Chapter Text
Luo Binghe was tired.
Standing amidst the green bamboo forest of Qing Jing Peak, for the first time in many, many years, he took a moment to consider his actions.
He could no longer clearly recall how many years he had been pursuing this quest. Days blended together, into weeks, months, years – like fine grains of sand, slipping between his fingers and lost into the wallowing dunes.
Countless worlds, countless Peaks, countless Shen Qingqius.
Countless failures.
Only in one, was Shen Qingqiu different.
Ever since meeting the kind Shen Qingqiu and the crybaby imposter, these jaunts to other worlds, that once felt cathartic – a part of Luo Binghe’s ever-lasting vengeance to pay Shen Qingqiu back ten-thousand fold for his innumerable grievances, since the pathetic wretch perished in the Water Prison, blind and dumb, a husk of the despicable man he once was –
Ever since then, these jaunts only made the disquiet, buzzing itch prickling beneath his skin louder. Itchier.
In every world, on every Qing Jing Peak, he would look, check, see if he could find even a small, miniscule change –
Perhaps this time, perhaps this one –
But the reactions were all the same, all the time.
Every single time.
The same cold, rotten man who shoved his own disciple to die a gruesome death in the Endless Abyss – damning Luo Binghe’s blood, over and over.
And Luo Binghe’s blood simmered at the unfairness of it.
Wasn’t he the strongest person to ever rule over the Three Realms? Who has a harem of three thousand peerless beauties? Who uncovered countless lost treasures? Who plucked legendary flowers? Whose mere essence could bring one both pleasure and pain, both life and death? Who could bring one back from the very brink of death?
But still, that man –
For that man –
For that man, it was never enough.
(Binghe was never enough.)
Each Shen Qingqiu looked at Luo Binghe with the same open derisive disdain, like an unseemly stain tarnishing a priceless robe.
It didn’t matter what Luo Binghe did. Shen Qingqiu was blind to what thousands could see – to anything of Luo Binghe that could be of any worth.
Even if Luo Binghe wanted to – which he did not – he would never be the imposter.
The part in Luo Binghe which produced genuine tears dried up and died in the Abyss.
‘To even consider it’, Luo Binghe thought derisively at himself, scowling at the unsuspecting, indistinct bamboo, waving gently in the breeze.
How pathetic this Lord must be, he gritted his teeth, clenching the hilt on Xin Mo ever tighter.
And who could he confide in?
In Ning Yingying, who could not meet his eyes ever since she pleaded with him to let her bring Shizun to rest, and was rebuffed? His naïve silly wife, with her silly willful requests.
Even after all that the man did to her –
In Liu Mingyan, who spends her days like a hollow doll with cut-off strings; who refuses to admit to herself that avenging her brother’s death through Shen Qingqiu’s own did not bring her any fulfillment; whose gaze over the razed Xian Shu Peak was one of horror and remorse.
(Even if Luo Binghe cannot feel those emotions himself, he knew the marks they leave upon others.)
In Sha Hualing, the strongest and fiercest among the hundreds of his demoness consorts and harem members? Who would never accept a show of weakness, and would probably take any such occasion as an opportunity to overthrow him – which would cost him a good War General, after he’d kill her, and some bothersome unrest with the four-hundred or so demon clans who’d be down a family member and might try to push new spouses into the freshly vacated spots.
In the Little Palace Mistress? Luo Binghe once thought fondly of her, when he was young, ambitious and green. She was spirited, loud and did not shy away from causing pain. She was refreshing – a human cultivator that did not hide from reality behind obliviousness or veils – he thought she wore her intentions proudly and unabashedly. But the Mistress simply turned out to be a warped sense of cruelty without finesse; she basked in the misery and in the pain of others. Luo Binghe has enough of it of his own making.
Mobei Jun, the only other demon Luo Binghe considered… not as insignificant as all others, has been in a foul mood that had not dispelled for the past three centuries. He refused to sire heirs, refused to take consorts or concubines, and relished in bloodshed at the slightest provocation. The North was clutched in his unrelentless, icy grip. It still functioned, it still existed, but it did not thrive, like Luo Binghe once imagined Mobei Jun envisioned for it.
When once Mobei Jun was sparse with his words, Luo Binghe could now go years without hearing the demon speak.
(Luo Binghe knows Mobei Jun kept the traitor’s soulless body, locked away in an icy chamber in his palace. The spies that were sent to gather information, after rumors were hissed that the traitor’s body was placed in Mobei Jun’s ancestral crypts, died by five thousand frozen needles piercing their bodies and had their tongues ripped out. Luo Binghe decided he did not need to look into the matter fully, and left it at that.)
