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As the succeeding disciple of illustrious Qing Jing Peak, Shen Jiu had endured humiliation, starvation, political maneuvering, and the thin-lipped disappointment of his shizun, yet never once misread the shape of the battlefield before him.
This was not a battlefield.
This was something worse.
Beneath his boots stretched a dark, stone-like road, fractured with fine cracks, its dull surface absorbing the light like spilled ink. Around him, metal carriages hurtled past in rigid lines, their hollow wails rising in eerie unison, as though guided by some unseen conductor. Towering spires of glass and steel thrust skyward, rivaling even Qing Jing’s lesser peaks in height, though devoid of their dignity.
The air—
The air was thin of qi.
What little lingered lay stagnant, painfully still, as though it had long ago forgotten how to move. He was used to the pulse of life nourishing him with every breath he drew. Here, the first breath scraped. The next ones tasted faintly metallic, stifled.
Shen Jiu paused at the cusp of an intersection, cedar fan closed in his hand, and allowed his spiritual sense to expand again.
Nothing.
No demonic taint. No protective barrier. No visible marks of illusion technique, at least one that he knew of.
There was just this… void; a strange realm grotesquely bereft of cultivation.
A muscle in his jaw tightened along with his grip on the fan.
Not in fear, never in fear.
He had not clawed his way from runaway slave to head disciple only to tremble now, crushed under the weight of his realization. Still, the notion of a world where true cultivation was impossible, blocking him from ever returning, ever ascending—was distasteful in ways he did not care to examine.
Around him, crowds flowed by like bright shoals: women in chiffon skirts dyed every shade of sunset, men in tailored sleeves rolled high, calves bared to the ankle. Some fabrics clung so scantily they might have been considered undergarments back home, if one felt charitable.
Nobody had ever accused Shen Jiu of that particular trait.
He did not stare.
He very nearly did.
Shen Jiu had changed in alleyways before, half-frozen and bruised, as Qi— that man stood guard. Skin was no sacred thing when survival was at stake.
That did not make this public display any less vulgar.
He cracked his fan open.
The soft snap echoed as the painted crane arched across the wood in a picture of poised grace. In a world of brazen imbalance, something ought to remain composed.
Shen Jiu stepped off the curb, every motion precise.
First: gather information. Then: assess. Finally: strike a strategy.
He had not gone more than two paces before a raised voice reached him.
“...align your fortune with the flow of the cosmos!” a man proclaimed loudly. “Your illness springs from karmic imbalance. When yin is depleted, the body suffers. For a modest consultation fee—”
Shen Jiu stopped.
Beneath a gaudy umbrella embroidered with gold characters sat a man in loose, vaguely archaic robes. The fabric was frayed at the edges, its once-ivory threads dulled by dust. Before him, across a flimsy folding table, a young woman had her hand trapped in his grasp.
Heels too high for daytime errands and too bright for mourning. Lipstick a shade too deliberate for the pale afternoon light. Her dress clung in a way designed to invite stares, though her shoulders were set as though she resented every one of them. A branded handbag rested by her chair, expensive but worn at the corners.
Passersby glanced and quickly looked away.
The fortune teller leaned closer to her palm, smiling with practiced benevolence.
“Your yin is severely overdrawn, miss,” he murmured, voice carrying just enough to be overheard. “Too many men drawing from you. Their essence leaves residue. It is no wonder you feel unwell.”
The woman’s jaw tightened. Colour rose to her cheeks, whether from anger or humiliation it was difficult to say.
“It happens,” the man continued smoothly. “A woman in your… profession.” His smile widened in mock sympathy. “Ordinarily I would charge for cleansing rituals, but for you, perhaps we can arrange something else.”
Her fingers twitched in his grasp, chin lifted, defiant.
Her eyes flickered, calculating.
The cost of staying.
The cost of leaving.
Shen Jiu had watched men mistake necessity for consent before. He had watched women laugh too brightly, bargain too carefully, survive by inches.
Fraud was intolerable.
Predation, more so.
He changed direction without hesitation.
“You.”
The charlatan jerked upright, irritation passing across his features. “Ah, another—”
“Remove your hand.”
The man blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You claim mastery of qi flow,” Shen Jiu said, voice even. “Yet you speak of yin depletion as though it were moral debt. Your ignorance is offensive.”
