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Chapter Text

Despite all his promises that he would stick close to Mu Qingfang and Liu Qingge, Shen Qingqiu slips out of the weapons shop cellar shortly after Wu Chen finishes explaining all that he knows. Well, 'shortly after' is perhaps not quite accurate—he sidles toward the door while the monk is still talking and taking up all of Mu Qingfang's attention. 

If he doesn't take his chance now, he'll never get out of here! Liu Qingge is already off fighting and Mu Qingfang is enthralled by this medical mystery! Shen Qingqiu is meant to help, and he can't do that if he's stuck down in this basement under Mu Qingfang's watchful gaze!

Besides, he has the bare bones of the situation in hand. All he has to do now is figure out the ‘why’—and the ‘who’.  

He ducks out of the front door of the weapons shop, back tense in the fear that Liu Qingge will unexpectedly reappear or even that Yang Yixuan will come back from wherever he disappeared off to and tangle Shen Qingqiu up in conversation long enough for Mu Qingfang to catch on to where his shixiong has gone. Quite frankly, Shen Qingqiu wouldn't mind a chance to talk to Yang Yixuan again, if only so he can see about tossing the child in Liu Qingge's direction, but, ah, he’d prefer for it to happen later. 

Shen Qingqiu doesn't slow his pace until he's several streets away from the weapons shop. Once he is, the tension slowly unwinds from his shoulders. 

Bah, his martial siblings are too overprotective. It was a bother trying to get them to let him go on this mission at all! He's been confined to the mountain for the past few months. 

Ever since...

Shen Qingqiu shakes his head. He idly presses his left thumb against the ball of his right palm, massaging at it through the talisman embroidered glove covering it. He can't tell if it's the chill of late autumn in the air that's making it ache or if it's because of the way Without-A-Cure has spread further and deeper through that arm, but the persistent tremor to go along with the pain in his right hand sure is a nuisance. 

He doesn't regret it, taking that hit for Luo Binghe. He'll never regret any of the ways he protected Binghe. 

He just wishes...he wanted...if only he...

Hands tucked inside his sleeves as he massages his palm, Shen Qingqiu takes a random turn, then another, passing countless citizens of Jinlan City, each wrapped in black clothes, nearly mummified. Everywhere he turns, there's another, the life of the city totally disrupted. The 'plague' isn't a plague as such, but illness undoubtedly is sweeping through the area as well. Poverty and death and close quarters during the onset of winter? Mu Qingfang is going to have his work cut out for him even after they solve the plague itself. 

He pauses only briefly when he reaches the main square of Jinlan City, taking in the communal pot bubbling merrily away, though obviously it's not yet finished cooking. He turns down another alleyway, heading deeper into the city. He still doesn't know what he's looking for, but he's sure he sticks out like a sore thumb.

Well, if nothing else, he's sure he can serve as bait.

His efforts bear fruit far faster than he realizes they would. As he winds down the alleyway, an old lady comes tottering his way, cane tap-tapping against the ground as she goes. Shen Qingqiu steps to the side to allow her to pass—and she stumbles directly into him. 

Despite looking as though the slightest breeze would knock her over, the old woman's weight causes Shen Qingqiu to stumble, his back hitting the wall behind him. His arms are half-raised, as though attempting to catch her. With a lurching sensation, he remembers the last time he caught someone like this—Luo Binghe flubbing yet another form and falling into his shizun's arms, what a ridiculous child—before common sense asserts itself.

She’s too heavy.  

His gloved right hand clenches tight on the 'old lady's' arm even as she attempts to run. 

"Hello," Shen Qingqiu says, grinning wolfishly. "Won't you introduce yourself to this master?"

She snarls and breaks his grip. Shen Qingqiu’s weakened right hand isn’t capable of holding her with enough force, and he didn’t bring his left to bear quickly enough. The definitely-not-an-old-lady flees instead of staying; Shen Qingqiu runs after her.

Faker though she may be, the old lady knows Jinlan City better than Shen Qingqiu does. She’s able to stay ahead of him for a good while, darting around corners and through narrow alleys. Distantly, Shen Qingqiu thinks he hears someone shout, and he sees a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, but his focus is narrowed in on his target.

She can’t run forever. Weakened though he may be, Shen Qingqiu is still a Peak Lord. The old lady attempts to shake her tail by hiding in a building right after turning a corner, but Shen Qingqiu puts on a burst of speed and is just in time to see her disappearing inside one of the upper windows.

If he needed any proof that this ‘old lady’ wasn’t a normal human (and possibly not a human at all), the fact that she managed a leap to a third-story window from the street would do it.

Shen Qingqiu draws Xiu Ya and uses his sword to boost him. He jumps through the window, landing in a crouch while he directs Xiu Ya over his head with a sword seal. His sword flies straight and true, stabbing through the old lady through the heart before she can attack him.

Coolly, Shen Qingqiu stands from his crouch. He strides over to the corpse, pulling Xiu Ya from it and using the blade to slash open the robes the old lady was wearing, revealing bright red skin.

A Sower, Shen Qingqiu realizes. How unexpected.

The wider jianghu thought them to be extinct. Even under Luo Binghe’s future rule, they never returned to any sort of power, and if Shen Qingqiu recalls correctly—and of course he does—they eventually died out in their entirety some time shortly before the merging of the Three Realms.

He flexes his right hand. He’ll have to make sure that the Sower’s curse wasn’t able to touch him. Then, of course, he’ll have to take the Sower’s body to Mu Qingfang, so that the sect’s doctor can look into creating a cure now that he knows the source. Maybe he should wait to doublecheck his own potential infection until he returns: Mu Qingfang surely will demand to check Shen Qingqiu over himself, so he may as well save them all the effort.

The problem is actually picking up the Sower. He doesn’t want to leave it here, in case someone should stumble across the corpse while he’s fetching his shidi, but his breath is still labored from both his flight and the fight, despite how short both were. His head throbs, his legs tremble, and it’s ridiculous, it’s all so ridiculous, to think that he’s devolved to this extent.

He’ll wait here just a little longer. Just until he’s recovered his equilibrium, and then he’ll return to the weapons shop and Mu Qingfang and he’ll submit to his house arrest, knowing that he’s played his part.

