiu sat with the air of a man indulging someone unreasonable, arranging his sleeves with studied dignity. “See? Perfectly fine.”

Liu Qingge only crossed his arms, watching him. The color had indeed come back to Shen Qingqiu’s face, the sickly pallor replaced with something closer to his usual composed calm. His eyes were clearer, his breathing even. The sight loosened something tight in Liu Qingge’s chest that he hadn’t realized was there.

When Shen Qingqiu plucked a flower from the bank, Liu Qingge didn’t think much of it—until one flower became several, and several became a pile in his lap. His hands moved with the quiet precision, fingers deft and sure.

Liu Qingge blinked. “You’re… making a wreath?”

“I’m keeping my hands busy,” Shen Qingqiu said, not looking up. “You look as if you’re about to stage an intervention.”

“I wasn’t—” Liu Qingge began, then stopped. “It’s not very practical.”

“Neither is sitting by a river staring at flowers,” Shen Qingqiu said mildly, tucking a stem into place. “Yet here we are.”

The corners of Liu Qingge’s mouth twitched.

They sat in companionable quiet for a few moments, the river murmuring nearby. A dragonfly hovered briefly over Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder before darting away.

When he spoke again, his tone was mild, but something in it made Liu Qingge glance over.

“You know, Liu Shidi, you’ve had to deal with quite a few inconveniences because of me lately,” Shen Qingqiu said, eyes on the wreath. “You haven’t asked about any of it. Aren’t you curious?”

Liu Qingge shrugged. “I promised not to pry.”

Shen Qingqiu’s hands resumed their weaving. “So you did.” His tone was easy, but there was something searching in his eyes when Liu Qingge looked over. Something cautious.

After a moment, Shen Qingqiu said, “Then perhaps we should make a deal. You can ask questions—within reason—if this Shixiong can ask you something in return. Of course, if you’d rather not, we can leave it.”

Liu Qingge hesitated. Truth be told, he wanted to know things—more than he’d admit. Not about the mysteries Shen Qingqiu never explained, but about the person behind all that polish.

“All right,” he said finally. “What are the rules?”

“What rules, Shidi? One asks, the other answers.” Shen Qingqiu tilted his head, lips curving faintly. “Just maybe don’t expect me to have… all the answers.”

Liu Qingge nodded without question. It made sense. Everyone at Cang Qiong knew—or guessed—that the qi deviation had left his memories in tatters. Shen Qingqiu never admitted it outright, but it was a secret to no one.

“And you—do you have any restrictions?” Shen Qingqiu asked, watching him with faint curiosity.

Liu Qingge thought for a moment. “None. Ask whatever you want.”

That earned a small laugh. “Bai Zhan Peak Lord is bold indeed. No secrets at all?”

“None worth keeping,” Liu Qingge replied simply.

Liu Qingge lowered himself to sit beside Shen Qingqiu, careful to keep a polite distance even as the fabric of their robes brushed for a heartbeat before parting again. The wreath in Shen Qingqiu’s hands was starting to take shape—uneven, but oddly graceful. 

“All right,” Shen Qingqiu said after a pause, tone deceptively casual. “Then you should start, Liu Shidi.”

Liu Qingge cleared his throat. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

Shen Qingqiu paused mid-motion, caught off guard. “This?” He lifted the half-woven wreath. “From my mei mei.”

There was a pause. Just long enough for something small to flicker across his face—softness, then a quick shuttering of it. Shen Qingqiu’s voice smoothed over like nothing had happened. “She used to make them during the spring festivals. I was terrible at it, but she said mine looked like a crown, so she’d make me wear them.”

Liu Qingge’s mind snagged on the words mei mei. It shouldn’t have startled him—of course Shen Qingqiu had a family. He hadn’t descended from the heavens fully grown, robes pressed, hair perfect. And yet, it was hard to imagine him as anything but the unflappable Peak Lord, not some young man with a little sister weaving flowers in his hair.

“That’s…” Liu Qingge started, then stopped, realizing he had no idea what word fit. Nice felt a bit strange. Sweet would get him laughed at. He settled for, “You don’t seem like someone who’d let anyone put flowers on their head.”

Shen Qingqiu smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth curling. “I was a very accommodating elder brother.”

Liu Qingge huffed out a short laugh. “You say that like being an elder sibling automatically makes you patient.”

Shen Qingqiu gave him a sidelong look, lips twitching. “Doesn’t it?”

“Not in my experience.” Liu Qingge reached down, idly skimming a pebble into the river. It skipped once, twice, then sank. “Mingyan was born when I was already a disciple at Cang Qiong. By the time I came home again, she could talk—and didn’t stop.”

“Sounds familiar,” Shen Qingqiu said dryly.

Liu Qingge gave him a look. “She’d follow me everywhere when I visited. Once, she stole my old sword—well, the practice one—and tried to spar with a tree.”

Shen Qingqiu raised an eyebrow. “And the tree won, I assume?”

“It nearly did. She got halfway through her second swing before tripping over her own feet. Split her lip open. Cried for maybe two seconds before declaring the tree a worthy opponent.” He paused, the corner of his mouth softening. “Then she asked if she could learn swordsmanship properly. Said she wanted to protect me when she grew up.”

Shen Qingqiu's lips curled into a gentle smile. “And what did you say?”

“I told her she could try. She’s stubborn enough to make it work.”

For a moment, the silence between them was easy—warm, even. The river moved slow and gold in the sunlight, and Liu Qingge found himself thinking that Shen Qingqiu looked… softer like this.

Liu Qingge leaned back on his hands, feeling the warmth of the stone seep through his palms. 

“Your turn,” he said, turning his head slightly toward Shen Qingqiu.

Shen Qingqiu was still looking at the river, the faintest crease between his brows as if he’d drifted off into thought. At Liu Qingge’s words, his expression flickered—caught off guard, then composed again.

“So it is,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Let me think. I should ask something equally… harmless, shouldn’t I? Fair exchange and all that.”

Liu Qingge made a quiet sound of amusement. “You can ask whatever you want.”

“Dangerous thing to say, Liu Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu replied, voice lilting just enough to make it sound like a tease. Then, after a pause: “All right. You seem like the type who only feels at ease fighting beasts and demons. What do you even do when you’re not training?”

Liu Qingge blinked. “You think I don’t have hobbies?”

“I think,” Shen Qingqiu said, perfectly solemn, “that you are your hobby.”

Liu Qingge glanced at him, narrowing his eyes in mock challenge. “For your information, I do other things.”

“Such as?”

He hesitated, aware that Shen Qingqiu’s gaze had sharpened just slightly, curious. The truth was—he didn’t really have hobbies, not in the usual sense. But there were things he did that no one knew about. Things that kept his mind from chewing itself apart when sword drills weren’t enough.

“I carve,” he said finally.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyebrows lifted. “Woodcarving?”

Liu Qingge nodded. “Small things. Mostly animals. Sometimes weapons. Keeps the hands steady.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

“I don’t exactly advertise it,” Liu Qingge said dryly. “Last thing I need is disciples pestering me for trinkets.”

Shen Qingqiu chuckled, the sound low and unguarded. “So the fearsome Bai Zhan Peak Lord spends his evenings carving rabbits. I must say, that’s an image.”

“They’re not rabbits,” Liu Qingge said, more defensively than intended.

“Ah. Fierce tigers, then?”

He sighed. “...Sometimes.”

The laughter that followed was bright and genuine. Liu Qingge thought he could get used to hearing it. Maybe even earn it again.

“That was an unexpectedly good answer,” Shen Qingqiu said after a pause, his tone softer now, stripped of its usual polish. “You should show me one sometime.”

Liu Qingge looked at him properly then. Sunlight tangled in the ends of Shen Qingqiu’s hair, turning it bronze at the edges. The sight did something strange to his chest. “…Maybe I will,” he said quietly.

Shen Qingqiu smiled, apparently pleased, and turned the half-finished wreath in his hands again.

They went on for a while like that—question for question, careful at first, then loosening into something that almost felt like conversation instead of negotiation.

Shen Qingqiu asked him whether he ever regretted becoming a Peak Lord.

“No,” Liu Qingge said simply. Then, after a moment, “Though I wouldn’t mind fewer meetings.”

That earned a snort. “If I could delegate mine to you, I would.”

“I’d rather fight ten demonic beasts.”

“Exactly my point.”

When it was Liu Qingge’s turn, he asked, “If you could go anywhere right now, where would it be?”

Shen Qingqiu looked momentarily startled by the simplicity of it. His fingers slowed around the wreath. “Somewhere quiet,” he said after a beat. “A place that doesn’t need me to be anyone in particular.”

Liu Qingge didn’t reply. There wasn’t anything to say to that. He just nodded, and the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable.

Eventually Shen Qingqiu sighed, setting the finished wreath in his lap. “That’s quite enough honesty for one afternoon, don’t you think?”

Liu Qingge made a noncommittal sound. “You were the one keeping score.”

“True,” Shen Qingqiu said lightly. “And since you’ve been a model of restraint and patience—rare qualities, I might add—you deserve a reward.”

Before Liu Qingge could ask what he meant, Shen Qingqiu reached up and, with the solemnity of someone performing a sacred rite, settled the wreath on his head.

The petals brushed his hair; the faint scent of begonia filled the air. Shen Qingqiu leaned back to inspect his handiwork—and smiled, warm and open in a way that hit like sunlight after days of rain.

Liu Qingge’s mind caught a single thought—

—beautiful.

Then it went perfectly, utterly blank.

He reached down, picked up a fallen flower, and tucked it behind Shen Qingqiu’s ear. 

“There,” Liu Qingge said quietly. “Now it’s fair.”

Shen Qingqiu froze, color blooming fast and vivid across his face. “You—Liu Shidi—” He stood so abruptly the wreath nearly slipped from Liu Qingge’s head. “I think we’ve had enough of sitting by the river! Yes, far too long. Let’s—let’s see what else this town has to offer, shall we?”

Liu Qingge didn’t move, watching him fumble for composure. The begonia stayed tucked in his hair, bright against the dark strands.

“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said, voice an octave too high, “are you coming or not?”

Liu Qingge rose, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

He followed, the wreath still on his head, and if Shen Qingqiu pretended not to notice, Liu Qingge pretended not to see the crimson that lingered all the way to his ears.

***

Of course, when they returned to Cang Qiong, trouble was already waiting.

The Huan Hua Palace Master—Lao Gongzhu himself—was dead.

Even as Liu Qingge left the main hall, the air still buzzed with uneasy whispers. The death of someone that powerful meant one thing: instability. And instability always drew blood.

But that wasn’t what unsettled him most.

It was the look that had passed between Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua.

By the time Liu Qingge stepped out into the courtyard, both of them had already disappeared.

He didn’t like that.

His feet moved before his thoughts did, scanning the paths out of instinct alone. And instinct led him—of course—to the eastern ridge, that quiet side of Qiong Ding Peak where Shen Qingqiu went after the meetings when he wanted the world to leave him alone.

Sure enough, the faint ripple of spiritual energy reached him first. Shen Qingqiu stood at the cliff’s edge, sleeve fluttering in the wind, sword half-formed in the air before him—and far too much strain written across his face.

Liu Qingge’s stomach sank.

He didn’t think; he moved. One stride, two—and his hand was already on Shen Qingqiu’s wrist just as the sword’s glow flared. The hum of qi died instantly, snuffed out.

“I thought you had better sense,” Liu Qingge said, his own voice tighter than he liked. “Flying when your spiritual energy hasn’t recovered—do you have a death wish?”

The reply came too fast. “Sometimes.”

Liu Qingge froze. The words hit like a blow. His grip tightened before he could stop it, and Shen Qingqiu flinched, eyes snapping up—but Liu Qingge didn’t let go.

Something about that tone—the quiet honesty of it—made his neck go cold.

He wanted to ask what the hell that meant, but Shen Qingqiu was already talking, voice smooth again, practiced. “...I thought Liu Shidi had already flown off.”

Liu Qingge stared at him. The composure looked real — the perfect calm of a Peak Lord, as always — but up close, he could see the edges. The pallor under the eyes, the tremor in his sleeve where his hand was still half-raised. He was fraying.

Without a word, Liu Qingge released his wrist, called his sword, and stepped onto it. He held out a hand. “Come on.”

Shen Qingqiu hesitated, eyes narrowing as if weighing whether it was worth the argument. Then, with a quiet sigh, he placed his hand in Liu Qingge’s.

The tremor in his pulse was faint, but there. Liu Qingge’s grip tightened—not to restrain, just to steady—and then they rose together, wind biting cold around them.

When they landed outside the bamboo house, Shen Qingqiu straightened instantly, every line of him perfect again. “This Shixiong thanks you for escorting him,” he said, polite and distant. The meaning was clear: You may leave now.

Liu Qingge crossed his arms and didn’t move.

Shen Qingqiu’s patience thinned almost visibly. “…Does Liu Shidi require anything else?”

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

“It’s because the curse occupies my thoughts,” Shen Qingqiu said lightly. Although it had to be true one way or another. “I only want to be rid of it once and for all.”

“Do you need help preparing the antidote?”

“No.” Quick, defensive. Then, after a pause, softer: “But… if Liu Shidi wishes, he may stay.”

So he stayed.

He watched as Shen Qingqiu worked—steady, meticulous, every movement precise enough to make Liu Qingge’s own fingers itch. The smell of crushed herbs burned his nose.

When Shen Qingqiu raised the flask and offered a half-smile in toast, Liu Qingge almost smiled back.

It didn’t last. The silence stretched long after he drank.

When he finally asked, “Did it work?” Shen Qingqiu rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth and muttered, “…I don’t know. I’ll just try to lie.”

What followed was absurd, and somehow the most painfully endearing thing Liu Qingge had seen in weeks.

“So,” he said evenly. “It hasn’t worked.”

Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders slumped. “No. It hasn’t.”

There was a kind of weary finality in Shen Qingqiu’s sigh. When he spoke next, his tone was quiet. “I knew the chances were slim from the start. I only regret that I’ve wasted your time, Shidi.”

The defeated note in his voice hit something in Liu Qingge’s chest. He wanted to reach out, to rest a hand on his shoulder, to tell him it wasn't the end, that they could try again, and again, as many times as necessary—but words were never his strength. So instead, he said the only truth he could manage: “Helping you isn’t a waste of time.”

That made Shen Qingqiu look at him—too quickly, as though he wasn’t used to being reassured. Liu Qingge held his gaze.

When Shen Qingqiu turned toward the mirror and spoke of truths weighing on the heart, Liu Qingge saw the flicker of realization that crossed his face—the way his composure wavered, replaced by a sharp, frightened stillness.

Liu Qingge didn’t understand it. He wanted to.

He watched in silence, forcing himself not to move. Every instinct screamed at him to do something—but he knew better than to startle a cornered creature, and Shen Qingqiu right now had that same fragile wariness.

So he only asked, low and careful, “Would it be so bad if someone found it out?”

The answer came immediately. “Yes. It would be bad. Because it would change everything.”

Change everything. Liu Qingge’s brow furrowed. What kind of secret could do that?

He didn’t want to think the worst, but the possibility lingered like a bad taste. There were rumors, always had been, about the old Shen Qingqiu—cruelty, pride, cold ambition. Liu Qingge had seen flashes of something hard beneath the calm, but that man—the man standing before him—wasn’t the same one from the stories.

“Not for me,” he said, and it came out steadier than he felt. “For me, nothing would change.”

It was the truth. Whatever sins Shen Qingqiu thought he carried, they belonged to another life. People could change. People did change. Shen Qingqiu had.

But then Shen Qingqiu looked up at him, and his voice turned sharp enough to cut. 

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

Liu Qingge went still.

He didn’t know what startled him more—the words themselves, or the tone in which they were said: quiet, resigned, like he’d already accepted that outcome. The idea of it lodged like a blade in Liu Qingge’s chest.

Kill him?

The very thought was absurd.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Even if Shen Qingqiu confessed to the worst of crimes, Liu Qingge would still find a reason to keep him breathing. Shen Qingqiu had done enough, endured enough. He deserved peace, not punishment.

Shen Qingqiu waved a hand weakly, trying to dismiss the whole thing. “Forget I said anything.”

As if Liu Qingge could.

“Do you really think you deserve to die for that?” he asked, voice rough. 

Shen Qingqiu looked away, and Liu Qingge wanted to grab his chin and force him to look into his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But that’s what awaits me.”

Liu Qingge moved before his thoughts caught up, closing the space between them in two long strides. His hands found Shen Qingqiu’s wrists—warm skin beneath silk, pulse rapid under his fingers.

“I don’t know what truth you’re so afraid of,” he said, each word steady with conviction he didn’t fully understand. “But I won’t let anyone harm you for it.”

For a breath, everything went still. Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widened, startled, their color dark and deep as forest lake. The air between them tightened, charged. Liu Qingge’s heart gave one hard, reckless thud.

He wanted to reach further—to brush a strand of hair from Shen Qingqiu’s face, to tell him he wasn’t alone—but he stopped himself just short. His fingers flexed once against the other man’s sleeves, then stilled. Too much, and he’d ruin it. Too much, and Shen Qingqiu would pull away for good.

Then a sudden pounding shattered the quiet.

And of course. Qing Jing disciples were unable to keep themselves alive for a zi.

***

Liu Qingge had never been fond of politics — he treated it the way one treated a leaky roof: tolerate it until the rain forced your hand. A threat appeared; he cut it down. That was Bai Zhan Peak’s way. 

So when reports from Huan Hua Palace began to pile up—demons moving in groups, striking sacred ground, then vanishing as if someone had snuffed the trail—he read them with a thin patience.

When the meeting broke, the other Peak Lords scattered. Liu Qingge lingered, ostensibly inspecting the clasp on his sword, though the thing was flawless and he knew it. He wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all himself. He was waiting.

Shen Qingqiu came out last, calm as carved jade. Liu Qingge found himself stepping forward before reason caught up to him.

“I will visit you after my mission,” he said, a bit too bluntly. Then, quieter, “That is—if you are willing.”

Polite indifference or a teasing retort would have been a satisfactory outcome. Instead, Shen Qingqiu gave the faintest, truest curve at the corner of his mouth and closed his fan with a soft click. 

“Shidi,” he said, “my doors are always open for you.”

And something in Liu Qingge eased, just a little. 

When he took off, the roofs of Cang Qiong shrank beneath him. Against the sky, he allowed himself one glance back. Shen Qingqiu was still there, robes catching in the wind.

Liu Qingge turned toward the horizon.

He’d handle the demons quickly.

Then he could return home.

The outskirts of Huan Hua were quiet in that way that made Liu Qingge’s skin itch. The town itself was small—mud walls, crooked lanterns, smoke curling from a handful of rooftops. A place that shouldn’t have mattered enough to draw the attention of demons. And yet here he was, with half a dozen Bai Zhan disciples at his back, blades ready and eyes sharp.

They had cut through a few dozen lesser demons on the way—swift, clean work. His disciples had performed well: tight formation, solid coordination. The youngest, Ying Zi, had even managed to finish off one on her own, though she was still trembling from the adrenaline when Liu Qingge clapped her shoulder.

“Keep your stance lower next time,” he said, voice even. “You’ll lose balance on uneven ground.”

She nodded quickly, determined, cheeks flushed from pride. It was enough to make the corner of his mouth twitch upward before he turned away.

They pressed on. The road wound through a stretch of open plain, reeds whispering in the wind. For a while, the only sounds were their boots. Then—movement. Shadows flitting at the edge of vision, too fast and deliberate for beasts.

“Form up,” Liu Qingge ordered.

The demons came all at once—pouring from the treeline like a black tide. Two dozen, then three. Fanged mouths, slick claws, the stench of rot thick in the air. His disciples tightened ranks instinctively, forming the defensive circle he’d drilled into them a hundred times.

They fought well. Blades flashed, fire talismans flared, and for a while, it looked manageable—almost routine. But something was wrong. Liu Qingge felt it in the rhythm of their attacks, the way the demons lunged just far enough to provoke, then slipped away. They weren’t trying to overwhelm; they were corralling. Herding them.

He cursed under his breath. “Fall back—tighten the right flank!”

Too late.

The wind shifted. From the mist beyond the battlefield, a shape emerged—towering, broad-shouldered, dark armor glinting like oil. His guan dao rested lazily across one shoulder. A jagged scar cut across his cheek, but his eyes gleamed sharp and mocking.

“Well, well,” the demon drawled, voice low and amused. “The War God himself graces us with his presence. Should I kneel?”

Liu Qingge stepped forward, sword drawn, qi burning cold and steady in his veins.

“You know who I am,” he said flatly. “Can’t say the same about you, demon.”

The demon’s smile widened, too many teeth showing. “Names are a trifle among demons. But since you ask—Xie Huizhong, General Demon Lord, at your service.”

Liu Qingge snorted. “I’ve faced demon lords before. Never heard of you. Where were you hiding while the rest of your kind found out what my blade tastes like?”

The slightest flare of anger crossed the demon’s face and was gone, polished away by that mocking smile. “I don’t waste my strength on sheep pens and burnt altars,” he said. “I fight for something greater—restoration of an order lost when humans forgot their place.”

“You’ve forgotten yours,” Liu Qingge growled. “Pack up your filth and crawl back into the hole you came from before I bury you there myself.”

The guan dao thrummed faintly in the demon’s hand, the air around it vibrating with filthy qi. 

“Arrogant little Peak Lord,” he drawled. “Never lost a battle, they say. Tell me—how do you fare against someone who isn’t half-dead before the first strike?”

Liu Qingge’s lips tightened. “And that would be you?”

The demon grinned wider. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid.”

He raised his sword, the familiar weight settling into his grip like a heartbeat. “Afraid? Hardly.” His gaze flicked to his disciples—still surrounded but unharmed—and back. “Though I’d be a fool not to expect tricks from something like you.”

Huizhong’s hand cut through the air in a lazy wave. Instantly, the lesser demons parted, a ring widening into a stage.

