Chapter Text
Shen Qingqiu surfaced into consciousness like he was clawing his way out of ice.
His breath shuddered and his throat ached. Something wet clung to his face.
He absentmindedly dabbed away at dried tears that streaked down his cheeks and grimaced.
He observed the room, which was notably different from how he had woken up in previously. The walls were adorned in pink and had long scrolls of men that had floundarised makeup, all in which they were depicted in cradling even more men.
The room...
Men upon men upon men! What!!!
“Ah! You’re awake.”
The door flew open, and Shen Di padded in with a bowl of congee and the bright eyed expression of someone who just saw a unicorn. Her gaze softened with pity.
Which only infuriated him further.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, furiously wiping the tear tracks with a sleeve that wasn’t his. “I am fine.”
“You were crying in your sleep,” she said gently.
“I wasn’t.”
“You definitely were.”
“Shut up.”
Shen Di sighed the sigh and hummed.
”Where am I.” He questioned accusingly.
Shen Di paused, “…my room.”
”Oh. So you’re… one of those.”
"…? Well… anyway, since you’re awake—look what I found.” Shen Di reached over to her bookshelf, fishing out a small, meticulously painted figurine of Luo Binghe. A chibi version, smiling with those doe eyes that belied absolutely nothing good.
Shen Qingqiu lunged.
She jerked it out of reach. “HEY!”
“Let me snap it's neck.”
“IT’S CUTE!” she shot back, holding it above her head. “And you are NOT breaking any more Binghes! Seriously! Are you bipolar!?!"
He glared. She glared harder.
Then she jabbed a finger at his forehead. “You know what? Sitting in bed all day moping and sulking isn’t healthy.”
“I am not—”
“You’re literally the human embodiment of mold right now.”
He stared at her blankly.
She crossed her arms. “You’re going outside.”
“What.”
“Outside.”
“I refuse.”
“No! You’ve slept in till- what, the afternoon!?” She grabbed his arm, yanked him upright with surprising strength, and shoved him toward his empty room, “Pick something that doesn’t make you look like a discord mod!”
...
Shen Qingqiu winced as he approached the closet, mentally praying to any deity within earshot that he would not be assaulted by the sight of scandalous cutsleeve attire—
—And, mercifully, the heavens answered.
The clothing inside was… drab. Tragically so. Nothing was exquisite. Nothing was elegant. Everything was cropped too short, sleeves practically nonexistent, and the colours, oh the colours, clashed so violently he wondered if A-Yuan dressed in the dark. Or drunk. Or concussed.
Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched once. Twice.
He spent the next several minutes silently suffering while reorganising the entire closet in crisp, efficient movements. Honestly, how did anyone live like this? Even his emergency disguises had more dignity than this catastrophe.
After restoring order to the sartorial disaster, he glanced around for clues, anything that could help him figure out how to act like this 'A-Yuan'.
He was shameless, but he wasn’t cruel.
...Actually, yes he was. But his poor sister didn’t deserve the social death that would come from him behaving wildly out of character.
He reached for the rectangular device tucked beneath the pillow and Shen Qingqiu picked it up, swiped its glass face—only to be assaulted by a gallery of images showing the original owner dressed like an absolute fashion tragedy.
No.
Absolutely not.
Shen Qingqiu was many things, petty, dramatic, sometimes homicidal, but he refused to step outside looking like that.
A few minutes later, and after enduring Shen Di’s increasingly impatient knocks, he finally emerged from the room.
The modern clothes, plainfully mundane, hung on him as though handcrafted by a top tier tailor. Even the simplest shirt draped over his long frame with refined, unintentional elegance.
Shen Di blinked at him. Stared. Then blurted, “…Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”
Shen Qingqiu froze mid step.
Was he caught? Already? In under ten minutes?
“…uhm.”
"...?"
“...”
"...???"
".........."
She burst into a laugh. “I’m joking, A-Yuan. I’m saying you look good.”
He exhaled in pure relief, straightened his posture, then breezed past her with his chin lifted like a noble condemning peasants. “I am going outside,” he declared. “Not by choice.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do not expect me to return early.”
“Yes, father.”
Shen Qingqiu shot her a look sharp enough to strip bark off ancient trees, then closed the door behind him with all the dramatic dignity he could muster.
⸻
Outside, the world roared.
Metal beasts thundered down the road, growling like demons bound in steel. Signs flashed with incomprehensible characters. People walked past holding small glowing rectangles, talking to no one.
