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If you asked Shen Qingqiu what had driven him to buy a smoking pipe, he wouldn’t be able to give you a reason.
It wasn’t unusual of him to pick up different odds and ends during his travels, and, hey, nobody’s ever complained about a gifted souvenir! His Bamboo House may be cluttered with knick-knacks (and scrolls, and books, and clothing, and dust, so much dust) but a nice hairpin or something was a more useful and thoughtful gift than a monster corpse on his doorstep.
Not that there was anything wrong with any monster corpses! They were great to study, and could be utilized in so many ways! Their hides for coats, scales for armor, their horns or bile for whatever medicinal purposes Mu Qingfang needed, some parts were even just nice to have and look at!
But Liu-shidi, could we consider maybe making sure these things aren’t still soaked and dripping with blood when you deliver them?
It was just so difficult to get the bloodstains out of the bamboo! Especially without—
Shen Yuan never smoked in his previous life, mostly because he just never saw the appeal. All it did was make your room stink and your teeth yellow. Didn’t help that everyone in Beijing smoked, so the rooms always stunk anyway. Furthermore, it just makes you sick!
Maybe some people his age picked it up because it looked cool, which, yeah, he could see it a little bit? Hardcore, grizzled action heroes with cigs clamped between their teeth as they walk away from a massive explosion, or whatever. It still didn’t seem all that appealing, even when it was placed front and center in any straight man’s ideal, red-blooded life!
In this life, though, he at least had the excuse of being an immortal master. After all, what was a little nicotine against a strong golden core that could easily purge it from the body without breaking a sweat?
Well… maybe not nicotine, specifically. When he bought the pipe (or, rather, when it had been shoved right in his face and subsequently foisted upon him), he’d been given some kind of powder with it, free of charge. It was made from the petals of a tree called the “Paradise Peach Blossom of Something-or-Other” — he’d forgotten the name as soon as he’d heard it. No doubt, another point on the long, long list of bullshit plot device plants that Airplane pulled out of his ass. The merchant Shen Qingqiu got everything from at least assured him that this one wouldn’t lead to any papapa, but the guy also said a lot of things. Too many things, in fact! It was so hard to keep up with his auctioneer-fast speech that Shen Qingqiu just dropped some ingots and ran! What else was he supposed to do?
But he felt kind of bad about buying the pipe and just letting it collect dust. Even now, he wasn’t actually using it. He’d simply spent his time reading while idly mouthing at the cool brass of the lip. Time still seemed to move at a crawl, and he hadn’t even gotten through a quarter of what he was trying to read!
Still… he may as well try it out, for trying’s sake. And it certainly beats sitting alone at his desk, poring over some stuffy old scroll. Not even the Zui Xian spirits he’d kept stashed away could lift his spirits. It’s not like the alcohol had even made him less bored or sober anyway! He didn’t drink often, so he didn’t understand why his other disciples had to kick up a fuss when he decided to sit outside behind the bamboo house and have a sip or two!
Why they kept getting so worried and worked up over him, he still can’t figure out. He’s not some “grieving widow”, and he isn’t an underage kid trying to sneak beer past his parents either! All of you could seriously stand to be less nosy!
Geez…
Despite the name of the flower petals and the merchant’s claim of the pipe being carved from the wood of an immortal peach tree, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t help but notice the decorative engravings on the pipe’s stem didn’t quite match the theme.
His thumb gingerly caresses the lotus flower engravings. Each curve and swirl, each whorl and whirl, was so lovingly and carefully carved, he could practically see the plush, white petals in his mind’s eye. That’s as far as he allows his idle thoughts to wander. He doesn’t need his other disciples to start mother-henning him again.
Not “other” disciples, of course! He meant just “disciples,” because all of them are here on the peak since he didn’t betray any of them. Using “other” gives it a very specific implication, even in his mind, one that he very specifically will not think about because there’s no use in thinking about it. This was just nothing more than his thoughts getting away from him like they usually do.
Whatever.
What’s done is done.
He carefully packs the bowl and summons qi to his fingertip to set it alight.
It’s not his fault he was placed in this whole situation.
Mindlessly licking his chapped lips, he lifts the pipe to his mouth, ajar and waiting.