A small crowd eased closer. The man laughed—a thin, nervous sound. “Sir, this is a private consultation—”
“You are publicly accusing her of poisoning herself with men,” Shen Jiu cut in, stepping forward. Every eye now tracked his movement—tall, composed, silk robes catching the sunlight, heavy embroidery flashing with each movement. “If you intend discretion, practice it.”
The woman stared at him, eyes widened.
The charlatan straightened his back, chest rising. “I have studied the metaphysical arts for years—”
“Name your sect,” Shen Jiu demanded.
Silence.
“I trained under several respected masters—”
“Name one, then.”
The man’s smile faltered; whispers stirred through the gathering crowd.
Shen Jiu closed the distance.
“You misuse terms you do not comprehend to frighten those who lack the vocabulary to fight back. Yin is not a ledger overdrawn by touch—it is a balance of internal forces. If hers were truly compromised to the extent you imply, she would not be sitting upright.”
The woman kept looking between them, trying to gauge the intentions.
The charlatan’s color drained. “And you…how would you know this? You’re just a disrespectful youngster, getting your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he tried, face sweaty, but the crowd was no longer on his side.
Shen Jiu turned to the man’s client, dismissing him entirely. “May I?” he asked, steady.
She hesitated for heartbeat, before nodding and extending her wrist—there were faint traces of red in the shape of fingers around it. Shen Jiu took it, palm cool against warm skin. He let the faintest filament of his own qi slip through her meridians—barely perceptible, but enough.
No curses. No karmic toll. Only an ordinary body strained past its limits.
He released her wrist. The crowd exhaled as one.
“You are not poisoned by men,” he pronounced, voice carrying on the hush. “Seek a physician, heed their advice, try to rest. And avoid those who attribute ordinary ailments to imagined impurity.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “The doctor said I should rest more, but—”
“But rest does not earn coin,” Shen Jiu finished evenly.
Her mouth closed.
The charlatan sputtered. “This is slander! You can’t—”
Shen Jiu’s look quelled him more surely than any sword. Calm, with a sense of finality—just as his shizun had taught him. “I suggest you choose a new occupation, one that demands less… invention.”
A few in the crowd snorted approval; the man fled, gathering his umbrella and folding chair as though chased by ghosts.
The woman adjusted her handbag strap, armor of composure settled back into place around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, quiet but firm.
Shen Jiu inclined his head once in acknowledgment.
“Be cautious whom you permit to speak over you,” he said.
A faint, bemused smile tugged at her mouth. “You too.”
She walked away without looking back. The crowd dispersed.
Alone again, Shen Jiu snapped his fan closed with a muted click.
“That,” someone said behind him, breathless with delight, “was incredible.”
Shen Jiu ignored it and resumed walking.
Footsteps hurried after him.
“Ex—excuse me!”
He stopped this time, slow and deliberate, and turned.
Slightly mussed dark hair, indecently short made still for a jarring sight. The stranger had glasses slipping down his nose, green eyes bright with something between awe and excitement—a live illustration of youth, if you had it.
Shen Jiu's fingers tightened around his fan, wishing again for Xiu Ya's safe presence. The last person who'd smiled at him like that had been—
“You completely castrated him,” the man kept vigorous hand gestures in the space between them, barely missing his own glasses. "I mean, verbally. That was—wow."
Shen Jiu's gaze traveled from the strange shoes to the soft-looking clothes, searching. At least the man had his skin covered, which seemed to be a rarity in this realm.
No hostility. No mockery.
No outright calculation.
Hm.
Suspicious.
“You were watching,” Shen Jiu said leadingly, careful note of accusation to check for the possible angle.
"Hard not to." The man rocked forward onto his toes. "You're very committed to the role."
“Role.”
“Yeah! The whole historical cultivator thing? The fan? The diction?” He gestured enthusiastically, voice getting higher, words falling faster with excitement. “The delivery was flawless.”
Shen Jiu stared at him.
“I am not performing.”
“Right,” the man said, nodding solemnly. “Method acting. I respect that.”
Shen Jiu felt, for perhaps the first time since arriving, completely off-kilter. He narrowed his eyes, unused to such an early game change.