And the smell—
Shen Qingqiu’s nose wrinkled.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered, stepping onto the footpath like it personally offended him. He stared at the painted lines, the traffic lights, the humming wires overhead.
His non existent cultivation senses tingled uselessly against the abrasive energy of the city.
“What a chaotic, ugly world.”
Shen Qingqiu continued down the walk path and eventually stumbled upon a park.
The small park was quiet at this hour, washed in the pale gold of late afternoon. With the exception of a small group of boys, the only movement came from leaves fluttering lazily and a distant dog waddling after its owner. Shen Qingqiu stood at the edge of the path, expression unreadable, but his shoulders eased by a fraction at the stillness.
“Hey! You! Get away from our turf!” A little boy squealed.
He ignored them. He tried to ignore them. He walked to the swing set, sat down, and let the chains creak beneath him. He even managed to close his eyes and before he realised it, he was lowering himself onto it completely, fingers curling around the cool metal chains. The breeze brushed against him, gentle, as though the world had, momentarily, miraculously, decided not to torment him… for about five seconds.
“HEY! OLD MAN! THAT’S OUR SWING!”
Shen Qingqiu opened his eyes very slowly.
“I am not an old man,” he said through a thinning smile.
“You’re, like, thirty!” one boy announced triumphantly, as if declaring a terminal diagnosis.
“That’s ancient!” another added, scandalized.
Shen Qingqiu exhaled. “Shouldn’t you all be in school?”
“Nah,” the boldest one said, puffing out his tiny chest. “We’re on break.”
“Yeah! We’re allowed here! Grown ups aren’t!”
Shen Qingqiu blinked at the cluster of small mortals surrounding him, unimpressed, legs still swinging lazily.
“This isn’t a sect,” he said coolly. “You don’t get to enforce territory with baby teeth.”
The boys erupted into shrill laughter.
“What the fuck does that mean?” one snorted.
Shen Qingqiu frowned sharply. “Why do you even know that word? Your parents should—”
A soccer ball rolled towards his face and he quickly swerved. No, was kicked toward him. Poorly. Inelegantly. But definitely with the intention to challenge him to single combat.
“Get off the swing!” the boldest one barked, stomping forward. “It’s for kids!”
“And,” another added, squinting up at him, “your face is ugly!”
Shen Qingqiu snorted, “At least we can agree on one thing.”
“…!”
Then, like a pack of feral puppies, they charged.
Small hands grabbed at his shirt, hair, sleeves, one even latched onto his leg. Shen Qingqiu tried to stand his ground, but A-Yuan’s wretched noodle body gave out instantly. He collapsed like a folding chair left out in the rain.
The kids swarmed him triumphantly.
“Get him!”
“Kick him!”
“Hit him with the stick!”
One whacked him with a brittle branch. Another sat on his back. Someone was yanking his hair, calling him ‘old man.’
Shen Qingqiu inhaled through his nose. Very slowly.
Then, with his honed battlefield instincts, scooped a handful of dirt and hurled it directly into the nearest child’s eyes.
“AAAAH!! MY EYES!!”
The others froze.
Shen Qingqiu used that moment to roll out from under them, scramble upright, and regain exactly 40% of his dignity. He bent, picked up the soccer ball, weighed it thoughtfully in his palm, then smiled; a graceful, elegant smile.
“Hey! Give that back, ugly—” the bold kid started.
“Okay,” Shen Qingqiu replied sweetly.
He kicked.
He didn’t just kick, he delivered a perfect, physics defying, deity blessed punt with the casual precision of someone who had once launched heavenly demons into the endless abyss just because he was annoyed.
The ball slammed into the bold kid’s face with a glorious thwump.
He toppled backward like a felled tree.
Silence.
Then—
“YOU KILLED HIM—!!”
The boys screamed, scattered, and fled the park like pigeons chased by fireworks, all whilst combining forces to help drag their friend to safety.
Shen Qingqiu dusted off his hands, adjusted his borrowed shirt, and sat back on the swing.
“…Brats,” he muttered.
He gave himself a careful, experimental push with the tips of his toes, letting the swing glide forward a few inches. The slight lift in his stomach startled him, and then, to his own irritation, he smiled.
Swings weren’t foreign to him. They existed back in his world, but they were always placed in courtyards of wealthy families, reserved for pampered children and delicate young masters. Never for anyone like him. In the Qiu estate, he had stood behind Qiu Haitang countless times, pushing her back and forth because she demanded it, because she cried when he didn’t, because someone had to keep her entertained.