There’s no wondering what could’ve been or what might be.
He takes a drag of his smoking pipe and he waits.
He exhales, and waits another moment more.
From outside, the soft strum of guqin strings floats on the breeze between the leaves and birdsong.
What a total fucking rip-off! Leave it to this world’s dumbfuck author to even write in stupid-ass plants that don’t even work! Hundreds of thousands of these things with their bullshit, ever-repeating names and he happens to pull the short straw and get absolutely nothing?
It’s at least better than any curse-bearing plant, or any of the wife plot ones. Without-a-Cure is already enough to deal with, he doesn’t need yet another Heavenly-Demon-Jing-Required poison or pollen or whatever the fuck in his system.
Yet, despite his mounting frustration, Shen Qingqiu just feels more tired than anything else. Still gently cradling his pipe, he pillows his head in his other hand, his well-manicured fingers rubbing at his temples.
It wasn’t a particularly expensive purchase, something that wouldn’t have left a dent in his savings in either life, but that wasn’t the point. The point was the principle! What kind of person sells a product that they don’t even know works?
Sure, he’s met and seen his fair share of snake oil salesmen, but if you’re actually in the percentage of people trying to make an honest living, maybe think about implementing some kind of QA?
A particularly tired sigh escapes Shen Qingqiu’s lips before he’s able to stop it.
“Shizun,” he hears from beside him. “Is everything alright?”
Shen Qingqiu answers immediately, as if on auto-pilot. “Yes, Binghe. This master is fi—“
He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have responded, he shouldn’t even have heard it, what was it that he was even hearing? When he’s been alone in the bamboo house for at least two years now? He knows that he’s the only one living here and will continue to be until his time is up in a few year’s time so why is—
“Shizun?” the voice that shouldn’t exist calls again. “What’s that you’re holding?”
It’s in that moment that Shen Qingqiu feels the ghost sensation of a hand against his. The ghost — because what else can he call it? — bends at the waist, reaching its hand to gently cradle his where it’s still cupped around the pipe. Shen Qingqiu is suddenly assaulted with the scent of grass and freshly washed laundry along the earthy riverbank. It’s just as sudden that he finds that he almost wants to cry. “Is this a new medication from Mu-shishu?”
Shen Qingqiu wants to look up. He’s too afraid to, because he knows what he’ll see staring right back at him: two eyes, as bright as the stars and as black as the sky around them, staring right back at him.
He finally wrenches his eyes open — when did I close them? — to find that sweet face he’s—
been missing
always thinking of
dreaded facing
seen in his dreams
seen in his nightmares
mourned
—been hearing speak to him, but the lighting’s all wrong. That face, it’s as charming as ever. Bright and sunny, his dimpled cheeks, plush and rosy lips framing his smile, that straight, sloping nose of his. But the lighting is… wrong.
Shen Qingqiu can’t see his eyes.
It’s as if the sun is in Shen Qingqiu’s eyes, or maybe that Binghe’s bangs are simply shading his face, but that doesn’t make sense either. The sun isn’t shining through the windows in a way that could make this image make sense. Shen Qingqiu knows Binghe always keeps his hair parted in the middle, too.
He knows, he knows it to be true, so why?
Heart nearly beating out of his chest, Shen Qingqiu stumbles and stands in a hurry. He nearly upends his desk, just trying to rip his hand away — the wine bottle would’ve spilled all over the scroll he was reading over, had it not been empty.
Binghe, no, the apparition before him cries out in concern, taking a step forward as if to catch his shi— him.
“Please be careful! Shizun, are you sure everything is truly alright? Maybe I can fetch Mu-shishu! Or did you skip another meal today?”
“…you shouldn’t be here.”
“I— what was that? Shizun, what do you mean?”
Shen Qingqiu keeps muttering under his breath, hands frantically tangled in his hair. “It must be these stupid leaves. Yeah… it-it’s gotta be.” Ignoring the smoke stinging his eyes, he lowers the pipe once more, trying to take a closer look at the inside of the bowl. “Was this even in the damn novel…? I don’t think that guy even told me what it’d do…”
“Shizun,” he, no, it pleads again. “Please allow this Binghe to help! I… I just want to ensure that Shizun is well taken care of.”