“Better?” he asked. “Or shall I fetch you tea before we begin?”

Liu Qingge’s gaze was cold. “Talk less, demon,” he said, stepping forward. “Or I’ll start thinking your bark’s louder than your bite.”

And then there was no more talking.

The demon moved first.

Xie Huizhong’s guan dao swept through the air with a low roar, slicing through the mist and kicking up dirt in its wake. The sheer pressure of the strike forced Liu Qingge to take a strategic step back. The ground where he’d been standing cracked open, smoking faintly from demonic qi.

Liu Qingge’s blade came up in a silver arc, meeting the next blow cleanly. The clash rang out like thunder. Sparks leapt between them, the air thick with heat and the metallic tang of demonic energy.

Huizhong laughed low in his throat. “So it’s true what they say,” he said, parrying a strike that would have gutted a lesser foe. “The War God’s sword sings.”

Liu Qingge said nothing. His breath came even, steady, his qi flowing with perfect precision. Every movement was measured—one strike leading seamlessly into the next. Sword forms drilled for decades flared to life: Seven Wolves Pursue the Moon, Twin Peaks Divide the Sky, Heaven Split in Two.

The demon met him blow for blow. If Liu Qingge was a blade honed to killing perfection, Huizhong was a storm sealed in armor—each swing unpredictable, chaotic, but never without intent. The guan dao whirled like a living thing, forcing Liu Qingge to parry from angles that defied logic.

A rare thrill prickled down Liu Qingge’s spine. It had been a long time since he’d faced an opponent who could match him like this.

The fight turned vicious. They moved across the open field like twin storms, blades ringing, shockwaves ripping through the grass. The earth cracked beneath their feet. 

The demon was good at fighting, admittedly. But it wasn't just that. There was something wrong with his energy—it shimmered, oily and dark, bleeding poison into the air. Wherever his blade struck, the ground hissed as though burned.

Huizhong’s grin widened. “Ah,” he said softly, “you felt it, didn’t you?”

Liu Qingge didn’t answer. The demon’s qi was tainted. A cheap trick.

“You poison with your qi,” Liu Qingge said flatly.

“Corrupt,” Huizhong corrected. “A much finer art.”

For a wide swing he made, Liu Qingge answered with a cut so clean it shaved the edge of the demon’s armor.

But Huizhong adapted quickly — too quickly. He fought like a man who enjoyed being tested. When he was forced back, his grin only widened. “Not bad,” he drawled, blocking another strike with the haft of his guan dao. “But tell me, Peak Lord — how long can you keep dancing before you tire?”

Liu Qingge pushed harder. Sword light flared in a blinding arc, qi exploding like white fire. Huizhong’s armor cracked at the shoulder, ichor spilling dark and hissing. Yet even as Liu Qingge stepped in to finish it, something shimmered—an unnatural ripple of energy.

He pulled back instinctively, the edge of his blade catching only air. Huizhong grinned, his eyes gleaming.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You wouldn’t want to bleed. My qi bites.”

Liu Qingge’s frown deepened. Still, neither yielded. The fight blurred into motion — flashes of light, echoes of impact. The earth buckled, wind howled, reeds were sliced to ribbons. Neither gained ground; neither fell.

Until — a scream.

Liu Qingge’s head snapped toward the sound. His heart froze. His disciples — his formation — gone. Where they had stood moments ago, only a ring of charred ground remained. A thin mist of black qi still lingered, shimmering faintly in the air. And Ying Zi—

No breath. No pulse.

His vision tunneled.
“—You bastard!”

The words ripped out of him like the snarl of a beast. He lunged, fury lending him strength, but rage made him reckless. Huizhong sidestepped easily, eyes glittering with satisfaction.

“Ah,” the demon murmured, “there it is. The face of the man who thinks himself invincible.”

Pain exploded across Liu Qingge’s side — a deep, burning slash. He staggered, his hand flying to the wound. His qi flared instinctively to seal it, but something was wrong. The energy twisted, faltered. Darkness crawled beneath his skin, spreading like ink through water.

Corruption.

Huizhong’s guan dao rested lazily on his shoulder again. “Disappointing,” he said almost gently. “I had hoped someone like you would last longer.”

Liu Qingge dropped to one knee, his sword digging into the dirt to keep him upright. The world tilted; his breath came shallow and ragged.

Huizhong approached, boots sinking into the blood-soaked ground. “Now look at you,” he said, voice rich with mockery. “The mighty War God — right where he belongs.”

A hand fisted in Liu Qingge’s hair, forcing his head up. Cold steel brushed his chin as Huizhong leaned close, his smile sharp and cruel. 

“Look at me, little Peak Lord,” Huizhong said softly. “Remember this.”

Liu Qingge strained, muscles trembling, but the corruption dragged him down.

Huizhong’s smile sharpened. “Climb back to your mountain. Tell your precious sect this: when Huan Hua falls—and it will fall—Cang Qiong is next.”

Then he released him, shoving him back into the dirt.

Liu Qingge’s vision blurred—the world tilting between shadow and pain, the taste of iron in his mouth. The demon’s footsteps receded, a tide of laughter and rustling armor following in his wake.

Rage boiled beneath his skin, hot enough to burn through the creeping cold of corruption. He’d failed — lost disciples, let the demon walk away.

He forced one knee under him, then the other. His body screamed in protest, but he didn’t care. His vision was narrowing to a single point: the memory of Xie Huizhong’s grin, the sound of that smooth, mocking voice.

Next time, he swore silently, dragging in a breath. 

The next time their blades met, the battlefield would belong to him.

And Xie Huizhong would beg for death before Liu Qingge granted it.

Chapter Text

Liu Qingge surfaced from darkness slowly, as if his body had to remember how to breathe before it could do anything else. 

He forced his eyes open. The ceiling blurred, then steadied into the pale wooden beams of Qian Cao Peak’s infirmary.

So he’d made it back. Barely.

A shift of muscle, the wrong kind of movement, and white pain flared up his side. He caught the sound in his throat before it could betray him—
—and froze, because someone sat beside his bed.

Shen Qingqiu.

Head bowed, half-asleep in a chair, hair falling loose from its ribbon. Even in that awkward position, even rumpled and exhausted, he looked ethereal.

Something in Liu Qingge’s chest folded in on itself—quietly, absurdly soft. He turned his head, ignoring the pull of half-healed muscle, just to see more clearly. Shen Qingqiu sat by his bedside, posture straight but frayed at the edges, eyes shadowed from too many sleepless hours. That faint crease between his brows hadn’t eased once.

Why? Liu Qingge almost wanted to ask. He wasn’t worth this kind of worry. Most people came, paid their respects, and left—relieved to be done with him. But Shen Qingqiu stayed.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Shen Qingqiu had a habit of doing things no one else dared. He’d teased him to his face, met his foul moods head-on without flinching, and somehow always managed to make an invitation for tea sound less like courtesy and more like genuine pleasure at his company, even though Liu Qingge had little to contribute to the conversation.

Maybe that was why the world felt quieter — smaller — when Shen Qingqiu wasn’t in it.

Then, as if sensing the thought, Shen Qingqiu stirred. His lashes fluttered, and green eyes blinked open—blurry for half a heartbeat before they fixed sharply on him.

“You’re awake!” The words came out in a rush, raw and real, none of that usual elegance to soften them. He leaned forward, too quickly. “When—how long have you been conscious? How do you feel? Pain anywhere? I’ll call Mu Qingfang—”

Before Liu Qingge could think, he caught his wrist. The motion sent another ache lancing through his arm, but he didn’t let go.

“No need,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “Not yet.”

The warmth of Shen Qingqiu’s skin steadied him more than any medicine. 

When those eyes finally met his and found confirmation that Liu Qingge was awake—really awake—they softened. He sank back into his seat.

Shen Qingqiu let out a shaky breath. “You startled me half to death, Shidi. When they carried you in, you looked—” His voice faltered. “…you looked...”

Liu Qingge shut his eyes, jaw tightening. Shame burned low and steady in his chest.

He hadn’t meant for Shen Qingqiu to see him like that — helpless, defeated.

He was Bai Zhan’s Peak Lord. He was supposed to stand until the last strike. He wasn’t supposed to fall to some posturing demon. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone down — least of all Shen Qingqiu.

How could he even think of wanting Shen Qingqiu’s affection — when he hadn’t earned it, hadn’t done a single thing worthy of it? 

“So you really were here,” he muttered incredulously.

He wasn’t sure what he meant — that Shen Qingqiu hadn’t left? That he hadn’t dreamed the voice calling him back?

“Of course I was,” came the answer, soft but steady. “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.”

The words were heavy, clumsy things. They didn’t belong in his mouth, but what else could he offer? His disciples’ voices still echoed in memory, swallowed by the battlefield’s silence. He’d come back half-alive, leaving too many behind—and made Shen Qingqiu worry on top of it.

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “...What?”

“I frightened you,” Liu Qingge said simply. 

Shen Qingqiu’s lips parted — no ready retort. Just a faint, visible tremor of breath before he managed, “…It isn’t your fault you were injured. But you’ll have to promise not to do it again.”

That pulled something dangerously close to a smile from him. “I promise.”

He couldn’t promise not to bleed—but he’d train harder, heal faster, guard Cang Qiong twice over if that was what it took to restore Shen Qingqiu's faith in him.

He released Shen Qingqiu’s wrist and lifted his hand instead, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind his ear. It was a foolish gesture; his arm trembled from the effort. But he needed to touch, to confirm that this wasn’t another fever-dream.

Shen Qingqiu went perfectly still. Then color bloomed high across his cheeks.

Liu Qingge should’ve looked away. It was probably impolite to enjoy the sight so much, but it hit something quiet inside him — the part that was used to solitude, that had long stopped expecting warmth from anyone. Shen Qingqiu had stepped into that emptiness once, and now Liu Qingge didn’t know how to live without the light he brought.

The door slid open.

Liu Qingge’s hand fell to his side, fingers curling once before going still.

It was time for him to face the consequences. And he wasn’t the kind of man to flinch from his own failures.

***

Liu Qingge couldn’t sit still.

The smell of medicinal herbs, clunging to everything in Qian Cao Peak’s treatment hall, was cloying, and suffocating. He’d been here long enough to hate it. Long enough to memorize every grain of the wooden ceiling beams, to recognize the footfalls of Mu Qingfang’s disciples by sound alone.

His body had mended—mostly. Well enough to walk, well enough to fight, and therefore well enough to leave. He didn’t need coddling. He needed to be out there, tracking down that smug demon filth who’d escaped his blade, the one whose ugly smirk still burned behind his eyelids.

Cheng Luan lay across the room, gleaming faintly in the lamplight. Too far to reach without Mu Qingfang swooping down on him like some righteous vulture.

He’d tested that theory. Repeatedly.

Mu Qingfang, for all his mild manners, proved alarmingly stubborn when he wanted to be. What began as Liu Qingge’s simple attempt to stand had devolved into an undignified struggle that he might have won—if his legs hadn’t given out halfway through. The look Mu Qingfang gave him afterward had been equal parts fury and disbelief. Liu Qingge wasn’t sure which was worse: being scolded like a junior disciple or deserving it.

Now, braced on Cheng Luan like an invalid leaning on a walking stick, he’d just managed to regain some semblance of dignity when the door slid open.

Shen Qingqiu stood framed in the doorway, all calm poise and infuriating elegance. Fan in hand, lips curved with that subtle, knowing amusement that made Liu Qingge’s pulse skip for reasons he refused to name.

Liu Qingge froze. Mu Qingfang froze.

It wasn’t embarrassment—he didn’t do embarrassment—but somehow, under Shen Qingqiu’s faintly entertained gaze, he felt… ridiculous. 

When Shen Qingqiu sauntered closer, he thought for one hopeful moment that he’d let it go. Until the man smiled, all polite condescension, and snatched an opportunity to strike him when he was already down.

Why did Liu Qingge like him again?

He’d half-convinced himself Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t come back. The last time he’d seen him—blurred through fever and exhaustion—he’d assumed it was pity, a fleeting courtesy before more important duties called him away. Shen Qingqiu had no shortage of responsibilities, and Liu Qingge was hardly worth the trouble.

Yet here he was.

And when that teasing tone vanished, replaced by quiet sincerity, when Shen Qingqiu met his eyes and said, “We nearly lost you,” something in Liu Qingge faltered. His stubborn resolve—the restless need to prove himself, to move—cracked under that steady, too-honest gaze.

He sank back into the pillows, muttering under his breath.

Then came the scrolls. Quotes from ridiculous texts—utter nonsense, all of it, and so transparently a distraction. But Shen Qingqiu wielded his words like a master, turning Liu Qingge’s irritation into reluctant amusement, pulling him back from the edge of his frustration with infuriating grace.

Every time Liu Qingge thought of standing again, Shen Qingqiu’s fan would snap open, that calm voice would drawl another ridiculous line, and the thought would die unspoken.

For a while, it felt almost… peaceful. 

But peace never lasted long in Liu Qingge’s world.

As the scrolls thinned and silence slipped back into the room, a wrongness began to coil beneath his skin. His veins pulsed with uneven heat, spiritual energy dragging sluggishly through his meridians, tripping and sparking against itself. He hid it easily enough, forcing his breathing steady, but the edges of the room had started to smear.

Maybe it was just exhaustion. 

When Shen Qingqiu’s hand brushed over his, firm but careful, urging him to rest, Liu Qingge could only nod. He would have agreed to anything in that moment—anything, if it kept that quiet relief in Shen Qingqiu’s eyes.

Then the door slid open. A Qiong Ding disciple stepped in, bowed low, and murmured something urgent.

Shen Qingqiu turned to listen.

Liu Qingge heard none of it. His vision blurred at the edges, the world folding inward. The sounds — footsteps, voices — grew distant, like echoes in water. For once, he didn’t think of his sword, or his duty, or the next battle waiting beyond the peaks.

Only that, when Shen Qingqiu stepped away, the air itself seemed to cool in his absence.

And then—

—his qi snapped, searing through his veins like molten iron.

***

When Liu Qingge woke, the world was hushed. The familiar scent of herbs hung thick in the air. His own pulse sounded distant—muted, as if beating through water.

He should've got up. Every muscle screamed to move, but when he tried, his body refused.

“Stay still, Ge,” came Mingyang’s voice, quiet but firm.

She sat by the bed, a book closed on her lap. Composed, but the faint shadows under her eyes betrayed how long she’d been there. When he stirred, she set the book aside and pressed a hand to his shoulder.

His sister’s grip was deceptively light, but he couldn’t fight it. His body felt heavy, his qi sluggish, still carrying a faint residue of heat where the demonic poison had burned through his meridians.

Liu Qingge exhaled, slow through his nose. 

“Shouldn’t you be at your Peak?” he muttered. “Doing something useful?”

Mingyang gave him a flat look. “I decided it was more prudent to stay here until I was sure you wouldn’t try to leave the moment you woke up.” She adjusted his pillow with deliberate precision. “You have a history, Ge.”

He didn’t argue. Mostly because she wasn’t wrong.

“What happened,” he asked instead, though he already knew.

“You fell into qi deviation,” she said simply. “The corruption spread farther than expected. Mu Shishu needed time to create a cure. It worked, mostly—but you shouldn’t be testing it.”

They fell quiet. Mingyang never filled silence with empty words, which was one of the things he appreciated about her.

Still, he found himself asking, “Has anyone else come by?”

Her head tilted. “No. Not since I’ve been here. Was Ge expecting someone in particular?”

He frowned, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “No.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But something in him sank anyway. He shouldn’t have expected Shen Qingqiu to come. That man had better things to do than sit vigil at his bedside like some grieving widow.

Still. Shen Qingqiu had been there before—steadying him with that gentle look in his eyes. It had been a passing visit, he’d told himself. Courtesy. But part of him had hoped—foolishly—that Shen Qingqiu might still come back.

“What’s happened since?” he asked, forcing the thought away. 

Mingyang folded her hands in her lap. “Cang Qiong mobilized. The demon forces pushed deeper into Huan Hua lands. Baihe City fell. Almost completely destroyed.” A pause. “Shen Shibo fought the demon leader there.”

Liu Qingge froze. “Shen Qingqiu?”

He tried to sit up. Pain tore through his side; Mingyang’s hand pressed him back down.

“Stay still,” she ordered.

“Why was he there?” His voice came sharper than intended. “He’s not a frontliner. Who let him—”

“No one,” she interrupted. “From what I heard from Shizun, he went without permission.”

For a moment, all he could hear was his own pulse pounding in his ears. Shen Qingqiu—alone, facing the same thing that had nearly killed him. Rage and guilt churned under his ribs, searing hotter than the remnants of the poison. Yue Qingyuan should never have allowed it—but if Shen Qingqiu had gone of his own accord…

“What else did Qi Qingqi say?”

“Not much,” Mingyang said. “She’s been busy. But Shen Shibo returned. He’s here, at Qian Cao Peak. In one of the rooms.”

Liu Qingge didn’t remember throwing off the blanket—only the cold air against his bare shoulders as he swung his legs to the floor. His vision tilted. Pain flared along his side.

“Ge,” Mingyang warned, catching him before he could fall.

“I have to see him.”

“Shen Shibo is being treated. You’ll undo Mu Shishu’s work if you—”

“I have to see him.” The words came quieter this time but no less fierce.

Mingyang looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. Then, without a word, she slipped his arm over her shoulder. “So be it. But if you collapse, I’m leaving you there.”

It took everything he had to stay upright. His steps were uneven, his breath shallow, but he moved. The corridor was bright and cold, lined with doors.

A Qian Cao disciple turned the corner and went pale as rice paper. “L-Liu Shibo! You shouldn’t—please, your condition—”

Her hands hovered uncertainly, like she meant to catch him if he fell—which was absurd. If Mingyang couldn’t keep him steady, this frail little disciple had no chance.

He didn’t even slow. “Which room,” he rasped, “is Shen Qingqiu’s?”

The disciple’s mouth opened and closed uselessly. Her eyes darted toward Mingyang in silent plea.

Mingyang sighed. “Shimei,” she said mildly, “my brother’s going to find Shen Shibo whether you tell us or not. It would be better for everyone if he doesn’t have to knock down every door to do it.”

The poor girl looked ready to faint. Her gaze darted around for help, but to her dismay, the hallway was empty.

“Third room down the hall,” she whispered finally.

Mingyang inclined her head. “Thank you.”

They started down the corridor, Liu Qingge’s steps heavy but determined. His world narrowed to the rhythm of pain and the quiet press of Mingyang’s arm around him.

When they reached the door and she opened it, Liu Qingge’s eyes took a moment to adjust. The room was dim. For a moment, he only stood there—half leaning on his sister, half pulled forward by sheer instinct.

Shen Qingqiu lay pale against the sheets, hair spilling dark over the pillow. His breathing was shallow, but steady.

Liu Qingge moved before he could think better of it. Mingyang guided him into the chair beside the bed before his knees could give out. The wood creaked under his weight. His legs trembled violently, and he had to grip the armrest to keep himself upright.

Up close, Shen Qingqiu looked... fine. But Liu Qingge’s instincts disagreed. He reached out, fingers closing around Shen Qingqiu’s wrist. The pulse beneath his fingertips was faint. His spiritual energy—once steady and precise—was dulled.

He sent a thread of his own qi. The connection sparked, weak but stable.

He barely had time to register it before the door banged open.

“You—!”

Mu Qingfang stormed in, robes fluttering as if in the wind. “Do you ever think before acting?”

Liu Qingge didn’t answer.

“You tore your stitches, your meridians aren’t even fully restored, and you—dragged yourself here? Your recklessness is nothing new, Liu Shixiong, but I expected Liu Shizhi to have more sense.”

Mingyang didn’t even blink.

Liu Qingge didn’t look up. His thumb brushed once, unconsciously, against the inside of Shen Qingqiu’s wrist. “What happened to him.”

Mu Qingfang pinched the bridge of his nose. “What happened is that Without a Cure acted up.”

Liu Qingge’s frown deepened. He wasn’t in the mood for excuses.

“And that has nothing to do with him fighting a demon?”

Mu Qingfang’s mouth tightened. His gaze flicked toward Mingyang, who only crossed her arms in calm defiance.

“I needed a sample,” Mu Qingfang said at last. “A living one. To synthesize an antidote to the demonic corruption.”

Liu Qingge’s head snapped up. “You let him—”

“I let him?” Mu Qingfang’s composure cracked. “Do you think anyone lets Shen Qingqiu do anything? He was gone before I could so much as send word! I meant to contact the Sect Leader—to assign a team properly—but he didn’t wait for any of that.”

Liu Qingge’s jaw clenched until it hurt. “And Yue Qingyuan said?”

Mu Qingfang hesitated. “He said we couldn’t send a team without intelligence. And…” He gave a weary sigh. “Given that our best sword arm was incapacitated, he couldn’t justify sending anyone else.”

Of course he did. Liu Qingge expected nothing less from Yue Qingyuan—ever cautious, ever proper. He couldn’t fault him for that. It was protocol. But Mu Qingfang—he should’ve known better than to tell Shen Qingqiu at all.

Liu Qingge wasn’t angry with him, not really. He was right, Shen Qingqiu had always done whatever he pleased. Once that man made up his mind, the heavens themselves would have trouble stopping him.

No—he was angry at himself. For not being there. For letting Shen Qingqiu take the risk.

Mu Qingfang rubbed at his temple, fatigue written in every line of him. “What’s done is done. You’re both alive, which is more than I can say for most who’ve faced that demon.” He drew himself up again, tone sharpening. “Now you need to return to bed before you undo every single stitch I placed.”

Liu Qingge’s expression didn’t change. “I’ll stay here.”

Mu Qingfang stared at him, visibly calculating whether it was worth trying to argue. “You have half shichen,” he said finally, voice clipped. “If you’re not back in your room by then, I’ll put you under therapeutic sleep and leave you there until next xun.” His gaze flicked toward Mingyang. “I trust Liu Shizhi will see to it.”

