Chapter Text
It all began with a cat—or rather, it all began, as most things on Qing Jing Peak did, with the embarrassing and unshakable crush Luo Binghe nursed in secret for the master he had sworn himself to.
Luo Binghe was born unwanted; he’d been his mother’s son, for a little while, but before she found him and after she was taken from him, he’d wandered the streets, surviving only by virtue (he now knew) of the demon blood concealed within his veins, that gave him strength and warmth against the bitter cold of winter, the stiff, bone-eating dampness of the chilling rain, the cruelty of his fellow beggars. He used to watch people carefully then —not their faces, for emotion could be hidden or faked, but their hands: hands were honest, he’d learned, and would tell him whether someone would beat him for stealing their trash, or drop leftovers on the ground for him to find, or reach for him with frightening familiarity and cloying, dangerous instinct.
His own hands had been stained black the day he’d dug that pit for Cang Qiong Mountain: the hands of the cultivator who had picked him to be his disciple had been white and clean, nails blunt, tendons cut in sharp contrast from the tension of his quick, snake-like movements. From the age of ten to ten and four, Luo Binghe had cowered from those elegant, merciless hands, from the disdainful discipline they delivered, inescapable like the loneliness they wrapped him in.
Shen Qingqiu’s hands, now, worn by a different man (or ghost, or spirit, or perhaps an immortal from the great wilderness, sent to lift Luo Binghe from the hopeless, bleak wasteland of his life) were gentle, and never still. The right was dotted in a dozen pinpricks of mended skin, the mark of his kindness, of how he’d pushed Luo Binghe behind his back and shielded him from what for a mere core-formation disciple would have been certain death. Shizun himself had barely survived; but he’d placed his palm upon Luo Binghe’s head, and Luo Binghe had understood, right then, that from that moment on there was no other he could bear to follow, no other he would trust. For Shen Qingqiu was willing to protect him, and wanted for him only to grow up well: which, as Luo Binghe’s honored mother used to say, ought to be reward enough for one rearing up children.
All of Qing Jing Peak was fond of Shen Qingqiu, with his cunning eyes and gentle instruction, but Luo Binghe most of all, because Luo Binghe alone was privileged enough to share Shizun’s house, and to learn things about him not even the sect leader was permitted to witness.
Everyone benefited from Shizun’s hard work, but no one else knelt by his elbow to slide fresh sheets under his brush when he ran out; no one else heard him mutter aloud as he went through the disciples’ reports, or saw just what kind of novels Shen Qingqiu liked to read in the privacy of his home, artfully concealed inside classic texts Shizun could doubtlessly recite from memory at the blink of an eye —in his lessons and sometimes even in his speech, Shen Qingqiu often quoted the great sages of the past, and several nameless authors, including women, that their world must have long forgotten, and yet Shizun kept firmly in his mind.
During the blessed months he’d spent in the bamboo house, cooking just the sort of food Shizun enjoyed, and letting Shizun brush and style his hair, Luo Binghe had quickly realized Shen Qingqiu adored all manner of small creatures. This discovery had been made by chance when Shizun had taken the youngest among his outer disciples down the mountain to visit the marketplace and spend some of their allowance on gifts for their friends and families that they would soon be called upon to visit.
Luo Binghe had tagged along, wanting to personally look through the spices on offer, because Shizun deserved more than the bland, uninspired fare Qing Jing’s kitchens produced, and that little trip had turned into one of the happiest days of his sixteen years of mostly miserable existence.
Shen Qingqiu had fussed so briskly and sweetly about Luo Binghe’s shidimei —and Luo Binghe, who in the short time since he’d gone to live with Shen Qingqiu had learnt several unexpected things about himself— had been struck by a longing so fierce he’d needed to abscond from the scene lest he make a fool of himself and embarrass Shizun in front of an audience. He could not go around and moon after his master so explicitly, no matter what Ning-shijie said, for in Shen Qingqiu’s eyes Luo Binghe was no more than a child himself… just that morning Shen Qingqiu had pinched his cheek like he was Luo Binghe’s own aunt, and praised him for growing every day a little taller, good boy, shooting up like a proper bamboo sprout. Luo Binghe had no delusions when it came to his own prospects: but he was more than content with the care Shen Qingqiu already showed him, and his preferential treatment, and some of his daily-life secrets too.
Wandering the marketplace, Luo Binghe had come across a fluffy, well-fed alley cat that clearly enjoyed better treatment than Luo Binghe had when in the streets; it seemed mild-mannered, and so Luo Binghe had picked it up with the vague intention of letting the shidimei pet it. Instead, Shen Qingqiu had turned a glittering, absolutely taken gaze on it, and had leaned into Luo Binghe’s own space to scratch the cat on its white chin and between its pointed ears, and had been so delighted for that encounter that he’d hummed to himself the entire evening, even taking out his qin to play.
Luo Binghe firmly believed Shen Qingqiu’s every desire should be instantly fulfilled: and so, whenever they descended the mountain, he was always on the lookout for cute, round and pitiful animals he could reasonably expect Shen Qingqiu might want to pet. At the time, he hadn’t yet uncovered his master’s fascination for dangerous creatures, and had not broadened his horizons to include demonic beasts and the like into his searches; but then again, it was probably for the best, since Shizun would have definitely put a stop to the practice entirely had Luo Binghe returned to him bitten, or singed, or splattered with acidic fluids.
