Five times + one

by RikuAbsolem

Summary:

Five times people noticed similarities between Luo Binghe and Shang Qinghua (and one time Shang Qinghua did too)

Chapter 1: Shen Qingqiu

1. Shen Qingqiu

Shen Qingqiu observed Luo Binghe sitting across from him on a small cushion on the other side of the table, shoulders tense, gaze lowered, posture stiff. The young man looked prepared for punishment, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, just existed.

He had been in the sect for five years. Shen Qingqiu didn’t know exactly how old the disciple was, but he probably wasn’t even fifteen yet. He’d guess thirteen, maybe twelve. He had never bothered to check Luo Binghe’s records, afraid that looking at them would reveal details he didn’t want to see.

It was so familiar it hurt.

Shen Qingqiu cleared his throat, drawing the boy’s attention. Luo Binghe flinched.

“You don’t have to be like this, Luo Binghe,” he said, attempting a gentle tone, the kind of gentle approach he’d been trying to adopt with his Qing Jing disciples for the past six years, ever since Shang Qinghua had casually remarked that if he kept acting that way, he’d end up with a qi deviation.

Luo Binghe blinked, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected any clemency, and lowered his head even more. Shen Qingqiu fell silent again, observing.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen this reaction. The last time, however, had been from Qinghua, his shidi, who used to shrink at any scolding with the same kind of hesitant smile and eyes full of alarm.

He never knew why Qinghua was like that. He never had the courage to ask.

Now, seeing Luo Binghe, he realized, maybe there was never just one reason.

The suspicion had begun slowly, years ago, when he first saw Luo Binghe’s curly hair. It was only after he’d told the boy to wash up for his initiation tea ceremony that the thought settled in his mind.

The boy returned with his hair loose, still damp, and Shen Qingqiu froze for a moment. Dark, thick, curly strands, almost identical to Qinghua’s when he wore his down, which had become rare in recent peak lord meetings, but Shen Qingqiu remembered clearly.

He also remembered the way Luo Binghe had frozen during that ceremony. He didn’t move once while serving tea, trembling slightly, spilling a few drops, but never taking his eyes off the rim of the cup. He wasn’t a good server. He hadn’t been properly taught. Even so, he tried his best, as if that ritual were his only chance.

Since then, Shen Qingqiu had tried to be kind, even without feeling much empathy for the boy who was possibly his martial nephew, his only one, a bastard seemingly unacknowledged by his own father. He tried to see the boy as just another disciple. But… it wasn’t that simple.

Luo Binghe was obedient. Calm. He had only one friend, who caused more trouble than help, and occasionally interacted with disciples from other peaks, especially the ones from An Ding, who loved sneaking snacks to him during deliveries and pretended it never happened.

Shen Qingqiu pretended not to hear whenever his own disciples gossiped about An Ding’s clear preference for Binghe. Entertaining that thought would only feed an idea he wanted to avoid.

Luo Binghe didn’t progress naturally. He progressed like someone fighting to survive, with an innate talent for everything he did, as if fate had chosen him as its favorite and refused to let go. Yes, he had talent, for swordsmanship, music, writing, even cooking.

Everything Shen Qingqiu demanded, Luo Binghe excelled at. But there was always that tension in the air. That constant rigidity in his body. That silent desire to please.

Luo Binghe looked at him with the same fear Qinghua once did, back when both were head disciples of their peaks and forced to interact during weekly meetings in an effort to build a familial bond that never formed. Later, the boy’s gaze had changed, more alert, less scared. But still full of caution.

It was different from Qinghua’s clumsy fear, the kind that made him freeze and start rambling nonsense as if no one were listening. Luo Binghe wasn’t clumsy, nor talkative. He was... too careful. Too quiet. Too aware.

As if he were always walking on glass.

Shen Qingqiu would never expel him from the sect. Luo Binghe didn’t seem sure of that.

And Shen Qingqiu, who wasn’t a monster, not the one everyone thought, couldn’t look at him without wondering:

What if?

What if Luo Binghe really is Qinghua’s son?

The idea was absurd. Qinghua had never mentioned any relationship and never seemed to care about anyone or anything outside his disciples, whom he often called his ducklings. He’d never shown interest in anyone outside the sect. He was nervous, awkward, clumsy with affection.

Shen Qingqiu had never seen him touch anyone intimately, aside from Wei Qingwei and Mu Qingfang, who had grown closer to him in recent years.

Besides, Shang Qinghua and Luo Binghe didn’t interact. Shen Qingqiu would know if they did. They’d never exchanged more than formal greetings. And yet… Shen Qingqiu remembered seeing him once, watching the boy with a strange expression. Not affection.

Not tenderness. Something more like… guilt.

Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe it was all just coincidence: the hair, the nervous ticks, the social discomfort.

But Shen Qingqiu knew his shidi. He’d been observing him for years. He also knew that Shang Qinghua carried secrets, things he never told anyone and never let anyone notice. And that Luo Binghe, as talented and composed as he was, had to have come from somewhere.

The doubt never left him.

Shen Qingqiu took a deep breath, forcing his thoughts back to the present.

“How have your classes been?” he asked in a neutral tone.

Luo Binghe quickly looked up, surprised by the question, and for a brief moment, something almost childlike crossed his face. The genuine surprise of someone not used to being asked about themselves.

“They’ve been going well, Shizun,” he replied formally, but with a hint of excitement. “I’ve been practicing more calligraphy. The hall master said I improved a lot this past week.”

Shen Qingqiu nodded, watching him carefully.

Luo Binghe gestured as he spoke, one hand tracing a small arc in the air to illustrate something about the brushstrokes. When he finished a sentence, his left eyebrow lifted slightly.

It was the same.

The exact same gesture Qinghua used when trying to explain an idea that only made sense inside his own head, an idea none of his martial siblings would ever understand. The raised brow, the pause between phrases, even the way he tucked the strands of hair falling over his eyes.

And the hair... long, thick, always looking slightly messy, even when tied or styled. The color, the shine, the way it moved when he turned his head.

Shen Qingqiu didn’t need to compare them side by side. The resemblance was there. Not loud, not obvious. But visible. Subtle like a well-kept secret.

“Do you like your music lessons?” he asked, feigning disinterest.

“I do, Shizun,” Luo Binghe said, nodding slightly. “I didn’t know I’d be able to play properly, but now... it’s one of my favorites.”

“You have talent.”

Shen Qingqiu’s voice came out lower than intended. It was always hard to say that to his disciples, especially Binghe. And once again, he saw that expression on the boy’s face: a mix of surprise and embarrassment, as if he didn’t know how to accept a compliment without apologizing for it.

Just like Qinghua.

Even the brightness in their eyes was similar.

Damn it.

Shen Qingqiu leaned back slightly, trying to keep his composure. But inside, his chest grew tighter with every word.

Luo Binghe said nothing for a moment, just lowered his gaze and smiled, small and subtle.

“Thank you, Shizun.”

And Shen Qingqiu wanted to say something, wanted to ask:

Do you know Shang Qinghua? Do you know your parents? Has he ever talked to you? Has he ever looked at you like you were more than a stranger? Like you were his son and he wanted to take you back to An Ding with him? But the words died in his throat.