Of course you do, Shen Qingqiu bitterly thinks to himself for a moment before he tries to shake the thought free. There was no way Binghe could’ve known what he was in for. It wasn’t the protagonist’s fault his teacher is scum! You shouldn’t be worrying about me! Worry about yourself for once!
“Is it what’s in your pipe? Shizun, is the substance you’re smoking maybe interacting with the Without-a-Cure poison?”
“…no…”
“But it’s obviously hurting you, Shizun! Please… Let me take it back to Qian Cao Peak for you,” and Shen Qingqiu can almost see it, the apparition reaching out to grab it from his hand.
“No!”
He pushes that hand away once more, and stumbles backward, just trying to do his damnedest to get away. Why was this happening? It just didn’t make any sense, this wasn’t a memory and Bing— he shouldn’t even be here!
Didn’t he get smoke in his eyes a minute ago? Is that what’s making him see things?
He rubs at his eyes, and by the time his vision clears, Binghe is gone. But Shen Qingqiu has somehow ended up outside the bamboo house. His robes have changed, too. Just what the hell were these petals doing to him? There’s nothing “paradisal” (or whatever the hell this stuff was called) about these hallucinations! Or are they visions? They aren’t memories, that’s for certain.
“Shizun!” he hears once more, and his heart stutters to a stop.
But this one…. this one’s absolutely a memory.
Standing before him, right in the middle of the house’s yard is, once again, his erstwhile disciple. The last Binghe he’d seen looked younger, still a little sallow, but the one he’s seeing now was taller. Both his fair face and lean body are more filled out, and his dark curly locks have a more vibrant sheen to them. He seems to be about fifteen or sixteen, when he’d already lived in the Bamboo House for some time.
It had been a bright and sunny day when Shen Qingqiu decided to try the pipe. Right now, though, it’s oddly foggy like an early summer morning.
When he notices his shizun standing awkwardly behind him, the boy waves excitedly to his shizun, Zheng Yang in hand, as he urges his shizun to come and watch the technique he’d been working on. Shen Qingqiu still couldn’t see Binghe’s eyes. It made looking at that smile, those soft-looking lips, all the harder. He couldn’t bear having that smile, those shining eyes of his, looking at him like he hung the moon.
That day, he and Shen Qingqiu had run the sword form through a couple of times, to truly work out the kinks. It’d been one of Shen Yuan’s favorite techniques from the novel — an eye-catching sequence of stances and swings, utilizing Binghe’s agility to confuse and misdirect his opponent, only to strike from a completely different direction! The Flowing Dragonfly Flash Step!
It was used a few times during the Immortal Alliance Conference, but it particularly shone when Binghe had been allowed to participate in Cang Qiong’s annual martial arts tournament. The arc was incredibly derivative of the hundreds of shounen anime already doing (much better written) tournament arcs, but Shen Yuan still cheered Binghe on, knowing he’d come out on top. Seeing him pull out this move never got old, no matter how long and drawn-out each successive fight became. He recalls that he had told Binghe to run through it five times that day, just to make sure that Binghe really had it down.
At this point in Binghe’s growth, Shen Qingqiu was usually able to meet him blow for blow, but on run number six, he somehow lost track of his disciple. Binghe soon struck — in the form of tripping right into his master’s back, arms flung around his waist in panic. Smooth…
But Shen Qingqiu looks back at his disciple right in this moment, memory on replay as Binghe prepares to run up like an excited puppy, a sheen of sweat making his face shine even more than usual, and the dread further fills his stomach. The scent of salt and morning dew wafted in the air and filled his nose.
Those starry eyes should look anywhere else, not at him at all. They look at him all the same, even though he couldn’t see them, and Shen Qingqiu can only think about how much he had let his white lotus down. That he–
That he killed his white lotus.
It’ll be a few years until he receives his due, longer still until Binghe truly finds a reason to smile. Someone who would care for him, keep him happy, and make him feel safe.
Shen Qingqiu did all of that, and still didn’t hesitate to strike him down like the utter scum he is.
Both his head and his gaze drops downward, the soft Qing Jing winds blowing through his hair, heedless of his current emotional turmoil, before it suddenly takes a sharp rise in temperature.