So, it all started because Shen Qingqiu had taken his three personal disciples on a mission in the middle of winter, and because Luo Binghe had noticed the cold and the darkness seemed to have brought down Shen Qingqiu’s mood, and had thus decided to track down a fox or a hare to cheer him up.
The mission had been quickly resolved (a minor haunting in the back fields of a fishing village due to restless spirits that had been roused by some boars digging through their graves) and the sky was heavy with the promise of hail or snow: Luo Binghe kept one eye on the sea-like swishing of Shen Qingqiu’s embroidered cloak and another on his surroundings, tuning out Ning Yingying and Ming Fan’s gossiping to listen for the sounds of animal activity. The grouchy elder residing in his dreamscape was muttering in despair, complaining about Luo Binghe’s lack of murderous intent; Shizun was pensive, walking a few steps before his disciples, tucking delicate sighs behind the cover of his fan.
Finally, Luo Binghe heard a little whimper coming from the bushes, like the chirping of a very small kitten. Faintly alarmed (but mostly excited for the chance to present Shen Qingqiu with a tiny pet to raise at home), Luo Binghe scanned their surroundings, and quickly took off towards the nearby stream, barely visible through the thin layer of cracking ice encasing it.
He clicked his tongue, hoping that the cat would cry out —and then he saw the basket, and the blanket, and the round purpling hand peeking out from it.
“Shizun! Shizun!”
Luo Binghe’s distressed calling tore Shen Qingqiu from the intense session of fruitless haggling he’d opened against the System to try and work a way around the Abyss storyline, or barring that, being the one to kick it in motion. The System, as ever, had no mercy, not for Shen Qingqiu’s dreadful position nor for Luo Binghe’s youth and general innocence, and its upbeat replies were starting to very quickly get on Shen Qingqiu’s nerves; so he was almost grateful for the distraction Luo Binghe dramatically provided in running around like a headless chicken, cheeks flushed red from the frosting air and hair flying every which way as he carried a dirty bundle in his arms. “Shizun, it’s a baby, it’s a baby, Shizun!”
Shen Qingqiu blinked, and in the time he took to process that disturbing, out-of-place statement, Luo Binghe was upon him, looking more troubled than he had when Shen Qingqiu had sent him off to fight against a demon three times his size; and then the bundle was thrust high between them, and Shen Qingqiu stared at the baby (barely an infant) that Luo Binghe had apparently stumbled across in the woods. His heart skipped a beat —all he could think of was the snow on the ground, the bitter rush of the wind, the fragility of this newborn with nothing but a single blanket to shelter in.
Without wasting another moment, Shen Qingqiu stuck his fan in his belt, pulled his cloak open and loosened all six of his layers at the chest while Luo Binghe hung there, silent and confused, with Ming Fan and Ning Yingying hovering at his sides, just as dumbfounded. “Give me the child, fast,” Shen Qingqiu instructed, and left the blanket in Luo Binghe’s shaking hold to press the baby who was cold as ice against his own skin. He wrapped the child into the heavy wool and protective silk of his robes and sent a sliver of qi inside that failing body. “Fold the cloak around it —yes, thank you Binghe— now tell me what happened. Hurry.”
“I found it by the river, in a basket,” Luo Binghe explained, as they all ran the final li towards the village and its hopefully competent doctor. “The basket was empty and wet, so I left it there.”
The sound of flapping fabric nearly drowned out the ringing in Shen Qingqiu’s ears; he had to fight the instinctual urge to tighten his grip on the delicate infant he was carrying, afraid to crush its already straining lungs, and then, as he broke out of the thick canopy of the forest, a whirling, howling wall of snow slammed into him, making his eyes water. He freed a hand from the tangle of his cloak and put up a golden barrier to shield his disciples and himself, and quickened his pace.
“Shizun, will the child make it?” Ning Yingying asked fretfully, and out of the corner of his eye Shen Qingqiu could see her stealing glances towards him, as if she might divine the baby’s state beyond the layers of cloth it was buried in.
“I don’t know, Yingying,” Shen Qingqiu told her truthfully, for Ning Yingying, he thought, deserved a master who would not take her for a fool and lie just to spare her feelings. Still, his heart squeezed painfully as he considered the very real possibility that this little life could be snuffed out directly in his arms, growing stiff and cold against his skin. “This child… doesn’t seem to be breathing very well.”
Ming Fan scurried closer, following Ning Yingying and Luo Binghe’s lead in sticking to Shen Qingqiu as he tried not to jostle the baby while clearing as much distance as possible in as short a time as he could. “But Shizun, can’t we take the child to Mu-shishu?”
“It’s too far; and we won’t be able to fly since the snow is picking up,” Shen Qingqiu said curtly, squinting towards the faint yellow glow of the village torches. “This child needs to receive proper care now, and even so, it might not be enough.”
“But it’s so small,” Luo Binghe said, and his voice, too, was small, like he was remembering that he had also once been a child in a basket. Shen Qingqiu couldn’t spare the mind to console him just then, but he marked his disciple’s disquiet to address at a later date, when the emergency had been resolved. Luo Binghe, however, seemed to have already moved past this moment of vulnerability, and jutted out his chin with stubborn resolve. “Shizun, I’m faster, I’ll go and wake Xie-daifu, tell her to be ready.”