Because if he said anything, if he opened that door. Maybe he’d never be able to close it again.

Chapter 2: Wei Qingwei

Wei Qingwei watched Luo Binghe standing before the wall of swords, each blade shimmering as if it had a life of its own, choosing its wielder as much as being chosen. The boy looked tense and excited all at once, a mix that stirred something in Wei Qingwei’s memory, vivid and strange.

It reminded him of his shixiong, no, not just shixiong, his dear, infuriating, unforgettable Shang Qinghua, pacing that same hall years ago, muttering nervously to himself, just as jittery as Binghe was now.

It had been so long ago, but the memory stayed sharp, like a shard tucked deep in the flesh. Qinghua, with his delicate face and twitchy energy, always looking like he might bolt at any moment. It made no sense, but he looked like a mouse trapped in a scroll painting, small, soft-eyed, and quick.

He’d only been thirteen when he came to Cang Qiong from An Ding, barely past a child, standing beside his shizun in the regulation robes of an outer disciple, crisp, clean, and somehow still crooked at the collar. His shizun gave him a firm shoulder squeeze before leaving him alone to face the wall of swords.

Wei Qingwei had been there too, younger and leaner than now, though even then he’d already been broader than most, with the kind of muscular bulk that didn’t go away even when his stomach started to round with age. His beard had been shorter, his hair thicker, but he remembered it all perfectly. He’d been shadowing his own shizun that day, hanging around under the pretext of learning but mostly enjoying the excuse to avoid chores.

And he’d noticed Qinghua immediately, not because he was strong or loud, far from it, but because something in his quiet, awkward hesitation made you want to shield him from the world.

The boy had stood before the blades with wide eyes and trembling fingers. He kept reaching for hilts, then pulling back like the swords were too hot to touch. He whispered to himself, nodded to invisible companions. It was strange, endearing, but strange.

The swords responded to him, or they seemed to. They hummed faintly when he passed, like they were testing him, or maybe pleading. But he refused each one.

"Not you. Sorry." He said it softly, like he didn’t want to hurt their feelings. And somehow, they listened. Each sword went quiet when he turned away.

Wei Qingwei had never forgotten that. It wasn’t normal. Usually, one or two blades would stir. But Qinghua had the whole wall vibrating, only to silence them with a whisper.

He was picky. Painfully so. Other disciples came and went. Chose and left. But Qinghua stayed. Talking to nothing. Declining, again and again.

Wei Qingwei’s own shizun had left and come back three times, muttering about “overly picky spiritual objects,” but anyone paying attention could see, it wasn’t the swords being selective. It was Qinghua.

It wasn’t until the sun had started to sink that the boy finally smiled. Small. Honest. Gentle.

He walked to a sword no one had looked at. Tucked in the corner. Short. Slim. Not intimidating. Not flashy. Elegant. Understated. Better for flight than for battle. But it hummed when he touched it, softly, like a bird exhaling, and slid into his hands like it belonged there.

And in that moment, every other sword in the hall fell silent.

Wei Qingwei remembered that hush. A sudden, weighty quiet. Like the whole room was disappointed, but not angry. Just resigned.

His shizun had returned just in time to see it. He and Wei Qingwei congratulated the boy, who bowed with a murmur and hugged the sword tight, like it might vanish otherwise.

That, Wei Qingwei would never forget.

Years later, when Luo Binghe stepped into the same hall, the difference was immediate.

The swords began to shake the moment he crossed the threshold. Some nearly flew off the racks. He hadn’t even touched one yet, and already the room was fighting to be chosen.

The boy looked overwhelmed, like someone caught in a storm of attention he didn’t ask for.

With Qinghua, it had been quiet. Thoughtful. Swords responding only when acknowledged. Luo Binghe walked among blades that hungered for him.

Wei Qingwei watched, his arms folded across his thick chest, robes tugging a little at the middle from the roundness of his stomach. He’d long stopped caring how that looked. His body was strong and heavy, his beard streaked with a bit more silver now. But his eyes were sharp, observant, filled with something softer than they used to be.

"You can take all the time you want," he said, voice gruff but kind.

Binghe nodded, grateful, but his focus was on the swords.

Wei Qingwei couldn’t help but think of Qinghua again. That mop of brown hair. Not like Binghe’s black curls, thick and wild, but close enough. He could almost see the boy standing next to the younger one.

"He’s so young," Wei Qingwei thought, and he knew Qinghua would’ve thought the same.

Qinghua always had a soft spot for shy disciples. Especially the ones who tried not to be noticed. He would’ve hovered nervously, said something awkward, tried to comfort without knowing how.

But would he have seen the resemblance?

Probably not.

Binghe was about twelve. Qinghua, well, that would’ve been about the time someone had to get pregnant.

Thirteen years ago, Qinghua had just been named heir to An Ding. Already overworked, already too obedient for his own good. They weren’t close then. Not yet.

He spent his days delivering scrolls, arranging travel logs, serving tea to elders who barely looked at him. Tense. Dutiful. Controlled.

Would he have risked it? A child?

Unlikely.

And yet...

Qinghua didn’t like women. He’d said so plainly, especially in the privacy of those strange, sad little nights they sometimes shared. Nights filled with warmth and quiet, but nothing lasting. Nothing romantic. Just two lonely cultivators keeping the dark away for a while.

Qinghua had always been open about his preferences, liked strong men. Big ones. The kind he’d tease with a grin and a blush.

So... when would there have been time? Or reason?

There were possibilities, of course. A mission. A mistake. A plant. A trap. A haze of heat and drugs and magic. Wei Qingwei didn’t want to think about it. But if it had happened…

Qinghua might not even know.

And if he did…

He would never abandon the child. Wei Qingwei believed that. Down to his bones, under all the muscle and beard and belly.

If Qinghua knew, he’d take responsibility.

And yet...

Luo Binghe reached for a sword, hand steady now. The blade shimmered. Glowed. It had chosen him. Not the other way around.

The moment was quiet. Sacred, even.

He lifted it. Held it close. His face lit up.

And then came the smile.

That same goddamn smile. Small. Shy. Heart-wrenchingly honest.

Wei Qingwei felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

He swallowed it down.

"You made a good choice," he said quietly. Even if it was the sword that had done the choosing.

He looked at the boy. Really looked.

Ah, Qinghua... what the hell did you do?

He didn’t ask. Didn’t say anything else.

But deep down, as Luo Binghe stepped away, sword strapped to his hip, Wei Qingwei smiled faintly.

Two pieces of the same story.

And if it turned out they belonged to the same man... well.

He’d protect them both.

Chapter 3: Liu Qingge

3. Liu Qingge

---

Liu Qingge stood beside Cang Jing, watching the disciple’s movements as he corrected stances, pointed out flaws, and suggested adjustments. It was a task assigned to him, not one he had chosen. The sect’s new policy required peak lords to rotate among other peaks, to interact, strengthen bonds, as if that would magically improve the sect’s cohesion. For him, it was just another burden.

Duty. Responsibility. As if that were enough to push aside the discomfort. Liu Qingge didn’t want to be there. And if he refused, half his peak’s funding would be cut.