She inclined her head. “Of course, Shishu.”

Mu Qingfang muttered something under his breath—something that sounded suspiciously like impossible siblings—and swept out, sleeves snapping in his wake.

Liu Qingge didn’t move. The quiet in the room pressed against him, broken only by the faint, steady rise of Shen Qingqiu’s chest. The heat that had flared so sharply in him before—the helpless fury, the fear—had burned itself out, leaving only the heavy residue of it, a dull ache he couldn’t shake.

His hand moved without thought, brushing aside a few strands of hair that had fallen across Shen Qingqiu’s face. The motion was careful, almost reverent.

He shouldn’t have let it come to this. He’d promised himself—no, sworn—that he would protect him. And yet here they were again.

“Ge.” Mingyang’s voice broke through his thoughts, soft and cautious.

She crossed the room in silence, retrieving a spare pillow from the closet. Without a word, she slipped it behind his back.

He didn’t look at her, but his hand went still where it rested on the bedsheet.

“I’ll be nearby,” she said gently. “Call if you need anything.”

He finally glanced up. His eyes met hers for a brief moment—no words, just a flicker of gratitude, fleeting but sincere.

Mingyang lingered, as if she wanted to say more, but only nodded and slipped out. The door closed with a quiet click, leaving him alone.

Only then did Liu Qingge exhaled, pressing a hand over his face. His shoulders sagged, the weight of the silence settling around him once more.

For a long time, he sat like that, head bowed, listening to the even rhythm of Shen Qingqiu’s breathing. It was steady—alive. That was enough for now.

But when Shen Qingqiu woke…

Liu Qingge’s fingers curled against his knee, jaw tightening.

He’d make sure this never happened again.

Shen Qingqiu could curse, scold, throw his fan at his head if he wanted—Liu Qingge didn’t care. He wasn’t going to stand by and watch him risk his life like that again.

Not while Liu Qingge still drew breath.

***

Mu Qingfang’s voice was the first thing that reached him, clipped and unamused.

“You will stay in bed, Liu Shixiong. And you will sleep.”

Liu Qingge didn’t bother to answer. He sat propped against the headboard, bandages tight and breath shallow, watching the talisman-light flicker faintly above the bed.

Mu Qingfang sighed like a man preparing for a long campaign. “You’ve already reopened one wound. I will not patch you up again.” He adjusted the talisman, dimming it to a dusky glow, until the room looked half-buried in night. “You can glare at me all you want,” he added with a sigh, “but you’ll do as I say.”

Liu Qingge’s silence was as deliberate as it was defiant. Mu Qingfang, long immune to it, only muttered something under his breath and closed the door behind him. His steps receded down the corridor.

Only when the faintest echo of them vanished did Liu Qingge move.

The air in the Healing Hall felt still. His breath caught in his throat as he shifted forward, pulling the blanket aside. The floorboards were cool under his bare feet. Pain sparked along his ribs as he straightened, hand braced against the wall. His strength was returning—slowly—but every step reminded him that he was still not whole.

But Shen Qingqiu was two rooms away, and that thought outweighed any lingering pain.

Mu Qingfang had said Shen Qingqiu was stable. That he would wake soon. That Liu Qingge should rest.

Rest. As if rest could still his pulse when he hadn’t heard that voice in days.

He stepped into the corridor, moving silently out of habit.

The air was laced with a faint scent of bergamot and jasmine—Shen Qingqiu’s scent. He followed it.

The door to Shen Qingqiu’s room slid open without sound. Inside, the air was heavy with quiet. Candles burned low, their light trembling over the bed. Shen Qingqiu lay still beneath the thin covers, pale but not as deathly as before. Mu Qingfang had been right—now he was only sleeping too deeply. 

Liu Qingge lowered himself into the chair beside the bed. The wood creaked faintly under his weight. His side ached, but he didn’t move to ease it. The ache grounded him.

Shen Qingqiu’s breathing was soft but steady. Inhale, exhale. Liu Qingge found himself tracing the rhythm without meaning to, every rise and fall of that chest a reassurance. It shouldn’t have been—it was just breath—but to him, it was the only sound worth hearing.

He’d spent nights in silence before—on battlefields after the last scream had faded, in forests where even the insects held their hums—but this quiet was something else entirely.

It pressed against him. It demanded to be filled—with movement, with a voice, with him.

Shen Qingqiu was never quiet, not truly. Even when he wasn’t speaking, there was always something—the rustle of his robes, the snap of a fan, the occasional mutter when he thought no one heard. Liu Qingge hadn’t realized how deeply that constant noise had settled into him until it was gone.

It was ridiculous how the world dulled without Shen Qingqiu.

He thought of how Shen Qingqiu laughed sometimes—softly, like it surprised him. How he frowned when someone praised him. How he moved through the world with equal parts poise and absurdity, and somehow made it all look effortless.

Liu Qingge’s fingers twitched. 

Before he could think better of it, he reached out. His hand hovered for a heartbeat above Shen Qingqiu’s face, fingers flexing slightly as if waiting for permission that would never come. Then, slowly, he let his palm settle. His fingertips traced along the familiar curve of a cheek, rough skin against impossibly smooth. 

Up close, Shen Qingqiu looked almost fragile—lashes brushing his skin, a faint crease between his brows even in sleep, the steady breath stirring a strand of hair across his lips.

Liu Qingge’s thumb moved of its own accord, brushing lightly across that strand, then lower—across the soft curve of a mouth he’d memorized without meaning to.

He froze.

His pulse stuttered violently. He shouldn’t—he had no right—

A single breath—Shen Qingqiu’s—ghosted against his skin, and it undid him.

He jerked his hand back as though burned. His heart thundered once, twice, loud enough to echo in his ribs. The chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back, forcing distance between them.

He could not.

He was a soldier, a weapon sharpened to purpose. Shen Qingqiu was—everything he wasn’t. Brilliant, composed, radiant in a way only stars could be.

To reach for him was to taint something clean.

Liu Qingge exhaled slowly, dragging his gaze away. The ache behind his ribs had nothing to do with the wound.

He folded his hands tightly together to still them, knuckles pale. He didn’t touch again.

When dawn crept through the shutters, pale and tentative, Liu Qingge was there—unmoving.

And when Shen Qingqiu finally stirred, eyes fluttering open, reaching out with trembling hands to cup his face and whisper that he couldn’t let him die—

Liu Qingge was still there.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

***

The first light of dawn caught on the edge of Liu Qingge’s armor, a faint glint of gold against the deep blue of early morning. Mist still hung low over Qing Jing Peak, a living thing coiling between bamboo stalks and lingering in the air.

He had returned from the southern front not long ago, the taste of iron still sharp in his mouth, blood crusted dark on his sleeve. A few hours of rest should’ve been a luxury. Instead, a Qing Jing disciple had been waiting by his door before he’d even unbuckled his gauntlets—bearing Yue Qingyuan’s seal and a message that sent him back to his feet.

The moment Shen Qingqiu’s name was mentioned, fatigue ceased to matter.

He knew Yue Qingyuan well enough to read what wasn’t written in the summons. Shen Qingqiu had been kept on Qing Jing Peak under the polite fiction of “recovery,” forbidden from missions until the demonic incursions eased. If that order had suddenly been overturned, something had gone wrong.

And that it involved Shen Qingqiu—

Liu Qingge wasn’t sure if that realization left his chest heavier or hollow.

He told himself he wasn’t rushing. Just efficient. But the truth was that some restless part of him had been waiting for this excuse to see him again. Waiting—and dreading. Because proximity to Shen Qingqiu had a way of undoing him, unspooling his discipline one heartbeat at a time.

By the time he reached the bamboo grove, the mist had thinned, drawing back like a curtain. The air smelled faintly of dew and ink.

This wasn’t self-indulgence, he reminded himself. It was practicality. Someone had to make sure Shen Qingqiu was ready. That was all.

He knocked.

A pause. Then a dull thud, the sound of something clattering to the floor, and a muffled curse that did not belong in any scholarly lexicon.

“Come in,” came the voice at last.

Liu Qingge slid the door open—and stopped dead.

Qing Jing Peak’s fabled serenity was nowhere to be found. The study looked like it had lost a battle: scrolls fanned across the floor, robes draped haphazardly over the bedpost, and a tea set perched on a wobbling tower of books.

And there, in the middle of it all, was Shen Qingqiu himself—kneeling, hair undone, outer robes slipping off one shoulder, rummaging through a box with the single-minded ferocity of a blue-coated cat bear.

He looked up, startled—then his expression softened. A faint smile curved his lips.

“Oh. Liu Shidi. This Shixiong thought it was one of his disciples again.”

“...It isn’t,” Liu Qingge blinked once, forced his voice steady. “I came to see if you were prepared to depart.”

“Almost,” Shen Qingqiu said smoothly, with the air of a man who was absolutely not almost ready. “Just—misplaced a hairpin somewhere. I’ll tidy up and—”

His gaze drifted over the wreckage of his own room, confidence faltering.

Liu Qingge exhaled through his nose, crossed the threshold, and said flatly, “Sit.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “What?”

“Sit.”

Perhaps out of surprise—or simply resignation—he obeyed. Liu Qingge crouched behind him, silent as shadow, picked up the fallen comb, and began to work through the dark curtain of hair.

The motion was steady, deliberate, more careful than any sword form. Shen Qingqiu’s hair was softer than he’d expected—cool, fine, heavier than silk—and each time the comb snagged, his fingers followed with careful precision.

“What,” Shen Qingqiu said after a moment, his voice carefully even, “is Liu Shidi doing?”

“Fixing the problem,” Liu Qingge said. He didn’t look up. His voice was level; his red ears, however, had other opinions. “We’ll leave faster if I do it.”

He worked in silence after that. Shen Qingqiu, for once, stayed still. His eyes were half-lidded, his posture relaxed — almost trusting. He looked like a well-groomed cat, Liu Qingge thought helplessly, one that might start purring if he dared scratch behind its ear.

When the final tangle gave way, he hesitated. Then he reached up and pulled the pin from his own hair — plain steel, edged in jade — and used it to secure the twist at the back of Shen Qingqiu’s head.

He cleared his throat. “Done.”

Shen Qingqiu turned slightly. Their eyes caught and held, and the air seemed to thin. For a moment, Liu Qingge forgot how to breathe. Shen Qingqiu’s fingers brushed the hairpin; his lips curved, faint and startled.

“…Thank you,” he murmured.

Liu Qingge rose, offered his hand. Shen Qingqiu accepted, light as drifting mist, and together they stepped out into the pale edge of dawn.

At the gate, Xu Qinglian waited, serene as always. She inclined her head. “Shen Shixiong. Liu Shixiong.”

Shen Qingqiu returned the gesture with practiced grace, while Liu Qingge merely gave a short nod.

“If we are all ready,” Shen Qingqiu said, tone smooth, “this one suggests we fly. The earlier we reach Baihe, the better.”

“Agreed.” Xu Qinglian summoned her sword, a slender blade of pale silver that gleamed faintly in the mist.

Before Shen Qingqiu could do the same, Liu Qingge caught his wrist.

“Together,” he said.

Shen Qingqiu blinked, brows arching. “Liu Shidi, this Shixiong has long since recovered. There’s no need—”

“It’ll be faster,” Liu Qingge cut in. His hand didn’t loosen. “Save your strength.”

His tone was even, almost offhand, the brush of his thumb against Shen Qingqiu’s pulse was not. Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to argue, then sighed, long-suffering.

“Very well. If you insist.”

Cheng Luan shimmered into existence, its blade gleaming in the early light. Liu Qingge stepped onto the sword with the easy grace of long habit, then extended a hand. Shen Qingqiu took it, and as Liu Qingge helped him onto the blade, it hummed—low and pleased. With a rush of wind, they lifted from the ground.

If all went as expected, they’d return within two shichen.

He should have known that whenever Shen Qingqiu was involved, ‘as expected’ was usually the first thing to collapse.

***

Baihe sprawled beneath them like a wound that refused to close. The ground festered, the air hung tainted. It breathed in and out like a dying thing. No place for the living, and yet the living swarmed it.

Cultivators milled about, pretending to sense spiritual fluctuations. Liu Qingge didn’t bother to hide his disdain. The only thing fluctuating here was their sense.

Shen Qingqiu’s voice cut through the haze, low and steady, threading through Xu Qinglian’s measured tone. They spoke of array seals, of interference patterns, of the mathematics of containment. Liu Qingge caught the words, not the meaning. 

He could fight demons. He could cut through whatever crawled out of that rift. But this—this web of sigils and logic—might as well have been poetry.

It hadn’t bothered him before. Shen Qingqiu didn’t need him to speak clever words. He needed someone who would stand in front of him when the ground gave way. That, Liu Qingge could do. That, he was.

But watching them now—Shen Qingqiu and Xu Qinglian, their tones aligning, one thought sliding seamlessly into the next—he felt something twist low in his chest. He couldn't find a name for it.

But when Shen Qingqiu finally turned back, gaze flicking over him as if to confirm he was still there, he remembered what he was for.

He wasn’t here to understand. He was here to keep him safe.

The crowd thickened as they descended. Whispering. Watching. Too many eyes on them—on Shen Qingqiu. Liu Qingge felt his grip on his sword tighten without thought. The moment the murmurs sharpened into something uglier, he shifted a step closer.

People scattered. Good.

At the square’s heart, the rift pulsed open, raw and glistening. Purple light bled across the stone, the scent of demonic qi heavy enough to taste.

Then came a voice—deliberate, too sweet to be harmless.

“Well, well. So the source of our troubles deigns to appear.”

Liu Qingge’s head turned. Out from the crowd stepped a demoness wrapped in a mortal woman’s skin.

Liu Qingge had crossed paths with plenty of people he didn’t like. But few managed to stir in him that rare, visceral disgust—the kind that Mu Ruyan seemed born to summon just by breathing the same air.

From the moment she opened her painted mouth, Liu Qingge recognized her kind. Perfume and poison—both carefully measured, both meant to deceive. Her every word glimmered with practiced grace, but underneath the polish he smelled decay. And that gaze she leveled at Shen Qingqiu—sharp, mocking, dissecting—made his fingers itch where they rested on his sword.

He had no patience for Huan Hua’s endless games or the web of petty courtesies that passed for politics. But this woman? She wasn’t playing a game. She was feeding off it. A creature bred on spectacle, and she had chosen Shen Qingqiu—of all people—to sink her claws into.

Liu Qingge’s jaw locked as she paraded her “evidence.” He heard the whispers around them grow, the shift of silk, the hungry intake of breath—disciples, elders, hangers-on, all craning to see if Cang Qiong’s famed scholar would fall. He wanted to slice the noise apart. He wanted to cut through her smirk and her lies and the fragile lacquer tray that bore them.

But Shen Qingqiu stood his ground, controlled, way too calm.

That was what kept Liu Qingge from moving—the stillness in him, the deliberate composure that said, let me handle this.

It didn’t stop the anger, though. It seethed quietly under his ribs, tightening with every poisoned word that privileged lass dripped into the air.

As if she hadn’t already pried the last splinter of decency from her palms, she twisted her mouth into an ugly, triumphant smile.

“Until Cang Qiong’s inquiry concludes,” she said, sweet and sour, “Peak Lord Shen will remain under Huan Hua’s supervision. For his safety, of course.”

The mockery tasted like bile.

Liu Qingge’s sword was already half out—an automatic, angry arc meant to lop off that smug expression. “Over my—”

“Qingge.”

Shen Qingqiu’s hand brushed his wrist and stopped him.

Liu Qingge looked at him and the fury twisted into something harder to bear. Shen Qingqiu’s fan had stilled, his expression unreadable, but Liu Qingge could see the strain beneath the mask. Could feel it, in the minute tremor of his breath.

He wanted to tell him not to do this. Not to bend, not to give those scavengers the satisfaction of watching him walk away like a criminal. But Shen Qingqiu’s eyes held him fast—calm, deliberate, asking him to trust.

And damn it all, Liu Qingge did. How could he not?

Shen Qingqiu closed his fan with a quiet snap.

“If it will ease Huan Hua’s fears,” he said, voice even, “this Master will comply. There is no need for further spectacle.”

The words were measured, composed—but Liu Qingge heard the solidity beneath them. The quiet, infuriating resolve that said this is strategy, not surrender.

He hated it. 

The guards stepped forward, hesitant, as though afraid to touch the man they were meant to escort. Rightly so. Shen Qingqiu could have leveled this entire courtyard with a flick of his wrist. Instead, he only inclined his head.

Liu Qingge’s throat burned with everything he couldn’t say. That this was madness. That he should fight. That no one who knew him could possibly believe such filth.

But Shen Qingqiu didn’t need his outrage—he needed him to stay clear-headed.

So Liu Qingge stayed where he was.

He watched as the crowd parted, as Shen Qingqiu walked between them with his usual, infuriating grace. He watched every step until the green hem of his robe disappeared past the archway.

Only then did he let his hand fall from his sword.

His heart was a furnace sealed shut, heat pressing against its walls, begging to be loosed.

He would let Shen Qingqiu play his game of patience for now. But if Mu Ruyan thought she could soil his name and keep her dainty little hands clean—

Liu Qingge’s jaw tightened.

Let her enjoy her triumph while it lasted.

He’d make sure it was her last.

***

“What do you mean—Huan Hua Palace has detained him?”

Yue Qingyuan’s voice rang through the hall, striking stone and returning colder.

Liu Qingge stood unmoving at the base of the dais, back rigid. His hand hadn’t left his sword since he entered the hall. His knuckles were white. If he let go, it would only be to draw.

He and Xu Qinglian had flown back from Baihe the instant Shen Qingqiu had been taken—or rather, the instant Shen Qingqiu had let himself be taken. 

Liu Qingge had pushed his sword flight until wind burned his eyes and blurred the mountains into streaks of color, and still, he had been too slow. Xu Qinglian followed, barely keeping up, but he hadn’t cared.

He should have turned back. Cut through the whole sect. Brought Shen Qingqiu out himself. It would have been simple. It also would have been war. 

And Shen Qingqiu—damn him—had known that.

So he had surrendered. Calmly. Like it was nothing.

He did not understand. Some insults could be endured for the sake of peace; this was not one of them. The moment Huan Hua’s people laid hands on him, the line had already been crossed.

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze settled on him at last. The Sect Leader's eyes were steady, but beneath the calm ran a tautness like a bowstring strained to breaking.

“And you allowed it?”

Liu Qingge’s jaw clenched. 

There was no answer that would not be an admission of failure.

Xu Qinglian stepped forward, as if her small, slender body could somehow deflect the force Yue Qingyuan's gaze bore. 

“Sect Leader. The situation was untenable. Shen Shixiong chose to comply. He believed it was the only way to avoid open conflict.”

She looked at Liu Qingge from the corner of her eye—warning, or pity. It made no difference.

Liu Qingge’s grip on his sword tightened. Every part of him wanted to move—to do something—but there was nowhere for the anger to go.

He knew Yue Qingyuan was right.
He shouldn’t have left him there.

Silence settled, heavy as winter frost.

Yue Qingyuan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Liu Shidi. You will not go to the Palace.”

Liu Qingge’s temper snapped. “You would have me stand idle while they—”

“No.” Yue Qingyuan’s tone softened, but steel ran beneath it. “I would have you act—but not aimlessly."

He paused for a moment. “Our scouts have reported movement along the southern border. Xie Huizhong’s forces have reappeared near the foothills—still beyond our range, but close enough to threaten the villages.”

Liu Qingge’s eyes narrowed. “Wei Qingwei can handle that,” he said curtly. “His division’s closer—”

“—and already stretched thin,” Yue Qingyuan cut in, unmoved.

Liu Qingge turned toward him, disbelief flashing sharp and cold. “You’d have me chase scraps while Shen Qingqiu—”

“—is held by Huan Hua Palace,” Yue Qingyuan took up the word again. “And you know as well as I that this is no place for your sword, Liu Shidi. This matter will be handled with diplomacy and proof. Xu Shimei and Qi Shimei will see to that.”

Xu Qinglian let her hand rest only a moment upon Liu Qingge’s forearm—light as a sleeve drifting past, gone almost before it could be felt.

“Xiao Gongzhu clings to talismans and counterfeit letters,” she said, her voice calm. “I will see each falsehood stripped away. Let her find, in the end, nothing left to grasp.” She inclined her head, the barest nod toward Liu Qingge. “Shixiong should do what he does best. Face demons.”

Yue Qingyuan’s gaze shifted. “If you find Huizhong… bring him back alive. His tongue may buy Shen Shidi’s life.”

The meaning was clear: this wasn’t only a demon hunt — it was a thread that might lead back to the heart of the trap.

Liu Qingge nodded once, sharp and unhesitating. The blaze in his chest had not cooled, but now it burned with purpose. “Understood.”

There was, of course, an easier way to end this farce.

One test of spiritual energy would expose the curse Shen Qingqiu carried, proving beyond doubt that he spoke no falsehoods. The accusations would crumble in an instant.

But Shen Qingqiu had asked him to keep that secret.

And Liu Qingge—fool that he was—would sooner break his sword than his word.

So he wasted no further breath. He turned on his heel, pushed the great doors open, and stepped into the deepening dusk.

Let Huan Hua Palace keep Shen Qingqiu for now; let them believe him cornered.

Liu Qingge would see how long their gates could hold—
—when he came to take back what was his.

***

The foothills of the southern border were nothing but a graveyard of cracked stone and scorched soil. The air burned in his lungs—sulfur, ash, and the old, metallic stink of blood.

Liu Qingge stood amid the wreckage, sword dripping black. He had come expecting soldiers—maybe the tattered remnants of Huizhong’s army. Instead, he found stragglers. Scavengers picking over the bones.