The man hesitated, then blurted, “Would you like tea? Or coffee. Whichever you prefer. I just— I kind of feel like I should treat you for that.”
“For what purpose?”
The man blinked. “Conversation?”
A trap?
No. If it was, it was poorly constructed.
Shen Jiu considered. Information gathering would be easier in controlled conditions.
"Tea shall be acceptable,” he said, hiding his expression behind the fan.
The man beamed. “Great! I’m Shen Yuan.”
A pause.
“…Shen Jiu.”
The smile faltered for half a second, then brightened even further. “Wow. We even share the name! Let’s go, there’s a nice cafe nearby with crepes to simply die for.”
Shen Jiu followed him on guard, with no intention of dying.
The tea house was mercifully quiet.
Shen Jiu inhaled, tasting the faint aroma of jasmine permeating the air. Here, the world seemed to slow—an odd exception to the bustling inns and stores they'd passed along the way. Perhaps it was the cats: sleek forms draped across low tables or curled on cushions, eyes half-closed against disturbance. At every footstep whiskers twitched, ears swiveling for the faintest sound. Picky with their affection yet resourceful when hunting stray scraps.
He could hardly fault them for exploiting cat-loving fools for treats and affection.
Shen Jiu sat with impeccable posture, his cedar fan resting closed against his palm. A single silver hairpin held his hair in an elaborate hairdo, glinting in the dim light of the café. Across the polished wood table, his expression remained a placid mask.
Opposite him, Shen Yuan kept shifting in his seat, attempting—unsuccessfully—not to stare too obviously at Shen Jiu’s hands. A white fluffball had conquered his lap entirely, sprawled like a victorious general after a siege. His fingers moved through its fur in absent-minded strokes.
“I’m glad that guy had to leave,” Shen Yuan said, adding sugar to his tea. “It’s good you intervened. It’s really not good to spread superstitions like that. Especially older people—they’re more susceptible. And we, comrade, are modern people. Rational. Scientific.”
Comrades.
A political affiliation, perhaps?
Shen Jiu inclined his head cautiously.
“Define this… comradeship.”
Shen Yuan laughed—a light, unguarded sound. “Oh, you’re staying in character even now, must be difficult. It’s just— you know, having shared values.” He counted off on slender fingers. “Prosperity, democracy, civility, harmony…”
Shen Jiu’s eyes narrowed slightly.
A governing doctrine.
He committed them to memory.
“And if someone strays from these virtues?”
Shen Yuan blinked, as if startled by the question. “Uh… your teachers scold you? Public shaming works wonders too, if one has enough authority—nothing too severe.”
This realm was baffling.
Shen Jiu tested further. “And authority—how is it enforced?”
“Through the soul-crushing practice of—”
Shen Jiu fought not to tense.
What would it be?
Some demonic cruelty, in the end?
“—bureaucracy and paperwork,” Shen Yuan finished immediately. “Mostly paperwork.”
Shen Jiu stared.
This was absolutely ridiculous.
The conversation continued in this fashion. Shen Jiu probed carefully; Shen Yuan answered with casual honesty. There were no coded threats. No veiled insinuations.
No game of weiqi.
At some point, Shen Jiu realized he had been positioning pieces on a board his opponent did not even know existed.
And somehow, that was more destabilizing than any scheme.
Shen Yuan laughed at something he himself had said, bright and unguarded.
The sound stirred something unpleasantly warm beneath Shen Jiu’s ribs.
He did not like that. For a moment he wondered whether qi deviations could even occur in a world with such sparse spiritual energy.
“You speak quite freely,” Shen Jiu observed. The cat on his lap shifted its weight, tail flicking. He lifted his teacup—green-tinged steam curling upward—and sipped. The tea was good, the sweet rice cake at his side perfect in its sugary precision.
He hated it.
“Is that a bad thing?” Shen Yuan pressed, head tipped.
“Yes.” Shen Jiu set his cup down with measured calm.
“Oh.” Shen Yuan’s eyes flickered, uncertain, before he took a sip of his black tea, grimaced, added another packet of sugar, then stirred with unnecessary violence.
Shen Jiu watched the ritual with narrow eyes.
“You poison your drink deliberately?” he asked.
Shen Yuan blinked. “What?”