He was the Lord of Bai Zhan Peak. He trained soldiers to defend the sect in his absence. He saw no value in visiting sessions, much less in teaching disciples who didn’t even know how to hold a sword properly. He didn’t spend that much time training his own, and yet, here he was. Because there was one reason to stay.

Luo Binghe.

That boy was different. From the very first day, during the new disciple selection, Liu Qingge had wanted to take him to Bai Zhan. His instincts screamed when he saw him, with that bearing of someone who would endure hell without stepping back. But Shen Qingqiu was faster, as he always was when he wanted something, and took the boy to Qing Jing Peak, thinking he needed strategy, reading, reasoning.

Nonsense.

That boy was not born to hide his claws. Luo Binghe was born to use them. The tense, insistent posture. The look in his eyes. The hunger, not for food, but for something deeper, darker. A kind of ambition forged in loss and silence. He wanted him as his disciple the moment he saw him dig in his heels. It was an instinctive, almost impulsive decision, and yet, the right one.

Even now, with the boy already under Qing Jing Peak’s tutelage, Liu Qingge couldn’t stop watching him when he picked him out among the insignificant faces of hundreds of disciples. He saw him in combat, saw how he responded to training, to criticism, and how, despite it all, he seemed to hold something back, untouchable. Something dangerous. Something fascinating.

Luo Binghe would make a better warrior than a scholar. That was the truth Liu Qingge repeated to himself, as if saying it would ease the sense of loss. The boy had the build, the strength, and above all… that energy. It was a waste for him to be at Shen Qingqiu’s peak. Shen wouldn’t take him far.

The worst thing about watching Luo Binghe was the unsettling air that made Liu Qingge remember someone. Not just remember, relive.

The resemblance to that shixiong… it wasn’t just physical, though the curly hair and fair skin reminded him of Shang Qinghua far more than should have been possible. There was something in the way Luo Binghe stayed silent at the wrong times, as if weighing every word before speaking. Something in his eyes that seemed to bear the weight of the world. Something Liu Qingge recognized without being able to name it.

It was impossible not to wonder if fate was mocking him. As if the past had returned, wearing another name and another lineage, just to provoke him.

Even if their styles were different, that shixiong had been subtle, evasive, strategic, Luo Binghe was direct, possibly powerful, raw, the feeling was the same: a presence that pulled his attention even when he tried to ignore it. An echo that cut through years and logic.

And Liu Qingge, silent as always, simply watched. Fulfilled the task. Corrected stances. Corrected Cang Jing. His voice came out dry, direct, like a sword strike, no frills, no patience for flourishes. But it was on Luo Binghe that his eyes lingered, whether he wanted them to or not.

In the training arena, Luo Binghe took his fighting stance with a firmness surprising for his age. His feet were planted, his body held in controlled tension. He gripped the sword with the confidence of someone who seemed to have lived this moment a thousand times before. His head held high, his expression resolute. Dark, intense eyes burned with a kind of contained fire.

Liu Qingge always avoided being swayed by rumors. He didn’t like gossip, never trusted it. He preferred to form his opinions based on what he saw with his own eyes, on what he could prove. Still, he wasn’t blind. He had already heard the whispers about the boy, the illegitimate son of some peak lord. He would never admit it, but the irony wasn’t lost on him: many claimed the boy was Shen Qingqiu’s son.

It was almost funny, Liu Qingge thought. After all, he knew the rumors that ran through the peaks about the brothels in the city and Shen Qingqiu’s constant visits there, a respectable noble’s son who indulged in drinking and used women as a pastime. Never proven, of course, but enough to keep Liu Qingge alert, watching. And now this boy, Luo Binghe, chosen by Shen Qingqiu. If he truly were his son, at least that would make sense. Except their connection seemed to end there, being from the same peak and nothing more.

Physically, there was no resemblance between Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe. Not a single shared feature, no inherited mannerism. But Shang Qinghua and Luo Binghe… ah, that was different. The hair, the eyes, the shape of the face, they were almost copies of each other, as if molded from the same strange destiny.

Was Shang Qinghua old enough to be Binghe’s father? Or even his grandfather? Maybe an uncle? Liu Qingge wasn’t sure. Time here, in this twisted world, seemed to slip through the cracks of normal rules. Certainties were hard to pin down.

Luo Binghe was young, dedicated, and though the rumors had never reached Liu Qingge directly, he made his own deductions, watching the boy from a distance, in silence.

Liu Qingge frowned. It wasn’t the strength or the technique, he had expected something promising there, even for someone so young,i t was something far more disconcerting: the aesthetics.

There was a strange harmony there, an almost disturbing contrast. The ferocity with which Binghe fought and the soft immaturity of his still-childish face. A scrawny boy, with rounded features and large eyes, holding a wooden sword, and at the same time emanating a raw, fierce, almost cruel aura.

How could all that coexist in one body?

Then, without warning, Shang Qinghua’s image forced itself into Liu Qingge’s mind.

The awkward Lord of An Ding Peak. Always with that lost look, trapped in his own thoughts, and yet present, strangely present. Small stumbles, almost comical falls, an armful of scrolls always under his arm, and that face. Too round for someone who apparently ate so little under the weight of his work; too expressive, too nervous, as if apologizing just for existing. And yet… there he was. Persistent. Irritatingly constant. Even clumsy, even shy, still wholly himself.

Liu Qingge gripped the hilt of his sword hard, fingers tense, jaw locked.

That silent connection between Binghe and Qinghua wasn’t just about looks, it was something deeper, too strange to ignore, and somehow, he was already beginning to understand it.

“You have a kind of irritating beauty,” he muttered, almost soundless, more to himself than to the boy before him. The words slipped out before he could hold them back, heavy with nameless frustration.

Luo Binghe blinked, slowly, uncomprehending. His brow furrowed, his stance stayed firm, as if waiting for a technical evaluation. Was that a compliment? A provocation? A test?

Liu Qingge looked away as if eye contact were a hot blade.

He was irritated. With the boy. With Shang Qinghua. With himself.

Because, in some twisted, entirely unwanted way, seeing Luo Binghe was like seeing Qinghua too. Not in the gestures, not in the stance, but in the core. In that same mute stubbornness, in that same strange beauty that didn’t ask but simply imposed itself.

And he didn’t want to see it.

But he couldn’t unsee it.

Chapter 4: Yue Qingyuan

Summary:

The corridor was silent, only the sound of dry leaves in the wind. Yue Qingyuan walked calmly when he heard a loud voice coming from the courtyard to the left. He approached and saw Ming Fan, the chief disciple of Qing Jing Peak, and a boy he didn’t recognize. But he seemed familiar.

The outer corridor was silent, except for the distant, whispering sound of dry leaves being dragged by the wind. Yue Qingyuan moved forward with calm, steady steps, the rhythmic echo of his feet resonating on the cold stone floor, when a louder voice suddenly broke the afternoon silence.

He stopped immediately. The sound came from the courtyard to the left, a more isolated and distant space, away from the usual flow of people. Driven almost by instinct, Yue Qingyuan approached, guided by the harsh and pulsing tone of that monologue, sometimes intense, sometimes whispered, rising and falling in a rhythm full of tension and aggression.