(Luo Binghe thinks perhaps demons are wired for destruction – of others, as well of themselves. Luo Binghe is of mixed-blood – half of which brought his Father, a Heavenly Demon, to his ruin; and what for? A crafty opportunistic woman, who’d discard her own child like trash? And why else would Mobei Jun latch onto that miserable excuse of a cultivator, a spy and a traitor whom Mobei Jun himself disposed of?)
(Why else would Binghe – )
A distant, alluring hum leads Luo Binghe from among the bamboo stalks, accompanied by the trickle of fresh water.
It’s odd.
A singing voice, unrefined and coarse, on Qing Jing Peak?
But there’s something different altogether about it, which makes Luo Binghe frown. He silently sheathes Xin Mo, then decides to keep it away from sight, inside his qiankun pouch. Xin Mo rumbles, displeased at being treated like a simple token, but Luo Binghe dismisses the sword and seals it away, within easy to reach within his left sleeve. Focusing back on the singing, he takes care to walk silently towards its source, his boots soundless as he steps on dry leaves and branches.
There’s an old woman kneeling by the water. She is washing dirty sheets against a washing board, in the same cold running water of the same creek Luo Binghe was once made to wash the peak disciples’ dirty robes, and where he occasionally chanced to quickly wash himself under the risk of being whipped bloody.
The woman is humming a tune, unaware of Luo Binghe’s presence on the other side of the shallow current.
She is dressed in plain robes, not of Qing Jing Peak’s colours – but muted browns and greys.
Luo Binghe’s first thought is that the old woman was incredibly ugly.
Even engaging with plenty of gruesome and grotesque demons, Luo Binghe didn’t find anything as repulsive as the manner in which human aged. Humans bore their years like overripened fruits left in the sun. Briefly attractive and delicious, before their usage came to an end, turning sour and rotten.
Spotted tanned skin, thin white hair, wide flat nose, ears too large for her face – and carrying the scent of a human who was way past their prime, an unpleasant odor Luo Binghe detested.
Luo Binghe’s upper lip curls up in distaste, but as he turns to go, something freezes his body in place, and his eyes refuse to leave the woman’s unseemly face.
An odd sensation is tickling at the back of his mind, his brows furrow further –
The woman raises her head from her work, and her plain dark eyes meet Luo Binghe’s red ones. Her hands and expression slacken in shock, and the sheet she’s been scrubbing clean drops to the water, stolen and lost to the current from between her wrinkled hands and swollen knuckles.
“Mother.”
Luo Binghe’s mouth utters before he even thinks of it; his ears learn of it before his own mind.
That must be a trick – an illusion – a dream.
Luo Binghe has long since forgotten his mother’s face; and this face doesn’t seem right, either. Since when did his mother’s face wear such plump cheeks? Since when did she have her hair tied at the nape with such a finely made ribbon? Whenever did Binghe get to see her eyes without them being covered by a flimsy sheen of sickness?
“Bing-er?” His mother says, in a soft, questioning voice.
Luo Binghe’s had long since forgotten his mother’s voice – but as soon as he hears it, he recognizes it. How odd, he thinks, distantly.
How could he recognize a voice he’d forgotten?
(Or was it ever forgotten?)
Luo Binghe is suddenly very much aware of how long it had been since he had bothered to look even remotely human. Donned in his black and red armour, his demonic traits are made prominent – his black sharp claws, the red sigil on his forehead stark against his own clear skin, his pointed ears uncovered with his hair pulled back.
That creature – the one before him – that creature is surely an illusion, some ploy to catch Luo Binghe off-guard, to make him soft, to make him pliable and unsuspecting.
And Luo Binghe should be furious.
He should tear the insolent trickster where it stands, and rain the wrath of a thousand years upon the trickster’s bloodline.
Only –
But –
Luo Binghe was tired.
If it was only a ploy –
Then, Luo Binghe might just let it play out.
What would be the harm? Luo Binghe faced countless foes – what creature could possibly be hiding on Qing Jing Peak that he could not vanquish with ease?
He indulges.
“Mother,” Luo Binghe repeats, because he does not know which apology he should utter first. Shame, an emotion he hadn’t been feeling since his Fall, bubbles up from his stomach, to his chest, to his throat.
His eyes feel warm and prickly.
“Bing-er!” The illusion repeats, shakily getting up, hastening to rush and cross the stream, unminding of her sodden footwear and robes.
Luo Binghe thinks he should be the one crossing to the other side – the old woman might slip and fall–! She would catch a cold–!
But he is pinned in place, unable to move.
“Bing-er, what happened to you?” The top of the old woman’s head barely reaches Luo Binghe’s stomach. It couldn’t really be his mother – she always looked so tall, even when age bent her like a stalk of rice against the wind. And it couldn’t be her, he tries to reason, since his mother was dead – Luo Binghe tore his fingers bloody against the icy ground, breaking all of his fingernails, and had borne the wounds for months.