Yes, just a short rest—

Footsteps behind him, coming up the stairs.

His left hand clenches tighter on Xiu Ya’s hilt, the fingers of his right hand stiffly folding into the sword seals he may have to use. There’s a great many footsteps, all tromping up here, and Shen Qingqiu turns just as the first crests the top: a young woman, human, dressed in Huan Hua Palace’s golden uniform and vaguely familiar to him, as though he may have seen her before from a distance. Her face is surprised yet unfriendly, her gaze sweeping across the scene. Shen Qingqiu allows his fingers to release from their seal, though he doesn’t sheathe his sword.

“You must be the Huan Hua contingent this master was told was in the city,” Shen Qingqiu says. “I had thought your party already safely sequestered away somewhere—did Master Wu Chen not tell you to do so?”

The Huan Hua disciple sniffs, even as she steps to the side to allow her compatriots to trickle into the room behind her. “Senior Shen must be confusing us with the first group sent to Jinlan City. We’re here to rescue and then relieve our shidimen, since we’re led under the auspices of a far more reliable leader.”

She continues along this thread, but her words fade from Shen Qingqiu’s ears, for the next person to crest the top of the stairs is not another gold-clad disciple. Shen Qingqiu sees the curling hair first, held half-up in an understated silver guan. Then the starlit eyes, which lock immediately onto Shen Qingqiu’s, bypassing the dead Sower completely. Then the black and red robes, the hilt of a sword peeking over broad shoulders.

Shen Qingqiu’s mind is a tangle, he’s here and he’s early and oh, he looks so good. His heart flutters in his chest. His eyes burn and his head throbs again. He’s having trouble catching his breath. Familiar, shooting pain arcs up the length of his right arm, originating from the near-invisible scars set against the back of his right hand. His left hand spasms in response, Xiu Ya slipping from his fingers.

His lips part involuntarily. “Bing…he…?”

Shen Qingqiu’s heart skips a beat. Very literally, unfortunately.

There’s a reason his martial siblings have all been watching him so carefully.

Oh, Mu Qingfang is going to be insufferable about this, Shen Qingqiu thinks.

Without-A-Cure gleefully surges through him, nipping on the heels of his qi gone wild. The glove barely manages to contain the overflow. Shen Qingqiu only peripherally notices any of that. He’s too busy with the way his knees go weak, and his eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses to the brothel floor.

Of all the ways that Luo Binghe expected to meet his master again, this scenario featured in absolutely none of them. He purposefully took this mission to Jinlan City upon learning that Cang Qiong was sending several of their Peak Lords to investigate, Shizun among them. He’d hoped that he could prove himself to Shizun over the course of the investigation. That, having been working with Huan Hua for most of the past year, he could make a good showing of his capabilities. Shizun would see that he could still be a righteous cultivator. That he could disguise himself as human, and wouldn’t bring calamity wherever he went.

In fact, he’d been attempting to reform Huan Hua. He wasn’t impressed with their efforts at the Immortal Alliance Conference nor with how a great many of them acted since he’d joined them. He’s been snaking his way into more training for the younger disciples—or others who wish for it—and encouraging the academics of said disciples; he’s been leading night hunts and assisting with retrieval missions; he’s been courteous and diplomatic and the very image of a perfect disciple.

He knows it’s been working. Everyone in Huan Hua has been clamoring for his attention and favor, even the Old Palace Master. The number of times that man has offered, either obliquely or openly, for him to join the sect—!

But Luo Binghe’s heart belongs to Shen Qingqiu. All his loyalty lies still with Qing Jing Peak. No matter what Meng Mo thinks about it, no matter what conclusions Huan Hua or the Old Palace Master have drawn about his and Shizun’s separation, Luo Binghe clings to the hope that one day, he’ll be allowed to return home.

Upon entering Jinlan City, he'd had visions of quickly finding the source of the plague. Of sweeping through the streets, bringing deliverance to all these suffering people, and laying the culprit at Shizun's feet, accepting his due praise from his master and an invitation to return home all in one breath. 

From the very beginning, this plan was doomed to failure. He shouldn't have discounted Shizun's determination—nor his ability to be in the exact middle of trouble. 

He and his half of the Huan Hua disciples—composed largely of tittering girls, annoyingly enough, with several of the more competent members having peeled off with Gongyi Xiao to perform reconnaissance, locate Huan Hua’s original team of responders, and find a defensible location to set up their camp for the night—had just been accosted by a small, angry boy, busy yelling at them to get out of Jinlan City if they knew what was best for them. He'd had a longsword slung over his shoulder and didn’t want to take ‘we know what we’re doing’ for an answer.

Fortunately, he’d peeled off after yelling at them a while, which had allowed Luo Binghe to continue canvassing the city. Luo Binghe had his senses straining for demonic energy, thanks to his suspicions about who may have caused this plague. It was an effort which became unnecessary when a demon flashed past the street Luo Binghe was on, followed closely by a figure in white and green robes.

Shizun.

“After them!” Luo Binghe commanded, immediately beginning pursuit.

Was it the best plan to follow Shizun so closely, when Luo Binghe had yet to prove himself? He might simply be showing up after Shizun had handled all matters for himself. On the other hand, if Shizun needed back-up, then Luo Binghe would be right there to offer it.

And if they were in front of witnesses, propriety and Shizun’s thin face would keep him from rejecting it—and Luo Binghe—out of hand.

Shizun and Shizun’s target are both moving quickly enough that Luo Binghe nearly loses them. Going through the front door of the building Shizun entered, Luo Binghe grimaces. Not because it’s a brothel, but because he needs to perform his due diligence instead of rushing to the upper level where Shizun is.

“Split up,” he says to the disciples who have trickled in behind him. “Check to make sure this isn’t a trap.”

Shizun’s target may have chosen this building for a reason, after all.

Impatience claws at Luo Binghe while they search, but eventually the lower levels are cleared. Only corpses remain inside this building.

With his heart in his throat, Luo Binghe begins to climb the steps.