He paused halfway, alert. From his position, he could make out two figures. The older one, standing upright with a stern gaze, was unmistakable: Ming Fan, the chief disciple of Qing Jing Peak. Yue Qingyuan had seen him countless times alongside Xiao Jiu, though he had never sympathized with the young man, who often cast looks full of disdain at everyone around him.

The other, however, was a boy Yue Qingyuan did not immediately recognize. Not at first glance.

He was kneeling, head bowed, shoulders tense. His hands rested on his thighs, but not with the serenity of someone patiently waiting; there was something rigid, almost uncomfortable, as if he had to force himself to remain in that position.

Ming Fan spoke firmly, his tone was not shouted, but there was weight in every word. His face was flushed, angry. The boy only listened. He did not interrupt, argue, or refute the clearly superior person above him in the hierarchy.

Yue Qingyuan could have walked on. It was not his nature to interfere in another peak’s rules, especially Xiao Jiu’s. But something made him stay, half-hidden by the corridor’s shadow.

Then he noticed.

The boy’s hair was dark, slightly curly, tied in a loose ponytail, with some strands falling over his face. That wasn’t what caught Yue Qingyuan’s attention. It was the way he slightly bowed, as if his whole body recoiled, not just from the formal act of kneeling, but out of habit. A gesture of restraint, of care.

Yue Qingyuan recognized that gesture.

The memory came vividly, as if it were yesterday, Shang Qinghua, still young, in a formal meeting with the elders, sitting at the edge of the bench, his spine almost bent as if wanting to disappear into the seat. His eyes lowered, hands folded as if praying no one would ask him a direct question. An intelligent shidi, but always trying to go unnoticed among his martial brothers.

It was the same kind of withdrawal he now saw in the boy.

The contrast between submissive posture and silent intensity in the shoulders was something Yue Qingyuan had learned to notice. Because in Shang Qinghua’s case, that apparent fragility hid a mind that calculated everything, always, and said little about what it truly knew.

Yue Qingyuan was about to move on when Ming Fan raised his hand and, with a quick motion, struck the side of the boy’s head with a sharp snap.

The sound made Yue Qingyuan stop.

He didn’t know Shen Qingqiu allowed his chief disciple to personally discipline the juniors, but it wasn’t uncommon in other peaks. Still, something about the boy’s reaction made him stay.

The boy slowly lifted his face, a little frightened but without defending himself. As if he had already expected the blow. Worse, as if he was used to it.

And then Yue Qingyuan saw his expression.

For a moment, brown hair overlapped the black strands, and the face of a younger Shang Qinghua formed in his memory. It wasn’t an obvious physical resemblance, Luo Binghe was beautiful in a youthful and pure way, while Shang Qinghua had his own quiet, unconventional beauty. But the eyes…

The eyes were almost identical.

There were tears held back, stubbornly refusing to fall. A slight redness marked their edges, not just from the impact, but from the effort not to cry. And behind the moisture, there was anger. A silent anger Yue Qingyuan recognized immediately.

It was strange, even unsettling, to see the same glint he sometimes noticed when Shen Qingqiu coldly stared at someone, hidden in the teary eyes of an ordinary boy.

A boy who somehow reminded him of Shang Qinghua.

His shidi.

Yue Qingyuan felt an odd discomfort tighten in his chest.

It was impossible not to remember. He had seen Shang Qinghua like that, kneeling before his former shishu and former lord of An Ding Peak, his body slightly curved, submissive in gesture, but his eyes betraying what his mouth would never dare say.

And now, before him, this ordinary boy bore the same posture, the same mixture of vulnerability and resistance.

It was as if, for a moment, he was looking at two people at once.

The faces blurred in his mind, overlapping in the blink of an eye, and Yue Qingyuan couldn’t say what disturbed him more, the physical resemblance that shouldn’t exist, or the feeling that this connection meant something, something he couldn’t yet name.

Before he realized it, he was stepping closer, clearing his throat softly to get their attention. Both disciples turned their heads simultaneously.

Ming Fan looked irritated for a few seconds, clearly wondering who dared to interrupt. But when he saw who it was, his eyes widened. He bowed quickly and said in a sharp tone,

“Leader of the Sect!”

The younger disciple, the one who bore the disturbing resemblance to Shang Qinghua, glanced sideways at him but kept his head low, bowing as well.

“Leader of the Sect.” His voice was weak, gentle.

He didn’t raise his gaze, and didn’t need to. Yue Qingyuan focused on Ming Fan, chief disciple of Cang Jing.

“Where is your shizun?” he asked, keeping his tone calm.

Even so, the disciple trembled.

“I will, inform him immediately of your presence, Leader of the Sect.” He bowed again and left almost running.

Yue Qingyuan, however, didn’t fail to notice how Ming Fan, before leaving, cast one last look at the kneeling boy. It was a cold look, full of contempt, and the expression of disdain lingered in his mind longer than he wished.

Yue Qingyuan remained still, watching the boy kneeling. For some reason, his posture seemed to fill the space, as if the air around was trapped in the tension of that moment. He didn’t know what to say.

“What is your name?” he asked softly, almost gently.

“Luo Binghe.”

Yue Qingyuan nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on that young face. Not from the Shang family, he thought. But strangely, he didn’t feel relief.

The boy raised his eyes, and for a moment, it was as if Yue Qingyuan was pulled into something deep and uncomfortable. It wasn’t just the physical resemblance to Shang Qinghua.

It was a feeling, something in the way those eyes pierced him, as if they could see more than they should.

The silence between them stretched. In the background, the muffled sound of footsteps and voices from other disciples did nothing to lessen the weight carried by that gaze.

Yue Qingyuan averted his eyes for a second, as if that might break the invisible thread holding him there. It didn’t work. When he looked back at Luo Binghe, the boy still watched him, not with insolence, but with a silent, almost hungry curiosity.

“How long have you been at this peak?” he asked, unsure why that information sparked so much interest, as if the answer alone could explain the discomfort in his chest.

“Three years, sir.” Luo Binghe’s voice was respectful, contained, but there was a curious, almost insistent cadence that seemed to want to imprint itself in Yue Qingyuan’s memory.

Yue Qingyuan shook his head with a slight sigh. Though intrigued, he didn’t need to ask the boy’s age, that would be too intrusive. After all, it wasn’t unusual not to know all the disciples from other peaks, especially those who had arrived recently.

“Was it your shizun who made you kneel here?” he inquired gently.

Yue Qingyuan didn’t know why he doubted, but something about the scene felt off.

Silence.

Time seemed to stretch as Luo Binghe held his gaze steady, as if weighing each word before speaking. Finally, slowly, he shook his head in negation, as if silently saying that the gesture was not an order.

“Stand up,” Yue Qingyuan commanded, his authority soft but unquestionable.

Luo Binghe obeyed, rising slowly, each movement measured, as if trying to preserve something invisible and delicate between them. When he stood, the height difference did nothing to lessen the intensity of that gaze, which seemed to want to speak more than words ever could.

“You know,” began Yue Qingyuan, his voice softer than intended, “it’s uncommon for a disciple to kneel like this unless it’s a direct order from their shizun, or something very serious has happened, right?”

