Chapter Text
When Luo Binghe finally escaped from the abyss, he found himself in a barren, frozen wasteland that could only belong in the demon realm. If the weather weren’t enough of a clue, then the small smattering of houses in the distance would do; Luo Binghe was too far to make out the details but the figures he could just barely see moving between the shoddy shelters walked far too comfortably (and nakedly) through the freezing weather to be human, and not a single home had that distinct plume of smoke that spoke of warmth pouring from inside.
A small demonic settlement, then, in the far and desolate desert of the north.
Luo Binghe, weary down to his bruised and broken bones, lonely in a way that was even deeper still, and desperate for things he couldn’t even begin to name… turned and began to walk. He had nothing waiting for him in that distant little village. He had nothing waiting for him… anywhere.
It had been a long time since Luo Binghe had seen another person. Nearly as long as he’d seen any living creature that didn’t immediately try to kill him. Something inside him ached so badly for any connection, any warm touch or fleeting smile—
But he knew, deep down, that no one, much less some secluded ice demons, would be able to fill that cavernous hollow inside of him. That empty space between his ribs where Shen Qingqiu may as well have reached in and torn out his heart before sending him into the abyss.
No, there was no one out there who would be able to give that to him, so Luo Binghe just… didn’t see the point, really.
He couldn’t return to Cang Qiong, the only hope for a safe place he’d ever had. He had nowhere else, but for the village where his mother had raised him, perhaps, but the thought of returning, of having to search and search for her unmarked grave, if there was still anything left of it… No, that wasn’t an option and never had been. Luo Binghe couldn’t go backwards, where he only had pain awaiting him. He had to push on. Start anew. Do his damned best to forget.
Xin Mo pulsed at his side, hungry and cruel. He was too tired to inflict its violence. The thought of spilling more blood made him feel sick. The sword would have to go. And he would have to make sure it was gone for good, or else he was afraid he’d never outrun its influence, no matter where he went. Xin Mo lived in his mind as much as it did in the sword on his hip.
It took time and more strength than Luo Binghe thought he had left inside him, but eventually he put Xin Mo to rest, scattered in fragments of shards across the realms. He felt it die, somewhere inside him, but even in the aftermath, he could still pinpoint that place inside himself that had become changed in the time Xin Mo had tried to rot him away from the inside.
But he was free now. As free as he had ever been, and he wanted nothing to do with that anymore. He wanted… peace, if that was something he could ever be afforded.
And then he found a good spot. Somewhere quiet, secluded, hard to reach. Somewhere no one would bother him. He found a place in a small valley, nestled in a swooping curve of mountains with a river that led to the lake in the valley’s midst.
There, he built a home.
Or rather, a house. Home was too strong a word, and not one he imagined he’d ever have much right to. But house was alright.
He used wood from the forest around him. The bamboo on the other side of the valley, across the river and opposite the lake, tempted him like nothing else but he couldn’t afford any more pain. Or any more reminders. He built as far from it as he could and his house was made of sturdy wood, unbending.
It was nothing grand, really. A small and serviceable house, with one main room, one small bedroom, and a rather large kitchen. He didn’t have anyone to cook for, but that didn’t stop him from cooking for himself. He’d spent far too many nights starving in the abyss, and the food he’d had had been mostly raw, rancid, or probably poisonous. If it weren’t for his particular constitution, there was no way he would have made it out alive.
Some would probably consider him lucky.
Luo Binghe no longer believed in luck.
Every morning he woke up and stared at his ceiling, wondering faintly at the fact that, as simple as it was, he had a bedroom for the first time in his life. He would eventually get out of his bed, simply covered with kudzu fabric he’d been able to get in exchange for some meat at the nearest village and some animal pelts he’d figured out how to treat in order to not freeze to death in the abyss. He’d dress in one of his two sets of robes—more kudzu or linen, which was all he could afford—and make his way to the kitchen to make himself some tea and a simple breakfast, usually congee with not much to it.
He’d spend the rest of his day in the valley, usually, either hunting, tending to his small garden, or trying to make some finer furniture for his home. He thought he might someday be skillful enough to sell or trade his woodworking for other things he might like to have—books, ink and paper, instruments… But he didn’t know if those things would bring him any joy, even if he had them. It was equally as likely that he’d only relive the memories of his worst days on Qing Jing. Or worse, that all he’d be able to think about was the cold, vicious expression on Shen Qingqiu’s elegant face whenever he looked at Luo Binghe. Especially in those last moments.
He didn’t really have to worry about it. It’d be a long time before he could afford anything that might remind him of Qing Jing Peak.
He would eat a light dinner. No amount of work was enough to bring back his appetite, which he must have permanently lost sometime between joining Qing Jing Peak and leaving the abyss. But still, he ate, if only because he had to cook. It was the one thing he did every day, without fail. He always had to cook. It was the last thing he had, untainted.
Sometimes, in the evenings, he would meditate. He’d long abandoned the teachings of his cultivation manual, which had always felt like it was tearing through his spiritual veins like fire. Instead, he’d found something that soothed him. When he felt unbalanced, when he felt like he might burst out of his skin and spill onto the ground around him like a physical embodiment of all the terribleness inside of him, he would sit, close his eyes, and focus on stillness; on harmony; on a softening of all his sharpness and a coming together of all his disjointedness.
It was cultivation, in a way, but nothing like the sword forms and calligraphy he’d tried to learn on Qing Jing Peak, and even less like the desperate explosions of power he’d had to force out in the abyss. His meditation was silent, slow, and soothing. He didn’t do it to become stronger or to gain immortality, he just did it to feel more… less.
At night, he would try to sleep. His dreams were haunted by everything he’d lived. He could control them with minimal effort, but he didn’t see a point. He could build palaces in his sleep, but to what end?
When he couldn’t sleep, which was often, he’d circle his house, or sometimes spiral out in larger and larger rings until he was stalking the valley, wandering through the far bamboo forest.
And come morning, he’d do it all again.
Very infrequently, he would leave his valley and make his way to the nearest village, most of a day’s walk away. He only went when he really needed something he couldn’t make himself (bedding, clothes, certain spices), and even though it meant returning to the valley in the dead of night, he never stayed overnight.
It was on one of these rare ventures into civilization, Binghe’s newest purchase (a sturdy, if pitifully neglected mule that he’d been trying to fatten up for months) plodding calmly beside him, that he saw— saw him.
Shen Qingqiu.
Even a village as small as this one had a brothel. It was, as Luo Binghe understood it, one of the essential building blocks of society. Any place where people gathered must have a place where people could indulge in all the worst aspects of themselves.
It was hardly surprising that Shen Qingqiu, being full of all these worst aspects, would find a brothel even this far removed from the usual dressings of society.
It was surprising, after all these years, to see him.
Shen Qingqiu didn’t see Luo Binghe in the mere seconds between Luo Binghe glimpsing him and Shen Qingqiu disappearing into the brothel’s warmly lit entrance, but Luo Binghe didn’t doubt himself. He knew his shizun, even after all these years. There was no mistaking those straight, narrow shoulders, that proud tilt of his head, or the everpresent fan that hid his expression. Xiu Ya, hanging at his side, was just as distinguishable.
He hadn’t changed, not in all this time. How long had it been? Luo Binghe had found out, some time after emerging from the abyss, that he’d spent something like five years in that hell. He’d probably spent the better part of another just wandering afterwards, trying to feel real again. And since he’d found his valley, he’d spent at least four winters trying to build some semblance of a life. So… close to a decade, probably. And Shen Qingqiu was the same as ever.
Luo Binghe was absently aware of the fact that he himself had changed, growing from a boy into a man, but he never thought about it too much. He didn’t look at himself, on the rare occasions when he passed by something reflective. It… hurt to think about. Just how much time he’d lost. Just how little it mattered.
