Chapter Text
Qing Jing has acquired a rogue crop of star-and-sky poppies, their seeds having likely blown over from Qian Cao’s medicinal gardens, or perhaps carried by an industrious spine-tailed shrew. As head disciple, Xiao Tuo has come to collect them and bring them back to the fold. The poppies’ seeds can be crushed and processed into a powerful pain medication, and they’re not so common that the sect would leave them to wilt rather than put them to good use in their healers’ hands.
As he searches for the dusky blue of their petals, he sees a disciple approaching a nearby pond.
The disciple removes his inner robe, and Xiao Tuo gasps.
At first glance, it’s clear he’s thin- dangerously so, as if he hasn’t eaten properly in months, or years. Then, Xiao Tuo sees deep purple marks, all over his arms and neck, deep- these aren’t the faint bruises every disciple gets from sparring and falling down.
The shirt falls completely, and Tuo almost vomits.
The boy’s back is a lattice of old scarring and fresh welts, still oozing blood where he’s been cracked open. It’s clear he’s been whipped, hard enough to bleed and scar, so many times that he has no unblemished skin left.
There’s even a grotesque twist to his elbow, as if his arm has been broken and not set correctly. There may be more- he prays there is no more- but he doesn’t have the strength to stay and look.
He stumbles out of the woods, trying not to show his panic and revulsion. He stops another disciple on his way to the rainbow bridge, asks them the name of this disciple, describing his curly hair.
“Luo Binghe,” they tell him. “Why? What’s he done now?”
He runs, poppies forgotten, and he doesn’t stop running until he finds his Shizun, pulling him aside and giving him every detail. Mu Qingfang listens, his face growing pale with concern.
When Xiao Tuo is finished, his Shizun goes straight to Yue Qingyuan, promising that he will not rest until Luo Binghe is safe.
Xiao Tuo heads back for the poppies, relieved to know that the problem is in his Shizun's capable hands.
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Binghe knew he was the world’s worst disciple- a monster, a disgrace not only to himself and Qing Jing, but all of Cang Qiong sect.
He never thought it would come to this.
He’s being transferred- moved to Xing Sheng, the beast peak. How fitting. How Shen Qingqiu must have laughed to hear where he’d be sent- if he hadn’t suggested it in the first place.
He’s not told why, but he knows anyway. He’s not good enough to remain here, though he pledged his life and service to Shen Qingqiu, and suffered beatings and starvation without complaint.
Though he hated the man, the shame of it tears at him. Shen Qingqiu is not his Shizun anymore.
He’s managed, at least, not to be expelled from the sect entirely. Instead, this very evening, he goes to Xing Sheng, which famously takes in anything that moves as its disciple, regardless of talent.
He’s never seen the beast peak lord before- he’s never left Qing Jing for long, since he’s been here, and for obvious reasons Shen Qingqiu rarely receives visitors. Luo Binghe can’t help but wonder what he’ll be like: will he whip him? Will he use a bamboo cane, breaking it over Luo Binghe’s back? Or will his tastes run in a different direction, hitting Binghe with his bare hands?
When he arrives, Shen Qingyuan is- not what Binghe expects.
Where Shen Qingqiu was tall, imposing, thin and sharp as a sword, Shen Qingyuan is- frankly, cute. He’s short, almost as short as Luo Binghe, though he’s a man grown, with a thick waist and his hair falling out of his braid. Glasses in perfect circles curve over his cheeks, making his eyes seem as round and light as pearls. Where Shen Qingqiu is pale and refined, this man is round and rosy and friendly, beaming at Binghe like he’s been given a present rather than a thing nobody else wanted.
“You must be Luo Binghe!” His voice is full of energy, without being too loud. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Binghe has already made the tea- he did it over an hour ago, when Yue Qingyuan had ushered him into the little wooden house and told him to wait for his new master to arrive. He’d stuck a warming talisman on it, to ensure the perfect temperature. It remained to be seen whether his new Shizun would drink any of it.
He does drink it, which gives Binghe a shock. He smiles, even, after the boy has knelt before him, said his part of the oaths, pledged himself to this stranger. He takes the teacup from his disciple, says his own lines softly, and drains the entire cup.
Then, Shen Qingyuan’s eyes widen in surprise, matching Binghe’s own. “Oh!” He smiles again, right at Luo Binghe- it must be for him; there’s no one else here to receive it. “This is very good. Binghe is talented.”
He holds the cup out, and Binghe’s reaction is automatic, hand reaching out to take it. Talented. He refills the cup, hands it back to his new master- who has just given him a compliment, the first one he’s received in years. His brain feels like laundry, being scrubbed violently against a washboard. Binghe is talented.
Ah, right. “Thanking Shizun,” Binghe says quickly.
“Unfortunately, the disciples’ tents are full,” Shizun says.
Binghe almost laughs.