And the one time he’d dared. just once, to ease himself onto the Qiu family’s prized swing, Qiu Jianluo had caught him. Laughed in his face and dragged him off by the collar then kicked him into the dirt.
haha, good times.
So this, this simple, creaking metal swing under a purple orange sky, this breeze brushing his cheeks, this quiet… felt like something stolen from a childhood he never had.
His fingers curled loosely around the cool chains. His eyes lowered, half lidded, as he took in the park in front of him. The light wind carried the faint scent of flowers and cut grass, nothing like sandalwood incense or cold bamboo leaves.
It wasn’t his world. It wasn’t his body.
But it was… peaceful.
And as the city hummed around him, Shen Qingqiu finally, finally, let himself think.
About ’A-Yuan’.
About making him wake up in the brothel.
About the indignity, humiliation and fear he must be experiencing currently.
He exhaled shakily and grimaced.
It wasn’t like the boy had done anything… too terrible. Just…
He pushed the swing again.
He deserved it for stealing my life.
Another swing.
But he was… just a scared, stupid fool.
He clenched the chains.
“And I made it worse.”
For a long time, he said nothing.
He grimaced but his chest felt tighter and his breathing harder.
“Now there’s a rare sight.” Came a voice from behind him.
He stiffened.
An elderly woman, small and round and twinkling like she had stepped straight out of a sentimental drama, was approaching the swings with a warm smile.
“Excuse me, dear,” an elderly woman said, voice warm and amused. “Mind if I sit on the bench? I like to watch the sunset here.”
Shen Qingqiu inclined his head politely and looked back. At the sight of the woman, he smiled, “Do as you please, miss.”
She chuckled at the title. “Heavens, I haven’t been called that since my husband was still trying to impress me!”
He said nothing, merely stared ahead. The peace resumed.
For exactly eight seconds.
“…Would you like a push?” she asked.
He stiffened. “That’s unnecessary.”
“Nonsense. You young people never let yourselves relax.” She stepped behind him with the slow but confident insistence only grandmothers possessed. “I won’t push hard.”
“I said—”
The swing moved just slightly. A gentle, rocking nudge that barely lifted him from the ground.
Shen Qingqiu froze like a cat dunked in water.
The old woman hummed, a soft, sweet tune, the kind sung while folding laundry or tending a garden. The rhythm matched the small motions of the swing, back and forth, back and forth, until his fingers unclenched from the chains without him noticing.
“…Really, you don’t have to…” he muttered, though his voice lacked heat.
“It’s refreshing,” she corrected lightly, “to see a young man still enjoying the little things in life.”
“I am not—”
“You are,” she said, pushing again, gentle as drifting leaves. “And that’s good. People forget they’re allowed to.”
Shen Qingqiu huffed. “You speak as though I’m some troubled youth.”
She leaned around the swing and gave him a look that felt uncomfortably perceptive. “Aren’t you?”
He averted his eyes. “…I am a full grown man.”
“That’s not the same as being alright.”
He bristled, on instinct, on pride, but the next small push knocked the defensiveness clean out of him. The humming returned. The breeze lifted his hair. The sky darkened into evening softness.
“…You’re oddly forward,” he said at last.
“Age lets me get away with it,” she said cheerfully, “It’s not everyday I get to be handsy with handsome young men like yourself.”
He snorted.
She smiled.
And for a strangely long, strangely easy stretch of time, they simply talked. Nothing deep, nothing sharp. She asked what books he read; he answered with titles that she had never heard of before and she did the same. She complained about her grandson’s haircut; he nodded solemnly as if this were a grave and tragic matter. She teased him for looking too serious; he retorted that it’s not his fault this face constantly looks constipated.
The swing creaked and the air cooled. For the first time since waking in this bizarre mortal world, Shen Qingqiu’s head felt… clear.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” She laughed cheerfully, pushing a little harder, “I could see you were struggling with the swing.”
He glared. She smiled back, completely immune.
“Are you always this prickly?” she chuckled.
“…I am perfectly pleasant,” he lied.
“Oh, sweetheart…. no, you’re not.”
He choked.
She patted his shoulder as he swung forward. “That’s alright. Usually the prickly ones are just tired.”
“Tired?” His voice almost cracked in disbelief. “I am not—”
“Mm. Tired,” she repeated, “And lonely, I think.”
Shen Qingqiu’s heart jolted painfully. He looked away. “…You presume too much.”