But at the sight of Shen Qingqiu, for the first time in a long time, Luo Binghe felt… something.
Was it anger? Was it stronger than that? He’d become so removed from emotions over the years, it was hard to even name them. But whatever Shen Qingqiu made him feel, it was deep and nearly painful in its intensity. And, as always at the sight of him, Luo Binghe felt that old, familiar undercurrent of fear.
But he was stronger now than he’d been back then. Strong enough that he could do something about Shen Qingqiu. Luo Binghe didn’t know the brothel girls as he’d never been in need or want of their particular services, but he doubted that any of them deserved whatever Shen Qingqiu would give them. He remembered the violence that man was capable of. He knew what could happen to women in places like this.
He hardly realized that it had been far too long since Shen Qingqiu had gone in, that he’d been standing, rooted to the spot, for long enough that the sun had moved across the sky, dipping into the true colors of sunset. His mule, by his side, was content to pause and snuffle at the short grass beneath them, but even he’d wandered to the end of his rope by the time Luo Binghe came back to himself.
He had to go after Shen Qingqiu. He had to— He had to at least stop him from hurting anyone. And then—
He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he was even feeling, much less what he could possibly do with it.
But even so, with shaking hands, he tied his mule up outside the brothel and made his way in.
The doors were closed, which he was fairly certain was unusual, and no one greeted him when he slipped inside. Instead, he found his way to the main hall himself and was once again shocked still at the sight before him.
He didn’t know exactly what it was he’d expected. Shen Qingqiu pinning some innocent girl to the ground, forcing himself on her with no care for her comfort or safety or willingness, perhaps. It felt wrong to even imagine his cruel but dignified shizun lowering himself to such a crude act of violence, but Luo Binghe had seen the worst of him, so maybe it wouldn’t come as too much of a surprise.
What did, though, was the sight of Shen Qingqiu pouring tea for a small group of girls who sat around a table with him, all talking and laughing comfortably, looking at ease even with this stranger at their table. And Shen Qingqiu— Shen Qingqiu also looked the most relaxed Luo Binghe had ever seen him; his fan folded on the table, a small smile tugging at his lips.
He said something in response to one girl’s comment, and they all laughed. Shen Qingqiu looked pleased with himself, and not in the vicious, smug way Luo Binghe remembered. He looked… soft, warm… kind?
Another girl came back into the room from a door along the back wall, opposite the entrance, carrying a tray of food. She was the first to see Luo Binghe and she stiffened immediately at the sight, clearing her throat sharply to draw the other women’s attention.
“Welcome, sir,” she announced, not sounding particularly welcoming, like she hadn’t been prepared to put on her sweet and obedient flower mask just yet. “I’m afraid to say we’re all occupied this evening. Perhaps you could come again tomorrow night?”
The other women had also grown uncomfortably stiff at the sight of a newcomer, a paying customer. As though Shen Qingqiu were not one? As though he weren’t asking them for anything more than some tea and pleasant company?
Shen Qingqiu, of course, had also looked up at the girl’s words, and for the first time in a decade, those cold green eyes landed on Luo Binghe.
There was no recognition there. And even so, Shen Qingqiu quickly regained his immortal master facade, got to his feet, and crossed the room in a few long strides, blocking Luo Binghe from the women in the room. Or… the other way around. Blocking the women from the strange new man who’d barged in uninvited.
Still, for as biting as the look in his eyes was, Shen Qingqiu’s face was placid, his voice even and calm when he spoke, hardly revealing the sharp sting of iron beneath. “This place has been bought out for the night,” he said smoothly. “It’s in your best interest to move along…” He gave Luo Binghe a diminishing look from head to toe and found him lacking. “Sir,” he tacked on, as though he couldn't imagine someone less deserving of the title.
Luo Binghe felt unmoored. Even after all these years, even without knowing who he was, Shen Qingqiu still looked at him and immediately saw him as less than nothing. Luo Binghe felt… very small. And still, very confused. What was Shen Qingqiu doing here? Why was he in a brothel? Why did the girls seem so comfortable with him, without even knowing him?
What would Shen Qingqiu have to say, if he knew who Luo Binghe was? Did Luo Binghe want to know?
“Are you deaf?” Shen Qingqiu asked mildly. “Or just stupid?” His words took a sharp edge. “Either way, get out.”
“Shizun?” Luo Binghe managed, his voice sounding as though it came from a million miles away, from somewhere deep in the abyss.
Shen Qingqiu froze. Those vivid green eyes narrowed, flitting over Luo Binghe with a new degree of scrutiny. And then, as Luo Binghe watched, they widened. Shen Qingqiu’s pale face turned paler, and he swayed as though stopping himself from taking a step back. His hand, loosely holding Xiu Ya from when he’d stood and picked it up, now tightened into a white-knuckled grip.
“You’re dead,” Shen Qingqiu spit. “I killed you.”
Ah. So that was what he’d say. Luo Binghe’s ribs ached, hardly able to contain everything inside him. The old scar across his chest ached as well, as if recognizing its maker. “You tried,” Luo Binghe choked out. “You succeeded, in most ways.”
“Don’t speak riddles,” Shen Qingqiu growled, sliding Xiu Ya a hair out of its sheath. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” His eyes suddenly turned hard, as though he’d come to a conclusion. “You’re here to kill me, are you? To take revenge?”
Luo Binghe blinked. It was his turn to be surprised. He’d never… For all Shen Qingqiu had made him suffer, Luo Binghe had never really considered revenge. Much less killing his old shizun. Other than when he’d first taken hold of Xin Mo and tasted the bitter hatred of the blade as it tried to subdue him, that was. But Xin Mo was long since destroyed, its pieces scattered and buried where they couldn’t ever become what they’d once been. Luo Binghe didn’t cling to hatred like that.
“No, I—”
“No?” Shen Qingqiu demanded. “It’s a coincidence, then, that after ten years you would appear here, far from the borders of Cang Qiong, where I’d be most vulnerable?”
Motion from the corner of his eye alerted Luo Binghe to the women behind Shen Qingqiu scurrying from the room, out through the door the first women had come through. Away from whatever was happening in their main hall.
“I—” Of course it was a coincidence! But wasn’t it Shen Qingqiu who had appeared where Luo Binghe was, not the other way around? “I wouldn’t k-kill—”
“A demon like you? Shen Qingqiu hissed. His eyes blazed over Luo Binghe once more. “A man like you? I know what you are. What all of you are. You think I should trust a word out of your mouth? This is why I took care of you when I had the chance. Why I tried. Something like you should never be—”
“Shen Qingqiu!” a new voice called, accompanied by the banging open and closed of the brothel’s doors. It wasn’t a voice Luo Binghe recognized, but he welcomed the fleeting disruption of Shen Qingqiu’s cruel tirade. “I told you I’m not staying in a brothel. I found us a normal inn—”
Whoever it was cut himself off as he entered the room and, undoubtedly, took in the sight of Shen Qingqiu, hand on his sword, facing off against a man that, quite frankly, towered over him in both height and build. The next thing Luo Binghe knew, there was another man in front of him, between them, with another sword resting against Luo Binghe’s throat.
The sudden threat was alarming, but any panic was buried just as quickly under the shock of who the newcomer was.
Or at least, who Luo Binghe thought it was. He didn’t look… exactly as Luo Binghe remembered.
Liu Qingge has always been peerlessly beautiful; strong but willowy, tall and unbending, with a face that appeared carved from marble. If it weren’t for his unparalleled martial abilities and his terrible attitude, he would have been chased by anyone who laid eyes on him.
This man was… similar. Beautiful, in every aspect, but a little smaller than Luo Binghe remembered his shishu being, and not just because he’d grown since the last time he’d seen him. Liu-shishu had always had perfectly smooth skin but for the single mole under his eye, but this man had a small collection of beauty marks all across his face. More purposeful and restrained than a smattering of freckles, but rather like someone had accidentally flicked a spray of ink across his skin and less like someone had carefully finished off his portrait with a single dot. His hair was still smooth and tied back in that familiar tail with a simple silver guan, but it looked a few shades lighter than Liu Qingge’s midnight black, and more of a rich, deep brown.