Luo Binghe looked away, his posture still firm. He hesitated before answering, as if searching for the right words inside, or perhaps struggling not to reveal something he wanted to hide.

“Did you do something very serious?” Yue Qingyuan asked, knowing the answer might not be what he wanted to hear. His eyes followed Binghe’s sudden widening and clenched fists, and in that instant, Yue Qingyuan recognized that expression, the same one Shang Qinghua sometimes showed during meetings or when he accidentally revealed forbidden information. It was a look of surprise mixed with fear.

“Leader of the Sect, I swear I have done no wrong, I’m just... not good at what I do,” Binghe justified himself, his voice low, almost a whisper.

I’m not good at what I do, Zhangmen-shixiong. This lord never wanted to be a lord of a peak. The memory crossed Yue Qingyuan’s mind like a ghost, and he blinked, thinking he was hallucinating. Luo Binghe blinked too, as if suspicious of himself.

“So it wasn’t your shizun,” Yue Qingyuan insisted, raising his eyebrows, “but then, who is putting you in this position? Ming Fan?”

The boy finally raised his eyes. Yue Qingyuan felt an almost physical shock, in that gaze was a contained storm, a mixture of fear, sadness, and an invisible desire for freedom.

“This, disciple kneels because he must,” Luo Binghe answered, his voice low, almost a whisper but full of conviction.

Yue Qingyuan frowned, confused and intrigued,

“Must, why?”

Before Luo Binghe could answer, a figure appeared in the distance, breaking the moment. Ming Fan, chief disciple of Cang Jing, returned to the courtyard with firm steps and a furrowed brow.

“Shizun has not received any visitation letter from the leader of the sect,” Ming Fan announced dryly, glancing briefly at Luo Binghe, who remained standing, his face still marked by restrained anger, “But he will receive the visit.”

Shen Qingqiu accepting him without expelling him first was so rare that, if it happened, Yue Qingyuan would be radiant, it would undoubtedly be the highlight of his day. But the mere presence of Luo Binghe there seemed to shatter any chance of celebration. The boy’s face, the way he took a step back the moment the chief disciple opened his mouth, the sudden shift in his posture... all of it brought forth an image Yue Qingyuan thought was buried in the past.

Once again, Shang Qinghua reappeared, like a shadow slipping beneath the young disciple’s skin.

Yue Qingyuan then noticed the subtle discomfort flickering in Ming Fan’s eyes upon seeing Binghe standing. The young man did not look exactly pleased with the situation; there was a mixture of contempt and impatience, a mask he tried to wear to hide his true feelings but failed miserably to conceal.

So different from his own shizun.

Despite that, Yue Qingyuan said nothing.

He turned his gaze back to Luo Binghe’s face, observing the anger that began to rekindle there with the presence of the chief disciple, in the boy’s large, intense eyes.

Yue Qingyuan didn’t recall ever seeing Shang Qinghua, his former shidi, express anger like that. But for some inexplicable reason, he had the feeling that expression, though younger and rawer, was exactly the same.

Turning to Ming Fan, Yue Qingyuan spoke firmly,

“Show me the way.”

He asked as if it were his first time there, and not just another routine visit.

Ming Fan hesitated for a moment, glanced at Binghe before nodding slightly in agreement and walking on, his footsteps echoing down the empty corridor.

Yue Qingyuan cast one last look at Luo Binghe, from now on, he would pay more attention to the boy. He would no longer let him slip from his sight.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We’re in the final stretch! Except for the last chapter, I already have more than five written, others from the Curly Hair saga. I just need to revise them up since I write in another language and in a notebook.
My university is starting again soon, so I might disappear for a while… or maybe not! Doing chemistry is frustrating, and my job started back.
Just a little side note: SQH and LBH deserve all the love in the world, poor things! They deserve everything good that life can give them. ❤️
If you liked it, comment! Or if you want to ask anything, feel free to do so.

Chapter 5: Mu Qingfang

Mu Qingfang sees him bleeding.

Again.

Luo Binghe, a disciple of Qing Jing Peak, shows up at the infirmary with deep wounds across his back, once more.

He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t groan. Doesn’t complain.

He pretends he feels no pain. Pretends he’s fine. Pretends he tripped, fell, rolled down a hill, or any other poorly made-up excuse, repeated with just enough conviction that most people would accept it without asking questions.

But Mu Qingfang doesn’t accept it. Doesn’t believe it.

He knows that kind of wound. Deep cuts, parallel, too precise to be accidental. And probably delivered by someone who didn’t know what they were doing. Punishments, maybe. Yet even so, he doesn’t ask. He only pretends to believe, just as Luo Binghe pretends not to be suffering.

And then he treats him in silence. With precise, almost delicate gestures. He moistens the gauze, applies the right ointments, secures the bandages firmly but carefully, making sure not to press too hard.

All while watching him from the corner of his eye, lids half-lowered. The boy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t avert his gaze from his own legs. He only breathes slowly, as if he knows he’s being examined but won’t run.

Mu Qingfang feels a knot in his stomach.

He knows this didn’t come from Shen Qingqiu.

He’s known his shixiong since their youth. Knows his past, at least to some extent. Knows his closed-off temperament, the pride disguised as distance, the silence that hides more than it reveals. And he knows, without doubt, that Shen Qingqiu would never harm a child, and if he ever had the indecency to do so, he wouldn’t leave such erratic cuts behind.

In recent years, Shen Qingqiu has changed. A lot. He had been one of the first to speak out against excessive corporal punishment in the sect, fighting against it from the moment they became peak lords. He, together with Yue Qingyuan and, curiously, Shang Qinghua, spent hours discussing limits and safety measures, updating internal manuals, questioning what was disciplinary punishment and what already bordered on inhuman treatment.

They had argued with the elders. Rewritten the rules. Explicitly banned any practice that resembled punishments once inflicted on servants or slaves, whom the sect, by the way, had not accepted in over a decade.

Shen Qingqiu was never easy to deal with, but he was firm in his principles. Mu Qingfang trusted that.

And he also trusted that if Shen Qingqiu knew what was happening to this disciple… he would do something about it.

“You should come before you reach this state,” he finally says, with a calm tone that conceals his growing indignation.

Luo Binghe nods slightly, without looking at him. The tip of his ear is red, whether from fever, shame, or sheer exhaustion, Mu Qingfang can’t say. But he sees the tension in his shoulders, the care with which he sits straight, as if afraid to cause trouble.

Something inside him cracks.

He doesn’t ask who did it. Because Luo Binghe wouldn’t answer. Because perhaps he doesn’t even know the name, maybe only cold eyes and harsh orders. Maybe it’s more than one person. Maybe he doesn’t even know what he deserves or not.

But Mu Qingfang knows.

And he also knows he will have to tell Shen Qingqiu. Not as an accusation, but as protection.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Luo Binghe answers, voice low, nearly inaudible.

The words barely leave his chapped lips. A weak excuse, familiar. Almost rehearsed.

Mu Qingfang says nothing.