Several of the Huan Hua disciples have ascended before him. He can hear voices on the floor above already: Qin Wanyue, clearly responding to whatever Shizun said to her. Then Luo Binghe crests the steps, and Shizun’s gaze locks on him for the first time in three years.

Xiu Ya slips from Shizun’s fingers. His eyes widen, his lips parting as he incredulously, wonderingly asks, “Bing…he…?”

And Luo Binghe doesn’t even have time to parse the emotions in Shizun’s reaction before his master is collapsing like a puppet whose strings were cut.

“Shizun!” Luo Binghe cries, lunging forward. He barely makes it in time to catch his master, his fall was so fast. As it is, Luo Binghe’s knees jar heavily against the floor; he feels a twinge in his left knee as his blood parasites rush to fix a muscle there he strained, along with the heavy bruises that he would otherwise see tomorrow.

Shizun shudders in his hold, limbs jerking strangely, before he settles into frightening stillness. His eyes remain closed, his head lolling in place before it settles against Luo Binghe’s shoulder.

(art by awallflowerdraws)

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe says again, “Shizun, Shizun!”

With one arm holding Shizun against his body, he uses the other to check Shizun’s pulse. It’s slow, which isn’t entirely unnatural for a cultivator, but there’s a distressing stutter to the heartbeats.

Without-A-Cure? Luo Binghe wonders frantically.

Shizun is breathing, his heart beating, but the way he collapsed—the look on his face when he saw Luo Binghe—the way he remains unconscious, the whites of his eyes showing when Luo Binghe dares peel back an eyelid—the incongruous glove on one hand—the lightness of his body and the points to his cheeks—the new and scattered strands of white in his hair—

What has happened to Shizun while Luo Binghe was gone?

“One of you,” Luo Binghe commands to the disciples clustered around him, the useless gilded sycophants who, even now, are standing and wringing their hands, “go and find one of the other Peak Lords who accompanied Shizun here, or someone who knows where they are. I need Mu Qingfang!”

There’s no movement.

“NOW!” Luo Binghe roars, in the kind of battlefield command voice he’s perfected while taking over various portions of the Demon Realm. In his arms, Shizun doesn’t stir, but the Huan Hua disciples scatter.

With them gone, Luo Binghe takes the time to bite into his thumb. Blood wells up against the pad.

“Begging Shizun’s forgiveness,” Luo Binghe says, before pressing it against Shizun’s lips. Red smears luridly there. Luo Binghe wiggles the tip of his thumb inside, coaxing Shizun’s jaw open so that he can smear more blood against his gums and the soft palate of his mouth. That accomplished, he withdraws his hand.

While the blood parasites spread through Shizun’s body, seeking to assess every bit of him and heal or bolster him as they can, Luo Binghe turns his attention to Shizun’s qi flow. He knows what the blockages to Shizun’s qi feel like.

This…isn’t that.

Or rather, it is, but worse. So very much worse than when Luo Binghe was sent away. All the meridians in Shizun’s right arm are knotted and scarred, clear evidence of at least one qi deviation. Judging by how it feels, it must have either been caused by Without-A-Cure or happened in the middle of a flare-up, which must have caused even more damage than a qi deviation would have on its own. The glove seems to be helping, subtly—and not so subtly—redirecting qi flow, encouraging the circulation of Shizun’s blood, bracing strained and twitching muscles. It’s so carefully, purposefully designed to ease Shizun’s pain.

Pain which is new and unfamiliar to Luo Binghe, yet is shouted at his blood parasites. Pain that said parasites can only seem to dull the edges of.

Luo Binghe wants to go running through the streets. He wants to hunt down Mu Qingfang himself, the better to get Shizun help all the quicker, but he knows that his best choice—Shizun’s best chance—is if he remains here, where the Huan Hua disciples can direct help.

…If it takes too long, if Shizun begins to take a turn for the worse, if his qi deviation spikes again, then Luo Binghe will use Xin Mo to send himself directly to Mu Qingfang’s side and damn the consequences.

He’s still knelt there on the floor, Shizun cradled unconscious in his hold, when Gongyi Xiao arrives with the angry longsword child.

“Senior Shen!” Gongyi Xiao gasps upon seeing them. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Luo Binghe grits out, barely containing the urge to snap at Gongyi Xiao. Why should he look at Shizun with such a tender expression? For that matter, why does he sound so familiar with Luo Binghe’s shizun? “He collapsed out of nowhere.”

As soon as he saw me, part of his mind says. Are you so sure this isn’t your fault?

Luo Binghe shakes his head, focusing on the angry longsword child. “You. Where is Mu Qingfang?”

He’d come yelling at them about other cultivators in the city and how they were all going to die, no matter what sect they were from. At that time, he must have been referring to Cang Qiong. Why else would he have been escorted here by Gongyi Xiao?

“At my father’s weapons shop,” the child says.

“Lead me there. Quickly.”

The child scowls at his curt tone, but then his gaze drops to Shizun’s slack face. He nods, turning on his heel. “Come on. It’s not far from here.”

Luo Binghe rises to his feet, sweeping Shizun up with him. He makes sure his hold is secure, that the long hems and sleeves of Shizun’s robes aren’t dragging against the floor, his hair likewise. Then, almost as an afterthought, he nods to the dark-robed figure on the other side of the room and says, “Fetch the corpse. It’s a Sower demon, the cause of this plague. Mu-shishu will have use for it once he’s seen to Shizun.”

Gongyi Xiao starts. “How did you…?”

“Shizun taught me all that I know,” Luo Binghe says. He hardly needed more than a glimpse of that bright red skin, combined with his knowledge of the plague, to know what Jinlan City is facing. “Don’t touch its skin with your bare hands: that’s how the Sower’s rash—Jinlan’s plague—is spread.”

The weapons shop thankfully isn't too far away, just as the child—Yang Yixuan, he curtly introduces himself as along the way—said. Yang Yixuan leads Luo Binghe down into the basement, opening the door to let him into the room at the bottom of the stairs. 

The room where Mu Qingfang is waiting. 

"Shixiong," he says disapprovingly, having obviously guessed that Shizun would be returning. Then he takes into who, precisely, has stepped through the door—and more importantly, who is being carried. 