He shot off like an arrow without waiting for Shen Qingqiu’s instruction, white robes blending in with the snow until only his curls were visible, like a splash of ink on paper.
“I’m sorry, xianjun,” said the doctor when Shen Qingqiu finally crashed through the doors of her home. Her lined face was motherly, full of sympathy and understanding, but she did not reach for the baby, quickly pressing it back into Shen Qingqiu’s hold. “There isn’t much else I can do for a frozen newborn beyond finding someone who might share body heat with it.” On her table, laden with herbs in varied states of desiccation, was a bowl of clear water, fogged with steam, and the doctor pushed it forward. “Xianjun has a golden core, and runs warmer than a mortal would; if you don’t mind, wash your hands, dry them carefully, and hold the child against your body. If its breathing clears, then it may survive.”
Luo Binghe, ever-helpful, pressed a worn towel between Shen Qingqiu’s hands; and Shen Qingqiu found himself at a loss on how to face his three disciples, all of them young, all of them utterly trusting of him. The child was still in his hold, its mouth half-open, sputtering short pitiful gasps against his chest, its curled fists and trembling feet little points of ice, utterly frightening. “Xie-daifu, is there truly nothing else that can be done?”
She shook her head. Luo Binghe crossed his arms, shoulders squared, standing between his master and the doctor, within easy reach of Shen Qingqiu but with his eyes fixed on Xie Yun. “What about the mother? Was there a birth recently in your village? Should we look for a body?”
The doctor shook her head. “Upstream from here, there is a pleasure house; sometimes the women send down their children, when they fear they might be killed, or don’t want them raised inside the house,” she explained, and Ning Yingying squeezed herself against Shen Qingqiu’s side, and looked at the baby with strange sorrow. “But it is harder in winter,” Xie-daifu continued. “Because of the haunting, we couldn’t check as often —this child cannot be older than a week, two at most; and at that stage they need a mother, and milk, and to be loved.”
Shen Qingqiu considered the fluttering heartbeat that could barely be felt into the cup of his palm. “If the child is unclaimed, then I will bring it to Cang Qiong for treatment. As soon as the storm lessens… May this master trouble the doctor to host my disciples until it is safe for them to fly?”
A chorus of instinctive protests rose from said disciples, who forgot all about their dutiful obedience and made a ruckus about sticking to Shen Qingqiu and the baby; in the end, it was Luo Binghe’s hissed what about Without-a-cure that decided the outcome of this particular discussion, and Shen Qingqiu found himself both outnumbered and out-reasoned, and lit up a candle in his spirit for the weight he was going to lose fearing that one or more of his overconfident charges would drop out of the sky or become lost in the midst of such a violent snowfall.
Ming Fan busied himself with selecting a large square of fabric that he folded carefully with Ning Yingying’s help, turning it into a makeshift sling which Luo Binghe delicately tied across Shen Qingqiu’s back and chest to provide extra security for the baby as they flew; then they left Xie-daifu’s house with all due haste, and Shen Qingqiu drew a string talisman that he wound around each disciple’s waist as a safety precaution before they embarked upon such a perilous journey.
The next shichen was a blur: with the heavy snow, Shen Qingqiu relied on Xiu Ya entirely to carry him in the right direction, and most of his focus was for the sick child tucked against him —a child who had most definitely died in the original novel, for the scum villain had never bothered to take his disciples on any missions except those that might grant him prestige, and Luo Binghe had certainly not been in the habit of setting off of his own initiative to look for critters in a transparent attempt at getting his master to bring one home. Shen Qingqiu had no guidelines he could follow to navigate the situation, and all of a sudden, despite having quite naturally settled into his role as an elder, he remembered just how young and unprepared he himself was: at twenty-three the only newborn he’d ever interacted with was his meimei, who was born when he was six, and wasn’t left in his care alone until many, many years had passed.
They made it to Cang Qiong in record time, all things considered; and the baby yet breathed, although only just, and Shen Qingqiu’s three stubborn disciples were unscathed if frostbitten, and so they flew straight to Qian Cao to beg Mu Qingfang’s aid.
Mu Qingfang, thankfully, was on shift, doing his rounds in the infirmary (five months since Sha Hualing’s invasion, there were still disciples who required constant care, wounded in ways Shen Qingqiu, with a modern understanding of bodies and of healing, couldn’t even begin to describe) and received them at once. “You did well bringing her here so quickly, shixiong,” Mu Qingfang told Shen Qingqiu, reaching out to gather the baby in his hold. “She will be fine now, come.”
The child was laid naked upon an intricately embroidered cloth, which activated a dome-like talisman that shimmered faintly red in the muted, calming lights of Mu Qingfang’s ward. Warmth began to emanate from the closed barrier, and Shen Qingqiu blinked at it, half-dazed, and thought of hospitals and incubators and Xie-daifu shaking her head because the secular world had no recourse against hypothermia save for body-heat and hope. The baby’s tightly-wound fists unclenched slightly; her lashes fluttered, and Mu Qingfang tapped a finger against the surface of the array, adjusting it to his satisfaction, until he pulled back with a little nod and turned his attention on Shen Qingqiu and his disciples.
“Have some water, Shizun,” Luo Binghe said quietly, and pressed a hot cup between Shen Qingqiu’s hands —and then stayed there, because Shen Qingqiu’s wrists were shaking from suddenly-released tension, and the cup would have broken on the floor otherwise. “Shizun, are you well…? Perhaps you should sit.”