The boy looks even smaller sitting on the infirmary bed, his posture rigid even after treatment. His Qing Jing Peak robes hang loose at the waist, folded neatly so as not to touch the wounds, his chest and back now covered in clean, well-tied bandages. The skin beneath is still red and raw, the deep marks bound to take time to fade.

Mu Qingfang blinks, lowers his gaze.

Luo Binghe’s hair has been hastily tied in a messy bun atop his head, to stay out of the way during treatment. A few curls have escaped, now falling down the nape of his neck, damp with sweat and disheveled. And from behind, hunched like that, vulnerable, the boy looks like…

Shang Qinghua.

The memory comes sharp. An image layered over reality: the same clumsy bun, the same tense shoulders, the same guilty words murmured.

I didn’t want to bother anyone.

Mu Qingfang has heard that phrase dozens of times.
Almost always from Shang Qinghua.

Always with a hesitant smile, always laughing to cover it up, always dragging his feet until he could barely walk anymore. Always apologizing for needing help, and never really asking for it.

Shang Qinghua never came to Qian Cao Peak willingly. He only showed up when there was no other choice.

Luo Binghe is exactly the same.

They almost never come. And when they do… they look like this: exhausted, silent, trying to remain dignified even when their bodies have long since surrendered.

Mu Qingfang chastises himself for thinking it. It isn’t fair to compare, he tells himself. They are different people, different lives.

But it’s the truth.

And the problem is that he remembers.

He remembers when he saw teenage Shang Qinghua enter the infirmary doors with unsteady steps and a weak smile on his split lips. He remembers how he hugged his own body with crossed arms over his stomach, as if that could keep his insides from spilling out. He remembers the wilted, disappointed, tired look, as if he were more embarrassed to be there than to be wounded.

“It was on a mission,” he had said. “I fell from a roof. It was wet, slippery. Nothing serious.”

And Mu Qingfang had pretended to believe him and promised not to inform his shizun. Because Shang Qinghua didn’t want to be confronted. Because every time he tried to press the truth out of him, he only closed off more. Shang Qinghua had changed after the mission that killed his teammates, become more fearful, more prone to accidents, and Mu Qingfang hated that it had happened, but he couldn’t do anything. Because deep down, he knew that pressing him then would only make it worse.

When he saw Luo Binghe standing the same way at the infirmary door, hands clutching his stomach, skin pale, eyes sunken as if he hadn’t slept in days, Mu Qingfang felt the past overlapping the present like a badly erased painting. For an instant, he saw Shang Qinghua there again.

And it unsettled him.

And Luo Binghe sitting on the bed didn’t help.

The twilight spilling through the side window touched Luo Binghe at the right angles, outlining his young, weary features. The disheveled curls, the delicate lines of his face, the curve of shoulders slumped far too much for someone so young.

He looked exactly like Shang Qinghua back then.

How could they be father and son?

The thought came unbidden, curling into Mu Qingfang’s mind with force.

And maybe they were.

It was only a possibility, and he knew he had no right to assume.

But… he couldn’t stop seeing it.

The physical traits were all there. The thick hair, the slight build of the shoulders, the large liquid eyes, with that moist glimmer of someone always on the verge of tears, even when trying to smile. The tight, drawn lips, as if holding back too many words, or too many hurts.

And more than that, there was the same kind of silent pain. The same hesitation to ask for help. The same guilt for needing it, as if it were a character flaw. The same refusal to admit what had really happened, as if the truth were too dangerous to share.

Mu Qingfang knew this language. He had seen it form in Shang Qinghua from a young age.

And now he saw it before him, reflected in this boy who sniffled softly, trying to breathe discreetly, as if he wanted to disappear in the corner of the bed. Luo Binghe made no noise. Didn’t protest. Didn’t defend himself. He only seemed to be… waiting. For someone to scold him. For someone to say he didn’t belong there.

Mu Qingfang inhaled deeply.

“You’re not bothering anyone,” he finally said, voice quiet but steady. “This is your place, whenever you’re hurt. Never forget that.”

Luo Binghe didn’t reply. But he lowered his head slightly, a small, silent nod. His eyes still didn’t meet Mu Qingfang’s.

And once again, Mu Qingfang felt as though he were speaking to two ghosts at once.

Shang Qinghua had no living relatives. He had arrived at the sect as an orphan. No siblings, no parents, no uncles or grandparents. Like most current peak lords, with one or two exceptions.

Besides, Shang Qinghua would tell him if he had a child.
Mu Qingfang had no doubts about that. They might not be the closest, but they had been martial brothers for years.

Confidants, to a certain extent. People who had bled side by side on missions no one else remembered. People who knew each other’s silences well enough, who often shared tea together, or kisses beneath the stars.

Shang Qinghua wasn’t the kind of man who would keep that sort of secret. Not from him. Not from someone who spent his life trying to keep everyone alive.

And yet… it was strange how much they resembled each other.

“Lie down, Luo Binghe,” Mu Qingfang said, seeing Luo Binghe awkwardly putting his clothes back on. The boy looked at him, attentive, though his pupils were dilated.

“Shizun likes to check if we’re all right at the end of the day, he—”

“Shen-shixiong will understand if you don’t show up.”

Mu Qingfang regretted the tone he used, but Luo Binghe seemed to understand, nodding, though he muttered softly:

“I don’t want shizun to suspect anything.”

Words likely not meant to be heard.

It was impossible to ignore the way Luo Binghe lowered his head again.

Even the smallest gestures, almost unconscious. The way he shrank a little when observed. The way he grew too quiet, as if he thought taking up space was wrong. Even the way he sniffled, shy, awkward, was the same.

Mu Qingfang turned his face and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, as if that could banish the comparison.

But it didn’t work. That shadow was already there, clinging to the golden light streaming through the window and falling on Luo Binghe’s narrow shoulders.

And no matter how much he told himself it was coincidence, imagination, that it made no sense, deep down, deep inside, he felt:

If Shang Qinghua had a child… he would be exactly like this. The rest of the features must have come from the mother. Mu Qingfang couldn’t shake the thought.

He was certain, absolutely certain, that his shixiong would have told him if it were true. Shang Qinghua might be reserved about many things, but he wasn’t a liar, or well, he was, Mu Qingfang knew Qinghua still hid many things from him and the sect, but not this kind of thing. He was the kind of man who talked too much when he shouldn’t, and hid his gravest wounds as if they were a flaw. But to hide a child? From him?

No.

That didn’t seem possible.

But… and there was always that cursed but, lingering in his mind like a cold breath… what if Shang Qinghua had stayed silent?

What if it had happened under circumstances he found shameful? A failed mission, a poorly healed wound, an unwanted encounter. A mistake.

Mu Qingfang knew how Qinghua was when he felt ashamed or uncomfortable. He withdrew, shrank. He didn’t trust himself enough to believe anyone would stand by him.

What if… he had convinced himself no one would understand?

What if Luo Binghe was the result of something Qinghua couldn’t remember, or worse, didn’t want to?

What if…

The question repeated, insistent. Growing tighter.
Mu Qingfang looked again at Luo Binghe.

The boy was now lying against the infirmary pillows, on his side, his features still tense even at rest. There was a stain of dried blood at the edge of the bandage, one Mu Qingfang would need to change again in a few hours. His disheveled hair still fell across his forehead. And even so, even in that state, there was something beautiful in him, fragile and alive. Something deeply familiar.