"Shixiong!" Mu Qingfang says again, in quite a different tone of voice. He hurriedly shoves a pile of books and scrolls off a narrow couch that has been rather obviously dragged down into the basement from elsewhere in the weapons shop. Once it's clear, he says, "Lay him here, quickly. What happened?" 

"I don't know," Luo Binghe says even as he does as his shishu commands, setting Shizun down onto the couch. It pains him to have to let his master go, but he does, barely contenting himself with the few adjustments he is able to make to assure Shizun's comfort before Mu Qingfang is chivvying him out of the way. "He was—I don't think he was hurt in the fight, and he was holding a conversation just fine with one of the disciples from Huan Hua, but then he took one look at me and collapsed. He was seizing. I don't know if it was a qi deviation, but he—he fell." 

"Of course he did," Mu Qingfang says, low, and the gaze he directs at Luo Binghe burns. His hands don't falter; he continues to examine Shizun as he says, "None of us had any inkling that Luo-shizhi was alive. Certainly we never expected that if he were, he would have stayed so long away from his home and his master. Especially when—!” 

Mu Qingfang cuts himself off, drawing in a breath. Then another. "Luo Binghe should back away while this master works," he says eventually, and the way Mu Qingfang has switched away from calling him 'shizhi' hurts more than Luo Binghe would have expected. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Luo Binghe demands. “Is it Without-A-Cure?”

Luo Binghe doesn’t quite think it is, just based on Shizun’s reaction and the way his blood parasites report to him what Shizun’s body and meridians feel like. But it would explain why Mu Qingfang is angry with him, wouldn’t it? Because Shizun sacrificed his cultivation and his health for Luo Binghe’s sake and—and—

Luo Binghe knows Shizun didn’t tell anyone he was a demon. He sent Luo Binghe down into the Endless Abyss to die, but at least he allowed Luo Binghe’s memory and reputation to remain intact. If someone didn’t know that Shizun is the one who sent him away—if someone didn’t know that Luo Binghe was a demon—if all they had were the facts as they knew them—Luo Binghe must seem incredibly unfilial.

“No,” Mu Qingfang says grimly. “It’s not Without-A-Cure.”

“Then—“ Luo Binghe starts. 

“Please stop talking,” Mu Qingfang says, but instead of angry, it comes out almost defeated. The anger has seeped out of Mu Qingfang, the tense lines of his shoulders ever since he saw Luo Binghe walk in loosening. “I need to concentrate on helping Shen-shixiong.”

Luo Binghe shuts his mouth. He can demand more answers later, but Mu Qingfang is right: Shizun’s health is the most important thing right now. All Luo Binghe is doing is distracting him from his work. 

Luo Binghe watches Mu Qingfang work, remaining as unobtrusively in the background as he can.

If it’s not Without-A-Cure, he thinks, eyeing the glove, which Mu Qingfang is currently probing with qi, clearly getting a report on Shizun’s condition from it, then what is it?

Whatever is wrong with Shizun, it’s at the very least affecting the same hand which was originally injured by Without-A-Cure. Admittedly, Shizun has chided his students more than once about leaping to conclusions.

Correlation does not equal causation, he’s repeated over and over. Examine all variables! You are Qing Jing’s disciples! You are Cang Qiong’s future strategists; you mustn’t allow yourselves to fall into the trap of assuming you always know everything and needn’t keep an open mind.

Just because Shizun’s hand is the current focus of Mu Qingfang’s examination does not necessarily mean that it is either the cause of Shizun’s illness, nor that the illness is connected to Without-A-Cure. Without-A-Cure may be a factor, but it’s not the whole of the problem. Not with how Mu Qingfang so assuredly shot down Luo Binghe’s suggestion.

Shizun could have been poisoned again, on that same unlucky hand. Some poison that weakened him, or otherwise disturbed his qi? Perhaps in a different way than Without-A-Cure does?

Except…

Mu Qingfang’s utter lack of surprise at Luo Binghe’s words.

He fell, and its answer, Of course he did. None of us had any inkling that Luo-shizhi was alive.

It was not, as Luo Binghe had assumed, an off-the-cuff blame laid at his feet for Without-A-Cure and therefore Shizun’s illness. It was—it was what?

None of us had any inkling that Luo-shizhi was alive.

And Shizun…

He took one look at me and collapsed.

Of course he did.

Of course he did, Xin Mo whispers, parroting Mu Qingfang’s words. Your master assumed you were dead as much as the rest of his sect did. He worked hard enough to ensure it, didn’t he? Wouldn’t it be a shock to the system to find that the filthy demon he consigned to hell crawled his way back out? No man would handle that so assuredly, much less someone who hates Heavenly Demons as much as Shen Qingqiu—

Shut. Up, Luo Binghe snarls viciously. His hands clench, fingernails digging into the skin of his palms as he fights to control himself—and Xin Mo’s insidious whispers. It’s been long enough since he’s fed the sword, and he’s been thrown enough by seeing Shizun again, that the sword has gotten loud.

He doesn’t have the time or space (or talismans for hiding his demonic qi) he needs for a meditation session in order to calm Xin Mo right now. He’d planned on doing that later tonight. For now, he’ll have to keep it together as best he can.

Shizun needs him.

Luo Binghe waits patiently while Mu Qingfang works, trying to piece together what has happened in the long years of his absence. He has the pieces to put it together, he knows he does, he just—is it wishful thinking, to assume that the shape those pieces seem to make is correct?

It feels like forever and no time at all has passed when Shizun finally stirs. He squints up at the ceiling, clearly disoriented.

"Shixiong," Mu Qingfang says, relief suffusing his voice as he leans over Shizun, making sure he’s in easy view. "You're awake."

"Mu-shidi," Shizun says weakly. "What...happened?"

"I was hoping Shen-shixiong might be able to tell me that himself," Mu Qingfang says, leading. 

"It happened again," Shizun sighs. "Ah. Apologies for worrying Mu-shidi, and many thanks for looking after this Shen Qingqiu." 

"Think nothing of it," Mu Qingfang says. He pats at Shizun's uninjured hand. "You know the routine." 