And yet. The sword at Luo Binghe’s throat was undoubtedly Cheng Luan. And only someone like Liu Qingge would have been able to put a sword to his throat so quickly.
And yet… And yet, Liu Qingge was dead? He had been for many years. Shen Qingqiu himself had killed him, or so said the whispers of Cang Qiong. So how could this be…? And even so, Luo Binghe had seen stranger things than this.
“Liu-shishu?”
Liu Qingge—or whatever fragment of him this was—didn’t waver. But he did look at Luo Binghe very intensely. And then glanced back over his shoulder at Shen Qingqiu, who was standing frozen behind him. “Shen Qingqiu?” he asked. “Who is this?”
Shen Qingqiu’s eyes met Luo Binghe’s, and then looked stonily away. “Luo Binghe,” he replied, the words sounding foreign from his tongue.
Luo Binghe hadn’t heard his own name in… In a long, long time. Perhaps the last one to say it had been Shen Qingqiu himself.
Liu Qingge’s gaze fixed back on him, studying. “Your disciple? I heard he’d died during that Immortal Alliance Conference. That’s what you’d told everyone, that he’d been killed by a demon and fallen into the abyss.”
Luo Binghe felt terribly off balance. He’d always assumed that Shen Qingqiu would tell everyone about him, say he’d had some conniving demon under his watch and he’d been the one to personally end its foul life. That he’d been the one to kill a heavenly demon.
“I assumed, at the time,” Shen Qingqiu said carefully, “that he was dead. But it didn’t seem necessary, if he was, to share all the… details. Luo Binghe is a demon. A heavenly demon. And I was the one who sent him into the abyss.”
He said it so matter of factly, as though that hadn’t cost Luo Binghe his soul. He said it like if an abyssal rift opened, right there and then, he would do it all again.
Liu Qingge, though, despite having his sword to Luo Binghe’s throat, didn’t act.
“Liu-shishu,” Luo Binghe whispered, still feeling lost. “How are you…?”
Liu Qingge blinked, as though reorienting himself from should I kill this? to what did he say? “Alive?” he finished. “Shen Qingqiu. The fool felt guilty for not stopping my qi deviation in the Ling Xi Caves. I guess he spent the next many years figuring out how to make it up to me.”
“He… Shishu died from a qi-deviation? Shizun brought him back?”
“It’s not like he didn’t try to save me then,” Liu Qingge said defensively. “It was too late. So he researched for years and found a mushroom that can be used to grow bodies. With his blood and qi, he grew it, and with Cheng Luan, he managed to summon my soul back into it. It grew into this form, and when I woke up, I was alive again.” Like it was so simple.
Luo Binghe could hardly believe his ears. Shen Qingqiu hated Liu Qingge. That was why no one had doubted the rumors when he’d emerged from the Ling Xi Caves and Liu Qingge had not. And now Liu Qingge was at his side, defending him with words and sword, because Shen Qingqiu had… brought him back? Out of guilt? Honor? Luo Binghe couldn’t even begin to guess what had driven him.
And yet, when he looked at Shen Qingiqu, his shizun was glaring daggers into some far wall, his expression stony. He didn’t—couldn’t?—deny Liu Qingge’s words.
Everything inside Luo Binghe, all the maybe-rage and maybe-bitterness that had driven him into the brothel after Shen Qingqiu, suddenly collapsed under the reality of what he was hearing.
For a man he hated more than anything, Shen Qingqiu would do anything to save him, would give his time, effort, blood to bring him back.
For his own disciple, who he’d been entrusted to care for, to raise… he hadn’t had anything but cruelty. He hadn’t just not saved him, he’d been the one to kill him in every way that mattered.
Luo Binghe felt his heart, which he hadn’t even known he still had, break in his chest. He stared over Liu QIngge’s shoulder at Shen Qingqiu’s unfailingly perfect profile.
“Shizun,” he whispered, his voice breaking like a boy’s. “Shizun, why? Why not me? What did I do that was so bad?”
Shen Qingqiu snapped his head back to look at him. Another punishing glare, as vicious and unrelenting as ever. “Don’t play coy,” he demanded. “I knew the second I saw you what you would grow up to be. I know what men are. A thing like you? Handsome face, strong cultivation, that smile. Boys like that grow into men who are cruel and entitled. If this beast,” he jerked his chin towards Liu Qingge, “had gotten ahold of you, you would have grown up too powerful for your own good. You think I don’t know what strong and powerful men do? What men who hide behind handsome faces and deep pockets are capable of? I was the only one who saw, who knew what had to be done. The world can’t afford any more men like that.”
Luo Binghe didn’t know what to say. His hands shook at his sides, and not in anger. In helplessness, maybe. In despair. He tried to remember himself, back then. He had been small, he remembered that much. Smaller than a boy his age should have been. Hungry and alone and desperate. Hopeful.
“What kind of man, Shizun?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “What kind of man would I have been? I only ever wanted to learn from you. I only wanted to be just like you. If I learned cruelty, it was from you. If I learned to use fear, it was from you.”
“You dare?” Shen Qingqiu looked enraged. “You think you know more of men than I? You dare doubt my judgement, when you became a demon?”
“Look at me,” Luo Binghe pleaded. “Look at me, and you’ll see what I became. I’m just a man. I never wanted to be anything more.”
Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth to respond, but then cut himself off. He took in Luo Binghe’s stinging eyes, the loose curls of his tied up hair, the ragged, patched up kudzu fabric of his peasant robes. His hands were calloused from work. There was no sword hanging from his hip. No demonic mark burning on his brow.
Shen Qingqiu shook his head. “You can’t fool me,” he said firmly. “You may look human now, but you can’t unmake what you are.”
“Why not?” Luo Binghe asked. “Shizun unmade me.”
Shen Qingqiu didn’t have anything to say to that.
Liu Qinge, however, stepped back and lowered his sword.
“What are you doing?” Shen Qingqiu snapped, moving to pull Xiu Ya free in Cheng Luan’s absence. Liu Qinnge caught him with one hand and pushed the sword back into its scabbard.
“Look at him,” Liu Qingge grunted, eying Luo Binghe critically. “Whatever you were worried about, it’s clearly not the case.”
“He’s a demon.”
“So is Shang Qinghua’s… business partner,” Liu Qingge pointed out, which was yet another shocking revelation to Luo Binghe, who hadn’t heard anything about anything in ten years. “And he’s actually done demonic things. What has Luo Binghe done?”
It wasn’t until they both turned to look at Luo Binghe, one icy and fierce, the other sharp and considering, that Luo Binghe realized that had been an actual question. What had he done while they’d assumed him dead?
“I— This one was in the abyss for f-five years,” he managed. “He escaped using a sword, Xin Mo, that could tear rifts through realms. But Xin Mo sought to twist and corrupt this one’s spirit, as it had done to previous wielders, and this one thought it was best destroyed before it could— could succeed. This one is… too powerful, due to his nature, to be allowed to wield such an evil sword. Since then, this one wandered and found a place to live. He’s built a small house in a valley nearby and— and recently bought a mule. That… that is all.”
He hadn’t accomplished anything in ten years. He felt ashamed to even meet their eyes, so he stared down at Liu Qingge’s feet, eyes burning.
“This one has not harmed anyone. He keeps to his valley unless he needs something from town.”
“Like women?” Shen Qingqiu demanded. Luo Binghe startled, before remembering exactly where they were. His face heated.
“N-no, Shizun! This one has no desire for t-things like that! He only came in because he saw Shizun…”
Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes, untrusting, but Liu Qingge nodded in acceptance. “You’ve never hurt a human?”