Shen Qingqiu raises his head once more to find everything around him now red, the air around reeking of brimstone and despair. The burning light of the Endless Abyss shines before him as the ground shakes, Xiu Ya somehow in his hand in place of his pipe.
“Shizun, do you really want to kill me?”
I can’t take this anymore…!
His hand releases the grip of Xiu Ya like it’s a hot brand, but this dream(?) he’s stuck in left it suspended in the air as if he never let go. Binghe’s hands still catch on the blade, and Shen Qingqiu falls to his knees when he sees that face so full of despair all over again.
He so wishes to reach out and pat Binghe’s head, to pull him into his arms and apologize profusely. He wants to wipe away those tears as they fall from his face like priceless pearls.
The System made him choose between dying now and dying later, but being forced to bear witness to such anguish from his precious lamb made him wish he’d just been killed anyway.
Luo Binghe still looks so perfect amidst the chaos of the Immortal Alliance Conference. He’s scuffed and scratched, covered in ash, yet he of course still looks flawless. Previously white, his uniform is now torn and bloody, and his canines are now pointed, visible between his downturned, trembling lips. His zuiyin glows a bright red in the dark light, but those sad eyes… again, Shen Qingqiu simply can’t perceive them.
More and more smoke rolls around his ankles, yet he’s in too much distress to pay it any mind.
He’s looking right at me, I know he is, so why?! Why can’t I seem to look him in the eye?
If he has to relive this any longer, Shen Qingqiu is sure he is going to puke. He frantically reached for the fan in his belt — he didn’t even know if he still had it at this point or already lost it to the chaos around them — and thankfully found it there. Panicked, he loaded it with as much qi as he could muster, and summoned a fierce squall to blow everything around away.
The conference, the Abyss, the smoke and ash and blood and tears, these apparitions of Binghe, he didn’t care about where they went. He just needed them all gone.
When he opened his eyes at last, it was to the chirping of crickets and Qing Jing Peak’s night sky peeking between the stalks of bamboo. The air was cool, if a little dry, but it smelled faintly of smoke and peach trees. A cough worked its way up his throat, catching him off guard as his pipe (solid, real) fell from his grasp.
It was like a bad dream. Or a bad trip, more like. Everything he saw, everything he’d been shown, it was nothing but literal smoke and mirrors. Despite knowing that, Shen Qingqiu couldn’t get the imagery out of his head. Hell, he doesn’t even know how he ended up outside when he started smoking at his desk.
Suddenly, his earlier exhaustion returned, now bone-deep. He’d be happy to sleep for a week straight, or take on another extended night hunt. He just wanted to leave this place.
Ready to collapse, Shen Qingqiu bent down to pick up his pipe. It looked to still be lit, and he didn’t want to be responsible for his peak burning down. Well, at least before his five years were up, anyway.
A look inside the bowl told him there was still a sizable amount of ground petals left. Maybe something about the flower’s properties made it burn slowly? Though, at this point, he couldn’t be assed to care. About to rise, Shen Qingqiu raised his head and came face to face with Binghe’s sword mound, and he fell right back to his knees.
Of fucking course. Because why wouldn’t I end up back here?
He truly didn’t know what to do anymore. His and Airplane’s mushroom body plan still sat on the back burner, but the world around Shen Qingqiu just seemed eager to spite him at every turn. It had every chance of going wrong, and then what? He runs from the justice Binghe so clearly deserves, when he couldn’t even bear to look him in the eyes?
He’s lucky enough that those beautiful bright eyes would even deign to look his way after all that he put his disciple through. Even if they’re filled with hatred and twisted into a smile full of cruel glee, at least those eyes and that face will be the last thing he gets to see.
It takes a moment to realize there’s a handful of dirt crushed between his fingers and the pipe still in his hands. He lets go, brushing it off as he admires its pattern once more.
He may as well stay here as he finishes off what’s left. Best not to waste something he bought, after all.
As his mournful gaze goes right through the mound’s tablet, the curly head of hair in his periphery leans over to rest on his shoulder.
At least Shen Qingqiu won’t be alone sitting here all night.