Luo Binghe’s nose and cheeks were stained aggressively red; Shen Qingqiu glanced down at his nails and saw a faint purple there, and retrieved some of his senses. “Binghe, Yingying, Ming Fan, please get checked for frost-bite,” he demanded, seizing the cup for something to occupy himself while they waited for the child to get better, for Mu Qingfang to confirm his disciples unharmed, for the knot of terror in Shen Qingqiu’s stomach to come loose. He breathed, in and out, slowly, and watched as his trio of well-meaning but often chaotic charges received a pill each to raise their internal temperature, and then a talisman to dry their robes.
“Shixiong, how is your poison?” Mu Qingfang asked quietly, attaching the drying talisman to Shen Qingqiu’s clothes himself.
“Surprisingly enough, it gave me no issue,” Shen Qingqiu said, flexing his fingers into the smooth surface of the cup, again and again until they no longer seemed to belong to his body. Mu Qingfang had already flitted away to mix herbs inside a stone mortar, so Shen Qingqiu finished his water and went to join his disciples where they had clustered around the sleeping baby. The sight of it was… strangely enchanting.
“Milk substitute,” Mu Qingfang announced an indeterminate time later, shaking Shen Qingqiu from his wandering thoughts. A round bottle oddly shaped like a fat tiger was passed into Shen Qingqiu’s hand, skin-warm. “The child needs to be fed. Will shixiong do it?”
What if I do it wrong and she chokes? Shen Qingqiu protested desperately in his mind, but he was already picking the baby up, wrapped in a woolen blanket, carefully laying her small head in the crook of his elbow. “Very well,” he said, glad for the practiced mask of impassibility he could slip on to hide just how out of his depth he was, and confused. He poked the bottle’s little snout into the child’s mouth, and they all hung there, scarcely breathing and silently pleading for her to nurse. When finally she did, rounding her cheeks, Ning Yingying clapped her hands, delighted.
“Shizun,” she called, in a voice Shen Qingqiu immediately recognised as heralding trouble, for Luo Binghe generally but also for himself. “Shizun, can we keep her, please?”
Shen Qingqiu blinked. It hadn’t occurred to him yet to consider the baby’s future, hyper-focused as he’d been on the very real dangers of the present.
“Oh yes, Shizun, let’s keep her,” Ming Fan piped in with a hopeful smile. “We can’t possibly abandon her now!”
“Who’s we?” Shen Qingqiu objected, as the child locked a tentative hold around a strand of his hair, uncomfortably pulling at it. “The three of you are just sixteen, won’t it be this master who has to raise her?”
Ming Fan scrunched up his nose, frowning. “My da-jie wasn’t yet seventeen when she had her first child,” he said, and Shen Qingqiu felt faint, sweat beading at the back of his neck. “We can do it!”
Ning Yingying pushed her sleeves up and lifted her chin. “Shizun, we’ll take responsibility!” she announced, this little sprout of a girl who not four days before had taken a sound tumble down the steps of Qing Jing Peak because she had attempted to descend them backwards and blindfolded on a dare. “Please! We’ll be good!”
“Yingying, don’t be absurd,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, resisting the urge to fish his fan from his belt to smack her head with it. “You are this master’s disciple, your only responsibilities will be to your studies.”
Shen Qingqiu shot Luo Binghe a despairing glance. The precious white lamb could usually be counted upon to take Shen Qingqiu’s side in any given argument, and to be quite vocal about defending him; but in this particular instance Luo Binghe appeared to be still slightly flushed from their flight, and dazed, seemingly having caught the same flavor of baby fever as his shixiong and shijie. His very wide, very starry eyes were full of earnest resolve, and his smile absolutely terrifying in its intensity. “Shizun won’t have to worry about a single thing!” he cried, in front of Mu Qingfang (who had tactfully covered his snickering face with a sleeve) and both of his martial siblings. “This disciple will take care of everything around the house, and protect the baby!”
Mortified, Shen Qingqiu shook the System for all that it was worth, trying to divine what had gone wrong in such a short time that the future stallion harem-master protagonist of a dog blood novel was looking so enthusiastic about baby-sitting a random basket baby merely because she might be raised by his master, when in the original he hadn’t even bothered with his own children! And also, Luo Binghe, choose your words a little more carefully! Is that any way to talk to and about your Shizun ah?
“Shizun, Shizun, what are we going to name her? Can this Yingying help you choose?”
Needless to say, Shen Qingqiu ended up caving to the pressure, and took the child (his child, somehow) to the bamboo house, on the condition that she would not interfere with his disciples’ studies and duties, and especially Luo Binghe’s.
Unbeknownst to him, Luo Binghe had already begun to plot his way around the restrictions.
Luo Binghe had never been more frustrated in his entire life.
He was well used to taking care of the people who were important to him —still quite little when his mother had fallen ill, Luo Binghe had learned the motions of that sort of assistance with all the stubbornness of a child who had, deep down, believed that he could save her, if only he was good enough. Her work had kept her busy to the very end, and Luo Binghe had shared what he could with her: when her vision had begun to fade, he’d done the mending and the sewing, and taught himself to cook, and finally to wash clothes. So Luo Binghe was no stranger to hard labor, to that gnawing sort of discomfort that came from working on an empty stomach, the aches and weariness that sank into the bones and then the spirit.