"Shen Qingqiu, Qing Jing Peak Lord," Shizun recites. "It's dew month. The fourteenth day, unless I've lost my count. We're..." And here his voice fades briefly, before he continues. "We're on a night hunt." 

"Shixiong is off by a few days," Mu Qingfang says. "And can you be more specific about the night hunt?" 

There is a stretching silence. Mu Qingfang does nothing to hurry it along. From his position huddled in a corner, where Shizun is surely unable to see him from his position supine on the couch, Luo Binghe watches his master's lashes blink slowly closed several times while Shizun obviously thinks. 

"A plague," he says finally. "In Jinlan City. They called for aid."

"That's exactly right, Shixiong." 

"You," Shizun says, thumb twitching against the front of his robe; Luo Binghe just barely catches the movement. "Me." His index finger, this time. "Liu-shidi." Middle finger. Then ring finger. "Someone else..."

"Yang Yixuan," Mu Qingfang fills in. "His father was the one who called for aid. He led us to his home, where we spoke with Master Wu Chen." 

"Mn," Shizun hums. His fingers drum weakly in place. Shizun's brow furrows. He says, "A Sower demon. Except it can't just be one. Not with how widespread the plague is."

"Rest assured I already have the corpse of the one you killed in my possession," Mu Qingfang says, a bit of dryness entering his tone now. "Gongyi Xiao was good enough to bring it to the weapons shop for me to use—after I finished treating you, of course."

"Gongyi Xiao?" Shizun repeats, clearly confused, and it's enough to derail Luo Binghe's urge to roll his eyes or otherwise scoff at this portrayal of how it all went down. "Is Huan Hua in Jinlan City too?"

"Yes," Mu Qingfang says. Caution rears its head. "How much does Shixiong remember from hunting down the Sower?"

“…I left the weapons shop,” Shizun murmurs, soft and distant, as though attempting to recall a half-forgotten dream. Perhaps, given the effects of this qi deviation—or whatever this is—that’s precisely what is happening. “I went through the city. I was trying to…the old lady. She didn’t act right. She ran. I chased. We fought, and then I…and then…”

“What happened after you fought the Sower demon?” Mu Qingfang coaxes.

“After? After, yes,” Shizun says. “We fought, and then I…” He chews on his lip. “I woke up here.”

“So you don’t recall running into the Huan Hua contingent,” Mu Qingfang says. “Including Gongyi Xiao—and Luo Binghe.”

At this, Luo Binghe finally steps forward, entering Shen Qingqiu’s line of sight. It’s as obvious as summons as Mu Qingfang can make it, and what better time is there to draw Shizun’s attention to himself? Besides, if Luo Binghe’s presence does have any sort of adverse effect upon Shizun for the second time, then the greatest healer in the jianghu is seated right at his side, ready to intervene.

“No,” Shizun says. Then, somewhat self-deprecating, “I suppose Gongyi Xiao had to carry this master along with the Sower’s corpse. That can’t have been an easy task.”

Standing at Mu Qingfang’s shoulder, dumbfounded, Luo Binghe stares at Shizun. He truly will discount Luo Binghe’s efforts so easily, won’t he?

“Gongyi Xiao carried the Sower corpse,” Mu Qingfang corrects, and his head tilts to gesture toward Luo Binghe half a step behind him. “Luo Binghe carried you.”

“Oh. Well, that was kind—both for Gongyi Xiao to ask and for one of his shidi to do so. Remind me to thank them both later, if we see them again.”

“Luo Binghe,” Mu Qingfang presses. “Your presumed dead disciple? Your personal disciple, from Qing Jing Peak?”

“Shizun?” Luo Binghe asks. It comes out plaintive and wet in the way that he swore he wouldn’t act in front of his master, but which, back when they lived together in the bamboo house, was always guaranteed to draw Shizun’s attention directly to him, no matter what thoughts might have pulled him deep into his mind.

“Yes,” Shizun says, but in a way that to Luo Binghe’s ear sounds desperately confused. His gaze wavers from Mu Qingfang’s not at all. “So you should…tell Gongyi Xiao to thank his shidi for me…?”

It’s as though Luo Binghe doesn’t—

“Shixiong, can you—who is in the room with us right now?”

Shizun’s look of confusion deepens. He makes a show of glancing around. His gaze skips over Luo Binghe entirely. “Is this a trick question? It’s only the two of us.”

Mu Qingfang looks over his shoulder and meets Luo Binghe’s eyes. Reflected in them, Luo Binghe can see the pallor of his own face, the wide-eyed, punched out look he’s wearing. 

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe says numbly. “Shizun, I—you—“

He shuffles past Mu Qingfang, going onto his knees in front of his master. He doesn’t dare to touch, but says, “Shizun, please. Won’t you look at me?”

Nothing. Not so much as a flicker. No one is so good an actor as to be able to fake this. 

“Give me your hand,” Mu Qingfang says, reaching over Luo Binghe’s shoulder and snatching up Shen Qingqiu’s wrist nearly before it’s even shifted toward him. “This isn’t natural. It can’t be. And even your qi deviations shouldn’t—“

“What’s not natural?” Shen Qingqiu asks. “Mu-shidi, is there something wrong?”

"Hush," Mu Qingfang says. "I need to concentrate." 

A tense silence falls over the room while Mu Qingfang works. Luo Binghe stays in his kneeling position, staring upward into his master's eyes. Shizun—Shizun can’t—

How is Luo Binghe supposed to regain Shizun's favor, if the man doesn't even know that he's here?

Or, Luo Binghe realizes with a chill, if he's forgotten Luo Binghe in his entirety, along with being unable to see him. Erased from Shizun's mind. Erased from Shizun's entire world. 

He trembles. 

Please, no. Please, please, if there's any justice in the world, if Guanyin has any mercy for the long ago child who prayed to her so fervently, there will be some way to fix this. 

"There you are," Mu Qingfang hisses. "I sense you now. Dammit." 

"What is it?" Shizun asks. He is far too calm. Then again, he was nearly this calm when Mu Qingfang originally told him of Without-A-Cure (not that Luo Binghe was supposed to overhear that conversation). He frequently takes devastating news with preternatural ease. 