(After digging his own mother’s grave, the Cang Qiong Sect’s entrance exam was ridiculously easy by comparison.)
He looks down at her.
What happened to him?
What a question!
Was this what one feels, when they were brought before The Heavens’ Final Judgement? To have their own mother question them.
The Gods were truly cruel.
What happened to him?
Ever since his mother left him, every day had been a struggle. Bereft of acceptance, of kindness, of any true bonds. Her presence in his life was like a small candle that warmed him before a blizzard struck and tore at his life, snuffing out all possible warmth and leaving him out to die, just like he was supposed to do as a babe, sent adrift on wicked currents of the Luo River.
No matter how hard he tried (and he did try, he did) – he could never suit the human world – not when he was kind and not when he was cruel.
(Too harsh for his human wives, too soft for his demon wives – too much himself for either of them. Not right for either of them.
It was never enough.)
(Always looking from the corner of his eyes, seeking his wives’ reactions to his judgement – and always, someone was displeased.
Too merciful, when he gave some farmers grains so they could survive a harsh winter after several bad harvests.
Too cruel, when he displayed the entrails of his defeated foes of the Fire Alpaca clan, as custom dictated.)
(In a way, finding out he was part-demon turned out to be a relief.
There was something wrong with him. Just like he has always suspected, even if he could not admit it aloud. He was not like everyone else.
And if Luo Binghe could tell, twisted as he was, perhaps others could, too.)
(Perhaps, even Shen Qingqiu, for all his faults and broken cultivation and rotten personality, knew just enough to spot a Striped Croaked Cuckoo chick he had willingly brought to his nest and under his wing – to try to peck away at him, lest he brings the nest to its ruin.)
(The nest didn’t survive, afterl all.)
But before the image of his deceased mother, Luo Binghe was bare.
What would his mother think of her son, bringing calamity after calamity onto her kind? His rage burning, indiscriminate like fire itself, not discerning between friend or foe as it scorched them down to ash. None were a friend to a fire, only more timber to burn through. His kind, gentle mother – the hardworking washerwoman who took him in and cared for him in a cruel, unforgiving and cold world – without ever asking for anything in return. A beacon of goodness Binghe could never hope to match, could never find anywhere else, no matter how hard he had searched for it, how far, how wide.
His mother looks up at him, and Luo Binghe’s knees buckle by themselves as he falls down to the ground. He longs to pull her into his arms, but he cannot afford to. Luo Binghe brings only destruction – he is bereft of any gentleness. He no longer knows how to wield it, as he discarded it away long ago, like an ill-fitting shell of a Tarnished Cloud Spotted Cicada.
One wrong move, and he could break his mother’s body – (An imposter, his mind hisses. An imposter that deserves to be broken in countless different ways!) – he doesn’t dare touch her with the hands that felled tens of thousands.
Wrinkled cold hands cup his cheeks with care, and his mother’s distressed eyes are a pair of hot pokers that look down at him, stabbing at his chest.
“Bing-er,” his mother urges.
“Mother,” Luo Binghe chokes out, and a flood of tears erupts from his eyes, like a flood ravishing the lands after a harsh scorching summer and an age full of nothing but punishing draughts.
“Bing-er, everything would be alright,” his mother promises, and every word just makes him miss her more and more, even when her blurry figure is right before his eyes. “Don’t worry. Mother would take care of it.” She presses a kiss to his forehead, where his bright red demonic huadian is clear for all to see.
“Whatever happened, Bing-er would be alright. Master Shen –”
Luo Binghe stiffens at the name.
“Demon,” A cold voice cuts through Luo Binghe’s illusion. “Remove yourself from Qing Jing Peak at once.”
Luo Binghe does not look up.
If he looked up, he knew, he would not be able to restrain himself. To not only have that scum interrupt him, but to have him try and take his mother from him, to witness Luo Binghe cry like a sniveling child –
(Anger is easier to wield than shame.
And Luo Binghe had decades to practice.)
But if he did that, his mother would know. His mother would see. Her own son, the unfilial wretch who couldn’t even keep the precious keepsake she gave him safe, when she died so that he may live – that unfilial son, turned murderer, a true demonic beast.
“Master Shen”, his mother says, voice pleading. “This is — this is Bing-er!”
“Luo Binghe”, Shen Qingqiu speaks, with a frigid fury that Luo Binghe had not heard for ages – he shudders as the scum utters his name with his usual disdain and derision, suppressing the itch to tear out the man’s tongue, like he had done countless of times.
(He can feel the slimy, wet muscle, writhing between his fingertips, warm.)
“– is at the library, where he is expected to be until sundown, copying texts. This is not Binghe, Auntie.”
Binghe keeps looking down, but the bright glare of Xiu Ya is unmistakable, nor the man’s vile presence, too close, nestled in the bamboo like a Narrow Eyed Spitting Viper.