The kind of effort expected of him in the bamboo house was nowhere near that level —compared with his time as a servant of the Mo household, Luo Binghe conducted an extremely pampered life, needing only to complete the lightest of chores to be rewarded with a seat at Shizun’s own table, or the gentle warmth of a hand running through his hair, or one of Shen Qingqiu’s rare and beautiful smiles. Even laundry was easier on Qing Jing: with the application of a few clever talismans, Luo Binghe could heat the water, and keep it heated, and did not have to break the skin of his knuckles against the stiff winter chill; similarly, Shizun’s private kitchen was well stocked and cozy, and Shen Qingqiu encouraged Luo Binghe to eat as often and as much as he desired, for he was a growing boy, and should lack for nothing.
When encouraging his tender-hearted master to add a helpless newborn to the private paradise of the bamboo house, Luo Binghe had been confident in his own ability to stay on top of his studies and his chores while also assisting Shen Qingqiu. After all, how difficult could child-rearing be?
It turned out the answer was, very, very difficult.
The baby was small enough that she required feeding every shichen, day or night; after the initial shock of the cold, she seemed to have recovered both her strength and her voice, and had no qualms putting her lungs to good use, wailing the house down with her displeasure whenever Shen Qingqiu failed to divine her needs quickly enough. Shizun was extremely particular about preparing the milk substitute she was meant to drink, for it must reach, according to him, every time the same temperature; contrarily, the child had no issue spitting that carefully and lovingly made drink directly onto Shen Qingqiu’s robes.
After the third incident in the same morning, Luo Binghe had trekked down to the woodshed and fished out a number of roughly-woven rags in sturdy hemp-cloth and begged Shen Qingqiu to wear them upon his shoulder when he had to burp the baby, for Shizun did not own enough outfits to change out of and into, considering the frequency in which they were soiled, and Luo Binghe absolutely refused to have his esteemed master walk out of their house in mismatched robes.
Shizun worried for the child extensively. He’d come up with an array that would alert him at night if there were any inconsistencies with the baby’s breathing, which Luo Binghe hadn’t even known was a possibility; but the alarm had sounded once during the first week, and Mu-shishu had hurried over from Qian Cao with his instruments, and had announced to a distraught Shen Qingqiu and a horrified Luo Binghe that the baby’s heart had temporarily stopped simply because it could, but that she was out of danger now that qi had been infused into her lungs. Shen Qingqiu had been lauded for his clairvoyant paranoia, and Luo Binghe had silently filed the incident away with the many other occasions in which his master had demonstrated a breadth of knowledge he most definitely should not possess. Shen Qingqiu had spent the rest of that night sitting up on the daybed, watching the child, and Luo Binghe had been allowed a single cup of calming tea before getting sent straight to bed on account of his early morning training. The talisman never called again, but Luo Binghe still obsessively checked the child’s cradle every evening to see that the array was properly functional.
Shen Qingqiu now smelled of milk and baby; Luo Binghe’s demonic instinct was going a bit crazy for it, disliking the change and yet at the same time completely taken with the implications of it. With his hands more often than not full, Shizun could no longer shield his face quite as readily behind his fan, and certainly not around the house, which meant Luo Binghe had to frantically learn how to keep himself from blushing whenever Shen Qingqiu so much as glanced his way with his lips curved just so, pensive and faintly self-satisfied, like Luo Binghe had pleased him immensely by virtue of merely existing.
A clear downside of this was the ever-growing line of Shizun’s admirers. Now that a round, pink-cheeked and cooing little baby had entered the picture, Shen Qingqiu’s cold and reserved beauty had gone from alluring to utterly enchanting, and Luo Binghe was only the first (if habitual) victim of that unsuspecting charm. That Bai Zhan War Brute had nearly fallen on his face the first time Shen Qingqiu had greeted him while lulling the child in his arms; and even Qi Qingqi had become a frequent visitor of Qing Jing, though Luo Binghe suspected she was more interested in gaining her shixiong’s child for a disciple in the future than in the shixiong himself. More often than not, Luo Binghe found he must host some Peak Lord or another after coming home from his lessons, and that he had to share Shizun’s special snacks in order to do so! How vexing.
Now Luo Binghe wouldn’t have minded any of this —if only Shen Qingqiu let him do his job!
Like a precious princess, the baby lived either strapped to Shen Qingqiu’s chest or to his back, gazing out into the world with peach blossom eyes, as black as the night sky. Luo Binghe might have assumed, given the time to, that Shizun would have hired a wet nurse for the child, or at least a minder, but the thought seemed to have never even crossed his mind; it stood to reason, then, that the burden of childcare should fall upon his three personal disciples, all of marriage age and all theoretically up to the task (Luo Binghe had an interminable list of misgivings regarding Ming Fan). But, no: when Shen Qingqiu had said he would rear the baby up himself, he had meant it quite literally.
If Luo Binghe had harboured any residual doubts as to his master’s foreign origins, they would have been well and truly vanquished by then: for it appeared that Shen Qingqiu was not quite clear on what it meant to have his own disciples at his disposal. Oh, he accepted all of the responsibilities that came with the role, and far exceeded the requirements of his station, but he remained wholly oblivious to the perks, the demands he was expected to make in return for his protection and wisdom: he still looked guiltily pleased whenever he foisted some of his workload onto Luo Binghe, as if he was getting away with some sort of scheme by exercising his right to divide his duties among his disciples. It was like he had no idea that as Peak Lord and Shizun, he could decide to take an extended leave for travel and assume with cause that Luo Binghe, Ning Yingying and Ming Fan would mind Qing Jing in his stead; or that it was their honor to be filial to him, and to serve him as best as they could.