A dozen corpses already stained the earth, and the rest—what was left of them—knelt at his feet. His qi threads bound them tight, shimmering faintly in the gloom. The weakest trembled, their limbs shaking under the pressure. The stronger ones glared up at him through the blood and dirt, baring their teeth as though they thought hatred counted for courage.

“Speak,” Liu Qingge said. His voice was calm—almost polite. “Your leader. Where is he?”

One of the demons spat, black saliva hitting the ground near his boot. “You think we’d sell out our own? Go ahead, cultivator. Kill us all.”

Liu Qingge looked down at the creature. His expression didn’t shift; his voice didn’t rise. “If I wanted you dead,” he said evenly, “you wouldn’t still have a tongue.”

He wiped his blade against the edge of his sleeve and stepped forward. The nearest demon flinched before he even moved the sword. “I’ll ask once more. Where is your general?”

Their silence was answer enough.

Liu Qingge’s lips curved, almost imperceptibly. That was fine. Politeness only went so far.

The first blow was precise—a flick of his wrist that severed one horn cleanly from the demon’s skull. The creature shrieked, thrashing against the bindings. He waited until the noise thinned into whimpering before speaking again. “Where?”

Still nothing.

He could feel the anger simmering low and steady beneath his ribs, a heat he’d been carrying since Baihe. It had nowhere to go, so it burned quietly, waiting for an outlet. Perhaps it was fortunate these creatures refused civility.

He struck again—quick, methodical. Pain loosened tongues faster than any threat, and these demons weren’t strong enough to bear it long.

When one finally broke—a narrow, ash-skinned thing with one side of its face burned to the bone—it gasped out, “General Xie… he’s gone to the Palace. Huan Hua Palace.”

Liu Qingge’s hand stilled mid-motion. The blade hovered just below the demon’s chin. “Say that again.”

“He—he has business there,” the demon panted. “That’s all we were told. Orders came through the chain.”

He studied them in silence. Demons could lie; most of them did by instinct. But these ones—these trembling wretches—didn’t have the strength left for deception.

“What business?” he asked.

“We don’t know!” another burst out, voice rising to a terrified squeal. “He never tells us! He—he doesn’t tell anyone!”

Liu Qingge’s eyes narrowed. Their fear felt genuine, raw. He let the silence stretch, blade poised against the first demon’s skin. “If I find you’ve lied—”

“We haven’t,” the demon croaked. “I swear. General Xie doesn’t—he doesn’t report to us. We’re soldiers. That’s all.”

Liu Qingge watched them a long time. His qi threads hummed faintly in the still air, holding them frozen where they knelt. Even the night insects had gone silent.

Finally, he lowered his sword. “I believe you.”

Relief swept their faces—pitiful, almost human. For an instant, they might have thought mercy still existed in him.

Then his blade flashed once, clean and soundless. Heads fell onto the dirt.

He stood among the corpses, breathing slow and steady, until the ache behind his ribs dulled to something manageable.

So. Huan Hua Palace.

He sheathed his sword.

If Shen Qingqiu’s name had been dragged into a game that reached that far, then this was no longer diplomacy.

It was war.

***

By the time Liu Qingge reached Huan Hua Palace, night had already begun to fall. The sky was a deep, bruised violet, and the air stank of smoke and broken wards. From above, the palace grounds looked like a battlefield—fires guttering low in the courtyards, disciples running like ants through rubble, their formation shattered.

He landed among the ruins, boots crunching over scorched marble. The earth was still hot. A few cultivators were kneeling amid the wreckage, trying to mend the shattered array lines that spidered through the stone, but their light sputtered and died as soon as it formed.

He hadn’t expected order after the demon came here on his "business", but he also hadn’t expected this.

Liu Qingge stalked toward the inner courtyard, where the chaos seemed to converge, and found her—Mu Ruyan.

The Young Palace Mistress strode out from the haze, her face streaked with soot, her whip dragging behind her like a numb limb. The moment she saw him, her expression twisted.

“You,” she hissed, voice hoarse. “Come to gloat? You and your Cang Qiong dogs—are you proud of what you’ve done?”

He looked past her first, taking in the smoking ruins, the disciples stumbling through ash. Only then did he meet her eyes. “What happened.”

Her laugh was ugly, brittle. “Don’t pretend innocence, Bai Zhan Lord. Your Cang Qiong brother—your Shen Qingqiu—has fled, dragging one of my disciples into his treachery!”

Liu Qingge’s jaw locked. The muscles in his throat worked once before he spoke. “You’re saying Shen Qingqiu escaped.”

“I’m saying,” she hissed, stepping close enough that he could smell smoke and blood on her, “that your sect has made a fool of me. Does Cang Qiong truly think Huan Hua Palace won’t strike back?”

Liu Qingge’s patience, already stretched thin by Mu Ruyan’s grating tone, finally snapped.

He took one step forward. The sound was quiet—just the shift of a boot over broken marble—but the pressure of his qi followed. His hand rose, slow and deliberate, to rest on the hilt of his sword. The steel gave a soft, hungry click as it loosened in its sheath.

Mu Ruyan froze mid-breath.

“Watch your tongue,” he said, his voice quiet enough that she had to strain to hear it. “You forget to whom you’re speaking.”

She tried to sneer, but it faltered. For the first time, she looked less like a proud heiress of Huan Hua and more like a cornered animal, trembling under the weight of a predator’s gaze.

Liu Qingge’s hand remained on the hilt. One twitch, one wrong word, and he would’ve gladly let the blade finish the sentence for him.

Before he could, a shout broke the tension.

“Peak Lord Liu—please!”

A young cultivator stumbled into the courtyard, robes singed, one sleeve torn. He bowed hastily, stepping between them. Liu Qingge recognized him vaguely—the same disciple Shen Qingqiu had addressed at the Palace gates. Gunyi Xiao.

The boy’s voice trembled, but he forced it steady. “This isn’t the time for hostilities. Both sides are exhausted—there must be some misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Mu Ruyan’s voice cracked like her whip. “He dares invade my Palace grounds, after his martial brother destroys half of it, and you call it a misunderstanding?”

Gunyi Xiao turned toward her, lowering his head but not his voice. “Xiao Gongzhu, please.”

Her eyes blazed. “You would defend him?”

“I just don’t want to make things worse,” the disciple said firmly, though sweat gleamed at his temple. “If Peak Lord Shen was taken, then both sects have lost control of the situation. Escalating it further will only play into our enemies’ hands.”

Mu Ruyan’s breath came fast, uneven—like someone choking on their own fury. For a heartbeat, Liu Qingge thought she’d actually try to strike him. He almost hoped she would.

But her eyes flicked to his hand, resting steady on his sword, and the thought seemed to drain out of her.

Her anger curdled into something smaller, brittle and mean.

“You’ll regret this, Bai Zhan Lord,” she said, voice sharp enough to cut. “Tell your Sect Leader that Huan Hua Palace will not forget this humiliation.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Only when she turned on her heel, whip dragging through the rubble, did his fingers slip from the hilt.

Gunyi Xiao was the first to breathe again. “Forgive her, Peak Lord Liu,” he managed. “She… she’s not herself.”

Liu Qingge didn’t answer. The smoke still hung thick in the air, clinging to his lungs, stinging his eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a section of the wall gave way with a hollow crash, sending a cloud of ash spiraling upward.

He looked around—the ruined pavilions, the bodies being carried out under tattered banners, the flicker of half-dead wards crawling faintly across the stone—and none of it made sense. Shen Qingqiu would never do this.

Mu Ruyan’s voice echoed again, like a splinter lodged in his thoughts: your Shen Qingqiu has fled, dragging one of my disciples into his treachery.

Fled. As if Shen Qingqiu would ever run without reason.

Dragged someone along. As if he couldn’t tell friend from foe.

No. Something had gone wrong here—terribly, irreversibly wrong.

Liu Qingge’s mind sketched out possibilities.

If Shen Qingqiu was taken by Huizhong, why now? What for?

If he wasn’t—then where was he now?

The night stretched wide and silent beyond the shattered gates, a dark path sloping toward the wilderness. Somewhere out there—somewhere past the smoke and the ruin—was Shen Qingqiu.

Liu Qingge tightened his jaw. He didn’t care what Mu Ruyan thought she’d seen, or what the sects whispered. Shen Qingqiu was many things—unpredictable, reckless, impossible—but never faithless. Never that.

If the world wanted to call him a traitor, then so be it.

He’d find him anyway.

With one last glance at the burning ruins, Liu Qingge summoned his sword. The steel flared silver against the night as he rose into the air, a streak of light cutting through smoke and shadow alike.

He didn’t know where the path would lead.

Only that it ended with Shen Qingqiu.

Chapter Text

Cang Qiong’s meeting room had always been a pit where people fenced with nonsense, dissected logistics and disguised politics as civility. Liu Qingge had never seen the appeal. Today, however, it felt like a war council.

He stood behind Yue Qingyuan’s seat, straight as a spear planted in the ground, though his mind hadn’t been still in hours. Sleep hadn’t so much eluded him as been dismissed. 

When the rest of the Peak Lords filed in, they did so quietly. There were no formal greetings today. Even Qi Qingqi only dipped her head and sat without so much as a sigh.

At the head of the hall, Yue Qingyuan sat motionless. To the untrained eye, he looked composed as ever—hands folded neatly, face serene. But the silence around him was unsettling.

Liu Qingge didn’t need anyone to tell him something was about to give.

He could feel it in the room, in the air, in the way every Peak Lord kept looking—just briefly—between their Sect Leader and the man standing behind him.

When Yue Qingyuan finally spoke, his voice was tense.

“Past day, Cang Qiong sent men to assist Huan Hua Palace in sealing the Baihe rift. Shen Shidi and Xu Shimei were chosen. Upon arrival, they were refused permission to act. Upon arrival, they were denied participation. Shen Shidi was instead detained—accused of collusion with demons—and locked in the Water Prison.”

He lifted his gaze, and that look alone would have made the hair on the back of Liu Qingge's neck stand on end if he had been a lesser man.

“Last night,” he continued, “we were informed that Shen Shidi has ‘escaped’ custody—with the aid of a demon.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall, quickly smothered.

Liu Qingge stood near the foot of the dais, spine straight, arms folded to stop his hands from finding the hilt of his sword. 

“I requested the Water Prison’s spiritual crystal records,” Yue Qingyuan said. “According to Huan Hua, they were destroyed—by the demon that breached their wards.”

Qi Qingqi let out a short. “How convenient.”

“Indeed,” Yue Qingyuan replied, still in that same unbending tone. “More convenient still that their defensive arrays had been deactivated the day before. Officially for maintenance.”

Wei Qingwei leaned forward, his chair scraping loud against the marble. “So they dismantled their own wards, lost their prisoner, and now they’re pointing fingers at us?”

The hall had gone still. Then Xu Qinglian cleared her throat.

“Sect Leader, if I may. I’ve uncovered something new regarding the Baihe Rift.”

Yue Qingyuan inclined his head. “Please continue, Shimei.”

“The containment-transference array was not at fault,” she said. “The design held. The execution held. But…” She hesitated, just a fraction, before finishing, “...its activation sequence was forcibly altered during operation. A third entity accessed the anchor. The formation accepted it as a secondary host.”

From the side, Han Qingyao — all idle grace and half-lidded amusement — shifted his elbow on the table, letting the lamplight catch on his jade ring as if he were posing for a painting.

“Forgive me, Xu Shimei,” he said with a lazy smile, “but some of us haven’t courted a formation before. Perhaps you could clarify what that means for the rest of us?”

Liu Qingge wasn’t sure if he meant to be annoying or if it was just an unpreventable personality trait.

But Xu Qinglian didn’t even blink. “It means the array was built to link two forces: one demonic and one spiritual, from the cultivator countering it. Shen Shixiong was the designated conduit. Two poles. Equal and opposite.”

“Yin and yang,” Han Qingyao murmured, tapping his ring against the wood. “A perfect circuit. Human and demon.”

“Exactly,” she said. “But the remnants in the residual field recorded a third signature. It carried both energies — spiritual and demonic. As if someone could represent both poles at once.”

That silenced the room.

Wei Qingwei broke it with a scoff. “Impossible. There’s no cultivator who—”

“Unless,” Mu Qingfang interjected softly, “they were not entirely a cultivator.”

Then Shang Qinghua coughed nervously. “Ahaha—th-that’s—uh—rare, isn’t it?” He stammered. “I mean, I’ve never heard of—no, definitely not, no cases at all—”

Mu Qingfang gave him a look both gentle and pitying. “Possible, though,” he said. “There have been… unions. Between higher demons and humans. Their children might inherit both energies.”

Someone muttered, “Abomination.”

Qi Qingqi’s laugh cut through the whisper. “Abomination? Please. I’ve seen human men filthier than any demon.” Her fingers curled under her chin, smile slow and dangerous. “Besides, bodies are easy to please—sometimes too easy.”

A few people coughed into their sleeves.

Wei Qingwei leaned forward. “So if this half-demon exists, he’s the one who opened the rift. Which means Shen Shixiong’s hands are clean.”

Xu Qinglian inclined her head, sharp and precise. “That aligns with every piece of evidence we’ve gathered.”

“Then Huan Hua’s entire case collapses,” Wei Qingwei said flatly.

“Not until we can prove it,” Yue Qingyuan replied. “Which is why I’ve sent inquiries to the so-called handwriting expert who authenticated the letter and to the witness who claimed to see conspiring with the demon. Neither has responded yet.”

Mo Qingluo crossed his arms. “They won’t. Not unless we press harder.”

Han Qingyao exhaled through his nose, long and slow. “All that effort,” he said quietly, “makes one wonder what Huan Hua’s really after. Why accuse Shen Shixiong at all? They gain nothing by drawing Cang Qiong’s ire—unless there’s profit in the chaos.”

Qi Qingqi’s fingers tapped once against the table. “That’s the question. Why risk opening a demonic rift on their own territory—unless they meant to blame it on someone else?”

“Or unless they’re working with the one who did,” Wei Qingwei said, voice low.

The hall fell into silence again.

Liu Qingge’s pulse beat in his throat. He wanted to cut through their speculation, to stand, to say that none of this mattered right now — that Shen Qingqiu was out there, somewhere, alone. 

Yue Qingyuan spoke again.

“Speculation isn’t what Shen Shidi needs. We solve the mysteries after we get him back to Cang Qiong.”

He looked from one Peak Lord to the next, gaze unwavering. 

“Wan Jian Peak will send reconnaissance along the southern borders. Bai Zhan Peak will dispatch a search unit. Quietly.” His eyes flicked to Liu Qingge. “We find Shen Shidi before Huan Hua does. No grand movements, no declarations.”

Qi Qingqi nodded once. “My people will keep their ears open in the meantime.”

“Good.” Yue Qingyuan’s gaze swept the table. “No rumors leave this hall. To the outside world, Cang Qiong stands united. Whatever Huan Hua Palace accuses, we answer as one.”

A low murmur of assent rippled through the room.

The meeting dissolved after that. Chairs scraped, robes brushed the floor, murmur drifted toward the doors. One by one, the other Peak Lords bowed and departed. Xu Qinglian paused long enough to press a sealed scroll into Yue Qingyuan’s hand, then followed Qi Qingqi out.

Only Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge remained.

For a moment, the Sect Leader said nothing. Then, quietly: “You intend to go after him personally.”

Liu Qingge didn’t bother to deny it.

Yue Qingyuan looked at him. “Then at least do it under my order.”

Liu Qingge blinked. “Sect Leader—”

“I can’t go myself,” Yue Qingyuan said calmly. “The Sect needs me here. But if anyone can find him before Huan Hua does, it’s you.”

Liu Qingge’s throat tightened. “And if they find him first?”

Yue Qingyuan held the question and let the silence answer. “This cannot become open war unless absolutely necessary. But if it comes to that,”—his voice narrowed—“bring him home at any cost.”

Liu Qingge bowed. “Understood.”

For a moment, something like grief ghosted behind Yue Qingyuan’s eyes. But he nodded. “Then go.”

Liu Qingge turned and strode from the hall.

Wherever Shen Qingqiu had gone — north, south, or straight into hell — Liu Qingge would find him.

***

Liu Qingge felt the surge before he saw the light.

It tore through the night like a scream—a demonic pulse, vast and roiling, and then—nothing. It vanished as suddenly as it came, leaving the world too still, as if it had bitten off its own tongue.

By the time that silence fell, Liu Qingge was already in the air.

The horizon blurred; forest and river, mountain and road, all bled together into a single smear of motion. He didn’t think, didn’t breathe. His body knew what to do; his qi thrummed, restless, drawn along that faint trace like a hound on the scent.

Days. It had been days of this—chasing a shadow that kept slipping through his fingers. Always a step too late, always a fraction behind. Every time he thought he’d caught up, he’d find traces instead: the echo of Shen Qingqiu’s qi on the wind, a discarded ribbon caught on a branch, the faintest scent of jasmine on cold air.

Each time, hope rose and died a little slower.

But this—this was different. He could feel it in his bones. Shen Qingqiu had to be there. He had to.

When he crested the last ridge, the smell hit him first. Smoke, blood, and scorched earth.

The little town below flickered with torches and the gold-white glow of Huan Hua’s banners. Disciples swarmed like flies, some digging through rubble, others whispering to each other in clusters. 

He landed hard enough to send cracks through the courtyard tiles. Heads turned immediately, and the whispering died.

He ignored them.

The air was thick with qi residue—wild, unstable, threaded with the unmistakable taint of a demonic rift. He could still feel the ghost of Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual signature tangled through it, faint and uneven.

Liu Qingge’s pulse quickened. He moved forward, eyes sweeping the wreckage.

And then he saw her.

Mu Ruyan stepped out from the shadows, her silk robes miraculously clean amid the soot.

“Peak Lord Liu,” she said, her tone smooth. “You arrived swiftly. Yet not swiftly enough, it seems.”

Her eyes slid to the ground where the fissure gaped open. Ash and blood smeared the cracked stone.

“If you came seeking your shixiong,” she said, her lips curving faintly, “I fear you are too late. Shen Qingqiu is dead.”

Liu Qingge barely restrained himself from flinching.

“What rot are you peddling, lass?” he growled. “Explain.”

Her laugh was soft and cruel. “You can’t tell? Your Shen Qingqiu thought himself clever enough to pry open another rift. The heavens didn’t agree.” She gestured toward the fissure. “There was nothing left to find but blood and ash.”

Liu Qingge stared at her in silence. The air between them thickened.

Finally, she tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Take solace if you must. He died serving the same filth he insisted on shielding. Poetic, don’t you think?”

Liu Qingge’s qi flared sharp enough to make the torches gutter. The air shivered; several disciples stumbled back instinctively.

“Watch your insolent tongue,” he said, “before I cut it out.”

Mu Ruyan blinked, caught off guard. Then, recovering, she scoffed, “What? You’ll strike me? To avenge your precious traitor? Even you wouldn’t dare—”

Steel hissed from its sheath.

Liu Qingge’s sword was half-drawn, the light from the blade reflecting in her widening eyes. His expression didn’t change, but the killing intent pouring from him was so sharp the nearest disciples froze in place.

“Say another word,” he murmured. “Just one.”

For a moment, no one breathed. Even the banners overhead seemed to hold still. None of her so-called disciples dared to speak, let alone step forward.

Mu Ruyan’s throat worked soundlessly before she managed to take a step back, pride warring with fear. The smugness on her lips curdled.

Disgusted, Liu Qingge sheathed his sword with a quiet click that sounded louder than thunder. He turned away from her without another glance.

He wanted to leave. To find a real trail, something that proved her wrong.

But as he stepped past the fissure, something caught the edge of his boot with a faint metallic clink.

He frowned, crouched, brushed aside a layer of ash—and froze.

A hairpin. Silver, simple, edged in jade.

He remembered that morning—his hand steady, his heart anything but. He’d tucked the ornament into Shen Qingqiu’s hair himself, a small thing before everything went to ruin. Shen Qingqiu had kept it there and worn it ever since.

For a heartbeat, Liu Qingge couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

He closed his fingers around it, the metal biting deep into his palm until it cut skin. Blood welled, dripped down his wrist, but he didn’t notice. He just stared at the ruined ground, at the faint curl of smoke still rising from it.

He turned on his heel, and the force of it sent a wave of ash rolling across the courtyard.

“Mu Ruyan.”

Her head snapped up. The sight of his face seemed to drain what little color she had left.

Liu Qingge crossed the distance between them in three strides. By the time he stopped, she was already backing up, whip in hand but useless in her grip.

“If this is your doing,” he hissed dangerously. “If this—” he gestured to the ruin, to the fissure still pulsing faintly in the dark “—is one of your petty tricks, if you are keeping him anywhere, anywhere—”

His qi flared, the ground at his feet cracked. Every cultivator within ten paces flinched as the pressure crushed the air from their lungs.

“I will find him,” he said, voice still soft but shaking, “and then I will come for you. I will tear down this Palace of yours stone by stone. I will make your sect choke on its own blood. And when I’m done,” he stepped closer, “when I’m done, there will be nothing left here but scorched earth.”

Mu Ruyan stumbled back, eyes wide. The whip in her hand drooped, trembling like the rest of her. Whatever swagger she’d strutted in with had fled without dignity, leaving her looking suddenly young, but Liu Qingge didn’t spare her even the ghost of sympathy.

Her disciples pushed forward in a loose, jittery ring—a formation that would’ve embarrassed them on any other day—but not one of them dared step closer. The fury around Liu Qingge moved like a living creature, coiling and uncoiling, warning them precisely how fast he could kill them if they tried.

Mu Ruyan swallowed hard. She scraped together whatever was left of her once-commanding voice and managed, thinly, “A-are you threatening me, Peak Lord Liu?”

Liu Qingge’s reply was ominously gentle. “I’m promising you.”

The firelight caught the streak of blood still trailing from his hand, dripping in slow, deliberate beats onto the stone.