Luo Binghe shook his head. He’d killed, he had more blood on his hands than he ever cared to think about, but none was human. At least not by the time it had reached him. The abyss corrupted and twisted all manner of creatures irreversibly, and Luo Binghe was not the first or only to have ever fallen in. He was, thanks to his blood, perhaps the only one who could make it out… at least mostly intact. Still the being he’d been at the start, if not the same heart and mind.
“We would see this valley of yours. To make sure what you say is true.”
Luo Binghe looked up, startled. In the years he’d lived in his valley, he’d never once had a visitor. He— He didn’t know if he’d cleaned before he’d left.
And yet… The mere thought of having other people in his house, of maybe… cooking something for them? Offering them tea? (He remembered the first and last time he’d made Shen Qingqiu tea, and the memory burned like it had that day).
“Of course,” he whispered. “Shizun and Shishu may go wherever they please. This one no longer has a sword, however, and came on foot with his mule, so it will take a few shichen to return.”
“Tell us where it is,” Shen Qingqiu said curtly. “This master won’t be trekking anywhere on foot. And we don’t need you hiding anything away before we arrive.”
Luo Binghe didn’t have anything to hide. In fact, he barely had anything at all. He gave them stuttered instructions, both to the valley and to his house specifically. “Please be careful with the garden,” he tacked on, feeling a little reckless. “This one can cook for you when he arrives.”
Shen Qingqiu shot him a look that implied he’d rather choke on a rotten bone than eat anything Luo Binghe cooked, but Liu Qingge nodded and started to drag Shen Qingqiu out by the wrist.
Only then did Shen Qingqiu actually act out against him, tearing himself free with an annoyed glare and stalking away from them both in the opposite direction, deeper into the brothel.
When he opened the door to the back, Luo Binghe caught a glimpse of at least two or three women who had doubtlessly been doing their best to keep tabs on what exactly was happening out in the hall. Shen Qingqiu once again deftly blocked them from view. And then, to Luo Binghe’s shock, Shen Qingqiu bowed his head in apology?
Luo Binghe didn’t think to listen to what was said, but Shen Qingqiu’s gentle exchanging of words was accompanied by a hefty coin purse and another small bow before he turned back and crossed the room once more. He walked straight past Luo Binghe without a word, and Liu Qingge followed after him.
Luo Binghe was left alone in the brothel’s hall until his senses returned. And then he leapt into movement; he had to head back to the valley. Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge wouldn’t wait forever.
The walk back felt as though it took a year and a second all in one. Luo Binghe was so distracted, his mind restlessly turning and all the riotous feelings in his chest ceaselessly roiling, that he lost entire portions of the trip to his thoughts. His steady mule kept him on track.
When he arrived, choking on his fear and anticipation, he found Liu Qingge sitting on his small porch, polishing Cheng Luan by moonlight, and Shen Qingqiu— Shen Qingqiu in his house, reading some small book he’d brought with him, absently tending to the small fire in the stove Luo Binghe used to heat the main room.
Just looking at his old shizun in his elaborate, elegant robes sitting on Luo Binghe’s single ratty cushion made Luo Binghe want to die from shame. What kind of impression was he making, living like this?
Shen Qingqiu looked up at his entrance, followed soon after by Liu Qingge. For a moment, Luo Binghe wondered if maybe they’d decided something they’d found was enough to call him a monster. Or if Shen Qingqiu didn’t need to find anything at all to make his claim and follow through on it.
But then Shen Qingqiu huffed and looked back at his book. “It took you long enough,” he snapped. “Liu Qingge has been whining about food for a shichen already. Go cook, if you must.”
Luo Binghe stopped just inside the room, taking in the sight of Shen Qingqiu sitting in the very room he’d built with his own two hands, atop a cushion he couldn’t yet afford to replace, only patch up as it wore thin. Underneath the shame, there was a long buried part of him that couldn’t help but admire Shen Qingqiu with the same awe he’d held for him since the first time he’d laid eyes on the man who would become his shizun. Shen Qingqiu was unmatched in elegance and poise, even in a place like this, and no amount of bitterness could detract from his ethereal grace. To all appearances, he embodied what it meant to be an immortal.
Another part of him, a part Luo Binghe let emerge if only to acknowledge it existed, couldn’t look at Shen Qingqiu without feeling a bottomless well of resentment and hatred towards him, its edge sharp with violence. Luo Binghe recognized this part of him as the part that had been touched by Xin Mo when he’d beaten the sword into submission. He may have destroyed the sword, but that piece of him was irreversibly changed and intrinsically a part of him. It was all the worst of him, twisted meaner and fiercer, everything evil darkened under the shadow of Xin Mo’s influence.
And then there was Luo Binghe as he was now, older than he’d been at either of those stages, if not any wiser. He felt embarrassed not by his own state, but just knowing the standard that Shen Qingqiu was accustomed to and what Shen Qingqiu would doubtlessly think of the things that were so precious to Luo Binghe. But towards Shen Qingqiu himself… there was a distant sort of curiosity, like the mad urge to dig fingers into already formed bruises just to test the ache. Luo Binghe hadn’t been so close to another person in years, much less someone who knew so much of him. Someone who saw all the worst of him and was so merciless towards him. It was… odd. Odd and invigorating, like Luo Binghe had been walking in a dream for years and something real had just slipped in.
“Well?” Shen Qingqiu asked, drawing Luo Binghe out of his musings. “Are you going to cook or are you going to glare me to death as revenge?”
Luo Binghe blinked slowly, gathering himself back into something human. “This one had no intention to take revenge,” he said quietly, starting across the room towards the kitchen. “Shizun should relax. He is safe here.”
Shen Qingqiu’s scoff showed what he thought of that.
Luo Binghe cooked slowly, not out of pettiness but because he needed to do it. It calmed him, it reminded him of what mattered. Not Shen Qingqiu or Liu Qingge, not his own past, not even his demonic heritage. Only this moment, only the small respites life sometimes offered, like in the fragrant temple of his kitchen.
His mother’s grave had been nothing more than a shallowly dug hole somewhere quiet and empty near the Luo River. There was nowhere and nothing to which Luo Binghe could pray to her. But he’d carved her name, as best he could remember it, in the wood of the kitchen’s back wall. This was his form of prayer, his form of worship. Every meal he cooked, he thanked her for the knowledge. Every ingredient he sacrificed for his next meal, he thanked her for the sacrifice of her life for his. He didn’t know if it had been worth it, but she had done everything to keep him safe and alive, so he had no choice but to trust her judgement and not let her effort go to waste.
With a long and quiet meditation in the kitchen—deftly cutting herbs and vegetables from his garden, stir frying cured pork belly, simmering clean white rice—Luo Binghe felt more prepared to go out and face two of Cang Qiong’s foremost masters. The fact that he was in his own territory, so to speak, should have helped even their footing, but it only served to make him more aware of what he could lose if they decided he had more than they thought was right.
And yet. He took the prepared dinner out to the single table, where Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge had already gathered. Shen Qingqiu still sat on the only cushion, but Liu Qingge didn’t seem bothered by sitting on the hard wooden floor and Luo Binghe had made do with much less. It took him a few trips to bring out all the food and tea, but he tried his best to match them in simple grace as he lowered himself down to sit with them once it was all served.
Luo Binghe silently poured them all tea and Liu Qingge didn’t wait before beginning to eat, grabbing bits from here and there onto his portion of steaming rice. Shen Qingqiu was a little more reserved, starting with a single, delicate bite of the plain rice, as though doubting Luo Binghe’s ability to get even that much rice.
Liu Qingge, for his part, was quick and direct with his praise. “Good,” he said, his cheeks stuffed with pork belly. “Mmh,” he grunted in approval as he made quick work of the spicy sauteed cabbage and salted fish. “More?” he asked when he hit the bottom of his rice bowl, still eying the generous portions left on the table.