What if, on some mission… in some forced stay… in some moment lost in time and shame, Shang Qinghua had been forced into something he hadn’t wanted?

What if Luo Binghe was the consequence of that?

In the worst case, at least Luo Binghe was human. His shixiong hadn’t been forced by demons or anything like that, not that it lessened the concern.

Mu Qingfang clenched his fists.

With one last look, he stepped away in silence, his steps almost inaudible against the clean floorboards.

He needed to speak with Shen Qingqiu.

If anyone would know what was happening with Luo Binghe, it would be him. Shen Qingqiu was his direct master, and despite his reputation for severity, Mu Qingfang knew he had changed. Knew he was methodical, protective, carried the responsibility of caring for his disciples with almost religious fervor. And above all, knew Shen Qingqiu would never allow anyone to hurt that boy, if he knew the truth.

And if Luo Binghe really was Shang Qinghua’s son… then Shen Qingqiu had the right to know, and probably already did.

At worst, he would have to bring it up with Qinghua himself.

The thought weighed in his stomach like bitter medicine.

Not out of fear of Shang Qinghua denying it, but out of fear of the look he would give him. That crumbling expression, of someone who never expected to be seen so closely. Someone who would feel caught, even without guilt.

But Mu Qingfang couldn’t ignore what he saw.

And he couldn’t leave Luo Binghe alone.

If he were Qinghua’s son, and there were so many signs pointing that way, then he would protect him. No matter what it took.

Just as he always tried to protect Qinghua.

He stopped at the infirmary door, casting one last look at the boy.

They are so alike.

The thought was still absurd. But it was there, like a seed buried too deep to uproot without destroying something else along with it.

Mu Qingfang took a deep breath.

Left.

And went after Shen Qingqiu.

Chapter 6: Shang Qinghua

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Shang Qinghua

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 Shang Qinghua had never dared to look at Luo Binghe, his small and defenseless protagonist. The mere idea of meeting him, even by accident, tightened his chest with shame, and he preferred to avoid that feeling at all costs.

There was a silent guilt gnawing at him from the inside, a guilt that stretched across all the winding paths that, in one way or another, had led the boy to the sect, all the losses he had suffered in his early years, the absence of a biological father, a biological mother, an adoptive mother.

Every stumble, every accident, every misstep, had been written so that Luo Binghe would carry a portion of responsibility for his own suffering, and so that he would have enough scars to justify every future action in the plot.

Justified in a story Shang Qinghua had never truly wanted to write.

Shang Qinghua avoided facing that guilt as much as he could.

He avoided the boy, avoided the corridors where he might cross paths with him when visiting his peak, even avoided thinking of Binghe. But it was impossible to escape entirely.

Shang Qinghua had never been described in the original novels. The author had never bothered to give him attention beyond what was strictly necessary. Only the female characters, the wives, were worthy of space in his narrative — that’s what the fans demanded, and as the author, he had followed those unspoken rules.

And then, as if fate had chosen to mock him, the system dared to mold Shang Qinghua after the figure of the original author himself. It might not have been so terrible, if not for one cruel, perverse detail: the author, consciously or not, had mirrored much of his own younger self into the appearance that would one day inspire the protagonist, Luo Binghe.

The result was inevitable, two faces, far too similar, close enough to invite uncomfortable comparisons and misplaced suspicions. A resemblance that might have remained harmless, mere coincidence, but instead poisoned everything.

Because Shang Qinghua, at his core, had never stopped being himself.

He wasn’t deaf, nor naïve. His informants were spread across every peak, bringing him fragmented rumors, whispered secrets, barely concealed doubts about the disciple’s mysterious origins. Even his own martial brothers failed to disguise the different treatment they gave the boy. Shang Qinghua heard every word and twisted inside, unwilling to interfere.
And each word became another weight across his shoulders.

He knew too much, more than he should, more than he wanted. And no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, deny it, or convince himself it wasn’t his problem, the guilt always returned, throbbing and corrosive.

A gnawing certainty that, on some level, every wound, every trial, every tragedy Luo Binghe would face was bound to him.

Even though he had never once seen Luo Binghe, Shang Qinghua tried, silently, to follow the boy’s steps. He could not involve himself in the plot, could not interfere, but in recent years the system had grown curiously quiet, giving him just enough freedom to observe without being noticed. It was limited freedom, but better than nothing.

According to his most reliable sources, Shen Qingqiu had never mistreated Binghe, never struck him, never locked him in the woodshed. The boy had his own room, a privilege most disciples couldn’t even dream of and which some envied. He wore plain robes, but never worn or threadbare ones. He ate well, trained properly, without falsified manuals, and excelled at everything he did, so much so that Liu Qingge himself had taken casual interest in training him. He had a good sword, and though he sometimes visited Mu Qingfang’s peak, it was never for anything serious. Every step, every routine, remained within safe bounds, at least, as far as Shang Qinghua could confirm.

Shang Qinghua’s disciples eventually began observing Luo Binghe’s life closely. They sent detailed monthly reports, describing every event they thought relevant. This hadn’t begun by chance, but through Shang Qinghua’s own careless slip.

Once, almost without thinking, he had asked his head disciple to check on how Shen Qingqiu’s new pupil was being treated. It hadn’t sounded like a suspicious request, at least not to him. She found it odd, perhaps, but she didn’t question. She obeyed.

When she returned, though, there had been something in the way she looked at him, wide eyes, thick silence, before finally saying only that the boy was doing well. An earnest, hardworking child, with a strength that spoke of good health. Then, uncertainly, she added that he must have come from a fine family, for he carried himself like someone who had been well cared for, someone with good lineage.

Shang Qinghua froze inside.

The remark might have seemed trivial, but he alone knew the truth that made it cut deep: Luo Binghe was an orphan, and the closest thing to “family” he had outside the sect was the demon emperor sealed beneath a mountain. That innocent misreading was almost cruel. He didn’t correct her. He didn’t dare.

From that day on, it became a habit. His head disciple returned with new observations, always with a proud gleam in her eyes, as though she were reporting the progress of a younger brother she was watching grow. Gradually, other disciples discovered Binghe’s existence and joined in, until reports about Luo Binghe had become regular practice.

The side effect was inevitable: rumors began among his own disciples, whispers that their master was hiding a secret son. The idea felt too natural, given his excessive concern, his side glances, the accumulation of details about the boy’s life.

At least, Shang Qinghua could take solace that his disciples weren’t gossips. If rumors spread, they weren’t the source.

Neither his disciples nor Shang Qinghua himself ever interfered directly with Luo Binghe’s life. That was the silent pact they upheld, the pact that allowed Qinghua the fragile illusion that he could simply avoid the boy.

But no comfort lasts forever.

That afternoon, Shang Qinghua had lost his way among the imposing buildings of Cang Jing. His initial purpose was ordinary enough: a brief meeting with Shen Qingqiu to discuss delayed shipments. But the labyrinth of corridors and passages betrayed him, and before he knew it, he was standing before the library.

He froze.