For a moment, she said nothing. Her mouth opened and closed once, twice, before pride finally broke and left only fear behind.

Her voice came small, stripped bare. “I—this wasn’t us. When we arrived, it was already over. The fissure had sealed. Peak Lord Shen was gone.” She hesitated, as if weighing the danger of each word. “No body. But the blood—his qi—there was too much of it. No one could have lived through that.”

Liu Qingge didn’t respond. He didn’t need her word for it—his own instincts had already carved the truth into him, cold and unmistakable.

The moment he’d got off his sword, he had already reached outward with his spiritual sense. His awareness skimmed over the scorched courtyard, the collapsed earth, the fine red mist clinging to the air. And beneath it all was a residue that made every thread of his qi bristle.

Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual signature.

Burned through. Torn apart.

Unraveled in a way that only happened when someone drew on too much demonic energy and their cultivation tore itself inside out.

He had seen it once before—long ago, on a battlefield where a rogue cultivator had tried to harness a higher demon’s core. The man’s body hadn’t remained in any recognizable shape; it had burst under the backlash, leaving behind only qi fragments clinging to the ground like the echo of a scream. What lingered afterward was a ghostly trace of the cultivator’s own aura, stretched thin and warped by demonic miasma, and the sticky metallic scent of blood boiled from the inside out.

Exactly like this.

Exactly.

Metal whispered as he let his sword settle back into its sheath. His hand faltered on the hilt.

“If he is truly… dead,” he said, voice low and even, “you’ll answer for it.” His gaze flicked to her throat—calculating how quickly she would bleed out. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can walk away from this and keep your head.”

Mu Ruyan’s lips trembled. Behind her, her disciples shifted uncomfortably; their earlier swagger had already died ugly under his stare. He did not wait to watch her break. He did not savor the fear he’d carved into her. There was no pleasure in it.

Without another command, as if moved by the pressure of his stare, they stepped aside in a careful, obedient sweep. A corridor opened through the scorched courtyard—space enough for him to pass. Their faces were white, not with fear for their mistress but with the knowledge of what his anger could do.

Enough. He had no patience left to waste on this.

“I’ll report to Sect Leader Yue,” he said, not caring who heard. “If you’ve anything to hide—now is the time to remember that I will find it.”

He started to walk away. He didn’t see the old woman forced toward him, small and desperate, flour-dusted sleeves trembling as she tried to reach him. “Xiansheng—please—please—Master—”

He didn’t hear her. The world had already collapsed into a single, taut thread: find the trail. Follow it. Don’t fall apart here.

Inside his sleeve, his fingers brushed cold metal—a hairpin slick with dried blood. He swallowed whatever rose in his throat and tucked it deeper.

Without another glance, he stepped onto his sword. The blade surged upward, lifting him clear of the courtyard. Torchlight stretched into streaks and vanished beneath him.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure what he was chasing anymore.

***

The training field lay in ruins.

Splintered wood everywhere, dust rising in thin, jittering breaths, and the air thrumming with the relentless snap of steel pushing through wind. Cheng Luan carved through another practice dummy in a single, vicious arc—torso first, then the arms, then what was left of the head. It wasn’t training anymore; it was demolition. But the strain in his shoulders, the sting in his palms—that was the only quiet he’d found since everything went to hell.

If he stopped moving, even for the length of a breath, the truth waiting in the back of his mind would catch up and take his throat.

Cheng Luan split another wooden neck. The dummy toppled, just another body among dozens.

He couldn’t stop seeing that fracture in the air. Couldn’t stop smelling scorched qi and old blood. Couldn’t forget the way Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual signature—what remained of it—had torn apart like wet paper.

He had checked. He had checked every gods-forsaken inch of that place.

After the Huan Hua cowards slunk back behind their neat little ring of torches, after Mu Ruyan crawled away with the tatters of her pride, he’d torn through the settlement until sunrise stained the sky. He flipped carts, punched holes through walls, ripped up stone, forced his way into collapsing tunnels. Over and over, searching for anything—any trace—that Shen Qingqiu had dragged himself away, even half-dead, even crawling on shattered limbs.

He found nothing.

If Shen Qingqiu had been alive—no matter how skilled he was at disguising his signature—he would have left a trace. A breath of qi leaking into the night. A strand of spiritual energy clinging to the wind.

But for li in every direction, there had been only silence.

And silence said what he didn’t want to hear.

Cheng Luan came down again. Another wooden body burst apart.

He’d only returned to Cang Qiong after midday, still feeling the phantom shape of that damned hairpin cutting into his palm.

Yue Qingyuan had listened to his report in near-stillness. Every few sentences, he interrupted—almost desperate.

“Are you certain you checked north of the ridge?”

“I did.”

“And the ravine?”

“Yes.”

“And the river’s edge—”

“Shixiong.” Liu Qingge had swallowed hard. “There was nothing.”

He’d watched Yue Qingyuan flinch—just barely, but it was there.

Denial crawled under the man’s skin like a living thing. Liu Qingge felt its twin inside himself, locked behind his ribs. But someone had to say what neither of them wanted to hear.

Yue Qingyuan sent out search parties. Small ones. Cautious.

They didn’t make it far. Halfway to Huan Hua territory, disciples had been driven back mid-air with threats.

Cang Qiong is no longer welcome. Enter again, and we will take it as war.

As if that line hadn’t already been crossed.

It was the first time Liu Qingge saw Yue Qingyuan hesitate—real hesitation, a fracture of rage and duty grinding together. For a moment, Liu Qingge thought he might actually give the order to level Huan Hua Palace.

But the moment passed. Duty won. As it always did.

Liu Qingge didn’t wait for the rest. He had nothing left to add. He returned to Bai Zhan Peak and didn’t leave again.

Day blurred into night, night into day. Hunger didn’t touch him. Exhaustion couldn’t keep up. Only the weight of the sword in his hand mattered—wood breaking, wood breaking, wood breaking. The repetition washed everything else out.

Until footsteps approached—light and cautious.

“Ge.”

Mingyang’s voice.

He ignored her and swung again. Another dummy met its end.

“Ge,” she said, firmer. “Stop.”

He didn’t. His next strike took the dummy clean in half. Straw burst out like fleeing birds.

Wind stirred.

She stepped into his periphery, moving quietly as a shadow. Before he could lift the sword for another blow, her hand touched the flat of Cheng Luan—not forcing, just asking.

Just reminding him she was the only one who ever dared.

“Ge. Look at me.”

He stilled.

She guided the sword down until its tip scraped the dirt. Only then did he meet her eyes.

Liu Mingyang studied him, the wind tugging at her hems. Even his restless qi seemed to draw back for her.

“Shizun told me what happened,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer. His grip on Cheng Luan tightened until the leather groaned.

Mingyang didn’t push the point, just studied him with that unnervingly sharp calm of hers. When she spoke again, her tone gentled, but her gaze did not.

She ignored it and stepped closer. “Ge… I know what he meant to you.”

His jaw tightened like his teeth were seconds from grinding to dust.

“Mingyang,” he warned.

Mingyang lowered her eyes briefly, gathering her words carefully. “I’m not asking you to talk about it. Just—” She breathed out. “You’ve been out here for a day and a night. You’re trying to cut your grief into the ground.”

His fingers tightened around the hilt. “I’m training.”

Mingyang raised one brow. A devastating, silent judgment. “No. You’re just destroying whatever can’t run away.”

He stiffened, but didn’t tell his sister she was wrong.

“Ge,” she said quietly, “do you truly believe he’s gone?”

A cold, slicing emptiness threaded through him at the word.

“…Everything points to it,” he said finally, the words scraped thin. “There was no body, but the state of the field—anyone would draw the same conclusion.”

Mingyang’s expression tightened—grief twisted with something sharper. She moved closer.

“And in your heart?” she asked. “Do you feel it?”

That struck flint. He flared instantly. “It doesn’t matter what I feel,” he snapped. “The world won’t bend for me.”

“No,” she agreed easily. “But if you’re wrong, and you let the trail rot because it hurts—you’ll carry that for the rest of your life.”

He froze. The air held its breath with him.

“There has to be more,” she went on. “Someone who saw what happened. What do they say?”

Witnesses.

That struck him like a blow.

He had turned the earth upside down, hunted for traces of qi, scoured the ruin until sunrise. But he hadn’t spoken to a single mortal. Not one. Hadn’t listened to a single account—not from villagers.

He’d ridden the storm of his own panic right past the only thing that might have given him clarity.

Mingyang watched his face, then clicked her tongue softly. “You didn’t think of it.”

He didn’t bother denying.

“I’m barred from their territory,” he muttered. “If I return, they’ll treat it as provocation.”

Mingyang gave him a look that belonged on someone twice her age. “Ge. Please. Are you incapable of sneaking? Has the Peak Lord of Bai Zhan grown so used to arriving with fanfare that he has forgotten how to track anything quietly?”

He shot her a glower for that. Mostly because she was right.

Something shifted inside him—slow and heavy. The backyard he’d scoured rose behind his eyelids, clear as the moment he’d stood there.

The slope of the road.
The crooked plum tree by the river bend.
The crumbling town wall.

He knew that place.

Not long ago—a moon, perhaps, though it felt like another lifetime—he and Shen Qingqiu had passed through that very town. Stayed at an inn after Shen Qingqiu had, predictably, gotten himself into trouble.

Of all places for traces to lead…

If that was where Shen Qingqiu had last been seen—if everything ended there—someone in that town knew something.

A servant, an innkeeper, a traveler. Even a drunk leaning out a window.

And if they had seen him... die—if they had witnessed Shen Qingqiu’s last moments—

Liu Qingge needed to hear it. Needed the truth, even if it gutted him. Even if it confirmed everything he feared.

How had he missed it?

He dipped his head. Barely a nod—but for Mingyang, it was the equivalent of a full sentence. Then he lifted Cheng Luan, stepped onto the blade, and let qi gather under his feet.

“I’m going back,” he said, voice low and certain.

Mingyang stepped aside. “Then go, Ge.”

He launched upward, the night splitting open in his wake.

He had to make sure.

***

Night clung to the mountainside like wet cloth, but Liu Qingge moved through it as if born from the shadows themselves.

He wasn’t a subtle man—everyone knew that. He didn’t need to be subtle. But when he wanted, when the hunt demanded it, he was something far more dangerous.

Bai Zhan disciples were raised on battlefields and cliff faces, taught to stalk beasts that could scent blood from li away. Moving unseen through enemy territory? That was nothing. That was warm-up.

He cut his qi down to the thinnest thread, compressing it until even the stray insects brushing past him had more presence than he did. 

Air travel was too exposed. So he approached from the ridge—sheer rock, twisted cliff roots, and a long drop that would’ve sent any ordinary cultivator tumbling.

His boots didn’t disturb so much as a pebble.

Below, thin circles of torchlight drifted lazily across the streets—Huan Hua patrols. Their movements were wide, sloppy. They talked too much. 

He landed on the first rooftop without a sound.

From there, he flowed between slanted tiles and shadowed overhangs, slipping through the blind spots of each passing lantern. Huan Hua disciples murmured beneath him, voices drifting upward—complaints about cold shifts, aching backs, how unfair it was to be assigned to guard duty.

Every one of them would’ve been thrown off Bai Zhan Peak before finishing their first drill.

He crossed three roofs, then four. He paused only once, tilting his head as two patrollers shuffled past beneath him. Their footwork was so appalling he had to resist the urge to drop down and correct it with violence.

He moved on.

The inn crouched at the end of the street, its lanterns dimmed for the night. He crouched on its highest beam, scanning the courtyard. No patrols. The window on the second floor was cracked open.

Good.

He stepped forward and slid quietly inside.

The room he slipped into was silent. Not even the soft rise and fall of sleeping lungs disturbed the air. The inn had been emptied clean, stripped of its usual nighttime chorus. It seemed that after what happened, no traveler had the courage to stay within its walls.

Only two heartbeats pulsed through the entire building. One was on this floor.

Liu Qingge moved across the old boards, the wood groaning faintly under his weight—but he stepped lightly enough that even that noise was little more than a breath.

A small figure rounded the corner, sweeping up wood splinters and dust. 

“Guniang,” he murmured.

She jolted—nearly launching the broom straight into his face—and spun around. For a heartbeat she looked ready to take his head off with it. Then her expression flickered—fear, shock, and finally, unmistakable relief.

“Oh! Master! Heavens above—you’re here! A-niang was so worried she said she should’ve chased after you herself—”

He raised a hand sharply. “Quiet.”

The words weren’t loud, but the steel in them cut the girl’s rambling clean in half. She pressed her lips together, nodded vigorously, and leaned in to whisper.

“Are you here to find out where Xiansheng was going?”

He went still.

“…He left?” The question dragged out of him.

The girl nodded, clutching the broom to her chest. “Xiansheng said—if his sect came looking—to tell you he had something to take care of.”

The words punched a hole straight through the crushing weight in his chest.

“He’s not dead,” he said, and his own voice sounded foreign.

Her eyes widened at the note in his voice. She bobbed her head quickly. “Alive! Alive, Master. But he—he wasn’t well…”

Something surged in Liu Qingge’s ears—his pulse, too loud, too fast. His lungs remembered how to work only after several aching seconds.

“What happened.” 

The girl shrank a little. “I—I don’t know... The earth suddenly opened up, and Xiansheng sealed it before anything terrible could happen. There was also a disciple with him, but he disappeared right after.”

A disciple?

His brows drew together.

Could it be that Huan Hua disciple—the one Shen Qingqiu fled the Palace with?

“Who?” he pressed. 

The innmaiden shook her head slowly. “He didn’t give a name… but he wasn’t dressed, uh, fancy. Black robes. Tall. His hair was all—” she gestured vaguely upward, fingers fluffing— “like this.”

Liu Qingge stared.

He didn’t know every one of Shen Qingqiu’s disciples by face—only the handful who trailed after their teacher like ducklings—but even so, he couldn’t picture a single Qing Jing brat who’d somehow discovered Shen Qingqiu’s hiding place before him, let alone slipped off the Peak without anyone noticing.

Something was off. Deeply off.

But that could wait. One thing mattered more.

“Where is Shen Qingqiu—Xiansheng now?” Liu Qingge demanded.

“I—I don’t know exactly,” she admitted. “But A-niang arranged a carriage for him. To go farther away, somewhere safer. The driver was heading west. His carriage has a little cloud drawn on the side.”

Liu Qingge’s mouth tightened into a hard line.

West.

A cloud insignia.

He could work with that.

He reached into his robes, pulled out a small, heavy pouch, and set it firmly into her hands.

The girl blinked, startled. “M-Master? What is—”

“For helping Shen Qingqiu.”

She peeked inside—and nearly dropped it. “This is—! It’s too much! I can’t—”

The girl tried to thrust it back at him, but he shook his head once—sharp and final. 

He stepped onto the windowsill, the night air folding around him.

Shen Qingqiu was alive.

The relief hit him so suddenly his knees almost buckled. A fierce, wild, burning thing unfurled in his chest, so intense it almost hurt—like blood rushing into a limb that had gone numb for too long.

He closed his eyes for one steadying moment, the world tilting back into place around him. He pushed off into the dark, Cheng Luan humming at his back, and the night opened before him.

He would find Shen Qingqiu. This time, he wouldn’t fail him.

***

Liu Qingge kept to the shadows, trailing the man with the wooden cup by sound alone. The coachman’s steps were loose, uneven—someone who’d drunk just enough to dull his instincts but not enough to forget his way home.

The moment the man turned into a narrow, empty alley—the one with the single carriage tucked beneath an awning, its side painted with a small drifting cloud—Liu Qingge decided he’d had enough patience for the night.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Why waste breath?

He drew Cheng Luan in one smooth, silent motion and pressed its cold edge against the man’s neck from behind.

The cup hit the ground with a clatter, rolling until it tapped weakly against a wheel spoke. Its contents soaked into the dirt, sharp and sour in the night air. 

The coachman didn’t even attempt dignity. “AH—! D-d-don’t kill me!” he squeaked. “Please, Gongzi—take anything! Fine silk! Spices! Antiques! I’ll give you the whole carriage—take my wife too, actually—no, wait, she’d kill you first—”

“I don’t need your junk,” Liu Qingge cut in. “Nor your wife.” The blade pressed in just enough for the man to feel how thin the line between life and death was. “I want the man you ferried from the inn. Where did you take him?”

“I—I didn’t carry anyone!” the coachman yammered immediately, shaking so hard his teeth audibly chattered. “No passengers! None! My carriage carries cargo, not gentlemen, I swear! I swear on my ancestors—on my neighbors’ ancestors—on my wife and kids—oh heavens, my poor kids—!”

Liu Qingge exhaled, long-suffering, and sheathed his sword.

The man sagged like a sack of rice.

“The innkeepers told me,” Liu Qingge said flatly, “that you drove someone away from that place. I’m not here to kill you. And I’m not here to harm him. I just need to know where he is.”

The man blinked, swallowing hard. Fear still clung to him, but without the blade against his neck, some fragment of sense began to return. After a long, shaky pause, he finally answered.

“I… I dropped him off. Three li from Wujing. The day before. I swear I ain’t seen him since. I swear on everything I got.”

Wujing. That was in the opposite direction from what Liu Qingge would expect.

Liu Qingge pulled a pouch from inside his robes and tossed it lightly. The coachman yelped but caught it by instinct alone.

“Wh—what—?”

“Apology,” Liu Qingge said. It was as close as he’d ever come to being polite tonight.

The man stared at the pouch like it might explode.

Liu Qingge didn’t wait for more babbling. He was already gone—halfway down the alley, boots whispering over stone, mind fixed westward.

He was close.

***

By the time he reached the outskirts of Wujing, an unpleasant suspicion had begun to take root in Liu Qingge’s mind.

It felt like Shen Qingqiu was running from him.

Every time he got close, he was already gone. A trail of disturbance and chaos—then nothing. Vanished again. Like smoke on the wind.

Wujing was no different.

The city gates crawled with Huan Hua disciples—far more than they’d stationed in the smaller villages. They moved in tight formations, scanning rooftops, waving talismans, snapping orders at each other. Their faces were gray and tense.

Another rift was here. Just like Baihe.

And someone had sealed it not long ago.

Liu Qingge stood at the edge of the road, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He could feel the throbbing at his temples, the start of a migraine threatening to hammer straight through his skull.

Was this what Shen Qingqiu had been so hell-bent on doing? Running around the countryside sealing demonic rifts while half-dead?

Did the man have even a shred of self-preservation? Any common sense whatsoever? And he had the gall—the absolute audacity—to lecture Liu Qingge about recklessness.

He didn’t even bother with stealth this time. There was no point. Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t be foolish enough to remain in a city swarming with this many Huan Hua disciples, and the man didn’t leave behind neat clues or polite letters.

So Liu Qingge did what he did best: tracked the remnant signature of that faint, fraying aura.

What was his goal? What was he trying to do?

The logic was simple—dangerously simple. If there were new rifts opening, then the original one in Baihe was the key. The source. The anchor.

But Huan Hua would have realized that too. Baihe would be flooded with disciples, ten times worse than here. A wall of guards and wards. A trap.

So how did Shen Qingqiu plan to break through?

The answer arrived before Liu Qingge finished the thought.

A flare split open the night sky—bright, violent, tinged with the twisted shimmer of demonic energy. A wave of corrupted qi hit him like a slap, whipping his hair and tugging at his robes.

Liu Qingge didn’t hesitate. He kicked off the ground, leapt onto Cheng Luan, and shot into the air, slicing through the night toward the epicenter. Subtlety was irrelevant.

Shen Qingqiu was there. He could feel it.

***

By the time Liu Qingge reached the city’s central square, the storm had already passed.

Whatever chaos had torn through Baihe minutes before was gone, leaving only a jagged scar of earth where the rift had been. The ground still hummed faintly, like a beast twitching in its sleep, but it was sealed—stabilized.

And Shen Qingqiu was nowhere. Again.

Liu Qingge stood on the roof of a magistrate hall, fingers crushing into the stone railing until it disintegrated under his grip. Below, Huan Hua disciples rushed about like frightened insects, swinging lanterns, arguing, tripping over each other. Useless.

They didn’t have Shen Qingqiu.

At least there was that small mercy.

He was about to turn away, frustration biting deep into his bones, when motion caught his eye—a figure in black, speaking with a cluster of Huan Hua disciples.

Liu Qingge froze.

No. Impossible.

But the longer he stared, the more the truth refused to bend. The young man was the image of a disciple burned into his memory—the clingiest shadow to ever attach itself to Shen Qingqiu, the boy for whom Shen Qingqiu had risked his life, the one who had “died” during the Immortal Alliance Conference.

Liu Qingge’s brows knit harshly. His heart stuttered once—an ugly, uneven beat.

That brat was alive?

He stretched out his senses, cautiously, peeling back his own qi enough to taste the boy’s presence.

There it was. Hidden well, tucked deep—but unmistakable: demonic energy.

Demon.

But layered under it, faint yet present—human qi. Cultivator’s qi.

His mind flashed back—unwanted—to the Peak Lords’ meeting.

“Two poles. Equal and opposite.”

“Human and demon.”

“There have been… unions. Between higher demons and humans.”

Liu Qingge exhaled slowly, jaw tightening until it ached.

So this was the brat the inn girl mentioned. The one in black. The one with the ridiculous fluffy hair. The one who’d been with Shen Qingqiu before the earth opened.

Had he triggered the rift?

Was Shen Qingqiu protecting him? Hiding him?

What else had Shen Qingqiu kept to himself? Was this why he’d been so terrified under the curse, so close to blurting something out?

Liu Qingge’s chest pulled tight.

But he’d told Shen Qingqiu before—whatever he was hiding wouldn’t change anything for him. It was still true.

Still—

If this half-demon brat was the reason Shen Qingqiu was half-dead and running himself into the ground—

A prickle ran up his spine.

The boy’s head turned.