“Of course, Shishu,” Luo Binghe demured, something inside him warm, warm, warm for the first time in forever as he took Liu Qingge’s bowl back to the kitchen and spooned more rice in. His eyes lingered over his mother’s name, sending up a grateful prayer once more.
Shen Qingqiu picked at this and that, studying everything closely before he deigned to taste it. But Luo Binghe could see it on his face, as closely guarded as he kept his few expressions, that he was shocked, in a good way, by everything he ate. Luo Binghe looked down at his own bowl and hid a small, fleeting smile.
It was only well into the meal, once their hunger had abated and they were just finishing things off for the pleasure of eating, that Liu Qingge asked. “Where did you learn to cook? I know nobody on Qing Jing Peak cooks like this.”
That earned him a glare from Shen Qingqiu, and Luo Binghe froze for a moment, his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. He didn’t know if he’d ever been asked about his mother, actually. Or any questions that would let him talk about her. He lowered his chopsticks back to his bowl.
“My mother taught me.” He set his bowl down on the table and took a sip of tea instead. “Not the woman who gave birth to me, of course. The woman who raised me. She found me in the Luo River and took me in, though she didn’t even have enough to take care of herself, much less another’s baby. Still, she gave everything she had to me. She was a washerwoman by trade, not a chef, but she could have been. If she’d had the money, or a place to sell… But she taught me, once I was old enough, and when we had ingredients she always made the best food for me.”
He’d been smiling, he realized, as he talked about her. His eyes were downcast, fixed on the edge of the table where his bowl sat, but in his mind’s eye he could almost make out her face, blurry though it was from time and age.
His smile faded on its own as he continued. “The family she worked for— They were rich, for our village, but not generous. She had to work long days, every day, without a break even for a meal. She would come home with her hands bleeding from scrubbing so long. And when she fell ill, they didn’t give her any time to rest. They didn’t give us money or food, and there was nothing I could do to help her. I did my best to bury her somewhere she wouldn’t be disturbed, but I had nothing to mark the grave. And it was only as deep as I could dig back then. I was young and starving and weak. But I made it to a new village, where no one knew me, and I managed to survive there for a time. And then… I heard about a righteous cultivation sect nearby that would be looking for disciples soon. So I made my way to Cang Qiong and…”
They knew what came next. At least, Shen Qingqiu certainly did.
And then: Luo Binghe was selected and thought he’d been saved by the gods. And then: he was ignored on the best days and beaten on the worst. And then: he was still hungry because he could never make it to the dining hall in time for meals because of all his chores. And then: his cultivation was sabotaged and even training was torture, though he did it as diligently as he could. And then…
And then Shen Qingqiu stabbed him through the chest and sent him into the Endless Abyss.
“There was little to eat in the abyss,” he said, skipping over all of that, though his eyes couldn’t help but flicker to Shen Qingqiu, who’d frozen like a marble statue, his face as blank and unreadable as jade. “And when I escaped, it took months to leave the demon realm and make it back to the human realm. And months more of wandering with no money to buy food and nowhere to cook it. But once I found this valley and decided I would stay, I told myself I would finally be able to cook again. I made myself a real kitchen. I bought or made my tools. I planted a garden.” He shrugged, a little wistful. “My mother isn’t around to teach me anymore, but I did my best to keep learning and improve. Even if I don’t have anyone to cook for. Well, until now. This one is glad to hear that Shishu enjoyed his meal.”
Liu Qingge looked a little awkward, which… Luo Binghe supposed was fair. He had only asked about the food, after all, and Luo Binghe had shared his entire, miserable life story. Though he’d certainly skipped over the worst bits, he thought.
Shen Qingqiu was still stony-faced and silent, though his grip on his chopsticks had become white knuckled. Slowly, he set them down and forced his fingers to uncurl. He didn’t pick them back up, and Luo Bingheh took that to mean that he was done, his appetite vanished.
“It’s good that you can keep her memory alive,” Liu Qingge finally said, nodding stiffly and decisively. His words sounded genuine though, and Luo Binghe chanced a shy smile his way.
“Shishu often cooks for himself, doesn’t he?” Luo Binghe asked, reaching back into his memories from Cang Qiong. “On night hunts, out in the wild?”
Liu Qingge nodded again. “Nothing like this. And mostly monsters.”
Luo Binghe laughed a little, startled. That made sense though; why waste two lives just to eat? A monster was often just as edible as a chicken, if properly prepared. “Liu-shishu saves many lives in his cooking endeavors,” he said. “This one couldn’t hope to compare.”
Liu Qingge eyed him up and down, taking him in the way he might an opponent on the dueling field. “Surely you fought creatures much worse in the abyss,” he said finally. “And you won.”
Luo Binghe dropped his gaze once more, an old, familiar churning in his gut threatening to bring up all the food he’d just enjoyed. “Ah. This one fought many beasts. And… survived.”
“You’re powerful then. You didn’t have your sword, did you? And those monsters are—”
“Terrible,” Luo Binghe finished for him, smiling tightly. “Many creatures, normal or demonic, don’t tend to attack others unless provoked. Or perhaps that’s their species’ natural prey and they have no choice. But in the abyss, the creatures there are… vicious. They attack to kill, to tear you to shreds and leave your body to rot. Some will eat you, simply because they can, but most… It’s like they like it.”
“But none bested you,” Liu Qingge suggested.
Luo Binge laughed once more, but this time it was bitter and dry. “Many bested me. It’s this blood of mine, it just won’t let me die. I can regrow limbs, you know? Sometimes it takes so long, that I have to watch the old one rot away beside me. But, ah. Even organs. I’ve been torn apart, I’ve been eaten, I’ve been killed, in any way that you can imagine. I just… don’t seem to die.”
Liu Qingge didn’t seem to know what to say to that. He wasn’t the most compassionate kind of man, Luo Binghe was starting to guess. Not in a bad way, but he was a little awkward, and not the quickest to regain his footing when a conversation went awry. Quicker on his feet than with his words, Luo Binghe figured. But he didn’t seem a bad man, despite it.
“I escaped with Xin Mo,” Luo Binghe told him. Them, because Shen Qingqiu was still there, obviously listening though he didn’t respond. “It was as cruel and vicious as any beast in the abyss and also tried to tear me apart. But… this one supposes his will was stronger.”
Shen Qingqiu finally spoke, his voice cracking like a whip. “This sword. It corrupts minds and spirits. It uses people for great evil and feeds on blood and lust and madness. You’re saying you tamed it? And then willingly gave it up?” He sounded distrusting. Accusatory, as though looking for a chink in Luo Binghe’s armor.
He wouldn’t find it here. Luo Binghe bowed his head to his shizun. “Shizun is knowledgeable beyond expectations, as always. But no one could tame Xin Mo. Not even a heavenly demon. Much less someone weak and starved and beaten. This one fought, and managed to suppress Xin Mo’s desires with his own for long enough to escape. But the sword was too strong and too dangerous and had to be destroyed. This one felt the effects of wielding it. They linger still, in some ways. Anyone who’s held Xin Mo loses a piece of themselves to that sword. But no one will again, this one made sure of it.”
Shen Qingqiu looked like he wanted to argue more but couldn’t find the grounds. He looked… lost, almost. Like he’d had certain visions of what the future—Luo Binghe’s future, specifically—held, and now he had to confront the fact that… he’d been wrong?
“It’s a shame,” Liu Qingge commented gruffly—as gruffly as he could with his rather light and smooth voice—“your strength would have been an asset to Cang Qiong. You could make a strong cultivator now, even, if you wanted. You’d need a new sword, of course.”