“Do I?” she asked lightly. “Then why haven’t you walked away from a strange old woman pushing you on a swing?”
His mouth opened then closed.
She laughed, soft as the rustle of leaves. “See? Sometimes we just need a moment of kindness.” She leaned slightly to peek at his expression. “Has anyone been kind to you lately?”
Shen Qingqiu swallowed. “Not… particularly.”
“Then I’m glad I came by.” She gave the swing another push. “Everyone deserves a little gentleness, even the sharp tongued ones.”
He stared at her, startled, unsure how to handle the warmth settling uninvited in his chest.
“…What is your name?” he asked quietly.
“Just call me Auntie Lin.”
He hesitated, “…Shen Jiu.”
“Well, Shen Jiu,” she said with a proud nod, “you’re welcome to sit here with me anytime.”
He looked forward, the wind brushing against his face as he swung.
“…Perhaps I will,” he murmured.
Auntie Lin smiled, radiant, “That’s what I like to hear.”
The sun dipped lower, staining the sky a soft rose gold, and Shen Qingqiu found himself, against all logic, reason, and personal pride, relaxing on the swing like some windblown poetry student. The old woman now beside him sat on the neighbouring swing, her hands folded neatly over her lap, rocking herself gently with the tips of her shoes.
For a long while they said nothing. It was… nice. The kind of peace Shen Qingqiu wasn’t accustomed to, quiet, ordinary, and undemanding. No disciples yelling for him from rooftops. No peak lords bawling betrayal. No eyes watching his every move.
The old woman glanced at him with twinkling eyes. “You look like someone who hasn’t rested in about… oh, ten years.”
“Twenty,” Shen Qingqiu muttered before catching himself. “…I mean. It has been a long week.”
She chuckled, low and warm. “A handsome young man like you shouldn’t look so burdened. Did work exhaust you? Or life?”
…Yes.
All of the above.
But he only lifted one shoulder. “I suppose I’ve had some… unexpected developments.”
“Ah.” She nodded knowingly, like she was privy to all his woes. “Women troubles?”
Shen Qingqiu choked so hard he nearly fell off the swing. “Absolutely not.”
“Mmhm. Men troubles then.”
He choked again. “That is also incorrect.”
She gave him a wise, amused little smile, “Well, whatever it is, you’ve been holding your breath for too long. Sometimes all a person needs is a quiet evening and someone who listens.”
Shen Qingqiu blinked at her.
Someone who listens… no strings attached.
Right.
Still, he played along. “And what, pray tell, makes you think I’m the type to open up?”
“You’re tense. Your shoulders are tight. Your face keeps doing that pinched little frown, yes, that one, and you’re sitting on a swing alone at sunset. If that isn’t the universal sign of a troubled heart, I don’t know what is.”
Shen Qingqiu touched his own forehead on instinct. “…Is it that obvious?”
“My dear,” she said gently, “it’s obvious from three suburbs away.”
He… laughed. Just a small one, but real.
How long had it been since something simple drew out a laugh?
They sat together, watching the sky glow brighter before fading into deeper orange hues. The old woman hummed to herself, something slow and familiar, an old lullaby maybe.
After a moment, she nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Tell me, do you live nearby?”
“Just down the road,” he answered cautiously.
“Good, good. You should come to our Thursday group.”
“…Your what?”
“Our little club,” she said, eyes sparkling. “We meet at the community centre. Tea, cards, a bit of gossip, some music. It’s nice. The youngsters never come, but you—well, you have the face of someone who needs a safe place to sit for a bit.”
Shen Qingqiu stared at her.
This elderly mortal… was trying to recruit him to a grandma club.
She patted his hand. “It’ll do you good. And we’re all very welcoming. Bring your troubles, leave with snacks.”
He didn’t have the heart to refuse.
“…I will consider it,” he said, which was as close to acceptance as his pride allowed.
She beamed at him like he’d already agreed. “Excellent! I’ll expect you this Thursday, dear.”
And as the last sliver of sun slipped behind the roofs, Shen Qingqiu realised… this had been the most peaceful conversation he’d had in years.
When the sun finally did dip, the old woman patted his shoulder. “You take care of yourself, dear. Someone has to.”
He opened his mouth to give a flippant reply, but instead found himself saying, quietly, “You as well.”
She shuffled off with a warm smile.
Shen Qingqiu sat on the slowly swaying swing, staring after her, wondering why that brief encounter felt like someone had brushed dust from an old wound.