Their eyes met across the shadowed rooftop.

And those eyes… they weren’t demon eyes. No cold hunger, no malice. Just raw worry—fear, almost—and something like desperate urgency.

Before Liu Qingge could move, a whisper threaded straight into his mind:

Find him.

Liu Qingge stiffened, rage sparking at the intrusion. How dare a demon—

—but the expression on the brat’s face wasn’t arrogance. It was pleading. Painfully human.

He could’ve leapt down. Demanded answers.

He didn’t.

He simply turned his back on the square. He didn’t need a half-demon brat to tell him what to do.

He’d find Shen Qingqiu because he would, because he always would—because nothing in the three realms could keep him away.

So he leapt into the night, chasing the last fading thread of Shen Qingqiu’s qi.

***

Liu Qingge had never known the Huan Hua Sect’s territory this way—bone-deep, map-sharp in his mind. He had scouted here before, fought here before, but now he moved through it like a beast circling the edges of its stolen den. Every path, every fork in the river, every half-rotted hut—they lodged themselves in his mind without permission.

Shen Qingqiu was close. He couldn’t sense him; if he could, he wouldn’t be tearing up half the countryside like an enraged spirit. But something in his gut coiled tight and snarled warnings at him anyway.

He barely noticed the days slipping by. One sunrise, then another, all blurred into the same impatient march north—until something tugged at him. A hill thick with dark pines, unremarkable in all aspects. He descended, eyes narrowing.

A rust-red smear clung to a tree trunk. Barely anything. Could’ve been a deer brushing past. Except Liu Qingge’s fingers twitched toward his sword. No. This was him.

He scanned the ground. Grass pressed down by a too-light body. A snapped branch at shoulder height. A path that wandered, staggered. As if something wounded had tried to crawl its way to shelter.

His pulse kicked. He followed.

The trail opened into an overgrown clearing, where an old temple sagged like a corpse left to weather. No visitors for years—the air was thick with dust and the green smell of rot. His skin prickled.

He bolted inside. At first, he saw nothing but shadows. Then, as his eyes adjusted, the corner furthest from the ruined roof took shape—

A slumped figure.

His breath stopped. He was moving before he realized it.

Shen Qingqiu lay there like a discarded puppet—limbs too thin under filthy peasant cloth, hair unbound and dull, skin nearly translucent. For a horrifying heartbeat, Liu Qingge truly didn’t recognize him.

Then the shape of the jaw, the tilt of the brows—familiar, painfully so.

Liu Qingge dropped to his knees and seized his wrist. Cold. Too cold. No pulse—

His chest hollowed out. The world tunneled—

No. No, no spiritual energy. There was a pulse.

He forced himself to breathe. Shen Qingqiu had no major wounds—nothing visible that explained the state he was in. Liu Qingge cupped his face gently. Ice. Shen Qingqiu didn’t react, didn’t even twitch.

Liu Qingge tried to pass spiritual energy into him—but the moment it touched Shen Qingqiu’s core, it scattered like mist. 

Something ugly twisted in his stomach. He gathered Shen Qingqiu into his arms, careful, steady—

A tiny, broken sound escaped Shen Qingqiu—a whine of pain.

Liu Qingge immediately bowed over him. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

Shen Qingqiu softened in his hold, as if he recognized the voice even through unconsciousness.

Liu Qingge bolted across the sky like a man possessed, clutching Shen Qingqiu’s limp body against him as if brute will alone could keep the life inside it from leaking away. He didn’t dare look down at the pale face pressed to his shoulder; the slightest glance made terror rise like bile in his throat.

He’d found him. He’d finally found him.

Liu Qingge pushed his sword harder, faster, almost overstretching the blade’s limits. Wind roared in his ears, stinging his eyes. He kept his fingers pressed to Shen Qingqiu’s throat the entire way, tracking the fragile rhythm beneath his skin.

Until—

The pulse vanished.

One moment it fluttered under his fingertips; the next, nothing.

His mind blanked. His chest seized so sharply it felt like a blade had been driven between his ribs. The sword lurched, dipping violently. Liu Qingge barely managed to keep it level long enough to descend before he crashed.

They dropped into a lonely stretch of grassland, the hills empty, the sky brutally open.

Liu Qingge hit the ground running, nearly stumbling as he lowered Shen Qingqiu to the grass. His hands were shaking—he barely registered it. He pressed his fingers to Shen Qingqiu’s neck again, searching for anything, any flicker of life. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Shen Qingqiu—Shen Qingqiu—”

He grabbed Shen Qingqiu by the shoulders and tilted his head back, forcing air into his unmoving lungs. He didn’t count, he didn’t think — he just breathed for him, again and again, refusing to stop. His hands moved on their own, pressing down on the sternum, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to break—hopefully not. What did it matter? He needed him alive, not whole.

Every time he paused to listen for breath, he heard nothing.

Every time he felt for a pulse, he felt nothing.

His breaths grew ragged. His vision swam.

“Don’t you dare.” His voice cracked. He pressed harder. “You hear me? Don’t—don’t you dare—”

A tremor ran through him, something dangerously close to a sob punching low in his throat, but he swallowed it down and kept going, kept pressing, kept breathing, as if he could bully the stubborn bastard back to life.

Then—

A twitch.
A hitch of breath that wasn’t his own.
A faint, stumbling thump deep beneath the skin.

Liu Qingge froze.

The pulse returned — weak, stuttering, barely there, but there.

A sound escaped him, halfway between a gasp and a broken laugh. His head bowed for a moment, forehead nearly touching Shen Qingqiu’s chest.

He didn’t let himself rest long. His hand rose, trembling, brushing over Shen Qingqiu’s cheek. The skin was still cold, but less corpse-like. His thumb ran along the curve of the jaw, as if confirming reality.

“You—” His voice failed him, came back rough. “You’re not dying.”

Not now. Not ever again if Liu Qingge had anything to say about it.

He gathered Shen Qingqiu back into his arms with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed. Then he stepped onto his sword and launched himself toward Cang Qiong with renewed, ferocious determination.

Faster than before. Reckless. Desperate.

He would bring Shen Qingqiu home.

Alive.

***

He didn’t remember landing.

One moment, his sword was cutting through clouds toward Cang Qiong with enough force to blister the air.

The next, he was slamming into the courtyard of Qian Cao Peak so hard disciples leapt back as if struck.

“Mu Qingfang!” Liu Qingge roared.

Gasps. Someone nearly dropped a tray of herbs. Someone else shrieked when they caught sight of the limp weight in his arms.

Shen Qingqiu’s head lolled against his shoulder, breath shallow, pulse so faint Liu Qingge had checked it ten times on the flight just to be sure it was still there.

Mu Qingfang appeared in the doorway, expression shifting from irritation to shock in the span of a heartbeat.

“What—Liu Shixiong, what happened?! Put him down—quickly! Xu Zihao, Lai Jie—red formation stones! Move!”

Liu Qingge didn’t wait. He was already pushing through the doors and practically tearing aside a curtain to reach the nearest bed.

His hands—still damp from gripping Shen Qingqiu through the worst panic of his life—refused to unclench. He lowered Shen Qingqiu as though he were fragile enough to crumble, but even then his fingers hovered, unwilling to let go.

Mu Qingfang’s voice was sharp. “Step back, let me—”

“No.”

It came out like a growl. 

Mu Qingfang blinked at him. Then, strangely, eased. “…Fine. Stay close. Just don’t interfere.”

Liu Qingge stood at the edge of the bed like a man braced for war, fists clenched, heart still slamming too fast.

His mind hadn’t fully returned from the moment the heartbeat stopped.

He could still feel it—
that horrible stillness under his fingertips,
that emptiness,
that helplessness.

He’d gotten him back, but barely.

But now Shen Qingqiu lay motionless again, pale and thin in a way that made Liu Qingge’s stomach twist. There were no injuries, yet his body looked wrong—hollow, fragile, like something essential had been scraped out.

“What happened to him?” Liu Qingge demanded. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

“His meridians are in chaos.” Mu Qingfang checked Shen Qingqiu’s pulse, frowning deeper by the second. “His qi is… it’s not circulating at all. Like something cut it off at the root.”

Liu Qingge’s throat closed.

He leaned down, brushing his fingers against Shen Qingqiu’s cheek, needing the contact—needing to know he was still warm, still here, still breathing.

For a while, there was nothing but frantic voices, the scrape of talisman paper, the hum of Qian Cao arrays sparking to life. Liu Qingge stood in the middle of it all, immovable, refusing to budge even when disciples worked around him.

Then Shen Qingqiu jerked.

A sharp, broken inhale tore from his chest like he’d been dragged from underwater.

Liu Qingge nearly shot forward. “Shen Qingqiu—!”

His eyes snapped open—wide, disoriented, terrified.

Liu Qingge froze.

He’d never seen Shen Qingqiu like this. Not even when poisoned, not even when injured. His gaze darted everywhere—as if the walls were closing in, as if something invisible was attacking him.

His breathing spiraled out of control.

Mu Qingfang hissed, “Don’t let him circulate qi—don’t let him—!”

“I know!” Liu Qingge barked, already grabbing both of Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders.

But the second he touched him, Shen Qingqiu flinched as if burned, whispering something that made Liu Qingge’s blood run cold—some hoarse fragment like no, not again—

A tear slid down Shen Qingqiu’s cheek.

Liu Qingge didn’t understand. Didn’t know what nightmare Shen Qingqiu had returned to. Only knew that he had to pull him out.

“Shen Qingqiu.” His voice dropped to something low, steady, desperate. “Look at me. Look at me.”

Shen Qingqiu’s breath stuttered. His eyes snapped toward Liu Qingge—but unfocused, slipping in and out of the present.

Liu Qingge cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the tear away. 

“You’re safe,” he said, rough and quiet. “Do you hear me? You’re safe.”

Something cracked. Shen Qingqiu’s expression flickered—fear, confusion, raw relief.

Then his gaze sharpened painfully.

“…Liu… Shidi?”

Liu Qingge’s chest constricted so hard he could barely force the words out.
“I’m here.”

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until Shen Qingqiu’s gaze drifted to them.

Mu Qingfang muttered, “He needs rest—don’t let him push himself.”

Liu Qingge ignored him completely.

Shen Qingqiu’s breathing was calming—just a little, but enough that Liu Qingge felt something in himself unclench.

“You… found me?” Shen Qingqiu rasped, voice thin, fragile, barely a whisper.

Liu Qingge leaned closer without thinking, forehead nearly touching his.

“Of course I did.”

Like he would ever stop.
Like he would ever let Shen Qingqiu vanish again.

Mu Qingfang sighed sharply. “Enough. He’ll pass out if he keeps talking.”

Liu Qingge’s thumb stroked Shen Qingqiu’s temple once—slow, grounding.

“Sleep,” he said, voice rough but steady. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes fluttered. He slipped back into unconsciousness—but this time, it was more peaceful.

Liu Qingge stayed exactly where he was, one hand still resting on the blanket near Shen Qingqiu’s ribs, the other lightly wrapped around his wrist as if he needed the reassurance of that faint, steady pulse.

Across the bed, Mu Qingfang and his disciples didn’t waste a heartbeat. They worked methodically—clearing pathways, stabilizing what little he could of Shen Qingqiu’s shattered qi system, placing talismans that glowed in soft pulses.

Eventually Mu Qingfang exhaled sharply and stepped back. “Enough,” he said. “Anything more will do more harm than good.”

He gestured, and the two disciples scattered around the bed immediately bowed and backed out, leaving the room dim and suddenly too quiet.

Mu Qingfang lingered, studying the unconscious figure on the bed with a tight, serious expression. Then he looked at Liu Qingge.

“…Do you know what happened?”

Liu Qingge shook his head. “Found him like this.” He hesitated, then added tightly, “He sealed the rifts.”

Mu Qingfang’s brows lowered. “Yes. Word reached us.” He paused, studying Shen Qingqiu’s pallor. “That may explain it.”

Liu Qingge’s stomach tensed. “Explain what?”

Mu Qingfang took a breath, slow and measured. “Shen Shixiong’s core… appears to be destroyed.”

Liu Qingge went still.

For a beat, he didn’t understand the words. Then the meaning hit, cold and brutal.

“Destroyed?” His voice came out sharper than he intended. “Completely?”

“Not entirely.” Mu Qingfang’s lips pressed into a thin line. “But broken. Severely. I can’t say yet whether it can be repaired.”

A cold dread crawled up Liu Qingge’s spine, but he forced himself to keep his gaze steady. “But he’ll live?”

That was all that mattered. All he needed to hear.

Mu Qingfang nodded. “He’ll live.” Then, after a moment, “But if the core is beyond saving… he may live as a mortal.”

Liu Qingge’s breath shook.

Mortal.
Unable to cultivate.
Unable to defend himself.

None of it mattered. Not compared to the alternative he’d held in his arms hours earlier.

“Fine,” he said, voice low. “As long as he’s alive.”

Core or no core, Shen Qingqiu wasn’t going anywhere. Not while Liu Qingge still drew breath. Yue Qingyuan wouldn’t abandon him. And if Shen Qingqiu thought to leave the mountain out of misplaced pride or shame, Liu Qingge would simply follow him. Again and again. Until the end.

Mu Qingfang let out a weary sigh. “I’ll send someone to inform the Sect Leader he’s been found.” Another sigh. “I should recommend you rest as well, Liu Shixiong. But I doubt you’ll listen.”

Liu Qingge didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Before leaving, he rested a hand briefly on Liu Qingge’s shoulder—an uncharacteristic gesture.

“You did well.”

Liu Qingge stiffened. He didn’t feel like he’d done well.

If he had found Shen Qingqiu sooner—

If he hadn’t let Huan Hua get their hands on him—

If he hadn’t wasted precious hours chasing guesses instead of arriving in time—

But none of that mattered now. 

Mu Qingfang slipped out of the room as quietly as a spirit.

Liu Qingge looked down. Shen Qingqiu’s hand had fallen to the side of the blanket, palm up, fingers loose and pale.

He reached out and closed his own hand around it.

Liu Qingge bowed his head, shoulders finally dropping those last inches of tension he’d held since the moment that heartbeat faltered.

He didn’t take his eyes off Shen Qingqiu for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

Liu Qingge hadn’t meant to doze off. He’d only closed his eyes for a moment—just long enough to press down the tremor in his hands.

But the smallest, smallest change in Shen Qingqiu’s breathing snapped him awake.

His eyes opened instantly, his hand already half-raised toward his sword before his mind caught up—and then he saw Shen Qingqiu blinking at him in the morning light. Alive. Awake. Looking at him.

Something in Liu Qingge’s chest twisted so sharply he almost checked for actual wounds.

For three days he had watched that too-still body, counting shallow breaths. Three days watching life cling to Shen Qingqiu by threads far too thin for Liu Qingge’s sanity. And now those eyes—soft, confused, painfully gentle—were fixed on him as if returning from some far-off place.

Realizing how close he’d come to losing the one person he refused to live without hit him ruthlessly.

He’d known he was in love with Shen Qingqiu for a long time. He wasn’t blind, or foolish. He simply hadn’t understood what that meant—hadn’t understood that if Shen Qingqiu had slipped away, Liu Qingge would’ve followed without hesitation.

And if some fool had told him that five years ago—told him he’d end up sleepless at Shen Qingqiu’s bedside, guarding each inhale like a flame in a storm—Liu Qingge would’ve called it nonsense. Then probably cut the idiot down for good measure.

But now, seeing Shen Qingqiu awake, seeing that flicker of relief—as if he was the one Shen Qingqiu had been worried about—

There was no pretending left in him.

When they spoke of cores and curses—when Shen Qingqiu explained, quiet and worn, that the curse had vanished along with the last pieces of his spiritual essence—Liu Qingge felt something cold coil under his ribs.

The curse was gone. Fine.

But the reason…

Shen Qingqiu’s core—broken.
His cultivation—crippled.
His future—uncertain.

Liu Qingge kept his face unreadable. Shen Qingqiu needed steadiness, not the feral panic clawing at Liu Qingge’s insides. He needed someone solid.

He reached for Shen Qingqiu’s wrist—pure instinct, just to check his pulse, to be certain he was truly still here. Warm skin met his fingers, and it nearly undid him.

He should have let go, but he wasn’t strong enough.

And when he realized Shen Qingqiu wasn’t pulling away—
that he was letting Liu Qingge touch him, that his breathing even slowed under that touch—

Hope.
Terrifying, impossible hope.

He’d never allowed himself that before. Wanting Shen Qingqiu was manageable—painful, yes, but manageable.

But Shen Qingqiu leaning in, just slightly—
Shen Qingqiu looking at him through lowered lashes—
Shen Qingqiu relaxing under his touch as if it were instinct—

That was something else entirely.

Liu Qingge’s heart kicked hard enough to bruise.

Maybe he feels something too.

Not much—Liu Qingge wasn’t delusional—but a glimmer. A spark. Enough to keep him standing.

So later, when Shen Qingqiu rested his head against Liu Qingge’s shoulder—light as a sigh, fragile as a first thaw—Liu Qingge felt the world narrow to one, simple truth:

He would follow this man anywhere.

Into war.
Into exile.
Into mortality.
Into the end of the world.

And if Shen Qingqiu ever disappeared again—if he ever pulled another self-sacrificing stunt that stopped Liu Qingge’s heart cold—

Liu Qingge doubted he’d survive it a second time.

So he held him, quietly, reverently.

Like a man who understood—finally, painfully—what he could never afford to lose again.

***

Liu Qingge had expected the quiet weeks after the Huan Hua mess to feel like relief. And they did—technically. The demons scattered, the Young Palace Mistress dethroned, the sect elders pacified… and Shen Qingqiu, finally, allowed to return to Qing Jing Peak with the mild condition that he rest, recuperate, and only teach the kind of classes that wouldn’t strain a newborn, much less a cultivator with a shattered core. In other words — behave. 

Which, to Liu Qingge’s total lack of surprise, meant Shen Qingqiu would immediately find new and innovative ways to not behave himself.

He’d told himself he’d stop visiting Shen Qingqiu every morning once he was safely home. Naturally, that vow lasted about half a day. By dawn the next morning, he was climbing the familiar steps with a cup of mu leaf tonic in one hand and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, Shen Qingqiu would still be asleep.

He wasn’t.

He was out on the training grounds, fixing the stances of a collection of junior disciples who looked both terrified and honored. A feather-light flick of his fan: “Straighten your spine.” A tap of his fingers: “Your wrist bends. Don’t let it.” A soft sigh: “Honestly, if you were on Bai Zhan, your Shishu would have you running laps until you cried.”

Liu Qingge stopped in the gateway and raised one eyebrow in a manner that even Shen Qingqiu—preoccupied with correcting sword angles—couldn’t miss.

Shen Qingqiu froze mid-gesture like a fox caught rearranging the chicken coop. Then—credit where it was due—he actually had the decency to look faintly guilty.

“This Shixiong is not using spiritual energy,” he defended. “So he can’t possibly overexert himself. Truly, Liu Shidi, I am fully capable of lecturing children for a ke without collapsing. You need not worry.”

Liu Qingge crossed his arms.

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat. “Alright, maybe it has been two ke.”

A beat.

“…a third of a shichen. In a row.”

Liu Qingge just stared him down until the juniors scurried away as if expecting lightning to strike.

Shen Qingqiu lasted a fen before declaring, “You look very judgmental right now, Liu Shidi.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The next morning, Liu Qingge arrived again—this time with reinforcements.

A dozen of Bai Zhan disciples trailed behind him like a pack of well-trained wolves. Before they’d left the mountain, Liu Qingge had growled, “No picking fights. No insulting Qing Jing Peak. And don’t break anything unless Shen Shibo says you can.”

They behaved. Mostly.

When they streamed into Qing Jing Peak’s courtyard, Shen Qingqiu’s eyes widened for half a heartbeat before he hid the expression behind his fan.

“Liu Shidi,” he said cautiously, “has Bai Zhan Peak run out of space? Or have you decided to colonize Qing Jing while this Master is helpless and vulnerable?”

Liu Qingge inclined his head. “Your disciples could use practice while their Shizun is idle.”

Shen Qingqiu’s fan snapped sharply against his ribs. Liu Qingge didn’t flinch.

“And mine,” he continued placidly, “could use practice sparring with weaker opponents.”

That earned him another jab. Worth it.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes were bright—bright in the way they only were when he was delighted and determined not to show it. 

“This is very thoughtful of Liu Shidi,” he declared, and Liu Qingge felt a ridiculous rush of satisfaction bloom in his chest. He tamped it down. Poorly.

The sparring matches began almost immediately. Qing Jing disciples squared off with Bai Zhan disciples under Liu Qingge’s supervision, and at first Shen Qingqiu hovered like a mother bird guarding fragile hatchlings.

Liu Qingge could practically feel the tension radiating from him—eyes narrow, fan poised like a weapon of judgment, every muscle ready to swoop in should a Bai Zhan disciple sneeze too aggressively at one of his junior peaklings.

But Bai Zhan behaved—fear was an excellent motivator.

Eventually Shen Qingqiu’s posture melted into interest, then genuine fascination.

Liu Qingge watched him more than the sparring.

But even fascination had limits. Eventually Shen Qingqiu gave a faint sigh, snapped his fan closed, and leaned the tiniest bit closer.

“Liu Shidi’s senior disciples look rather sleepy today. Would it not be wise to stir them up a little? Perhaps the glorious War God could demonstrate a thing or two. It would also serve as good instruction for my disciples…”

He trailed off, green eyes gleaming with mischief and something softer underneath.

What was Liu Qingge supposed to do? Refuse?

He was only a man. A weak, helpless man faced with Shen Qingqiu’s whims.

He nodded once and stepped forward.

“Three of you,” he barked, pointing at his strongest senior disciples. “Together.”

They straightened, excited and terrified in equal measure.

The moment they attacked, Liu Qingge knew he could have ended it with a flick of his wrist. Instead, he—

—perhaps took his time.