Hesitation clamped down instantly. The weight of the doors, the hush of the place, everything about it felt like a warning. Shang Qinghua didn’t want to enter. He didn’t want to risk crossing paths with any disciple. He wanted, more than anything, not to stumble into whatever lay inside. And yet, his feet remained planted, as though something inevitable waited beyond.

Then a soft sound reached him, the muted thump of something falling.

A book? Curiosity tugged at him, pushing him forward against his better judgment.

He slipped inside quietly. The inner corridor was empty, light filtering through tall windows to cast long shadows across the wooden floor. And then, he saw him.

Luo Binghe.

Sprawled with arms folded on the table, head resting sideways, still seated as though he had fallen asleep while studying. Dark curls spilled down his back in unruly waves, cascading in a way that tugged sharply at Shang Qinghua’s chest. His own hair, now older and tamed, had once fallen the same way. The resemblance stopped there, though. They were just curls. Nothing more.

And yet, pain throbbed suddenly through his chest, sharp, suffocating.

Was this his son?

His supposed son?

The protagonist of a life he had never had the courage to meet?

He drew a deep breath, willing himself to turn back, to leave the boy untouched, unbothered, unaware. The book that had fallen lay on the floor at Binghe’s feet. It hadn’t woken him, too tired, perhaps, or too deeply immersed in dreams Shang Qinghua would never know.

Still, he lingered.

He remained motionless, watching. There were no words, no contact, just the boy’s calm breaths, the fall of dark hair, the silence that seemed to swallow the library whole.

Shang Qinghua knew he couldn’t get closer. But some part of him wanted to. Wanted to bend down, pick up the book, brush a stray curl from the boy’s face, protect. But he couldn’t. So he stood, feeling the weight of what was, what might have been, what could still be, while the boy slept, unaware, untouched, unknowing.

The world seemed suspended in that moment. Every detail, the curve of the boy’s body slumped over the chair, the play of shadows in his curls, carved itself into Shang Qinghua’s memory. He knew, even if he tried to walk away, that moment would never leave him.

He stood frozen, chest aching with each of the boy’s breaths. For an instant, he felt afraid, afraid of himself, of breaking the fragile scene hanging between him and that unfamiliar youth. His son, or at least the role destiny had cast him in.

But then, something pushed him forward. A quiet, desperate impulse, as though the very air of the library called to him. He took one hesitant step, then another, each movement cautious, reverent.

And then Luo Binghe stirred. Fingers twitched, his body stretched, and large, attentive eyes fluttered open.

It was as if he had sensed the presence even before Shang Qinghua arrived.

Curious, intense eyes locked on his. For a moment, the whole world shrank to that connection, to the shock of recognition Shang Qinghua had never expected to feel.

Luo Binghe stood abruptly, dark curls falling over his shoulders, his movements precise and fluid, shaped by years of silent discipline. His gaze swept the room before fixing on Shang Qinghua, and his eyes widened faintly.

“Shang-shishu,” he said clearly, bowing with elegance and ease.

Shang Qinghua froze.

A shiver traced his spine. He returned the bow, shallow, but still deeper than he had ever imagined offering a disciple. A sharp wave of surprise hit him, of course Binghe knew his name; he was a peak lord, after all. And yet, the way Binghe spoke it made it feel… heavier.

“I—” Qinghua began, then faltered. Words died in the silence, leaving only that strange sensation of nearness, of recognition. He didn’t know what to say.

Luo Binghe remained upright, watching him with unsettling focus, as though trying to unravel every thread of his shishu’s being. He was too quiet, too self-possessed for someone his age, and it made Qinghua even more restless.

Binghe’s lips parted, closed, then parted again, before he bowed once more, deliberate, controlled.

“What brings you here, shishu? To the library?” His voice was soft but steady, curious yet polite.

“I thought I heard something,” Shang Qinghua answered. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. Every sound in this library reverberated inside him, echoing the care and attention he carried for the boy standing before him.

Shang Qinghua studied his face closely. He wasn’t as thin as Qinghua had imagined. His cheekbones were defined, yes, but his cheeks still held a roundness, a softness almost childlike. Pure. Innocent. A boy who deserved a happy ending, a peaceful life.

His eyes drifted to Binghe’s forehead, unmarked, still free of the demonic scar that would one day destroy everything. Then to the small, discreet smile on the boy’s lips. Subtle, timid, but genuine.

Every gesture radiated innocence, curiosity, more intent on understanding than defending.

Qinghua’s chest tightened, a mix of fear and protection. He couldn’t interfere, no matter how much his instincts screamed, but every part of him yearned to guarantee this boy a life without pain, without shadows.

Binghe tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed on him with calm too deliberate to be casual.

“Do you seek something, shishu?” he asked, voice low, yet delicate.

Shang Qinghua swallowed hard, throat tight. He hesitated, searching for air, and finally whispered:

“Where is your shizun’s office?”

Luo Binghe blinked. The disappointment on his face might have been nothing more than Shang Qinghua’s impression, because the boy quickly smiled again with innocent brightness. He tilted his head even further, as if he found the simplicity of the question amusing.

“Ah, shishu... I can take you there. This way.”

He stepped past Qinghua with the ease of someone untouched by the other’s tension, though his eyes, just briefly, glimmered with something Qinghua refused to interpret.

Binghe stopped by the doorframe and turned.

“Shishu?”

Shang Qinghua blinked, as though waking from a trance.

“Yes?” he murmured, bewildered.

For an instant, a shadow crossed Binghe’s face. Brief, so fleeting it could have been imagination, but Qinghua could have sworn he saw melancholy buried beneath the smile. He pushed the thought away.

“Will you not follow me, Shang-shishu?” Binghe asked gently, almost warmly, gesturing toward the door with a graceful sweep of his hand. The gesture was polite, perhaps too polite.

And so, Luo Binghe began guiding Qinghua through the silent corridors of the library, steps light, rhythm natural, as though he knew every stone, every shadow, every breath of the place.

Qinghua let out a sigh, louder than he intended and gave a reluctant nod. He forced his feet to move, trailing behind the disciple.

The silence of the library wrapped around them. Each step Luo Binghe took seemed to glide across the floor, as though the space itself belonged to him. He walked lightly, confidently, as if the world bent itself to his path, while Shang Qinghua followed behind, unable to shake the sense of being watched, even when Binghe’s eyes were elsewhere.

There was something about the boy’s presence, confident yet respectful, curious yet calm, that made Qinghua’s heart pound in ways he hadn’t expected. Disturbing, yes, but oddly comforting too, as though the boy filled a space Qinghua hadn’t known was empty.

As they moved, Qinghua found himself unable to stop observing: the slight tilt of the head, the sidelong glances that returned like quiet lanterns of attention, the way his fingers brushed softly along the spines of books as they passed. Every movement carried its own story, silent tales that Qinghua felt he could almost read, even without words.

Though he had never truly met him before, Qinghua felt bound to this quiet universe, a guardian unseen, powerless yet vigilant, watching, learning, connected by a distance that still felt far too close.

Notes:

Feel free to drop a comment if you liked it or have any little critique, my poor LBH and SQH totally deserve all the love!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 9 of Curly hair