“This one is an imposter, and a poor one, at that.” Shen Qingqiu sneers. “Unhand her, demon, or you would be losing your hands.”
At that, Luo Binghe barely keeps from laughing.
The palms of Binghe’s mother no longer press comfortingly against his cheeks, but are clenching at her own robes. She takes a few small steps, putting herself halfway between Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu.
All Binghe can see is soaked fabric before his eyes, drenched and bogged down by water.
“This one is Bing-er,” she says with conviction.
“It’s a demonic beast,” Shen Qingqiu spits. “Don’t let it fool you, Auntie!” He hisses. “This is a Twisted Mirror Smoke Demon, twisting the form of those you hold dear. Think clearly! Binghe is eleven.”
Luo Binghe startles sharply when he notes a distinct, familiar note of panic creeping into Shen Qingqiu’s tone.
Shen Qingqiu was hardly ever fearful. A coward, that he was – but not a fearful one.
But mother merely shakes her head; Binghe can hear the rustle of her hair as she does so. “Immortal Master Shen is far more knowledgeable than this one could ever hope to be. But a mother would always know her child’s face.”
Luo Binghe’s ears are ringing.
He tries countless techniques to wake him from this awful dream, but none work. For a moment, he curses himself for dismissing Meng Mo from his service. It seemed prudent, at the time – the old demon had no new tricks up his sleeves that Luo Binghe did not already master. And who knew when his allegiance would shift? To have one keep such a close eye on the Emperor, only a fool would leave himself so open –
“Master Shen,” Luo Binghe’s mother says, “is a Righteous Cultivator. He cannot harbor demons on his Peak.”
The words tear at Luo Binghe’s heart.
It is a familiar pain, but it had been so long since Luo Binghe’s heart had experienced it.
For a moment, he was sure –
So sure that –
But the woman keeps speaking.
“Master Shen had been benevolent to this Luo Zhihao and to her son. With the Heavens sending Master Shen to save this one’s life, to taking this old woman in, to teaching Bing-er so dutifully.” It sounds like her voice is thickening with emotion. “This one knows she could never be able to repay Master Shen, not even if she had a thousand lifetimes to do so.” She bows to Shen Qingqiu, who seems to make a movement towards her before clamping it down, rustling the withered bamboo leaves on the ground as she moves.
“This one would only beg Master Shen to let this mother and her son leave peacefully, as to not further impose on Master Shen’s hospitality and reputation. This one knows –”
“Leave?” Shen Qingqiu repeats, the word sounding hollow coming from his mouth.
“Leave?” Luo Binghe’s repeats, trying to make sense of what he just heard, still keeping his gaze fixed on the woman’s dripping robes.
To Luo Binghe’s horror, Luo Zhihao lowers herself to the cold ground before him, kowtowing to Shen Qingqiu.
“This one knows that Master Shen had already endured and suffered through terrible rumors, due to his kind nature and the kindness he bestowed towards this one. This one knows that Righteous Cultivators cannot be seen in the company of demons. But this one knows Master Shen’s nature. And so this lowly Mother begs Master Shen to allow her to speak what is weighing on her heart – if Luo Binghe is a demon, this Mother would also be a demon. If Luo Binghe is human, this Mother is also a human. Whichever demon or human, Luo Binghe is Luo Binghe. Luo Binghe is this Mother’s only son, a priceless gift granted to this lowly one by the Heavens. Without Bing-er –”
Luo Binghe looks up at his mother, eyes widening.
Was his mother –
“This Mother selfishly begs Master Shen to spare this Mother’s son’s life. She swears they will never set foot at Qing Jing Peak again, and will not bring further dishonour upon Master Shen’s name.”
Was his mother crying?!
“Mother,” Luo Binghe chokes out again, rushing to lift her up from the ground. Not even the sight of Shen Qingqiu’s stunned expression can move him from his mother’s side.
“Auntie,” Shen Qingqiu says in an urgent tone. “Luo Binghe still needs you here, at Qing Jing Peak. You cannot leave with this imposter –”
“This is Bing-er,” Luo Binghe’s mother repeats, looking straight at Shen Qingqiu. “Even if this Mother saw a thousand false painted faces to his liking, or five thousand false painted faces to conceal it – this Mother would always know the face of this Mother’s son.”
“Mother,” Luo Binghe chokes with emotion, aware that the sigil on his forehead is blaring a foreboding crimson that taints the vibrant bamboo with the glow of blood.
Shen Qingqiu glares at Luo Binghe, as their eyes finally meet.
This one, indeed, looks no different than the others.
Tears do not stir this Shen Qingqiu, who looks murderous, full of contempt and anger. His face is as hateful as they ever were.
But his cold black eyes cannot penetrate a heart that is so, so full.