Just a little.

His movements were fluid, precise, and deliberate—each strike just slow enough to look dramatic, each dodge just close enough to impress, each counter just sharp enough to draw gasps from the watching disciples.

He didn’t look to see if Shen Qingqiu was watching, because he could feel the weight of that gaze—steady, intent, warm as sunlight on the back of his neck. He could imagine those green eyes tracking every step, every arc of his sword.

And when he risked a glance, Shen Qingqiu did not disappoint. His fan was lowered, his expression unguarded, gaze fixed on Liu Qingge with an absorption that made a warmth spread through Liu Qingge's chest.

Liu Qingge had just knocked one of his seniors off balance—gracefully, intentionally—when he felt it. He turned his head just in time to see Shen Qingqiu’s lips tilt into a sly, unmistakable curl.

And then, as if the man had been waiting for the perfect moment to ruin his life, Shen Qingqiu winked.

A wink.

At him.

Liu Qingge almost took a sword to the face.

He blocked it in time—barely—but the edge still sliced a lock of hair clean off. His disciples froze mid-strike, eyes wide, clearly wondering if they’d just signed their own death warrants.

His ears burned. His pulse tripped over itself. He did the only reasonable thing he could do: he sent all three disciples flying into the mud with one explosive sweep of spiritual force.

They landed in a tangle of limbs and pained groans.

From the sidelines came a soft, innocent voice: “Oh? That’s all? This Master was just getting the hang of things. Liu Shidi was being so… expressive.”

Liu Qingge almost swallowed his tongue.

Shen Qingqiu definitely knew. He absolutely, unquestionably knew Liu Qingge had been showing off like some preening peacock. And worse—he was enjoying it.

Liu Qingge did not rise to the bait. He didn’t trust himself to open his mouth without spontaneously combusting.

Instead, he barked—much louder than necessary—“Get up! Back with the Qing Jing juniors! If any of you can’t stand, crawl!”

The Bai Zhan disciples scrambled upright like resurrection puppets, eager to escape their Shizun’s wrath.

He retreated—strategically, he told himself—to Shen Qingqiu’s side. The man had his fan up, hiding half his face, but Liu Qingge wasn’t fooled. He could feel the amusement radiating from him like heat from a forge.

Time to redirect before Shen Qingqiu began dismantling what remained of his dignity.

“It’s time,” Liu Qingge said, keeping his voice steady. “For spiritual infusion.”

That wiped the smirk right off Shen Qingqiu’s face. He hesitated, glancing almost guiltily at his disciples—as if they were delicate things who would perish the moment their teacher stepped out of sight.

Liu Qingge inhaled slowly through his nose. “They will survive half a shichen without you.”

A junior promptly tripped over his own feet, as if in direct contradiction. Shen Qingqiu winced. Liu Qingge stared flatly at the horizon until the heavens agreed to stop mocking him.

At last, Shen Qingqiu sighed, closed his fan, and murmured a few instructions to the disciples—something about behaving, listening to senior brothers and sisters, and not setting anything on fire while their Shizun was gone.

Then he turned to Liu Qingge. “Very well.”

They started toward the bamboo house—side by side, close enough that Liu Qingge could feel the faint warmth of his sleeve brushing his own.

Shen Qingqiu kept a carefully neutral expression, but Liu Qingge could see right through him. He knew that sly grin was lurking just beneath the surface, ready to pounce the moment he let down his guard.

Fine.
If Shen Qingqiu wanted to play these little games…

…then Liu Qingge would play too.

He was done pretending. Shen Qingqiu’s awakening on that Qian Cao bed had ripped open something in him—made it obvious that life without this impossible, infuriating, brilliant man felt hollow. Empty, almost. Meaningless.

If courting Shen Qingqiu meant enduring winks, sly smiles, and the occasional near-decapitation—

So be it.

***

Liu Qingge had been warned.

Mu Qingfang had rattled off his list of “perfectly normal complications” which a cultivator might face when his core was in the middle of reconstructing itself — dizziness, weakness, the occasional collapse. Routine, expected, nothing to fret over.

Liu Qingge fretted anyway.

He’d lost count of the times he’d caught Shen Qingqiu leaning against a wall with all the nonchalance of a man admiring clouds while his knees quietly plotted treason. Every time, Shen Qingqiu pretended he wasn’t a hairsbreadth from toppling over. Every time, Liu Qingge pretended this didn’t make his heart skip a beat.

This time was no different.

He was on his way to the bamboo house when a senior Qing Jing disciple intercepted him — the one with the braided buns, always unfailingly polite and perpetually worried about Shen Qingqiu. She bowed deeply and announced that her Shizun was “strolling in the bamboo grove.”

Strolling. Right.

Halfway through the grove, Liu Qingge reached the koi pond — wide, quiet, shaded by drooping leaves. Shen Qingqiu stood at its edge, posture elegant but too still, fingers hooked around the railing with the kind of delicacy that, on closer inspection, was actually desperation.

Liu Qingge deliberately let his footsteps crunch on the path. Shen Qingqiu turned, but his eyes didn’t quite focus. 

“Liu Shidi,” he said smoothly, “I was merely admiring Qing Jing Peak’s landscaping. Truly, one forgets its understated elegance.”

He talked about appreciating nature, as though he hadn’t clearly wandered here for the express purpose of not collapsing in front of witnesses.

“Your legs are shaking.”

A dignified scoff. “They are not.”

He strode over, tapped two fingers against Shen Qingqiu’s knee. The leg promptly folded.

Liu Qingge's hand was already there to catch him.

Shen Qingqiu’s face flickered through annoyance, outrage, and finally reluctant acknowledgment of reality.

“That,” he muttered, “was sabotage.”

“Mm.”

A long, defeated exhale. “Fine. Perhaps — perhaps — I am… slightly dizzy. But I’ll recover in a moment and walk perfectly well.”

Judging by his pallor and the way his fingers still clung to the railing, “a moment” was optimistic even by Shen Qingqiu’s shameless standards.

So Liu Qingge didn’t bother to argue.

He simply slid an arm under Shen Qingqiu’s knees, another behind his back, and lifted.

A startled, absolutely undignified sound escaped Shen Qingqiu before he could stop it, followed by hands gripping at Liu Qingge’s shoulders in instinctive panic.

“Liu Shidi—! Put me down. Immediately. This Master is perfectly capable of—of locomotion. There is no need to—this is unnecessary. Deeply unnecessary. I am not a fainting maiden—”

Liu Qingge merely adjusted his grip. “Sure.”

He didn’t slow. He didn’t loosen his hold. He absolutely did not enjoy how Shen Qingqiu fit against him, light and warm and so easy to carry it made Liu Qingge’s chest tighten with something reckless.

They were almost out of the grove when a cluster of junior disciples rounded the corner in light green robes. The instant they recognized their Shizun their eyes widened and they squeaked.

Shen Qingqiu did not even attempt a defense.

He pressed his face into the crook of Liu Qingge’s neck, ears burning like coals, and muttered, muffled and miserable, “I hate you.”

There was no heat in it. Just flustered surrender.

Liu Qingge felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

1 to 1.

Good.

He fully intended to win the next round as well.

***

Liu Qingge had always brought Shen Qingqiu the occasional trophy — a pelt from some vicious mountain fiend, a rare feathered predator whose claws could slice stone, once even a frost-blooming spirit herb he’d only recognized because it tried to chew his glove. Shen Qingqiu accepted every offering with that scholar’s composure he liked to pretend was purely polite, though his eyes always shone with greedy magpie delight.

And now that Liu Qingge had far too much time on his hands, it seemed… reasonable to hunt something interesting.

He hadn’t planned on this particular beast, though.

He’d gone out looking for a Three-Eyed Ridge Prowler or maybe a Hollow-Tusk Mirehound, possibly even one of those Sky-Splinter Swifts Qi Qingqi insisted were “folklore exaggerations.” (They weren’t. He’d prove it eventually.) Instead, fate dropped a different creature directly into his path — the snarling, bristling, venom-spined menace known as a Cinderpeak Duskfang.

A surprisingly good hunt, all things considered. The beast put up a fight worthy of its reputation, and Liu Qingge enjoyed every breath of it.

The only downside—mating season.

Which meant the Duskfang was faster, meaner, and twice as eager to pick a fight. It also meant it managed to score one shallow swipe across his hand — a tiny cut, laughably shallow. Except the creature was venomous.

Not dangerously. Just inconvenient.

He’d deal with it later.

First, he wanted to see Shen Qingqiu’s expression.

By the time he reached the bamboo house, the bandage he’d wrapped hastily around his hand was already soaking through, but he ignored it. He knocked once, slid the door open, and found Shen Qingqiu hunched over a pile of scrolls, ink smudged across his fingers like a crime scene.

The second Shen Qingqiu saw him, he abandoned everything. He stood, fan half-open, expression primed with curiosity.

Liu Qingge dropped the Duskfang carcass to the floor.

Shen Qingqiu lit up like a festival lantern.

In a blink he was crouched beside the beast, tapping its hide with his fan, muttering excitedly, lecturing the air with migration patterns, venom potency and breeding habits. He rattled off details Liu Qingge was pretty sure no sane person should know.

Watching him, Liu Qingge felt the corner of his mouth tug upward.

Then Shen Qingqiu went utterly still.

His eyes had landed on Liu Qingge’s hand.

Shen Qingqiu reached out and took it gently, as though afraid it might break. “Where did this come from?”

Liu Qingge shrugged.

“Was careless,” he said.

That was apparently the wrong answer.

“Does Liu Shidi not know Cinderpeak Duskfangs are venomous? Has he shown this to Mu Qingfang? What am I saying—Mu Shidi would never bandage anything like this, this looks like something a deranged boar attempted—”

He launched into a flustered lecture about Qian Cao Peak, antidotes, and long-term consequences of untreated venom. Liu Qingge tensed, jaw tightening.

He wasn’t going back to the Healing Hall. Not after practically living there for a month.

When he muttered as much, Shen Qingqiu deflated at the edges.

A soft sigh. “Then… at least let me take care of it.”

Shen Qingqiu guided him to the cushions, settling him down as though arranging a patient. He rummaged through cabinets with the precision of someone who had memorized every drawer. When he returned, he unwound the bandage with painstaking care, constantly glancing up to check for the slightest flinch.

The cool cloth he used to clean the wound stung a little, but Liu Qingge didn’t react. He barely felt it over the warmth spreading through his chest at the sight of Shen Qingqiu fussing over him.

Then Shen Qingqiu hesitated.

“How long ago?” he asked.

“One incense stick.”

Shen Qingqiu’s expression tightened. “That means the venom hasn’t dissipated. These beasts… their toxin clings to meridians and refuses to dissolve with qi-circulation or talismans.” He paused, fanned himself once, then closed it sharply. “Which means I’ll have to… I need to… remove the venom manually.”

Liu Qingge blinked.

Shen Qingqiu tried to maintain a scholarly calm, but the faint blush creeping along his cheekbones ruined him. “It must be drawn out directly. By… well.”

Liu Qingge felt heat climb his own neck.

And—admittedly—one stray, wildly inappropriate thought flickered through his mind: good thing Mu Qingfang hadn’t been the one to treat it.

He resolutely strangled that thought.

Apparently his silence lasted too long, because Shen Qingqiu began flailing — verbally, at least.

“If Liu Shidi finds it improper—if he would prefer another solution—if he doesn’t wish for me to—this Master can certainly call someone else—if you’re uncomfortable—”

“I want you to,” Liu Qingge interrupted.

The room froze.

Both men stared at each other in mortified silence, faces equally red.

Shen Qingqiu coughed weakly. “Ah. Very well.”

He wasn’t sure whether the venom or Shen Qingqiu was more dangerous at this point.

Shen Qingqiu took a steady breath, reached for his hand with feather-light caution. Liu Qingge stayed absolutely still. He couldn’t have moved even if he’d tried, his entire body felt locked in place.

Shen Qingqiu leaned in.

Liu Qingge felt the warmth of his breath ghost over the wounded skin, and a jolt went straight down his spine.

He looked away.

He tried to.

But the moment Shen Qingqiu’s mouth closed over the wound — careful, deliberate, unbearably soft — Liu Qingge’s gaze snapped right back, helpless and hungry as a starving wolf scenting meat. His pulse lurched, breath stuttered. Somewhere low in his stomach, something tightened, something hot and reckless and absolutely inappropriate.

He told himself to look at anything else. The floor. The ceiling. The wall. The grain of the wooden pillar.

He failed spectacularly.

Because Shen Qingqiu was there in front of him, eyelashes lowered in concentration, brow faintly creased, lips touching his skin with a kind of clinical reverence that made Liu Qingge’s thoughts spiral into deeply non-clinical places. He’d always known Shen Qingqiu was beautiful in a refined, untouchable way, but this— 

Shen Qingqiu paused only long enough to spit the venom into a bowl, lips stained with a faint red sheen, before bending over his hand again. The second touch of his mouth was somehow worse — or better — and Liu Qingge’s breath jerked audibly. He was grateful Shen Qingqiu didn’t comment.

Because he couldn’t have explained it.

Couldn’t have explained the sudden heat coiling under his ribs, or the way his skin felt too tight around his bones, or how each light pull made his thoughts scatter like startled birds.

A particularly slow, careful draw of suction made his vision blur for a moment, white at the edges.

Shen Qingqiu, innocent menace that he was, murmured something about “almost done,” and Liu Qingge nearly disgraced himself by making a sound that did not befit a Peak Lord in the slightest.

At last, Shen Qingqiu pulled back with a soft exhale. He rinsed his mouth, set the bowl aside, and cleaned the wound again with the gentlest touch — too gentle, far too careful — before winding a fresh bandage around it. His fingers brushed Liu Qingge’s wrist as he tied the knot, light and warm, and Liu Qingge’s entire body went rigid.

“Done,” Shen Qingqiu said softly.

Liu Qingge was on his feet an instant later. “Good,” he said. It came out hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Good. Thank you.”

Then, before Shen Qingqiu could say anything, he fled.

There was nor dignity in it, nor composure. If a demon horde had been chasing him, he might have run slower.

He didn’t stop until he was halfway down the path, where he stood for a long moment with burning ears and a heart battering his ribs. The air felt too thick, his pulse too loud, his skin too hot.

He needed cold.

A lot of cold.

A waterfall would do.

And if he spent an entire shichen beneath the freezing cascade of Bai Zhan’s northeast cliff, letting the icy water pound sense back into him — well.

No one had to know.

Least of all Shen Qingqiu.

***

The door slid open with almost no sound — a signal that whatever peace Liu Qingge thought he had was over.

“Ge.” Mingyang stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She held a scroll in one hand, her posture straight but unhurried. “You didn’t come visit me at Xian Shu Peak.”

Liu Qingge didn’t look up from the report he absolutely wasn’t reading. “Busy.”

“You were on the roof,” she corrected mildly, “staring at Qing Jing Peak.”

“I was not—” His brush snapped between his fingers. Ink bled across the table like a wound. “How did you—?”

Mingyang took the seat opposite him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her expression was as composed as ever, only the sharpness in her eyes betrayed anything more.

“You’ve been unsettled.”

“I have not.”

Her gaze swept the desk — the reports he hadn’t touched, the inkstone gone dry, the cup of tea he’d brewed and forgotten. 

“You haven’t gone to spar with Shizun in a xun.”

Liu Qingge’s brow twitched. “Irrelevant.”

“It is relevant.” Her tone stayed calm. “Avoiding your routine means you’re thinking too much.”

He stared. “I don’t think too much.”

“That,” she said, “is exactly the problem.”

He bristled, but Mingyang left the silence intact, giving it room to press down on him. Their mother had taught her that technique far too well.

Finally, she said, “If you’re troubled, you should say something.”

“I’m not troubled.”

“Mnn.”

Her gaze drifted to the window — angled toward Qing Jing Peak, as everything in this room seemed to be lately. Then back to him: the tension in his shoulders, the fingers tapping once, betraying what his words wouldn’t.

“This is about Shen Shibo.”

It wasn’t a question.

Liu Qingge’s jaw tightened. “...He’s recovering.”

“Yes.” Mingyang inclined her head. “And in the first three days, you confirmed that recovery five times.”

“That’s not—”

“The Qing Jing disciples bow to you from a distance now,” she added, tone still calm. “They think you’ve taken up residence there.”

Liu Qingge made a noise faintly resembling a groan. Her expression softened—barely, and only in that particular, feral Mingyang way.

“Ge,” she said quietly, “I know you.”

He pressed his palms into the desk, briefly wishing for the blessed solitude of being an only child.

Mingyang went on, steady and gentle. “When something concerns you, you place it in one of two categories: things you can cut down, and burdens you carry alone.”

He exhaled through his nose. “This isn’t—”

“You can’t carry this alone.” She cut him off with that same level tone. “And he isn’t a threat. Stop treating him like one.”

He went still. Because she was right, which was its own humiliation.

He had become more cautious after the… venom incident — a constant, low-grade alertness. Not toward Shen Qingqiu, but around him. As if his brain kept whispering, something could happen again. As if his heart kept whispering something worse.

Mingyang reached for his cold teacup, inspected it like it had personally offended her.

“You aren’t sleeping.”

He didn’t respond.

She set the cup down with almost ceremonial care. “And you’re afraid.”

He looked away immediately, studying the courtyard as if enlightenment waited in the shrubbery. His silence was admission enough. 

Mingyang’s voice softened, barely. “You know he trusts you. Deeply.”

That tightened something in his chest.

“And that trust,” she said, “matters far more than a declaration you’re not ready to make.”

Liu Qingge stared at the floor for a long moment.

“I don’t want to—” He stopped. Tried again. “If I go too far—”

“You won’t.” Mingyang’s tone was final. “You’ve never been careless with him.”

Her certainty only twisted the knot in his chest tighter.

Because care wasn’t the problem.

Care was the thing he’d been drowning in since the day Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes again.

Mingyang watched him for a long moment, then asked, very softly, “Ge, you avoid him because you think this feeling makes you reckless.”

He went utterly still.

“It doesn’t.” Her tone was thick with unshakable confidence. “It makes you human.”

Liu Qingge opened his mouth, closed it again. His usual confidence had evaporated, leaving something rawer, something unguarded in its place.

Mingyang didn’t push. She rose, smooth and deliberate.

“You don’t have to tell him anything,” she said. “Just stop running from yourself. It’s… unbecoming.”

He glared automatically. She ignored it.

At the door, she paused, her hand on the frame.

“And Ge?” she added, back still turned. “Whatever you fear will break this—it won’t. Not with him.”

The door slid shut with the same soft sound it had opened with.

Liu Qingge stayed seated, staring at the spreading ink stain on his table — as if it might explain what he was feeling.

It did not.

Eventually, he pushed himself to his feet. He headed straight for Qing Jing Peak.

***

When Liu Qingge landed on Qing Jing Peak, the world itself seemed to tense. Then, in a slow, somber ripple, the sky gathered itself and began to weep. A thin, cold rain drifted down, soaking the stone paths and muting the colors of the mountain.

Liu Qingge hardly spared the phenomenon a glance. He cast a barrier around himself with a flick of his fingers, letting qi bloom into a translucent canopy overhead, and crossed the courtyard toward the teaching pavilions. Shen Qingqiu should have been finishing a lecture around this time. 

A ke later, the doors slid open and Qing Jing disciples trickled out in pairs and clusters, heads bowed respectfully as they passed him. Several cast worried glances at the sky, at the rain.

As soon as the courtyard emptied, he stepped inside.

Shen Qingqiu was gathering scrolls at the front of the room, long sleeves draping neatly as he arranged them into a stack. The rain muffled all sound outside; the only noise in the pavilion was the faint rustle of paper and Liu Qingge’s own approaching footsteps.

Shen Qingqiu looked up.

Surprise flickered in his eyes—quick, subtle, then smoothed away into his usual serene composure. “Liu Shidi… you came. I thought—” He cut himself off, composed himself. “What brings you here?”

Liu Qingge stepped inside. The patter of rain swallowed the world outside; in the silence of the empty pavilion, his footsteps sounded too loud.

“Do I need a reason?”

“No,” Shen Qingqiu replied, a fraction too fast. “Of course not. As I said earlier, you are always welcome here.”

The hush that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy, filled with everything they never voiced. The rain echoed softly against the roof. Shen Qingqiu’s breathing was light, too light. Liu Qingge noticed.

Finally he said, “I’ll walk you back.”

Shen Qingqiu didn’t protest—only nodded faintly, and they stepped out together beneath Liu Qingge’s spiritual canopy. It shielded them from the rain, but not from the cold. Shen Qingqiu tried to hide the slight shiver that ran through him, but Liu Qingge caught it anyway. His jaw tightened.

Inside the bamboo house, the air wasn’t much warmer. Liu Qingge crossed the room in two strides, lit the brazier with a controlled spark of qi, and turned to see Shen Qingqiu rummaging through a closet with growing frustration.

“Lost something?” Liu Qingge asked.

“A cloak.” Shen Qingqiu straightened, exhaling softly. “I didn’t anticipate—” He stopped mid-sentence, a tiny wince tightening the corners of his eyes. He tried to smooth it over, and failed miserably.

Liu Qingge closed the distance in two strides.

“Give me your hand.”

He didn’t wait for permission. His fingers closed around Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, feeling along the spiritual pathways with practiced precision. His qi was barely moving. Already too slow these past months — now sluggish enough to make Liu Qingge’s heart clench.

He immediately transferred his own qi, careful and steady. Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

“My apologies,” Shen Qingqiu murmured, voice thin. “This is hardly proper hosting… I should have served tea. But… I’d prefer to sit down, if that’s alright.”

Liu Qingge didn’t give a damn about tea. He cared about how close Shen Qingqiu had been to dropping to the floor. 