Luo Binghe was shaking his head before Liu Qingge even finished. “Thanking Shishu for his generous words.” And he meant that much. He would never have imagined that Liu Qingge, the Bai Zhan War God, slayer of demons and all things unholy, would be telling him he was still righteous enough to cultivate. But even so, “This one would not want to be a rogue cultivator. He’s had enough of…. wandering. And far too much of fighting. Xin Mo… Xin Mo craved violence. If this one picked up a sword again to fight, it would feel as though he were still feeding that beast. This one is content to leave all that behind. This is— this is more than enough. ”
Liu Qingge looked unsatisfied, but didn’t push. Much. “Hmph. If you change your mind, spar with me.”
Luo Binghe felt… warm at the invitation, though he knew he wouldn’t take it. He smiled at Liu Qingge, as best he could. “Thanking Shishu again, but this one is fairly certain. Besides, this one’s cultivation is not very good. Being half heavenly demon saved him more often than any true skill on his part. He never properly learned to cultivate, and keeping both halves in balance is tricky. This one couldn’t risk it, especially not in combat. He would certainly not be up to Liu-shishu’s standard.”
Shen Jiu scoffed. “If you never properly learned to cultivate, that would be your own fault. Qing Jing does not fail to teach its disciples.”
He seemed so sure of himself, like he’d finally spotted a perfect opening, a chance foothold on a sheer cliff. Luo Binghe studied him, curious. Then he got to his feet. “One moment, please.”
The manual was where it always was. Tucked in a chest he’d made as soon as he had a house to put it in, along with the tattered robes he’d made it out of the abyss in, and the last remaining piece of Xin Mo’s scabbard, ominous and dark, but empty of all energy or spirit. There were other things in there, odds and ends he’d collected in the abyss, like bones and roots and things like that. But all he needed now was the manual; the only thing, besides the robes, that remained of his time on Qing Jing. It was foul and rotted, scorched in parts and water-logged in others. But there were still some legible pages.
Shen Qingqiu stared at it as though it were made of writhing worms when Luo Binghe settled back at the table and handed it over. But curiosity got the best of him and he took it, opening the brittle pages to look inside.
It took a few pages for him to find anything legible, but Luo Binghe saw the look of horror on his face, fleeting as it was, when he did. And then he flipped quickly to another page, reading it with wild eyes. Then another, and another, growing more agitated with each one.
Finally, he slapped the thing down on the table and glared up at Luo Binghe. “What is this,” he hissed.
Luo Binghe blinked, taking a moment to make sure his own breathing was steady, that he was calm and still, like an undisturbed pond. “Does Shizun not recognize a Qing Jing cultivation manual?”
Liu Qingge, curious, reached across the table and took the manual himself. His reaction, though more overt, mirrored Shen Qingqiu’s as he read through it. When he looked up, his eyes landed on Shen Qingqiu, wide with shock. “Shen Qingqiu?” he asked, voice sharp. “Is this—”
Shen Qingqiu’s glare was vicious when he sent it Liu Qingge’s way. “Don’t you dare. You, of all people. Of course that is not what Qing Jing teaches. We’re not murderers.”
It was an interesting thing for him, of all people, to say, when Liu Qingge still had the scars across his chest that said otherwise. And yet… the disgust was real. Luo Binghe was… surprised, actually. He’d figured out, at some point, that the manual was a fake, something meant to destroy him from the inside out, but he’d always just assumed it had been Shen Qingqiu who gave it to him. Just another form of torture for his least favorite disciple. Seeing his reaction now, that seemed like it hadn’t been the case.
“Where did you get this?” Shen Qingqiu snapped, his attention back on Luo Binghe. “Who gave it to you?”
Luo Binghe cocked his head. “It must have been Shizun’s head disciple. Ming Fan-shixiong. He always delivered… anything Shizun had to offer. Very eager, that shixiong.”
Shen Qingqiu’s expression could only be described as thunderous. “That fool boy,” he growled under his breath. “That stupid, stupid boy. I should string him up when I return.”
Liu Qingge interrupted, casting Shen Qingqiu a stern look. “You won’t be stringing anyone up,” he said with a surety Luo Binghe didn’t have, based on personal experience. “This is… advanced. It’s probable your disciple, at his age, didn’t know what something like this would do. That’s no excuse for attempting to sabotage a fellow disciple—if you can’t prove your strength without bringing others low, then you have no strength to speak of—but as you said, Qing Jing and Cang Qiong aren’t made up of murderers.”
Luo Binghe didn’t know what he’d expected if he were ever in a position to confront his Shizun about this, but this wasn’t it. Shen Qingqiu hadn’t been the one to give him the manual; Ming Fan probably hadn’t known the damage it could cause. It didn’t fix anything, but it did rewrite some of Luo Binghe’s longest held pains.
Shen Qingqiu, for his part, looked as furious as Luo Binghe had ever seen him. He’d whipped open his fan, but instead of waving it in front of him to hide his expression, he just held it in a grasp so tight it trembled. He stared at Luo Binghe with eyes intense enough that they rivaled any creature Luo Binghe had ever wandered across in the abyss. But for some reason, all that rage… didn’t seem to be directed at Luo Binghe?
Luo Binghe, head humbly downturned, peeked up through his lashes to try and make sense of his shizun’s thoughts. But upon meeting Shen Qingqiu’s savage green eyes— Shen Qingqiu looked away, his fan coming up to his face and just. Staying there, still and pressed to his forehead as he lowered his face and took several long, deep breaths.
He didn’t say anything else, and it took a little while for Luo Binghe to realize that he wasn’t going too, too lost in his thoughts and his anger to return to the conversation. Liu Qingge, though not seething and troubled in the same way, also seemed finished with both the talking and the meal, though he seemed to lack the social aptitude to draw the whole thing to a close. The task fell to Luo Binghe instead.
Clearing his throat, he began to gather the dishes on the table, most of them empty by now. “This one doesn’t have guests often and has no spare rooms or bedding to offer but his own. Shizun and Shishu have been traveling and working hard, please take the bed and get some rest. This one will clean up.”
Shen Qingqiu, occupied as he was in his own mind, didn’t answer. Liu Qingge startled a bit, though, a furrow forming between his elegant;y shaped brows. “We don’t need your bed,” he refused plainly. “We have bedrolls for camping.”
Luo Binghe bowed as deeply as he could over the table. “This one doesn’t have much to offer, and nothing deserving of Cang Qiong’s peak lords. All he can offer is dinner and a decent night’s rest. Please accept this one’s humble offer.”
There was no polite way to refuse, though Liu Qingge looked like he might anyway—he didn’t seem to care for what was or wasn’t polite—but Shen Qingqiu spoke up. “Very well,” he said, sounding far away. “Liu Qingge. Let’s go.”
“Where will you sleep?” Liu Qingge demanded, though he was already getting to his feet after Shen Qingqiu.
“This one will be warm here by the woodstove,” Luo Binghe said. “Or he may sleep outside. It’s a nice night and this one hasn’t admired the stars in some time.” Liu Qingge looked like he was going to protest some more, but Luo Binghe cut him off before he could. “This one has slept in places far worse,” he said, smiling wryly. “Shishu, please don’t worry about it and get some rest.”
“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu called, quiet and absent, over his shoulder, already crossing into the only other room in the house, where Luo Binghe had gone earlier to fetch the cultivation manual. Liu Qingge gave Luo Binghe one last frown, and followed his shixiong.
Luo Binghe spent a few minutes sitting right where he was, his hands still holding empty plates as he just… breathed. And then he stood and began to wash up.
Just like cooking, cleaning after the fact was meditative and soothing. Luo Binghe remembered, before he’d been big enough to help his mother cook, she would let him help her wash dishes in a wooden tub on the ground. She could wash all the other dishes in the time it took Luo Binghe to fully clean one, but she always praised him generously when he did it and he always liked sitting side by side with her and doing the same thing she did.
It was no trouble, having so many dishes to wash now. He had a lot on his mind, and it would take a long time to work through, so he washed slowly, one dish at a time, and let himself process.