(Frequently. Not always. As the reveal of Luo Binghe’s heritage can attest.)

"It's a curse," Mu Qingfang says, not letting go of Shizun yet. "A nasty one. I don’t suppose—has Shixiong heard of Mourner's Lament?" 

Luo Binghe hasn't, and he's read through the entirety of Qing Jing's libraries. Shizun, surprising Luo Binghe, also shakes his head. 

"It doesn't ring a bell," Shizun says. "Begging Mu-shidi to explain?"

"It was never a terribly common curse.Nor widespread,” Mu Qingfang says. Luo Binghe half-turns in place, scooting backwards slightly as he does, the better to watch Mu Qingfang while he explains. "But this curse—” Mu Qingfang grimaces. "It explains Shixiong's symptoms. You haven't had an increase in qi deviations out of nowhere, Shixiong: the curse was causing them." 

There’s a beat of horrified silence as they all absorb that.

“…Ah,” says Shizun. “Well. That’s—hm.” He looks as though he’s calculating something very quickly, before sighing and shaking his head. “This one still cannot recall any previous mention of the curse among the books he has read. Begging Shidi to expand further upon it?”

Luo Binghe, one hand inching forward until he’s clutching at his master’s cold fingertips, looks up beseechingly as well. 

“First, some background,” Mu Qingfang says. “Treatment of heart demons frequently falls under the purview of Qian Cao, hoping to resolve them before they bring the cultivator—or anyone around the cultivator, depending on what those heart demons are—to harm. There are many different forms that heart demons can take, and many different causes. Some are small and resolve easily, whether through time or the normal efforts of a cultivator as they progress through the stages of their cultivation. Others take significantly more work.” He pauses. “Some heart demons are relatively benign, or at least do not require immediate resolution. Some seem benign or under control, but can quickly overtake cultivators if they are allowed to run rampant.”

Luo Binghe has a very bad feeling about this.

“Now, admittedly, though this Mu is the Peak Lord of Qian Cao, he cannot say that he the most talented mind healer on his peak. My specialization is on the body and meridians; though I did my fair share of rounds among the mind healers and dual cultivation specialists—“ Here Shizun chokes very briefly, cheeks pinkening. Mu Qingfang blandly ignores this lapse. “—it has been some years since that was my main focus. Curses happen to be a personal interest of mine, which on more than one occasion has happily—or unhappily—coincided with my work. Much like Shen-shixiong’s interests in flora and fauna, hm?”

Shizun, still rather pink, nods. 

“All this to say,” Mu Qingfang continues, “I have spent enough time studying minds to have a thorough understanding of one of the more common heart demons that appears to plague a cultivator’s life: grief.”

Luo Binghe bites his lip hard. 

“Those who dedicate themselves entirely to cultivation frequently end up suffering small and large griefs,” Mu Qingfang says, voice gentling. His eyes dip to Luo Binghe’s as he says, “Sometimes before they ever come to the mountain. Other times, only after they have begun their studies. Whether it be family members that they left behind, friends lost to demon attacks or night hunts, even the civilians that they went out to protect—cultivators suffer grief as surely as any other human does. 

"So of course our healers must help all of our disciples and martial siblings to deal with their grief. What many people do not understand is that grief is not linear."

Shizun nods along to this, though with a faint crease to his brow, much like someone who has heard a topic discussed before but whose memory has lost the fine details of it. Luo Binghe thinks he sees where Mu Qingfang could be going with this, but isn't entirely sure. 

Perhaps that's why Mu Qingfang looks more toward Luo Binghe than Shizun as he says, "If you'll bear with me—imagine that grief is a mountain trail. It's been cut into the side of the mountain so that it will takes years for it to weather away, but the traveler knows there is a safe dwelling and a warm meal up for him at the top, so long as he can make it there. But the trail, well, the trail is different for every mountain. If the mountain is steep, the trail features many switchbacks as it winds its way upwards. The traveler has a long way to go, and often it feels as though he isn’t making any progress. Many travelers stop at a certain point and remain there for a long time, recovering their strength before they can continue forward. Others retreat down the path, going back to places they already passed, feeling that the safety promised at the top is too far out of their reach. Other times, there simply isn't a way forward: there has been a rockfall, or the path becomes too subtle to move along quickly, and the traveler must turn back until or unless he can find another way around. On the other hand, sometimes the traveler is able to find a shortcut, traveling upwards in leaps and bounds. Sometimes he continues straight to the top, while other times he’s run through his strength and must rest, or he trips in the midst of the shortcut and tumbles back down, or any number of other mishaps.

"The point is," Mu Qingfang says, "Is that it's not a clear path. It's a different mountain for every person and nearly every grief. It's complicated. Messy."

Luo Binghe is the one nodding now. 

"What this curse is doing, the Mourner's Lament—it's not the mountain and it's not the trail. It's the waves lapping at Shixiong's feet."

"Hold on," Shizun says. "Where did the water come from?"

"The—the water is also grief. Or—well, it's not the curse, not exactly, though it's part of it, I—if Shixiong would allow me to finish?" Mu Qingfang says, stumbling a bit with his rhythm disrupted. 

Shizun waves a hand, a go on gesture. 

Mu Qingfang subtly rolls his eyes, disguising it with the way he pushes his spectacles upwards in the same moment. "Shixiong is attempting to climb this mountain trail—”

Shizun scoffs. 

“—while the ocean's waves are lapping at his heels—” Mu Qingfang presses on. 

"An ocean?" Shizun asks incredulously. "Shidi, what is this geography? Why is the mountain right next to the ocean? Is it a volcano on an island or—”

"It's a metaphor, Shen-shixiong!" Mu Qingfang says. "It's not meant to be literal!"

"It's a bad metaphor," Shizun mutters, sotto voce. 

"Fine, then it's not a mountain, if that will soothe your artistic sensibilities!" Mu Qingfang says. "It's a cliff overlooking a beach, is that better? A tall one, with a trail carved into it like our metaphorical mountain." 

Shizun nods begrudgingly. 