Dizziness was rare lately; for it to return now—

He slipped an arm around him before he could sway, guiding him toward the bedroom. Shen Qingqiu didn’t resist, just allowed himself to be lowered onto the bed, eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion.

Liu Qingge knelt before him, taking his cold hands in both of his.

“What do you want?”

Shen Qingqiu gave him a small shake of the head, eyes still closed. His breath trembled.

“If you could… stay for a while. Unless you have other duties.”

Other duties could go rot. 

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.

He helped Shen Qingqiu lie down fully and wrapped a blanket over him. His hand returned to Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, pushing qi into him in a slow, steady stream. But the tremors wouldn’t stop. If anything, they worsened.

Liu Qingge hesitated only a moment.

One, two heartbeats of internal struggle.

Then he shed his outer robe, climbed onto the bed, and slipped an arm around Shen Qingqiu’s waist, drawing him back against his chest. Shen Qingqiu’s body fit there far too easily, far too naturally.

Liu Qingge placed his open palm over Shen Qingqiu’s dantian, sending warmth and qi straight into him. Shen Qingqiu’s breathing gradually deepened. The trembling softened. His cold hands warmed under the blanket.

Little by little, Shen Qingqiu’s breathing softened, the trembling faded. His body eased against Liu Qingge’s, pliant and trusting.

Then a hand — uncertain, searching — found his. Shen Qingqiu covered Liu Qingge’s palm with his own.

“Stay… a little longer,” he whispered, barely audible.

Liu Qingge leaned in, mouth close to the curve where neck met shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Time blurred. The rain never let up, whispering against the roof in endless sheets. Shen Qingqiu’s breathing went quiet and shallow. His body went boneless with sleep, softening completely against Liu Qingge. The trust in that unconscious surrender nearly undid him.

Liu Qingge tightened his embrace, resting his face against the back of Shen Qingqiu’s neck, breathing in bergamot and jasmine like a man starved for air.

And he closed his eyes.

He would tell him. Someday. Just not yet.

He’d wait. Until Shen Qingqiu was ready to hear it — and then, he would say it without holding back.

***

Liu Qingge realized—only belatedly, and with the distant irritation of a man discovering he’d stepped into a puddle—that he’d forgotten to put up a barrier before walking through a downpour. His clothes were plastered to him, his hair was dripping into his eyes, and water slid down the back of his neck in a perfectly miserable line.

He didn’t care.

His mind had been on Shen Qingqiu when he left Bai Zhan Peak. On Shen Qingqiu as he crossed the courtyard. On Shen Qingqiu the entire climb to the bamboo house. With all that interference clogging his head, it was a wonder he remembered to bring his sword at all—activating a spiritual canopy had clearly been too much to ask.

They’d only completed the spiritual infusion yesterday. Mu Qingfang had warned him not to push it, to let the core settle naturally, but with weather this wretched Shen Qingqiu would benefit from another session.

When the door slid open, his certainty only sharpened.

Shen Qingqiu—wrapped in layers like a disgruntled silkworm, cheeks faintly pink from the cold—blinking at him with wide, startled eyes. Liu Qingge stepped inside quickly, blocking the draft before Shen Qingqiu could get any colder.

He sat with him. Reached for Shen Qingqiu’s wrist. Sent qi into his meridians. Watched the tension in his face melt like frost in the sun.

And the whole time, he pretended not to notice the way Shen Qingqiu’s eyelashes lowered, the way his breath stuttered when Liu Qingge’s thumb brushed his pulse. He pretended not to see the flush rising on his cheeks.

Until—

Shen Qingqiu’s gaze, when it finally lifted to meet his, was dark, his pupils dilated, and beneath it, something hot flashed, something... hungry.

Desire? He didn’t dare assume it.

But it was there. He saw it. He felt it.

He’d pictured it—far too often, and never aloud—how it would feel if Shen Qingqiu ever turned that kind of gaze on him. So when Shen Qingqiu leaned in, closing the distance in a single impossible breath, and their mouths brushed—

Liu Qingge went utterly still.

Warm. Soft. Real. He barely had time to process the shock of it before the world snapped to a halt around them.

Shen Qingqiu drew back, clearly horrified with himself, and bolted into the storm.

For a moment, Liu Qingge simply stood there.

Then the world slammed back into motion.

He went after him.

If their first kiss had been a question, this one was the answer.

Liu Qingge kissed him with every ounce of controlled longing he’d buried over the years—deep and certain. Rain ran cold down his spine but Shen Qingqiu’s mouth was warm and yielding beneath his. His own breath trembled. His hands slid to Shen Qingqiu’s waist, drawing him close because he could, because at last nothing held him back.

He hadn’t known it was possible to want someone so much. To desire so sharply it bordered on pain.

He’d swallowed it for so long—kept his hands still, kept his voice neutral, kept his distance because he had never been allowed anything else. He had taught himself to look without touching, to care without hoping, to ache without expecting relief.

And now—

Now Shen Qingqiu kissed him back.

When Shen Qingqiu’s breath hitched, Liu Qingge deepened the kiss without thinking, one hand sliding up the back of his neck, fingers threading through damp strands of hair. Shen Qingqiu’s hands clutched at him—uncertain, seeking—and Liu Qingge felt his restraint disintegrate, piece by piece.

He wanted more.

More warmth, more closeness, more of the soft, helpless sounds Shen Qingqiu made when their mouths parted only to meet again.

He wanted to memorize the taste of him, the feel of him trembling in his arms, the way his breath hitched as if he’d never been kissed like this before.

And gods—Liu Qingge wanted to kiss him until he forgot why he had run in the first place.

When Shen Qingqiu began to shake, Liu Qingge gathered him close and drew him back toward the house. 

Inside, warmth wrapped around them only faintly, the door slid shut and Shen Qingqiu was in his arms again, and Liu Qingge didn’t waste a heartbeat. They kissed until neither of them could breathe properly, until Shen Qingqiu’s lips turned red and swollen and Liu Qingge finally—finally—let himself believe it was real.

That Shen Qingqiu was wanting him back.

Outside, beyond the bamboo thickets, the rain that had hammered the world for two days straight gentled… softened… and finally, silently, stopped.

***

The first thing Liu Qingge saw upon stepping onto Qing Jing Peak was… whatever that soggy, half-collapsed disaster was supposed to be. Around it milled two peaks’ worth of disciples—Qing Jing’s serene chaos and An Ding’s panicked buzzing—loud enough to scare off wildlife. 

And in the middle of that chaos stood Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua, bickering like two cranes fighting over a dead fish.

Liu Qingge approached just in time to catch Shen Qingqiu’s cool, perfectly modulated tone:

“…and therefore, Shang Shidi, Qing Jing Peak will not be covering the expenses that resulted from your peak’s inability to secure its belongings.”

Shang Qinghua’s arms windmilled. “Bro, how was I supposed to know the thing would FLOAT down here? That’s a natural disaster! A weather anomaly! Divine sabotage!”

The disciples noticed Liu Qingge then, parting quickly. The An Ding youths stepped aside with the nervous reverence of people sensing a predator entering the yard. The Qing Jing disciples, however, lit up like lanterns—cheerful greetings, bright eyes, the kind of welcome Liu Qingge had only ever seen them offer to their Shizun.

And Shen Qingqiu’s face—when he turned and saw him—softened instantly, eyes brightening. It lodged somewhere under Liu Qingge’s sternum, tight and hot.

Liu Qingge ignored Shang Qinghua entirely. “What happened?”

“A minor dispute,” Shen Qingqiu sighed, resting a hand on his fan. “We are determining whose responsibility it is to remove this eyesore. I personally contend that since it is Shang Shidi’s property, delivered uninvited, the burden should be his.”

A pointed, frosty glance was sent at Shang Qinghua.

Shang Qinghua bristled. “I contend that Qing Jing Peak shouldn’t have a convenient shed-sized landing pad in the first place!”

Liu Qingge stared between them, unimpressed. “Why not throw it out?”

Shen Qingqiu half-hid his face behind his fan with a languid flutter. “Ah, Liu Shidi. Such labor might be trivial for the War God, but to the rest of us, relocating an entire structure is a rather involved task.”

Liu Qingge took that as an invitation. He bent down, grabbed several massive logs—choosing the heaviest on purpose—and lifted them effortlessly with one hand.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyebrows shot up. His ears colored a betraying shade of pink. For a blissful heartbeat, he forgot to look dignified.

“Where?” Liu Qingge asked.

Shen Qingqiu snapped his fan shut and pointed wordlessly.

In less than one ke, Liu Qingge and a few sturdy Qing Jing disciples reduced the disaster to neat, manageable piles. By the time the disciples were distracted arguing about whose broom had gone missing or which shixiong had misplaced an entire toolbox, Liu Qingge turned to Shen Qingqiu.

“I need your opinion,” Liu Qingge said.

Shen Qingqiu blinked. “On what?”

“Come.”

He tugged him gently—though firmly—toward the bamboo grove. The instant they were hidden from endless disciples, Shen Qingqiu raised a brow in polite inquiry.

“So? What pressing matter—”

Liu Qingge leaned in, breath warm against his lips. “…This.”

And he kissed him.

Shen Qingqiu’s breath caught, his fingers curled into Liu Qingge’s robes, drawing him closer. And that tiny, helpless tug made Liu Qingge’s control shatter.

The angle shifted, deepened. His free hand slid up the line of Shen Qingqiu’s spine, feeling him arch almost imperceptibly into the touch. Shen Qingqiu’s lips parted on a quiet, involuntary sound.

He didn’t think. He followed instinct, nipping lightly at Shen Qingqiu’s lower lip, tasting the shiver that ran through him. Shen Qingqiu’s hand tightened in his sleeve in what was definitely not resistance; he was leaning, trusting his weight to Liu Qingge as if the world had tilted a little and he’d chosen the direction of the fall.

Warm breath mingled between them; bamboo leaves whispered overhead. Liu Qingge had never known he could be undone by the softness of someone’s mouth, the way Shen Qingqiu breathed against him like he was relearning how, the faint flush blooming across his cheekbones.

When Shen Qingqiu finally pulled back to catch his breath, his lips were glossy and swollen, his eyes a little unfocused. Something low and primal inside Liu Qingge rumbled with satisfaction.

“What… what’s gotten into you?” Shen Qingqiu managed, pupils wide.

Liu Qingge brushed his thumb over the edge of that flushed cheek, leaned in, and murmured against his skin, “Missed you.”

Shen Qingqiu tried for indignation, but it came out breathless. “We saw each other the day before yester—”

Liu Qingge kissed the faintest corner of his mouth.

“—day…”

“Too long,” Liu Qingge said simply, sealing his objection with another kiss to those swollen lips.

Their mouths met again, slower this time, as if savoring each other more than stealing anything. Shen Qingqiu gave up almost immediately, hands coming up to clasp the back of Liu Qingge’s neck, drawing him closer, closer—

“Bro, bro, you won’t believe—OH—OH GODS—OH—SORRY—CARRY ON—NO DON’T CARRY ON—BRO DO YOU WANT ME TO LEAVE—SHOULD I LEAVE—HEAVENS ABOVE—”

Shen Qingqiu jerked back like someone had detonated a talisman under his feet. His entire face went scarlet.

“SHANG. QINGHUA.”

Liu Qingge had never heard his voice at that octave of deadly calm.

Shang Qinghua yelped. “I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING—”

“You—! I will THROW you down the mountain!”

“BRO—WAIT—MERCY—”

Shen Qingqiu shot Liu Qingge one word—“Qingge”—and it was all the permission he needed.

Cheng Luan was drawn before Shang Qinghua finished inhaling.

Liu Qingge generously gave him a single fen head start.

Then he carried out Shen Qingqiu’s threat and threw him down the mountain.

***

Liu Qingge wasn’t even remotely shocked that Shang Qinghua, even with a broken leg, managed to scatter his version of events across the entire sect before sunset. In fact, he’d expected it. The man could be gagged, tossed off a cliff, chained up, sealed in a storage jar, and set at the bottom of a lake—and he would still find a way to circulate gossip faster than a plague.

What Liu Qingge hadn’t expected was that—after the rumors had grown so rampant even the stray dogs seemed to bark about the “tragic romance” of two Peak Lords—the Sect Leader would request his presence.

A formal audience.

In Yue Qingyuan’s private study.

Liu Qingge stepped inside with the rigid composure of someone who has fought entire armies and is prepared to do so again.

Yue Qingyuan rose to greet him, smiling as always—gentle, courteous, and just a little too serene.

“Liu Shidi,” Yue Qingyuan said warmly. “Please, sit.”

Liu Qingge looked at the chair.

Then at Yue Qingyuan’s calm, benevolent smile.

Then at the chair again.

“…I’ll stand.”

“Very well.” Yue Qingyuan didn’t insist. He only gestured toward the tea set. “Tea?”

“I just drank,” Liu Qingge answered instantly.

He had not. But he’d also lived long enough to know better.

Yue Qingyuan’s expression gentled in a way that somehow felt more dangerous—still utterly mild, refined—but it put Liu Qingge on even higher alert. Yue Qingyuan was a gentle man. A refined leader. A great strategist.

Which meant if he did intend to kill Liu Qingge, Liu Qingge would find out only when he hit the floor.

“Liu Shidi,” Yue Qingyuan began, folding his hands neatly, “I suspect you know why I called you.”

Liu Qingge said nothing.

In Qiong Ding Peak, silence was often safer than words.

“There have been… rumors.” Yue Qingyuan’s tone remained mild. “Regarding you and Shen Shidi.”

Liu Qingge’s shoulders stiffened, but he kept his face neutral.

Yue Qingyuan continued as though discussing rainfall patterns. “Your private matters are, of course, your own. However, as Sect Leader, it is my responsibility to ensure harmony among the Peaks. And as your Shixiong…” His smile deepened by the smallest, deadliest fraction. “…I admit I am curious.”

Curious.

Liu Qingge remained utterly motionless—the instinctive battlefield rule: when in unfamiliar territory, don’t move, don’t speak, don’t give the enemy anything they can use.

“…About what?” he asked carefully. “Whether the rumors are true?”

Yue Qingyuan’s smile didn’t shift a bit. “Oh, I already know they’re true.”

Liu Qingge’s stomach dipped.

He should have buried Shang Qinghua twice.

Yue Qingyuan poured himself tea, lifted the cup with delicate, practiced calm, and didn’t drink. Just held it.

“I’m more interested in your… intentions toward Shen Shidi.”

Liu Qingge straightened further, which should have been impossible. My intentions are—” He stopped, jaw tightening, searching for words that didn’t sound ridiculous or incriminating.

He finally settled on, “Serious.”

Yue Qingyuan hummed softly. “Long-term?”

“Yes.” That one slipped out too quickly.

“And mutually respectful?”

“Yes.” Faster.

“And rooted in genuine feeling?”

A pause. Then, grudgingly, “…Yes.”

Yue Qingyuan gave a faint nod, the kind a teacher gives when a student finally answers correctly. “Good.”

Liu Qingge had fought demonic beasts, rogue cultivators, and an entire battlefield’s worth of horrors, but never—not once—had he sweated like this.

Still, he felt a thread of tension loosen—only a thread—before Yue Qingyuan continued, still soft-spoken, still smiling: “I have known Shen Shidi for many years.  He has… a complicated nature. And a past to match. He does not open easily.”

“I'm aware,” Liu Qingge muttered.

“And yet,” Yue Qingyuan said pleasantly, “he appears—how shall I put it—less tense lately. Happier. That is… unusual.”

Liu Qingge blinked. That, somehow, flustered him more than any implied threat.

Yue Qingyuan folded his hands again. “So what I wish to confirm is simply this: are you prepared to maintain that? Whatever it requires?”

Liu Qingge swallowed once.

A soldier before a general.

“Yes,” he said. Voice low, resolute. “I am.”

Yue Qingyuan smiled—and that smile finally reached his eyes.

“Then,” he said kindly, “I have no objections.”

Liu Qingge let out a slow breath.

“Although,” Yue Qingyuan added lightly, with the timing of someone who enjoyed giving him cardiac events, “I would appreciate it if future developments did not require emergency roof repairs, three An Ding Peak reports, and two fainting disciples.”

“…That wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course,” Yue Qingyuan said, serenity incarnate. “Naturally.”

Liu Qingge abruptly, desperately wanted to leave.

“Is that all, Sect Leader?”

“Yes, Liu Shidi. Thank you for coming.”

Liu Qingge bowed and turned to go—only to hear a soft murmur behind him: “I suppose the truth serum in the tea wasn’t necessary after all.”

“Tru—what—?”

***

When Liu Qingge set foot on Qing Jing Peak that morning, he’d expected the usual: Shen Qingqiu lecturing some hapless disciple into enlightenment, or sitting in his bamboo house pretending tea-drinking was a form of cultivation.

What he absolutely hadn’t expected was Shen Qingqiu storming out of his study like a thunder deity incarnate, hair loose, face crimson with fury, and clutching what appeared to be the violently mangled corpse of a book. Pages fluttered behind him like fallen leaves. 

The moment he spotted Liu Qingge, he strode forward with lethal purpose.

“Take me to An Ding,” he said, voice trembling with rage. “Now. I’m going to gut this rat.”

Liu Qingge blinked. Slowly. Then he glanced down at the book. It was shredded beyond recognition, but the gaudy cover art, the suspiciously dramatic title font…

He’d seen these things before, clutched in the hands of disciples who immediately hid them behind their backs when they noticed him. Qi Qingqi, in particular, had once looked him dead in the eye, snapped one shut, and asked sweetly, “Finished sparring already, Liu Shidi? Or did you want to ask me about… technique?”

He hadn’t understood what she meant. She’d laughed. For an uncomfortably long time.

Now, looking at Shen Qingqiu vibrate with murderous intent, he finally began to piece things together. When he managed to skim a surviving line—just one, written with far too much imagination and absolutely no shame—he let out a slow exhale.

Honestly, would anyone truly miss Shang Qinghua? The Sect could function with eleven Peaks. Perhaps it would even function better.

***

Liu Qingge woke before dawn. Habit more than intention—his body always rose for battle, even when there was no battle to be had. But today he didn’t move. Why would he, when something infinitely more important than armor was pinned to his chest?

Shen Qingqiu lay half-sprawled over him, warm and deceptively delicate, breathing slow and deep like nothing in the world had ever troubled him.

A year had crawled by since Huan Hua Palace—since that split-second in which Shen Qingqiu’s core had cracked and Liu Qingge had considered, with crystal clarity, how many realms he could take down before someone stopped him.

But that was then. Now Shen Qingqiu slept easily, spiritual energy steady and growing. He still couldn’t use Xiu Ya properly, couldn’t fly it either. Mu Qingfang swore that would change soon.

Shen Qingqiu acted like the important part was “combat readiness,” as if anyone believed that. Liu Qingge had been watching him for too long not to recognize the real loss—he missed the sky. So Liu Qingge had carried him on Cheng Luan whenever he could, and he’d keep doing it as long as needed. But he couldn’t shadow him forever. Shen Qingqiu wanted to lift himself into the air again, under his own power.

Liu Qingge understood.

A loose strand of dark hair brushed his ribs. He moved to tuck it aside before he’d even registered the motion.

Shen Qingqiu made a faint noise—half annoyed at the morning, half determined to ignore it—and blinked awake. His eyes, still hazy from sleep, tipped up to meet Liu Qingge’s.

It hit him, as always. That same sudden, sharp ache in his chest, like someone had just struck him cleanly between the ribs.

Shen Qingqiu shifted upward, instinctive as breathing, and Liu Qingge dipped down without thinking. Their lips met—slow, warm and unhurried. The kind of kiss that made Liu Qingge’s blood heat and coil low in his abdomen, threatening to drag him right back into the night before.

Shen Qingqiu smiled against his mouth, before pulling away with all the theatrics of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

“Qingge,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “We can’t stay in bed all day. We have things to do.”

Liu Qingge would have argued that he had plenty he could do right here—but Shen Qingqiu was already pushing up to sit. His inner robe slipped off one shoulder, exposing pale skin and sending Liu Qingge’s thoughts in unhelpful directions.

He sat up behind him and immediately wrapped an arm around his waist. Shen Qingqiu froze only for a breath, then melted back into him, pliant and inviting, as if he’d been waiting for that pull all along.

Liu Qingge pressed his bare chest to Shen Qingqiu’s back, the thin silk caught between them a weak excuse for a barrier. Goosebumps rose along Shen Qingqiu’s spine. Shen Qingqiu let out a quiet, helpless sigh and leaned back into him—head tipping to the side, throat bared, surrendering without a word.

Then—

BANG.

Both of them stilled.

...Knock. A frantic, hopelessly loud knock.

“Bro! Bro, are you awake?! Open up! I need to talk to you!”

Shang Qinghua. Naturally.

Shen Qingqiu released a long, doomed breath, already sliding out of Liu Qingge’s arms to search for clothes.

Liu Qingge caught him again, leaning in so his lips brushed the shell of his ear. “Ignore him.”

“He won’t leave,” Shen Qingqiu muttered, escaping with the ease of long practice.

“What if,” Liu Qingge said, licking his lips mindlessly, “I make him leave?”

Shen Qingqiu’s mouth twitched—equal parts temptation and mischief—but he shook his head and fastened his robe. “As appealing as that sounds… we should get up.”

He tied his hair back in a loose ponytail, threw Liu Qingge one last, knowing look, and slid the door open.

“I’ll deal with that little rodent.”

Liu Qingge didn’t bother to ask. He had long ago given up trying to understand the mysteries of Shen Qingqiu and Shang Qinghua’s inexplicable alliance.

The door slid shut behind him.

Liu Qingge stretched, gathered his scattered clothes, and began dressing. A moment later, through the walls, he heard Shen Qingqiu’s sharp, triumphant laughter paired with Shang Qinghua’s panicked whining.

Liu Qingge pulled his belt tight and shrugged.

Not his problem.

As long as Shen Qingqiu sounded content, the rest of the world could burn as it pleased.