He was a fool to think things would be different here- why? Just because this peak lord drank his tea instead of pouring it over his head? Binghe wonders where he’ll have to sleep now. Maybe the woodshed, again, or the stables, as if he really were a mere beast.
He’s so stupid, truly, to have hoped for things to get better. This was a punishment, a last chance for him to become something worth keeping. Stupid, Binghe reminds himself, as he feels his heart breaking. It will be worse, now, the beatings more frequent, until he can do something right for a change. Maybe he’ll be forced to sleep outside, shivering through the mountain nights until exposure takes him. Maybe he’ll die here, friendless and pathetic.
“-so I thought, if Binghe doesn’t mind, he could stay here,” Shizun continues.
The healers checked his inner ears at Qian Cao, when they looked him over, but they must have failed to notice something wrong- some hidden damage, some missing piece. He can’t have heard correctly.
“Here?”
His new Shizun nods, smiles. “I made the side room ready- would Binghe be alright with that?”
“This one would be honored, Shizun,” he manages.
“Good, then. Will Binghe join me for dinner?”
He nods, speechless. This is the first time he’s ever received such a request, from anyone. Shizun acts as if it is an ordinary thing, guiding him to a field filled with his new shixiongjie, who are cooking and laughing and shouting over each other. On the peaceful Qing Jing peak, Binghe has never heard a noise this loud.
There’s so many of them- apparently, Shizun takes in several disciples every year, and only stops when there is literally no more room on the peak.
What this means is that, if they decide to break Binghe’s bones, like the Bai Zhan disciples do, there’ll be over fifty of them for him to fight, instead of just a few.
At the thought, his bones ache preemptively, as if to prepare their owner for his fate.
Shizun leads him to an empty cushion by a fire, tended by several disciples, all older than Binghe. They greet the newcomers, eyeing him with interest as Shizun introduces him as their shidi. They seem happy to accept him as their own, though he’s done nothing to impress them, and they push rice and meat and some unidentifiable root at him, urging him to sit down.
They include him in their conversation, though Binghe has little to contribute, and wouldn't speak up even if he did. They smile at him, saying things like “We’ll show Luo-shidi that tomorrow,” and “Shidi can have my old cultivation manual- I’ll bring it to breakfast, alright?”
Binghe blinks and thanks his shimei, completely lost. He’s being gifted a manual, not by his Shizun, who’s honor-bound to provide him with one, but by a girl who’s known him for less than five minutes. His martial siblings are calling him their shidi. They invited him to breakfast. Binghe hasn’t eaten a meal with anyone since his mother died. He can’t remember the last time he ate breakfast at all.
Throughout dinner, Binghe notices that Shizun keeps moving meat and vegetables from his own bowl into Binghe’s. Does the man think he can’t see him? He’s not even bothering to use qi to make his movements faster.
This continues until Binghe can’t eat any more, and then continues past that. Still, he forces himself to eat every bite that Shizun puts in front of him. He doesn’t know what this is yet, some kind of test, or a punishment. Maybe Shizun wants him to throw up, wants to embarrass him in front of his peak siblings- maybe tonight’s beating will be worse, if he doesn’t. He eats, holding back tears, not sure if there is another option.
It’s only when Binghe fears he might really throw up that one of his shijies laughs, and says “enough, Shizun! My shidi isn’t a grape for you to burst.”
The peak lord flushes red, and withdraws his chopsticks, placing the morsel into his own mouth.
“Sorry, Binghe. This master got carried away.”
Binghe can barely think- everything is so strange, he might as well have woken up with his brain upside down. Shizun is feeding him until he’s stuffed, and then apologizing for it. Shizun is letting his disciple talk back to him without the slightest punishment.
“Thanking Shizun,” he manages, voice hoarse. “This one is grateful.”
After dinner, he meets more disciples, and all of them are kind and polite. There is, apparently, no equivalent to Ming Fan here. The Xing Sheng head disciple asks if Binghe has eaten enough (Binghe would laugh out loud, if it weren’t rude). He checks that Binghe has all the personal supplies he needs, shows him where the bathing rooms are, introduces him to everyone they pass- he calls Binghe his shidi, and sounds happy to do it.
He urges Binghe to call him Jun Xi, instead of the more appropriate ‘Li-shixiong’. “Everyone else does,” he reasons.
Binghe is completely overwhelmed by the feeling of being treated like everyone else.
Jun Xi invites him, out of Shizun’s earshot, to meet behind the workshop in their free hours tomorrow. Apparently, Shizun hates to leave any candidates behind when the sect chooses their disciples, and all the tents are currently full to bursting. New hopefuls will be coming next year, and his request for more housing has been denied by An Ding.
As a gift for their Shizun, the disciples have gathered supplies on night hunts and are sewing the requested tents themselves, in secret.
“This shidi will help,” Binghe says- and Jun Xi smiles, pats him on the back. It doesn’t even hurt.