"Shixiong is trying to climb the trail and the water is following him higher than it should because the curse is forcing it to do so," Mu Qingfang says quickly, before Shizun can argue any further. "Like I said, it's not the water, not really, because the water exists behind any person attempting to climb the trail. If they fall, if they slide too far down, they land in that despair, which is fully capable of dragging people down until they drown in it. Do you understand, Shixiong? Mourner's Lament pulls at your emotions as a moon does the tide; it ebbs and it flows, but it never recedes as far as it should. It's constantly raising higher. That's how the curse disguises itself: grief is a process, whether we discuss the trail or the water, so any healer in the world expects for there to be backslides eventually along the process, moments where the grief overwhelms the traveler once more, but usually—usually!—there is a safe place for the traveler to rest awhile, either at the top or along the way. 

"Mourner's Lament allows no safe passage, no rest. It pushes ever higher, mimicking the normal flow of grief, until it overwhelms those bounds entirely and consumes its victim," Mu Qingfang says. 

"You mean..." Luo Binghe whispers, putting this together with what Mu Qingfang originally said about the curse and arriving at the horrible, inescapable conclusion.

"Mortals have been known to be driven to suicide by this curse," Mu Qingfang confirms. "Immortal cultivators, too, if the qi deviations didn't kill them first, whether directly or as a consequence of their health being destroyed…or in martial siblings being forced to defend themselves. As I said, it's a cruel curse. Nearly untraceable, too, unless you manage to catch hold of the energies precisely at the right moment."

"This shixiong must thank his shidi once again," Shizun says. He doesn’t sound nearly as upset as he should be. "...How long does Mu-shidi believe I have?"

Luo Binghe must fight the urge to be sick. No. No! He can't lose Shizun. Not when he's only just reunited with him! Not when—not when Shizun doesn't even—

Wait.

Why can't Shizun see him? Nothing in Mu Qingfang's explanation has hinted to that. 

“It’s…difficult to say,” Mu Qingfang says in answer to Shizun’s question, obviously displeased to have to say so. “Now that we know the curse exists, we can place preventative measures, but it’s not as though Mourner’s Lament ever has an exact timeline. It depends on each victim, their strength before the curse, the force the caster was able to put into the curse…”

Shizun frowns. “How is this curse cast?”

“It requires a personal item from the victim. That item is used as the focus, so that when the caster pours their own grief into the focus, it transmutes into the victim’s energy.” Mu Qingfang sighs. “That’s why it’s so hard to detect. It looks near exactly like the victim’s qi and energies. It’s meant to make the victim suffer before eventually killing them, all while presenting as a natural death. Or as natural a death as that can be.”

“Their own grief,” Shizun muses. He sighs, too. “Revenge, is it?”

“I say grief,” Mu Qingfang says, “but really, almost any negative emotion on the caster’s part will suffice. And it doesn’t have to be direct reprisal on the caster’s part: the caster could have targeted for your position or rank or to deal a blow to Cang Qiong. There are, unfortunately, far too many possibilities.”

If it was direct reprisal then it would be far easier, yes. However, Luo Binghe’s martial uncle is looking over something obvious. 

“Shizun is the lord of Qing Jing and he’s never heard of this curse,” Luo Binghe says. “Even Mu-shishu didn’t recognize it at first. Whoever this is, they had to have access to records that taught them how to perform this curse, or at least find out it existed before discovering how to perform it. They then had to get close enough to Shizun to steal from him. Who fits those criteria?”

“A good point,” Mu Qingfang says. “If we look into the various libraries of the sects, then should anyone have researched such curses recently, that may point us in the right direction. Assuming, of course, that this isn’t a variant that was handed down from master to disciple by someone who originally learned it through underhanded means, such as demonic cultivators.”

“Is it a demonic cultivator who originally created it, then?” Shizun asks, having obviously managed to hear at least part of that discussion. 

Mu Qingfang’s mouth twists. “A righteous one, actually,” he says. “Reportedly, he went, ah, somewhat mad after his cultivation partner was murdered. Brilliant inventor, by all accounts, even afterwards, but not stable by any means.” Mu Qingfang shifts slightly. “He belonged to our Cang Qiong—the artificers’ Peak Lord some five or six hundred years ago. Was rather involved in Zhao Hua before joining Cang Qiong, though he kept up a relationship with them after he ascended to Peak Lord. He eventually fell into a qi deviation of his own; records are unclear if the imbalance of energies was too much or if it was one of the times when Peak Lords had to take the steps to contain a martial sibling with lethal force. Either way, it left two of the peaks empty.”

I would have done the same, Luo Binghe thinks. I would have made them regret killing Shizun. I wouldn’t have stopped at a curse; I would have hounded them to the ends of the earth to take my vengeance against them, for taking my beloved from me. 

If they don’t manage to save Shizun from this curse, he may end up doing so. 

“I never knew that,” Shizun says, soft and considering. “His partner—what peak did she belong to?”

Now Mu Qingfang looks deeply uncomfortable. “…Qing Jing. He was the Qing Jing Peak Lord.”

“Ah,” Shizun says.

“I shouldn’t have been surprised you hadn’t heard of the curse, Shen-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang says, rather apologetically. “I only know of it because I took a course on curses when I was a disciple; most records of it remain on the Artificers’ Peak, with only a few restricted records kept on Qian Cao itself. I thought it possible there might be some record of it deep in Qing Jing’s archives, but…well, from everything I read, Qing Jing mourned its fallen lord and, whether or not any of them agreed with their shishu’s actions, publicly kept up the front that it was a dishonorable way to handle the aftermath. I imagine they wouldn’t have wanted to keep any reminders around, and therefore banned all knowledge of it from the peak.”

“This is something like karma, I suppose,” Shizun says. “Creating this curse as vengeance for a Qing Jing Peak Lord, only for it to come back around centuries later to be used against another.”

“I’m not sure Zhao Hua would agree with your assessment there, but regardless, so far as I’m aware, there still should be only a limited number of people with knowledge of this curse. It never spread particularly far; the concern is if it was reverse engineered by another curse maker or if it was taken from the records of the Artificers’ Peak or one of the other sects who had records of it,” Mu Qingfang says. “If it was reverse engineered, or if it was set by a demonic cultivator rather than a spiritual cultivator—that could be an important clue as to why it warped the way it did.” 