He brushed off his pants, exhaled one last time, and muttered, “I should go back before Shen Di worries.”
He set off toward home, steps steady, posture straight.
The modern world buzzed around him, loud and strange and uncontrollable.
But for once, it didn’t swallow him whole.
⸻
By the time Shen Qingqiu walked back through the front door, he looked composed again, shoulders relaxed. He toed off his shoes with elegant disdain and stepped into the living room.
Shen Di perked up from the couch, “You’re back! I thought you got mugged.”
“I endured enough,” he said simply, brushing past her.
“You were gone for hours.”
“…You’re the one who told me to leave. Why are you complaining!”
Her brows shot up and she smirked, but he ignored her and headed toward the bedroom, A-Yuan’s bedroom. His prison. His temporary lodgings. His unwilling host’s domain.
He paused at the threshold, inhaled deeply, and entered.
There was a reason Shen Yuan spent so much time in this room.
It was a pit.
Strewn clothes. A pile of notebooks. An abandoned bowl of instant noodles fossilizing on the desk. A mousepad featuring a character with anatomically improbable assets.
Shen Qingqiu stared.
“…You disgrace.”
He walked further in, each step a personal affront to his dignity, and surveyed the room with the stiff backed scrutiny of a forensic cultivator assessing spiritual contamination. Every corner, every misplaced sock, every dust mote was catalogued with growing horror.
Then he saw it. The bookshelf.
A-Yuan, it seemed, had a very stacked bookshelf.
Shen Qingqiu drifted toward it despite himself, compelled the way one might be compelled toward a dangerous formation array: wary, yet unable to look away.
He trailed a finger along the spines, humming thoughtfully.
“Rebirth of the CEO’s Secret Husband,” he read aloud, blinking.
He put it back.
“My Boyfriend Is an Alien Emperor.”
He held it up, turned it over, and then quietly returned it to its place as though it might bite.
“The Teenage Sorcerer’s Handbook: Level One Fireballs for Idiots.”
He sucked in a slow breath. “…Charming.”
Then, the most fattest and widest book he had ever seen in his life, caught his eye.
‘Proud Immortal Demon Way’.
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
What an awful title.
He scoffed so hard it echoed, snapped the book back onto the shelf as though slapping a fly, and moved on, completely missing the cover illustration.
He eventually pulled out a seemingly lengthy novel- but what greeted him was… was…
TRASH!!
Inside the book, it was filled with images upon images with barely any words. And-
A man was this- this- caressing his… another… what! What! No!
The horrors he saw that day shook him to his very core.
He slammed it shut and inhaled sharply.
Shen Qingqiu then saw a picture frame in a small free section of the bookshelf and he picked the photo up between two fingers.
It was a framed photo of ‘A-Yuan’ with a long blue wig adorned with long pigtails.
”…What possessed you.”
He looked so painfully earnest in the picture. Ears reddened. Posing shyly. Holding a plastic parasol.
It was almost… kind of…
Shen Qingqiu placed the photo face down.
Some horrors should not stare back.
“…Yuan, you are terminal.”
This room was a temple of Shen Yuan’s neuroses and passions and idiotic devotion to fictional people.
It was horrifying.
It was embarrassing.
It was… oddly touching.
And deeply, deeply pathetic.
Shen Qingqiu sat stiffly at the unfamiliar desk and made a decision.
He listlessly turned a strange ink stick between his fingers with mild disgust then pulled an open notebook toward him, carefully averting his eyes from the half finished doodles of muscular men, and exhaled slowly, gathering every refined ounce of irritation in his body.
And began to write.
'A-Yuan,
Since waking in this ridiculous realm of yours, I have come to several conclusions—none of them flattering to you.
Firstly, I demand an explanation. Immediately. Whatever force binds our souls together clearly lacks both taste and standards, because there is no universe in which I would willingly share a body with someone who lives in such filth.
Secondly, after observing your surroundings, your habits, and your… interests (unfortunately), I have determined you lack even the most basic cultivation. Frankly, I question whether you possess the spiritual strength required to walk up a single flight of stairs without weeping. Therefore the idea that YOU could have initiated some soul-swapping technique is laughable.
Do not mistake this for praise. It is an indictment.
If you are capable of communicating, write back and explain yourself at once. If you are NOT capable… then I am forced to conclude the heavens have played an exceptionally tasteless joke on me.
Fix this.
Immediately.
Sincerely begrudgingly,
Shen Qingqiu'