“You’ve already added three sugars and even milk to it.”
“Oh.” Shen Yuan glanced at the cup. “Yeah… I did?”
“That’s an alarming quantity of both.”
“I like sweet things.”
Shen Jiu considered this. He did too, yet—
“Indulgence dulls the mind,” he said.
“Yeah, but it improves morale.”
Shen Jiu tapped the fan once against the table.
“You are very certain,” he observed slowly, “that the world is fundamentally… safe.”
Shen Yuan frowned slightly.
“Safe?”
“You approach strangers,” Shen Jiu continued mildly, “invite them to secluded places—”
Shen Yuan snorted. “It’s a tea house, not a dungeon.”
“—purchase them refreshments and explain the principles governing your realm.”
Shen Yuan froze mid-stir.
“…When you say it like that it sounds weird.”
“It is weird.”
A black cat jumped on Shen Yuan’s lap and yawned, revealing a row of delicate fangs.
Shen Yuan scratched its chin with a cooing sound of delight.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “you saved that woman. That usually puts someone in the ‘probably not a serial killer’ category.”
Serial killer.
Although the phrase's full meaning was unclear, Shen Jiu knew what it was like to be a killer.
“And if I were?” he asked.
Shen Yuan shrugged easily.
“Then at least I’d die after eating crepes.”
Shen Jiu stared at him.
The young man said it with complete sincerity.
Just a casual acceptance that the world was not particularly out to get him.
How extraordinary.
“How old are you?” Shen Jiu asked abruptly.
“Twenty-four.”
Twenty-four.
At that age Shen Jiu had already learned three separate ways to identify poison by smell alone.
“You have lived a charmed life,” he said.
Shen Yuan laughed.
“You’ve got no idea.”
A silence fell between them. For the first time in years, Shen Jiu felt something close to peace—the strange camaraderie of a man only a few years his junior, though cultivation likely erased any visible difference in age.
“For a xianxia cosplayer you seem awfully opinionated. Got into many troubles, didn’t you?”
“Not ones this one was unable to escape from,” Shen Jiu demurred, eyes hooded as if issuing a challenge.
Shen Yuan studied him another moment, head tilting slightly as if reassessing something.
Then he brightened suddenly.
“You know what?”
Shen Jiu waited.
“You’d actually do amazing as one of the immortal masters.”
Shen Jiu raised an eyebrow.
“I’m serious!” Shen Yuan continued, warming to the idea immediately. “You’ve got the whole vibe down. The calm, the posture, the ‘I could sentence you to death but I’m feeling merciful today’ expression.”
The man leaned back, thinking harder.
“Maybe a scholar type,” he mused aloud. “Though if you were in that novel you'd probably end up the antagonist.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“And let me tell you—nobody wants to be Shen Qingqiu.”
Shen Jiu’s fan stilled.
He had only recently learned that the next generation of disciples would bear the character Qing. His shizun, in a moment of questionable generosity, had even hinted that a courtesy name would soon be bestowed upon him.
Shen Qingqiu.
An unfortunate coincidence.
The shift in his expression was subtle enough that Shen Yuan did not immediately notice.
“…Is that so?” Shen Jiu asked evenly.
“Oh absolutely,” Shen Yuan said without hesitation. “Prestige of acting the bigger role, being a peak lord and all that, sure. But the amount of shit he pulled off? And then the karmic payback later? Yikes.”
He shook his head.
“Not worth it. Fans absolutely hate him too.”
Inside Shen Jiu something cold began to coil.
He kept his expression perfectly neutral.
“Are there many such… stories?” he asked carefully.
“Xianxia novels?” Shen Yuan brightened immediately. “Tons. But this one’s kind of infamous. The author totally dropped the ball. Posted a chapter and disappeared.”
“Anyway, it’s this whole cultivation epic—sect politics, betrayals, dramatic master–disciple dynamics. Murder.”
He leaned forward again, excitement building.
“If they ever adapted it into a TV drama it’d be amazing. The sects alone would look incredible. Though they’d need a lot of CGI. Unless they filmed in Huangshan, I'm sure Qing Jing Peak would look—”
He stopped abruptly.
Something in Shen Jiu’s expression had changed.
The tea house remained quiet.
Porcelain clinked softly somewhere behind them.