When he finished, he went out to the main room and filled his tub with hot water, brought out his soaps and hair oils, and set up a changing screen—unadorned and simple, with small, fraying holes in the paper around the corners of the frame—before knocking quietly on his closed bedroom door. “Shizun, Shishu,” he called quietly, not wanting to wake them if they were already sleeping, “this one prepared a bath if you wish to bathe. This one will be outside for a while, please take your time.”
He didn’t wait to hear a response, but instead left the house to go take care of his mule, make sure his chickens and ducks were all ready for the night, and walk through his garden. The moon, high in the sky, was bright and his (demonic) vision was well suited to night, so he could clearly see which plants were growing well, which might be ready for harvest soon, which needed some tending. He didn’t tend or harvest or admire anything as he walked through, but it gave him a sense of comfort as he took in the little life he’d made here, that all was well and nothing was amiss. Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge’s arrival hadn’t magically ruptured the peace and quiet Luo Binghe had worked so hard to cultivate.
Afterwards, he sat on the low wooden platform he’d built by his garden, and meditated. He didn’t know how long he sat, but by the time he went back inside, knocking softly before he did, the bedroom door was closed as he’d left it, but the floor was slightly wet around the tub and the soaps had clearly been used. Luo Binghe emptied the bath, washed himself up with a simple bowl and rag, and, since he couldn’t access his usual sleep robes, dressed down to his inner robes, made a blanket of his outer robe, and laid down before the woodstove.
It had been so long since he’d slept near anyone, that it was almost hard to turn off that old, frightened part of him that insisted he stay alert. But the day’s emotions had tired him mentally, and the long walk to the village and back had tired him physically, and it didn’t take long for the exhaustion to win and Luo Binghe to drift off to sleep.
His dreams were… troubled. Seeing Shen Qingqiu after so long, talking about his past— They brought back unpleasant memories he’d hoped had been forgotten. Like the look on Shen Qingqiu’s face before sending Luo Binghe into the abyss. Or the burn of Xiu Ya in his chest. Or the hell within a hell Xin Mo had dragged him into when he’d first taken its hilt in hand.
He slept restlessly and lightly, on edge the way he’d been for so many years before this valley, before this sanctuary he’d built, where monsters (of the demonic or human variety) didn’t linger about in the shadows waiting for his guard to drop.
That meant that he was wide awake, heart in his throat and panic clouding his mind, when Shen Qingqiu appeared, steps nearly silent on the smooth wooden floors.
Shen Qingqiu stopped a few steps away from where Luo Binghe had been sleeping, but Luo Binghe had already scrambled away, only half-aware, until his back met a wall. He stared up at Shen Qingqiu, uncomprehending, with one arm out in defense, black-tipped claws sharp on his fingers.
Ah. His demonic traits must be showing. His huadian was probably glowing on his forehead; his eyes as well. With his teeth bared the way they were, Shen Qingqiu could probably see the way his canines grew into fangs in this form.
Even like this, cowering on the floor of his small house like a frightened child, Luo Binghe managed to be everything Shen Qingqiu hated.
Shen Qingqiu was probably here, in the middle of the night as Liu Qingge slept, to finish the job he’d started all those years ago.
Luo Binghe didn’t know what to do. The panic of the dreams, the panic of waking sensing that something was approaching, still hadn’t left him. And even if it had… in its place was a new, helpless kind of fear.
He didn’t want to fight Shen Qingqiu. He never really had. He certainly didn’t want to kill him. But if it was one life or the other…
Well. Luo Binghe wasn’t actually sure.
Shen Qingqiu, for all his faults, was a righteous cultivator of Cang Qiong. He was a peak lord. He trained disciples, he guided Cang Qiong, he helped and saved people all across the continent.
Luo Binghe… was a half-demon who lived poor and alone in a valley and was haunted by his nightmares.
If one of them should live, wasn’t it Shen Qingqiu, for all he could give the world?
Luo Binghe’s hesitation must have shown on his face, because Shen Qingqiu took another step closer. He didn’t have Xiu Ya on his hip, Luo Binghe realized, only a fan in his hand. But Shen Qingqiu could be deadly with a single leaf if he wanted, Luo Binghe knew that.
And yet, Shen QIngqiu didn’t attack him. Shen Qingqiu smoothed his robes down with one hand, and went elegantly down onto his knees.
He sat there, just out of reach, with his fan across his lap and his eyes, piercing and studious, fixed on Luo Binghe.
Slowly, Luo Binghe pushed aside his blind panic and haltingly lowered his arm. It took more concentration than he had available to hide his demonic traits, so he just tucked his hands into his chest, hiding his claws from sight.
He didn’t say anything, and it was a long time before Shen Qingqiu did either.
“This master,” he said carefully, his words as sharp and fragile as shards of glass, “failed Luo Binghe.”
Luo Binghe… stared, eyes wide and wary.
“What this master saw in Luo Binghe when he chose him was simple. Great potential, and the potential for great evil. Luo Binghe was a good looking child, bound to grow into a good looking man. He had… deep wells of power, though untapped and unrefined. He was… He was too good to others; forgiving and kind and generous to even those who hurt him.”
Luo Binghe had never imagined hearing such kind things about himself from Shen Qingqiu’s mouth, but every word sounded a bit like poison anyway.
“This master could not trust that. He has— He—” Shen Qingqiu cut himself off with an uncharacteristically frustrated sound. His hands were fists around his fan. He sat as upright and rigid as he ever had, but there was a new and unfamiliar tension to him. He started over: “This master was once a slave.”
Luo Binghe stared some more, disbelieving. Shen Qingqiu, one of the great masters of Cang Qiong, who glowed with the refined air of those who had no need at all to flaunt their immense wealth… Nothing could be further from a slave, in Luo Binghe’s mind, save for, perhaps, a god. But even a god wouldn’t carry itself half as perfectly as Shen Qingqiu.
Shen Qingqiu continued: “He has seen all kinds of men, and nearly all have been the worst of humanity. Ever since this master was but an orphan begging on the streets, to when he was stolen and sold by slavers, to when he was bought and branded. And even after, when this master… when this master first learned cultivation from a demonic cultivator—”
Luo Binghe’s head was spinning. Nothing Shen Qingqiu was saying made sense, none of it matched the vision Luo Binghe had of his old shizun; not the perfect and aloof image he maintained in the presence of others, nor the cruel and vicious side that Luo Binghe thought he’d been the only one to truly witness, like a glimpse of Shizun’s true (was it?) self.
“—He saw all the evil men have to offer, especially men with any power. A rich man, for example. Or a powerful cultivator. Or even simply a handsome man. Men wield all kinds of power for the worse, I- this master learned that first hand. And when he saw a boy who looked as though he would, if unimpeded, become all of that, he thought it his… duty. To change that. To bring that boy low and— and not let him become… a monster.”
Against all reason, Luo Binghe snorted out an ugly laugh. “And for all Shizun’s efforts, this disciple became a demon nonetheless.”
Shen Qingqiu took him in in silence. Luo Binghe still didn’t dare peel himself away from the wall, so he made himself as small as possible under Shen Qingqiu’s gaze.
“A demon, yes,” Shen Qingqiu said finally, an odd, curious tone to his voice. “But not a monster.”
Luo Binghe swallowed against the sudden tightness of his throat. His chest felt like it was constricting around his lungs, his heart.
“This master allowed harm to befall one of his disciples and thought his disciple unmotivated and resentful for it. This master… harmed his disciple, intentionally. He assumed that he could see the future, and neglected his responsibilities in the present. His duties to the children in his care. That Luo Binghe is a demon… This master can’t say he would have reacted differently, under the circumstances and knowing what he does of the late demon emperor. But sitting before Luo Binghe now, he believes he was wrong in those actions as well. Despite— Despite everything this master thought he knew of the way things are in the world, and despite everything he did to Luo Binghe that could have rightfully earned his wrath, Luo Binghe seems to have become… a good and peaceful man. One who has more power than any creature living should have, and yet desires no more than— than a quiet home and a place to rest.”