And this was Shizun’s child! How could anyone not wish to help?
But Shizun absolutely wouldn’t let them. It was one thing for him to refuse Ming Fan and Ning Yingying (though Ning-shijie, in Luo Binghe’s modest opinion, was truly working hard to be worthy of the responsibility, and deserved a chance to prove herself) but Luo Binghe lived in Shen Qingqiu’s own house! He made sure to always be available to meet his master’s needs! He adored the baby wholeheartedly, and wanted nothing but the chance to contribute to her well-being! After all, he already did all the cooking and the cleaning and the laundry, why wasn’t he allowed to get up at night in order to soothe and feed the child so that Shizun could also sleep a little?
And Shen Qingqiu really was tired.
Luo Binghe could see it in the way his eyelids drooped ever so slightly whenever he sat at his desk, quietly reviewing the daily reports he received from the hall-masters and the oldest disciples, from Qiong Ding and An Ding Peak, from the nearby villages requesting aid or following up on already completed missions. Shizun had always been prone to spacing out a bit and staring into the void, but since the baby had come into their lives it seemed Shen Qingqiu had resigned himself to napping standing up (like a horse) and with his eyes open (like a cat). It was infuriating! Luo Binghe also woke up every time the child did —she was loud enough to rouse the dead— but Shizun shooed him back into the side room whenever he attempted to make a grab for her.
“You have lessons in the morning,” Shizun would say unfailingly, reaching into the baby’s bassinet to lift her up in his arms. “Off with you, this master was very clear about not interfering with your studies. Binghe already does enough.”
Faced with the impenetrable wall of his master’s stubbornly misplaced care, Luo Binghe had no choice but to slink back to bed in defeat, fuming all the way, full of a brewing sense of affront that set his not-quite-slumbering demonic blood on edge. Meng Mo claimed that this was due to the fact that both Shen Qingqiu and the newborn were in Luo Binghe’s territory; Luo Binghe insisted he simply loved his master too well to watch him wear himself thin without wanting to intervene.
Sneakily, he prepared the baby’s milk (formula, Shizun called it) and stored it in the kitchen for Shen Qingqiu to find and re-heat when needed; he practiced his stasis talismans so that his master would have nothing to object concerning the quality of his work. He pushed himself beyond reasonable limits to complete his assignments and regular duties in time to give Shizun a bit of respite in the evenings, before dinner, so he could go and take a turn about the Peak without worrying for the child, or, more often than not, fall asleep at his desk while pretending to read. At least Shen Qingqiu trusted him with the care of the baby! It was just that he did not want to “unduly burden” Luo Binghe with it, whatever that meant.
In that fashion, three weeks passed, fast as lightning, and then it was time for the child to be named.
After consulting his three personal disciples, Shen Qingqiu decided to name the baby Shen Youhuang, after a poem by Wang Wei he’d especially liked in his teen years —and because everyone on Qing Jing was already calling her Xiao Zhuzi, picking up on Shen Qingqiu’s own tendency to refer to his charges as ‘bamboo sprouts’. This name was meant to invoke a sense of tranquility and peace Shen Qingqiu hoped to engender in the child as she grew.
Hope being the key element here.
Xiao Zhuzi had an impressive set of lungs on her, and was plagued by a restlessness Shen Qingqiu had seen only in his own sister, who’d been a colicky baby, uncomfortable and rightfully grumpy for the first three months of her life; but Mu-shidi had assured Shen Qingqiu repeatedly that there was nothing amiss with Xiao Zhuzi, and that fussy nights and frequent feedings were to be expected when a newborn entered one’s life. In truth, Mu Qingfang had also offered the services of the communal creche of Qian Cao Peak, which provided 24/7 care for any children under the age of two whose parents were reasonably overwhelmed.
Shen Qingqiu had politely refused, because apparently he liked suffering, and felt that he’d been leading too pampered an existence with Luo Binghe acting as his de-facto housewife, and that it was time to even the score a little. He’d also been rather full of himself, in thinking that surely, one small child couldn’t be more trouble than all his disciples combined.
How wrong he had been!
When the fifth week rolled in, Shen Qingqiu’s soul was just about ready to leave his body out of sheer exhaustion. With the Endless Abyss storyline looming ever-closer on the horizon, Shen Qingqiu didn’t dare take parental leave —how could he justify training Luo Binghe then?— but keeping up with the administration of Qing Jing while teaching his regular lessons while also attending all of Xiao Zhuzi’s medical check-ups and showing up at the expected Peak Lord meetings… it was, simply put, too much for a single person to juggle, especially if that person had once been a spoiled and lazy second generation third son!
He learned to delegate, allowing Ning Yingying, Ming Fan and Luo Binghe to pick up some paperwork, and recalling a few of the retired hallmasters to cover for him when he simply couldn’t manage to squeeze in any more classes in his ridiculously over-packed schedule, but it was the sleepless nights that most were taking a toll out of him.
The sleepless nights, and, unexpectedly enough, Luo Binghe.
