Chapter Text
Everything aches, but it’s nothing he isn’t able to deal with.
Honestly, Luo Binghe can’t really remember a time in his life where he didn’t ache. Given how young he still is, that’s kind of sad, isn’t it?
He’d thought, before, that once he became a mountain sect disciple, then maybe…
He raises the axe — blunt, it should be thrown away and replaced at this point, no amount of sharpening is going to make it any better — above his head, and breathes out as slowly as he can. His arms tremble.
It’s the risk of dropping the implement on his own head, each and every time he hefts it up, but what is he suppose to do, stop? He can’t.
He’s stupid, perhaps, to have once hoped that his life would ever change, would ever be different, that the universe would ever be merciful enough to just give him a chance .
He can’t tell what era of his life can be considered worse, at this point. Before, when he was just a street urchin begging for scraps of food? Just another child in rags that the better-off would carelessly kick on their way by?
Or now? A envied disciple of the renown Cang Qiong mountain sect?
He brings the axe down. It thuds hollowly against the wood, and he winces. It missed the wedge he was trying to chop entirely, burying it’s dull edge as far as it could go into the tree stump instead. He lets out another sigh, tugging at it until it comes free, and raises it above his head once more.
Now? The youngest disciple of the effervescent and studious Qing Jing peak, that of the noble and the educated? Where senior disciples are aloof and distant (mostly), and dashixiong are—
Luo Binghe sucks in yet another breath and brings down the axe once more.
Where shizun are—
The wedge splits in two, just like it’s suppose to.
He sets down the axe and reaches for another piece of timber.
Lifting the axe above his head once again, a repetitive motion that his body has quickly become accustomed to, enough to do it without thought, which of course leaves much more time for other thinking and ruminating and, and—
He sucks in a trembling breath, eyes prickling, hands slipping on the axe.
It falls down onto his head with a sharp cracking sound that reverberates within Luo Binghe’s skull for what feels like hours .
When he comes to, he’s sitting on the ground, propped up against the stump, and there are hands lightly shifting through his hair.
It feels good. Like how mama used to.
The panic comes, and Luo Binghe’s eyes are already watering even as he flinches away from the touch, breaths stuttering harshly in and out of his lungs.
What will his new martial family, already proven to be harsh and relentless and cold and unmoving, do to him now that they’ve found him apparently sleeping on the job?
Fear, sick terror, cold inside his chest, creeps upward into his throat, and Luo Binghe thinks he might be sick. He can’t mess up anymore. He can’t give them any more reasons to look down on him! Luo Binghe can’t afford to disappoint any further than he already does just by existing .
Scared, he’s scared .
“Hey, now,” a mild voice says, and those hands slide through his hair once again. They’re… gentle? “I can’t help if you won’t let me.”
…What?
Luo Binghe blinks the still hazy, dark spots from his eyes. His vision clears just enough for him to look up and actually see the person that’s crouched before him.
He’s slender, nimble fingers working through Luo Binghe’s hair with a dexterous yet careful speed. The man has a light build, lithely muscular and small, like that of a courier. Yet, there’s a sword in his belt. The robes, high quality and deep accents of indigo and blue over darker under robes, tell that he’s not of Luo Binghe’s peak.
But it’s the hairpiece, that sits high on his head atop the warm locks of brunette that are carefully collected into a neatly braided bun, held in place by two sharp, silver pins, that reveal just who, exactly, this man is.
A peak lord.
Luo Binghe would flinch back again, drop into a bow and beg for apology, but he’s too frozen to even move . Is he even breathing anymore? He’s feeling light enough, but that might just be the head wound talking.
There’s a charged feeling in the air, like one gets after handling cleaned and dry laundry for too long and then touching another person. A type of static, he knows it intimately from when he’d help his mother with her washer work.
The familiar (but not quite, there’s something different to it, something more ) feeling tickles Luo Binghe’s scalp, his hair rising ever-so slightly. The dull pain in his head, and the fuzziness that came with it, slowly begins to dissipate.
“There,” the man — the peak lord — huffs, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, hazel eyes bright and warm. “That should take care of the worst of it.”
He pets one hand through Luo Binghe’s hair once more, and there’s no pain at all. The boy blinks up at him with wide eyes, disbelieving.
“Wh-What was that?” For a moment, he forgets his lowly place, too confused to remember respect. Had the man just—? Had he just healed him?
Healed Luo Binghe?
“Hm?” The peak lord glances down at him, bright eyes still — impossibly — warm. “I just used my qi to speed up the healing. Nothing fancy. You’ll probably learn it in a few months yourself, shizhi, depending on how your core formation is going!”
Luo Binghe stares up at him. The man is still smiling. Slowly, he shrinks underneath the hand that still sits so gently on his head, and breathes out a shuddering breath.
“I’m not…”
“Hm?”
“I’m not there yet,” Luo Binghe breathes out, trembling. He can feel tears of shame prickling at his eyes. “I— I just. I’m… slow. I’m still working on Qi Gathering. Shishu should not place such expectations on this lowly one.”
“The condensation stage?” The peak lord murmurs, sounding surprised. Luo Binghe ducks his head, embarrassed and feeling so, so mortal in the face of this master.
He peeks up through his lashes. The peak lord is gazing down at him with a look of study on his face, and Luo Binghe already knows that the man is going to find him lacking. Shame and frustration curls in his gut.
The hand that he’d ducked, that’s still outstretched toward him, lands in his hair once more, and Luo Binghe raises his eyes in confusion.
“They’re being really hard on you, aren’t they?” The peak lord — Luo Binghe’s martial uncle, he realizes — says softly. The hand ruffles his hair. “I’m sorry.”
What?
“Qing Jing is a flock of piranha-buzzards on even their kindest days,” he continues. “You would better belong in Bai Zhan, honestly, since you’re suited for physical cultivation. Your Shizun, though—” There’s a cough. “He can be… cantankerous. Your martial siblings are doing what they’re suppose to, giving you all this work, but they’re going about it the wrong way. Did they even explain it to you?”
It’s phrased as a question, but Luo Binghe can tell the man isn’t really asking for an answer. He seems to already know.
“Y-You apologized.” He blurts, and then cringes back. How is he so bold? He’’ll be beaten for certain!
But the peak lord just smiles. “Shouldn’t I? I’m not your shizun, but I am your shishu. We’re martial family! I should do my best to look out for you even if you aren’t my own disciple.”
“Sh-shishu,” Luo Binghe stutters, eyes wide.
Peak Lord (blue robes, dark, indigo — that’s An Ding, right?) Shang reaches down to grab his hand and help him to his feet. Luo Binghe stumbles, slightly, but he manages to stand on his own. The hand in his hair stays, playing with the locks there, and Peak Lord Shang’s voice is soft and gentle.
“Shizhi is working so hard. This shishu believes that his shizhi will make his breakthrough into Establishing his Foundation very soon.”
The way that Shang-shishu says it, the sheer and quiet confidence, the absolute certainty that brooks absolutely no room for argument — Luo Binghe’s eyes water, and he raises a hand to scrub at them furiously.
“Th-Thanking shishu for his kind words,” he manages, though the words come out in a whine, and he curses himself for being such a crybaby.
The hand gently pets his hair like Luo Binghe is worth something. There’s a smothering, cottony feeling inside his chest, inside his lungs and his throat. He swallows it down thickly.
“Shizhi will be very strong, one day,” Shang-shishu is saying, that tone of absolute truth still in his words. “There is no doubt.”
No doubt.
Luo Binghe covers his hands with his face and cries.
Maybe it was the right decision after all, coming to Cang Qiong.