Perhaps Luo Binghe was still dreaming. Perhaps his mind had twisted Shen Qingqiu’s presence into this out of some old, deep desperation. But… Luo Binghe knew the dream realm almost better than he knew the waking world. And this— this was real.
Shen Qingqiu, regal and prideful and resentful master that he was, bowed, his hands flat on the floor before him. He didn’t fully kowtow, but it was more than Luo Binghe had ever seen the man do for anyone ever, even the sect leader.
“This master erred in his judgment and is sorry that Luo Binghe was made to bear the consequences of his mistake.”
He didn’t say anything after that, and neither did Luo Binghe, but Shen Qingqiu only bowed for a few moments longer before straightening up like it physically pained him to have bowed in the first place. He was as terse and drawn as a bowstring, an arrow nocked and trembling, upon it, ready to shoot and kill. Luo Binghe was staring straight at him with burning eyes, but Shen Qingqiu’s gaze was fixed unseeingly forward.
After a few moments of silence, Shen Qingqiu stood, wiping his sleep robes of invisible dust. His fan shook in his hand.
“This master will retire now. Liu-shidi and I will leave first thing in the morning. We will report back to Zhangmen-shixiong about our mission, and we will… we will have to tell the other peak lords about Luo Binghe. But no one will come to disturb Luo Binghe’s peace.” He paused, looking deeply pained and uncomfortable. “It was hard won and we will do our part to protect it.”
And with that, Shen Qingqiu drifted silently back across the room like a wraith, and disappeared into Luo Binghe’s dark bedroom.
Sleep didn’t find Luo Binghe again that night. Neither did any coherent thoughts, for that matter. But it was fine. They’d been up late, thanks to Luo Binghe’s long walk home. The sun would be rising soon, and Shen Qingqiu had always been a precise and early riser. Luo Binghe couldn’t fathom Liu Qingge was one for sleeping in either. So Luo Binghe got started on their breakfast.
He filled, wrapped, and steamed baozi, boiled and whisked pure white congee, plated pickled vegetables, made tea eggs from the chickens and salted eggs from the ducks. He didn’t have much fresh fruit, but he usually bought some when he went into town and he cut up whatever was left, fried up some youtiao, and poured generous portions of soy milk.
He made the tea last, once the table was set and full of food. No one would want cold tea, least of all Shen Qingqiu, so Luo Binghe boiled the water only once the sun had crossed over the horizon and begun to filter in through his paper-screen doors and windows. It wasn’t long after that, as the smell of warm food and fresh tea filled Luo Binghe’s small house, that Liu Qingge emerged, dressed exactly as he had been the night before in simple white and blue robes, his hair tied up in a severe tail.
He really did look different than he used to, Luo Binghe wondered. Much… softer, with his brown hair and scattering of moles. He didn’t look delicate, per se (and not just because Luo Binghe knew his strength), but he looked… like a dancer, more than a fighter. He was very beautiful still, as the Lius were famed to be, but there was also an odd ethereal quality to him that only served as a faint reminder that the man before him had actually died and been brought back in a body made, more or less, from pure qi.
Luo Binghe didn’t have time to say anything before Shen Qingqiu came out as well, his robes fresh, different from the ones he’d had last night but in similar and painfully familiar shades of bamboo green and river teal. His hair was as smooth and shiny as silk, a single, unbroken sheet of it, and his guan was elegant and sophisticated. His face… His face was tightly pinched, like he’d eaten something sour, and the tips of his ears were red as he glanced at Luo Binghe, tightened his jaw, and just as quickly looked away.
Luo Binghe didn’t know what to make of that. But Liu QIngge, who’d until then been settling down at the table and admiring the spread, turned then towards Luo Binghe and froze, his eyes wide and his mouth open. It only took a fraction of a second for his expression to turn into a curious frown.
“You do look like a demon, then?” he asked, and Luo Binghe froze, tea tray in hand. He’d forgotten— He hadn’t exactly wrangled himself back into a mindset where he felt capable of disguising himself again. So all his demonic traits were still on display, now in the bright light of morning.
“Ah,” he said, feeling an odd stinging in his eyes and a tremble in his lips that he tried to quickly quell. He didn’t let his hands shake. He couldn’t spill the tea. He just… stood there, as Liu Qingge stared.
And then Liu Qingge nodded. “If you ever want to spar without a sword, it would be interesting.” And that was it. He turned back to the table and started piling toppings onto his congee.
Luo Binghe took a deep, steadying breath, staring down at his tea, and then went to serve them. When he looked up, Shen Qingqiu was watching him, a small, pensive frown on his face. He looked away as Luo Binghe set a teacup in front of him, and that was that.
Breakfast was a quieter and less exhausting affair than dinner had been. No one was interrogating Luo Binghe about his past or trying to find holes in his stories. Some of the shock from running into Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge had faded, though some had been won right back with Shen Qingqiu’s… declaration the night before. Sleep hadn’t shaken its grip on everyone, either, and both Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu were quiet and placid as they ate their food, as though softened by freshly waking.
All in all, as long as Luo Binghe didn’t think too hard about… anything, it was actually a pleasant meal, shared in companionable silence as they all ate their fill.
And then, once they were sated and full and more truly awake, Shen Qingqiu set his teacup down and flicked his fan open, then closed. A nervous tic? “Shidi,” he called, drawing Liu Qingge’s attention. “We’re leaving now. We have to report back to Cang Qiong. Are you packed?”
If Liu Qingge was caught off guard by the abruptness of it, it didn’t show on his face. Luo Binghe, on the other hand, couldn’t help the odd, curling sensation in his gut at the realization that they would be leaving. That he would, soon enough, be on his one once again.
But there was nothing to say. Nothing to do. Liu Qingge grabbed both of their bags from Luo Binghe’s bedroom, Shen Qingqiu fixed Luo Binghe with one last, lingering look—missing all the vitriol and hatred Luo Binghe had grown so used to—and then they were off. They thanked Luo Binghe politely for his hospitality, Liu Qingge reminded him that the offer to spar was still on the table, and Shen Qingqiu didn’t say another word before they were on their swords and flying eastward, back home to Cang Qiong.
Luo Binghe stood and watched them go until they were mere specks in the sky, until those specks disappeared, and then he stood and stared eastward for a long time after that too.
He still hadn’t fully processed everything Shen Qingqiu had told him. He still hadn’t really processed any of this chance encounter at all, if he was honest. His life had been calm and predictable for as long as he’d been able to make it that way. This had been a shock to a system that hadn’t had so much as a tickle in years. Luo Binghe was still scrambling to catch up and the whole thing had already wrapped up and ended.
He went about his morning chores, filling the mule’s troughs, scattering grain for the chickens, letting the ducks waddle through the garden to eat pests. It was a nice day, sunny with a steady breeze, so Luo Binghe set to washing his bedding, now that he would be sleeping on it again. The whole time, he tried to break down the last six or so shichen into small, digestible, pieces.
He had to first make sense of everything he’d felt when he initially spotted Shen Qingqiu walking into the brothel. Then he could address Shen Qingqiu’s reaction to him. Then Liu Qingge’s apparent revival. Then Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge going to his house, witnessing Luo Binghe’s most safe and private place. Then Luo Binghe cooking for them. Then… everything at dinner. Then Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge sleeping in his bed. Then Shen Qingqiu’s… apology. And then their quiet breakfast and speedy departure.
Even in fragments, it was too much. Luo Binghe made himself lunch and decided that it would take much more than one day to make sense of it all. Fortunately for him, in his empty and quiet valley, he would have plenty of time to do just that.