A cat stretched lazily across the counter.
But Shen Jiu felt, very distinctly, as if the ground beneath him had shifted.
“Qing Jing Peak,” he repeated slowly, words tasting of ash on his tongue.
Once might be coincidence.
Even twice—sharing his yet-unannounced generation name, speaking lightly of the very peak he was meant to inherit.
With strange, detached clarity, Shen Jiu waited for the third.
Shen Yuan nodded enthusiastically.
“Yeah! One of the twelve peaks of Cang Qiong Mountain—”
He froze mid-sentence.
The colour had drained from Shen Jiu’s face with alarming speed.
“Whoa—hey—”
The table scraped softly as Shen Yuan stood.
“Are you okay?”
Shen Jiu did not answer.
His breathing had gone shallow.
The world felt suddenly distant.
He had faced ambushes before.
Poison.
Betrayal.
Situations where one misstep meant death.
A hand closed gently around his wrist.
Before Shen Jiu could react, Shen Yuan guided his hand forward and pressed it flat against his own chest.
The warmth nearly made him recoil.
“Sorry—sorry,” Shen Yuan said quickly. “You look like you’re about to faint.”
Faint? The insolence.
He lived through way worse than—
beneath his palm Shen Yuan’s heartbeat was strong and steady.
Alive.
“Can you feel my heartbeat?” Shen Yuan asked softly.
Shen Jiu glared at him.
“Match your breathing to it.”
He almost jerked his hand away at the implicit command. Yet the steady rhythm under his palm anchored him in a way meditation never had.
“Let’s breathe together, alright?”
“One.”
Shen Jiu inhaled despite himself.
“Two.”
The warmth grounded him.
“Three.”
As the pattern repeated, dizziness slowly receded until he became aware of the soft fabric beneath his palm.
Shen Jiu pulled his hand back as if burned.
“You will not speak of this,” he hissed once his breathing had steadied. “To anyone.”
Shen Yuan blinked.
Then he waved a hand dismissively. “Hey, I get anxious sometimes too. It’s fine. A good cup of tea and a hug fixes most things.”
Shen Jiu’s lip curled.
“I will not be hugging you, heathen.”
Shen Yuan burst into bright, helpless laughter.
“Well, you definitely seem better now.”
Shen Jiu regarded him fully then.
The signs were there, once one knew where to look.
The quickening of breath when Shen Yuan’s gaze lingered too long on Shen Jiu’s face—or occasionally his hands. The brightness in his eyes. The unconscious lean forward, eager and attentive.
Desire, unrecognized by its owner.
How fascinating.
“I would be interested,” Shen Jiu said at last, voice smooth again, “in learning more about this story of yours, Shen Yuan.”
“You would? It seemed to set you off—”
“I'm sure we’ll manage if it comes to that—I’ll be in your care,” he ended with a small, graceful bow.
The effect was immediate.
Shen Yuan pushed his glasses up nervously, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks.
“I—I mean, if you want. I have the full collection. Special editions. Annotated versions.” He hesitated. “I could show you?”
A private invitation.
Unintentional, almost certainly.
What a fool.
Perhaps, as payment for his service, Shen Jiu might even teach him better.
With a light flick, he tapped the closed fan against the crown of Shen Yuan’s head.
“Careful how you phrase such things, brat.”
Shen Yuan froze, eyes widening.
Shen Jiu allowed the faintest curve of a smile.
“One day,” he added mildly, tilting his head just enough to meet Shen Yuan’s gaze, “that tongue of yours will invite consequences.”
Shen Yuan swallowed. The blush on his face deepened spectacularly.
Shen Jiu rose, sleeves sliding perfectly into place.
“Show me.”
Shen Yuan scrambled upright a beat too late, nearly knocking his chair over.
As they moved through the busy streets into one of the tall housing buildings, Shen Jiu watched the younger man’s chatter with fascinated befuddlement.
Shen Yuan spoke easily, trusted easily, laughed easily.
A man who lived as if the world would not devour him for it.
Shen Jiu had never encountered such a creature before, who was not malevolent in nature.
He intended to study him thoroughly.
And if he was truly as kind as he seemed, inviting danger into his own household—Shen Jiu would make certain that if consequences came, they would come from him alone.