That foolish disciple of his seemed to have thrown all pretence of obedience out of the window the moment the baby had entered their house; and now the scheming white lotus spent his considerable intellect looking for ways to trick his poor master into letting him take on child-rearing duties. Shen Qingqiu had no idea how such a ridiculous notion had gotten into Luo Binghe’s head, but he certainly wasn’t going to allow his star student to essentially drop out of school to become a teen parent! Shen Qingqiu had worked so hard to get rid of the OOC lock in order to provide his favorite protagonist with the preferential treatment he deserved, and to prepare him for the hardships that awaited him in the nearing future, he wasn’t about to compromise Luo Binghe’s studies for something as minor as sleep-deprivation! Yes, Xiao Zhuzi was an exceptionally darling child, round-cheeked and full of dimples, and was growing upon her apple-shaped head a tuft of fluffy hair that was practically impossible to resist, but that in no way shape or form meant that Luo Binghe was allowed to skip on rest or training to attend to her!
Shen Qingqiu had been clear on this, and yet, every single night, like clockwork, Luo Binghe snuck out of bed at the first peep from Xiao Zhuzi, crept into Shen Qingqiu’s own room and attempted to lift the baby from her cradle before Shen Qingqiu could wake up. The sight of Luo Binghe’s guiltily defiant pout had become as familiar to Shen Qingqiu as the back of his hand! Xiao Zhuzi, when well-fed, was an agreeable baby who greatly enjoyed sticking Luo Binghe’s curls in her mouth to suck on: this made it especially difficult for Shen Qingqiu to extricate her from his disciple’s stubborn hold, all while arguing semantics with a somehow widely alert Luo Binghe while half-asleep as he chased him back to the side room.
It was exhausting! And so, so confusing!
Luo Binghe, shouldn’t you be off wooing a girl your age if you’re so eager to have a family of your own? This master is rooting for you, Binghe! In a few years, you’ll certainly have the prettiest babies in the land! Patience is a virtue, protagonist! Don’t go stealing other people’s children! You’ve a test tomorrow, what are you doing up mixing warm milk in the dark hours of the morning ah?
These and other similarly inane questions rushed through Shen Qingqiu’s battered mind with alarming frequency; and Luo Binghe categorically refused to budge. Perhaps Shen Qingqiu should have simply locked his overzealous disciple out of his room: but then, he liked to keep himself available at all hours in case something happened that required his immediate attention and one of his charges rushed in to beg his help —it had happened, since his transmigration and after his disciples had accepted they were welcome, once or twice, and so Shen Qingqiu was reluctant to revoke their easy access, even if it made Luo Binghe feel justified in this bizarre crusade of his. So they bickered, and every night Shen Qingqiu pondered whether he had the heart to threaten to kick Luo Binghe from the bamboo house entirely if he did not cease with his encroaching on Shen Qingqiu’s adult duties, and every morning at dawn Luo Binghe ran laps around the Peak as punishment, and learned absolutely nothing from it.
What was worse: no one else seemed to find it strange that Shen Qingqiu’s sixteen-year-old disciple should assist him in such a way. Yue Qingyuan had even remarked upon how ‘lucky’ it was that Shen Qingqiu had picked a boy so naturally suited to the tending of a home, and that Luo Binghe and Xiao Zhuzi seemed to adore one another, and that Shen Qingqiu’s household had never been more harmonious.
Harmonious, he’d said!
As he dragged himself from his bed, having been jolted awake by a particularly piercing screech, Shen Qingqiu wished he could bottle up the sound and fill Qiong Ding Peak with it. Blearily, he blinked his aching eyes open, wiped the sleep from his lashes with a leaden hand, and squinted at the fluffy shadow bent over in the corner. “Binghe, put the baby down and go back to your room,” Shen Qingqiu sighed, wrapping a shawl around his shoulders to ward off the winter chill. “You have lessons in the morning.”
Luo Binghe straightened, clutching Xiao Zhuzi against his chest as she wailed, demanding her feeding —it had been a shichen and a half since her last, which was an improvement Shen Qingqiu was desperately clinging to, looking forward to the yet distant day in which he’d be able to switch her to solid food. “But Shizun,” Luo Binghe complained, rocking the baby with ease, “you’ve gotten up twice already tonight, aren’t you tired?”
“Of course this master is tired,” Shen Qingqiu muttered, tapping Luo Binghe’s elbows impatiently; after a moment in which they silently glared at each other, the recalcitrant white lotus delivered Xiao Zhuzi to Shen Qingqiu’s arms, though he remained planted before Shen Qingqiu as if his socks had been glued to the floor. “Shoo,” Shen Qingqiu said, brushing past him to head for the kitchen. “Go back to your room, Binghe, I mean it.”
Lately, it seemed that Shen Qingqiu’s admonishments passed through Luo Binghe’s pretty head like water through a sieve, leaving nothing behind; and so the fluffy white lamb trotted after him, relentlessly dogging his steps. “At least let me warm the milk for you, Shizun!” he cried, and rushed to take down the necessary supplies while Shen Qingqiu was held back by the distressed child.
Holding Xiao Zhuzi close and warm into the folds of his woolen shawl, Shen Qingqiu contemplated first her scrunched-up reddened face and then Luo Binghe’s cloud of messy curls, barely kept at bay by a single pin twisted atop his head. He was still in his night-clothes, too thin by far for the stiff cold of the second month, and his wrists looked especially sharp, even blurred by the white plume of vapour drifting from his pot. “Binghe, really, what is the point of both of us being awake?”