“And why Shizun can’t see me,” Luo Binghe says. “Or hear me, or anything to do with me.”

“Yes,” Mu Qingfang says. “At a guess, it may be because—well, it’s significantly more difficult to grieve someone when they’re standing right in front of you.”

Luo Binghe trembles in place. Mu Qingfang has finally stated it out loud, the conclusion they’ve been circling around this whole time: Shizun is mourning him. 

Luo Binghe’s most burning question, the question of whether or not Shizun regrets it, has been answered. Shizun regrets it so much that it’s killing him. 

Are you sure it’s you he’s mourning? Xin Mo laughs in the back of his head. Your precious Shizun—who’s to say all that grief isn’t reserved for the human boy he thought you were, with none to save for the demon? Did he really regret any of it? Did he really grieve, or is this all thanks to the curse, pulling his paltry, faded emotions to the forefront—?

SHUT UP, Luo Binghe mentally yells at the sword. 

Xin Mo subsides. It keeps laughing, though, because it knows it’s gotten to Luo Binghe. They’re thoughts that passed his own mind ever so briefly earlier, as soon as Mu Qingfang began explaining the curse. Now, with Xin Mo’s contribution, the idea burrows like a tick under his skin. 

"Yes, Without-A-Cure would be a confounding factor, wouldn't it?" Shizun says. "Though really, I don't think it's actually a curse in the same way that Mourner's Lament is, so why should it twist the curse awry...?" He has a thoughtful expression on his face, the kind he always wears when he begins contemplating a problem only to come up with some off-the-wall perspective on it and an equally off-the-wall solution. 

If anyone could think their way around this curse, Luo Binghe thinks Shizun might be capable of it. 

In absence of that, Luo Binghe will step into his place. 

"It's a curse," Luo Binghe says, "so there has to be a way to break it, right. now that you know it's there? Mu-shishu knows how to break it, doesn't he? Even if it's different than the original version crated on the Artificers’ Peak..."

"We have to find the focal object in order to break the curse," Mu Qingfang says. "That will also help us to determine if there are any further steps that need be taken. Shen-shixiong, do you have any ideas which item it could be? Based on..." His expression goes a bit strange. "Hm. Actually, I'm not sure how precise to be. I would hazard a guess anywhere between six months and a year ago. Did you lose anything around then?" 

Luo Binghe stares at his martial uncle in dismay. That's such a large range of time! And if the item could be anything, then how could Shizun possibly begin to narrow it down? Even Luo Binghe, at certain points in his life (on Qing Jing Peak, specifically) might have had difficulties figuring that out—

"I lost Binghe's fan," Shizun says. His shoulders tighten, the fingers of his free hand curling slightly where they rest in his lap. "The one he gave me shortly before the Immortal Alliance Conference. I kept hoping Liu-shidi would find it somewhere and bring it back to me, but...he never did. I, um." Here he averts his gaze entirely. "After about three months I realized it wasn't going to happen, and I..."

"You had that first qi deviation then, didn't you?" Mu Qingfang fills in. 

Luo Binghe—he remembers that fan. He knows exactly which one Shizun is talking about, because he didn't just give that fan to Shizun. He made it. He spent weeks working on it, crafting each part of it, painting the silk, carving and sanding the wood, glueing it together, then at last presenting it to Shizun with his heart in his throat. He'd made fans for Shizun before that, of course, and Shizun was far too pleased with each one, even the ones at the beginning that really weren't any good or deserving of praise. 

He'd hoped that the fan he made could be a stand-in for a courtship gift. It was something of a promise to himself: the next time he gave Shizun a present, it would be after he'd won the Immortal Alliance Conference. He would make his intentions known to Shizun then, and the next time it truly would be a courtship gift. 

That never came to pass. 

But as it turns out, Shizun kept the fan after all. Kept it, no matter what Luo Binghe had done at the Conference, and he was carrying it with him before he was cursed, which means—which means—

"He worked so hard on it," Shizun says miserably. "He was so proud of it when he presented it to me. I meant to keep it safe, but I was on one of my trips out the sect—I’m pretty sure that's when it disappeared—and I must have looked away for just a moment, and it—it was gone." His voice is slightly wet as he says, "I really hoped I had just misplaced it among the rest of my supplies, or left it somewhere on Qing Jing, but it never reappeared."

"You made it?" Mu Qingfang asks Luo Binghe. 

Luo Binghe nods. 

"Hells," Mu Qingfang says. "No wonder the curse adapted so easily. It's not just Shen-shixiong's personal effect—you contributed energies to it, too. I would bet that the curse used the significance of that to warp itself when you returned: it was perfectly attuned to you in order to do so, and it more likely than not was able to draw on your reserves."

"I'm giving the curse power?" Luo Binghe cries, nearly jolting up to his feet. 

"No," Mu Qingfang says. "Not directly, anyway. It's functioning on its own; if it's pulling from anyone, it's pulling from Shen-shixiong, but it's self-sustaining until you destroy the focal object." 

"You can't destroy it!" Shizun says, alarmed. 

"Shixiong, if we don't find and destroy that fan, you will die, do you understand that? It's not a matter of personal preference. You will die."

"But—”

"Shixiong, please." 

Shizun quiets, but he looks displeased. Luo Binghe is heartened by that protest, even as he despairs of it. 

Shizun, ah, Shizun, your life is worth so much more than a fan. Your Binghe will make you a hundred more fans if that's what you want, but you have to be alive to receive them! 

"Very good," Mu Qingfang says. "Shen-shixiong, I think it's best if you get some rest. You're overwrought and no doubt exhausted from what the curse did to you. Sleep for a while; we can discuss further matters later. I need to keep working on Jinlan City's cure; it should be an easier matter now that Shixiong has gotten me a Sower's corpse, even if he wasn't supposed to go wandering off on his own." Shizun huffs. "Sleep here so that I can keep an eye on you. Luo Binghe, with me. We need to talk."