Luo Binghe turned to peer at him from above his shoulder, and curled his nose. “Shizun is very right,” he chimed, smiling so wide his eyes turned into crescent moons —in the course of the past month, Shen Qingqiu had learned to fear that particular expression, and reacted accordingly, readying himself for a confrontation. “That is why Shizun should leave Xiao Zhuzi to the care of this disciple and rest.”
Shen Qingqiu sat himself at the table, letting Xiao Zhuzi drool all over his palm and fingers as she searched for something to latch on and root; with his free hand, he supported his own forehead. “Have you always been this stubborn?” he sighed, and then: “Don’t answer that, please. Binghe, not only are you still growing, you are a disciple in this master’s care. Do not make me repeat myself, do as I say and go to sleep.”
With quick, efficient motions, Luo Binghe readied the funnily-shaped bottle (at the height of exhaustion, Shen Qingqiu imagined the tiger’s beady eyes winking at him) and carried it over to the table. “Shizun, you also have lessons in the morning,” Luo Binghe insisted, passing Shen Qingqiu the bottle. Having obtained her milk, Xiao Zhuzi stopped her fussing and settled in the crook of Shen Qingqiu’s arm, both of her tiny fists curled around the folded hems of Shen Qingqiu’s shawl and her lashes clumped up in two black lines. Luo Binghe lifted his starry gaze onto his master and furrowed his brow. “I don’t see what’s wrong in accepting my help. Is this Binghe so lacking?”
“Nonsense,” Shen Qingqiu said around a yawn. “How is Binghe lacking?”
“I must be,” Luo Binghe mulishly groused, shuffling his feet. “I must be, or else Shizun wouldn’t be taking up so much work on his own, wearing himself thin because he doesn’t trust his personal disciple to handle things…”
Shen Qingqiu poked at the useless System for help, and received nothing but a string of incomprehensible emojis and a rather foreboding good luck to host! He sighed, barely resisting the temptation to fold himself in half around the feeding child and simply sleep with his cheek against the tabletop. Luo Binghe was watching him anxiously, looking definitely more aggrieved than the situation warranted. “It is not that I don’t trust you,” Shen Qingqiu felt compelled to argue, unable to bear the sight of his lamb’s wilting confidence. “I simply wish you to do well in your studies, and you cannot do that if you are busy with a newborn—”
“Begging Shizun’s forgiveness, I most certainly can!” Luo Binghe interrupted, immediately growing heated as he made a case for himself (the same he had tried every night for two weeks, and Shen Qingqiu was so, so tired of being the single sane man in a world of unreasonable people). “Shizun, I am your best student! I have been asked to instruct my shixiongjie from the older classes! I can definitely help more around the house, Xiao Zhuzi’s health is more important than—”
“Have a care before finishing that sentence, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu said sternly. “Are you questioning this master’s judgement?”
Luo Binghe had the decency to appear fleetingly ashamed, but rallied far too quickly for Shen Qingqiu’s taste. “Of course Shizun’s instruction is peerless! This Binghe is honored to be able to receive it! I simply think Shizun is overestimating the amount of time I need to devote to my studies in order to succeed.”
The bottle had emptied. Because Xiao Zhuzi had started fussing as soon as Shen Qingqiu had gently lifted the snout from her little mouth, Luo Binghe wordlessly turned around and went to fill it again. Shen Qingqiu watched him go, and then leaned in to kiss Xiao Zhuzi’s velveteen head; she cooed at him quietly, and tried to grab for his face, the sweet thing. “Binghe, this master won’t entertain any more of your nonsense tonight. You are my disciple, and I expect you to sleep full nights. You need the rest—”
When Luo Binghe set it sharply against the table, the bottle clicked loudly; Shen Qingqiu winced, feeling the beginnings of a headache creep upon him. “Not as much as Shizun does!” Luo Binghe objected.
Shen Qingqiu waved him off, devoting most of his attention to the baby in his arms, the shape of her cheeks as she nursed. “Of course you do, this master is an adult, and an immortal cultivator—”
“But Shizun, as a demon, I require less sleep than you do,” Luo Binghe put in then, interrupting him yet again. “You should at least let me take over the nightly feedings!”
“Binghe, don’t be absurd,” Shen Qingqiu distractedly replied, turning the child around carefully to free up his cramping left hand. “Your demonic powers are well and truly sealed, you’re no different than a human child at this juncture, so don’t go telling this master lies…”
It was only a moment after that Shen Qingqiu became aware of what exactly Luo Binghe had confessed in the middle of his argument; and Luo Binghe, too, grew weak-kneed and pale, and dropped into the second chair at the table, staring at his master with the eyes of one who was expecting to be run through with a sword. Shen Qingqiu blinked, cold sweat beading down the curve of his spine and up the back of his neck, pricking his scalp. He licked his dry lips. Luo Binghe visibly shook. Xiao Zhuzi kicked a foot against Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, freeing it from the tangle of swaddling cloth and wool she was wrapped in.
“I… this disciple… this disciple can explain,” said Luo Binghe eventually.
Shen Qingqiu lit a candle for himself in his heart. “This master… already knows,” he admitted.
[...] said the System.
